Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Alexandru
We pass the town’s park—an expanse of unnaturally green grass, wrought-iron benches, and heavy-limbed maple trees, and at the center of it, a pink-and-white gazebo.
Ms. Renfield points out the areas featured in the photos we saw at the wedding expo: where the runaway cart struck wedding guests, and where her friend’s ceremony was interrupted by a premature wedding cannon blast.
“My grandmother was pretty unhappy I didn’t bring you around the other day,” she says.
“They were offended when they heard I brought you to Sloane’s shop but not theirs.”
“We had no reason to go there.”
“Not for the investigation, but it would be customary to bring you, seeing as that you’re my employer. My father’s friend. The new celebrity in town.”
She’s attempting to sound casual and failing. There are so many emotions thrumming through her, it’s hard to get a read, but there’s definitely fear in there. “Why didn’t you introduce us, Ms. Renfield?”
She keeps walking, eyes straight ahead. “I think you know why.”
“You are worried I will make a meal out of them if we don’t catch your killer? You should know that I take people one at a time, not two.”
She stops in her tracks. “Not funny.”
I turn. I should not toy with her. She has made me an astonishing amount of money. Money is power, and I am not without enemies.
“You can’t ever go after them.”
I go to her, gazing down into her eyes, chestnut brown with gold threaded through. “Again, you seem to forget who commands whom here.”
She straightens up to her full diminutive height. “I’m telling you. If you touch one hair on their heads—one hair—”
“You’ll what? Hurl yourself off the cliff? Deprive me of your servitude?” I move closer to her now, voice low. “I know you now. I know what you’re made of. I know you’d never do it.”
“I’d find a way to make you sorry. You think I can’t?”
“I think you could try. I think it would be amusing,” I say, voice just above a whisper now.
A flash of anger mixes with her fear.
Somehow, it sits ill with me.
We set out walking again.
Why should I care what a Renfield feels? I remind myself of what her kind has done. What they’re capable of.
“Your great-great-grandfather asked me outright to slaughter his kin,” I say.
“Oh my god, another ‘Renfields are so awful’ anecdote. What a surprise. You really know how to hold a grudge.”
“It’s a bit more than a grudge.”
“For whatever my ancestors did that you won’t tell me about. That I seem to be paying for.”
I adjust my gloves, ensuring full skin coverage. “And will continue paying forever.”
The display window of Mrs. Morgan’s Curios is arranged with care: a polished silver tea set on a doily.
Lace gloves fanned beside a neat row of vintage teacups.
A chipped porcelain doll sits propped on a velvet cushion, her glass eyes staring blankly at the grocery store and barber shop across the street.
Ms. Renfield walks in, still angry, and I follow. “And here he is,” she says with a wave of her hand. “His Royal Highness. Please, everybody, try to contain your awe.”
“Harriet, what is this?” A woman in her fifties comes out from behind the counter. She’s a more seasoned mirror of Harriet with strong features, symmetrical and certain, nothing delicate or perky.
Though their hair is completely different. Whereas her mother’s hair is coarse and straight, just skimming her jawline, Ms. Renfield has the Renfield curls.
“I’m Lorna.” She casts a dark glance at her daughter.
“I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” I say, removing my gloves. I look over to find Harriet’s gaze glued to my hands, pulse ratcheting up, as though she might see the name of the killer written on my finger.
I fold my gloves and settle them neatly into my pocket.
Mrs. Morgan’s Curios is a cheerfully overstuffed Midwestern antique shop that smells of dust and lemon wood polish.
Sunlight filters through lace curtains, glinting off the crystal doorknobs in a display case.
Shelves are packed with tin toy soldiers and vintage postcards in little stacks.
A painted plaster pheasant presides over the cash register.
“You’ve been keeping my girl pretty busy, Mr. Miramonte,” Lorna says. “I was surprised she took on more.”
“Your daughter is remarkably industrious. She informed me she intended to improve upon her father’s work, and I must say, she has exceeded expectations.”
Lorna makes a small noise in her throat, unimpressed. “Her father. Great. And you two were business associates?”
“He was my…” I slide to glance over to Ms. Renfield. “Underling.”
Lorna raises her brows. “Doesn’t say much for your choice of underlings.
Tell me, what kind of man bangs a woman on a train and then jumps into the Carpathians in the middle of the night?
From what Harriet’s told me, he was a muttering, bug-eating little freak.
Yet somehow, he was your employee, and you gave him bookkeeping tasks he couldn’t understand.
Tasks difficult enough to challenge my brilliant daughter, but you had this poor sod doing them.
I understand you’re a prince or whatever, but what kind of man hires someone that disturbed for something that demanding? ”
I arch a brow. “I don’t require my assistants to be emotionally sound. I require them to be useful.”
Ms. Renfield stiffens beside me. “Such a joker.”
