by Erin Johnson
"Oh."
I stopped short, not sure where to stand. A metal trunk stood open at the foot of the black wrought iron bed, with papers and clothes pouring out of it and even more items littered all over the floor. The sheets and thin white blanket had been tossed aside, and the mattress hung halfway off the bedframe. Two leather armchairs sat in the corner of the peaked white tent, with a small round table between them. Two wineglasses lay overturned on the table, a purplish red stain beside the bottle. I tiptoed over the bunched-up oriental rug and around a stack of crumpled papers and examined the stain. It appeared to be wine, not blood. I let out the breath I'd been holding.
In fact, there didn't seem to be any obvious signs of blood around. I was about to move away when I gave the glasses a second look. There were two glasses, each with a little stain of red wine in the bottom. That meant someone had been here with him last night, someone he knew well enough to entertain. I remembered the smarmy way he'd looked at Ms. L'Orange and called her Maddie. Maybe it was someone he wanted to know better. I moved closer to the bed. A cracked mirror sat atop a side table, and to the right of that was a simple wooden desk and chair. The chair lay on its side and the contents of the drawers had been dumped out on the floor.
I let out a sigh. Someone had been looking for something. Madeline was seeming guiltier in my book by the minute. I heard voices approaching and froze. Shadows passed across the fabric of the tent and I had only a moment to dive behind the overturned desk before the tent flaps opened and two men stepped inside. I held my breath and pressed a hand to my racing chest. I was so dumb. Interfering in a crime scene in another country—not good. And that was if they didn't just outright charge me with the murder. I mean, I looked pretty guilty skulking around. I winced and prayed they'd leave quickly, without finding me.
"…as zuch, za need for diplomacy is high. Vee are in a foreign kingdom and cannot do as vee vould normally."
I groaned inwardly as I recognized the voice—Urs Volker, Bernhardt's head of security.
"Da, Varden Volker."
I raised my brows and stared at some strewn papers and open books lying on the ground next to my head. Warden, huh? I guess with Bernhardt's death, Urs became the head of the prison. So Urs had a motive.
"But make no mishtake. I fully plan to find za killer and see zem punished—to za full extent of za law."
Urs and the other officer continued their conversation in what I guessed to be German, and the shoulder I lay on began to ache. If they were going to find me, could they just hurry up and do it? I cocked my head to the side as I spotted something odd. I reached up slowly, careful to make no sound, and tugged on the silky bit of flowery fabric. It tore slightly, and I realized it was caught on a nail on the underside of the desk. I worked it loose and brought it close to my face to look it over.
It looked like part of a scarf, and the flower pattern with the bright yellow and fuchsia colors made me guess it belonged to a woman. Madeline had been wearing a scarf last night, but from a distance in the dark, I hadn't been able to make out the pattern of the fabric. I rolled my eyes. Then again, just about every woman here wore a head scarf or loose gauzy dresses. That didn't help much. I rubbed the soft, loosely woven fabric between my fingers. I should probably hand this over to the police. And yet, my experience with our own head of police, Inspector Bon, hadn't inspired me with confidence in them. And now that it appeared Urs might have had a motive to kill his boss, I didn't feel particularly trusting toward him, either. I slowly slid the scrap of fabric into the pocket of my jeans.
Urs slipped back into English. "I personally placed massive security shpells on Beckham's tent. Anyvone who attempted to enter visout permission vould have become violently ill."
The other officer spoke. "So you sink Beckham let za killer in heemself?"
Urs didn't answer but paper crinkled under feet as the men moved toward the armchairs in the corner. I bit my lip and hoped they couldn't see me from that angle.
"He brought za blueprints for za renovations to Carclaustra een hees trunk. He hoped to get zome vork done zis veek."
"Vee haf found no blueprints, Varden Volker."
"I know. Zey ave been shtolen. I ave already sent vord back to za prison to double up on security. Someone now has knowledge of za layout. Eet ees not enough to breach security, but who knows vat ees planned. Vee must shtay vigilant."
