The Reinvented Miss Bluebeard

by Minda Webber

  "Don't close it, please. Sir Loring likes a great deal of space," Eve warned. "He is paranoid about closed-in areas."

  "Evidently," Dr. Crane remarked, his owlish eyes wide with interest. He stared at the coffin. "I take it that was specially made for the circumstances of his phobia? The workmanship is quite impressive."

  The lanky vampire, with his slightly red eyes and long, sharp incisors, fidgeted nervously. "Yes, it is beautiful, a lovely coffin, and it's mine. You can't have it!" He flashed his fangs as an afterthought.

  "We won't take your coffin; I promise," Eve remarked. She soothingly patted the vampire on the arm, while Adam took up a protective stance at her side. She glanced at him in surprise.

  "Claustrophobic," Dr. Sigmund pronounced.

  "Yes," Eve agreed. "Sir Loring can't abide riding in carriages and won't even go near a wardrobe."

  "You are only catering to his whims" Count Caligari scoffed. "That coffin is enormous. It's more fit for an Egyptian King than this baronet. I find this placating treatment unusual and affettivo—pathetic. Spare the rod and spoil the vamp."

  "This is not some childish whim we are talking about, Count Caligari, but a debilitating fear. Once inside a closed-in space, Sir Loring begins to shriek and lose his breath. Er, I think we should continue this discussion outside," she added coolly, noting the increasing agitation of her patient. Perhaps she had made a mistake, and these guest doctors were too much for Sir Loring's skittish nerves. She certainly didn't want to send the vampire into one of his fits.

  Outside, in the dank limestone hallway, Count Caligari continued his criticism in the guise of advice. "How can you tell he loses his breath? He's undead. Perhaps you have overreacted to his fear," the count suggested patronizingly.

  His question raised Eve's ire, yet she betrayed very little of her agitation. She might not have the age or experience of the Italian count, but she was nobody's fool. Still, the count's criticisms were worrisome. If the good doctors also thought her methods were unworthy, would funding be denied?

  She replied with false civility, "Before he came to me, Sir Loring hadn't slept in ages. He was cranky, off his feed, and thoroughly agitated. Once he had his new coffin, he slept for four months. Upon awakening, he was in a much more pleasant mood. Less… snappish."

  "Balderdash, my good woman! How will he overcome his fear if you cater to his whims?" the count asked again, peering out from behind his jeweled monocle. Before she could answer, he continued with his unsolicited advice. "The mad should never be mollycoddled, but instead punished for their transgressions. Strict punishment results in better behavior."

  What a scary man, Eve thought reproachfully. The blood had rushed to her cheeks in vexation. She felt a great sorrow for his patients; after all, one didn't throw out the vampire with the coffin.

  "Hmm. I believe it is possible that Sir Loring could have a mother fixation. His need for her lost love and nurturing transformed with his vampirism into a fear of closed-in places," Dr. Sigmund remarked thoughtfully.

  "Why, yes! It is semplice—simple, no? Perhaps at his mother's breast he felt smothered when she fed him, like a plump white pillow," Count Caligari suggested, nodding.

  Eve narrowed her eyes. Wasn't that just like a man? Everything concerned breasts.

  "I don't think that is the answer to why Sir Loring is claustrophobic," she said. "I think it relates to an incident in his childhood when he was locked in a closet for a day and night."

  "Was he searching for his chamber pot?" Dr. Sigmund questioned. When everyone stared at him, he shrugged. "Perhaps Sir Loring has a case of coffin envy. Apparently his must be bigger than any others," he amended.

  "I'll certainly take that theory into consideration," Eve replied.

  She wanted to roll her eyes. If men weren't talking about breasts, they were all up about that other major concern of their lives. Men, she thought snidely, their arrogance and their strange preoccupation with that hanging appendage between their legs were beyond her. Frankly she wondered what all the fuss was about. Dr. Sigmund was way off course in thinking any sensible female would ever envy the ridiculous-looking appendage. In fact, she would rather walk the plank than have that thing sticking out between her legs, leading her about, pointing the way like a deformed compass.

