by C. R. Corwin
King Ferdinand died in 1927. But his son, named Carol after his great uncle, was more interested in running around Europe with his mistress than running the country. So Carol’s five-year old son, Michael, became king. That’s right, he was five. Talk about dumping more on your children than they can handle. Anyway, little Michael’s reign lasted just three years. In 1930, his playboy father had a change of heart. He booted the boy off the throne and had himself crowned Carol II.
European dictators were in vogue in those years, and so Carol II dissolved the parliament and ruled as an absolute monarch. Which was absolutely a mistake. He was forced to abdicate in 1940, and Michael, now nineteen, was put back on the throne.
Michael reigned until 1947, when the Communists forced him to abdicate. He settled down in England with his new wife, a French princess named Anne, and went to work as a commercial airline pilot.
Romania suffered under a succession of Communist rulers. The last one, Nicolae Ceausescu, was the worst of the lot. A popular uprising drove him from power in 1989. He and his equally hated wife, Elena, were arrested, tried in a makeshift courtroom, and executed just outside the door.
Today, Romania has an elected president and parliament. It also has a small gaggle of royalists who want to bring the monarchy back. They want a British-style king or queen who presumably would clank around in a turnip-shaped carriage and wave at the people. The website, however, reported that Michael I had little interest in getting his old job back.
My scroll bar had reached the bottom of the page. I slapped my computer on the side of the head. “Don’t stop there you lazy son-of-a-bee!”
My screeching brought Eric back to the real world. And he wasn’t happy about it. “What is your problem?”
“This damn website only lists one pretender,” I said. “You’d think there’d be oodles.”
“Well, Maddy, there are oodles of other websites.”
“I can’t spend all day playing with this thing, Eric. I have a cabbage waiting for me at home.”
Eric dog-eared his comic book. “See all these underlined words in blue sprinkled throughout the text? Those are called links. When you click on a link, another site with more information on the topic comes up.”
I clicked on Michael I. Another site appeared. “Well, look at that!”
He told me to “enjoy” and went back to his superheroes. I started scrolling and reading, and taking notes on the back of a corporate missive outlining the most recent changes in our medical coverage: Michael and his wife had four daughters. None of them were named Violeta. None of them were within twenty years of being old enough to be Violeta.
That website was a dud. But it did have a very useful link to the genealogy of the Romanian royal family. It listed every king, queen, prince, princess, count, and countess going back to the first Romanian king, Carol I. And among them was a Violeta!
My giddiness was short-lived. “Wouldn’t you know it,” I grumbled. “This Violeta was born in 1873. Which would make her fifty years too old to be our Violeta. And unless she was one of those vampires from Transylvania, much too dead to be our Violeta.”
I took notes on her nonetheless: Her full name was Violeta Dragomir. She was the daughter of a Romanian cavalry officer of low nobility, and not from the principality of Transylvania, but Moldavia. When she was seventeen, she married Prince Anthony, the twenty-one-year-old son of King Carol I. Prince Anthony died when he was twenty-three and Princess Violeta slipped into oblivion.
I asked Eric how I could find out if Violeta was a common name in Romania. He looked at me like I was a Ph.D. candidate in English who’d forgotten how to spell cat. “Duh—Google female Romanian names.”
I typed it in. Several websites agreed that Violeta was a rather common name in Romania. Next, I Googled her last name. Bell didn’t sound very Romanian to me, but you never know. Again I got several websites with long lists of Romanian surnames. Bell wasn’t on any of them. Neither was Bellescu, or Belleanu, or Bellici, or any other names that might be Americanized to Bell. “You do any of that research on Violeta yet?” I asked Eric, with a pretty good notion of what the answer would be.
“It’s only been four days, Maddy.”
“I was just wondering if she was ever married.”
“Didn’t Gabriella’s story say?”
“Violeta told her no,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. I tell people no sometimes, too.”
I went back to the Romanian genealogy website. I scrolled up and down through the dozens of royals listed, both the living and the dead, in the hope of finding something to justify the late Sunday dinner Ike was going to get.
Then there it was. A very curious adjective. In the comments next to King Carol II. You remember him, don’t you? The one who let his five-year-old son be king? So he could cavort with his mistress? Anyway, it said this: “When Carol renounced his right to be king, his recognized heir, Michael, was crowned instead.” The curious adjective, of course, was the word recognized. Did that mean there was an unrecognized heir or two?
I started clicking links like a madwoman. And I found the website of a man who claimed to be the great-grandson of King Carol I, and therefore the rightful heir to the Romanian throne. “Well, would you look at this, Mr. Chen! Pretender number two!”
Eric didn’t answer. And that’s because he was no longer sitting next to me reading comic books. I scanned the newsroom. Some time during the last half hour or so he’d wandered off to play with the boys in the sports department. They were throwing one of those stupid Nerf footballs around. But I didn’t bitch at him. A—it wouldn’t do any good. B—it appeared I’d pretty much mastered the Googling arts, anyway.
