Death of a Prince

by Susan P. Baker

  “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder.

  She watched his tall frame as he went up the stairs. Physically, they seemed a good fit. She liked spending time with him. He was a talented lover. She just didn’t want to make the relationship legal. He didn’t seem to understand that. He’d been doing some serious hinting lately, but it was out of the question. One of her husbands had divorced her for being a workaholic and neglecting him and their child. She wasn’t ready to be the recipient of the same behavior. She didn’t need a permanent relationship with a man like Stuart, who often seemed to have trouble fitting her into his schedule. She made a good living, loved living alone in her condo, and didn’t need to be married to be happy. It had taken her a long time to learn that. Stuart didn’t yet realize that she wasn’t about to change her mind and arrange her life around him.

  She turned the bacon, reduced the heat, and started to go talk to the others when she again thought of her mother. Erma and Phillip had been best friends ever since Sandra could remember. In fact, one of her earliest memories was of Phillip coming to the house to what she now called her mother’s “Salon,” a regular bullshit session that took place in their living room, which in the early years had been on the other side of the wall from her mother’s law office.

  Fearing that her mother would find out about Phillip and suffer another heart attack, Sandra realized that she had to alert her. But how? Drive over there? Telephone? On Galveston Island, bad news traveled faster than a sexually transmitted disease in a red light district. If she didn’t notify Erma quickly, it might come from someone else. She couldn’t risk the fifteen-minute or longer drive. It was a Saturday and the seawall would be full of tourists driving like they were on a Sunday stroll. Reaching for the phone, Sandra hoped that she could break it to Erma gently and crossed her fingers that her mother wouldn’t have a relapse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Erma Townley snuggled in her feather bed and pulled the duvet over her head. In her sleep, something annoyed her, but she resisted rising to consciousness to figure out what it was. It pulled her to the surface and released her several times until finally she stuck her head out into the refrigerated air to get a sense of it. Not the smoke alarm. Nothing burning that she could smell. She wiggled her legs and arms. Her limbs seemed to be working. There—that sound again. The goddamned telephone. Erma lay there, hoping it would cease and desist. She counted nine rings. Finally, she pushed up her eye mask and, blinded by the morning light, groped for her baby blue princess telephone. Whoever it was would be so sorry. “This better be goddamn good,” she said into the receiver in a voice that was close to a growl.

  “Erma, it’s me. Sorry to wake you,” Sandra said. “I have the misfortune of being the bearer of bad news.”

  Erma pulled out an earplug so that she could hear better. “Sandra? That you? What time is it?” She cleared her throat. “Feels like the middle of the goddamn night.”

  “It’s almost eleven. You still in bed? What did you do last night? You left the party early enough.”

  “None of your damn business. Let me get my eyes halfway open.” She pulled out the other earplug, plopped both of them on the bedside table, and struggled to a sitting position. “Now,” she cleared her throat again, “what the hell is so important that you have to call me on a Saturday morning?”

  “Something you’d rather hear from me than through the grapevine.”

  Erma reached for her cigarettes and lighter. She pulled a green crystal ashtray the size of a dinner plate closer to the bed, stuck a cigarette in a holder, and lit up. Expelling her first deep draw of the day, she said, “Sandra, I’m waiting.”

  “Are you smoking? You know the doctor said you’re not supposed to be smoking.”

  “Goddamnit, I’m sleeping peacefully, enjoying a Saturday morning in my own bed, minding my own business, not hurting anybody, and am awakened to the incessant ringing of the telephone reminiscent of the years and years and years that I practiced criminal law and made bail bonds, which I would like to blank out of my memory, by the way, and now after you’ve got me good and awake, you don’t want to tell me why you disturbed me? I ought to turn you over my knee like I did when you were a little girl and tan your hide. Now, for the last time before I hang up, Sandra Salinsky, what is it?”

  “It’s just with your heart—”

  “Do I have to crawl through this telephone—”

  “Mama—it’s Phillip.”

