Pop the Clutch

by Eric J. Guignard

  “Beverly, please,” she said, shaking the woman’s hand, which proved surprisingly warm.

  Alicia waved her inside. “I’ve got tea set up for us in the dining room. Thank you for being punctual.”

  The foyer, with its wide second-floor staircase and crystal chandelier, was larger than Beverly’s living room. At right, next to the open doorway to the living room, stood a full suit of armor with the dings and scratches of ancient use. Double doors at the left were closed, likely leading to a music room or library.

  Her hostess led Beverly past the stairs and into a formal dining room where windows lined one wall; even though the morning was sunny, the space seemed somehow overcast. The table was a long, ornate thing with one chair at each end and seven on either side. The centerpiece appeared to be black roses in a black vase, two red roses extending just above them, a circle of shrunken skulls around the base of the vase.

  Oh-kay, she thought.

  Alicia said, “A little something Alexander picked up in his travels. He gets called upon to investigate some rather . . . unusual cases. The centerpiece was a gift from a tribe of pygmies in Madagascar . . . Tea?”

  Still looking at the shrunken heads, Beverly managed a nod.

  They sat at the near end of the table with Alicia at its head. Pouring, Alicia asked, “Sugar? Milk?”

  “Sugar, please.”

  They each took a sip, Alicia offered lemon cookies from a waiting plate, and Beverly politely took one. Then they finally got down to business.

  Alicia said, “I suppose we should discuss your duties as a . . . well . . . ”

  “Your advertisement said ‘nurse,’” Beverly said.

  “That covers the lion’s share of the work—but not all of it.”

  “My understanding was that—”

  “Alexander suffers from a rare mental disorder, Cotard’s Delusion—do you know it?”

  Beverly shook her head. “I don’t usually deal with patients who suffer mental problems. What exactly is—”

  “Alexander believes he is dead.”

  Agape, Beverly considered simply fleeing, but there was something about Alicia’s violet eyes that drew her in. Plus, she still needed the job . . .

  “Alexander still moves among the living, and he of course continues to conduct his occult investigations.”

  “But believes he’s dead?”

  “Yes. He firmly believes he is a spirit who only remains on this plane for the time being. He has seen the best doctors, but no one has been able to make any progress.”

  “How long has he been this way?”

  Sadness encroached on the hostess’s placidity. “Over twenty years,” she said. “Since an early case, in Haiti. Alexander believes he was killed by zombies there, but since he wasn’t killed by a living human, he believes his spirit is doomed to walk the planet until God decides to free him.”

  “How do you think I can possibly help him?”

  “The duties, as I said, are not normal nursing. In order to help Alexander cope, you would be in charge of making sure that he eats, sleeps, and maintains a relatively normal pattern. When he does not, he lapses into something near psychosis.”

  “Perhaps you need a psychiatric nurse . . . ”

  Alicia shrugged. “Let me be frank, Beverly—I am asking you to masquerade as Alexander’s ‘secretary,’ not just to the world at large, but to Alexander himself . . . medical personnel tend to upset him.”

  Beverly rose. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Arcane, I thought this was a normal nursing job, and—”

  Patting the air in front of her, Alicia said, “Please, Mrs. Raith—hear me out. I am quite desperate.”

  “I’m sorry . . . ”

  “And you are desperate, too, aren’t you, Beverly? Desperate to hold onto the house that you and your late husband bought and filled with so many unrealized dreams.”

  Beverly sat back down, stunned. “How did you know that?”

  “After our mutual friend Myrtle paired us up, I did some checking on you. I know you’re a very good nurse and out of work. I know your husband died in Korea and you have been holding on by your bootlaces ever since.”

  Beverly’s outrage was tempered by the truth of what the woman said. “What did you do—hire detectives, or . . . ?”

  “The Arcane family has been in Salem for a very long time, Beverly . . . I have many contacts.”

  Shaking her head, Beverly said, “I don’t know if I can do what you ask.”

  Alicia reached out, put a hand on hers. “I think you can. I’m sure of it, in fact. But to be utterly honest, there is one other thing I feel I must mention.”

