Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Harriet
Granabelle holds Alexandru’s arm as we stroll toward my car. The going is slow. She’s dragging him from one storefront window to the next, pointing things out, but it’s pretty obvious that Alexandru’s the one on display like Granabelle’s prize pig.
And he’s allowing it, for whatever reason.
She was extra delighted that he donned gloves and a hat for the occasion, though she was disappointed he wanted to stay on the shady side of the street. “My skin burns easily,” he said simply.
She makes a point of introducing him to people, including Mom’s frenemy, Sally Janson, which Mom will be pleased about, even though she really did seem to take a dislike to Alexandru. Does she sense his monster nature? Or is she just taking cues from me? I sometimes forget how street-smart she is.
Granabelle laughs at something Alexandru whispers. I grit my teeth. Seeing them all chummy like this is my worst nightmare.
Maybe that’s why he’s doing it.
I tell myself to focus on the problem at hand. We need to find the killer. That’s how I really ensure their safety.
Schmidt Mansion rises regally at the edge of town just past the Silverton Music Conservatory. It has manicured hedges and a wrought-iron gate, and vines creep up the grand stonework.
“We can’t just go in!” I say.
“Nonsense, come!” Granabelle says, pulling Alexandru into the foyer while I follow, because apparently, the granddaughter is chopped liver now that there’s a prince around.
The last time I was here was a few years back for Josie’s wedding to Derek, the fourth-grade teacher who caught her eye while she was campaigning for city council.
I was so happy for her, and so wildly proud to be her maid of honor. It’s a gorgeous place for a wedding, very grand and old-world with chandeliers and elaborate woodwork.
Workers seem to be setting up for an event, hauling lighting rigs and sound equipment around.
Granabelle holds the door open for one of the workmen. “There we are, sweetheart.”
A broad-shouldered woman with a clipboard heads over from the side. “I’m sorry, we’re setting up for a private event. You can’t be here. No public.”
Granabelle lifts the paper bag of croissants and puts on her best frail-old-lady smile. “We’re just dropping these off to my dear friend Denny. He’s working down in the basement today. It won’t take but a minute.”
The woman frowns.
“He’s the one who keeps this place running, and it would mean ever so much to him.” She lets her voice crack just a bit.
“Fine.” The clipboard woman waves us in. “Don’t touch anything.”
We head for the stairs and go down.
The basement looks like the back room of a used furnishings store—tables stacked on chairs, lamps propped up on aging appliances, and fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. At the far end, a man stands at a cluttered workbench, hammering with slow, deliberate force.
“Looks like somebody’s hard at work over there,” Granabelle sings.
Denny stands, his grumpy face brightening. “Anabelle, what a surprise.” He grabs a rag and wipes his hands, eyeing Alexandru. “You look lovely.”
Granabelle beams. “I come bearing pastries and a wee request. You know my granddaughter, of course, and this is her employer, Prince Alexandru Ilie of the Principality of Karsovia.”
Denny isn’t sure what to make of the name, but then he sees the bag. “Berky’s!”
Granabelle kisses him on the cheek. “Not the cookies, I’m afraid.”
“No, this is wonderful.” He looks in the bag. “What’s the request? Is that Deco fixture shorting out again?”
“My granddaughter and Alexandru are interested in getting to the bottom of some strange accidents that have happened during wedding ceremonies and receptions recently.”
His gaze flicks from Alexandru to me and back to Alexandru. “What do you mean, getting to the bottom of them?”
“We think they’re suspicious,” Alexandru says. “We think there’s something more to them, and we’ve heard you may share those thoughts.”
“Are we talking about what happened at the Creighton Arms? Because I most certainly do share those thoughts when it comes to that.” Denny sets the bag on an old piano.
“We’d love to hear about it.” I turn to Alexandru. “Creighton Arms is a historic hotel in downtown Creighton. They used to have really fancy weddings there, but they closed after that bridegroom fell to his death off a balcony.”
“That poor bride,” Granabelle says. “To lose the love of her life…”
“The month before that, the dance floor there caved in, and a few people got very badly injured.”
“And I can tell you what I told Anabelle, here,” Denny puts in. “My old friend Handy Jack did the maintenance there, and he was one of the best in the business.”
“Denny has always admired Handy Jack’s capabilities,” Granabelle says.
Denny tells us about Handy Jack’s meticulous record-keeping. It also turns out that he had seen the underside of that dance floor that collapsed. “I can tell you there was nothing rotten down there.”
“You were under there right before it collapsed?”
“Maybe a month prior.” Denny takes a croissant from the bag and rips it in half. “Here’s the thing: after that dance floor cave-in? Handy Jack went to consult his maintenance records, and they had been stolen. Right off the nail where they always hung on their clipboard.”
“Really,” I say.
“Yes.” Denny points at us with the end of a croissant.
“I ask you, who would do that? Somebody who monkeyed with the support beams, that’s who.
Handy Jack thinks somebody applied sodium hydroxide to the beams. You know what that is?
It’s lye. It’s what they make soap with, and it does a number on wood. ”
“Could he prove it?”
“Nah,” Denny says.
“Is it weird that no one ever investigated?” I ask him. “Who made that decision?”
