Read Online Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery) by Maia Chance - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maia Chance
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dwarf.”
Gabriel stirred his coffee. “I don’t wish for you to say anything in particular, but I allow, I am curious what the villagers think. Has anything like this been found before? In Schilltag, I mean.”
She stared past Gabriel, out the window, as though wondering how much to tell him.
Gabriel followed her gaze. At the end of the winding lane, the castle loomed up into the sky, and the clustering pine trees were black.
He found himself gripping his spoon just a bit too hard.
“Odd things have turned up, now and again,” she finally said.
“Odd things?”
Things
could mean anything from a relic to a snippet of gossip.
“Not houses or bones, of course. But. . . .” She wiped away a drop of cream from the lip of the pitcher. “It would be best if you went to speak to Herr Horkheimer. He knows more about all this than I do. He owns the cuckoo clock shop down the lane.”
* * *
Mrs. Coop was snoring like a steam tractor when Ophelia tiptoed into her chamber with a breakfast tray. Ophelia decided not to wake her yet. She placed the tray on a side table and began tidying up the boudoir.
She heard rumbling and hoof clopping, and darted to the window. A carriage rolled to a stop, far below in the shady castle forecourt. Two men climbed out. Inspector Schubert and Herr Benjamin. She saw a flash of Benjamin’s trailing hankie.
Back to pry a confession out of Prue, she’d warrant. A pity that Prue was liable to budge about as far as a mule stuck in maple syrup.
Ophelia poked her head back into the bedchamber. Mrs. Coop was still asleep.
Good. Because now that Ophelia had a spare moment, she also had a smidge of business to attend to.
Ophelia hastened back to her own chamber and dragged her battered theatrical case down from the wardrobe. Then she scurried through labyrinthine passages and up and down short flights of stairs, keeping to the highest regions of the castle. There were lots of empty stone chambers and funny nooks and dead ends. But she didn’t meet a soul, and she eventually found a cavernous lumber room, right under the roofline, crammed with sagging sofas, trunks, enormous empty picture frames, rolled up carpets, and dusty wardrobes.
She seesawed the case back between two antique iron-girded trunks.
There. She brushed the dust off her hands. Inspector Schubert would never, ever find it.
7
S chilltag was a quaint village of crooked half-timbered buildings with reddish tiled roofs. The village was still drowsing as Gabriel made his way to the cuckoo clock shop.
He found it, an antique storefront wedged between the telegraph office and a bakery. He eyed the display of rolls and cakes in the bakery window. Winkler would want to turn somersaults when he saw the place.
As for the cuckoo clock shop, its window was crammed with the intricately carved wooden clocks and bric-a-brac that were requisite purchases for tourists in the
Schwarzwald
—the Black Forest.
Inside, the shop was cool and smelled of wood shavings and, faintly, turpentine and beeswax. The air vibrated with dozens of ticking clocks that were mounted on the walls. All those pendulums swinging back and forth—shaped like pinecones, birds, leaves, and other woodland motifs—were dizzying.
There was a glass display case filled with more carved wooden things, but no one was behind it. Gabriel stepped up to the case and cleared his throat.
“
Guten Morgen
,” a man said, emerging from behind a green baize curtain. He was tall, stooped, and utterly bald. He wore half-moon spectacles and a leather vest over a homespun shirt.
“Kann ich Sie helfen?”
“
Guten Morgen
,” Gabriel said. “Herr Horkheimer?”
“Ah, you are English,” the man said. “Very good. Yes, I am Horkheimer.”
Gabriel introduced himself.
“You appear surprised,” Horkheimer said, “that I speak English. Most of us in Schilltag do. The English tourists are very good for business, you see. They come up by the cartload from
Gabriel stirred his coffee. “I don’t wish for you to say anything in particular, but I allow, I am curious what the villagers think. Has anything like this been found before? In Schilltag, I mean.”
She stared past Gabriel, out the window, as though wondering how much to tell him.
Gabriel followed her gaze. At the end of the winding lane, the castle loomed up into the sky, and the clustering pine trees were black.
He found himself gripping his spoon just a bit too hard.
“Odd things have turned up, now and again,” she finally said.
“Odd things?”
Things
could mean anything from a relic to a snippet of gossip.
“Not houses or bones, of course. But. . . .” She wiped away a drop of cream from the lip of the pitcher. “It would be best if you went to speak to Herr Horkheimer. He knows more about all this than I do. He owns the cuckoo clock shop down the lane.”
* * *
Mrs. Coop was snoring like a steam tractor when Ophelia tiptoed into her chamber with a breakfast tray. Ophelia decided not to wake her yet. She placed the tray on a side table and began tidying up the boudoir.
She heard rumbling and hoof clopping, and darted to the window. A carriage rolled to a stop, far below in the shady castle forecourt. Two men climbed out. Inspector Schubert and Herr Benjamin. She saw a flash of Benjamin’s trailing hankie.
Back to pry a confession out of Prue, she’d warrant. A pity that Prue was liable to budge about as far as a mule stuck in maple syrup.
Ophelia poked her head back into the bedchamber. Mrs. Coop was still asleep.
Good. Because now that Ophelia had a spare moment, she also had a smidge of business to attend to.
Ophelia hastened back to her own chamber and dragged her battered theatrical case down from the wardrobe. Then she scurried through labyrinthine passages and up and down short flights of stairs, keeping to the highest regions of the castle. There were lots of empty stone chambers and funny nooks and dead ends. But she didn’t meet a soul, and she eventually found a cavernous lumber room, right under the roofline, crammed with sagging sofas, trunks, enormous empty picture frames, rolled up carpets, and dusty wardrobes.
She seesawed the case back between two antique iron-girded trunks.
There. She brushed the dust off her hands. Inspector Schubert would never, ever find it.
7
S chilltag was a quaint village of crooked half-timbered buildings with reddish tiled roofs. The village was still drowsing as Gabriel made his way to the cuckoo clock shop.
He found it, an antique storefront wedged between the telegraph office and a bakery. He eyed the display of rolls and cakes in the bakery window. Winkler would want to turn somersaults when he saw the place.
As for the cuckoo clock shop, its window was crammed with the intricately carved wooden clocks and bric-a-brac that were requisite purchases for tourists in the
Schwarzwald
—the Black Forest.
Inside, the shop was cool and smelled of wood shavings and, faintly, turpentine and beeswax. The air vibrated with dozens of ticking clocks that were mounted on the walls. All those pendulums swinging back and forth—shaped like pinecones, birds, leaves, and other woodland motifs—were dizzying.
There was a glass display case filled with more carved wooden things, but no one was behind it. Gabriel stepped up to the case and cleared his throat.
“
Guten Morgen
,” a man said, emerging from behind a green baize curtain. He was tall, stooped, and utterly bald. He wore half-moon spectacles and a leather vest over a homespun shirt.
“Kann ich Sie helfen?”
“
Guten Morgen
,” Gabriel said. “Herr Horkheimer?”
“Ah, you are English,” the man said. “Very good. Yes, I am Horkheimer.”
Gabriel introduced himself.
“You appear surprised,” Horkheimer said, “that I speak English. Most of us in Schilltag do. The English tourists are very good for business, you see. They come up by the cartload from
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