Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Alexandru
Ms. Renfield is not one to dress for dinner.
She wears what she always wears: her knit jacket—brown tonight—over slim pants and brown boots.
Her raven hair is clipped back, exposing the pale column of her throat, and her lips are painted the usual bright red, a color that draws the eye, though I refuse to let mine linger.
She wears the long gold chain bearing the mysterious key she pretends is merely decorative, but I can tell that it is more.
Aside from the red-painted lips, her presentation is practical, as befitting a Renfield. Right for her in a way that I cannot describe. Even the little clips that hold her hair.
She is very much exactly as she should be. Nothing to improve upon, nothing to adjust. Not that it matters. One is simply gratified when one’s subordinate presents herself adequately.
She takes her place to the right of where I sit at the head of the table. Gregor has set out cheese and crackers and Bugles. He pours her a glass of beer.
“Not too much! This is a working dinner,” she says.
Unlike her cowering predecessors, Ms. Renfield enjoys working dinners. Probably because she is the first to have anything worth presenting.
She proudly shows me the “PowerPoint” of all that she’s been up to. Something about automations in Yugoslavia. She makes much ado of the increasing balance in my various bank accounts, which is, admittedly, impressive.
We discuss the mystery and next steps. She is still struggling to find a connection between Dooley and Razor Johnny.
She places a slice of cheese upon a cracker. “We need those prison visit logs to come through.”
“How much longer must we wait?” I demand.
“It’s only been a couple of days. Trust me. This is the fastest way of obtaining them. Without bloodshed, at least.” She chews thoughtfully.
“I believe that is my line,” I say.
Her eyes sparkle. Then, “So, I need to tell you something.”
I study her face, sensing the gravity behind her words.
She will tell me her secret. At last.
“What is it?” I inquire casually.
Just then, Gregor comes in with the meal, interrupting us. It is so very like him to choose this moment to intrude.
“Thank you!” Ms. Renfield takes a theatrical whiff of the food he spoons onto her plate. “Smells delish!”
“Thank you, milady.”
I give him an icy look. He startles and backs out of the room.
Ms. Renfield furrows her brow. “Are these little bats?”
“No, they are hawks.”
“It would be better if it was bats,” she says. “I’ve heard vampires can turn into bats.”
“We most certainly do not. I believe I have informed you—”
Her pretty lips twist into a playful rosebud. Ah. So she teases me.
She stares at her bowl. “Where did you get little pasta things shaped like hawks? I didn’t know that pasta came in shapes like that. Is it a Romanian thing?”
“The hawk is the sigil of the house of Dracul.”
She blinks into her spoon. “Dude, you have custom pasta? Wait...the hawks look almost… hand-made.” Her gaze flings up. “Don’t tell me that Gregor spent his entire afternoon carving these tiny hawks!”
“Who else would have done it?”
“That’s not even the question! This must have taken him forever!” It is here her gaze falls to the butter. “Did you make him churn butter again?”
“It is the way of this house. He is lucky that I did not put him in the cistern after his dramatics the last time he churned.”
“I seriously can’t believe you.”
“I tire of your pathetic morals. Perhaps I should put you in the cistern.”
Ms. Renfield stands. “Perhaps I would prefer the cistern to your company.” With that, she stomps off.
I remain in my seat, stewing.
Thoughts of putting Renfields in cisterns have always brought satisfaction in the past. The Renfields owe me a debt that cannot be repaid in a single lifetime—indeed, cannot be repaid in ten lifetimes—and it is right and correct that they should suffer—all of them. Forever.
And yet, when I picture Ms. Renfield huddled down there in the darkness, pulling her sweater jacket tightly around herself against the cold and batting spiders from her hair, something in me revolts.
Ms. Renfield orders “to-go” food the next day—a pungent dish of broccoli and chicken with hot garlic sauce, delivered by a young person who reeks of fear and fascination—and retreats to her wing for the remainder of the day.
Hiding.
With her odorous chicken. As if I do not notice.
What secret was she going to tell me? It is truly infuriating.
The following day she informs me through Gregor that she has determined a slate of properties must be sold quickly before they depreciate.
Through Gregor. As though he is an appropriate intermediary between a Renfield and her overlord.
I demand that she produce the spreadsheet I know she has created to support this decision, and that she present it to me immediately.
She brings the sheet to the great hall, lips fixed in a frown.
She weighs it down with four candlesticks, setting them down with rather more force than necessary.
And yet, as she walks me through her reasoning, each conclusion building upon the last, her irritation seems to lift. She does so love to display her data.
I request clarifications. The administrative minutiae of former Renfields never held my attention, but this Renfield has a way of making things interesting. When I have heard enough, I roll the sheet and hand it to her. She snatches it from my hand, amber eyes bright in the firelight.
“And the visitor logs?” I ask. “The crossbow bolt? What news is there on my next meal?” I settle back in my chair, voice sharp, now. “The hour grows late, little Renfield.”
