Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Alexandru
Ms. Renfield and I walk to Sloane’s, her carrying a leather satchel containing the game.
Her steps are brisk, and as usual, she holds herself like a military general, inhabiting every inch of her small stature. She’s nervous but pretending she isn’t.
She told me about Harlan threatening her boss. But her nerves aren’t about Harlan—it seems that they’re about Sloane.
“Alexandru, can you help me understand how this’ll work?”
I arch a brow. “This?”
“The bribing process. What do you recommend? Do we just go in and I say, ‘Oh, if only we had the guest list database!’ and then show her the game?”
I smile—slow and amused, just enough to irritate her.
“What? I’m sorry I’m not a centuries-old menace and don’t know the ways of your menacing menacehood.”
“How I envision it,” I say, “is that you place the game on the counter. And then you simply wait.”
“I don’t say anything? That seems weird. Just wordlessly tempt her?”
“Say as little as possible, and don’t propose the deal yourself. You want to let her take the lead with that. Sloane likes to oppose you and refuse you things and make demands. Let her make a demand.”
“Wow.” Ms. Renfield’s tone is the shocked one she gets when I exhibit knowledge of human nature. “Sloane is my ultimate contrarian.”
“So it seems.”
“So I give her nothing to be contrary about.”
“Exactly.”
The bell over the door rings as we walk in.
“Alexandru! How are the cards working out?” Sloane asks. “I trust your assistant handed them off without incident?”
“That he did, and they’re perfect. Not many people use that style of letterpress anymore.”
“Understatement of the century,” Sloane declares.
Ms. Renfield sets her bag down on the floor in front of the counter and pulls out the bubble-wrapped box.
“What’s all this?” Sloane asks her.
Wordlessly, Ms. Renfield unwraps the box. Sloane’s interest grows keener with the removal of each layer of bubble wrap, and she gasps when Ms. Renfield finally reveals what’s underneath.
“No. Harriet. Is that real?”
Harriet shrugs. “Should we open it up and find out?”
“Don’t you dare break that shrink wrap!” She stares at it. “It’s the Sears holiday edition.”
Ms. Renfield says nothing.
“What are you doing with this?”
“You were interested in this game way back when...”
“Oh, I suppose... maybe at one time,” Sloane says, which could not be further from the truth. She’s vibrating with excitement. “May I?”
“Go ahead.”
Sloane picks it up by her fingertips like it’s a fragile relic. She turns it over and examines the picture on the back. “The woodsman,” she says reverently. “And you’re showing me this, why?”
“I thought it would be fun for you to see it before Mom put it on eBay.”
Sloane’s eyes widen. “You can’t. No.”
Silence.
“But you’re not going to, are you? You know what I think? I think you want those lists of wedding guests. You think I’m gonna make that exchange.”
Ms. Renfield shrugs.
“You’re not fooling me,” Sloane says. “I have something you want, and now you have something you think I want.”
It’s hard for Ms. Renfield to maintain silence in the face of this; she’s desperate to fill it. To just say anything. She thrums with emotions, but her self-control is admirable. For a Renfield.
I wonder again—with the mildest curiosity—what happened between them.
Sloane slides her fingertip lovingly over the edge. “Weddings where there were accidents. You really think someone’s doing it on purpose?”
“I know someone’s doing it on purpose,” Ms. Renfield says evenly. “I know it for a fact.”
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. My little Renfield knows her hunt.
“I suppose I could give you the databases that you want,” Sloane says.
“It’s not like it’s private information, being that these weddings were in public venues.
But I want something more than this. You’ll give me this game, and while I assemble the databases for you, you’ll go get me a chocolate salted caramel Berky Bomb. ”
Ms. Renfield sighs. “Fine.”
Sloane smiles. “Got a thumb drive on you?”
Ms. Renfield has one, naturally. She always comes prepared. She hands it over, along with a list of the weddings in question.
Sloane gets to work on her laptop. “Sadly, you left out one of the weddings that you should’ve requested a guest list for.”
“Excuse me?”
“My friend was married in Creighton last fall, and there was quite an egregious accident. Quite notorious.”
“What happened?”
A slow smile spreads over Sloane’s face. “They rented out the courtyard of that Italian restaurant by the marina. It was a midnight courtyard ceremony, very romantic and intimate. Sparklers lining the stone walls, twinkling fairy lights, candlelight… lovely!”
Harriet blinks. “And?”
“The sparklers detonated,” Sloane says, relishing the memory. “Somebody added actual firecrackers, so instead of a soft, festive glow, it was the battle of Bunker Hill. Boom boom boom. Half the guests hit the ground. Somebody’s great-aunt pushed over the mother of the bride.”
