Read Online Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery) by Maia Chance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maia Chance
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Baden-Baden to picnic and ramble, and to view the famous Schloss Grunewald. And they cannot leave without a curio.” He swept his hand around the shop. “Do you see anything you like?”
Gabriel hated to disappoint him. He’d purchase a trinket and then segue into questions. The display case was filled with wooden statuettes of stags, boars, bears, rabbits, and owls, all carved in the finely detailed Black Forest style.
Amid the animals there were also several tiny figurines of what appeared to be little bearded men in pointed hats. There was also a statuette of a girl cowering at the feet of a man, who held a dagger aloft.
“Is that . . . Snow White and the huntsman?”
“You know the tale, then—the Evil Queen bids the Huntsman to cut out the girl’s liver.”
“Yes, charming story. So wholesome for the little ones.”
“Those tales are not for children,” Horkheimer said.
“No?” Gabriel already knew this, but he wanted to hear what Horkheimer had to say.
“
Nein
. They are put into children’s storybooks because people laugh at we simple
volk
, and think our lore is childish.”
How Gabriel wished to heartily shake the man’s hand. Instead, he said, “I’d like to purchase this dwarf here. The one holding the pickaxe.”
He waited as Horkheimer wrapped the figure and placed it in a small box.
After he’d paid, Gabriel said, “These Snow White figures—why do you sell them?”
“The tourists come to the Black Forest to find an enchanted place. I do not wish to disillusion them.”
“But are there not special stories about Schilltag and about Schloss Grunewald in particular?”
Horkheimer paused just a hair too long. “
Nein
.” He took up a rag and began wiping the top of the display case.
What was he hiding?
“
Danke schön
,” Gabriel said, lifting his hat. He turned to leave.
As he moved towards the door, something caught his eye: a cuckoo clock in the shape, like most cuckoo clocks, of a house, with leaves and branches carved all around. Except this one also had, along its peaked roof line, a relief design of seven little bearded men in pointed hats, marching along with shovels and pickaxes on their shoulders.
It was the same design as that on the ceiling beam they’d taken from the cottage in the wood.
Gabriel’s eyes darted to the other clocks on the wall. Several repeated, with exactitude, the design.
He turned.
Horkheimer was watching him. The half lenses of his spectacles glinted.
“This clock,” Gabriel said, gesturing. “That design is . . . did you make this clock?”
“I make the clocks with the birds on top—like that one, see?”
“And this one?”
“Made by the wife of the woodsman at Schloss Grunewald,” Horkheimer said. “Frau Herz.”
Gabriel purchased the clock, and with his two boxes he returned to the inn.
* * *
Prue awoke with a yelp. Something warm and wet had splatted on her forehead. She struggled upright and pried her eyes—which were swollen tight as fists—open.
Huh. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at. A gray wall. A stone floor. And what was that in the corner? Sweet sister Sally . . . a
chamber pot
?
She touched the warm wetness on her forehead and studied it. White, gray, and smeary. Ugh. Bird’s ploppings. She threw a glare towards the sparrow’s nest in the rafters. One of the nasty critters looked smugly down.
Then it all came back. Mr. Coop, murdered. Those creepy tests for gold. That policeman Schubert. He’d looked like something the cat dragged in from a cemetery for social misfits.
The worst part was, Prue was hungry. She always had trouble thinking clearly when she was hungry. Whenever things got bleak, she liked to have some crisp slices of bacon or a toasted muffin or maybe a couple penny jujubes. That always put life into perspective.
A scraping sound outside interrupted her gloom-and-doom ponderings. She took off her apron, wiped her forehead clean, balled up the apron, and threw
Gabriel hated to disappoint him. He’d purchase a trinket and then segue into questions. The display case was filled with wooden statuettes of stags, boars, bears, rabbits, and owls, all carved in the finely detailed Black Forest style.
Amid the animals there were also several tiny figurines of what appeared to be little bearded men in pointed hats. There was also a statuette of a girl cowering at the feet of a man, who held a dagger aloft.
“Is that . . . Snow White and the huntsman?”
“You know the tale, then—the Evil Queen bids the Huntsman to cut out the girl’s liver.”
“Yes, charming story. So wholesome for the little ones.”
“Those tales are not for children,” Horkheimer said.
“No?” Gabriel already knew this, but he wanted to hear what Horkheimer had to say.
“
Nein
. They are put into children’s storybooks because people laugh at we simple
volk
, and think our lore is childish.”
How Gabriel wished to heartily shake the man’s hand. Instead, he said, “I’d like to purchase this dwarf here. The one holding the pickaxe.”
He waited as Horkheimer wrapped the figure and placed it in a small box.
After he’d paid, Gabriel said, “These Snow White figures—why do you sell them?”
“The tourists come to the Black Forest to find an enchanted place. I do not wish to disillusion them.”
“But are there not special stories about Schilltag and about Schloss Grunewald in particular?”
Horkheimer paused just a hair too long. “
Nein
.” He took up a rag and began wiping the top of the display case.
What was he hiding?
“
Danke schön
,” Gabriel said, lifting his hat. He turned to leave.
As he moved towards the door, something caught his eye: a cuckoo clock in the shape, like most cuckoo clocks, of a house, with leaves and branches carved all around. Except this one also had, along its peaked roof line, a relief design of seven little bearded men in pointed hats, marching along with shovels and pickaxes on their shoulders.
It was the same design as that on the ceiling beam they’d taken from the cottage in the wood.
Gabriel’s eyes darted to the other clocks on the wall. Several repeated, with exactitude, the design.
He turned.
Horkheimer was watching him. The half lenses of his spectacles glinted.
“This clock,” Gabriel said, gesturing. “That design is . . . did you make this clock?”
“I make the clocks with the birds on top—like that one, see?”
“And this one?”
“Made by the wife of the woodsman at Schloss Grunewald,” Horkheimer said. “Frau Herz.”
Gabriel purchased the clock, and with his two boxes he returned to the inn.
* * *
Prue awoke with a yelp. Something warm and wet had splatted on her forehead. She struggled upright and pried her eyes—which were swollen tight as fists—open.
Huh. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at. A gray wall. A stone floor. And what was that in the corner? Sweet sister Sally . . . a
chamber pot
?
She touched the warm wetness on her forehead and studied it. White, gray, and smeary. Ugh. Bird’s ploppings. She threw a glare towards the sparrow’s nest in the rafters. One of the nasty critters looked smugly down.
Then it all came back. Mr. Coop, murdered. Those creepy tests for gold. That policeman Schubert. He’d looked like something the cat dragged in from a cemetery for social misfits.
The worst part was, Prue was hungry. She always had trouble thinking clearly when she was hungry. Whenever things got bleak, she liked to have some crisp slices of bacon or a toasted muffin or maybe a couple penny jujubes. That always put life into perspective.
A scraping sound outside interrupted her gloom-and-doom ponderings. She took off her apron, wiped her forehead clean, balled up the apron, and threw
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