Chapter 25 #2
I move closer. “Are you wondering if I’m as practiced a lover as I am a hunter? Am I just as devious? Am I just as dangerous? Am I able to use my superior senses to give a woman the most exquisite, most soul-shattering pleasure she’s ever known?”
She goes beet red. “Maybe I’m wondering why you can’t turn into a bat.”
I grit my teeth. Of all the vampire lore, I dislike the bat nonsense the most. A small, squeaking flying creature? What imbecile would choose to transform himself into such a thing?
“The way you question people is needlessly circuitous.”
“The way I question people is careful and thoughtful. This is a small town, Alexandru. Not a giant city where you can just be weirdly blunt and it doesn’t matter because you won’t see the people again. Or if they’re a problem, you can just...”
“Just what?” I prod.
“Just kill them.” She stabs a finger in the direction of my chest. “Ashwood is not your new buffet, mister.”
I slow my steps and smile down at her. “Well, that seems to be largely in your hands now, doesn’t it? At least for the moment. Though, of course, the clock is ticking.”
She makes an exasperated sound that is so very her and once again takes her place by my side. “Look! Check it out—Twist Mixology, Kip Kidderson’s operation.”
“Let the buffet begin,” I tease.
“Seriously, buzz off with the buffet talk. I’m going to ask him questions. See what you pick up.” She leads me toward a booth decorated with twinkling lights shaped like tiny bottles. Young people in matching vests shake cocktail mixers with theatrical flair as a small crowd looks on.
The leader is easy to spot. Hair carefully shaped with some manner of wax, beard stubble shaved in a neat shape. Overpowering scent of chemical musk.
His face lights up with recognition. “Harriet Morgan! What’s up?” He flicks his gaze to me and his pulse spikes, sensing, perhaps, that I may soon be the one to end him. “And you must be the mystery prince.”
I put out my hand. “Alexandru Miramonte.”
“Kip Kidderson, master mixologist.” There’s a microtremor beneath his charm. “And now you two are at the bridal show.” He turns to Harriet. “Anything I should know?”
“Alexandru is a friend of my late father’s,” she says. “I’m doing some work for him, and I thought he’d enjoy getting to know the area.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your father. Granabelle told me.”
“Thanks. I didn’t really know him.”
He turns to me. “I still remember this one and her little friend Josie getting drunk as skunks on daiquiris at the Ashwood Tap.”
Her cheeks darken. This one is so easily embarrassed. I do not dislike it.
“It was Josie’s twenty-first,” she says. “And then your blender broke, and we switched to Chablis. Big mistake.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t really broken. I got sick of making blender drinks.”
“What?” Ms. Renfield plants her hands on her hips. “Just for that, I’m going to order blender drinks whenever I go into the Ashwood Tap and you’re working.”
“Sadly, the blender will be broken.” Kip gives me an assessing look. “Sooooo, you wanted to see the town, and she brought you to a wedding expo? Are you in the wedding business?”
“Alexandru’s into property holdings,” she says.
“That explains it. Kingston Manor? That place was a pile of rubble. It’s the last place anybody imagined fixing up. Are you making Ashwood your home?”
“I am.”
Ms. Renfield stiffens next to me. “So you know what I just heard? There was a curtain fire here! During a wedding reception? It sounds wild. Did you see it?”
“Oh, yeah.” Kip’s pulse ratchets... with pleasure. “I had a front-row seat. Two floors of guests were evacuated onto the street. Sprinklers soaked the entire mezzanine. Bridesmaids screaming. Ruined hairdos gone wild.”
Ms. Renfield draws closer. “I heard it might have been arson.”
“It was ruled an accident,” Kip says.
“Do you think it was an accident?” I ask.
Kip holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just the bartender.”
“Do you think it was arson?” I ask him pointedly.
His smile widens. “You know what I think? I think you should go ask Harlan.”
Ms. Renfield snorts. “Yeah, right. Come on, spill.”
“All I know is that something flammable got spilled or poured on the curtain. And at some point, there was a candle involved because wax was found in the debris. The fire marshal decided it wasn’t worth looking into for whatever reason.”
“Did you find that odd?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Nah. It wasn’t a huge fire. Unofficially, the conclusion was that Bo Richardson’s people were responsible. They were definitely pissed off because it makes them look like idiots.”
“But you don’t think it was them?”
“Nah. The Richardson Photography people are pros. I think Harlan wanted to make sure the blame went to someone other than his staffers. Valerie—she was the lead photographer on that wedding—was talking about suing Harlan for libel for a hot minute, but she got shut down. That can’t be good for business, right?
Having your employee bring a libel suit against the owner of the most popular wedding venue in the area? Not gonna happen.”
“You know what’s weird?” Ms. Renfield says casually. “There have been a lot of strange accidents at weddings lately. Like that runaway cart. Weren’t you at that one?”
I sense another distinct flicker of delight from Kip. “Sure was.” He half-sits on the table. “Lotta outfits ruined.”
