Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Harriet
Whereas the Tres Hermanas steakhouse is bright, retro, and casually elegant, the Golden Stag is a darkish supper club with dusty chandeliers, vinyl booths, and historic photos of old-timey Ashwood on the walls, and about fifty percent of those pictures show men in hats and suspenders trying to push vehicles through the muck along River Road.
The place is doing a pretty good business for happy hour, though.
We request a table in Fern’s section and are led past the long, heavily mirrored bar area where Sloane and local photographer Valerie Johnson seem to be having drinks and into the dining room where we’re seated at a nice table against the wall.
“Grrreat. Look who’s up at the bar.”
“Ah, it is Sloane, your stationary shop frenemy,” Alexandru observes.
“Shop frenemy and reason everybody thinks you’re a prince. So ridiculous.”
“It is not so ridiculous. Yes, it is an archaic title that has fallen out of use, but it makes sense that people would call me thus being that my kind is superior in every way, and your kind is there to feed me and, in your case, serve me.”
“Groan. So wrong.”
“I suppose it is wrong in that a prince serves under a king. I bow to nobody.”
“Do you recognize the woman with her?” I ask, deciding not to indulge him further. “Valerie with the bright red glasses?”
“Of course. The photographer from Bo Richardson Photography.”
Alexandru met them both last month when we were investigating the wedding murders. Bo Richardson turned out to be the culprit. He “mysteriously disappeared” a.k.a. was drained by Alexandru.
“Well, Valerie runs the show now. It’s Valerie Johnson Photography now. I didn’t know they were friends.”
Sloane gives a little finger wave.
“Please, no, don’t come over,” I whisper into my menu.
“Maybe they have information to impart. Who is it that is always saying all data is valuable?”
“Shut the bitey hole,” I say.
When next I look up, I see Sloane and Valerie wandering over.
The two of them are dressed in vintage 1960s cocktail dresses.
My gaze flips over to the tip jar on the piano in the corner.
Riiight. It’s piano bar night, where patrons are allowed to sing an oldie of their choice, usually something really old, like Frank Sinatra.
Sloane loves anything not of this century.
Alexandru stands and brings out his gold case, extracting two calling cards, one for Sloane and one for Valerie.
“Wonderful!” Sloane says. “This is how it’s done! Look, Valerie!”
“Isn’t there supposed to be contact information?”
“It’s a calling card. You hand it over when calling on somebody.”
“Oh,” Valerie says, still confused. “And what does princeps mean?”
“Don’t ask,” I say.
“It means a first among equals,” Alexandru says.
Valerie looks slightly baffled. It occurs to me that she’s a bit drunk.
Sloane says, “I know why you’re here. You want to talk to Fern. They’re doing amateur sleuth hour,” she explains to Valerie.
“You should try to figure out where Bo Richardson went,” Valerie says. “That’s the real mystery.”
“To me, the real mystery is who’s been doing these crossbow murders,” I say.
“That’s not much of a mystery,” Sloane says. “But we know our Harriet likes to be extra sure of things.”
Alexandru fixes Sloane with a hard look. “I have known generals who lost wars for want of Ms. Renfield’s care for details. Certainty is not a weakness, Sloane.”
Sloane blinks at him. I’m not sure what to say in the face of this unexpected smackdown. “Um...are you guys here for piano sing-along night?”
“Yes, we are,” Valerie says.
Sloane narrows her eyes. “Will we be graced with a song from Alexandru tonight?”
“We shall see,” Alexandru says mysteriously.
Fern comes up to the table just then, and the two of them titter back to the bar. Fern has retro teased hair and colorful earrings. “Harriet! I was just out to lunch with Granabelle this afternoon. And this must be the prince!”
Alexandru stands and takes Fern’s hand. You’d think she’d just been introduced to the pope. Thankfully, he does not produce another one of his weird calling cards.
“Fern, how are you doing?” I say. “I hear you discovered that body in Gazebo Park. Horrible!”
“Yeah, it was pretty scary. I’m having a vape and admiring the tulips and suddenly there’s a foot sticking out from under a bench. I knew without even looking that it was a dead body, but nothing prepares you for actually seeing it.”
“I hear it was a crossbow,” I say.
“Yup. Shot in the back like Razor Johnny. And the minute I screamed, I saw Dooley Brogan dart behind some bushes and hightail it up the hill to the overlook.”
Alexandru gives her a grave look. “That is indeed suspicious.”
