Chapter 2 #3
“Because the prosecution hid evidence,” Ms. Renfield says. “If the trial isn’t fair, the verdict doesn’t stand. The principle of a fair trial is more important than putting any one murderer away.”
“I’m guessing you don’t do that where you’re from?” Hardware Sam says.
“No.” I scowl at Maverick strutting around self-importantly. “If the town fathers let a murderer out of jail, the peasants would stone them in the village square.”
“Well, in the past, maybe,” Ms. Renfield says.
Ms. Renfield. So concerned about appearances. I turn to her with a significant look, raising my eyebrow slightly. “A murderer, walking free.”
Hardware Sam nods vigorously. “And he’s already back to killing.”
Ms. Renfield doesn’t seem to comprehend my line of thinking. “So a known murderer is running free this very instant.”
“Unless the authorities picked him up,” Sam says.
“Ms. Renfield, it has come to me that I have that pressing dinner engagement. Should we not attend to that?”
She smiles. “I haven’t forgotten, but there’s still plenty of time.”
Does she not get my meaning? Dooley Brogan is the perfect next meal for me, but I can hardly drain his blood if he’s behind bars. Or at least, not without copious bloodshed.
“Best to get out ahead of these things,” I say.
She simply shrugs.
“You call her Ms. Renfield?” Pilar says.
“Inside joke,” Ms. Renfield says. “That was my dad’s last name and Alexandru just can’t get enough of it.”
Shouts go up from the alley next to Gable’s Grocery. A police officer carries a large crossbow in his gloved hands.
“There’s the weapon,” Pilar observes.
“What is the security camera coverage like out here?” Ms. Renfield asks.
“Spotty,” says Hardware Sam. “Definitely nothing covering that alley. We’ve got a camera on the front of the store, but the angle’s wrong.”
Ms. Renfield’s friend, her “bestie,” Josie Galindo, appears and everybody hugs and repeats information and agrees it is terrible. Ms. Renfield tugs on the lapel of her jacket and jokes that Josie is in city councilperson mode.
Pilar beams at Josie. “Have you heard anything?”
“They’ve gotten no witnesses,” Josie says in a confidential tone. “But I’m pretty sure he sent somebody to pick up Dooley for questioning by now. Do we know if he’s living in town?”
“Living with his sister up on Greentree Ave.,” Hardware Sam says.
“Very nice girl,” Pilar adds. “She’s a nurse up at Creighton General. Two sweet little kids. Personally, I wouldn’t be bringing Dooley Brogan into that house, brother or not, considering the Snag Tooth Riders might be out for vengeance.”
“I didn’t even think of that possibility!” Ms. Renfield says. “But it’s a bit much, don’t you think? The man gets out of prison, grabs a crossbow, and goes shooting someone?”
“Some people aren’t right in the head,” Hardware Sam says, a notion with which I heartily agree.
“Do we know what his beef with the victim, this Razor Johnny guy, was?” Ms. Renfield asks.
Hardware Sam sniffs. “Most everybody’s got a beef with the Snag Tooth Riders, what with all that protection racket and petty crime.”
“But to get out of prison and instantly murder someone using the same bizarre method…” Ms. Renfield says. “It seems farfetched.”
“Killers are not known for their brilliant ideas,” Josie says.
Ms. Renfield gazes across the street where her grandmother seems to be interviewing another one of the villagers. “I need to put a stop to that.”
Nobody asks her what she means.
“Best not forget about those meal arrangements,” I remind her.
“There’s time. See you guys later!” She starts off, circling around the crime scene tape to get to the opposite side of the street.
I match her stride. People’s heads turn as we pass. The villagers here do like to stare. “We must locate this Dooley Brogan before the police or any brigands do.”
“Just because somebody got killed with a weapon Dooley Brogan used fifteen years ago, that doesn’t mean it was him. In fact, he’d have to be a madman to think that was a good idea.”
