Chapter 5 #2
I tug on my gloves, ensuring full skin coverage.
It is just like a Renfield to be painstakingly thorough.
It is typically a formidable advantage, but it has been too many days since I’ve taken a meal, and there are limits to my patience.
I can feel the feral edge of it now—the way my senses sharpen whether I will it or not.
The way her pulse beats, bright and steady.
The way her warmth radiates like a hearth in winter, beckoning.
I look away at once.
Berky emerges from the back of the patisserie, wiping her hands on her apron. Her tight dark curls are bound beneath a blue scarf, and she brightens when she sees me. “Bonjour, Prince Miramonte! Had I known you were coming, I would have prepared a millefeuille for us to share.”
“No need. The baba au rum lives on my tongue even now. A legend,” I say—in French, of course.
Ms. Renfield steps up beside me. “Bonjour! We’d like six plain croissants, please.”
Berky instructs her helper to gather the pastries.
Ms. Renfield leans in. She has refreshed her lipstick—a vivid red that catches the light. “I hear you had a notorious visitor recently.”
“Mais oui!” Berky wipes, her hands on her apron.
“The crossbow murderer himself! He stared at the cookies, making love to them with his eyes. So very unseemly.” She motions at another underling who wipes her hands on her apron just as Berky did.
“Come, Monique. You will meet the prince and tell him about the scoundrel.”
Monique seems to be Berky’s granddaughter, fresh off the boat from France. “And you remember Harriet Morgan, of course.”
Ms. Renfield smiles at the girl. “Were you the one who spoke to Dooley Brogan?”
“Mais oui!” she says, mimicking Berky in every aspect.
“He was staring at the peanut butter sprinkle cookies, putting his fingerprints all over the glass. And when I asked him if I could help him, he said he did not need help. No, he was shamelessly consuming those cookies with his eyes. He did not need help with that!”
“Shamelessly,” Berky says.
“Do you have a sense of the time he was here?” Ms. Renfield asks.
Monique says, “That’s what the police wanted to know, but I didn’t remember. We were finishing with the lunch rush, that much I know.”
Berky says, “A busy Monday lunch in May, that’s when you know the tourists have arrived.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“A small pack, I believe,” Monique says.
“Did the police talk to any of the customers?” Ms. Renfield asks.
Berky sniffs. “Why would they? The man was seen in Gable’s Grocery soon after, and it is my understanding that the shot came from the alley next to Gable’s.”
“We would like to establish a reliable timeline,” Ms. Renfield says. “Can you tell me who was in here when Dooley was here?”
The French girl names a few customers, and Ms. Renfield notes the names upon her electronic ledger with her white pencil.
She does not know it, but she looks exactly like her father when she does this—the careful recording, the quiet intensity. Ms. Renfield’s father had a nearly mystical connection to his ledgers. He worked for me nearly a century, a fact that seems to greatly disturb her.
“Did you do something to him to make him like you?” she once asked.
I informed her that her father was not a vampire and certainly nothing like me.
He did, however, beg me to extend his life, so great was the honor of serving me.
An attitude that his daughter has yet to cultivate.
Well, the night is young, as these humans like to say.
She has served me only a short time, and there has never been a Renfield whom I cannot break into utter submission.
My hands tighten inside my gloves. No. That is not entirely true.
The memory comes unbidden—stone beneath my knees, iron biting into my wrists, a dark-eyed smile striking wild rage into my heart. A Renfield smile.
I steady myself.
Never again.
“…Percival was here, and there he is, still at his table!” The girl nods at a man in the corner, hunched over his own electronic ledger, pretending to look into the square rectangle of light, but his attention is on us. “He teaches branding and media relations up at the music conservatory.”
“Yes, three hours later and still he is here. He thinks it is his office,” Berky says, eyeing me strangely. “You have my permission to bother him. I doubt he noticed anything.”
We stroll over. Percival looks up, eyes wide. He has a thick, blond mustache and the rounded eyes of an owl. “Can I help you?”
“You were here when the murderer came to the counter,” I say, in no mood now to be careful with people. “What time was it?”
“Are you the police?”