  Erma felt her heart palpitate. She rested her cigarette in the ashtray, scared that she would hear something that would cause her to drop it on the bedcovers. It seemed like people were always calling with bad news. But it couldn’t be bad news about Phillip. His health was good. He just had his physical last month. He’d told her about it when he’d executed his new will and left it with her for safekeeping. Could he have been arrested? That was it. Sandra was a criminal defense attorney. It couldn’t be jail, though. They wouldn’t keep him in the jail. He had always contributed large sums of money to the sheriff’s re-election campaign. He would have been released on his own recognizance.

  Perhaps he’d done something stupid, or it was a mistake. Sandra had been called to help him out. Sandra was silent on the other end of the phone. Erma forced a laugh. She didn’t want Sandra to know that she was frightened. “Phillip? What the hell kind of crazy thing has he gone and done now?” She picked up her cigarette and took another drag, but put it back down in the ashtray.

  “Mama . . . he’s dead.”

  “No. Shit. My Phillip? Phillip Parker? He was fine when I left last night.”

  “I knew I should have driven over to tell you in person. Are you all right?”

  “Goddamn. Wait.” Her throat clogged up. She coughed and swallowed. It wouldn’t do to break down. After breathing deeply, Erma said, “How do you know? I mean, how do you, Sandra Salinsky, know about it? How do you know it’s him? There must be some mistake.”

  “Are you crying? Will you be okay? Should I come into town and stay with you?”

  “Goddamnit, answer me. How is it that you know? Why were you called?”

  “I wasn’t called. I came out here to have brunch with Stuart. The police are here.”

  “Police. You’re at Phillip’s house?”

  “Yes, the beach house. The police were here when I arrived.”

  “What happened?” Erma asked.

  “Are you okay? Want me to come over?”

  Erma coughed again. “I’m just fine. You know how it is when you get to be my age, honey. You get up every morning and check the obits to see if you’re still alive. Now spill it. How’d he die?” She gritted her teeth as she waited to hear what had happened to her best friend.

  “At first blush, it looks like he fell off his bedroom balcony and hit the concrete patio face first.”

  Erma grunted. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m just telling you what it looks like. I’ve seen his face. It’s a mess.”

  “What do the cops say? Who’s doing the investigating? Who called the police, anyway?”

  “It’s Dennis Truman. Bubba found the body. I think he called the police.”

  “Truman’s a good man. What does he think?”

  “He’s not saying anything. He’s just collecting information. I have to give a statement. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t have to, also, since you were at the party.”

  Erma grunted into the phone. Her poor, poor Phillip. It wasn’t exactly the way he’d thought he would go. But does anyone go the way they’d choose? “Has the M.E. come?”

  “Not yet, I don’t think. Dennis is supervising some uniforms downstairs protecting the scene. I’m upstairs with everyone else.”

  “Oh my God. Lizzie. How is she?”

  “Don’t know. Pretty hysterical, I hear. She’s in one of the bedrooms and hasn’t come down. I’m hoping she’ll have breakfast with us.”

  “Poor girl.” Erma took a deep breath again. Death was a part of life, though she wasn�
�t ready for him to go. He hadn’t been ready to go, either. But there was nothing she could do about it. She needed to get up and get moving. There was a lot to do now. There was his will and estate to contend with.

  “I can’t for the life of me figure out why he would never marry Lizzie,” Sandra said.

  “That’s rather moot now, Sandra. You need for me to come out there?”

  “No. I just thought you’d like to know before the whole world found out. The cops are going to question everybody here. Afterwards, I’m going to the office to work on a couple of things. Unless—you sure you don’t want me to come over there?”

  “I’m not a child, Sandra. If you want to come over, come. Otherwise I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, if you need me, I’ll be at the office later. If people start calling you, or if the press starts bugging you, call me.”

  “You’re okay, aren’t you, honey?”

  “Yes, Erma.”