Lorna doesn’t laugh. “It didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded like you enjoy taking advantage of the mentally unwell. And now you’ve got Harriet tied up in knots.”
“I’m not tied up in knots,” Ms. Renfield protests.
“And Sloane tells me you’re collaborating with my girl on one of her investigations? What kind of game are you playing?”
“Your girl is fine,” Ms. Renfield says. “Your girl is right here, capable of applying critical thinking.”
“How long is this assignment of yours going to last?” Lorna demands.
“It’s permanent,” I say.
Lorna’s eyes go cold. This woman surprises me. Her fire. She’s been through things. “She already has a job. One she loves.”
“Mom, I can handle my own business.”
“You don’t need two jobs. What do you need two jobs for? Also, who the hell wears gloves in April? What is this? Masterpiece Theater?”
At that moment, a voice floats down from the second floor. “Is that my favorite granddaughter I hear?”
An older woman descends the stairs with casual theatricality, dressed in a tweed riding jacket, a toucan-print scarf, and what appear to be a boy’s jodhpurs. Her gray hair is swept into a regal twist, and she’s holding binoculars for some reason.
She stops partway down and surveys the scene with arched brows, and then her gaze lands upon me. “Prince Alexandru Ilie of the Principality of Karsovia, I presume.”
“Correct,” I say. “And to whom do I have the pleasure?”
“Annabelle Morgan, but you may call me Granabelle.”
She descends the rest of the way and comes to me, hand outstretched. I take it and brush my lips over the back with a sly glance toward Ms. Renfield, whose face has gone ashen. “Please, call me Alexandru,” I say.
Granabelle beams at me. “So, Alexandru, how are you finding Ashwood? I hope it’s to your liking.”
“Very much so,” I reply. “In fact, I intend to make it my permanent home.”
Her hands clap together with delight. “Capital news!”
“Jesus Christ on a cracker,” Lorna mutters.
“Has anybody shown the prince around?” Granabelle asks.
Ms. Renfield sighs.
“For heaven’s sake.” Granabelle sweeps over to me and begins a tour of the shop while quizzing me on the renovation. I answer politely, ever conscious of Ms. Renfield stewing in our wake.
“Hey. What are you doing for a foyer table?” Lorna asks suddenly, from the other room. “You need to buy this one.”
“Mom, you can’t just tell him what to buy.”
“I’m just saying. If someone’s doing a period restoration, and from what I can tell, you are, you need to take a look at this dark walnut demi-lune. It’s got a lovely marble top. Nice scrollwork on the apron.”
“Let’s see it,” I say.
She leads me to the table at the front of the store, where the table in question stands beneath a gilt-framed mirror. The marble is charcoal gray, the wood dark and warm.
I run my fingers over the edge. “It would suit the entry hall perfectly.”
Granabelle lights up. “It is a beautiful piece.”
I catch Ms. Renfield watching me, brows drawn together.
“And how are you set for linens?” Lorna asks.
Before long, I’ve selected linen napkins, a pair of brass candlesticks with lions at the base, a set of Eastlake chairs, and something called a “Hepplewhite sideboard.”
I arrange to send Gregor around to pay for the pieces and finalize the deliveries.
“These will look beautiful in your home,” Granabelle says, wrapping up my candlesticks with paper and string. “The renovation must be breathtaking.”
“It’s not all that,” Ms. Renfield says. “And I don’t know when it’s going to be done. Oh! I almost forgot.” She sets the larger of the two bakery bags on the counter. “We got you pastries from Berky’s.”
“That’s nice,” Lorna says warily.
“And I have a question or actually a request.” Ms. Renfield turns to Granabelle. “We really want to ask Denny about a few things, and I don’t know if he’d talk to us without you there.”
“What kind of things?” Lorna asks.
Ms. Renfield gives her mother a hard look. “Mystery things, and don’t start on it.”
Granabelle looks worried. “Not all this wedding hullabaloo, I hope.”
“Yes, the wedding hullabaloo, and for your information, Alexandru completely agrees with me.”
“I do,” I say.
Granabelle’s features light with surprise.
Lorna’s do not. “You come to town, monopolize my daughter’s time, and suddenly you’re on board with her wild theories?”
“Your daughter sees things that other people don’t,” I say to her.
“The way her father did?” Lorna says. “Because it sounds to me like a fly would buzz by that man’s nose and he’d see a cheeseburger.”
“Yeah, not like that,” Ms. Renfield snaps.
“Your daughter has a brilliant mind for discerning truth in chaos,” I say.
“I could bring you over to see Denny,” Granabelle says. “He’s prickly as an old hedgehog, but he responds to a soft touch.”
“Do you think it’s possible to go today?” Ms. Renfield asks her.
Granabelle grabs the bakery bag. “Let’s give it a try.”