A Matter of Taste d-6 Read online

  A Matter of Taste

  ( Dracula - 6 )

  Fred Saberhagen

  He was once called Dracula, but in Chicago in our day he is known as Matthew Maule. John Southerland, like the rest of the Southerland family, calls him Uncle Matthew. After all he's an Old Friend of the Family and he has risked his un-life more than once to protect the Southerlands. But with Matthew rendered comatose by a feindish plot from beyond time, the Southerlands must rise to his defense - and battle five hundred years worth of Dracula's enemies.

  From Publishers Weekly

  Taking a break from his successful Berserker and Book of Lost Swords series, Saberhagen returns to his modern-day Count Dracula tales in this fast-paced sequel to An Old Friend of the Family . After more than a decade, the Chicago-based Southerland family again finds itself involved with the 500-year-old fiend who loved their great-great-grandmother in Bram Stoker's original story (and in The Dracula Tape , Saberhagen's first vampire tome). Finding the Count (now known as Uncle Matthew) poisoned and comatose in his upscale condo, John Southerland and his fiancee try to nurse him to health while defending the apartment against various living and "undead" foes. They also discover a tape-recorded autobiography telling of the Count's early bloodsucking days and his encounters with 15th-century legends Cesare and Lucretia Borgia, who may be masterminding the current attack. The Chicago characters become less interesting once the historical intrigue begins, but overall this thriller/romance will please fans thirsting for more adventures of a gentlemanly ghoul.

  A Matter of Taste Fred Saberhagen

  Chapter 1

  Angie Hoban found Valentine Kaiser waiting for her just where he had said he would be, occupying the end booth in a busy street-level coffee shop just off Michigan Avenue, a little south of the Water Tower. From outside she could see through the window that he was watching the entrance, and as soon as she came in through the revolving door he got to his feet, smiling. Tall, youthful, and actually one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. He was pulling a business card out of his vest pocket now, and as soon as she came within reach he handed it to her. A flashy printing job, she noticed, red on yellow. The message was simple enough:

  Valentine Kaiser

  Celebrity Publicist

  At the bottom were two phone numbers with different area codes, both of them somewhere in California, if Angie could trust her memory on such matters; she'd visited the West Coast a couple of times. There wasn't any address on the card; the implication seemed to be that Valentine Kaiser moved fast, so did his business, and if you had to mail him a message or travel to his office, you weren't going to reach him in time anyway.

  She dropped the card into her purse, thinking that she could always throw it away later.

  "And you're Angelina Hoban. Even prettier than you sounded on the phone." He spoke in a low voice, as if musing to himself, and didn't wait for her reaction; any way she wanted to take it was quite all right with him.

  In another moment she was sitting opposite him in the booth, and ordering coffee. In front of her companion stood another cup, almost untouched, or perhaps it had been diligently refilled by the hurrying waitress. Outside the plate-glass windows, faintly steamy with October chill, Chicagoans were hurrying past as Chicagoans generally did. Inside the coffee shop things were comparatively slack, the weekday lunch-hour rush having abated hours ago.

  "So, what's this all about, Mr. Kaiser? You said something about a talk being to our mutual advantage?"

  "Call me Val," the man across the table said, smiling. Then he paused, as if he were trying to plan his answer carefully. His behavior in the flesh reinforced an impression she'd formed during their brief phone conversation. Certainly this was not a man who'd try to drown her in a gush of salesman's or press agent's babble. The sincere type. Angie suspected that he was some kind of salesman, though, and that he could be very convincing if he did lie. The scar of some old injury, or blemish, spread over a large part of his right cheek, but too faintly to destroy his looks. Dark, Mediterranean type, though not tanned—she'd heard somewhere that tan had been out for a couple of years now among Hollywood people, among celebrities in general, she supposed. And what exactly did a Celebrity Publicist do?

