The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  The story was long on conjecture and short on facts, such as the reporter’s source. She disclosed only that an anonymous member of the police force confided details to her about Burton’s arrest. Those details had not made it into the official report. There was a mystery about a thrown suitcase destroying a door, and some violent poltergeist activity centered on an otherwise ordinary looking armchair. Soldier Burton had used the distractions to attempt his escape, threatening the police the same weapon that had killed Alby Cornish.

  Who or what force was behind the ghostly activity was a great mystery, but the reporter speculated that Alby himself might have returned from the grave to help get his (alleged) killer behind bars.

  Gordy’s head wobbled again from laughter, and we sat there not saying anything, just watching the dancers. I thought about Alby missing out on it all, but maybe somewhere he was laughing, too.

  * * * * * * *

  __________

  THE SCOTTISH PLOY

  Author’s Note: Editor Denise Little asked me to write something a bit outside my box for her collection MURDER MOST ROMANTIC for Cumberland House. I’d been watching a lot of Xena: Warrior Princess reruns, so the hero in this bit of lighthearted dash bears a strong resemblance to New Zealand’s Kevin Tod Smith, who played the god of war, Ares. This delightful actor was taken from us far too soon. I hope his other fans enjoy this one.

  Cassie Sullivan slammed her clipboard onto the props table, causing the sword collection that lay there to jump. One fell to the floor with a solid clank. The abrupt noise startled everyone, giving her the undivided attention of the whole cast and crew. “If just one more thing goes wrong, I’m calling an exorcist!”

  Nell Russell left off wiring together tree branches that were to be part of Burnam Wood. “What’s happened now?”

  “Trevor Hopewell backed out.”

  “What?” Similar expressions of dismay and shock flowed from the others, who stopped work on the set to come closer, faces tense.

  Cassie looked at them all before speaking, but this new disaster was no one’s fault. The company’s poltergeist could not be responsible for this flavor of random bad luck. “Hopewell got a starring role in a straight-to-video horror movie they’re shooting in Canada and grabbed it.”

  Nell’s mouth twisted. “He chose that over the lead in Macbeth?”

  Some of the more nervy members of the cast winced and groaned.

  Nell rounded on them. “Oh, get over it! You can say the name of the play out front, just not backstage. Cassie, he can’t do that. Why would he want to?”

  “Money. They can pay him more. The option’s in his contract.” Everyone nodded, understanding perfectly. The Sullivan Theater Company, for all its members’ sincere enthusiasm, was small change to an actor like Trevor Hopewell. Apparently his commitment to keeping theater alive wasn’t deep enough to survive the lure of film dollars. Cassie herself could side with Hopewell to a degree, but there was such a thing as fair warning.

  Opening night was only a week away.

  “What’ll we do for a new Macbeth?” asked Willis Wright, the stage manager. No one groaned, since he referred to the character, not the play.

  “Hopewell’s agency is sending over someone named Quentin Douglas as a replacement.”

  “Who?”

  Cassie shrugged. “He’s done some commercials.”

  A general groan. Nell joined in. “What kind of commercials?”

  “Who knows? Foot powder, shaving cream, talking sandwiches—I don’t care so long as he can project the lines. They said he played Macbeth in college—”

  Another groan.

  “—so he knows the part. If Isabel likes him, he’s in.”

  “Great. Did he save his old costume?”

  Cassie glowered. “Don’t get me started. At this point I may do a nude production.”

  “That would sell more tickets. Think of all the sword jokes.”

  “Argh!” Cassie looked around for something else to slam or throw, but nothing non-breakable presented itself. The company watched her, somewhat wall-eyed. Her tempers were infrequent and short lived, but infamous for their intensity. Everyone knew to get out of the line of fire for the brief duration, but this time no one seemed to know which way to jump.

  She put her hands palm-out in a peace gesture. “It’s okay, boys and girls. I just hate surprises. Chalk this up to the production poltergeist and get back to work. Let’s keep it to one life-and-death crisis every ten minutes instead of every five. Okay?”