  “Yes?” As if this weren’t demented enough already.

  “Three other of Alexander’s ‘secretaries’ have met with . . . untimely demises.”

  The words hit her like a physical blow. “Would you mind defining ‘untimely demise’?”

  Alicia nodded solemnly. “Sometimes Alexander’s investigations can be quite dangerous. Two of the deaths were accidental, one a murder. These things happen.”

  “Not to me,” Beverly said, rising again. “I’m just a nurse, that’s all. And that should be enough for me to find conventional employment.”

  “I understand your trepidation, but I believe you are much more than ‘just a nurse.’ You have been on your own for over five years and not given up or given in. You have real spine—and I’m quite sure you can be beneficial for Alexander.”

  “I’m sorry, I just . . . ”

  Interrupting her, Alicia said, “Stay one month and I will bring your mortgage up to date and, in addition, pay one hundred dollars a week.”

  That was more than she’d made at Salem General, and would get her out of debt!

  “Stay six months,” Alicia went on, “and I will pay your mortgage off—plus the hundred dollars a week.”

  The house was all that was left of Jack and her life with him—but was that enough to take a crazy job with a lunatic? She wanted to walk out, wanted to say no, but instead found herself saying, “All right. One month and we’ll see.”

  Alicia clapped. “Wonderful. Let me call Alexander down and you can meet him.”

  Sitting again, Beverly watched as Alicia rose, went to a side table, wrote a note, then inserted the paper into a metal cylinder. She put that into a wall-mounted vacuum tube that carried the note up and away.

  Alicia returned to the table, sat again. “He should only be a minute—he was expecting to meet you today.”

  “He will be able to . . . ‘see’ me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Alicia said with a little laugh. “Yes, Alexander’s aware that he can interact with living people. The biggest issue you will have is getting him to eat and sleep. He believes he does not require these things and it will take outsmarting him to get him to comply.”

  That much didn’t worry Beverly—she’d had plenty of fussy patients over the years.

  “Don’t underestimate Alexander, Beverly. He’s ill, but extremely smart, even brilliant, though quite disturbed.”

  Abruptly, the hostess rose, and Beverly followed without thinking. Seconds later, a tall, slender man descended the stairs, wearing a black suit that might have been stylish half a century ago—Edwardian coat, frilly white shirt, black looped bow tie. Dark hair swept back, tiny wisps of gray at his ears, he sported a Van Dyke beard neatly trimmed with salt among the pepper there, as well.

  She had to admit, for an older gentleman, he was handsome enough. But she wondered if a side effect of Cotard’s Delusion was an inability to smile.

  When he reached the bottom, Beverly extended her hand to him, but he said, “Dr. Alexander Arcane. I’m sorry, I don’t shake hands.”

  The phone rang, distant but distinct, and Arcane excused himself, leaving Beverly standing there, hand out, feeling the fool.

  Alicia said, “It’s nothing personal. I should have warned you.”

  “I understand,” Beverly said, dropping her hand.

  Arcane came back, s
teel gray eyes boring into Beverly. “How soon can you be packed and ready?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We must depart as soon as possible—we’re needed in Florida.” He turned to Alicia. “Do you remember Daniel Waldrop?”

  “That crude fellow in the Everglades? The giant leeches?”

  “Exactly right,” Arcane said. “Fellow’s just had an encounter with what he takes for a werewolf.”

  First pygmies, now werewolves! It was all moving too fast for Beverly. Involuntarily, she took a step back. “Perhaps this isn’t the right position for me.”

  “No,” Alicia said, the word at once a plea and a demand.

  “Excuse me?” Beverly said—was she a prisoner of these very odd people?

  Arcane said to Alicia, “I have to phone and have the plane fueled, then I must alert the I.N. If you’ll excuse me, Mother will fill you in on the details.”

  Mother? Beverly had taken the woman for Arcane’s sister. Or perhaps his wife, but how could so young-looking a woman be . . . ?

  Arcane vanished back up the stairs.

