“I took his coffin back to my workshop. ‘Von Helsing,’ he sneered at me, exposing his sharp teeth. He always called me Von Helsing, a former opponent I suppose. ‘Why are we fighting? California is the fruit basket of the world. We have a whole valley ready for plucking. Yet you insist on letting me starve to death; not that I can, of course, for immortality does have its advantages. I give you all the business you can handle, yet I know you brought my roll-away back here for a reason. You have another foot up your sleeve, I can sense it.’
“He retired, leaving me with this terrible dilemma. Business had never been better, I admit. Regrettably, if it kept up, there would be no one left to bury. I had to act fast.”
The jiggling rays from the carriage lamps set the roadside leaves to twitching like bat wings. Young Andrew hunched his shoulders and clutched his lapels tighter about his throat.
“Finally, in desperation, I seized upon the last option related to me by Renfrew while he was crunching a particularly large beetle.”
“What was that, Mr. Nickolas?” asked the apprentice, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness behind.
“A stake through the heart. The absolute solution to the depredations of this abdominal creature. In triumph, I carted him and his bier back to his place of interment and covered him up... unfortunately, that, too, failed.”
“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, I would think a stake through the heart would kill anybody.”
“True, under normal conditions, but here we were dealing with immortality and... termites.”
“Termites?”
“Yes, the little beasties went to work the moment he was in the ground. They ate the stake in its entirety, thus unwittingly freeing the count to go batting about on his nefarious rounds.”
“How did you finally bury him?”
“I didn’t. Ahhh... here we are, Andrew. You may unhitch the horses while I warm up the lasagna from Mrs. Paparazzo.”
“Well. That was a good meal, if I do say so. Andrew, your sense of security is commendable, but after locking all doors and windows, looking through the cupboards and under the beds, do you have to draw the curtains, too?”
“But you said that Count Dracula is still...”
“Oh, not to worry. You see I finally arrived at a solution that satisfied everyone. The Paparazzos felt rather guilty when they found their culinary efforts had caused so much trouble. At my request, they were only too happy to contribute several gallons of their very best red wine to implement the plan... the idea was to get Mr. Dracula to imbibe. The entire town agreed that Mute Willie would be the ideal bait.”
“Mute Willie?”
“Yes. Because of his chronic laryngitis, Willie always wore a hot water bottle about his neck. Everyone else put on a garlic necklace, and I filled Willie’s hot water bottle with Mrs. Paparazzo’s homemade wine.
“The plan worked admirably. Mute Willie remained unhurt, his ‘wounds,’ if you will, were readily healed by applying a dab of India gum rubber, and Mr. Dracula got so drunk he passed out cold; The townspeople carried him back here, and I quickly performed the extractions.”
“All of ’em?” Andrew’s eyes widened.
“Every last one,” Mr. Nickolas said. “Andrew, I left my Hungarian cloak in the hearse. In the pocket you will find a medicinal flask. Would you fetch it, please?”
Andrew did as bidden. Somehow the dark did not seem so dark now. He smiled, then laughed out loud as he thought of the frustration of Count Dracula gumming it through all eternity.
“Uh, whatever happened to poor Mr. Renfrew?” he asked on his return.
“Oh, he became a very successful businessman in San Francisco. Specialized in insect and rodent extermination, the last I heard.”