Chapter 2 #2
Ms. Renfield informs me that this murder was done by crossbow right out in front of the hardware store, which is near Ms. Renfield’s family’s antique store. A motorcycle gang member named Razor Johnny was felled like game.
There is no suspect as of yet.
No suspect. I find myself oddly pleased by this development.
Ferreting out murderers is a time-consuming way to dine, but there is a certain sport in it that I rather enjoy. The centuries tend to blur together; thus a fresh puzzle is not unwelcome.
“The villagers here are indeed benighted and dull in their thoughts,” I say to her. “Nevertheless, I find it odd anyone would name their child Razor Johnny.”
“That’s not his real name—that’s his motorcycle gang name,” she says.
“Your favorite people.”
Ms. Renfield snorts. “Yeah, not so much.”
I smile, remembering her righteous fury last month when they’d thundered through town on their Harley Davidson motorcycles. “It’s called a muffler—look into it!” she’d shouted, a lone, indignant voice into the roar like Don Quixote at his windmill.
So very Ms. Renfield.
She maneuvers the car into a space that seems impossibly small, but not for her. Up the street, yellow tape cordons off a section of sidewalk. The hapless villagers are scattered around in groups. Even from here I can smell the sharp copper tang of blood.
“Let me do the talking,” she says. “Maverick is going to be territorial about this.”
I feel a growl begin deep in my throat. Officer Maverick Cooper. “Your former suitor.”
She checks herself in the mirror, adjusting the clips that hold back her hair. “You can’t antagonize him.”
“I have no reason to antagonize him. Unless he antagonizes me.”
“His entire existence antagonizes you.”
“What antagonizes me is the fact that he so desperately wishes to bed you. It is intolerable. You are my Renfield.”
“Maybe you should just pee on my leg and get it over with.”
I examine her expression as we exit the vehicle, uncertain what she means by this. Vampires do not urinate.
“Kidding!” she says.
We make our way toward the cordoned-off area. The crowd parts around us instinctively.
Beyond the tape lies a body beneath a sheet, and what I presume is the shaft of a crossbow bolt, tenting the fabric upward.
A village official of some sort crouches, examining something on the sidewalk next to the body.
Officer Maverick Cooper presides over the scene, orange hair bright as a warning flare, copper-freckled face set in what he likely believes is an authoritative expression, chewing gum in his usual aggressive rhythm.
A pair of men duck under the yellow tape and engage Maverick in conversation.
“That’s the county medical examiner,” Ms. Renfield says. “They’ll be taking the body away for further examination. I wish we could’ve gotten a look at it.”
“Further examination,” I say. “I find that whatever is sticking out of a body is typically what killed them.”
“It’s protocol.” She winces at something she spots on the other side of the cordoned-off crime scene in front of the antique store.
It’s her grandmother, Granabelle.
Granabelle wears a bright yellow outfit with a bright yellow hat that has a giant plume sticking out of it, and she has her rectangular phone set up on some kind of tripod.
“Good grief, is she interviewing crime scene gawkers?”
“It would appear so.”
“I’ll deal with her later. Let’s see what Hardware Sam and Pilar know.
” She nods up ahead at the hardware store that sits right in front of the cordoned area, its door propped open.
A heavyset man in his sixties stands in the entrance, his frizzy hair dusted with gray, conversing with some peasants.
Beside him stands a compact woman of similar age, eyes sharp as a raptor’s, watching the scene.
A sign above them reads “Hardware Sam’s.”
“They would’ve had a perfect line of sight to the murder,” Ms. Renfield says. “And if they didn’t see it, they’ll have heard every version of it by now. Sam and Pilar know everything that happens in town. Sam is every guy’s buddy, and Pilar is the central hub of gossip.”
“Ah.”
“You remember Josie, my best friend in the world whose blood you thought about draining when you first came to town? Pilar is her aunt.”
I follow her down the sidewalk, past gawking peasants, including a woman pushing a baby carriage from which an annoying wail erupts. “To be fair, I think about draining most everybody’s blood.”
“So egalitarian!” she says brightly. “See those chairs in front? Pilar and Hardware Sam put them there on purpose and let people have free coffee. Pilar randomly bakes these mini-hot cross buns they sell for a dollar, and nobody knows when she’ll bring them out, so people always loiter around. And they get to talking.”
“The village well.” My gaze drifts over the hardware store’s windows on either side of the doorway, displaying wares that the peasants likely use to maintain their various hovels.
Small villages are all the same, whether in this century or ten centuries past. Different tongues, different tools, but the same humans being born, raising their broods, and dying all within the span of decades.
Ms. Renfield’s urging me forward. “Sam! Pilar! How are you holding up?”