  "I think the massive coffin is quite ingenious," Dr. Crane remarked, clearly hoping to curry Eve's favor, and Adam found himself fighting a real urge to box the man's ears. Deciding that a bit of friendly intimidation was in order, he stepped up behind Eve and began glaring at the wereowl over her shoulder. Dr. Crane stepped back a few paces.

  Oblivious, Eve smiled at Dr. Crane, and at her behest the small group walked up a slight incline to another room. She fought her annoyance, her thoughts tumbling chaotically in her brain. She was extremely proud of her work. Sir Loring had made remarkable progress since she'd started treating him. Unfortunately, Dr. Sigmund—whom she truly admired—and Count Caligari—whom she found rather despicable—both seemed less than inclined to give her work a glowing recommendation. At least Dr. Crane showed interest in and respect for what she was attempting here at the Towers.

  Noticing Eve's bleak expression, Adam moved to stand near her. "My wife has been writing to me regarding her progress with Sir Loring, and I am astounded at how much better the vampire is doing. Before she treated him, he would run screaming from a room if he even saw a coffin inside."

  Eve glanced askance at him. She had never written any such faradiddle to him, since she had never written to him in her life. How did one correspond with a figment of one's imagination?

  Adam only winked. "Since his family makes coffins, this was killing the old family business, I must say."

  Eve pinched him under the arm, and he whispered with aggrieved dignity, "There's absolutely no need for violence, my dear."

  She pinched him harder, a steely glint in her eyes. But he ignored her and finished, "Now Sir Loring can not only enter a room with a coffin, but sleeps in one! My wife has worked miracles with her chimney-sweeping cures—or rather, with vampires, we call her sessions coffin sweeping."

  "Chimney sweeping?" Dr. Sigmund echoed curiously. He studied Eve, a perplexed furrow between his brows. "Please explain, Dr. Griffin. You must relieve an old man's curiosity."

  Eve's smile was brittle. Tiny slivers of apprehension flooded her, because she had no idea what this demented stranger was babbling about. Chimney sweeping? If she were one of her patients, she'd diagnose a full-blown case of hysteria.

  "Oh, please let Dr. Griffin explain," she said. "He is, after all, the one who helped me craft these theories."

  Adam shot her a glance. "My wife is too modest. It was her theory first."

  "But you have a way with words, Adam. You tell them."

  He acknowledged her avoidance with a wink, wanting to kiss her senseless. He had known Bluebeard's daughter could handle a tricky maneuver or two. He was no doctor, yet he couldn't let Eve be made to look a fool; that was why he'd spoken up. Fortunately, he was blessed with the Irish gift of blarney. "Er, well, it's like this. 'Chimney sweeping' is cleaning the mind of all the cobwebs—rather like sweeping out a chimney, only in this case we are brain sweeps. It's a repeated therapy where the patient talks all night or day, simply conversing for a long, long time."

  As Eve listened, she couldn't help but be a tad impressed. This Adam character certainly had a way with words. Whoever he was or wasn't, he was quick on his feet, just like her good old da.

  "I see. Then it's much like your wife's Verbal Intercourse treatment," Dr. Sigmund remarked. He gave a nod of his head, pleased at making the connection so swiftly.

  Adam caught a glimpse of his wife's fleeting admiration. Even so, he felt some little demon urging him to provoke her further. He found he couldn't resist. "I know, and I must say that my wife's intercourse therapy has always aroused my interest. It keeps me up nights, I must say."

  Hold steady, Eve told herself silently; don't fire your cannons yet. "Lord
love a duck," she muttered to herself. Boiling in oil, walking the plank, fifty lashes tied to a mast, and being fed to the sharks—absolutely none of these punishments was enough for the devious, demented deviant before her. Just get through the dinner party and then you'll get the answers you need, she added. Totally ignoring Adam, she marched up to the next patient's door and inclined her head toward the heavy oak. "Here we go."

  All eyes swung to the door. "And this room is held by whom?" Dr. Crane asked.

  "This particular patient is a werewolf who has delusions. Mr. Pryce sometimes thinks he's a common housefly," Eve explained.

  "I can imagine he's quite the desperate housefly," Adam remarked with a strange gleam in his eye. "One night you're a four-footed wolf running free; the next you're a flying pest."

  Eve knocked on the door, wishing it were Adam's fat head. "Mr. Pryce, we're here to see you. I have brought the guests I spoke to you about."