  Sizable shoulders, and a lean waist under the vest of his three-piece, blue-gray suit. Most likely a college athlete somewhere, only a few years ago, and still in very good condition. Red tie, white shirt, all in all a sharp dresser, though a little more conservative than she would have expected from California, which she sometimes tended to identify with Hollywood.

  "I understand," said Kaiser, evidently having completed his mental preparations, "that you're going to have the pleasure of paying a visit to Mr. Matthew Maule this evening."

  "Who told you about that?"

  "And, you may well ask, what business is it of mine? You're quite right, I can't argue." Valentine Kaiser smiled engagingly, displaying excellent teeth, probably not capped. "I'd love to tell you who told me, but the fact is I promised I wouldn't, and I keep my promises. I do happen to know you're engaged to John Southerland—right? And the Southerland family, as you know, has a connection with Mr. Maule. And—let me just put it this way—certain members of the family would like to see that Mr. Maule finally gets credit for a lot of the great things he's done over the years."

  "Gets credit?"

  The self-proclaimed publicist spread his hands. "There's the hospital for burn victims he endowed in California—I could show you pictures. There's the Retired Stage and Screen Actors' Fund; there's—well, I could go on all day. The thing is, I'd like to be able to get in to interview him." Having revealed that much, Valentine Kaiser shut up suddenly, as if reminding himself not to babble like a salesman.

  As if, thought Angie, he were trying to mold himself into a brash extrovert, but it didn't come naturally to him. She felt a growing sympathy. "So you want to—write an article about him?"

  "That's about it. Yes." Kaiser looked relieved.

  Still an element of suspicion persisted. "If you want to interview this man, have you tried just asking?"

  "Angelina—what do your friends call you? Angie? Angie, if it was only that easy." The man sitting across from her shook his head. "A lot of people have tried just asking Mr. Matthew Maule, over the years. Let me tell you right up front why I invited you to have a talk with me. What I really hope to have you do is, eventually, put in a word for me so I can get an interview."

  "Wait a minute, wait a minute. I don't even know him."

  "But you're going to know him. Right? All I say now is if, having met me, and having met Mr. Maule and talked to him, you think you can put in a word for me with a clear conscience. See, we think this man deserves to get his proper recognition."

  Angie's coffee had arrived. She added a little nondairy creamer, picked up the heavy cup, and sipped at it absently. Not as bad as you got in a lot of these places.

  She was intrigued by the man across from her, but had the feeling that she wasn't close to understanding him. She said: "You know… some people might say you have a hell of a lot of nerve."

  "I know." Kaiser let his gaze slide over her shoulder. His forehead wrinkled as if the mild accusation pained him. It was hard to tell how much, if any, of the pain was real "People do say that, all the time. It's one of the hazards of my business, and so far I've managed to live through it." Then suddenly he looked directly at her, grinning. He had an engaging grin.

  Angie found herself hesitating between annoyance and laughter. "I tell you, I don't even know the man, this Mr. Maule," she said at last. "How in the world am I supposed to persuade him to give you an interview? Assuming that I wanted to?"

  Her companion nodded thoughtfully. He raised his cup to his
lips—she noticed now that he was wearing a golden wedding ring on one strong finger—then put it down as if struck by a sudden idea. "If you don't want to risk offending the reclusive Mr. Maule by helping me boost his reputation—then how about just helping me defend it, for a start? You won't have to ask him anything."

  "Excuse me?"

  Kaiser shook his head and put on the expression of one forced to contemplate something distasteful "There are a few rumors about him—I don't believe them for a moment. And I wouldn't pass these stories on to anyone I didn't know was going to be his friend. They're ugly things, and I'm not going to repeat them in full even to you. But there's one in particular—it has to do with the way his condo here in Chicago is said to be decorated. Outrageous, sexist, obscene—you get me, I'm not talking about art here. I'm talking exploitation."

