Until Death Page 4

  "Hazards of a town full of actors, I suppose," Julia said. "Listen, I've never run into anything like this. How does your husband feel?"

  Maria stared into the dark brown tea. She tilted the sugar spoon, watching the sparkling white stream falling into the cup.

  "He's gone along with everything medically," she said quietly. "I think he's getting upset about the cost. He doesn't know about this part. Not with you or any of the others."

  Julia stared into Maria's eyes again, her head tilted to one side.

  "Okay," she said with a nod. "As soon as we're finished here, I'll tune in and see what I can do."

  Before Maria was ready, she was following Julia back down to the extravagant basement room.

  "I'm sure this all seems a bit much to you," Julia said, shrugging. "I've gotten into the habit of working down here. Do you mind the cushions on the floor?"

  Maria shook her head, then slipped off her shoes and sat on a thick blue cushion on one side of the small fabric-covered table. Julia sat on a red one opposite her.

  "What are you going to do?" she said. "I've had a couple of unpleasant surprises."

  Julia smiled. "You're not insisting on flash and glamour, so I won't do any of that. I'll see how you feel. See if anything's hanging around you that shouldn't be. My grandmother did use the crystal ball, but I'm comfortable without it if you are."

  She held out her hands, and Maria covered them with her own. Julia's many rings were sharp and cold.

  "Just relax," Julia said. "Take a few deep breaths. Close your eyes."

  Maria breathed as deeply as she could with her heart beating so fast and hard. She was certain Julia would hear it or feel it in her hands. After a few seconds of listening to the other woman's slow breathing, she opened her eyes.

  Julia was still as a statue, her plump, dark red lips slightly parted. On her next deep exhalation, she pulled her left hand free and held it palm down over Maria's head.

  "Everything seems fine so far," Julia said in a whispery voice. "Doing okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  Julia moved her hand down, never touching Maria, tracing an outline of her shape. When her palm was barely an inch from Maria's stubbornly flat abdomen, she stopped.

  "There is something here," she said, her mouth turning down. "I can't tell what, but it's been here for a while. Not all that deep. Very strong."

  "What are you going to do?" Maria whispered. She forced her hand to relax its grip on Julia's.

  "Feels like I could shift it enough to move it out. Never felt something like this. All through your belly, but it radiates out." She moved her hand back until it was over a foot away. "I think it pushes even further." She shook her head, her brow furrowed. "Underneath that, though. So deep. So old. I can't quite remember..."

  Julia's words drifted off, and she was still. Her fingers slowly curled around her palm, the rings flashing in the candlelight. Julia drew her whole body back, as if she'd touched a red-hot cooktop. Her face went pale before she opened her eyes.

  "What?" Maria said, trying to hold on when Julia pulled her other hand away. "What is it?"

  "I can't," Julia said, staring at the crystal ball. "I can't do anything. I'm sorry, Maria."

  "No, you said you could move it," Maria said. "At least tell me what it is!"

  "It's like your mother said, and very effective. You won't be able to have children. Older magic than I've ever felt before."

  "But why?" Maria reached toward Julia but she drew away, getting to her feet and stepping toward the door. "Why won't you help me?"

  "I like you, Maria. I'm sure you'd make a wonderful mother. But it's not to be. Some curses were never meant to be passed along. Live your life with your husband. Let this pass away from your mind. I'm sorry."

  Maria stood, watching Julia move farther away from her.

  "How can you tell me I have some kind of curse but you won't help me get rid of it?"

  "The deeper curse is something no one can remove," Julia said. "It is part of you. Someone may be able to remove the magic, the spell that prevents you from having children. I hope anyone who could will understand why they should not."

  "Wait!" Maria cried. "If I say it, what I've heard, will you at least tell me if I'm right? Isn't it the least you can do?"

  "Please don't put me in that—"

  Maria whispered the word Ana used, the word so strange and too familiar.

  "Strigoi."

