Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Harriet
“Seriously? With the calling cards?”
“That male is hiding something.”
“Yes, he is. A book deal that he’s not supposed to talk about.”
“It’s something more.”
“Are you mad I hugged him or something?”
“No, though it might’ve been best if you hadn’t supplied him with answers to the questions you asked.”
I stop at the car door and turn to him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“The man is a friend, and you have a bias that does not allow you to see him clearly. When you were asking him about his feelings regarding Dooley Brogan, you broke into his explanation, offering that he had formed a bond with the man. You presented a reason for his emotions. I wanted to hear his reason, not the one you supplied.”
“I guess I offered it up, but…”
“And then you allowed him to switch the subject to the high school newspaper and Sloane. You have such an emotional charge about it that you could not see that he was doing it. You were not observing him objectively in any way.”
“I can be nice to a person and still retain my objectivity.”
“Can you?”
I get in. “Don’t you remember what I told you about being nice to people? How it makes them cooperate more? Because you can’t hang them from their toes in this country?”
Alexandru buckles his seat belt. Not because he needs to care about safety, but he hates that little beep, thank goodness. “Jerome is awash in guilt, fear, paranoia and panic. Mark my words, he’s hiding something.”
“Oh, he’s a suspect now?”
Alexandru shrugs. “He did have a so-called ‘beef’ with the murder victim. That’s more than you can say of Dooley Brogan.”
“We’ve already discussed this, Alexandru. Journalists fight with words. He’s not going to go killing a person because they rode a motorcycle over his grandmother’s flower bed years ago. And then framing an innocent man for it?”
Alexandru stares out at the river, or maybe the rolling hills and patches of farmland beyond it. It’s early evening, and the sun is low, casting long shadows across the landscape.
“Flashing blue lights.”
“Where?”
“The center of town. Gazebo Park.”
“Gazebo Park’s not visible from here.”
“The treetops are. Can you not see? There were sirens before. I believe a police incident took place in town. And that incident continues.”
“I hope it’s not a fire or something!”
“Or another murder.”
“Are the lights near my family’s store?”
“They are not.”
I nod, relieved.
Alexandru and Gregor and I were just over there for dinner. Granabelle was in 1940s garb. Mom was annoyed that Alexandru was on his strange European intermittent fasting diet, and bewildered at Gregor’s gruel-only diet, but all in all, it went okay.
Gazebo Park sits at the center of town, the jewel of Ashwood with its expanse of green grass and trees and groups of benches and picnic areas. A bluff rises up behind it, forming a sort of overlook over it all.
It’s quite pretty, except for the bright yellow crime scene tape stretched from the Victorian gazebo to a wrought-iron bench to a large oak tree.
A giant triangle. A crime scene.
We get out and wander over to stand by some kids I don’t recognize.
There’s a group of officials at the far end of the taped-off crime scene. When the crowd shifts, I get a view of a body covered by a white sheet. And that sheet is tented.
Another crossbow murder.
“No,” I whisper.
The body is loaded onto a stretcher and brought to a nearby van.
“Do we know who that is?” I ask the strangers around me.
What I get is that it was a man. Thirty-ish years old. Brown hair.
I look around for somebody I know so I can ask them what happened. I lock eyes with Maverick Cooper.
“Please promise not to antagonize Maverick,” I say.
“I have no interest in antagonizing the hapless,” he says.
“What? I’m a hapless human and you antagonize me all the time.”
“You are made of different stuff, Ms. Renfield.”
“Not my name,” I say as Maverick lifts the crime tape and strolls on over to us, chomping his gum, with an expression something between a smile and a look of suspicion.
“How’s it going, Maverick,” I say. “You remember Alexandru.”
“The prince. How could I forget?” He says the word prince like it’s in quotation marks.
“Maverick,” Alexandru says, also quotation-marks-sounding.
“So what happened?” I ask.
