Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery) Page 16

  She stopped on a page near the front. It had a date: May 25, 1864.

  “What is that?” Hansel poked his fingertip on a funny little picture. “It looks like a doll. Or a child.”

  Prue’s mouth tasted funny. “That thing has got wings. I think it’s supposed to be a fairy. See them flowers?”

  “A fairy?” Hansel leaned closer. “Perhaps she fancies herself an authoress of children’s storybooks.”

  Prue squinted. “I attempted to lure them with sugar lumps,” she read aloud, “but alas, it would seem they prefer natural nectars. Little blighters. Spoiling my research precisely when I had boasted to Sir Lionel about my scientific progress on the Wee Folk.”

  Prue swiveled her eyes to Hansel’s. His eyebrows were lifted in disbelief.

  Prue thumbed to a page closer to the end of the entries.

  “July 29th, 1867. Miss Upton has informed me we shall be moving on from Switzerland in a fortnight, to a sanatorium in Baden-Baden. At last, I shall have the opportunity to try my hand at hunting Wee Folk in the Black Forest! I hid my delight from Miss Upton, as she always seems to have a fit of coughing whenever I am pleased. Miserable old biddy.”

  “Miss Darling,” Hansel said, “would seem to be, well, mad.”

  “Hasn’t got all her buttons, for certain.” Prue turned to the last entry in the book. “Look. This one’s dated two days ago. There’s a sketch of Mr. Smith working on his shotgun, sitting on a log.”

  “It is not a log,” an imperious voice said behind them. “It is a stump. Any fool can discern the difference.”

  Prue jumped. She twisted around to face Miss Gertie.

  “What do you mean by this, you impudent children,” Miss Gertie said, “nosing about in my research? The front desk clerk notified me that I might discover intruders in my chamber.”

  “Um.” Prue said. She adjusted a lace ruffle on her bodice.

  “There has been a murder,” Hansel said in his hoity-toity voice. “We have taken it upon ourselves to investigate.”

  Gertie emitted a bark of laughter. “And you are investigating me? Oh, for pity’s sake, why don’t you two go back to playing Ring Around the Rosie and leave me alone?”

  “Because,” Hansel said, “you have been spying upon members of the castle household. That seems to connect you to the crime.”

  “Oh, indeed?”

  “Sneaking around after Mr. Smith,” Prue said. “Who’s to say he’s not going to be the next one bumped off in your—your wicked plot?”

  “I haven’t any plot.” Gertie drew herself up.

  “What about this notebook?” Prue said. “All about wee folk. Why, Mr. Smith’s no more a wee folk than I’m the president of the United States. How did you meet him, anyway?”

  Two salmon pink spots glowed on Gertie’s cheeks. “We were never formally introduced. Although that is none of your affair.”

  “How,” Hansel said, “did you encounter him?”

  “I simply came upon him in the wood.”

  “Bunkum,” Prue said. “You’re keen on wee folk, you think Mr. Smith’s a wee folk, and you just happened upon him? A mighty big coincidence that would be.”

  Gertie snorted. “You are an uneducated bumpkin.”

  “Lived in New York City all my born days.” Why did everyone think she came from the sticks? Ophelia was the bumpkin. Not her.

  “Very well,” Gertie said. “You are an uneducated guttersnipe. You know nothing of the natural sciences.”

  “Wee folk,” Hansel said, “are not scientific. They are myth.”

  “How dare you?” The cords on Gertie’s neck popped out like harp strings. “That is my life’s work you are speaking of!” She lunged forward and snatched the notebook from Prue. She cradled it against her bosom. “If you must know—because I can perfectly envision you pair scampering off to the police if I don’t tell you this—if you must know, I learned of the discovery of Snow White’s house and the dwarf skeleton, and decided to look into it myself.”

  “Where did you learn of it?” Prue said.

  “Everyone in Baden-Baden knows. Gossip. The newspapers. I took a few days’ leave from Miss Upton to stay at Gasthaus Schatz in Schilltag to conduct my research. I happened upon Smith one day.”

  Prue scrunched her lips. “And decided he was one of them storybook dwarves?”

  Gertie pointed a shaking finger to the doorway. “Leave. Before I notify the staff.”