  A rumble of agreement. They resumed their tasks. Nell hung close, though. “This sucks.”

  “I know, and I shouldn’t blame the poltergeist.”

  “Please, let’s do.”

  “You’re not into superstition,” said Cassie.

  “I wasn’t, but this show could make me a believer. Much more of this and I’ll be tossing salt over my shoulder. When’s the foot-powder wonder boy due?”

  “Sometime today. I just got the call from—”

  “Miss Sullivan?” Baritone voice. Rich. Chocolate-smooth delivery. Built-in projection. No need for a body microphone.

  Cassie turned to take in the owner of the voice. Oh, my gawd. Hair like jet, soap opera hero’s face, body of a personal trainer, thin line of beard edging his jaw—perfectly in keeping with a Shakespearean character—straight white teeth in a friendly, open smile.

  “I’m Quentin Douglas—the Gilbert Agency sent me?” Hand outstretched. Expecting her to respond.

  “Yes, they certainly did,” she murmured, still goggling. She put her own hand out and connected with his firm grip.

  The vision spoke again. “I hope I can work out for you.”

  His “hope” momentarily sparked a variety of emotions in Cassie, which she quickly smothered. You’re off actors, Cassie-girl, you are immune no matter how gorgeous they are. Anyone that good-looking is going to be attached or gay. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Douglas.” She was still holding his hand. Belatedly, she released it.

  “Please, call me Quentin.”

  Before she could call him Quentin, she felt an urgent tug on her shirttail; Nell obviously wanted to be included in the first-names fan club.

  “Quentin, this is Nell Russell, she’s playing Lady MacDuff, Hecate, and Young Siward.”

  “I’m very versatile,” Nell purred, oozing forward to shake his hand, too. She had no misgivings about fraternizing with actors, usually bestowing one broken—or at least bruised heart—per production.

  Quentin tendered another easy smile, his royal blue eyes twinkling.

  “Glad to meet you. Is there much doubling up for roles in this one?”

  “A few,” Cassie answered, since Nell seemed to have forgotten her next line, basking as she was in his presence. “None of the principals, of course. Go through there to my office, the red door. I’ll be right along.”

  Quentin Douglas departed, walking smooth as a panther on ball bearings. Nell made a low moan of appreciation deep in her throat, ogling at the snug fit of his jeans on his perfect backside—not to mention the muscular set of those sculpted shoulders. . . .

  The view wasn’t lost on Cassie, but she made herself look elsewhere, gritting her teeth.

  “I didn’t think they made them like that anymore,” Nell sighed.

  “Down, girl.”

  “I thought they were all CGI effects, costume padding, and makeup.”

  “Just don’t go breaking him before we even start.”

  “But he’s the one.”

  “What? Your own true love? Nell, you’ve said that on every—”

  “No, I mean I know who he is! He’s the sports drink shower guy.”

  Cassie blanked. “O—kay.”

  “You know, that commercial where the guy takes the shower and they pour sports drink all over his sweaty body. Relief from your killer thirst in sloooow-mooootion.”

  “I’m surprised you even noticed his face.” Not much of a TV watcher, Cassie had no recollection of th
e ad. She quelled a sudden feeling of deprivation.

  “I’ve seen him in As the Day Passes, too. He can act.”

  “On TV. I’ve gotta find out if he’s any good for stage work.”

  “Cassie, he looks like he’d be good for all kinds of things!”

  “Yeah, but can he cook?”

  “You’ve got to get over your allergy toward dating actors. They can be lots of fun.”

  “Like a root canal.” Cassie hurried to her office before she caught Nell’s terminal case of carbonated hormones. Yes, Quentin Douglas was a prime physical specimen; yes, he could probably act, but having once fallen far too hard for that type, Cassie had sworn them off forever. Of course, that was difficult to remember when face-to-face with Quentin across her cluttered desk. He had an energy that beat against her like a sunbeam. She refused to be burned by it, but quietly rejoiced; that sort of dynamism was priceless. He just might be able to make a whole theater feel it.