"Da, Varden Volker."
I frowned. Stolen blueprints? What would Madeline want with blueprints? And if Urs killed Bernhardt and stole the blueprints himself, who was he trying to frame?
"Vee are shtill vaitink for za official report, but I saw za body. No blood—except on za medal at hees throat."
"So… eet vas the murderer's?"
Urs spoke again. "Eet seems so. But vee must vait for za official vord. Vee must shtick to protocol, and not allow our own feelinks of grief cloud our judgement."
He didn't sound that upset to me.
"Da, Varden Volker."
"Come, let us return to za city and see if za coroner has news. Vee have done all vee can here."
Yes, I willed them. Yes, leave for the city.
Papers crinkled underfoot as the men retraced their steps. Warm sunlight flooded the tent as the flaps opened. The room darkened as the opening fell shut behind the officers.
Urs's voice came more muffled now, from outside. "I am goink to reseal za tent, to preserve za crime scene."
My heart stopped. Oh no. I'd be trapped inside.
"Inform za local officers zat eef zey need entrance, to zimply contact me."
"Da, Varden Volker."
I rolled to my hands and knees and scrambled as quickly and quietly as I could around the desk, past the trunk and to the opposite side of the bed. Urs's shadow lifted its arms, a wand in one hand.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
I tugged up the side of the tent and dragged myself out, lying flat on my stomach. My toe had just cleared the canvas when a shimmery force field glossed over the whole of the tent. I let out a shaky sigh. That had been a close one. I plunked my forehead down on my folded arms.
A shadow fell over me and I slowly lifted my head, my mind racing for excuses to tell the officers about why I was lying beside a murdered man's tent.
"There you are."
I blinked up at Amelia. My eyes struggled to focus against the bright sun behind her.
She let out a heavy sigh. "Lying down on the job. Come on, we have loads more to clean up."
She grabbed my arm and helped me to my feet. I dusted sand off my legs and arms, while Amelia looked me over with disapproval. I supposed that being covered in dirt wasn't helping my appearance.
"You're going in the back entrance when we get back to the riad."
"Amelia!" I planted my hands on my hips. "I'm not having the best day, okay?"
"I would hug you, but…." Amelia gestured from my dirty shirt to the white backless jumpsuit she wore. I could only dream of pulling that outfit off half as well as she did.
I tipped my head to the side. "Fair enough."
"But friend Amelia thinks you deserve a lemonade and some leftover treats from last night." She grabbed my hand.
I grinned. "Lead the way."
As we moved off, I noticed a long black hair stuck to my hand. My first instinct was to shake it off, but then I realized it must have stuck to me when I was crawling through Bernhardt's tent. All of the officers I'd seen, both from the Air and Fire Kingdoms, had short cropped hair in the military style, as had Bernhardt. Amelia wore her curly white hair barely half an inch long, and my own was red. Perhaps it belonged to the killer.
8
Maid Service
True to her word, after we'd finished cleaning up the party site and had returned to the city, Amelia made me enter through the back of the palace, off the alley. Covered in sand and reeking of stale hookah smoke and sweat from the heat of the day, I felt like something the cat dragged in.
Amelia gave me directions back to the ro
om I was sharing with Maple, K'ree, and Annie on the second floor of the palace, but of course, I got lost again. The place was like a maze of hallways, arched doors, potted plants, and small gardens and atriums. One beautifully tiled room blended into the next, and the next. I considered just lying down in the middle of the hallway and taking a nap.
I was feeling pretty bad for myself when I dragged my feet around a corner, my eyes on the ground, and slammed into someone.
"Oof!"
I gasped and held out my hands. "I'm so sorry, are you okay, I wasn't—" I blinked at the young woman in front of me. She was dressed in the red and gold veils of the palace staff and carried a tall stack of white towels embroidered with gold thread. She peeked around the stack and curtsied.
"My apologies, miss."