  Prue and Hansel legged it out of there like the place was on fire.

  * * *

  “Now that I see you in the light,” Professor Penrose said to Ophelia, “I’m not certain I can say your disguise this evening is a decided improvement over yesterday’s.”

  Ophelia took his hand and hopped down from the carriage outside the Conversationshaus in Baden-Baden. “Well, that would depend,” she said, “on what you mean by improvement, I reckon.” She looped her arm through his.

  They started up the steps.

  The Conversationshaus was a long, palatial building of creamy stone with tall pillars, fronted by a white gravel drive. It housed the town’s infamous gaming rooms, a concert hall, dining rooms, and a grand ballroom. The drive was filled with carriages and glossy horses, and music and light poured down the wide steps.

  “You are,” Penrose said, “as unrecognizable this evening as you were yesterday.”

  “Today, at the least, I am dressed as a lady.”

  “Indeed.” His tone was dubious.

  Ophelia had cobbled together a costume from things she’d found in the castle lumber room. Since it was a fairy tale ball, she’d outfitted herself as an old crone, like the one in “Hansel and Gretel,” with a faded, voluminous cotton gown and apron, a peasant bonnet, a homespun shawl, and even a wooden crutch made from a piece of a broken chair. Then she’d made her face wrinkly and slightly greenish with her greasepaint, and given herself a couple of warts and a hooked nose made of wax. The crowning touch, however, was her hunchback, made of an old pillow pinned beneath the gown.

  After examining herself in a tarnished wardrobe mirror, she’d decided the effect was perfect. She’d been so elated she’d nearly tripped with her crutch on a trunk and a big rolled-up carpet as she left the lumber room.

  But now, seeing the other ladies flowing up the Conversationshaus steps, her heart sank.

  True, the other ladies were dressed as fairy tale characters, too. But the beautiful ones. Cinderella, Rapunzel, and various beauties all made appearances, alongside several pretty little cats in satin trousers and high-heeled boots, flocks of fairies, charming goose girls, and herds of queens and princesses. Their gowns were exquisite, and they were all bedecked in real jewels.

  Oh, well. At least no one would see how red her cheeks were underneath all that green greasepaint.

  18

  “I must confess,” Ophelia said, casting Penrose a sidelong glance, “that I am mystified by your costume.”

  “Oh?” Penrose wasn’t, in fact, costumed at all; he wore an impeccable suit of evening clothes. “I thought I’d rather gone out on a limb, parting my hair on the opposite side.”

  They paused outside the open doors. Penrose removed his spectacles, drew a small black half mask from his breast pocket, and affixed it across his eyes with a ribbon. “Is that at all better?”

  “I see. You’re a burglar. To go with the lock picking.”

  “You’re rather flippant for a young lady who’s sneaked out on borrowed time.”

  Ophelia ignored him and took in the brilliantly lit foyer. A gorgeous chandelier was suspended from an ornate ceiling, and the floor was marble. Along the walls, gilded niches sported classical statuary.

  Penrose led her along with the crowd, through a red velvet-swagged doorway, and into the ballroom. A Strauss waltz rippled out, and crowds of gentlemen and ladies twirled around the
parquet floor. The ceiling was ablaze with more sparkling chandeliers, and the perimeter of the floor was a hive of swirling motion, laughter, and tinkling champagne glasses.

  But on closer inspection, the ball had a grotesque effect: amid all the gorgeous ladies were men wearing hedgehog masks, beast’s heads, and wolf’s tails.

  “We must only catch sight of Miss Amaryllis in the company of Hunt,” Penrose said. “If we are able to confirm that they are indeed—as all evidence seems to suggest—paramours, then we may have a better understanding of how to proceed.”

  Ophelia nodded, feeling dizzy. She leaned on her crone’s crutch. “But if they are here, how will we spot them? This looks like a fever dream.” She watched a gentleman in evening clothes and a large papier-mâché pig’s head. He held a glass of wine aloft and swayed to the music.

  “‘The Pig King,’ I gather,” Penrose said. “A fairy tale collected by the sixteenth-century Italian Straparola.”

  “It’s downright eerie.”