“Perhaps he is a madman.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Ms. Renfield says. “But anybody can grab a crossbow and shoot somebody.”
“Hardware Sam seems to think he’s guilty. He was convicted at one time.”
“We need to be sure the person’s guilty,” she says.
Somewhere in the vicinity, a baby shrieks.
“I think you are adding a lot of caveats to our agreement that I drain only murderers.”
A voice rings out. “Prince Miramonte! Yoo-hoo!” Granabelle waves frantically.
Ms. Renfield casts her eyes upward. “And what am I? Chopped liver? It’s all about you?”
“As it should be.”
“Prince Miramonte!” Granabelle Morgan sweeps toward us, wielding her tripod-and-phone contraption.
Ms. Renfield’s grandmother has fashioned herself into a sort of minor celebrity on an entity called Instagram.
She is a seventy-something influencer, according to Ms. Renfield.
This influencer status seems to involve wearing a rotating collection of hats and outfits from the family antique store and filming and photographing herself and others.
“I’m here with one of our town’s most illustrious residents, Prince Alexandru Miramonte,” Granabelle announces breathlessly.
“Granabelle, you shouldn’t be livestreaming a crime scene,” Ms. Renfield says.
“Nonsense! It’s the people’s right to know!”
“The people’s right to know isn’t a thing.”
Granabelle plants herself beside me, angling the phone camera so our faces fill the little screen, excluding Ms. Renfield entirely.
“Prince Miramonte, do you have any comment on the tragedy that has befallen our peaceful town? I hope it won’t tarnish our reputation.
Such a crime is not typical of Ashwood.”
I incline my head toward the small rectangle with the image of us. “I assure you, madam, I am untroubled. Why, the week before I left Karsovia, a man was stabbed through the neck. Compared to that, your village seems a haven of serenity.”
Ms. Renfield groans softly beside me.
Granabelle beams at her audience. “I suppose you’re right, Prince Miramonte. There is crime everywhere, and the real test is how the citizens respond. How well they pull together. Ashwood Strong!”
“Granabelle,” Ms. Renfield says sternly. “I need to talk to you. Off camera.”
“This cannot wait?”
“Definitely not!” Ms. Renfield says.
Granabelle fiddles with the apparatus. “What is it? I have several other interviews to do.”
“You’re not a newscaster.”
“No .I’m something better. Is this what you had to tell me?”
Ms. Renfield glances over at officer Maverick Cooper, who is standing around inside the crime scene tape talking to yet another civil servant of some sort. “What have you heard?”
“Pretty much nothing. Maverick flatly refused an interview,” Granabelle says.
“He is paid with our tax dollars, but apparently, he’s forgotten that.
I got the tourists to talk, but they were spectacular deadbeats considering they were right there.
Not that I was asking them to divulge the gruesome particulars, but… ”
“But you kind of were?” Ms. Renfield puts in.
“Harriet!” Granabelle scolds.
I give Granabelle a small smile. “You always know more than you let on.” I lower my voice. “Have you spoken to anybody who talked to Maverick? Are there any other suspects?”
I can feel Ms. Renfield’s eyes on me. Surprised, perhaps, that I would pursue this. But, for all her foolishness, I have noticed that Granabelle does know how to gather intelligence.
Granabelle slants her gaze toward the scene. “I think they’re going to tread carefully. I have no doubt it stings, seeing a man walk free on a technicality. No lawman likes that. He’s not going to get it wrong this time.”
“It was prosecutorial misconduct,” Ms. Renfield tells her. “They withheld fingerprint evidence that could’ve cleared Dooley!”
“Maybe they withheld it because it wasn’t important,” Granabelle says. “Dooley Brogan should never have been let out, if you ask me. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. Though Razor Johnny was no prize in his day. You know he tried to shake us down a few times.”
Impatience rolls off of Ms. Renfield. She adjusts her glasses. “Yes, you’ve told that a zillion times.”
“But has the prince heard?”