Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Harriet
I give Roy his receipt. He scribbles Manny’s number on a card and asks if we have a dolly. “That’s my truck right out there.”
“Let me grab it and help you!” I say brightly.
Alexandru looks annoyed. “I’ll carry it. You will open the door.”
I give him a warning glance, but it’s too late. He just hoists the thing up and carries it out of the store like it’s nothing.
Erp.
“Wow,” Roy says, following him out. “Guessing you got quite the gym up there in Kingston Manor.”
Alexandru places the thing in the back of Roy’s small truck without answering, while I stand there shocked.
“Dude,” I say once Roy drives off. “Have you not learned to hide your super strength over the years?”
“A human male should be able to lift such a thing.”
“You might need to dial down your assessment of what a human male can do. Maybe way down from battle-hardened crusader to something more in the realm of couch potato. And also, since when do you help the peasants with menial tasks?”
He scowls, and I can see this didn’t occur to him. Was he operating outside of his normal monster mash parameters?
I smile. “I think you didn’t want Roy to see you standing by like a slouch and watching your beautiful fiancée struggle.”
“You are not my fiancée,” he says.
“But I’m beautiful? I think that’s what you’re trying to say,” I tease.
He comes to me, seeming more vexed than normal. “Roy was nervous. About the archives, no doubt.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “Though mentions of bloody entrails on the heads of children can also give people the jitters.”
“His nerves spiked at my mention of the archives. But what does it matter? He is not a suspect.”
“All information is valuable,” I say.
“Disagree,” he says.
I ignore this arguably fair point. “What is up with the archives, anyways? Just when we want that picture, the archives have suddenly been mysteriously hacked? And there’s no backup?
I mean, somebody who makes a living in photography doesn’t use multiple backups?
Come on! It’s completely bizarre and frankly unbelievable to not back up your life’s work. As in, I’m not buying it.”
“Do you suspect Bo, now?” Alexandru asks. “You said yourself he wasn’t at all of the weddings in question.”
“It just seems super weird. And supposed mole-person Manny calling us back? Something’s up with the Richardson Photography crew. And don’t say serial killer group!”
“I will return to my residence now. You will choose a suspect tomorrow, or I will choose one myself.”
“But May second is two days away,” I say.
Alexandru doesn’t answer. He seems a bit on edge.
I glance at the stairway up to our living quarters.
“There is something you’re not telling me,” Alexandru says. “What now?”
I wince. “Granabelle’s services of detaining Roy came at a bit of a cost.”
“If you need money to pay her something, you are free to do so.”
“No. We have to go to the supper club with them.”
“You said I would dine?”
“I told them you’re on a one-meal-a-day fasting program, so we’ll go and have a drink with them, and they’ll go and dine.”
His expression is thundercloud-dark. I’m really regretting this dining promise, trying to think how to finagle a rain check, but right then, Granabelle sweeps down the stairs wearing a mod, red and orange geometric-patterned mini dress with go-go boots.
Very 1960s Austin Powers era. But she pulls it off.
She takes Alexandru’s arm. “Ready? Can we go in your fancy racer?”
“It’s an Alfa Romeo,” he bites out.
“Ooh!” Granabelle says as they head out the door.
I’m feeling a little sick. I believe Alexandru is good for his word that he’ll hold off feeding and give us a chance to find the killer, but I can tell he’s feeling feral tonight.
Damn.
Mom blows through the store, heading for the door. “I’m not riding in that. It’s three blocks down for heaven’s sake.”
I don’t bother pointing out that it’s a two-seater anyway. “I’ll walk with you,” I say.
Granabelle has already commandeered the passenger seat of the Alfa Romeo by the time we’ve locked up. She waves, and they speed off.
“I don’t know what you see in that guy,” Mom says as we set out walking. “He’s pushy and arrogant.”
“He is pushy and arrogant, and we’re not dating. Just FYI.”
“Good.”
“It’s convenient for the mystery to let people think it. Unfortunately, a lot of people know we’re investigating.”
“And he’s on board with all that?” she says skeptically.
“He is.”
Mom wears a sour look. “And you’re telling me he only eats one meal a day?”
“It’s supposed to be good for you.”
“Sounds like nonsense and nuttery to me.”
I explain the principle behind it; naturally, I looked it up after the Tres Hermanas close call with the crab cakes and told a very non-plussed Alexandru that would be our excuse for him not eating.
We arrive at the Golden Stag Supper Club, and I immediately spot them seated like minor royalty at the front-and-center window table. The most prominent spot in the entire room.