Denny chews thoughtfully. “Powers that be, I don’t know.”
I look over at Alexandru and find him staring at me. Have his eyes been on me this entire time?
Granabelle shakes her head. “The authorities wanted none of it.”
“And this Officer Cooper had no explanation for the missing maintenance logs?” Alexandru asks.
“He said it didn’t prove anything.” Denny takes another bite. “The guy who owned the place thought it was foul play, too, but nobody would listen. Poor Jack wasn’t sleeping so well after that. And then the next thing you know, the balcony fall happened.”
He tells us about that accident from Handy Jack’s point of view. How he and Handy Jack firmly believe somebody put some kind of corrosive agent on the metal.
“I’m telling you, there’s no way you’d have that level of metal corrosion on Handy Jack’s watch. And do you know what else? The new logs that Handy Jack started were stolen again.”
“That is suspicious,” I say.
“It did a number on the man,” Denny says darkly. “He’s just broken. It was everything to him, maintaining those buildings. He was proud of his work. Because it was damn fine work. He’s down in Florida, now.”
“Did Jack have any theories about who could’ve done it?” I ask.
“He had a few enemies, but no one who woulda had the balls or the know-how.” He pulls out another pastry.
“Do you have any theories?”
He seems surprised by the question. “Not really. Seems senseless to me.” He takes a bite.
“We heard something interesting recently about Whitney the wedding planner. That she sabotaged some chairs here.”
“She sure did.” Denny stops chewing and stares intensely into the distance. “You think it was Whitney going after Handy Jack?”
“Well, what happened with the chairs?” I ask. “Can you tell us about that?”
“Can I tell you about that? I can do you one better. I can show you.”
He leads us into a dusty back room that may have been an ancient cistern and shows us the dusty remnants of some old chairs.
He picks one up and turns it over, pointing out where the rungs and legs join.
“See these scratches? Somebody deliberately loosened the joints. And that person was Whitney Sternell.”
Alexandru watches him intensely. “How do you know it was her?”
“For one thing, I caught her down here the day of the wedding. She said she was looking for some sort of crêpe paper or something, but why the hell look for some fancy paper down in the shop here? Right? I thought it was strange, and then when the chairs collapsed—right at the start of the ceremony—I happened to be up in the balcony tweaking the HVAC. From up there, I could see her face clear as day, and she didn’t look surprised at all.
Why? ’Cause she did it. It was her beef with Reggie Schmidt. ”
“Reggie Schmidt is the owner here,” Granabelle explains. “Not the beacon of humanity, let’s just say.”
Denny shrugs. “At least the man doesn’t go around ruining chairs.
The month before that, she loosened lightbulbs in the chandelier that I had recently changed.
I knew there was nothing wrong with those bulbs, but I think she got a telescoping tool and loosened them.
Then, when they were discovered to be out, she brought her own guy to change them like a hero, telling everyone who’d listen that the place isn’t well-maintained.
And another time, she cut the cord to a freezer.
You could look at it and see that she tried to make it look like it was frayed, but the closer you got to it, the more you could see it was deliberate. I wish I kept it, but I threw it out.”
“Tell them what the beef was,” Granabelle encourages him.
“Someone interviewed Reggie for the Ashwood Gazette, and he badmouthed her something awful.”
“Not by name, but everybody knew,” Granabelle exclaims, drifting off toward a dusty puppet theater propped against the basement wall. The paint is peeling off, but you can still see the blues and golds, with sunbursts and crescent moons curling along the arch.
“She lost a lot of business from that article. The chairs and lightbulbs were revenge.”
Alexandru clasps his hands in front of him. “Berky is convinced she’d never do such a thing.”
“Berky.” Denny snorts derisively. “Berky doesn’t know her as well as she thinks.”
“Interesting,” Alexandru says.
For all his complaining, he really does seem to be following these revelations with interest. I’m glad. I want him to be on board with this new way of hunting, for obvious reasons.
Over in the corner, Granabelle has set up her phone on a paint can. She taps it a few times and dives behind the tiny stage for a whimsical pose just as the shutter clicks.
Denny warns Granabelle to be careful and then regards me with a speculative look. “It sounds to me like you’re thinking Whitney could’ve been responsible for the sabotage at Creighton Arms.”
“We’re exploring all possibilities,” I say.
“Whitney.” Denny inspects his croissant. “Maybe she enjoyed creating a little chaos. She got a taste of it, and she kept going.”
“Came for the vengeance and stayed for the show,” Granabelle adds, setting up another shot.
“Be careful back there, Anabelle,” Denny warns again.
“You think Whitney could do all that?” Alexandru asks him.
“Whitney is more vindictive than psycho, but I guess with some people it’s a fine line,” he says.
“Harriet! Alexandru! I need your help!” Granabelle calls.
Alexandru and I wander over. It turns out she needs help getting a photograph of her and Alexandru in front of the puppet theater with Alexandru holding her hand in a courtly way, as though he’s about to kiss it, much to Denny’s extreme displeasure.
But then Granabelle brings Denny over to do a pose where he kisses her cheek while Granabelle’s mouth hangs open in surprise.