  Erma knew Sandra never really liked Phillip, but she’d known him for so many years, it must have had some effect on her to see his dead body. She never could figure out why they hadn’t clicked. Phillip had been coming to the house since Sandra was a child. And once he and Erma had become good friends, he had provided much-needed referral fees from personal injury cases Erma had sent him, which had helped keep her law practice afloat and allowed her to support her daughter after Sandra’s father had left. Well, that was water under the bridge.

  “I’ve got to go. I promised Stuart that I’d cook breakfast and I need find out what everyone wants. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Quit blathering about me. It’ll take more than one more friend’s death to get this old bag down. I’ll be fine. You just holler at me later and tell me whatever else you can.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get away from here.” Sandra hung up.

  Erma put the phone down and stubbed out her cigarette. Phillip was dead. She stared at nothing for a few minutes. The phone rang again. “Hello.”

  “Erma? It’s Jill. Sandra called me. You okay?”

  “Goddamnit.”

  “She just wanted me to check on you. I’m sorry about your friend. If you need anything at all, remember I’m right next door.”

  “If I need a nursemaid, you’ll be the first person I call, Jill, okay?”

  A chuckle came across the line. “That’s what I thought. Goodbye.”

  When she hung up, Erma tossed the covers on her king-sized four-poster bed aside and slid down until her feet touched the deep pile rug. Her long, cotton nightgown fell to the ground as she slipped it off and reached for her bathrobe, which hung on the end of the bed. Sticking her feet into woolly clogs, Erma reached for her cane and crept toward the bathroom, twisting her body to get the kinks out as she went. It was hell getting old, but ending up like Phillip was the alternative. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Turning on the water in the tub, Erma stepped over to the washbasin and stared at herself in the mirror for a moment. Yes, she was still alive. After she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she poured oil into the tub and turned the water down so that it would fill more slowly. Then she picked up her cane again and walked haltingly toward the stairs. Perhaps she shouldn’t have bought a two-story house. The stairs were becoming a challenge. Of course, she hadn’t thought about that when she’d found her house.

  Erma lived in the East End Historical District of Galveston Island. She had purchased the house years before Victorian homes had become the rage. She had gotten it cheap and spent large sums on lavish refurbishing, money she wouldn’t have had, she reminded herself, if Phillip hadn’t turned those cases she’d sent him into gold.

  She had converted the second floor into a large master suite and two smaller bedrooms with a Hollywood bath, one of which used to be Sandra’s room. The first floor contained a kitchen, a breakfast nook, a dining room, a library, a sitting room, and a formal living room. She’d thought about making one of the downstairs rooms into a master suite now that she was getting older. It would probably take twenty or thirty thousand dollars, but money wasn’t a problem anymore. She just hadn’t made the decision yet.

  She hadn’t told Sandra, either, or Sandra would have nagged her and nagged her about it. Telling Sandra was tantamount to confessing that she was getting too old or feeble to mount the stairs, and she wasn’t about to do that. But it would be nice to have her bedroom downstairs. That way, when she couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night, which had become increasingly a problem since her heart attack, she could go out to the screened-in verandah that ran along the south and east sides of the house and enjoy the salty breeze blowing from the Gulf of Mexico.

  When Erma reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped to get her breath. Phillip was dead, but her house looked normal. Everything should look different somehow. She proceeded into the kitchen, where she got the coffee out and put everything together in the newfangled coffeemaker that Sandra had gotten her for Mother’s Day.

  After she turned it on, Erma leaned heavily on her cane as she walked to the kitchen table and sat down. Carefully leaning the cane up against the side of the table, she put her head on her arms and wept.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Phillip Parker’s house was three stories on stilts, including the master bedroom suite and bath on top, from which he supposedly fell. Furniture groupings sectioned off the main floor. Guest rooms filled the second floor.

  Kitty and Raymond huddled in a conversation pit area. Several large leather sofas ringed a huge, square, marble coffee table. As Sandra approached, Raymond whispered to Kitty. She sat up, wiping her eyes. She was a big-breasted blond who engaged in weight training. Although she was quite beautiful, Sandra thought Kitty would be more appealing if she’d let her hair go natural and shed some of the makeup. Now, Kitty was sans cosmetics. Dark rings encircled her red, swollen eyes. Raymond didn’t look great either. Even with his glasses, it was easy to see that he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep.

