Murder in Cormyr - Chet Williamson [51]
I waited until the last carcass was out of the wagon and the voucher was signed. When Spoondrift started to go back into his kitchen, I left the security of the barrels behind which I'd been standing and walked up to him.
"Mr. Spoondrift," I said, "could I have a word with you?"
When he saw who I was, his face grew even colder than before. Too much time in the meat lockers, I thought. "A word with me, slop boy?"
"I'm not a slop boy anymore, sir," I spoke with as much dignity as a former slop boy could muster. "I work for the wizard Benelaius, as you know."
" 'As you know,'" he parroted. "Well, don't we speak high and mighty now. Where'd you get all that education, slop boy?"
"My master has tutored me," I said, trying to keep my temper. My right buttock will forever bear a scar from one of Spoondrift's beatings.
"Isn't that nice," he said sarcastically, "that some employers have the time to educate their servants. Have no time for such shenanigans myself. I'm running an inn here, not a school."
I could see the conversation was getting nowhere fast, so I tried to butter up the old weasel. "Nevertheless, I learned a great deal by working here, sir. Invaluable lessons about life." Like how to avoid working in future for a scum-swilling swine like Spoondrift.
"What do you want?" he barked.
"As you might have heard, I'm trying to aid my master by finding out certain things about the recent murders outside of Ghars."
"Ah, the slop boy's become the great Camber Fosrick now, has he?"
I made myself smile. "Hardly that. But I would like to know about your experience when you came across Dovo as the ghost."
"Look, sonny, if you really want to know who killed Dovo and the envoy, all you've got to do is ask me."
I had no idea things were going to be this easy. "All right," I said. "Who do you think did it?"
"I don't think, I know. It was that roofer's son, that Rolf. He's got a temper hotter than a midsummer desert at high noon, he's in love with Barthelm's daughter, and both Dovo and the envoy made insulting advances to her. Now they're both dead. And where was he while they were getting murdered, eh? If I were you, Mr. Jasper Fosrick, that's what I'd be finding out, and not asking a lot of stupid questions about phony ghosts. Now run along and play your little games. I've got work to do." And he went into the inn, slamming shut the kitchen door behind him.
If it was going to be that simple, I was going to be very annoyed. And the thing that galled me was that it could be just that simple. A lad filled with a jealous, killing rage who sets out to avenge his sweetheart's honor.
Still, Rolf was right-handed, but maybe we were wrong.
Maybe he had come up behind Dovo and Grodoveth. No one kept track of Rolf when he wasn't working. He could have been out on the swamp road the night Dovo was killed, and he could have followed Grodoveth early that morning to the tomb, and gone away with the treasure. Maybe the thing to do was watch and see if Rolf started buying drinks for the house.
Behind me I heard footsteps, and turned to see Butcher Skedmoor coming up behind me. His men had finished watering their horses, and they were ready to take their wagon back to their shop. "A word, young man," said the butcher, and I nodded respectfully. "One thing you ought to know before paying out to what old Spoondrift says-he dislikes the lad, y'see. Rolf, I mean. Had a new roof put on part of the inn six months back, waited too long, the old roof leaked and damaged some joists beneath. Young Rolf's got the wood shingles up on the roof, leaves boxes of them there overnight, and around midnight, crack! Their weight breaks the rotten beams beneath, and the boxes of shingles come crashing through the roof, through the attic floor, and shingles start raining onto the bed of Spoondrift and his missus.
"Well, Spoondrift makes a great stink." Butcher Skedmoor snickered. "More than usual for the bean-eating old mole. But