  “Here’s my résumé,” he said, handing over a sheet of paper stapled to a head shot.

  She compared the photo to the reality. Usually publicity pictures were an idealized improvement of the subject. Not this guy, though. Would his looks detract from the production? Possibly, considering Nell’s reaction. On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to have a drop-dead handsome, virile Macbeth leaping around the stage waving his sword. “Know how to play with your weapon?” she asked. “I mean—do you know stage combat?”

  “It’s a passion of mine.” He flashed those perfect teeth. “I don’t get much call for it in commercials.”

  “This job doesn’t pay as well as TV work.”

  “It’s experience. I’m always looking to hone my skills.” He kept up with the eye contact.

  Is he flirting with me? she wondered, conscious she was in her second-best work shirt, her third-best jeans, with her red hair piled every which way from its hasty morning pinning. But Quentin had live theater in his background; he’d know how grungy things could get. No matter. I’m immune to his type now. Stick to business. She found a copy of Macbeth and handed it over. “Let’s have a reading, then.”

  “Sure. What would you like to hear?” Quentin was remarkably self-possessed. Most of the actors she’d dealt with had panic attacks at the prospect of a cold reading. Not this wavy-haired and cool cucumber.

  Cucumbers? Why did I have to think about them? Cassie cleared her throat. “How about Act Three, Scene Four? Macbeth’s talking with the First Murderer at the banquet.” There, a highly charged scene to work with; would he know the right level to hit?

  Quentin found the spot in the book right away, indication that he knew the play well. She fed him the lines of the First Murderer. After a glance at the pages, he delivered flawlessly and in such a manner as to make the arcane language easily understandable to a modern audience. He also got the emotions across without snacking on the scenery.

  Cassie tried not to look too enthusiastic. “Okay I’m happy, but the decision rests with the show’s angel, Miss Isabel Graham. I’m directing, but she’s the producer and star and has final say.” She expected a response from him on the name. Millions of people knew of her. Even Cassie had seen an episode or three of Isabel’s hit comedy series, I Love Isabel.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Quentin, not batting an eye. “I’ve worked with Bel before.”

  “Really?” Cassie did not miss the affectionate diminutive of Isabel’s name. Only a select few had the privilege of calling her that.

  “She and I were in college together,” he explained. “In fact, we were in Macbeth one semester. The same roles.”

  “How. . .convenient.” Cassie spotted the confirmation of this on the resume.

  “Bel’s career took off faster than mine. I did a stint in the navy to pay for college, which delayed things for a couple of years. I’m catching up.”

  “That’s great.” I think. “So Isabel already knows you’re here.”

  “She’s the one who recommended me to the casting agency. But I wanted to get the part on my own, not just because she told you to put me in.”

  “That’s very considerate of you both. What if I’d turned you down?”

  “Then it’s back to the agency to nag my agent for other jobs. No point being in a show if the director doesn’t like me for the part.”

  He respect for him went up a few notches. “Just as well it worked out, then. Let’s introduce you to the others. Rehearsal starts in an hour. We’ll go over the blocking for Act One.”

  “All right. How’s the curse going for this production?”

  At this out-of-nowhere shot, Cassie paused in mid-boost from her desk, and sat down again. Rather abruptly. “Curse? Who told you?” she blurted before thinking.

  “This is the bad-luck play,” he said, eyes twinkling again. “So what troubles have you had?”

  “I don’t believe in the curse,” she answered dismissively.

  “The Weird Sisters’ spells are supposed to be real, and it’s always been bad luck to quote from the Scottish play while backstage.”

  “Only because in the old days it meant the current production was about to close early. Companies could throw Macbeth together quickly to fill up the schedule gap. If an actor heard anyone rehearsing lines from it backstage, it meant his show’s run was doomed.”

  “I’ve not heard that one.” He fixed her with a more intense look. “But you’ve not answered my question, Miss Sullivan.”

