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

by Maia Chance

  “But they’d be old as the dickens by now.”

  “True.”

  They kept on thumbing through the book. There was a part about an old peddler crone, a poisoned apple, and Snow White in a glass casket. Then the prince showed up and gave poor, dead Snow White a miraculous smooch.

  “Is it Kunibert?” Prue said.

  “It is.” Hansel pointed to the text. Kunibert Odovacar.

  The next page showed Kunibert on a white horse riding off with Snow White towards the setting sun. “There is nothing unusual about this story. No mention of her burial. Nothing different from the story everyone knows.”

  “But it ain’t over,” Prue said. She turned to the next page. “There’s more.”

  The next page showed Snow White holding a baby in swaddling cloths and Kunibert, his back turned, staring out a castle window.

  “What does it say?” Prue said.

  “That Kunibert was not as charming as Snow White had believed. That he grew cold and distant.”

  Ma would’ve seen that part coming.

  Prue flipped the page. “Snow White don’t look too happy here, either. I guess Kunibert didn’t come round?” Snow White was in a chair, looking lonesome. She was gussied up in colorful jewels, and she was combing her hair.

  Prue’s breath caught. Snow White’s comb looked a lot like the one Prue had found on the cliff. Dark gold with little red stones. The comb that was, this very minute, pinched between Prue’s chemise and corset.

  She should tell Hansel. She knew that. But then she’d have to fess up to keeping the comb for the sake of vanity. After what Hansel had said to her last night, about there being lots of different ways to be beautiful, well, she couldn’t bear it. Not yet.

  “Snow White,” Hansel said, “grew melancholy. Her happiest times had been in the dwarves’ cottage in the wood, and she longed for those days. The dwarves made her jewelry, crafted from ore and gemstones they mined themselves, and gave it to her as gifts when they came to visit and cheer her.” He turned the page.

  But there was nothing there. Just the blank inside cover. And, along the inner binding, a jagged strip of paper.

  Prue gasped. “Some rapscallion tore out the last page. I’d wager it said exactly where she’s buried.”

  “The librarian will have a log of everyone who has viewed this book.”

  They legged it back to the librarian’s desk. He was book stamping again.

  Hansel and the librarian held a brief exchange in German.

  Hansel’s eyes flashed. “Franz,” he said to Prue. “Franz was the last one to have viewed that book, only an hour ago. He was so eager to view it, in fact, he was waiting on the library steps before it opened this morning, and he had a tussle with a lady over it, too.”

  “That milk-livered measle spot! He’s looking for Snow White’s tomb, just because we said we was. We’ve got to go and see him, face to face. Make him show us the torn-out page.”

  “Where did he say he and his student society fellows lived?”

  “On the castle stairs. Number seventeen.”

  Hansel was already headed for the door.

  28

  “There isn’t much to tell,” Princess Verushka said to Gabriel.

  Gabriel had found her in the castle drawing room. Mrs. Coop had been detained by Inspector Schubert somewhere. When Gabriel had repeated Smith’s accusations and shown her the blackmail note, she’d sighed and begun speaking with an American accent.

  “But,” Gabriel said, “your note indicates that you knew her in girlhood.”

  “Oh, I did. We were both employed in a milliner’s shop in New York. Decorating hats with ribbons and feathers and wax cherries, that sort of thing. We became friends. We both had aspirations to get out of that squalor. And we both succeeded, although I must say, she far better than I. There was always something so gritty in her, you see. She stopped at nothing. Even the distressing appearance of that sickly infant didn’t stop her. Amaryllis called to mind a blind, hairless baby possum when she was born. But perhaps Pearl loved her, in her own way, since she dragged her all the way here to Europe.”

  “Or perhaps Miss Amaryllis secured a home for herself by threatening—like you—to expose her mother’s secrets to Coop.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. What a clever gentleman you are! A university professor. And so young.”

  “Clever, I’m told, and clinging to the remains of youth, perhaps, but penniless,” Gabriel lied.