“No, sorry,” Ms. Renfield says. “We’re just looking into some things related to the tragic events today.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Percival says. “Even if you were the police, I wouldn’t have to tell you anything.”
I lower my voice. “You will answer.”
Percival straightens, thrumming with excitement. “I will not.”
Such impudence. In Karsovia, this man would not have dared to meet my eyes. But this is America, where the peasants fancy themselves kings.
Ms. Renfield takes the seat across from him.
“You’ll have to excuse Alexandru. He’s from Europe, and a personal friend of Berky’s, and he has a very keen interest in this case.
I know that Berky would greatly appreciate it if you helped out with anything.
To know that you’re looking out for the place. ”
“Answer’s still no.”
A voice from the next table. “The guy left here at 12:50.”
I turn to see a girl with purple-dyed hair munching on a one of the giant cookies.
“Percival’s been talking about it all afternoon,” she adds.
“Seriously?” Percival bites out. “They come in here like that and you’re helping them?”
“Dude, they’re out here taking an interest in things and you’re gatekeeping something stupid like that?” She takes another bite of the cookie.
Percival says, “I’m not gatekeeping, I’m standing up for myself and my rights as a citizen not to be aggressively questioned by other citizens.”
“And I’m keeping my rights to say what I want,” she says.
They continue to argue. I walk out of the bakery.
Ms. Renfield follows behind me. “Hold up!” She falls into step next to me. “What’s going on?”
“These villagers are infuriating.”
“But we’re doing an amazing job of establishing the timeline,” she points out. “And guess who we’re going to speak with next?”
“I tire of these games.”
“We’re going to visit your biggest fan!” She tips her head at Aster Press, the stationery shop owned by a female by the name of Sloane, whom Ms. Renfield’s calls “frenemy.”
Letterpress. Archival. No pixels, the sign reads.
It was from Sloane that I purchased my calling cards, which serve a dual purpose: reminding me of civilized times and irritating Ms. Renfield.
The bell rings as we walk in.
“Prince Miramonte! What a nice surprise!” Sloane wears her hair in a haughty twist that puts me in the mind of society women. She turns to Ms. Renfield with a pretend frown. “And here’s Harriet…” This with theatrical pity.
Ms. Renfield straightens her spine and smiles brightly, every inch the warrior. “Hello, Sloane.”
“Can I help you?” Sloane asks with a look of the cat that has just swallowed the canary.
“Did you hear what happened down near Hardware Sam’s?” Ms. Renfield asks.
Sloane says, “Dooley Brogan. Not the brightest bulb.”
I settle my gloved hands up upon the counter. “I am given to understand that this Dooley Brogan stopped to look at the window. Did you notice him?”
“Oh, Prince Miramonte, please don’t tell me poor Harriet has looped you into another ridiculous investigation.”
I smile. “I find these investigations to be diverting, if not nourishing on a certain level.”
I feel Ms. Renfield stiffen behind me, unappreciative of my double entendre.
Sloane clasps her hands, posture erect. “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that. I like to afford my customers a certain measure of privacy.”
“The man was looking in the window,” Ms. Renfield says. “He wasn’t a customer.”
“A window shopper is a customer,” Sloane says.
Ms. Renfield’s annoyance spikes. “A customer is somebody who buys something.”
“A monetary transaction is only one part of the journey of being a customer of Aster Press. Before even approaching this counter, my customers dream of improving their lives with beauty and vintage flair. Dooley Brogan was partaking of that dream.”
Ms. Renfield sucks in an almost indiscernible breath. “I think somebody here is dreaming.”
Sloane smiles prettily. “Agreed. It seems somebody here is dreaming that Maverick has deputized them, and they’re running around playing sleuth.”
“Did Maverick come in and talk to you?” I ask.
Sloane gives me a mischievous look. “Perhaps he did, Prince Miramonte.”
Ms. Renfield sighs.
I cast a glance around her shop. My gaze falls on a display case in the corner. “Are those carrying cases for calling cards?”
Sloane prickles with excitement. “They are.”