The name of this second pretender was Prince Anton Alexandur Clopotar. There was a photo of him. He had a healthy thatch of white hair. A huge white mustache. He was wearing a polka dot bowtie and a double-breasted blazer with an emblem on the pocket. He was standing in front of a huge red, yellow, and blue flag. A long, straight-stemmed pipe was clenched in his teeth. I read what he had to say about himself:
He was seventy-five. Born in Bucharest. He’d fled to Canada with his parents and older brother at the end of World War II when it looked like the Soviet occupation of Romania was going to be permanent. Unlike his rival, Michael I, who had only daughters to give his country, he had three sons and seven grandsons. Best of all, he offered direct lineage to King Carol I, while Michael was only a distant nephew.
I was confused. I checked my notes. According to what I’d read earlier, Carol I had left no living heirs. That’s why his nephew, Ferdinand, was given the throne. I read on:
Prince Anton’s father, Dumitru Clopotar, was born in 1916. His grandfather, Constantin Clopotar, born in 1891, was the son of Prince Anthony and one Violeta Dragomir.
That’s right, Princess Violeta. The cavalry officer’s daughter who married Carol I’s son. The young widow who slipped into oblivion. According to Prince Anton: “Perhaps we will never know whether my great-great-grandfather was aware that Princess Violeta was with child when he banished her. It is clear that he was distraught when his son and heir, Prince Anthony, was taken so unexpectedly. The royal biographies are not ambiguous on that point. Regrettably, there is also evidence in the king’s diaries and letters that he did not approve of his son’s betrothal to a native Moldavian of insufficient nobility.”
Prince Anton went on to explain in his stuffy way that some months after giving birth to Constantin, the destitute Princess Violeta married a commoner named Gavril Clopotar, who gave the boy his name and raised him as his own. Wrote Prince Anton: “Inasmuch as my older brother, Prince Petru, is no longer living, it is clear that I am the rightful heir to the throne, should the hereditary monarchy be reinstated by the Romanian people. Let me state further, to those who may doubt my claim, that I am prepared to assist wholeheartedly in any and all scientific inquiries deemed necessary.”
The prince also wrote glowingly about his sons and late wife, Agnes. About his satisfying c
areer in the Canadian civil service. About his wonderful home and vegetable garden outside Kingston, Ontario. “Here on my beloved Wolfe Island I will await, with respect and patience, the judgment of my fellow Romanians.”
Good gravy! I knew Wolfe Island. It was the largest of the famous Thousand Islands. It was on the western lip of Lake Ontario. Where the waters of the Great Lakes squeeze into the St. Lawrence River for their long trek to the Atlantic Ocean. I was born very close to there, in LaFargeville, on the New York side of the river. Oh yes, I knew Wolfe Island very well.
The attic doors in my brain swung open. Memories of my years in LaFargeville sprang out like so many mice, bats, and spiders. I herded them back inside. Kicked those attic doors shut. I focused on matters at hand.
I had two living pretenders but no evidence that the late Violeta Bell of Hannawa, Ohio, was related to either of them. Or any other member of the old royal line. And what did it matter, anyway? Romania no longer had a king or queen.
I typed in Romania, restoration of monarchy. The good folks at Google gave me 85,000 websites to read. I scanned through the first dozen or so. There was apparently quite a debate whether the throne should be restored or not. At least quite a debate on the Internet.
I did discover that Romania had a small royalist party. Something called the Constitutional Reform and Restoration Union. It had won thirteen seats in the most recent elections for parliament. That surprising showing was credited to public disillusionment with the country’s current batch of leaders. It made me wonder how many votes Dr. Phil would get if he ran for president of the United States? Or how many Oprah would get if she ran for queen?
I clicked off my computer. I squinted at my watch. It was four o’clock. I squinted toward the sports department. Eric was gone. In metro, reporters and editors were straggling in to put out the Monday edition. I was pooped. I headed for the parking deck.
Had I found anything useful?
No, I hadn’t learned if Violeta Bell was really Romanian royalty. But I had found a pair of bona fide pretenders. And I’d learned that there was a small, but apparently growing movement to restore the monarchy. Was someone in the royal family clearing the board in case the monarchy was restored some day? Had that someone somehow seen Gabriella’s story on the Queens of Never Dull? Had Violeta Bell foolishly outed herself?
Or was Eddie French guilty as sin? Despite his aversion to guns? Or was somebody else guilty as sin? One of those other crazy old bags? Somebody else in the Carmichael House? Somebody else in Hannawa?
Or had I just wasted a beautiful day? A day I should have been at home making Ike those pigs in a blanket? “Dolly Madison Sprowls,” I growled at myself, as my Dodge Shadow puttered down the exit ramp, “you are a damn fool—more than likely.”