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “You are forgetting I’ve read your blackmail note.”

  The princess’s smile drooped.

  * * *

  “Why,” Gabriel said to Princess Verushka, “put on the Russian accent?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. For glamor, I suppose. European aristocrats can’t fall in love with American ladies with their homespun accents, can they? And I was married to a Russian prince for six years. He left me with nothing except a horrid, muddy farm where nothing will grow but beets, and where bears roam the woods, and the serfs are forever on strike. The dreadful creatures are hungry.”

  The bears? Or the serfs?

  “And you come to Baden-Baden,” Gabriel said, “searching for—another prince?”

  “Mais oui, darling.”

  “You realize that if Coop had learned of his wife’s true past, on the very day he was poisoned, it makes things look rather bad for her. I’ll put it bluntly. Do you think she’s capable of murder?”

  “Murder? Pearl? Well, of course.”

  Gabriel lifted an eyebrow.

  “However,” the princess said, “you really ought to investigate that nasty man.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Smith! The little insect lied about me only to distract you from himself. Perhaps he feared you were getting too near the truth.”

  “What is the truth?”

  “Why, his name.”

  “And what, pray tell, is his name?”

  “I wish for no further involvement in this affair.” The princess stood. “You must, as in the story ‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ guess.”

  “You are too coy, madam. This is a matter of the utmost gravity.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps you might contrive to have Herr Ghent tell you. Something tells me he might know, and they say he simply adores wagers. Now, I’ve a train to catch.”

  “Train?”

  “I only came here to bid farewell to Pearl.”

  “Did the police not forbid you to leave the neighborhood?”

  “That’s why Inspector Schubert is here. Haven’t you heard? I left my lodgings as soon as he sent word. He’s making an arrest.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The maidservants. The Americans. Both of them. Turns out they aren’t really maids at all. They’re variety hall actresses! And, it seems, confidence tricksters, too. Horrid creatures. Good afternoon.” She floated out of the drawing room.

  Gabriel stared at the empty doorway.

  * * *

  The sun worked up to a sizzle over Heidelberg, burning through the river mist. Hansel and Prue trooped up the castle stairs. The steps went crookedly up the hill, and foliage clustered over them. Funny old houses with pointy turrets and mossy gargoyles perched just off to the sides.

  Prue had counted fifty-three steps when Hansel suddenly stopped. A skinny, sinister building rose up from the trees behind a black iron gate. The gate was decorated with little iron gnomes.

  “I believe this is Franz’s student society house,” Hansel said. He pushed aside an overgrown rose bush. A green-coated plaque said 17.

  They went through the gate to the front door and rang the bell. A steward answered, and Hansel exchanged words with him that Prue couldn’t understand. What she could understand was the steward’s snooty look as he surveyed their peasants’ duds
.

  “He says Franz is here,” Hansel whispered to Prue.

  From somewhere behind the steward came male shouting, metallic clattering, the crash of glass.

  The steward sighed. He led them into the dim interior of the house.

  The house was magnificent. Or, it would have been, if it hadn’t been for the trousers slung over the carved wooden banister, the wine bottles on the checkered marble floor, and the lady’s bonnet dangling from a chandelier. And if it hadn’t smelled of cigarettes, spilled brandy, and boy sweat.

  The steward led them down a passage, towards the shouting and crashing.

  “Lucifer’s lollipops,” Prue said, when she spied the source of the noise. “They’re going to kill each other!”

  The steward rolled his eyes and slipped away.

  Two young fellows in shirtsleeves were sword fighting in a big parlor sort of room. They leapt on sofas and flew backwards and forwards across the bunched-up carpet.

  “Hansel,” Prue whispered. “Stop them!”

  “It is only sport,” Hansel said. “They are dueling. The students of Heidelberg are mad for it.”

  One of the fellows made a slash in the crimson drapes before he noticed Prue and Hansel. His sword fell to his side. Prue recalled his face from the beer hall last night. It was stubbly and crisscrossed with thin scars. Probably from sword fighting.