  Julia flinched. Maria was sure her twitching hands wanted to cross herself, over and over again like she'd seen her mother and old women in Romania do. At least Julia had confirmed what Maria needed to focus on next.

  "I'll be sure to pass that much along if I ever find someone else," Maria said, stepping into her shoes. "If I even bother to try. What do I owe you, Julia?"

  "Nothing." She folded her hands and looked at the ground, the tiny brass bells around her neck tinkling. "I truly am sorry. Please go. And please do not return."

  Chapter 10

  Five years ago

  No matter what else was going on in her life, snow always made Maria giddy as a schoolgirl. The luxurious log cabin perched near the top of a mountain pass in North Carolina, surrounded by dark pine trees mixed with pale, bare hardwood branches. Thick, heavy flakes poured down fast enough to sound like feathery rain.

  The soaring wood and stone living room was warm and bright, but she stayed out on the deck as long as she could stand it. The snow transformed early afternoon into late evening like magic.

  Maria finally stepped inside, heat from the roaring fire melting the snow in her hair in a few seconds. The two-story windows let her see the storm just fine, but she'd head back out to feel the cold against her skin before bedtime. Paul and Gary assured her getting back down off the mountain in a couple of days wouldn't be a problem. They were less than twenty miles outside of Asheville, and the forecast called for warmer temperatures. She hoped they were snowed in for at least a few days herself.

  Maria shook her coat and scarf before hanging them on the coat tree carved to look like a real tree by the sliding glass doors. She wore the same winter vacation gear of worn flannel shirt and blue jeans as her host. Such casual clothing, old and comfortable rather than aged by a stylist, was one of many of Maria's beloved sins that would horrify most of her Hollywood clients.

  "Get over here and have some hot chocolate," Paul said. "I'm getting cold just watching you out there."

  "This is what I miss most living in LA," she said. "A break from sunny and bloody seventy-five degrees."

  "Just about everyone in these mountains would kill for that sometime in mid-January."

  Paul Mullins was one of her first clients, a novelist from back East trying to navigate the tricky ways of Hollywood, and a new pen name, without getting eaten alive. That initial publishing and movie success had turned into a long-standing friendship between the four of them. Paul and Gary provided the vital antidote for East Coast people living on the West Coast for so long.

  Maria sat beside Paul on an overstuffed tan sofa close to the fire. She could smell the booze in his oversized coffee mug, but she knew hers would be safe. They'd been friends far too long for him to make a mistake like that.

  "Send them my way for the warm weather," she said. "As long as I get to see one good snowstorm every year."

  The massive ottoman was big enough for both their legs and an enticing stack of folders and notebooks. Maria didn't want to push, especially when she hadn't seen Paul in almost a year. But she was more anxious by the second to dig into what he'd dug up for her. He smiled and shook his head, his curly shoulder-length silver hair glinting in the firelight.

  "I should make you sit here and talk writer gossip with me for at least an hour before I let you see any of that."

  "I'll gossip," she said, trying not to laugh. "You know I will. I was just thinking of Gary. You'll have to repeat everything when he gets home, and you don't tell it nearly as well as I do."

  "You're getting this fl
attery thing backwards, young lady," Paul said. "I told you that West Coast lifestyle would rot your brain."

  He leaned forward and picked up the stack, flipping through one of the folders too fast for her to see.

  "You're pure evil, Paul."

  "Mission accomplished." He grinned and dropped the pile in her lap. "Quite an interesting bunch of tales you sent me wandering into. Gonna tell me what this is all about?"

  "Maybe I plan to write a book," Maria said.

  She scanned through the printed documents, focusing on the highlighted areas and Paul's neat handwritten notes. She wasn't about to admit how badly her mother's lies and Ana's tales of the undead had gotten under her skin.

  Sensible Julia being so frightened had pushed Maria so far over the edge that she could never turn back to rational pursuits.

  "Maybe you should write that book." Paul's somber tone got her full attention. "This gets a bit slimy, hon. Maybe more than even a badass Hollywood lawyer wants to deal with."

  "Slimy how?"

