by Julie Sarff
“The police say the murder happened right before Tatum was seen coming down the stairs. Tatum was the last one to see him alive and she has no alibi for the ten minutes she was in the office with him because, of course, they were alone. From what the private investigator who works for me found out, Tatum claims Sean was killed after she left. Although the police are adamant that Sean was killed either during the time she was in the office with him, or very shortly afterwards. And there’s something else.”
I sit down on the edge of bed.
“The neighbor, the one who insiststhey argued a lot—he says he saw a woman coming and going from their apartment at all hours of the day. He thinks they were having some kind of a ménage a tr —”
I hold up a hand, “They were doing no such thing. There was no ménage.”
Emmeline Vance arches a suspicious brow. “Right, well you know them better than I do.”
“Yes, I do,” I agree solemnly. “And I can’t believe the police forced me to come back to New York as a person of interest only to turn around and arrest Tatum. Such a waste of time.”
“Yes, well,” Emmeline responds, “NYPD is as NYPD does. Anyway, there is one more thing. According to Mr. McKenzie’s will you are the inheritor of his cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water.”
What? My mouth falls open.
“I take it you didn’t know about the cottage?”
“I…no…I mean, we barely had money to rent an apartment larger than this. How could he afford a cottage in the Cotswold?”
“Oh good, at least you know where it is. Mr. McKenzie’s lawyer is mailing you the keys, so…” Emmeline Vance stands up and makes to leave. “Ms. Rue… Trudy, if I may, it sounds like there may be a lot of things you didn’t know about your ex. The cottage was purchased with cash about six month ago, so it’s yours free and clear.”
Well, I’ll be. She’s right. It does appear there are all kinds of things I didn’t know about my ex. How ironic that I was the one who introduced him to Bourton-on-the-Water and then unbeknownst to me, he ended up purchasing a house there.
As I show Emmeline out, I hope that I am done learning new things about my ex. Honestly, I’m not sure how many more revelations my poor heart can take.
Chapter 8
Since Tatum has been arrested for the murder, Emmeline works out a deal whereby I am free to leave the country as long as I continue to update Detective Puyn as to my whereabouts.
Before I leave for England, I visit Tatum. Her ex-husband, Tom Bouviers is refusing to post bail. In the city jail, I find Tatum looking dreadful. Her hair is uncombed and she wears a bright orange jumpsuit. We sit on opposite sides of a sheet of glass with a small mesh hole so that we can talk to one another. Tatum is so angry that a vein pulsates at her temple.
“I thought I’d never see the likes of you again, so much for our friendship,” she says heatedly.
I have no idea what she means by “so much for our friendship.” I think it goes without saying that if someone steals your life companion then the friendship is over.
“I came to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You don’t have a million in the bank so you can post my bail?”
“No,” I reply quietly. “I wish I did. Your mom called me. She’s so distraught.”
Tatum snorts and looks like she is about to stand up and walk away. “I want you to pack up all his clothes and other crap and get it the hell out of my apartment. What’s left of it anyway, the police took his computer and some files. You take what remains. Everything was left to you anyway.”
Is that what she is angry about? Surely, not. She has a hefty weekly income, she’ll be okay. Yet it’s surprising that she doesn’t have one kind word for Sean. What kind of a person is she? Maybe she really did kill him. Maybe she wanted his book royalties. Maybe she was going to move to his cottage in the Cotswold where she would lure some other poor man into a dismal relationship.
I nod my head to her request. “I’ll remove his clothes and things from your apartment first thing tomorrow.” When I rise to my feet to leave, Tatum doesn’t even say good-bye.
That afternoon, right after arranging for a flight back to the U.K, I receive a phone call. Alistair’s voice comes through in impeccably enunciated English, “Hold please, for Alex of the House of Windsor.”
These words make me smile. A Mozart concerto plays in the background as I lie on my bed, back propped against my pillow. The hem of a long dress of mine brushes my face. I wait five, ten, fifteen minutes and then doze off.