  “Ah, the bedraggled baby birds Franz dragged in yesterday,” Stubbly said in English. “I was told the girl is American? Welcome. Please, sit.” He used the tip of his sword to shove two empty wine bottles off a settee. They smashed to the floor.

  “The steward told me that Franz is at home,” Hansel said.

  He and Prue sat. Good thing Prue’s dress was already ruined, because otherwise the cigarette ash and damp wine on the settee cushions would’ve done the job.

  “Oh, he is at home,” the other young man said. He slumped into an armchair and slung one leg over the side. Prue remembered him from the beer hall, too. He was shaped like a pencil, and he had one long scar across his cheek. “Little Franzie takes hours at his toilette.”

  Both fellows snorted with unkind laughter. The bits of red, white, and black ribbon at their belts flashed.

  “The steward will fetch him,” Stubbly said. He ambled to the fireplace. “He will have to drag him away from his hairbrushes and cologne water. Drink?” He laid his sword across the cluttered mantel and picked up a wine bottle.

  “No, thank you,” Hansel said.

  Prue shook her head. She took in the room. There were bottles everywhere, and the marble fireplace was carved with . . . dwarves in hats.

  She frowned. The wallpaper? Red apples and thorny vines. The mirror above the fireplace? Framed in shining black wood. And above the bottle-cluttered sideboard was a portrait of a girl combing her hair, framed up in fancy gilt. The girl had a pasty complexion and black hair. Her ruby lips had a victim’s pout. The comb in her fingers was gold, with little red stones.

  Prue’s chest, where the comb was hidden, started to feel all rashy and hot.

  Hansel was looking around the room, too. Was he thinking what Prue was thinking?

  Pencil lit a cigarette. Stubbly guzzled like a nursling calf from the upended wine bottle. He came up for air and wiped his lips on his sleeve.

  “What, precisely,” Hansel said slowly, “is the name of your student society?”

  “The Order of Blood and Ebony,” Pencil said. He blew a perfect smoke ring.

  Prue’s eyes met Hansel’s.

  “Blood,” Hansel said. “Ebony.” His eyes were latched on the girl’s portrait by the sideboard. “Do those symbolize anything in particular?”

  Prue stared at Stubbly’s belt and the striped ribbon there. Red for blood, black for ebony. White for . . . a girl’s snowy skin?

  Stubbly was swishing the bottles on the mantel, one by one, searching for more tiddly. “It is a secret society, in theory, but I thought everyone had heard of us. The Order of Blood and Ebony was founded at Heidelberg University in 1820. Ah.” He’d found a bottle that made a sloshing sound. He took a swig.

  “To preserve the sacred memory of the princess in the wood.” Pencil said in a chanting voice, like he was reciting an oath. He flicked ash on the carpet. “To protect the memory of her ideal womanhood. To let it never be forgotten that Prince Kunibert was an arse.”

  “That,” Stubbly said, “and to give us the excuse for a good carouse.”

  Pencil nodded. “And so we do not seem overly lecherous when we adore girls with black hair and white skin.”

  Prue’s skin was creepy-crawly. These fellows had built a whole society—a religion, almost—around the notion of a certain type of pretty girl. She shrank back against the settee cushion. Then she winced. Something behind the cushion was poking her. She swiveled around and dug it out.

  “Mein Gott,” Hansel muttered, staring down at what she held in her hand.

  It was a short, stubby bone. Ivory-colored and streaky, chipped away on the ends where it must have once attached to a knee and a hip.

  Bile prickled Prue’s tongue. She wanted to toss the disgusting thing across the room. Trouble was, she couldn’t pry her fingers loose.

  Stubbly and Pencil were staring, too.

  “Where did you find this femur?” Hansel said.

  Stubbly said, “I don’t know.”

  At the exact same time, Pencil said, “What femur?’