  “Looks like I’m cooking,” Sandra said. “Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. Anything else and you fix it yourself.” She studied both their faces for a moment. “Want some?”

  “I guess so,” Raymond said. “If it’s no trouble. You, dear?” he said to Kitty.

  “I don’t know if I could eat anything,” she said and began sobbing again.

  Raymond pulled her to him. “A couple of eggs for her, Sandy.”

  “Okay. Where’s Lizzie?” she asked as she headed toward Carruthers.

  Raymond peered over Kitty’s head. “In one of the second-floor bedrooms. Stuart checked on her earlier, but she was so hysterical he couldn’t deal with it, so he just closed the door. I doubt if she’ll eat anything.”

  “Okay. I’ll look in on her when everything’s finished.” Without getting close to Carruthers, she called to him. “Bubba, you want some scrambled eggs and bacon?”

  He looked at Sandra and said, in a slow, labored monotone, “Yeah, I guess so, Miss Sandra. You want me to cook it?”

  Feeling repulsed at the thought of his hands on her food, Sandra said, “No, thanks. I’ve got it covered. I’ll holler when it’s ready.”

  She went back into the kitchen and checked on the bacon. It was creepy how everyone seemed to be in shock. Good thing Stuart and she weren’t in what she called “the sleeping together publicly” stage of their relationship, or she would have slept there and been acting strange, too. As she pulled a carton of extra-large eggs and some cream from the refrigerator, it occurred to Sandra that each person probably wondered which one of the others had killed Phillip. She wondered, too. If there hadn’t been any way for an intruder to gain entry to the house, it had to be one of them.

  Sandra broke open a dozen eggs, beat them, and dumped them into a large frying pan. In between stirs, she toasted bread and piled it high on a plate. When the eggs were almost cooked, she turned off the flame and gave them another stir.

  “I feel a lot better,” Stuart said as he entered the kitchen. />
  “Good, you can finish up. I’m going up to see Lizzie.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. She’s not fit to talk to.”

  She grimaced. “I can’t just leave her there. I’ll be back in a few minutes to eat with you.”

  Tapping lightly on the door to the bedroom Stuart had pointed out, she called Lizzie’s name several times. Getting no response, she tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. Lizzie lay on a queen-sized bed in the dark, a washcloth draped over her eyes. The room had a too-familiar sour smell. It reminded Sandra of the aftermath of drunken college parties.

  “Lizzie, it’s Sandy. All right if I come in?”

  Lizzie muttered something unintelligible.

  Sandra closed the door behind her. “Let me freshen this for you.” She took the washcloth from Lizzie’s forehead into the bathroom and ran cold water over it. On the opposite side was another door. Opening it, she saw it was another bedroom with another queen-sized bed, dresser, TV, clock radio, and a lamp on a night table. The bed was neatly made. An overnight bag rested on the floor next to the door. Who had spent the night in the adjoining room? Stuart? She brushed aside a twinge of jealousy. She didn’t know what had happened the night before, but it was unlikely that Lizzie had been contemplating throwing over multi-millionaire Prince Phillip for her Stuart. Yes, she did think of him as hers. And she wondered why Lizzie was in one of the downstairs bedrooms instead of upstairs in the master suite.

  Taking the washcloth back to Lizzie, Sandra folded it into a rectangle and placed it over Lizzie’s eyes. Lizzie’s pale face and skin seemed more wrinkled than usual. Her nose and chin were red. Her strawberry-colored hair was so matted that it looked like flowerless pigweed. She wore a silk teddy and was covered only partially by a sheet.

  Sandra straightened the bedclothes and folded the coverlet at the bottom of the bed. Pulling up a chair, she spotted a bottle of vodka on the floor within arm’s reach. She realized that the glass of clear liquid on the nightstand was not water. “Do you want to talk?”