Ms. Renfield stares. “You’re making this up.”
“I was there,” Sloane says. “They never did get to the bottom of how it happened. The fireworks company said someone from the wedding tampered with the sparklers after they were set up. The groom thought it was a disgruntled fireworks employee. However, my friend, who was the bride, loved the pictures. She said it made her wedding “memorable.” She actually had this wedding photo that was just utter chaos up as her Facebook header forever. All these people panicking, and she and her man up at the front, jaws hanging open while the officiant crouched behind a floral display.”
“Is it still up on her Facebook profile? I would love to see it!”
“Sadly, their wedding planner messaged her privately this past weekend and asked her to take it down. Said it was giving her business a bad look. She was all weird about it.”
“Just this past weekend?” Ms. Renfield can barely hide her excitement.
“Do you recall who the planner was?” I ask coolly.
“I think it was Whitney Sternell.”
Ms. Renfield’s so thrilled, it’s a wonder she doesn’t explode like a little firecracker herself.
I have to admit, it is interesting. An unexpected twist in this pre-meal puzzle.
“Does that fit into your scheme?” Sloane asks coolly. “Your little pattern?”
“It does,” Ms. Renfield says. “Is it possible… Could you grab your phone and pull up her Facebook header?”
“I told you, the picture is down,” Sloane says.
“I would love it if you could send me the URL. I might be able to access it on the Wayback Machine.”
With a sigh, Sloane pulls out her phone. They fiddle with their electronics together while I examine envelopes.
The next thing I know, Ms. Renfield lets out a gasp of dismay.
“Removed?” Sloane asks.
“Scrubbed.”
“Maybe try cached Google images?” Sloane suggests.
“No dice,” Ms. Renfield says after a beat.
“Well, those things aren’t foolproof,” Sloane says. “I suppose you want that guest list, too.”
I step in. “We would appreciate it.”
“And you’re on board with all this,” Sloane says to me.
“I am.”
With a weary look, Sloane taps a few more keys.
“Sloane,” Ms. Renfield says. “Do you think the bride might be willing to send us a copy of the photo?”
“Of course she would. She is a very close friend.”
The strong emotion that spears through Ms. Renfield surprises me. I’d expected anger at Sloane’s high-handed treatment, but it’s something more like sadness. Loss. Longing.
“We really think something is going on,” Ms. Renfield says.
Sloane examines her fingernails. “I gathered as much.”
“The pattern is clearly manufactured. The escalation is undeniable. If you look at the spreadsheet covering the last year—”
“Do I want to see the Excel embodiment of a cry for help? Is that what you’re asking me?” Sloane says. “No, thanks.”
“It’s real. People could be in danger. There will be a next victim.”
“Well, you be sure to get all that data down. There’s nothing more important when it comes to fighting for justice than a complete data set.”
I’m thinking that Ms. Renfield does indeed require an exhaustive amount of data, but something more is going on. Ms. Renfield straightens her spine. “I’m glad you think so.”
That’s not what she wants to say. She wants to argue, to plead her case—badly.
Sloane has touched a nerve of some sort, and for some strange reason, I feel affronted.
What do I care?
She’s nothing but a Renfield. A tool.
“Whatever,” Sloane sniffs. “However, I am a little thirsty for a double-froth vanilla crème br?lée latte from Berky’s.
I suppose if one were to show up on my counter in the next twenty minutes, along with the Berky Bomb, I might be in a good enough mood to text her and get that photo for you.
Since you’re so desperate to see it. She does love to show it to people. ”
“Could you find out who the bartender was as well?” I ask.
Sloane keeps her gaze on Ms. Renfield. “If you add another Berky Bomb. Make it a lemon ginger. Alexandru can remain behind. I have some paper samples to show him.”
“Did she really just want to show you paper samples?” Ms. Renfield asks as we head toward her car after leaving Sloane’s.
“She would like me to bed her.”
She makes a sound in the back of her throat. An objection? Disbelief?
“It is not uncommon,” I inform her. “Females sense the exquisite pleasure I can bring.”
Heat suffuses her cheeks. “When they’re not running for their lives!”
“One can turn into the other.”
“Oh my god, whatever.” She stops and turns to me. “That was some very interesting information about Whitney asking for the picture to be taken down, right? And just a few days ago? How is that a coincidence? What does she not want us to see?”
“What concern is it of ours? Did we not rule her out?”
“We did, but I find it suspicious.”
“Is there a reason you want to look anywhere but in the direction of Kip the bartender? We’re like old ladies, embroidering the edges of this hunt.”
“But there’s so much more to learn. This Whitney thing—”