  Liars. “It was you,” Prue said, still unable to let go of the bone. “Those were your footprints up on the cliff. You dug up the dwarf skeleton. And the women’s prints—those were the black-haired barmaid’s.”

  “Kathy,” Stubbly said. “Yes. She consents to playing the part of Snow White in our rituals, provided she is well paid.”

  “What in tarnation were you doing up there on the cliff?”

  “Initiation rite. You do realize this is supposed to be secret? Franzie led us up there to prove his worthiness. We would not have admitted him into the Order if it had not been that he somehow seems to possess tidbits of Snow White lore that the Order was not aware of.”

  “You laid out the skeleton in the cottage,” Hansel said.

  Stubbly swallowed more wine. “It seemed to make sense at the time. Mind you, we had drunk a trifle too much brandy.”

  “Did Franz show you the cottage, too?”

  “Yes. He has proved to be quite the most resourceful little initiate the Order has ever seen.”

  “Hansel.” Franz stood in the doorway, neatly combed, hair-oiled, and suited. His smile twitched. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Hansel surged to his feet. “What were you doing, Franz, digging up that grave on the cliff? Why did you pretend you knew nothing of it? And where is the final page of the Snow White story that you tore out of the library manuscript?”

  “All of you are so earnest about this fairy story business,” Franz said. “I would find it tiresome if it weren’t so amusing.”

  “Is that so?” Prue flung the dwarf’s bone to the other end of the settee. “If you don’t believe any of this Snow White business, like you say, then how come you stole the page from that book?”

  “Book?” Pencil said, as he lit a fresh cigarette. “You don’t mean the illuminated Snow White manuscript in the university library, do you? Franz, didn’t your mother ever teach you not to rip books?”

  “I am,” Franz said, “unaware of any Snow White manuscripts, illuminated or otherwise.”

  Prue had had it up to her earlobes with Franz’s lying. Besides, she was getting hungry, and her disposition was taking a tumble. She marched right up to Franz. She was all ruffled and messy, but she didn’t care. “Where’s that missing page? I know you tore it out.”

  “I did not tear it out.” A muscle under Franz’s left eye jumped.

  “Sur
e you did. The librarian said you were the last one to get his dirty little mitts on that book.”

  “I was the last one. But someone else had already torn out the page before I viewed the book. A rather unladylike female engaged me in what could have been described as a Greek wrestling match in order to get to the librarian’s desk first. I was forced to withdraw.”

  Oh. That’s right. The librarian had said there’d been a tussle for the book.

  “I believe,” Franz said, “you are acquainted with the female in question. You introduced us at the ball in Baden-Baden.”

  “Gertie Darling?” Prue said.

  “Yes.” Franz’s gaze had come to rest in the region of Prue’s bodice.

  Prue glanced down. A few inches of the ruby comb had wiggled out from the edge of her neckline.

  “I had intended,” Franz said, “to intercept that vile woman in her hotel at luncheon and extract the page from her fat clutches. However, now I suspect that I need not bother.”

  * * *

  “You’re an actress,” Professor Penrose said to Ophelia. He closed the door of Gasthaus Schatz’s sitting room behind him.

  Ophelia darted to her feet. She’d been fretting on the edge of a chair before the cold fireplace. “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  She held her head high. “Yes. It’s true.”

  “That explains the disguises,” he said. “The accent. What about leaping from running horses into trees? Surely one doesn’t perform such feats on the stage.”

  “I’ve been an actress for nearly six years. Before that I worked in. . . .”

  This was silly. He wasn’t the Grand Turk. And what did she care if he knew, anyway?

  “I was employed by P. Q. Putnam’s Traveling Circus in New England,” Ophelia said. “Then there was the war, and the circus folded. I found work as an actress in a variety theater troupe—that’s where I met Prue. Before the circus, I had a job in a woolen mill. But that was for only six months or so. I’ve been making my own way since I was seventeen years old. You must understand, I only did all this for Prue.”