How to be Death (34 page)

Runt entered the room first, followed by Fabian Lazarev and his boss, Yum Cimil.

“He wouldn’t let him come on his own,” Runt whispered to Freezay, gesturing with her nose at Yum Cimil as she came in and sat down by my chair.

I could understand why Yum Cimil didn’t want his employee left to his own devices: Lazarev looked like a different man. His face was drawn, exhaustion hollowing dark gouges into the flesh above his orbital bones, making it appear as if someone had punched him in both eyes. He slumped forward where he stood, his loose white V-neck shirt and black linen pants hanging like rags on his taut frame.

“Please have a seat,” Freezay said as he got up and gestured toward the love seat. Yum Cimil stared at the recently vacated
spot, but Lazarev, who moved like a man in a fog, did as he was told, sitting down and putting his head in his hands.

Dressed in a modified version of an undertaker’s uniform—black suit and high-necked white button-down shirt—it was hard to tell what Yum Cimil was thinking as he looked around the room, but I guessed he was none too happy about being included in our little soiree.

“If you’re not into the love seat,” Freezay said, “please, be my guest and sit wherever you’d like.”

Yum Cimil furrowed his brow, his eyes shifting back and forth between me, Freezay, and Lazarev. After a few moments of interior debate, he seemed to decide that this wasn’t a trick question and shuffled over to the love seat, sitting down next to his second in command.

“As you know, Coyolxauhqui was murdered last night—”

Fabian Lazarev sat up at the mention of Coy’s true name, his mustache twitching as his normally tan face went a pale, milky white.

“But that’s not the end to the tragedy,” Freezay continued. “Constance Partridge—Uriah Drood’s Undersecretary at the Harvesters and Transporters Union
and
the serving woman here at the Haunted Hearts Castle—was killed this morning.”

Lazarev looked confused, his dark eyes unfocused.

“I don’t … understand,” he mumbled. “Why was Drood’s secretary here? And why did someone kill her and the serving woman?”

Freezay leaned against the fireplace mantel, twisting the brim of his bowler hat in his hands.

“The serving woman and Uriah Drood’s Undersecretary are one and the same.”

Lazarev glanced at Yum Cimil, who frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening into furrows.

“You guessed this?” Freezay asked, his ability to read Yum Cimil’s facial expressions, impressive.

Yum Cimil stared at him for a second then leaned over and whispered something in Lazarev’s ear.

“Yes, I understand,” Lazarev nodded. “Okay.”

He returned his gaze to Freezay, licking his dry, cracked lips.

“She was wearing a wig. We noticed at dinner she kept scratching her head. Not so good for hygiene and food cleanliness.”

Yum Cimil was way more observant than me. I’d only noticed her nervousness and lack of grace with a tray full of sherry, but he’d seen through the artifice of her façade.

“Does her death have any connection to Coy’s murder?” Lazarev asked, this question his own.

“We don’t know. We have to assume that two separate murders in the same location within a twenty-four-hour period are not coincidental,” Freezay replied. “You looked surprised when I called Coy by her given name? Why?”

Lazarev, if it were possible, got even paler, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably.

“I … well … I knew Coy. She is … was my girlfriend, until she was seduced by another, more recently than I’d like to admit.”

“Erlik stole her away from you,” Freezay said—and it wasn’t a question.

Lazarev swallowed hard then looked down at his hands.

“Yes. He told you, I assume.”

“Actually, he said you’d stolen her away from him,” Freezay said.

“Ha!”
Lazarev nearly shouted as emotion brought him to his feet.

Erlik had been upset by Coy’s death, but there’d been something almost selfish about his reaction. Lazarev was a different beast altogether. He was devastated by Coy’s death—you could see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the gaunt look in his eyes—and it made me feel sorry for him in a way that I hadn’t for Erlik.

“He said women you’ve dated have a way of disappearing—”

“He said that?” Lazarev cried. “He truly said that?”

Freezay nodded. “He truly said that.”

“An unbelievable monster,” Lazarev spat, “to say
that
about
me
when he is the one…”

Lazarev trailed off, his energy waning, as he sat back down beside Yum Cimil.

“A projection of himself onto you?” Freezay offered—and Lazarev nodded his head weakly.

“I suppose.”

“Where were you last night when Coy died?” Freezay asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Lazarev’s eyes flicked around the room, his brain working overtime to cobble together a timeline of his evening that wouldn’t get him in trouble.

“We know
you
were here in this drawing room with Jarvis, Caoimhe, Morrigan, and Naapi,” Freezay continued, turning his gaze on Yum Cimil. “But of Mr. Lazarev’s whereabouts—”

“I went into the kitchen. Zinia Monroe and the two servers were there. They can tell you,” Lazarev cried.

“Well, one of your witnesses is dead,” I said. “So hopefully the other two can back you up.”

Lazarev glared at me.

“Don’t judge me, Death,” he snarled. “You know nothing about my life.”

I didn’t like being growled at, but I knew the man was suffering, so I tried not to take it too personally.

“We’ll definitely be talking to—” Freezay started to say, but his words were interrupted by the sound of raised voices in the hallway.

A moment later, Morrigan threw open the door and stormed inside, her mouth puckered in anger.

“But I have to tell her,” Caoimhe cried as she entered the room right behind her. “It’s my right—”

Startled by our presence in the drawing room, both women came to an abrupt stop, silence stealing over them as they realized they had an audience for their argument.

“Hello, ladies,” Freezay said, his gaze sliding over Morrigan and settling onto Caoimhe. “Nice of you to join us.”

“We didn’t know anyone was in here,” Morrigan said, glaring at the detective. “We’ll just go—”

“No, stay,” he said, his gaze riveted to Caoimhe’s face. “You’re on my list, and since we’ve just finished with Mr. Cimil and Mr. Lazarev, your entrance is pure perfection.”