“What do you think happened?” I ask.
Kip eyes me, curious. “I think some people are assholes who shouldn’t let their kids run all over the place.”
Ms. Renfield waves at one of the employees on the other side of the booth, a young woman with thick, dark eye makeup and black hair. “You think it was kids,” she observes casually.
“Don’t tell me you think it was a ghost,” Kip says.
“And remember the champagne tower collapse?” she asks.
“Oh, maaaaaan. Right?” Kip shakes his head.
“Well, that accident was preventable. They should’ve hired me to build that thing instead of leaving it to the caterers.
Big mistake. I was already doing the mixology, but they wanted to save a buck.
And what did they get for their trouble? Glass crashing everywhere.”
I smile. Kip’s delight in glass crashing everywhere is quite strong—definitely something for Ms. Renfield to put in her motivation column.
I look over at her. Did she notice? This mystery solving is oddly enjoyable, adding a quaint, game-like element to feeding that I had not expected.
The young woman with black hair has wandered over. She bumps shoulders with Ms. Renfield. “Hiya, Harriet.”
“Hiya, Lisa!” Ms. Renfield turns her attention back to Kip. “It’s amazing it doesn’t happen more often with those towers. They never look stable.”
“Champagne towers?” Lisa says. “Actually, they can be really stable if you build them right and if the couple is taught how to pour properly.”
“The one that collapsed was poorly constructed,” Kip adds. “The caterers didn’t know what they were doing.”
“Maybe,” Lisa says. “Though it is possible they built it right but were just unlucky. It could have been a perfect storm of vibrations, like vibration resonance from the subfloor due to asymmetrical guest movement patterns and soundwave interference from the DJ booth placement. It was a very bass-heavy environment—”
“Okay, professor,” Kip says, cutting her off. “Let’s keep the physics lesson behind the bar. It was a hundred percent a case of poor construction.”
Lisa makes a little squeak.
Kip gives her a look. “Also, this isn’t social hour.”
Lisa heads over to the other side of the booth.
“What she’s trying to say is that no champagne tower of mine’ll ever be toppling over,” Kip says.
“It doesn’t cost much more to go first class.
” Right then, his eyes light up at something he sees across the room.
“If you’re interested in that champagne tower collapse, Bo got some photos that will blow your mind. ”
“We’d love that!” Ms. Renfield exclaims.
“Hey!” He waves at a man some distance away. He’s slender with severe features and carefully styled blond hair.
The man ignores him.
“Bo was shooting the groomsmen doing some shenanigans. The tower was in the background, starting to fall, and he caught the whole thing. The pictures were spectacular. Hold on.” Kip steps out into the river of people wandering by and waves energetically. “Bo! Hey, Bo! Come ’ere a sec.”
Bo doesn’t want to come ’ere, but Kip won’t relent. “Quick question!” He motions him over.
Finally, Bo comes. “What?”
“Dude, do you have those champagne tower collapse shots on your phone by any chance? Harriet and Alexandru want to see.”
Bo’s annoyance is intense. “Why would I have those on my phone?”
“Because they’re amazing.”
“It wasn’t amazing to the bride as I recall. The collapse of that tower was a devastating event for her, so no, I don’t carry them around on my phone so we can get our jollies.”
“No one was hurt,” Kip protests.
“One woman cut her foot so badly she had to go to the hospital and get stitches,” Bo says.
Kip sighs. “We were all studying them right afterwards to see if anyone had bumped it. That’s how we know the tower went down by itself. But the shots!”
“Hi, Bo.” Ms. Renfield puts out her hand. “We met a long time ago when you were taking pictures of Mrs. Morgan’s Curio Shop. That’s my family’s store.”
“Oh, sure, back in my Gazette era. Your grandmother’s really living her best life these days, isn’t she?”
“She is,” Ms. Renfield says.
“Granabelle’s off the chain,” Kip says.
Bo checks his phone. “Gotta jet.” He mumbles a goodbye and heads off.
Kip snorts. “Bo Richardson. Too cool for school. I’m telling you, though, the champagne tower pictures were poetry. He should put them in a gallery.”
Kip’s expression shifts right then, and the sense of mischief I feel from him is intense.
“Hi, Harlan!” He waves over a man in a slate-gray suit, silver hair swept back like a crown.
“Don’t call him over!” Ms. Renfield says.
“What? You wanted to know about the curtains that caught on fire, right?”
Ms. Renfield mutters a string of words under her breath.
This Kip loves trouble. It’s fascinating.
Harlan approaches with a regal air, scanning the group for threats and maybe pecking order. His gaze lands on me and stays there. “Mr. Kidderson,” he says, not bothering to turn to the one he addresses. “Is everything alright?”
“Awesome,” Kip replies. “But my friend Harriet here was just—Harriet, tell him what you were asking about.”
“Nothing,” she says.
“Harriet and Alexandru wanted to know if the curtain fire at that wedding here was arson.” Kip is practically glowing.