Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Harriet
It’s a gorgeous morning and there’s already a line out the door for Berky’s cookies, a.k.a.
Berky Bombs. I lock my bike to the decorative streetlamp and walk into the cozy, ramshackle shop with its scents of coffee mixed with scrumptious pastries.
Something butterscotch just came out of the oven and I want to eat the air.
I get in line behind some tourists who are having pastry decision difficulties and scan the tables.
Perceval is at his usual post in the back, staring at his laptop, looking all scholarly. I catch sight of my friend Josie’s little goth cousin deep in conversation with her goth friends, probably about robotics.
Monique, Berky’s Parisian granddaughter and tourist season helper, addresses the next person in line, doing her usual Berky imitation, right down to the way she tilts her head and delivers a bright “bonjour!”
“Harriet!” Berky comes over wiping her hands on her apron. She’s got a blue Eiffel tower scarf around her neck today. “Bonjour. I have them boxing up your order in back. How are things up at le grand Kingston Manor?”
“Great! Having my own wing in a mansion is like having my own luxury apartment up there.” I find myself saying things like this more and more lately so that people don’t think Alexandru and I are a romantic item. “Definitely a nice perk.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I suppose.” Her words have a slight edge.
“You suppose?”
She purses her lips, staring into the middle distance. “He is from an old family, your Alexandru. You do not have such old families here.”
“I guess not,” I say, wondering what she’s getting at.
“These old families, they do not see people the way we do. These nobles and royals, they can be charming indeed. Until they are not.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. Her analysis is shockingly astute. So astute that I don’t know what to say.
“But then, I see that you know.” A helper comes out the back with a box.
She takes it from him and sets it on the counter, opening the top to show me the selection of a dozen Berky Bombs I ordered last night. They will be delivered to the Department of Rehabilitation and Correction public records office later this morning.
“You wished to add a note before the boy leaves on his route?”
“I did.” I extract an envelope from my purse and tape it to the top. The note inside, handwritten by me, reads:
“Thank you for your hard work processing public records requests. Civil servants like you make democracy function. With appreciation, Harriet Morgan.”
It’s not a bribe, exactly. But it’s not not a bribe.
I have Berky bag up a separate order with a chocolate-filled almond sprinkle Berky Bomb and a selection of macarons. These I deliver myself—to my family’s antique store.
“Treats!” I say as I stroll in the gloomy beloved old space.
Granabelle is wearing a linen outfit that gives Hemingway-in-Cuba vibes. She’s up front in the window redoing a display that involves lots of vintage hats and scarves and a variety of puppets, including two ventriloquist dummies.
“Nice,” I say brightly. “Very lively.”
“I’m not so sure.” Mom strolls up. “It’s puppets and random human clothing items. I feel like the puppets have done something freaky with the people. But yeah, lively.”
Granabelle gives an indignant huff. “That’s not what the display is, but if people interpret it that way, all the better.
” She climbs out of the window and brushes herself off.
“All publicity is good publicity. Let the crowds gather, that’s what I say.
Maybe I’ll put an axe in there just for fun! Or perhaps that old military sword!”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Mom warns.
Granabelle spots the Berky’s bags in my hand. “For us?”
“The little one is macarons!” I hand it over and turn to Mom. “And for us…”
Mom plants her hands on her hips and gives me a warning look. “You didn’t!”
“Of course I did!” I carry the bag to the counter and go behind and grab one of the plates and put Mom’s cookie on it.
Mom comes up and stands next to me, tucking the long side of her salt-and-pepper bob behind her ear. “Got time for a quick cuppa?”
“Of course! But you know I’m having half of this.
” I break off a bit while she pours me some coffee.
She shows me an order of antique rings that just came in from somewhere in Wisconsin.
I grab a polishing cloth, and we polish them together, drinking our coffee and eating our cookie and chatting about the murder.
Everybody that Mom has talked to is stunned that Maverick let Dooley Brogan go.
“It’s not like Maverick had anything to hold him on, other than the fact that the guy was killed with a crossbow. I mean, a lot of deer are killed with crossbows, too. Do we think Dooley Brogan did that?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mom says. “Hunting a man with a crossbow is known as an MO.”
“Look at you, pulling out true crime jargon,” I say.
Mom inspects a ring and polishes it a little bit more. “You think I wasn’t paying attention all those nights of you watching those true crime shows of yours?”
I grab another ring. “Fair enough.”
“So how’s Prince Cravat?”
“He’s not a prince, and he doesn’t wear a cravat,” I say. “Other than that, he’s fine, and the job’s great. I’m automating his accounts payable across six countries—different currencies, different banking systems, different tax-withholding rules. It’s like a puzzle, but with money.”
Mom gives me a slightly suspicious look.
She thinks I’m trying to make it sound better than it is, and she’s right.
Automations like that aren’t super challenging.
But I can’t exactly tell her the real puzzle that consumes my attention: trying to figure out if Dooley Brogan really did do that murder so that Alexandru can enjoy a heapin’ helpin’ of his blood.
Though Alexandru’s liable to go after Dooley in the end anyways.
“And that butler of his? Gregor? What’s that guy up to today?”
I study the side of Mom’s face as she polishes a sterling silver ring. “Looking after Kingston Manor keeps him busy,” I say, understatement of the year. “He baked some pretty amazing bread last night, though.”
“Really! Not everybody can bake a decent loaf of bread,” Mom says.
Just then, Granabelle comes up and shows us the photos she took of the macarons. “Laverne DeRue can suck mine,” she says.
“No comment,” I say. Laverne DeRue is Granabelle’s over-seventy influencer rival.