7
Wednesday, July 19
I spent the morning helping Margaret Newman scrounge through the morgue’s files for old heat wave stories. Hannawa was in the midst of a doozy and Margaret, our environmental writer, wanted to find out if global warming was to blame. She hadn’t written one word of her story yet, but I knew exactly what it would say. It would rehash the past. Speculate on the future. Quote a lot of experts. Come to the earth-shattering conclusion that maybe global warming was to blame, and maybe it wasn’t. More than likely there would a sidebar packed with tips for surviving the current ninety-degree temperatures. Stay inside where it’s cool. Drink plenty of water. Brilliant nonsense like that.
As soon as Margaret hustled back to her desk, I headed down Main Street to Ike’s Coffee Shop. I walked in soaked with sweat. Ike had one little fan buzzing away on the counter and another on top of the cigarette machine. I sat at my usual table by the window. Ike brought me an iced tea—my one concession to the heat—and a tuna-stuffed bagel. After the lunch rush was over he joined me. He had a pamphlet in his hand. “I hope that isn’t from your church,” I said.
“From the doctor’s office.”
“Oh?”
“It’s for you, Maddy. Not me.”
“Oh?”
“I thought it might be helpful.”
I snatched the pamphlet from him and read the fat, black type on the cover: Is Sleep Apnea Dangerous? “For Pete’s sake, Ike!”
“They’ve got a sleep test you can take.”
I came to an instant boil. “I am not taking that test! Louise Lewendowski had one and said it was just awful. They glue wires all over your head. And everywhere else. They watch you all night like a laboratory rat.”
Ike dug his fingers into the tabletop. To prevent himself from strangling me presumably. “Wouldn’t it be worth it to see how serious a problem you might have?”
“I do not have a problem.”
“Now Maddy, that snoring means you’re not breathing right. And not breathing right could lead to a heart attack or something.”
“I don’t have a heart.”
“Yes, you do. And so do I.”
The sweet old bastard had me. I stuffed the pamphlet in my purse. “I’ll read the damn thing. But I’m committing to nothing, Ike. Nothing.”
He leaned over the table. Kissed me on the forehead. Right there in the front window. On Hannawa’s busiest street. He retreated to his little kitchen behind the counter. Started loading dirty cups and plates into the dishwasher. Started singing that Johnny Mathis song, Misty: “Look at me, I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree….”
I couldn’t put up with that. I gathered up my dirty dishes and joined him. “Sorry I popped my cork.”
He smiled at me in a way I sometimes wish he wouldn’t. “I just want you to be around for a while.”
We were getting precariously close to the L-word. I introduced a more manageable topic. “You see Dale Marabout’s story this morning?”
Ike started the dishwasher. The old contraption was noisier than the Space Shuttle taking off. “You know I don’t have time for the paper on weekdays,” he shouted over for the banging and clanging. “I’m a working man.”
I turned the dishwasher off. I wasn’t about to compete with a machine. “Eddie French was arraigned today.”
Ike turned it back on. “Finally have enough evidence, do they?”
“Not for the murder.” I followed him out to the counter. “For the antiques they found in his apartment. They’ve charged him with burglary, grand theft, and receiving stolen property.”
Ike took a Ghirardelli chocolate from the box by the cash register. He unwrapped it. Stuck it my mouth. “Aren’t those sort of the same thing?”
The chocolate was warm and gooey. “According to Dale’s story, the prosecutor’s office wanted to make sure the judge set the bail too high for Eddie to get out.”
Ike unwrapped a chocolate for himself. Led me back to my table. He let me have the chair that faced the fan on the cigarette machine. “I suppose the judge went along.”
I nodded. “The prosecutor not only brought up Eddie’s prior convictions, he also told the judge about Eddie’s repeated failure to show up in traffic court.”
Ike chuckled. “Has a few unpaid tickets, does he?”
“Dozens. The judge set his bail at $40,000.”
“Looks like your Mr. French will be sitting tight for a while.”
“Detective Grant must be convinced he’s guilty,” I said. “There’s blood evidence coming back from the lab any day now. If that blood belongs to Violeta Bell, I don’t think they’ll waste a minute charging Eddie with murder.”
I could see that Ike wasn’t any more interested in discussing Eddie French than I was. He was staring at the empty storefronts across the street. “There’s talk a Starbucks might be going in over there,” he said.
“Oh pooh. There’s always talk about this new business or that coming downtown.”
“I’ve seen people over there measuring,” he said. “Young, eager people with big dreams spilling out their ears.”
“Your eyes are that good, are they?”
“I can compete with empty stores,” he said. “
But I can’t compete with Starbucks.”
“Of course you can,” I assured him. “You’ll just have to learn how to make cappuccino.”
“I don’t want to know how to make cappuccino.”
***
“You okay?” Gabriella asked me, as we sped around another stopped city bus.
“Just a little frazzled,” I said. “It was a crazy day.”
Actually I was a lot frazzled. In the first place, I don’t handle the heat very well. And we were crammed into that silly yellow and black Mini Cooper her parents bought for her as a graduation gift, weaving in and out of the rush hour traffic like a pollen-drunk bumblebee. And I was worried about Ike losing his coffee shop. I wanted our lives to stay right where they were. God only knows what kind of crazy ideas he might get if he suddenly had nothing to do but make me happy.