Verse of the Vampyre by Diana Killian Page A

There was a challenge in her tone.
    Ruthven stared at her with his dark hollow eyes and said nothing.
    If the police were called in, Grace saw no sign of them. After a day or two the front of the theater was scrubbed down and repainted.
    Rehearsals continued remorselessly, for all the good they did.
     
    It wasn’t until Wednesday that Grace noticed she was being followed.
    The woman was standing by the gate when Grace pulled out of the drive of Renfrew Hall. She noticed her in the rearview: a tall thin figure in black standing motionless among the trees.
    It shook Grace, but there were a dozen explanations, and she was happy to seize on the first one, which was that the woman had just been passing by.
    That explanation didn’t work so well when Grace spotted her the next afternoon, across the road from Craddock House.
    Grace had been indulging in some Cinderella-like daydreaming as she dusted cups of a Czech lusterware tea set. Her thoughts were preoccupied with what to wear to the Hunt Ball. Her budget was limited, and she had previously planned to wear her good black dress.
    It was against her principles to “compete” for a man’s attention, but common sense told her Catriona Ruthven would use every weapon in her arsenal if she was after Peter. Grace intended to stick to her principles, but the less-disciplined portion of her brain kept picturing herself sweeping into the Hunt Ball in a drop-dead glamour dress.
    She was smiling at this vision when she noticed movement in the trees across the way. She went to the window.
    Yes, the woman in black was standing outside the shop. Just standing there, staring.
    Grace headed for the door, hesitated, then went outside, crossing the lawn.
    “Can I help you?” she called.
    The woman stared. She was wearing a black dress, black walking boots and a black scarf. Nothing too sinister about her, unless you were the fashion police, but creepy all the same.
    “What do you want?” Grace called.
    The woman continued to gaze unspeaking.
    It was too bizarre. Grace went back inside and considered calling the police, but again she didn’t want to bring attention to Peter or his shop.
    Was she the local witch, Miss Coke? Or merely some deranged homeless person? Was she practicing witchcraft or intimidation?
    Grace watched the woman for a few minutes more and decided that her uneasy attention was what Miss Coke (if it was Miss Coke) wanted.
    However, after this unpleasant experience Grace concluded that she did deserve a treat of some kind. Since she couldn’t afford a ball gown, she resorted to the time-honored tradition of having her hair done. She’d been wearing her long chestnut locks in the same simple style since she’d started teaching, and she felt it was time to make a change; maybe go for something more contemporary—even a bit sexier.
    Halfway through the perm process she realized it might look like she was copying Catriona’s signature style. She stared at her wired-for-sound reflection, thinking that if this kept up she would end up like the narrator of Rebecca, trying to compete with a ghost.
    But in the end, she needn’t have worried. Her soft curls looked nothing like Catriona’s coppery mane, and the new sophisticated cut flattered her fine features. Grace felt so thrilled with the result she splurged and bought her favorite brand of lipstick and eye shadow in the new “Fall Palette.”
    Her efforts must have been successful, because Derek Derrick flirted with her quite outrageously at rehearsal that night—much to the chagrin of Theresa Ives.
    They formed a truce later when she caught Theresa on her way out after rehearsal. Derrick waited, holding Theresa’s white raincoat, as Grace said, “This may sound strange, but I wanted to ask you…do you know anything about a woman named Miss Coke?”
    “That woman!”
    “What does she look like? Tall, thin, dressed in black?”
    “That’s her.” Theresa’s face changed. “Don’t tell me she’s after