  "I'm sorry, I don't—"

  "I'm not talking artistic nudes. I mean really exploitive pictures of women. Bondage and sadism. Photographs and paintings, even murals painted right on the walls. Let me repeat, I don't believe the truth of such a thing for a minute. But if I can't get in to see the place, how can I deny it authoritatively?"

  "Mr. Kaiser, I hope you don't think I'm going to try to sneak you in there. To snoop around his paintings and pictures, I suppose you'd want to take photographs too. Whatever your good intentions. As I keep telling you, I've never even met the man myself, I—"

  "Sure, sure." Her companion's tone was soothing, and he made sideways brushing motions with his large, capable-looking hands. "No, no, I'm not trying to push you into doing anything like that." The way Kaiser made it sound now, that he might talk Angie into sneaking or smuggling him in must have been really the furthest idea from his thoughts. "But let me say this. If you, after having actually been in the apartment, would consent to talk with me once more, very briefly, just to verify that these terrible rumors are all so much crap, excuse me, I'd be very pleased. See, believe it or not, I am very conscientious about what I do. And to kill these rumors I'd like to have the direct testimony of a reliable witness. I'll never quote you directly without your permission, I'll never use your name."

  Later, Angie was to wonder what might have happened if she had simply got up at that point, or some point earlier, and walked out. But it didn't matter, because that was not what she did.

  She did slide out of the booth and stand up, but she wasn't angry. There was something almost irresistibly attractive about the man, and his story sounded just wild enough to have the possibility of truth.

  "You already have my phone number at work, Mr. Kaiser," she said. "However you got it. If you want to call me again, in a few days, I'll tell you then whether I want to talk to you again or not. If my answer is no, then I expect you not to—"

  "Great. Excellent." It seemed that the young man was genuinely pleased. He stood up gracefully now to shake her hand. "That's all that I can ask of you now. And when you get into that apartment, just look around. Keep your eyes and your mind open. That's all I ask."

  Angie spent most of the next two hours at the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was only a few blocks from the coffee shop, over on Ontario east of Michigan. On her way over to the museum, where she was to meet John Southerland, she several times slowed her walking pace to look up thoughtfully at the gigantic multi-use building in which John's mysterious Uncle Matthew lived—where he maintained a condominium, at least, and spent some of his time. Immensely tall, formed gracefully of bronzed steel and glass, it stood among its twenty-, thirty-, forty-story neighbors like an adult among small children. The Southerlands had plenty of money, and evidently this kinsman, old friend, or whatever he was, did too.

  She wondered which of the Southerlands, if any, had really called in a Celebrity Publicist and had given him her phone number at the hospital. John's mother, most likely, if anyone… well, she, Angie, wasn't going to say anything about Valentine Kaiser to John just yet. It wouldn't hurt just to wait until she'd seen what Uncle Matthew's apartment really looked like.

  She was in the museum, in front of an Andy Warhol, wondering if there might be some deep meaning that she was missing, when her fiance caught up with her. John was twenty-seven, four or five years older than Angie. They'd met several months ago, at a party, a fundraising kind of thing really, given by some of John's friends. Angie had been present as an administrator, attractive and knowledgeable, if somewhat junior, of St. Thomas More's, the hospital which stood to collect most of the raised funds.

  John was a little under six feet, half a foot taller than Angie, strong-jawed, and sturdy, as befitted a former amateur wrestler who'd once made it to the state finals. His light brown hair, cut fairly short, still retained a tendency to curl.

  They kissed. The embrace was a bit on the casual side, appropriate for a couple who'd already been sharing an apartment and a bedroom for a month. He asked her: "How was your day?"

  "Interesting, so far." She didn't tell the most interesting part, not yet, but mentioned a couple of incidents having to do with her job. "I'm looking forward to the evening."

  John grunted something. It was not precisely an agreement.