Of course.
Granabelle waves us over with theatrical energy.
Alexandru rises smoothly as we approach, elegant and unreadable in charcoal gray. Granabelle beams like a floodlight. “There you are!”
We settle into our chairs, and Granabelle starts waving people over. She introduces each one with the same flourish. “Have you met the prince?”
Alexandru is the picture of ease as he fields questions in that devastating British accent of his.
“Yes, I’m settling in beautifully.”
“No, I’m not terribly concerned about the cliff. One must respect geography, of course.”
“It will be my assistant and I living there... for the time being, at any rate.”
Folks are instinctively nervous around him, but the way he uses charm to get them to drop their guard? Breathtaking.
And scary.
It even happens to me at times when I forget what I’m dealing with.
Sitting there, I vow to never lose sight of the fact that Alexandru is a monster, a predator who sees my kind as prey, who doesn’t understand the problem with killing people.
A beast who tolerates me because of what I can do for him but that if my usefulness were gone, or if I broke one rule in that contract, he’d kill me and everyone I love.
Without a second thought.
And he’s hungry.
We need to settle on a suspect.
Is it Kip? His motive is the pleasure of the act and opportunity, being at every wedding. Another motive is pleasing the Snag Tooth Riders. But it’s all so circumstantial!
Then there’s Whitney, who likely has a history of sabotage and may have tried to conceal evidence.
But again, it’s not conclusive. And of course, there’s Harlan.
I can’t imagine what his motive could be, but he has opportunity, being that he seems to be able to travel everywhere, like a charmed chess piece.
And what is up with the photo archives and the weird crew at Richardson Photography?
We need a break. Something.
Anything.
I check my phone after the waitperson takes our order, praying Sloane has sent that picture and that it’s wildly incriminating.
Nothing.
I notice that my admin mafia galpal came through with a big fat file of photos of the champagne tower collapse from the insurance company, but we don’t need those anymore. Bo showed them to us, and there wasn’t anything interesting in them.
I text Sloane.
Any progress on the sparkler pictures?
She gets right back to me.
Vera’s got family reunion stuff going on, but she’s on the case.
I text back the cowboy hat face. It’s an ironic all-purpose shorthand we used in high school. In this instance, it means, “Carry on, cowgirl.”
I hate myself a little bit for using it. The emoji feels like emotional begging. Please forgive me. Please like me again.
Josie and Derek drop by, too, Josie looking radiant in a floral wrap dress. She explains to a disappointed Granabelle that Angus is home with a sitter.
I discreetly trade wineglasses with Alexandru—his untouched red for my nearly empty one—while the attention is elsewhere.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
I knock back half of it.
Derek, ever the golden retriever in human form, grins nervously at Alexandru. “We do a low-stakes poker night on Wednesdays. You should come. It’s just a few guys—me, Maverick Cooper from the police station, Sam from Hardware Sam’s, and a couple of teacher friends of mine, one who plays the lute.”
“Alexandru doesn’t play poker,” I say quickly.
“Nonsense,” Alexandru replies without missing a beat. “I rather enjoy a game of cards.”
“Somehow I can’t see you playing poker with the guys,” Mom says, and truer words have never been spoken.
“Nonsense,” Granabelle says. “They would be thrilled to have a prince play poker with them.”
“Alexandru is extremely busy,” I say.
“Doesn’t seem that busy to me,” Mom says.
“Where is that assistant of yours?” Granabelle asks Alexandru. “Sloane has been saying that he seems a very somber sort. I think he could use a night out on the town as well.”
Alexandru swirls the bit of wine at the bottom of his glass. “Sadly, I have him scrubbing the dungeon with a toothbrush.”
Everyone laughs uproariously.
“Alexandru, you better not actually be making poor Gregor scrub the dungeon with a toothbrush,” I say once we’re out of there. “Tell me that’s not true.”
Alexandru doesn’t smile. “I don’t typically discuss one servant’s tasks and punishments with another.”
“So you’re punishing him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I roll my eyes. “Where’d you park?”
“Down along the river. I dropped your grandmother off, but there wasn’t a single space closer.”
“Admit it—you can’t parallel park.”
Alexandru doesn’t rise to the bait.
“And what’s up with wanting to play cards?”
“Is it not advisable to put the villagers at ease?”
“Is that a threat?”
He turns his face to the sky as if to sniff the air. He’s very bear-like, all of a sudden.
“It sounds like a threat,” I say.
His posture shifts. Head tilts. Alert.
“Bat signal?” I joke.