Read Online Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery) by Maia Chance - Free Book Online
Authors: Maia Chance
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delicious breakfast in its rustic, pin-neat dining room.
The only other guest, it appeared, was the hearty young British lady they’d come across in the forest yesterday morning. She was alone at a table across the dining room, rhythmically forking up and chewing her repast, at the same time scribbling away with a pencil in a notebook. She wore her dust-colored tramping costume. Her head, without its straw hat, was revealed to be crowned with a massive braided heap of gold hair.
Curious that she was alone. One rarely saw ladies traveling without companions. Although this particular lady could doubtless pass through a Marrakech bazaar at midnight unmolested. She seemed the sort who was adept at parasol whappings and walking-boot kicks.
“I should like,” Winkler said, forking up ham, “to begin by having the perimeter of the cottage cleared by the woodsman. We cannot continue to burrow about in the thicket like boars. My lumbar will not stand for it.” He chewed vigorously.
“Very well,” Gabriel said. “I do wonder why Mrs. Coop asked us to continue, though.”
One man was dead, and a young girl who was perhaps innocent was locked up in some dreadful tower. Gabriel kept thinking of the anguish in the dark eyes of the lady’s maid. Yet here he and Winkler were, discussing their scholarly work as though they hadn’t a care in the world. However, Inspector Schubert had forbidden them to leave the neighborhood, and Gabriel longed to learn more about the cottage and the skeleton. He supposed it wouldn’t do any harm.
“Why does Mrs. Coop wish us to continue?” Winkler asked. “Greed.” He spooned blueberry jam onto his fourth roll. “Eager to find more gold. They always are.”
“She does seem to have a keen interest in Snow White.”
“Americans are smitten with European fairy tales. Take that little murderess yesterday! Obsessed.
Mein Gott
.”
Gabriel opted not to argue that point. He might give too much away.
The pencil of the British lady across the room had slowed to a crawl. Although she did not lift her eyes from her notebook, Gabriel had the distinct impression she was hanging on to their every word.
“It is,” Winkler said, “to compensate for their own nation’s sorry lack of history.”
“Not because America is a nation of peasants,” Gabriel said, “without an aristocracy of its own?”
Winkler liked that. “A nation of peasants.
Ja
,
ja
.”
“Speaking of which,” Gabriel said, hoping he hadn’t gone too far, “I think I’ll poke about the village this morning, while you’re having the cottage site cleared. I’d like to learn if there is any local lore we aren’t aware of.”
“Best of luck. The
volk
will only spout the same tired twaddle.”
“Nonetheless, I think it’s worth a try.”
* * *
After Winkler had departed—in, surprisingly, a hired cart, although perhaps he was in danger of having an apoplectic fit if he attempted to haul his bulk up the crag to the castle—Gabriel took more coffee.
“Did you hear about the discovery in Schloss Grunewald’s forest?” he said to the innkeeper’s wife in German, once the British lady had gone.
The innkeeper’s wife set a fresh pitcher of cream on his table.
“Word travels quickly in a village of this size.” She smiled, resembling an elf with her bright eyes and white hair.
“What do you make of it?”
“Oh, well, now that is a question.” She wiped her wrinkled hands on her apron. “You are one of the scholars from Heidelberg.”
“I’m from England, actually, but my companion who just left is from Heidelberg University, yes.”
“I suppose you are laughing up your sleeves at we simple village folk.”
That was embarrassingly close to the truth. Not that Gabriel could tell her that his own contempt was a sham.
“I suppose,” she went on, “you wish for me to say that I believe it is Snow White’s cottage that was found out there, and those bones belonged to a magical
The only other guest, it appeared, was the hearty young British lady they’d come across in the forest yesterday morning. She was alone at a table across the dining room, rhythmically forking up and chewing her repast, at the same time scribbling away with a pencil in a notebook. She wore her dust-colored tramping costume. Her head, without its straw hat, was revealed to be crowned with a massive braided heap of gold hair.
Curious that she was alone. One rarely saw ladies traveling without companions. Although this particular lady could doubtless pass through a Marrakech bazaar at midnight unmolested. She seemed the sort who was adept at parasol whappings and walking-boot kicks.
“I should like,” Winkler said, forking up ham, “to begin by having the perimeter of the cottage cleared by the woodsman. We cannot continue to burrow about in the thicket like boars. My lumbar will not stand for it.” He chewed vigorously.
“Very well,” Gabriel said. “I do wonder why Mrs. Coop asked us to continue, though.”
One man was dead, and a young girl who was perhaps innocent was locked up in some dreadful tower. Gabriel kept thinking of the anguish in the dark eyes of the lady’s maid. Yet here he and Winkler were, discussing their scholarly work as though they hadn’t a care in the world. However, Inspector Schubert had forbidden them to leave the neighborhood, and Gabriel longed to learn more about the cottage and the skeleton. He supposed it wouldn’t do any harm.
“Why does Mrs. Coop wish us to continue?” Winkler asked. “Greed.” He spooned blueberry jam onto his fourth roll. “Eager to find more gold. They always are.”
“She does seem to have a keen interest in Snow White.”
“Americans are smitten with European fairy tales. Take that little murderess yesterday! Obsessed.
Mein Gott
.”
Gabriel opted not to argue that point. He might give too much away.
The pencil of the British lady across the room had slowed to a crawl. Although she did not lift her eyes from her notebook, Gabriel had the distinct impression she was hanging on to their every word.
“It is,” Winkler said, “to compensate for their own nation’s sorry lack of history.”
“Not because America is a nation of peasants,” Gabriel said, “without an aristocracy of its own?”
Winkler liked that. “A nation of peasants.
Ja
,
ja
.”
“Speaking of which,” Gabriel said, hoping he hadn’t gone too far, “I think I’ll poke about the village this morning, while you’re having the cottage site cleared. I’d like to learn if there is any local lore we aren’t aware of.”
“Best of luck. The
volk
will only spout the same tired twaddle.”
“Nonetheless, I think it’s worth a try.”
* * *
After Winkler had departed—in, surprisingly, a hired cart, although perhaps he was in danger of having an apoplectic fit if he attempted to haul his bulk up the crag to the castle—Gabriel took more coffee.
“Did you hear about the discovery in Schloss Grunewald’s forest?” he said to the innkeeper’s wife in German, once the British lady had gone.
The innkeeper’s wife set a fresh pitcher of cream on his table.
“Word travels quickly in a village of this size.” She smiled, resembling an elf with her bright eyes and white hair.
“What do you make of it?”
“Oh, well, now that is a question.” She wiped her wrinkled hands on her apron. “You are one of the scholars from Heidelberg.”
“I’m from England, actually, but my companion who just left is from Heidelberg University, yes.”
“I suppose you are laughing up your sleeves at we simple village folk.”
That was embarrassingly close to the truth. Not that Gabriel could tell her that his own contempt was a sham.
“I suppose,” she went on, “you wish for me to say that I believe it is Snow White’s cottage that was found out there, and those bones belonged to a magical
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