  Ophelia refused to admit to Penrose that she’d never been to a ball before. Theirs was merely an acquaintance of mutual benefit. She’d told him in the carriage what Hansel and Matilda had said about the tapestry, to show her good faith in keeping up their bargain. Whatever discomfort that lingered from their excursion under the bed in the Hotel Europa was of no account.

  “Let’s make the rounds of the ballroom,” Penrose said. “While we cannot see people’s faces clearly, we are familiar enough with Miss Amaryllis and Hunt to recognize their voices, and even the way they comport themselves.”

  “And if we spot them?”

  “We’ll worry over that when the time comes.”

  * * *

  Ophelia and Penrose, arm in arm, made their way around the perimeter of the ballroom. It wasn’t easy. The general air was edging towards wanton gaiety, it was growing hot, and despite their elegant appearances, folks were pushing.

  It wasn’t a far cry from the unruly crowds that lined up to ogle the sideshows in P. Q. Putnam’s Traveling Circus.

  Ophelia was grateful for Penrose’s arm. Yankee ladies didn’t cling to gentlemen like starfish to rocks, of course. They were too self-reliant. But his solid form was helpful for keeping her balance. Her pillow hunchback was beginning to shift from side to side, and people were stumbling on her crutch.

  “Is that Miss Amaryllis?” Ophelia whispered. “See? The lady in white, standing against the wall, with the peacock feather mask.”

  Penrose glanced over. “No. See, she’s lowered her mask.”

  They pressed further into the ballroom and came to a standstill beside a table heaped with petits fours. Ophelia plucked one up and bit into it. Lemon meringue. Scrumptious. She polished it off and reached for another.

  Her hand bumped the outstretched arm of a portly gentleman, who was reaching for the same raspberry tartlet she was.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said in a British accent. He eyed Ophelia. “Rather fitting, Hansel and Gretel’s old crone having a jolly go at the sweets table.”

  Penrose hadn’t heard him; he was busy scanning the crowd.

  Instead of tossing the British gent a retort, Ophelia took the raspberry tartlet and bit into it.

  As she chewed, she caught a glimpse of Princess Verushka in a crimson gown, sailing around the dance floor. She was in the arms of a gentleman in evening dress, a frog mask, and a golden crown.

  “Look!” She jabbed Penrose with her elbow. “The princess.”

  “So it is.”

  “She’s a bit long in the tooth,” the gentleman said on her other side, “to be Little Red Riding Hood, don’t you think?” He was shiny and jowly, like a porcelain baby doll.

  “Are you acquainted with Princess Verushka?” Ophelia said.

  “I know everyone in Baden-Baden.”

  “She is Polish, is she not? Or is it Russian?”

  “Russian. Widow of that decrepit prince from St. Petersburg.”

  “The . . . the really rich one?”

  “Mm. Rich as Midas.” The British gent popped one last petit four into his chops and wandered away.

  “Did you hear that?” Ophelia whispered to Penrose.

  “I did. She’s a real princess.”

  “And rich, too. But why did she lie to Mrs. Coop about staying at the Hotel Europa?”

  “Presumably Mrs. Coop misheard her. Or Mrs. Coop could have misspoken. There is no reason for us to suspect the princess of murder.”

  “Except that she was searching through Mr. Coop’s desk.”

  “There is that.”

  * * *

  Prue was dazzled by the ball. She and Hansel were both hidden behind the masks Hansel had brought, but no one would have noticed them, anyway. It was like a carnival. The flashes of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds in the crazy swirl of China silk, embroidery, and tulle made her woozy. She caught whiffs of fine French perfumes like Ma used to hoard: amber and musk, vanilla and bergamot. And dancing with Hansel, polonaises, waltzes, mazurkas, and polkas, amid the lavish throng—well, she felt like she’d arrived smack-dab in the center of the world.

  For once, Prue figured Ma would approve of her doings. Supposing, that is, Ma didn’t know Hansel was just a gardener. Anyway, tonight Hansel really did call to mind a prince, though Prue found it tough to look straight at him. The sight of him made her chest go all loopy inside.