“Did it seem like he’d been lying there a while?” I ask. “Like was there blood in the grass around him?”
Fern frowns. “I guess.”
“Do you know if the police picked Dooley up?”
Fern says, “I heard them say it over their radio that they got him at his sister’s house. And it sounds like they brought him in. I overheard another of them saying they’ll probably be holding him as long as they can. Whatever that is, they need to make it longer.”
“I think the maximum they can hold him is twenty-four hours, though they can stretch it to forty-eight, but they usually don’t. Anything over twenty-four hours can be a little bit of a legal gray zone.”
“If they know it’s the guy, they should be able to hold him indefinitely,” Fern says. “And look at this place! It’s half full. It should be all the way full on a nice May evening like this. Anyway, what can I get you?”
I order us two draft sour cherry ciders and a basket of onion rings. Fern sticks her pen into her hair and promises to be right back.
“Sour cherry cider? That is a child’s drink,” Alexandru says.
“Their ciders are really good here,” I say. “I’m drinking for two now.”
Somebody at the next table scowls.
“Because I always end up drinking his! Good grief!” I lower my voice.
“And I don’t want to hear anything about how much more efficient our investigation would be if we could just walk in here and bluntly ask questions.
I’m going to answer that complaint preemptively.
We can’t. Effective investigating is about relationships. ”
The pianist has started up and suddenly there is this guy singing “My Way.” I’m surprised to note that the guy singing is Fire Chief Knox. He looks so different in a suit and bowtie, and he’s not a bad singer.
Fern delivers our ciders.
I grab my tablet and google the victim, Milo. “Dooley Brogan went to jail fifteen years ago, and Milo came to town a year ago from Cleveland. How would they know each other?”
Alexandru slides his finger around the condensation on the outside of the glass. “It seems likely that Jerome would know this new victim, considering that they’re both journalists.”
“Yes, they are journalists, but they are working in very different realms. The Great Lakes Gazette or whatever it’s called covers Michigan, Ohio and Western Pennsylvania.
It’s way more of a crime and statehouse sort of thing, whereas Jerome’s Substack is hyper-local on Silverton Valley.
Milo came up in Cleveland. It’s not like Cleveland is that far away. ”
I’m thinking here about doing a little deep research. I could pop into InovaSpire and check out their connections—with Dooley Brogan and with each other.
I ponder this for a while until I notice that Alexandru’s eyes have fallen to my lips, and I realize I’ve been tapping my stylus against them. “What?”
“Nothing.” He turns his attention to the piano player and the new singer.
It’s here I notice there’s a big lipstick mark on my white stylus. I grab a napkin and wipe the red lipstick smears off of it. Is that what Alexandru was staring at? God, does it remind him of blood?
“I think I should pop into the office,” I say. “Researching the connections could yield some helpful data.”
“I will accompany you,” Alexandru says.
“No need. There are always people working late in that building.”
“But I have never seen your former office.”
“You’ve never been interested in seeing the office before.”
“But now I am.”
I’m a little suspicious. Alexandru always has dubious motives for things. “Okay, but no calling me ‘your underling’ or talking about draconian punishment methods. Especially when you meet Serena. She’s been a mentor and a role model to me, and somebody I absolutely admire.”
Alexandru’s gaze sharpens.
“Okay?” I say. “I mean it. You have to act cool.”
“When do I not act cool?”
“No comment.” I send a quick text to Serena to let her know I might be stopping by.
She gets right back. She and some of the team are still there finishing up some testing with the West Coast.
It’s after 8 p.m. by the time we’re riding up the elevator.
“It’s going to be boring,” I warn.
“I have lived long,” he says. “I am no stranger to stillness.”
“Like a house plant?”
“Not like a house plant, Ms. Renfield.”
His deep voice sends a shiver through me. In the close air of the elevator, I’m suddenly very aware of the sharp line of his jaw, that drift of dark hair over his brow.
No, he’s definitely not like a house plant.
Or a vampire.
He feels like a man, and that strangely compelling energy of his fills every square inch of this elevator.
Casually as you please, he begins to tug off his day-walking gloves, one finger at a time. My mouth goes dry, watching him. The leather loosens over his knuckles, his long fingers.
And then I raise my gaze to his.
Our eyes lock.
Is he doing the glove thing on purpose? Toying with me? He can sense heartbeats, cortisol, who knows what else. Every bit of heat inside me, laid bare.
And then the doors open to the top floor.