Lazarev stood up stiffly, anger buzzing through him as he continued to glare at me. Yum Cimil got to his feet and put a restraining hand on Lazarev’s arm, the younger man’s rage diminishing at the touch.

“I’ll probably need to speak with you again,” Freezay said
as the two men departed, passing the women without a glance. “So don’t disappear on me.”

As they reached the doorway Yum Cimil turned around, shooting me a cool, appraising look. I held his gaze until Lazarev tapped him on the shoulder.

“Let’s go, sir,” he said, offering his arm to the older, smaller man.

Yum Cimil accepted the proffered arm, disengaging from our staring contest to follow Lazarev into the corridor. As I watched them go, I decided that Yum Cimil was a weird old man. Specifically weird because he dressed like a mortician and always had a sour look on his orange face. I didn’t know what the schmuck had against womankind, in general, but I knew
I
was not a fan of his—and it had nothing to do with him having a penis.

“We were in the drawing room when all the shit went down,” Morrigan was saying when I tuned back into the conversation. She was facing the fireplace, resting her hands on it as she spoke, her bloodless fingers pressing into the mantel.

Behind her, Caoimhe was on the edge of the love seat, her hands in her lap as she listened to her partner speak. Her patrician profile and dark coiffure made her look like a model half her age, and I could see exactly why Morrigan had chosen her as a consort; she was beautiful, polished, and full of life. Sensing my gaze, she caught my eye, giving me a shy smile. I smiled back at her, enjoying the shared moment, but as soon as Morrigan turned back around, Caoimhe’s gaze flicked away from mine.

As a modern woman, I couldn’t help but be bothered by the subservient way Caoimhe behaved around Morrigan. I found it degrading and odd that a woman who had so much going for her was cowed at the hands of her lover. It was just weird.

“Yes, I know where you were last night, but this morning?” Freezay asked, pushing Morrigan for an answer.

“Why don’t you ask your little poppet how she murdered that girl in her bedroom?” Morrigan hedged, throwing me under the bus to get the attention off herself. “Who else would’ve killed her? She was shacking up with Ms. Death’s old boy toy, so there’s your motivation right there—”

“Morrigan!” Caoimhe shouted at her, the intensity of her reprimand rippling through the room.

“I didn’t touch Coy,” I said, though I wasn’t able to muster much energy, my frustration already having given way to exhaustion. I was tired of always having to defend myself—and just plain tired, too—and this once I knew I was totally innocent; no one could throw any of the responsibility for the two murders in my direction.

“But I don’t really care if you believe me or not,” I continued. “I have nothing to prove to you or to anyone else.”

Freezay winked at me.

“Now as I was saying—”

There was a knock at the door, interrupting Freezay’s train of thought and freeing Morrigan from having to answer immediately.

“Now what is it?” Freezay moaned under his breath, striding over to the door and throwing it open.

Zinia Monroe was standing on the other side, her hand raised as if she meant to knock again. Her blond hair was in a messy bun on top of her head, her Mao jacket mussed from her having worn it through the night. She had a pair of black thick-framed glasses perched on her sharp nose, a silvery chain hooked on to the end of each temple and looped around her neck, keeping them in place.

“Yes?” Freezay said, frustrated by the interruption.

Zinia ignored his uncivil tone, looking past him at me.

“I need help in the kitchen. I’m sure everyone is hungry, and since one of my servers is dead and the other is MIA, I’m short staffed. Can you help me out?”

“I can help you, sure,” I said, standing up—I couldn’t have come up with a better excuse to get out of the hot seat if I’d tried.

“Well, come on then,” she said, beckoning me forward. “The food isn’t going to sit there all day waiting.”

She spun on her heel, marching back the way she came. I shot Freezay a questioning look, but he merely nodded his head for me to go on.

“I’ll see you ladies later,” I said, heading for the door. I expected Runt to follow me as she usually did, but the pup was out cold, her back rising and falling gently as she slept. I didn’t
have the heart to get her up; she was still little and needed her sleep to grow properly, so I left her where she was, softly snoring away.

Morrigan glared at me as I walked past her—boy, was I persona non grata around here or what?—and Caoimhe kept her eyes fixed on her lap, ignoring my exit as she recovered from her angry outburst. My dislike of Morrigan wasn’t as strong as my disgust for Yum Cimil, but it was close. At least she was openly hostile, letting me know exactly where I stood with her. Yum Cimil never said a goddamned word, which was, somehow, even worse.

I closed the drawing room door, leaving the insistent sound of Freezay’s questioning behind me, and took off in search of the kitchen. Zinia hadn’t had the patience to wait for me, so I found myself adrift in the semidarkness of the corridor. Luckily the smell of buttery garlic and roasting chicken was enough of a sensory road map to get me where I needed to go. I followed the umami tang of sautéing butter down two long hallways and through a small glass-enclosed atrium until I came to a large rectangular kitchen. Zinia Monroe stood in the middle of a sea of beige tile, a thin human figure pressed up against a Moroccan-tiled island, her hands lost inside a heavy, blue clay bowl full of dough.

“I’m making chicken and dumplings,” she said, conscripting me into her culinary world without any further explanation. “Grab that pot holder and take the top off that pot.”

I did as she asked, picking up a thick yellow potholder from the tile counter and walking over to the ginormous, 60-inch biscuit-colored Viking Range. Zinia followed behind me, the blue clay bowl in her arms, and while I held the top of the stainless steel stockpot aloft, she began to drop globules of fluffy dough into the boiling liquid.

“It’s nice to have your help,” she said, her words coming in a staccato burst like gunshot from a semiautomatic, “but I really wanted to get you alone.”

I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as she continued to lob dough balls into the slowly thickening liquid.