  They were taking a breather by the champagne table when Prue felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “You have been hiding from me,” Franz said. Same as last time, he looked like either an otter or a magician with his black evening clothes and Macassar-oiled dark hair. He didn’t wear a mask.

  “I ain’t hiding from you,” Prue said. “It’s a masquerade ball.”

  “But I wish to see your lovely face.”

  “You ain’t keen on ladies of mystery?”

  “There is nothing mysterious about you,” Franz said, trapping Prue in his wiry arms, “aside from your grammar. Come, give me a waltz, or I shall make good on my threat to notify the police that their murderess has escaped for an evening’s entertainment.”

  Prue swallowed. Franz tugged Prue out on the glittering dance floor. Prue caught one last glimpse of Hansel, hot-eyed, gulping the rest of his champagne.

  “Holy mackerel,” Prue said, a few dances in. She craned her neck as Franz whisked her by the refreshments table. She’d caught sight of Miss Gertie Darling.

  “Mackerel,” Franz said in her ear, “is a fish, you gorgeous little dimwit.”

  Prue stomped his foot.

  “Ow!” he yelped.

  “Begging your pardon, sir.” Her tone was treacly.

  They thundered to a stop, right by Gertie.

  Handy.

  Franz bent to nurse his trodden toe.

  Gertie stood at the helm of the wicker wheelchair again. Miss Upton, the old lady, was shriveled inside folds of black gown and shawl, scowling out from under her white bun. Her humped back sprouted two small fairy wings. Gertie was also dressed as a fairy. Her seafoam gossamer gown billowed, and her fairy wings could’ve been ship sails.

  “Oh,” Gertie said over the music to Prue. “It’s you.”

  Prue touched her mask; it was still in place. Gertie must have recognized her gown.

  Franz stood. He and Gertie sized each other up. Gertie looked like she’d enjoy picking Franz up and tossing him out the window. Franz eyed Gertie with cool dismissal. Prue introduced them, watching for any sign that they knew each other.

  If they did know each other, they were splendiferous actors.

  “What brings you to Baden-Baden?” Franz said to Gertie in a bored voice.

  Gertie gave the wheelchair handles a shake. “Is it not obvious?”

  The old lady made a grunt and smacked one of the wheels.

  “Miss Darling is keen on
wee folk and fairy tales and such,” Prue said to Gertie. “Didn’t you say, Mr. Lind, you thought all that fairy tale hocus-pocus was—what was the word you used? Fascinating?” Maybe he needed a little nudge in the direction of the murder and thefts.

  A vein throbbed on Franz’s temple. “I believe I expressed a polite interest.”

  “But,” Prue said, “you said you remembered finding that dwarf’s bone in the forest when you was an ankle biter.”

  Gertie had stopped blinking. “Dwarf’s bone?”

  “I did not claim that it was a dwarf’s bone,” Franz said. “That is merely one rather childish theory.”

  He was playacting again, pretending he didn’t care.

  “It is a perfectly sound theory,” Gertie said. “I understand that the skeleton in question is exceedingly uncommon in its dimensions.”

  “Hoaxes, my dear lady. At my own university, there is a professor who specializes in the study of fairy tales, and it seems he is continually barraged by fairy tale hoaxes put on by locals who wish to drum up a tourist trade.”

  “Oh. Him,” Gertie said. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. Professor Winkler. Bit of a bore, insisting everything’s a hoax and whatnot.”

  “Heidelberg University’s library,” Franz said, “houses rare fairy tale books. If one were to examine them, it would become apparent that they are merely the product of excessive fancy.”

  Franz was only being a clever clogs, trying to show up Miss Gertie.

  “Rare fairy tale books?” Gertie clutched the wheelchair handles so hard that the chair was starting to tip backwards. The old lady smacked one of the wheels again, and Gertie lowered the chair with a jolt.

  “Indeed,” Franz said. Then he slithered away, dragging Prue with him. “Insane creature,” he muttered.

  After one more dance, Prue pried herself from Franz’s moist clutches. Hopefully she’d danced with him enough to keep him from reporting her to the police.

  She found Hansel leaning on a wall by a gaggle of wallflowers. The wallflowers were all glancing sidelong at Hansel. But Hansel’s glum gaze was directed out into the sea of dancers.