  "Taking advantage of an old woman with dementia, for starters," he said before finishing his adult hot chocolate. "She's the best source for what you're looking for. At least the only one who'll talk to you."

  "I'm sorry," Maria said. "I didn't meant to drag you into something like this."

  "No, don't apologize," he said, shrugging. "I didn't talk to her myself. My extensive network of spies did the dirty work. I got a hell of a book idea out of the whole thing, too. I'm just saying you want to think this over before you go haring off to Austria. And maybe ask that gorgeous man of yours to handle the casting when they make the movie of the book I'm fixing to write."

  "I'll see what I can arrange," Maria said, opening another folder. "This her?"

  A stern middle-aged woman stared out of a black and white photo, dark hair in a strict bun on top of her head. Her severe military uniform and accusing expression reminded Maria of Igor, the old party boss in her mother's village.

  "That's her back in the eighties," Paul said. "Poor thing. We all had bad hair back then."

  "Even you?"

  "Especially me! Trying to fit into the litt-tra-chure crowd, writing butch espionage novels, forcing myself to act straight all the way up to my poor hair. There's a reason my author photos were all from a safe distance."

  "What's this place in Austria?" Maria said, frowning. Folklore from the wrong part of the world wasn't going to help her. "Magda Schmidt? She's not from Romania?"

  "Magda Lupescu, originally from Transylvania just like you. Married a good Austrian not long after the Soviet Union self-destructed, then moved back home with him. Second marriage for both. Best for both to get the hell out of Romania. Magda was known as a bit of an enforcer, not at all beloved. When Mr. Schmidt passed away a couple of years ago, all their children from various marriages got together and gave Mrs. Schmidt a one-way ticket to retirement. Nice place, really. We should all be so lucky."

  "If she was that high up, why would she talk to me?" Maria said.

  "Well, that's the slimy bit, hon," Paul said.

  He got to his feet, holding out a hand. Maria let him pull her up and followed him into the kitchen. The view to the woods rising up behind the house was nearly as spectacular as the front, with floor to ceiling windows behind a gleaming stainless steel and granite chef's kitchen.

  Paul’s early success with espionage suspense novels published under John Richards transitioned beautifully into political thrillers published as James Mitchell. His long-standing Eastern European connections were promising to work out just as well for Maria.

  "Magda's getting prone to mistaken identity," Paul said, filling each of their mugs with fresh hot chocolate from a pot on the cooktop. He added whiskey to his own. "Sort of funny considering her previous line of work. With only a little bit of encouragement, she'll recognize you as her sister, Dorina."

  Maria shook her head as she grabbed bowls of pretzels and chips. A veritable mountain of carbs and salt. Yet another thing her West Coast friends would be horrified by.

  "And when Dorina visits next time," she said, "won't she wonder why her sister thinks she just saw her?"

  "Not likely." Paul threw two more logs on the fire before he rejoined Maria on the couch. "Dorina passed away not long after the Soviet Union did. These days, Magda sees her in any woman your age with dark hair. She can't keep the timeline straight in any case, no idea what decade she thinks it is. If that doesn't work, mentioning that creepy Igor back in Transylvania you told me about does the trick. He's a damned piece of work himself."

  Maria stared into the flames. She'd handled a few cases of family members trying to take advantage of authors or screenwriters with memory problems. Not much terrified her more than ending up that way herself.

  "Thus the slimy part," she said.

  "Very much so. Listen, Maria, you sure you want to get into this? My friend over there isn't exactly the shy type, but she was shook up by this whole thing. I say you just turn the fake book into a real one and leave this one alone."

  "You've told me more than once about how an idea gets under your skin," she said. "You can't give it up, even if I warn you how much you're going to have to pay me to keep you out of legal trouble." Maria looked up into his blue eyes. He nodded. "This one's got me, Paul. Too far back and way too deep for me to walk away. I appreciate you more than you know for getting me this far."