Maverick doesn’t answer right away because apparently we’ve gone directly to the pissing-match portion of the interaction which involves Maverick staring at Alexandru while chomping his gum loudly, and Alexandru looking ever so faintly amused.
Alexandru thinks Maverick’s still hung up on me. And Maverick dislikes Alexandru due to Alexandru’s general arrogance, and I sometimes wonder if he maybe intuits Alexandru’s disregard for human laws and let’s just say all sense of morality. Cops have Spidey senses, too.
“So…” I try again.
“What happened is police business,” Maverick says finally.
“Who was that?”
“And that would be police business,” Maverick says. “Understood?”
“Is it somebody I know?”
Maverick squints into the middle distance. “I understand you two paid a visit to Dooley Brogan the other day. What was that all about?”
“We wished to assess his guilt or innocence in the crime,” Alexandru says unhelpfully.
“Is that for you to do?” Maverick asks him.
“It is if I wish it,” Alexandru says.
“That would be where you’re wrong,” Maverick says. “In America, the police investigate the crimes, and it is up to the judicial system to determine guilt or innocence. There is no place in that equation for a Euro prince.”
Alexandru smiles at Maverick. “I have always found equations to be rather flexible things. One simply needs to introduce the right variable.”
“Come on, Maverick,” I say. “There’s no rule against citizens caring about their community.”
“Until it rises to the level of obstruction of justice,” Maverick says. “I’m warning you, stay out of this investigation.”
“I can’t believe you won’t tell us something that everybody up and down Commerce Street probably already knows.”
Maverick turns and heads back to the scene.
“Like he won’t even tell us what happened?”
Alexandru’s voice goes icy. “There are those who, once they have power over another, cannot resist grinding it in. Taking all that they can.” His lip curls. “Eventually, that debt comes due.”
I look up at him, surprised by the intensity of his words.
He’s not talking about Maverick anymore. I don’t think he’s talking about Maverick, anyway.
“We need to find out what’s going on.” I gaze up the street a ways and catch sight of Josie’s mom, Rita, watering the flowers in the flower boxes that separate the sidewalk from the restaurant’s brightly decorated outdoor patio.
I drag Alexandru over to have a little chat with Rita. The place is half filled with tourists having an early dinner.
“Harriet! Prince Miramonte! Are you coming to dine?”
“No, we were just wondering what happened over there.”
Rita claps a fist to her chest. “You haven’t heard? It was another murder. Another crossbow murder.”
“No!” I say. “What happened?”
Rita gazes darkly in the direction of the park. “It was Milo Cirillo. Do you know him?”
“I feel like I’ve heard of him.”
“He came to town maybe a year ago. Lives down on some of those river condos. Works for the Great Lakes Dispatch.”
“A journalist,” Alexandru observes.
“Fern from the Golden Stag was the one who discovered the body. She was down there on a vape break and you could hear the scream to Creighton. Maverick and the boys got here right away.” Rita looks around as if to confirm nobody is listening, and then she lowers her voice.
“Fern says she saw Dooley Brogan in the bushes nearby. Hiding.”
Ms. Renfield’s eyes widen. “Seriously? She’s sure?”
“That’s what she said. She sees the body, calls 911. There were tourists around, and one of them tried CPR. And then something catches Fern’s eye up beyond the gazebo and she’s ninety percent sure it’s Dooley Brogan. She said he made out of there like a bat out of hell.”
“Hiding in the bushes. Highly suspicious,” Alexandru observes.
Rita sighs. “It’s just so shocking. Dooley Brogan of all people. I couldn’t believe it the first time around. He’d always seemed a decent sort.”
“You knew him, Rita?”
“I took my van to him all the time. And my little Vespa. He was fair in what he charged. Kind to everybody. Did great work. Never made sense that he’d go and shoot a man with a crossbow, but you never know what’s in a man’s heart, I suppose.”
Some customers come to the host stand and Rita excuses herself.
I turn to Alexandru. “Sounds like we should go have a cocktail at the Golden Stag.”