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So the restraints had been removed upon his death? But to do so in such a public place made no sense. And why leave the body out in the open, where anyone might see the perpetrator? A display, perhaps, or a warning to others? What on earth was happening in this town? “Who found him?”
“Devere Barella. His son.”
ChapterFour
The beetle was a curious thing.I turned it over in my fingers as I sat in the Lost Penny’s bar. Minuscule metal cogs made up its inner workings. On closer inspection, each tiny metal panel was fixed in place by rivets the size of pinheads. The work was exquisite, and that Jacapo had been able to create something so beautiful in his later years was a testament to his skill. He must have made it; no other had such skill.
The man’s talent had been so well-known that even the richest families in Massalia knew of Jacapo the toymaker. To give one of his creations was a sign of wealth and taste, and to own one was a rare gift indeed.
I should have kept my bird when I’d left for Massalia. It would have been worth more than the amount Rochefort was paying me.
I ordered a second drink and paid the barman in coin. The light outside was fast fading from the valley, and the surrounding hills had cut off the weak winter sun. It would be dark soon, and I’d already left my revisit to Devere later than I should have. I’d go after the next drink.
The beetle didn’t have a slot for a key or a winder, but something had to tighten the spring or the toy wouldn’t move. I knew it worked—I’d seen it working. So where was its power source? And how had it gotteninsideJacapo. Had he swallowed it, or had someone forced it down his throat? It seemed too large to willingly swallow, which left the second option. But why do such a thing?
Devere might have answers to all these questions, yet I remained at the bar… delaying.
A nearby clock chimed four o’clock. I finished my drink, tucked the beetle back into my pocket, and left the inn. Clear skies hinted at early evening stars, and a vicious drop in temperature meant the slushy snow underfoot would soon turn to ice. I hoped to return to the inn long before then.
The toy store twinkled, its lights blazing through big windows. I dodged a few carriages and swept to the door. The handle gave, but the door rattled, locked in place. CLOSED showed on the sign. I cupped my hands to the glass and peered inside. The fire blazed. Nobody manned the counter. The displays were so high I could only see a few corners of the store, but Devere wasn’t in any of them. Perhaps he’d nipped out for supplies and would be back soon.
I stepped back, as close to the road as I dared, and scanned the upper-floor windows. All dark. Assuming he lived above the store, he didn’t appear to be there either.
I blew into my hands, the cold gnawing on my fingers. Perhaps there was a back door? I jogged through a thick layer of crusted snow and ventured into the unlit side street. A narrow, unmarked door led into the side of the toy store. I tried the handle, and it popped open.
It wasn’t technically trespassing if the owner of the store had given me permission, which Rochefort had. Although I doubted Devere would see it that way. I’d take a quick look inside before he got back. He’d never know. Besides, leaving the store unmanned meant anyone could walk in. I was doing the man a favor while he’d stepped out.
The store’s warmth wrapped around me, drawing me inside. The same toffee and cinnamon smell invoked boyhood memories. One of the toy trainschoo-chooedfrom the storefront.
The back corridor led to a storage room on my left, the storefront was accessed through a doorway on my right, and in front of me, an open door revealed a gloomy workshop, where Jacapo had made his toys.
Unlike in the main storefront, where everything had its place, the workshop consisted of scattered toy parts strewn across every conceivable surface. I slowed inside, trying to process the chaos. Half-finished dolls lay about, missing arms and legs. Silent clocks sat in a pile, their mechanical workings spilled out.
Did Devere make the toys now, since his father’s passing? If he’d tried and this was the result, the store wouldn’t last once the remaining stock was sold. Nobody would buy half-finished, broken toys that looked as though they belonged in nightmares.
My pocket buzzed.
I dropped my hand inside. The beetle wriggled against my fingers. Perhaps its mechanism had gotten stuck and that was why it worked at seemingly random intervals. Crouching, I set the beetle down on cracked wooden floorboards. It bumped and spun in circles, a typical child’s toy, its direction meaningless. It would run out of power soon.
The beetle abruptly darted in a straight line across the floor and over a rug, moving at speed until it stopped an inch away from a broken photo frame.
I hurried over and scooped up the beetle and the framed photo—Jacapo with an infant on his knee. A child no more than a few months old. Perhaps Devere, although—I brought the sepia photo closer—the child had light eyes, probably blue. Did children’s eye color change as they matured? Because Devere did not have blue eyes. He did have the most arresting dark eyes I’d ever seen, but definitely not blue.
“How didyouget in here?”
I spun, lowered the photo frame, and returned the beetle to my pocket. Devere stood in the workshop doorway, his hair mussed and pale face flushed from the cold air.
“I was—the side door was open. I thought anyone might walk in—”
“Clearly,anyonedid. Do you often wander into people’s homes uninvited?” He marched over, snatched the photo out of my hand, and tossed it carelessly onto the workbench.
“I have permission—”
“I was very explicit about what would become of you should I see you in my store again.” His eyes flashed their menacing darkness, and a memory came with that look, one of secret meetings, of hate, a touch of the lips. He’d looked at me like that then too, all those years ago—looked at me as though he despised me moments after we’d kissed.
“Mr. Barella,” I said formally. “I’m here to investigate your father’s death.”
Devere eased back. His rigid stance softened, and his gaze dropped to the photograph. He picked it up and adjusted the frame so it sat behind the tools and half-finished toys on the workbench. “He is dead. What more is there to investigate?”