  Paul grunted. "Figured you'd say that. Now listen to me. I'm the biggest skeptic on the face of the earth. I've laughed at a thousand stories of folk magic and religion. I thought the crazy occult stuff the Nazis were into was the worst. But something about Ms. Magda and her tales of decapitation and poisoning the grave has me spooked through and through. Think you'll tell me about it someday? When it's all over?"

  "I'll most likely be telling you it's a bunch of nonsense like all the rest," Maria said. She never lied to Paul, and she hated to do it now. She couldn't seem to help herself. "If anything comes of my visit with her, I'll give you the scoop."

  Paul stared at her for several seconds. Maria worked with enough writers to know when she was being examined and evaluated, like an x-ray machine trained on her mind. She also knew how to look right back and try to hide what she had to. Even when she probably wasn't hiding a damned thing.

  "Okay then," he said. "You know I'll hold you to that, whether you mean it right now or not. My one condition is you let me set up the identification you'll need. These things are harder than they used to be, especially if you've never done it before. No way I'm letting someone else mess this up and it gets traced back to my high-powered West Coast lawyer."

  "You're expecting me to remember a new name on top of all the rest?"

  "Not at all, sweetheart," he said, grinning. "An old one. Don't you think it's time we brought Mr. and Mrs. Paul Mullins back from the dead?"

  Maria gulped her mouthful of hot chocolate down, probably burning the back of her throat in an effort to keep from spitting it out all over Paul's gorgeous tan furniture. The most honest, true laughter she'd felt in a long while brought more tears to her eyes. She leaned against Paul's shoulder while she caught her breath.

  "You're telling me we're going to pretend to be married now? When you're legally married to Gary in all fifty states?"

  "That's exactly what I'm telling you, Mrs. Mullins," he said. "Easiest thing in the world for both of us to remember, and a lot easier to blend in most places as Maria Mullins than as Sabov or Inesceu. Deal?"

  "I would not presume to argue with you, my dear husband," Maria said. "Maria Mullins it is."

  He plucked a slim notebook out of the stack, the same vinyl-covered model Maria used herself. He handed it to her with one of her favorite blue ink pens.

  "This is what you need to know going in."

  Chapter 11

  Five years ago

  The illusion was nearly perfect.

  The cobblestone street was lined with bright, lively restaurants, shops, and services like post
offices, salons, and banks. A cinema at the end of the row, proclaiming itself home of the classics, advertised movies and TV shows from before Maria was born. All were available with either subtitles in multiple languages or support for advanced hearing aids.

  Young, energetic, and unusually attentive men and women staffed those businesses. Pensioners and retirees from all over the world strolled up and down the immaculate sidewalks, smiling and greeting Maria where she waited on a comfortable park bench.

  She had to admit the facade was every bit as good as anything Disney ever created in Southern California, Florida, or anywhere else. None of the residents would even guess the community was in Austria rather than elsewhere in Europe unless too many employees said "Gross gott."

  Only by looking closely would anyone notice the stylish and well-disguised medical alert necklaces or pins the residents wore. The emergency call buttons on nearly every gas lamppost were even harder to spot, as were the wide aisles in the shops made to accommodate gurneys and emergency equipment.

  Maria alternated between shuffling her notes and tugging at the quaint outfit she'd borrowed from the administration of this high-end retirement facility. Depending upon the mental state and nationality of the resident, the director tactfully encouraged visitors to play along with the atmosphere.

  She'd been delighted to spot the vintage black jacket and skirt, and she had to admit the fit and cut were more flattering than she expected from Soviet-era clothing. Maria also knew why such wool fabrics had fallen out of style after twenty minutes of trying to keep everything from touching her sensitive skin. She was having an even harder time not fidgeting with one of Paul's suggestions, an asymmetrical black brooch concealing her digital recorder.

  A young man Maria had spoken to earlier, now stationed behind the bar of the coffee shop across the street, waved to get her attention. The space was decorated more like a mid-century Paris bistro than a Starbucks, and it served as a meeting place for residents and visitors. An older woman walked toward the shop, accompanied by one of the staff members dressed like Maria.