“Lizzie!” An enthusiastic voice finally answers. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to keep anyone waiting.”
My eyes fly open. “Not a problem, not a problem.”
“Lizzie, they tell me you are coming back to London in time for the weekend.” He says this with so much fervor that you would think we were long, lost best friends.
“Oh, and the Palace told me you want more photos and news files from when I was six.”
“Yes,” I reply. Actually that’s not correct. I have a lot of information on Alex up until age three, but for some reason the Palace hasn’t sent me anything after that, except for a few recent headshots. I asked Alistair for more information about Alex “in years four and five.” Yet I haven’t received anything; no diary entries, no memoirs written by members of the royal family, no photos, nothing. I’m beginning to wonder if the lack of information has to do with the Prince’s brother’s accident, which happened when Alex was four. There must have been a lot of turmoil in those years. Based on what I remember, the death of the young Prince Albert was investigated and reinvestigated. The case was finally closed two years later when it was ruled an accident.
I must admit that I have been googling Albert’s death in the last few days. I was only three when it happened, and like I said, I’ve never been much interested in anything in recent history. From the scant bits that I have had time to read online, I learned that Alex and his nanny were alone with Prince Albert in the playroom at their maternal grandmother’s. The nanny and the boys were just entering the room when the nanny noticed the open window. She moved to close it, but not before young Prince Albert scooted past. Unfortunately, there was no screen on the window and the rest is tragic, tragic history.
“Yes, yes, more photos and news from age six would be great.” I decide not to press for years four and five, when the investigations were under way.
“Say, Lizzie,” Alex continues sounding so warm and inviting it is as if we are the only two people on the planet. “I won’t be in London this weekend, so I’m wondering if you could catch a flight to Edinburgh. You see, I’m having a belated 29th birthday party with a few dozen friends at Holyroodhouse, and I would like to invite you to stay over.”
Is the Prince really inviting me to Holyrood Palace? This is such wonderful news that suddenly I am a grown woman jumping on my bed, bobbing up and down among my dress shirts.
“Holyrood Palace -- I never thought in my wildest dreams I would get to see it.”
“See it, stay over in it, the whole bit. The dinner starts at nine, but if you get there early, I’ll show you around.”
“You’ll show me around?”
“Sure.”
“All of it?”
“Absolutely.”
“The Mary, Queen of Scotts’ chambers?”
“Of course, they are exactly as she left them and very ominous.”
“And the room of evil Lord Darnley,”
“Absolutely.”
“And the bed of Bonny Prince Charlie?”
“Ostrich plumes and all.”
I stop jumping. The story of Holyroodhouse is the story of the Stewart Dynasty. They call it the most romantic of His Majesty’s Palaces, but the castle is seldom used. It is old and crumbling, and from the pictures I have seen, it looks a little eerie.
“Like I said, I have about a dozen or so friends coming. You won’t mind sharing a room with my cousin Rose will you?”
; “Actually I’d prefer it,” I reply quickly.
“Yeah, Holyroodhouse gets that reaction from people. It can be rather spooky. Not the kind of place you’d want to stay in by yourself. My brother Albert and I used to run into the apartments of Mary Queen of Scots at nigh whenever we could get away from Nanny Margery. We were good at stealing away from her. I remember hiding in Mary’s chambers behind a tapestry one night; my brother swore he saw the ghost of Bald Agnes. We tore out of there so fast, we ran right into Margery’s knees. I think we laughed so hard we fell down and rolled on the carpet. Nanny didn’t find it so funny. ”
“Hmm, poor Nanny Margery, you must have put her through her paces.”
“Yes, poor Nanny Margery,” he repeats and for some reason he sounds incredibly forlorn. I try changing the topic back to his party at Holyrood.
“What time should I be there?” I ask.
“Seven should be fine, gives me two hours to show you around before the guests show. Sorry, Lizzie, I’ve got to go. Have an appointment in Greenwich, and I’ll be late if I don’t get moving.”