  “Cassie,” she said automatically, and let it hang between them for a very long moment. Or did time just telescope when he looked at her like that? But he does have such riveting eyes. She broke out of their spell and came up with a reluctant response. “We’ve had a few glitches that we blame on the production poltergeist.”

  “Your theater’s haunted?”

  She smiled. “Strangely, it is not. It’s old, but the only deaths here have been the fake kind on stage. Mishaps happen in theater, it’s the nature of the craft. My stage manager started calling things like that the work of the production poltergeist. He’s fond of alliteration. We’re having no more problems now than for any other show.”

  “Forgive me, but that’s not what I’ve heard.”

  Cassie could fix people with a formidable look herself, and did so now with Quentin, her green eyes stiletto-sharp. “And just what have you heard?”

  Unlike others she’d ever used it on, he didn’t seem to recognize the danger signal and leaned forward, not remotely intimidated. “When I found out I was going to be sent to replace Trevor Hopewell, I phoned Bel to thank her for the boost. She gave me an earful. I know about the missing costumes, props breaking, sets falling down, electrical shorts, flooded bathrooms—the works.”

  “We found the costumes in the trash and put that down to cleaning staff error, the rest is just accident and coincidence. It’s an old building. It would be odd if things didn’t go wrong with. . .things.”

  “What about the rash Bel got from her makeup?”

  “Allergic reaction to a new brand. We changed it.”

  “And Trevor Hopewell finding that dead rat in his codpiece?”

  “It crawled in there to die. We made him a new one and set out traps.”

  “And the needle that turned up in Bel’s corset? She got a bad scratch from that.”

  Good grief, he knew everything. Cassie fought down her anger. “The costume crew was careless. They apologized. The rest is coincidence. What are you getting at with all this, Mr. Douglas? Do you think someone is after Isabel?”

  “I think Isabel thinks someone is out to kill the production.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ve been with the people here for years, there’s no way—”

  “Bel worked herself into a good upset once she started talking. She’s willing to lay the blame on the play’s traditional curse, but she’s also willing to consider non-supernatural alternatives. You may know and trust everyone here, but she’s an outsider.”

  “Mr. Douglas, I can t
ell you right now that all the people in this company are two hundred percent behind this production. We’re working to make it a success because we need the money. Isabel’s agent approached me with her offer to foot the bill for the whole thing so long as she gets to play Lady Macbeth, and I gratefully accepted. The publicity this playhouse will get from her name will give us the financial help we’ve always needed. There is no way anyone here is going to jeopardize that.”

  “But maybe talk about a curse might embarrass her in some way? The tabloids love this kind of thing.”

  Ouch. He knew how to hit low. “Miss Graham wants to prove to the world she can play high drama as well as middle-America comedy, and a little bad publicity is not going to stop her. She’s a total professional and knows that the show must go on.”

  Quentin, his gaze still steady, nodded slowly, as though he’d found something he’d been looking for and liked it. “You’re aware of how important this is to her.”

  “If she blows it the critics will be merciless. She’s put a lot of trust in me, an unknown backwater director—”

  “Whose parents were the darlings of Broadway once upon a time.”

  It was no secret, but she was surprised he knew that. “Yes, they were, and they taught me everything they knew when they invested in this theater. I want to do proud by their memory, and I will give Isabel my best effort.”

  “Then we’re all in accord.” He suddenly relaxed and smiled.

  She couldn’t help but smile back. “Yes, I suppose we are, but—”

  Someone banged urgently on her red door. “Cassie! Emergency!”

  It was Willis Wright, stage-managing in overdrive from the sound of him.

  Heart thumping, she shot from her chair, on full alert. In any given production there were a hundred emergencies, but his tone of voice made this one serious. She hauled the door open and nearly collided with him. “What is it?”

  “We’ve found a body up on the gridwalk.”

  “What?” She pushed past, tearing toward the stage. There she saw the whole company staring upward to the dark heights of the grid, the steel construction that held the lights and backdrops. She stared herself, trying to pierce the shadows. “Flashlight!”