Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery) Read Online Free Page A

would at last prove, indisputably, that fairy tales were based upon historical events. Until he did so, however, he needed to keep quiet or become the laughingstock of academe.
    “That is all very well and good.” Winkler had crawled past the skeleton and was pushing back out through the doorway. “But I am certain,” he said over his shoulder, “that what every party is most interested in is whether or not that is real gold leaf.”
    *   *   *
    When Gabriel joined Winkler back out in the forest glade, he saw three ladies and two gentlemen clustered about Coop and Smith. Not wishing to enter the fray, he paced off a distance, leaned against the trunk of a tree, and took the opportunity to write a few lines in the memorandum book that he always carried in his breast pocket.
    Not a hoax
, he wrote with a stub of pencil and underlined it twice.
    Feminine titters caused him to lift his eyes. The newcomers were, he assumed, members of the Coop family, their visitors, and their servants. Smith had apprised Gabriel and Winkler of their names during the hike to the cottage.
    There was an elegant lady of middle years, petite, brunette, possessing a rose-petal complexion and a refined mien. That was the Russian Princess Verushka, doubtless. The foppish, dark-curled young Adonis who loitered off to the side, smoking a cigarette and looking bored, was probably Mr. Hunt. Smith had said he was British. There was also a bony young lady—Miss Amaryllis, perhaps—with a large nose. She cast her eyes towards Mr. Hunt. He did not seem to notice. The other gentleman was a footman in green livery, holding a parasol over the ladies. He didn’t, to be honest, appear as dashing as footmen usually did. He was over fifty years of age, with a small paunch and disheveled gray hair that called to mind the expression
gone to seed
.
    A somewhat blowsy-looking woman, yellow-haired and richly attired in a walking costume, was the source of the commotion. Gabriel pegged her as Mrs. Coop. She was pointing to the ground at the entrance of the cottage.
    “The soil is sparkling!” Gabriel heard her cry. “It’s got gold in it, Homer. Look!”
    A hubbub ensued, during which Winkler stooped to open his bag, scrape a sample of soil into a small glass vial, and cork it.
    Gabriel suppressed a sigh. The greed and melodramas of the rich and bored were a larger part of his life—at least his life in England—than he’d wish. He longed to roll up his sleeves and begin conducting, inch by inch, an examination and catalogue of the cottage. But it was evident that he’d have to suffer through luncheon with this lot first.
    He jotted more notes as Winkler, speaking in his booming voice, led the group into the thicket. Gabriel tried not to think about the damage they could inflict on the house, blundering about in there.
    The footman had stayed behind. When he thought he was alone—he did not seem to be aware of Gabriel’s presence—he pulled a silver flask from his jacket, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swallow.
    Then a small movement across the glade caught Gabriel’s eye. There was another young lady, one he hadn’t noticed at first, standing in the shade. Evidently there hadn’t been room enough for her to go into the thicket with the others, and she was waiting.
    She was attired in a charcoal-gray gown with a white collar, and a dark bonnet. A poor relation or a paid companion. Or perhaps a lady’s maid. Although there was something graceful about her tall, slim figure, and she held her head so high that it was difficult to imagine she was a servant. Her face was, well, plain. It was a pure oval, very symmetrical, yet somehow, in its very purity, it just missed the pretty mark. Her darting dark eyes reminded him of the centers of poppies.
    He hadn’t realized he was staring until her eyes riveted on him. A tingle ran down his spine.
    She lifted her eyebrows. Gabriel yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes and scribbled something