  Twice, as they walked back toward the looming tower that housed Maule's condominium, it was on the tip of Angie's tongue to tell her fiance about her encounter with Valentine Kaiser. But each time she bit the impulse back. Later, of course, she'd tell him—and tell Uncle Matthew, too, most likely. Most likely the three of them would have a good laugh about it. That is, they would provided that Uncle Matthew didn't turn out really to be the kind to put up photographs of—but of course he wouldn't. No one who Johnny felt so close to could turn out to be like that. And in any case, Angie wanted to handle the matter of Valentine Kaiser herself, not simply turn him over to the menfolk.

  "So," she said instead. "Uncle Matthew is taking us out to dinner?"

  "Yeah." John, walking beside her, sounded preoccupied, almost as if he might be developing belated doubts about the evening's plan. "He's not actually my uncle, you know," he added, almost absently.

  "Yes, I know that." Angie felt vaguely troubled. "Because you've told me about half a dozen times over the past month."

  "I have?"

  "Yes. Every time you say he's not really your uncle, and then you get stuck, as if you don't know how to continue. So what is it about Uncle Matthew? Obviously he's important to you, if you're bringing me to meet him."

  "Well, he is," said John, and then appeared to get stuck again.

  "Do you want to invite him to our wedding?" It was the first time she'd raised the point.

  "I do," he said at once, then waffled. "But there's some question…"

  "Yes, there seems to be. He's some old friend of your father's?"

  "Well. Actually, no, he isn't. Dad's met him, but he doesn't even… he's an old friend of the family." John seemed pleased at having found that way to express it. "He was a good friend of my grandmother, who died during that episode when I was kidnapped. When I was sixteen."

  So then, thought Angie, we are making progress. Non-Uncle Matthew must be quite elderly. She was growing increasingly curious about, and anxious to meet, this man who was not quite an uncle, who had known John's family for many years, but whom nobody in John's family liked to talk to her about, even when it was certain that she and John were getting married.

  Matthew Maule. And now, not for the first time, she had the feeling that somewhere, before ever meeting John, she had heard that name, or read it… that could easily have happened, she supposed, in the case of a man of wealth and power, no matter how reclusive he tried to be.

  The building in which the mystery lived admitted Angie and John somewhat awkwardly at street level. Feet thumping on a temporary wooden sidewalk, they skirted the barricades of a construction area before arriving in a small retail mall of shops. Next came a busy lobby. Presently the two of them were alone in one of the express elevators, beginning a long ascent.

  John suddenly raised his hands, drawing her attention to them. On the ni
ght they had first met, Angie—feeling then, at the discovery, more than pity, a vague thrill of mystery and romance—had realized that both of John's little fingers were missing. His hands had only three fingers and a thumb apiece, almost as if they might belong to some character in an animated cartoon, where economy in the number of digits to be drawn was of some importance. But it was obvious as soon as you looked closely at John's hands that he hadn't been born that way; dots of old scar tissue, the tidy residue of surgical repair following some much cruder damage, marked each knuckle where a finger should have been.

  "I've already told you something about how I lost the fingers," John said, with the air of someone about to take a plunge.

  "About how you were kidnapped when you were sixteen. Yes, that must have been so horrible. My poor darling! I was too young then to pay much attention to stories in the news." And since they were alone, Angie reached for his hands, one after the other, and impulsively kissed the scarred knuckles.

  John murmured something that was almost a groan. Further exchanges of affection followed, until the young man with an air of urgency disengaged himself. They were passing the sixtieth floor now, and going up faster, feeling the change of pressure in their ears. There was not much time left to talk in privacy.

  John said: "I've been putting off trying to explain something. About Uncle Matthew."

  "Really? Don't tell me! He's not really your uncle?" Angelina, wide-eyed, was nodding as if in an exaggerated effort to give encouragement.

  "You're not making it any easier."

  "All right, I'm sorry, darling." She felt contrite. There must be some genuine difficulty. "Start again. Could it be—something about the way he decorates his apartment, maybe?"

  "Decorates his apartment?" John was looking at her vacantly. "I don't have any idea what that means. I've never been up here before."