  Opening the door, Eve walked in. The room was disorderly, but the others followed closely behind, their curiosity piqued.

  Mr. Pryce, a rather sallow-faced man with thinning hair, was not handsome at the best of times. At present he was on his hands and knees, his scrawny buttocks thrust up in the air. He made a buzzing noise as he licked a substance off his table.

  Wandering over, Adam glanced down at the sticky golden goo. "I see it's true. You do catch more flies with honey. And there's always a Pryce to pay."

  Eve sent him a speaking glance, which clearly indicated for him to shut his mouth. He obliged momentarily, since he was fascinated by her patient.

  "Cos'e'questo?" Count Caligari questioned, and then, realizing he had spoken in Italian, repeated his words. "What's this, a fly?"

  "Yes," Eve said, "so it will do precious little good to try to communicate with him."

  "Fascinating!" Dr. Sigmund cried as he eyed the man before him like a bug under glass, even if he was a werewolf on a table. "Does he ever talk when he's like this? Does he hear voices, or the call of the wild in this altered state? What's the buzz?"

  "The buzz? When he is in this altered state, he only makes that odd humming noise, as you can hear."

  "Yes, I see," Dr. Sigmund remarked, staring at the wiry little man on the table. "Not in essence moonstruck. When he is in possession of himself, what has he revealed of his relationship with the chamber pot? What do you know about his potty training?"

  Eve shook her head. "His potty training was perfectly normal. I talked with his mother about it."

  Adam couldn't help himself. "Is the mother a fly-by-night insect as well?" he asked. He hadn't been so amused since he helped sink the Flying Dutchman with the Dutchman aboard. "Does being bugger-all run in the family?" As he looked at Eve's glaring face, the word mulish came to mind.

  "Of course not! His mother is perfectly normal."

  Adam grinned at her reply. For most humans, werewolfism wasn't a normal state.

  They all walked out and back down the hall, and Eve said, "Mr. Pryce is quite a nice man when he is not in his insect delusion, or tearing up the countryside as a wolf. He has few debilitating fears… except for the conservatory."

  "Fear of the conservatory?" Dr. Crane questioned, arching his neck.

  "We have several large Venus flytraps in the conservatory," Eve answered. "I thought of getting rid of them, but I… didn't want to pamper the patients' phobias to excess," she added, not altogether truthfully. The last part of her statement had been added strictly for the odious count's beastly benefit. Her mother had brought those flytraps from Greece to celebrate Eve's tenth birthday. The two women had decorated them with tiny silver bells and pink seashells, but the flytraps had eaten them, mistaking the decorations for lunch. Eve and her mother had laughed for hours. Therefore, Eve would never get rid of the flytraps, not even for a patient.

  Adam's face broke into a wide grin, and there was more than a trace of laughter in his voice. "Yes, I can see where those plants might be a problem."

  "You have the compassion of a goat," Eve hissed at him softly.

  He turned and smiled. "I know you are wishing me to Jericho right now, but the trip would take me away from you. And I don't want to deprive you of my company any longer," he replied.

  "You're utterly maddening. Impossible! Just wait until I get you alone!"

  Adam found the threat terribly interesting. "I wait with bated breath."

  He didn't have to wait long. Dr. Sigmund soon took his leave, telling them all that the funding committee would be making its decision in the upcoming weeks, and then all the guests said farewell.

  Adam heard the front doors bang closed as Eve ushered him into her study. She slammed that door herself, and turned to face him. A lesser man would have taken flight at the look of utter fury in her eyes.

  He grinned, for he was not a lesser man.

  Chapter Eight

  Analyze That, Barnacle Breath!

  "Blast you to smithereens, you bounder! What in the bloody hell do you want?" Eve demanded.

  "I already have it," Adam replied. The little imp within him couldn't help but enjoy the spectacle of vexation that flowed over Eve's beautiful face. Her dark blue eyes glittered like stars in the sky, her cheeks were flushed a becoming peach, and her bosom was heaving. He very much liked how it heaved.

  She was magnificent in her fury. Hopefully, he would soon have her beneath him. Perhaps not this night, but soon, very soon. His world had tilted the moment he had seen Eve. She had set his bachelor life to sinking.