It took me a moment to place her, but I recognized her as the server who'd purposely spilled on Bernhardt last night. She stepped to the side to move past me, but I sidestepped and blocked her.
"Hey, I recognize you from the feast last night." My legs ached and my dry tongue scraped the roof of my mouth. I needed rest and water and my mind wasn't firing on all cylinders, but I scrambled to come up with a line of questioning. She clearly disliked Bernhardt—she counted as a suspect. Plus, she had long black hair, so the one in the tent could've been hers.
She blinked her dark eyes. "I was working, yes." She looked me up and down. "Do… you need a towel?" She lifted her brows, clearly wondering why I was holding her up.
I waved a hand and tried to act cool. "No. I mean, yes, I will for a shower. I mean, look at me, right? If anyone needs to clean up, it's this girl." I jabbed my thumbs at myself and chuckled. She just stared. I cleared my throat. "But not one of those, I have towels up in my room. I just wanted to ask you—uh—did you hear about Bernhardt? Bernie, his friends called him… maybe."
She frowned. "Were you his friend?"
"No." I shook my head. Why had I said that? Must be heatstroke. I lifted my brows. "Were you?"
"No."
This was going well. "He uh, he seemed like a real jerk though, huh?"
She blinked at me and shifted the large, and surely heavy, stack of towels. Her loose sleeve slid up her arm, revealing a crescent moon tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Huh. I'd only ever seen tattoos on the backs of hands and lower arms. She caught me staring and shrugged the sleeve back over it.
"Hey, uh, I could help you with those, that looks heavy." I reached my grimy arms out and she jerked back, turning away to shield the pure white towels. I didn't blame her.
"No, miss. You are a guest."
And my grimy arms undoubtedly also factored into that decision. I tipped my head side to side. "Well, I work in the palace back in Bijou Mer, so you know, us working girls have to stick together. And from what I hear, Bernhardt had it coming." I nodded, waiting for some sign of her agreement. It never came. I licked my lips. She stepped forward and out of desperation I blurted out, "I mean, I would have killed him if I'd had the chance, so if you know who did, or even if you did him in yourself, I wouldn't tell anyone." I wanted to slap myself.
She frowned, her eyes wide, and gave me a wide berth as she moved past. "I wouldn't know about that, miss. Good day."
I sighed. Yeah, I'd say good day to me too, if I were her. I'd barely taken a step forward around the corner before I spotted Hank at the far end of the long hallway coming toward me, Francis hovering just behind. I leapt out of sight and scrambled backward. I slammed, once again, into the poor servant.
"Ahh!" She screamed, understandably, and whirled around.
I winced and held a finger to my lips. "I am so sorry. But if you could just keep your voice down, I'd really appreciate that."
Her eyes grew wider until I could see the whites all around her pupils. "Why?" She barely breathed the word. "Are you going to kill me?" She took a deep breath, presumably to scream, but I shook my head.
"No. No. I just saw someone I'm avoiding like the plague right now." Because my last encounter with Hank had been awkward (my fault), because I'd just met with my fugitive brother and Hank was a prince and sworn to uphold the law, and also because I looked like a piece of human trash.
She backed away, looking me up and down. "You have the plague? Many of the other servants are ill and I cannot afford to get sick myself." She edged away. "Rojer is the worst off… have you been spending time with him?"
I frowned. "Rojer?"
She nodded. "Ario Tuk's servant. He was sent to the infirmary. I've never seen anyone so ill." She curled her lip and eyed me with distrust.
I sighed. "I said avoiding like the plague, I don't have it."
She crinkled her nose and muttered. "You smell like you do."
Touchè.
Since the questioning had gone so well, I decided I had nothing further to say and bolted down the hallway, leaving the bewildered servant in my dust. A few twists and turns later I felt confident that I'd lost Hank… but I'd also gotten lost myself. Well, more lost. I sighed. I just wanted a shower… and some macaroons. Maybe Maple would sneak me some since I was banned from the bakery.