I hang up the phone with a huge smile on my face. With lighting fast fingers, I dial my travel agent, who alters my ticket, changing my destination from London to Edinburgh.
Chapter 9
At eight o’clock the next morning, I have three boxes of Sean’s clothes piled in my Car to Go. Tatum left a message with her doorman Jerry, and he was good enough to allow me into their apartment. I spent a couple of hours shoving blazers, trousers, shirts, and socks into boxes.
I am making my way out of Tatum’s apartment, carrying a very heavy fourth box, with my bag slung over one shoulder, when a small, mousy man in 4B opens his door.
“Good morning,” he blathers, and glares at me with huge, owlish eyes. This must be the neighbor who mentioned the ménage. I have half a mind to set him straight, but why should I defend Tatum and Sean? I didn’t even attend Sean’s funeral. Meg told me it was very tasteful and that Tatum actually wore a small black hat with a veil, reminiscent of Jackie O.
“Good morning,” I reply to the nosy neighbor.
“Yet another woman coming out of that apartment,” he sighs mysteriously. I edge past him and ring for the elevator.
“You’re tall. Just like that other girl who came here all the time,” he murmurs, following me.
I have to hold my tongue. I stopped being a “girl” a while back. It’s such an archaic term for a woman in this day and age. I push the down arrow again and mumble, “Mmm.”
“That girl was always here, but only when Tatum was out.”
My head swivels. What did he say? If Tatum wasn’t home when the other woman was visiting then there couldn’t have been any kind of a ménage. I knew Sean wouldn’t do anything like that.
“The other girl had brown hair in a ponytail, and a green knapsack that had a gold dragon on it.”
“A green knapsack?” I ask. I know someone who has a green knapsack with a gold dragon. “Tamara Banks, that’s who you’re talking about?” I question.
He looks stymied.
“Well, I certainly hope you didn’t tell the police that you thought anything untoward was happening in that apartment. Tamara Banks and Sean worked together, she’s a leading archeologist. She has tenure at Princeton.”
The man stares up at me, he must be 5’3” at the most, and he is incredibly thin. He wears a grey jogging suit and slippers. I watch as the expression on his face changes from one of curiosity to one of petulance. Perhaps he thought Sean was having an affair? Perhaps I have burst his bubble by telling him that Sean was just meeting with a colleague?
“She deserves better,” the neighbor from 4B sniffs, “And tell me what would his archeologist friend be doing coming over when Tatum was out, and at all hours of the day?”
I make a sort of exasperated sound, like a tire letting out air. Fortunately, at that moment the elevator doors open. I climb in and press the button for the lobby. To my dismay, Tatum’s creepy little neighbor pops through the gap in the doors at the last minute.
“Once I overheard them having a huge argument,” he sniffs as the elevator heads for the lobby.
“Tamara and Sean?”
“Yeah, that tall girl and Mr. McKenzie. He followed her out to the hall. She was yelling, and he was trying to shush her.”
I don’t respond. I’m feeling really uncomfortable at this point. The elevator still has three floors to go.
“I opened my door to see what was happening and the two of them were having a tussle right in the hallway. He pulled at her bag and this amazing golden crown fell out.”
“A crown?”
“Well, what looked like a crown. It was a wreath with all the tiny golden flowers.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it was amazing, like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
“Are you sure it had flowers?”
“Yes, all kinds of flowers made out of gold. I thought maybe it was a stage prop at first. But by the way they both scrambled to put it back in the bag I thought it might be something more valuable.”
I ignore him and stare straight ahead.
“What’s that in your bag?” he asks, suddenly sounding shocked.
What an awful little man! Why is he looking in my bag?
“It’s meatloaf!” he shouts.
“It’s a tea cozy,” I snap, feeling quite hostile now.
Finally, the elevator emits a small “ding” of a noise. We have reached the lobby. The elevator doors part and I stampede out.