“I feel sure the visitor logs will come soon,” she says, and goes on to inform me that hapless Officer Maverick Cooper and his bungling underlings have still not identified the origin of the bolt that killed the man; this she learned from her Granabelle, who learned it from Hardware Sam.
“This progress is not impressive.” I remind her that I will soon take my meal of convicted murderer Dooley Brogan, since he did at least one murder.
“Well, he might not have done any murders!”
“He was tried by a jury of fellow peasants.”
A thrum of outrage swells in her chest. “But there were problems that made the trial unfair. Also, they are known as peers, not peasants.”
“As you wish.” I move to the fire, savoring the contours of her emotions and the way the scent of her blood intermingles with the burning oak. “If there are any other developments in the case, you will inform me at once.”
The following afternoon, she orders a “rice bowl” from the “Bowls 4U” down on River Road, and it is delivered by the same young man, less fearful now. This meal was especially confounding being that no bowl was included in the delivery, according to Gregor.
I am attending to some correspondence the next morning when I hear the exclamation from her office.
“Come to mama!”
I set down my pen, intrigued. My Renfield has borne no children and indeed no other human has entered the mansion.
Footsteps come my way. She bursts into the library holding her electronic ledger aloft like the head of a slain warrior. “The prison logs!”
“Where?” I demand.
“In here!”
“That is your electronic ledger.”
“They were emailed to me,” she says. “It’s not like they keep them on paper.”
I grumble. “And what do these so-called logs say?”
“I thought we could look at them together!”
I narrow my eyes. She could simply have opened them and informed me of the answer.
I do not know why she has not done so, but I find I am glad for it.
“Come. Make haste, Renfield.”
She smiles and takes the seat next to me and points to a line of nonsense words. “That’s the email address of Evergreen Correctional,” she says. “That’s where Dooley Brogan served time. Subject line: FOIA number 5430449VLS requested logs.” I can feel her gaze upon the side of my face.
“Are you waiting for something?” I demand.
“Yes! For you to savor how fast these came, and how unbelievably effective it was to send their office those cookies from Berky’s.”
She wishes me to smile. To take pleasure in her pride. “You had no way of knowing how long it would have taken them to send those logs had you not sent those pastries,” I point out.
“It’s usually seven to ten days and this was only five! Pastry diplomacy beats intimidation every time.”
I make a sound of disgust.
With a flourish, Ms. Renfield taps the screen and slides her finger up, doing her “scrolling” and there it is, a sort of grid that seems to be composed of dates, names, duration of visit, and some other random numbers.
“What the...” she mumbles. “This can’t be right.”
I lean in. “Jerome Goodwin. Was that the man in the shiny purple undergarments? Who we spoke with the day of the murder? Your friend from the high school newspaper?”
“Yeah. He visited eight times in the last few months, and there are as many phone calls.”
“An interesting development,” I say. “I seem to remember informing you that he was fearful. Hiding something. And what was it that you said in reply?”
She snorts softly, refusing to look at me.
“I believe you said my vampire senses were working overtime.”
“Whatever you say, Bitey McBiteface.” She makes notes on the tablet with her fake pencil.
Never have I encountered a human so determined to vex me—nor one I found it so difficult to silence. Well, never would be incorrect.
I will not think of that.
She strolls to the fireplace. “I don’t understand. Why would he be calling and visiting Dooley so often? And even weirder, why would Dooley not tell us. We didn’t ask Jerome point-blank about the prison visits, but we asked Dooley. And he hid it.”
I sit back and cross my legs. “Perhaps your Jerome Goodwin is not what he seems.”
Ms. Renfield frowns. “I don’t like this. Jerome is an old friend.”
“Old friends can be among the most dangerous of liars.”
She turns to me, interest sharpening. “Do you have an old friend who’s a dangerous liar?”
“I do. Needless to say, he’s not my friend anymore.”
“Sounds like quite a story!”
“Oh, it is.” I rise from my chair and go to stand next to her, feeling pleased at this shift in her mood. “Where can we find this Jerome? Do you know?”
“I’ve got his address somewhere. I think he lives up by the music conservatory.” She ponders a bit, examining the fire.
I wait, enjoying our companionable silence.
I turn to her, gazing down at her. Right then, she looks up at me, and for a moment neither of us speaks.
The firelight catches the curve of her throat, and I find myself marking the steady pulse there, resisting the impulse to trace that path upward, from pulse to her parted lips.
I can feel that rise in her—the quickening pulse, the warmth blooming beneath her skin.
I would not kiss such a one. The notion is preposterous.
And yet I do not step back.
She blinks, seems to snap out of it. “Okay, well, should we see if we can catch Jerome home? Better sooner than later, I guess.”
“Agreed.”
She grabs her electronic ledger and hurries out of the room. I follow her down the curved stairway on into the great foyer. Gregor is waiting there for me. He hands me my gloves and a day walking hat.
“Thank you, Gregor,” Ms. Renfield says on my behalf, and proceeds out the door.
Gregor watches her leave, scowling.
I give him a hard look and he lowers his gaze.