  When they were alone, Alicia gripped Beverly’s arm, violet eyes imploring. “Mrs. Raith, Beverly . . . accompany Alexander this one time and I will bring your mortgage up to date and pay you two hundred dollars a week, plus expenses. On your return, if you wish to walk away, I won’t try to stop you.”

  She knew she should run from the house this instant, get as far away from these nutso people as possible. But the money, the chance of owning her house (her and Jack’s house), kept her rooted to the spot.

  She heard herself saying, “This one time.”

  Alicia, suddenly all business, said, “Go home, pack a bag. The Everglades are humid and hot, so bring bug spray, if you have any, buy some if you don’t, and meet Alexander at the Arcane hangar at the airport. There are signs—you’ll find it. Do you need money for cab fare?”

  Beverly shook her head, but Alicia was already pressing two twenty dollar bills into her hand.

  “Hurry. With a werewolf, Alexander will be in a real rush to see it.”

  Before she knew it, Beverly was hustling breathlessly up the stairs of a DC-3, an airplane bigger than she’d ever been on, the word ARCANE painted on its side in gothic script.

  Alexander Arcane had been waiting for her, but did not bother to introduce her to the pilot and co-pilot. The passenger compartment held eight seats, the rear of the plane completely revamped. Behind the four rows of seats, a ham radio setup reminded her of her dad’s rig back in Indiana. The starboard side was lined with bookshelves with netting to keep the volumes secure.

  Arcane waved her to a seat. “If you need anything, you’ll have to fend for yourself. I will be doing research with the I.N.”

  “The I.N.? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned it.” She sat and tugged her seatbelt into place.

  He loomed over her now. “The International Network. Something of my own design—experts worldwide, sharing information on their chosen fields through the use of . . . ”

  “Ham radios,” she finished. “That’s quite brilliant.”

  He bestowed a smile on her. “I know.”

  So he could smile. What some might call arrogance seemed to her confidence. Something about him, whether the Edwardian suit or the wounded aura his illness gave him, charmed her.

  He moved to the back and it wasn’t long before they were soaring above Massachusetts, the sunset turning the sky red outside her window as the plane rattled south.

  Behind her, she heard Arcane saying, “So, Joaquin, you had a werewolf in Peru—how did the man get infected?”

  Arcane listened, throwing in an occasional, “I see,” and soon Beverly found herself drifting. As night closed in, the adrenaline of the day fading as Beverly found herself slipping into a restless sleep in her seat.

  ***

  NOW BEVERLY WAS CLATTERING over a dirt road in the back of a Jeep, with a blonde floozy bouncing against her. Up front, Arcane was talking to an obese character called Waldrop, and she had to strain to hear over the racket of the Jeep.

  “So,” Arcane was saying, “this vocalist appears to be the only one infected?”

  The big man shrugged. “Near as we can tell.”

  Turning to the blonde, Arcane asked, “Young lady, you were the only one on the porch with this musician when he transformed?”

  The blonde, named Liz, nodded, the Jeep hitting a pothole and tossing the woman practically onto Beverly’s lap.

  “Sorry,” Liz said, but made it sound like the fault had somehow been Beverly’s.

  Arcane asked, “If he was transformed into a werewolf, and we think the green fog played a part . . . why didn’t you, my dear?”

  Judging by the blonde’s expression, her mouth an almost perfect red O of lipstick, the thought had not once entered that pretty head. She shrugged.

  Arcane said, “Tell me more about the green fog.”

  “Started out as a sort of . . . haze. Then it built, like smoke, like something was burnin’ in the swamp, but then it was fog all right, but not like the usual garden variety . . . like Dan said, it was green, and kind of glowin’.”

  Beverly wondered if maybe she had judged the woman a bit too harshly—Liz had recounted the experience well.

  “If Dan hadn’t been there . . . ” Then Liz, shivering, leaned into Beverly, who hugged her close.

  Arcane just frowned at the blonde, as if her fear didn’t register on him. “Can you provide any more details, Mrs. Waldrop?”

  “Like . . . like what?”