“Tamara Banks is a leading archeologist. She is working on a dig in Sardis. If she had an antiquity, I’m sure she was just showing it to a colleague. That’s all.” I project confidence as I say this, but inside I’m in turmoil. Only a fool would carry around a valuable antiquity in a knapsack; although, crazier things have happened. Harry Winston mailed the Hope Diamond to the Smithsonian. He thought the last thing a thief would suspect would be a diamond going through the U.S. Mail.
Yes, it is entirely possible that, in order to get an expert opinion on things, Tamara Banks might have brought something for Sean to examine. It could have been from her dig in Sardis or any of her other projects. Still, it seems strange that she would continue to visit Sean repeatedly.
I mull this over in my mind as I use the weight of my whole body to squeeze the fourth box of clothes into the miniscule Car to Go. The nosy neighbor from 4B stands in the doorway, watching me. Once again, I ignore him and shove at my box. As I shove, I think over what this odd man has told me. I think about how it really wasn’t that long ago, a little over a year now, that Sean and I were visiting Tamara’s latest dig site. The two of us were working together on a biography about King Croesus. We ended up putting that book on hold when Sean obtained the job of writing the biography of Prime Minister Morton. Suffice it to say, we never took it up again. He left me, and the Croesus biography went into limbo.
Damn it. Why can’t I get this box to fit?
I continue to try to jam the box into the tiny car, thinking that perhaps Sean had taken up working on the biography of Croesus without me. Is that why he and Tamara were having secret meetings? Or was it something more than that? There’s a fortune to be made selling antiquities on the black market.
Stop that. Stop thinking like that right now. Sean would never do anything illegal.
With a sigh, I finally manage to squeeze the box into the tiny automobile. Seconds later, I turn the key in the ignition and drive everything to my favorite Goodwill store in Brooklyn. Given my paltry income, this is where I’ve been shopping for my clothes for the last five years. I’ve spent so much time here that I’ve actually become good friends with the manager, Sue Potts. Turns out she’s a history buff. Occasionally, we take in the odd history lecture at Columbia University. Today I find her working away in the back room.
“These suits are beautiful. I’m sorry that your Sean died, but this donation will help raise a lot of money for good causes.” She smiles as
I deliver the fourth box.
“He wasn’t my Sean, not anymore,” I mumble. We chit chat about this and that for a while, before I return the Car to Go and head home. A few hours later, over a cup of Ramen noodles, my mind wanders. I imagine that the creepy neighbor back in 4B had a fantasy about being with Tatum. Maybe that’s why he was keeping tabs on everyone who went in and out of her apartment. I know the police believe that Sean was killed by a professional, but in my head, I can picture Mr. 4B sneaking up the back stairs of the art gallery and offing Sean in hopes of being the next Mr. Tatum Bouviers.
Who would have ever believed that mild-mannered Sean would have ever made any enemies?
Chapter 10
Back and forth I go across the Atlantic like a ping pong ball. The next day, I leave for London feeling slightly panicked. My flight departs two and a half hours late, and I worry that I’ll miss my tight connection to Edinburgh.
Sure enough, I do miss the flight. I stand in line at the ticket counter at Heathrow and wait patiently. When I reach the counter, an irate British Airways attendant informs me, “All flights to Scotland are being cancelled left and right. There’s terrible fog on the ground in Edinburgh. The earliest I can get you on a plane is tomorrow morning.”
“That’s not possible.” I shake my head. “I’ll pay for a seat in first class,” and to show I mean business, I whip out my company credit card.
The British Airways attendant frowns. She proceeds to spend a ridiculous amount of time typing on a computer. “Nothing. We’re not sure there will be any more flights into Scotland at all today. But I can get you on a 6:05 a.m. tomorrow, confirmed.”
A half an hour later, I rent the most powerful BMW they have at Avis. That’s the wonderful thing about renting a car in the United Kingdom. They never give you a powerless car like a Chevrolet or a Honda. They give you a state-of-the-art BMW with serious horsepower. I slap down the Schnellings’ credit card on the Avis counter without a second thought. I’m sure even tight-fisted Meg wouldn’t want me to miss out on a private tour of Holyroodhouse conducted by the Prince of Wales.