“The calling cards I ordered from you are truly first rate, but one can hardly carry them around loose in one’s pocket, and my hapless underling, Gregor, neglected to pack the case I used in Karsovia. I would ask to see your very best one, please.”
Ms. Renfield bristles. “Alexandru, there’s no need.”
“Of course there’s a need,” Sloane says as she moves to the case and brings back a velvet-covered tray with five cases on it. “You don’t want those cards damaged! A calling card case is a terrible thing to forget.”
“I assure you, he was punished roundly for his oversight.”
I do not have to look at Miss Renfield to know that she is casting an annoyed glance in my direction, but Sloane laughs, and tells me about each of the five cases.
She picks up a golden one with a filigree design on top.
“This one is particularly exquisite. This is gold filigree.” She opens it up and shows where the calling cards would nestle.
Ms. Renfield looms behind me, a teapot ready to burst. She hates the idea of bribing Sloane, but I’ve known many people like Sloane through the years. The easiest way to do business with such a one is bribery. And I do, in fact, desire a carrying case for the calling cards that I purchased here.
“And if I were to inform you that the information we desire might very well help clear the name of one of your aspirational customers…”
“Well, when you ask like that, I suppose I could tell you that Dooley Brogan was mesmerized by the vintage reproduction postcards. He stood here for at least ten minutes, just staring at those old pictures. Who knew he was on his way to commit murder?”
“Allegedly,” Ms. Renfield says.
“Seriously?” Sloane says. “Maybe you need to wait until he kills somebody right in front of your eyes. But even then, you might want to check it out some more. What if it was an optical illusion? Maybe you’d have to check for nearby mirrors and track the exact angle of lights on a spreadsheet.”
“That is quite enough.” My voice cuts like a blade.
Both females turn to me, surprised by my vehemence, perhaps.
I care not. While I share Sloane’s annoyance with Ms. Renfield’s sometimes overly methodical ways, I will not abide her being spoken to in such a manner. She is my Renfield. Mine to command. But also mine to defend.
“What time was it when this man stared into your window?”
Sloane regards me suspiciously. “You two aren’t an item now, are you?”
“We are not,” I say.
A smile tips Ms. Renfield’s glossy red lips. “Alexandru would not marry one such as myself even if the alternative were to be chained to the bottom of the sea and slowly consumed by eels.”
I frown. Yes, I did once say that. Ms. Renfield takes strange delight in repeating it.
The sentiment pleases Sloane. Like most females, she finds me inexplicably alluring.
Ms. Renfield produces the small black square which she calls the “estate credit card.” Sloane completes the invisible transaction of money and wraps the gold case in pale blue tissue paper and places it in a pale blue bag with little strings.
“He was staring in this window between 12:55 and 1:05, I would guess. I always have my lunch just after one o’clock, and I remember wondering if he was going to come in here and make me eat late. ”
“Was the man carrying anything?” I ask.
“Not that I could see.”
We emerge onto the street. Ms. Renfield takes in the scene—the line forming at the steakhouse next door, the park with its Victorian lampposts and wrought-iron benches, and finally, the ice cream shop on the other side.
A bolt of guilt strikes her at the sight of the ice cream shop, as it always does.
I asked her about it once, and she quipped that it was the scene of a “butter brickle binge,” but the taste of her guilt tells a far darker story. Another secret she thinks she can hide from me.
“Your beloved ice cream store,” I point out.
She sets off walking in the other direction, pretending not to hear.
What is it about the ice cream shop?
And what do I care?
She is a Renfield. Let her keep her miserable little secrets.
We near Gazebo Park.
“No comment?” I pursue.
“My comment is that I can’t believe you bought her overpriced piece of junk. You know she would’ve told you eventually.”
“It is the easiest way. Sloane is transactional.”
She snorts. “She’s interested in having some kind of transaction with you, that’s for sure.”
“Ah, yes, that goes without saying,” I say wearily. “Like most females, Sloane is aware of my superiority on a deep and utterly primal level, and she intuits my vast sensual abilities, intuits the excruciating pleasure that I could bring a woman.”
“Well, you are excruciating,” she says lightly, but I hear the skip in her heartbeat. I smell the warmth rising to her skin.