As I shuffled along, I became aware of another set of footsteps and paused. Clip clip clip. Shoot. Maybe I hadn't lost Hank. I slid into an alcove and peered around the corner. A slight woman, with long, straight black hair swung around the corner and headed down the tiled hallway towards me. I sighed with relief. It was Madeline L'Orange, the journalist who'd been arguing with Bernhardt… and my number-one suspect. Was it a bad sign that I felt relieved to be alone with a possible killer, instead of my boyfriend?
I cleared my throat and stepped out of the alcove, hoping this line of questioning would go better than the one I'd just attempted. She smiled slightly at me as she approached. I noted the old-fashioned camera hanging from a leather strap around her neck and the quill and scroll magically hovering beside her head as she walked.
"Hi, are you a reporter?"
The thin woman came to a stop in front of me. "A journalist, yes." She narrowed her almond-shaped eyes and her lips quirked to the side.
"Oh, cool. I, uh—" I racked my brain. "I was wondering—"
She pulled a card from her shirt pocket. The quill floated down and scribbled on it, then she handed it to me. "I'm working, covering the tea between the royal families, so I can't talk now, but I'd love to chat later. I'll be back tomorrow, but I'm staying on the second floor of the blue house across the main square from the palace. Ask around, everyone knows it."
I looked at her card. Below her typed name and profession, the quill had scribbled "blue house, second floor, door to the right of the landing" in blue ink.
"You look like a woman who spends time in alcoves and back alleys."
"Gee, thanks," I grumbled.
She laughed. "I just mean, you probably overhear things around the palace." She winked. "I pay very well for gossip. Never underestimate gossip." She tapped her card again before breezing past. "Look me up when you get off your shift. Anything you say is off record, of course."
Huh. I stared at her card as her footsteps faded. I had a lead.
9
The Naked Truth
After I showered and felt like a human woman again, I put on a fresh pair of jean shorts, a sleeveless button-up blouse, and a brimmed hat. My cheeks stung so I figured I'd gotten enough sun for the day. With Madeline's card in hand, I left the palace (after a few wrong turns) and made my way across the bustling main square. I asked a merchant for directions to the blue house and she pointed it out to me. Sure enough, nestled among the sand-colored buildings stood a square one painted bright blue. A cat darted into the narrow alley at the side of the house as I approached the front door.
The gated door opened with a squeak and clanked shut behind me. I found myself in a dingy foyer with numbered mailboxes on the left-hand wall and a pile of garbage bags to the right. I frowned, no longer so sure this was a great idea. I stepped past the trash and climbed the scuffed stairs. I stopped at the landing. Three doors
opened off it, and per the card's direction, I rapped on the right-hand one. As I stood waiting for an answer, muffled shouts came from behind the other doors and overhead, footsteps thudded across the ceiling.
The door opened a crack. "What do you want?"
I cleared my throat. "I'm uh, the lurker you met earlier in the riad?"
The door flew open and Madeline beamed at me. "Well, look at you. I didn't recognize you clean." She waved me in and I followed behind her. She moved across the large, open room and stood behind a massive metal desk. I closed the door behind me and stood awkwardly by the door, unsure where to go. She shuffled some papers around, stacking some, tossing others toward the wastebasket, which she missed. If she was organizing, it was a system only Madeline could understand. Papers lay scattered everywhere around the studio. They sat in piles on the messy bed, littered the entire top of the desk, and were spread out all around the base of it as well. Some were full-sized sheets, but many looked like notes jotted down on receipts, napkins, and other scraps.
"Come in," she called, without looking up. "Please excuse the dump. My paper put me up here. You can tell I'm popular with my editor."
As if on cue, something rolled across the ceiling, followed by a startlingly loud thump, and then muffled shouts. I moved toward the desk, stepping over a pile of clothes, and then took a leap over a river of papers. To the right of the desk, a tall wardrobe stood bursting with clothes, scarves, and hats, while behind Madeline, dust particles floated in the dirty beams of light cast by the wall of slatted shutters. An old-fashioned ceiling fan turned slowly overhead.