  "Who told you about me? Who else knows?" Eve questioned, a ruthless gleam in her eye. Her heart was thundering in her chest. Who was this man, and exactly what knowledge did he hold in his grubby little hands? Would he reveal her hoax? Would all and sundry soon know of her deception? She needed to analyze the situation and stop imagining the worst. "Is this blackmail? What exactly are you after—money? If so, you're extremely foolish." No one blackmailed a Bluebeard.

  "It's not blackmail, and how utterly insulting an accusation," Adam retorted with disgust. "I have seen and done many illegal things, but blackmail isn't one of them."

  "Who told you about the nonexistent Adam? How in the bloody world did you get here?" she pushed, even though deep down inside she knew the answer: her fiend of a father and his infernal interference.

  He batted not an eyelash as he answered, "By carriage."

  Infuriated, Eve grabbed a porcelain figurine off a shelf and threw it at the brigand. "How did you know to come to the Towers, blast it? How did you know a real husband might not be lurking in the shadows to call you out? I could have a husband waiting in the wings to duel you."

  "Ouch." He laughed as the figure caught him on the shoulder. "Play nice. Wives don't throw things at their husbands. And I wasn't worried about being called out to duel—though maybe I should have been. Ghastly prospect, really. All that cold, damp air and people shooting or jabbing at you with very sharp swords. But I wasn't worried, because I knew that you have no flesh-and-blood husband. He's only a figment of your very active imagination. Or so I was told."

  "Yes!" Eve shouted. "I know! You were told about me!" And she knew just who the twisted old tattletale was. Her irascible father and his impossibly silly suggestions of grandchildren were enough to drive her around the bend at a maddening gallop.

  The fire in the fireplace crackled, and a log broke apart, ominously loud in the sudden silence of the spacious study. Both Adam and Eve knew that the tide had turned and an ocean of revelations was at hand.

  He wanted to kick himself in the backside for letting her goad him into revealing himself too soon, but there was nothing Adam could do but watch Eve carefully handling another, heavier figurine. It was a bust, and not the bust he wanted her fondling. The cat was out of the bag, the Bluebeard was out on the prowl, and he might soon be out on his arse.

  "Who told you?" Eve asked. She wanted definite proof for when she threw her father's perfidy back in his face. Otherwise, he'd deny it until he was blue in the beard.
/>
  "Would you believe a little bluebird wearing a gold earring and a pirate's hat?"

  "That backstabbing buccaneer!" Eve swore. "I'd serve my father's liver to the eels, but I hate to give the eels indigestion. I knew it was the Captain. The maddest meddling menace of the seven seas." She threw the heavy porcelain head in her hands, but missed as he dodged.

  "My, what a bloodthirsty little vixen I have for a wife," Adam said. "After all that hard work in Transylvania, it appears my wife had greater need of my services here." He gazed at her breasts, greatly admiring the view. At least she wasn't near any more knickknacks to throw, for she plainly intended to do him bodily harm. But what jolly good fun, he thought. He would be the first to admit that he loved a duel at the door of every boudoir. Easy conquests were boring and predictable, and he did so dislike the ordinary.

  "What if the good doctors could see your temper tantrum right now?" he asked, glancing down at the broken figurines. "What do you think they would say?"

  His words only incited her ire. "That's something else I wish to discuss! How dare you pretend to know what to do with a blood-crazed vampire with an obsessive oral fixation? Your theory of behavior-changing bloodletting of fledglings to relieve fears of the graveyard—pure nonsense!" she snapped, her blue eyes blazing. "And to say that you stuffed that undead coffin with locusts and worms to give them snacks—snacks!—to keep their bloodlust in line was positively idiotic lunacy of the first order. And music—violin music and opera singers to sing them to sleep? Rubbish! It's beyond belief. You're telling tales from the crypt, and I won't have it!"

  "Ah, the plot thickens. You're angry because I stepped on your dainty professional toes. My theories were absolutely brilliant, and your nerves are too overset right now to comprehend the genius of the scheme. Besides, it was better than telling them to take two cups of rum and call me in the morning."

  "Brilliant? Shiver me timbers! It was ludicrous twaddle. How anyone could swallow that cockamamie tale is beyond my ken. And I so respected Dr. Sigmund before this hideous night."