  Arcane considered that for a couple of bounces of the Jeep, then asked, “The two of you were alone on the porch?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why were you the only two out there?”

  Liz sat up a little straighter, her posture defensive. “How should I know?”

  “Surely you know why you were outside?”

  “It was a steamy hot night. I took my beer and went out on the porch, lookin’ for a breeze.”

  “And this singer—what was his name?”

  “Howie. The leader of the band.”

  “Howie followed you out?”

  She nodded.

  “And you have no idea why?”

  Waldrop spoke up. “Same as all men! Wanted to make time with my little Liz.”

  Arcane raised an eyebrow at Liz and she shrugged, wiggled her eyebrows, nodded. Beverly watched as Arcane, still turned in his seat to look back at them, digested that.

  As the vehicle jostled him, he asked, “Did Howie have a beer, too?”

  Liz gave an indifferent shrug.

  Waldrop had an answer, though: “I didn’t serve them boys anything but Coca-Colas. They was all underage.”

  Nodding as if he’d already known this, Arcane said, “I believe we have our first clue.”

  How could that be a clue? Beverly wondered. Since when did a Coca-Cola turn a man into a wolf? It usually took liquor to do that.

  She noticed the overhanging trees shading the road ahead, almost as if they were driving into a tunnel. When she was a teenager back in Indiana, she’d always enjoyed the outdoors, but this swamp was giving her the heebie-jeebies.

  As they entered the corridor of shadows, the sun practically disappeared, and Beverly could barely make out the dirt road ahead of them.

  They were maybe a hundred yards into the tunnel of trees when something swooped down next to Beverly. She lurched back, but Liz screamed, and Beverly watched helplessly as the woman was lifted out of the Jeep by something Beverly couldn’t quite discern.

  Waldrop hit the brakes, but it was too late. When Beverly turned, Liz was hanging from the arms of a hairy humanoid creature that had been suspended upside-down from a tree limb, and had grabbed her when the Jeep rolled beneath. It was Howie, all right, a werewolf now in the remnants of the singer’s tattered clothes.

  But it was daylight! What about the moon, and how it turned a man into a wolf?

  Beverly w
atched in mute horror as the werewolf swung Liz out and dropped himself to the road with her, then took off across the swamp with her draped in his arms as if a groom taking a bride across the threshold.

  Arcane was already jumping out of the front seat. From his Gladstone bag, he pulled a pistol that looked like something out of the Old West and also, of all things, a flask. Then he lit out after the wolf and its prisoner, while the woman’s husband stared in woeful disbelief. Beverly got out and followed Arcane, heeding an instinct she didn’t understand.

  The wolf, still lugging the blonde, veered off the road into the swamp, Arcane rushing to close the distance, Beverly sprinting just to try to keep them in sight.

  She followed them off the road, the muck practically swallowing her feet, then she was falling even farther behind.

  The fetid stench of the swamp nearly overwhelmed her as she stumbled through the knee-deep stagnant water, branches and brush clawing at her as she pushed through, the werewolf somewhere nearby . . .

  Was she stalking it or was it stalking her?

  She forced herself to keep moving—as in the operating room, don’t think, just react. She slogged forward. She could hear the wolf and Arcane still struggling through the muck ahead of her, but she’d lost sight of them among the shadowy trees of the Everglades.

  Struggling against the water, vines drooping down to tickle and torture her, she kept forcing herself forward, then something slithered past her ankle and she stifled a scream. No good would come from giving away her position. The swamp had gone silent up ahead, then she heard a very unstifled scream, a gunshot, and a long, low moan.

  She broke through a thick growth of trees and saw Arcane in front of her, slumped against a tree, seemingly passed out—or worse. Was that blood on his face or just a shadow? From here she couldn’t tell.

  And Liz was on the ground, also out cold, though she was obviously breathing, the largely exposed breasts heaving as she lay sprawled in the weeds, a pin-up for a pervert.

  Beverly took one tentative step forward, then the water exploded as the werewolf rose before her, water cascading off it, as if its whole body dripped drool, teeth bared, its arms raised, razor-sharp claws ready to rip down through her.