“Harriet.” Sam’s voice is steady, but there’s a tremor there, and plenty of adrenaline. “We’re fine. Just… a shock.”
Ms. Renfield shakes her head sadly. “Right here on the street. Unbelievable. Did you actually see it?”
“I heard it,” Pilar says. “I’m sorting an order of hinges and Sam’s up at the cash register and suddenly this shout. It was horrible. You could tell it was a man but sounded…I don’t know. Gutteral.”
“Like an animal,” Sam puts in.
“Oh my goodness.” Ms. Renfield casts a dark look at the street, then turns back to them, and the three of them seem to share some wordless togetherness. Ms. Renfield has a way of making her fellow villagers feel tended to.
“We rush out and there he is,” Pilar continues. “Just on the other side of the walk, blood spreading out from under him. A couple of tourists were already there, kneeling by him. We went over and it was obvious he was dead.”
“Very obvious,” Sam says.
“I put in the call,” Pilar adds.
“Did the tourists see who did it?”
“No,” Pilar says. “They were getting in their car when they heard Razor Johnny cry out, and then a thump and there he is, face-first on the pavement. They think it came from the alley next to Gable’s.”
I study the alley in question. Narrow. Good sight lines. A hunter’s position.
“Bigass crossbow bolt sticking out his back,” Sam says.
“So we heard,” Ms. Renfield says.
We stand together and watch Maverick scold a man for getting too close, then he and another official clear a path for those bearing the stretcher.
“Medical examiner,” Ms. Renfield says.
They hoist the body onto the stretcher.
“Is a crossbow bolt a type of bow-and-arrow thing?” Ms. Renfield asks
“Certainly not,” I say. “The crossbow is no gentleman’s weapon.
Compact. Heavy. Unforgiving. The bolt flies slower than an arrow with great force.
I have seen it pierce a knight’s breastplate as easily as a needle through wet parchment, the warrior toppling like a statue, blood filling his steel shell like wine into a cup. ”
People stare at me as if I’ve just grown a new head.
“Okay!” Ms. Renfield presses a hand to her heart.
“Strong opinions on the crossbow. Somebody’s been watching the History channel again.
” She tries for a smile. “I’m so sorry. Where are my manners!
Have you two met Alexandru?” She makes introductions, as is her way.
This man’s name is Sam Washington, but he informs me that I’m to call him Hardware Sam.
“Nice to finally meet the fella that rehabbed Kingston Manor,” says Hardware Sam, shaking my gloved hand enthusiastically. “Hell of an undertaking, that.”
“Indeed it was.” I extract my card and hand it to him.
“Oh,” he says, looking at it. “Alexandru Miramonte, princeps.” He turns it over, as if to see if there is more on the back.
“So nice to meet you, Prince Miramonte,” Pilar says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Pilar Galindo.”
“Please, call me Alexandru.” I hand her a card as well.
“Oh!” she says.
“Yeah, he’s not really a prince,” Ms. Renfield explains. “It’s an ancient title…kind of a relic.”
“What does princeps mean?” Pilar asks.
“There’s not really an English word for it,” Ms. Renfield says, and then quickly changes the subject. “So nobody saw anything?”
“Nah. Doesn’t matter, though,” Hardware Sam says. “Everyone knows who did it.”
Ms. Renfield straightens, surprised. “Really? Who?”
“Dooley Brogan,” says Hardware Sam. “Remember him?”
Ms. Renfield narrows her eyes. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Dooley Brogan is the one who went down for killing his business partner...Benson something maybe what...” Pilar looks up at Sam. “...fifteen years back?”
“Something like that,” says Hardware Sam. “With a big ol’ crossbow. The two of them owned Silver Wheels Automotive. Pretty decent garage up on Highway Five. Dooley Brogan got thirty to life. But guess who just got released on a technicality.”
“It was prosecutorial misconduct,” Pilar corrects. “Apparently the prosecutor withheld some fingerprint evidence.”
I frown, confused. “You are telling me that you had a murderer in prison and intentionally freed him?”
“Sometimes if they find out that the rules for a trial weren’t followed correctly, then they let the person out or have a different trial.” Ms. Renfield turns to Pilar. “What was the fingerprint evidence?”
Pilar says, “A partial print on the crossbow that wasn’t Dooley’s. They never turned it over to the defense.”
Ms. Renfield’s eyebrows go up at that. “So somebody else handled the murder weapon.”
“Dooley did the crime,” Hardware Sam says. “Everyone knows it.”
“Not everyone,” Pilar says. “People always had doubts.”
I am thoroughly confused. “He was imprisoned for murder and then let out. Due to a fingerprint.”