Old Knives Tale (A Minerva Biggs Mystery Book 2) by Cordelia Rook

Author:Cordelia Rook [Rook, Cordelia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-04-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

“Why would I want to get married while touring somebody else’s house?” Dottie shifted to the edge of her chair, displacing poor Miss Havisham, who stalked off into the next room with her tail in the air. “What sort of question is that?”

“You’re right,” I said. “I misspoke. I didn’t mean get married there, of course. That would be strange, wouldn’t it?”

I laughed awkwardly, mostly to buy myself some time. “I meant do you think you’ll go there the day of the wedding … for … to have pictures taken! You know, in one of the gardens. They’re so beautiful, they would make for lovely photos.”

That was entirely true. I ought to know, since I regularly arranged shoots for brides and grooms in most of the gardens. And if a thing was entirely true it was also, I decided, an entirely credible thing to say.

Dottie seemed inclined to agree, if hesitantly. “That is a very interesting idea,” she said—but slowly, and her forehead was still as furrowed as could be.

In my desire to reel her in, I made the classic liar’s mistake: I kept talking. “You could even ride the ferris wheel in your wedding dress. Now that would be a fun picture.”

I thought the ferris wheel was a safe topic, as it had originally been built in 1924. Though it had been updated, renovated, and probably downright replaced a time or two for safety reasons, one ferris wheel or another had stood in its place continuously ever since.

But I’d said the wrong thing again. Dottie stood up, looking equal parts confused and furious. “Richard Baird doesn’t let the public ride the ferris wheel. Not ever. You ought to know that. Why wouldn’t you know that?”

I started to murmur something about not realizing, and being a recent arrival, but Dottie waved a finger at me. “You might be new to Bryd Hollow, but nobody is that new.” She put her bony hands on her even bonier hips. “Who are you really?”

Plant, bless his heart, sensed the rising tension and came to sit on my foot. Which hurt, but I appreciated the support. I remembered Lia’s words as we approached the apartment: You do not want to deal with an agitated Dot.

She’d also said Dot got agitated when forced to confront the true year. Which made sense, because the old woman was trembling with indignation as she stood before me and my dog, waiting for us to account for ourselves. Nobody would get this mad about the ignorance of ferris wheel rules. She was mad because my bringing it up reminded her that the public could, indeed, ride the ferris wheel—now.

Okay, so put that ferris wheel riding in the context of the early fifties. Think.

How old would Clifford have been then? Too young for my purposes—maybe not even born. But Richard Baird, Clifford’s father, was the oldest of several siblings. Who was the youngest?

“Ronnie Baird!” Feeling proud that I’d thought of the name so quickly, and under pressure no less, I got a little overexcited and said it out loud.

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