The Unraveling of Violeta Bell mm-3

by C. R. Corwin

  Dale Marabout asked the first question. “All these years you didn’t know your brother was still alive? Is that right?”

  Said Prince Anton, “I thought he’d drowned himself.”

  Gabriella asked her first question. “What was Petru like as a boy?”

  “He was a wonderful big brother,” said the prince. “He teased me, of course. But not as much as most younger brothers get teased.”

  Gabriella followed up. “How exactly did he tease you?”

  “Knocked my toys about. Pinched my buca when we were saying grace at the dinner table.”

  “Buca meaning backend?”

  The prince nodded and spelled the word for her. “B. u.c.a.”

  Asked Dale, “So you never knew he had a sex change operation?”

  “Like I said, I thought he’d drowned.”

  Asked Gabriella, “Was he a good student?”

  “Our parents insisted that we both be good students.”

  “Was he athletic?” she asked. “Did he play sports in school?”

  “We both played tennis and football,” said the prince. “Soccer you’d call it. And we both loved swimming and boating. We spent our summers on the island. So, we’d better.”

  Asked Dale, “So it’s feasible that he faked drowning and then easily swam to shore?”

  “There’s no such thing as an easy swim in the St. Lawrence,” said the prince. “Not out in the current where he left the boat.”

  “But he was capable of swimming to shore?” Dale asked more firmly.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you and your brother have a happy childhood?” Gabriella asked. “Your parents treated you well?”

  “Poppy was quick with the strap if we talked back or shirked our duties, and mama was a stickler for etiquette. We were royals, after all, but no two boys had better parents.”

  Asked Dale, “Any hint that your brother wished he was your sister?”

  “I never caught him trying on mama’s delicates, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  The interview went on like that forever. Dale asking hardball questions about Petru’s disappearance and sexual orientation. Gabriella lobbing softballs. Out in the newsroom, the desks were filling up and keyboards were starting to click. The pace would pick up little by little throughout the afternoon, with total bedlam breaking out just about the time when the rest of the city was going home for supper.

  “Was there an expectation when you were growing up that the Romanian throne would actually be restored?” asked Gabriella.

  “Yes,” said the prince. “There was real hope. Not only that the Communists would be booted out and the monarchy restored, but that the Romanian people would come to their senses and choose us Clopotars over King Michael’s clan, those damn interloping Hohenzollerns.”

  “So in your minds, there was a real expectation that Petru would be invited home and crowned king?” she asked.

  The prince gruffly corrected her. “The expectation was that my father would be invited home and crowned king. Petru’s reign would come many years later.”

  Gabriella apologized. “Of course.”

  Dale was ready with his next question. “Did your brother like girls?”

  “What’s not to like about girls?” the prince asked back, winking at me as he did.

  Dale tried again. “Did he date in high school?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I yowled at Dale, remembering the nerdy mess he was when he came to work at the paper. “You didn’t even date in college.”

  “If my brother did consider himself a woman, then he wouldn’t have been a homosexual if he were attracted to boys,” the prince said calmly. “He would have been just as hetero as you, assuming that you are, Mr. Marabout.”

  Dale winced. Everyone else laughed. I knew that Dale had to ask those kinds of questions. That reporting wasn’t a popularity contest. But I was sure hoping the interview would take a less contentious direction.

  Gabriella gave me hope. “Why exactly did you come to Hannawa?”

  Prince Anton’s mustache lifted, like a Canada goose taking wing. Apparently he was as pleased with the question as I was. “I suppose for many reasons. All under the rubric of being a good brother. Doing the right thing, as you Americans would say. I want to visit her resting place. Pay my respects and make sure all the final expenses are taken care of. And I certainly want to help the police find the murderer. Not for revenge, mind you. To make sure no one else is harmed.” He stopped and chuckled to himself. Winked at me again. “I did not come here to strangle Maddy for stealing my teaspoon and pipe.”

  Dale turned his attention-not to mention his pen and reporter’s notebook-to me. “You stole the prince’s teaspoon and pipe?”

  I had no choice but to explain. Both Dale and Gabriella scribbled furiously. Tinker made sure his recorder was getting my every word. “And so when the DNA report came back showing that Prince Anton was Violeta Bell’s brother, I immediately wrote him a letter apologizing for my-”

  Prince Anton helped me out. “For your dexterity,” he said. “Which brings me to another reason for my visit. To personally thank Maddy for caring so much about the truth. Even though she suspected I might be the one who did poor Violeta in. To protect the throne for myself. For all I know she still suspects that.”

  Before I could lie and assure him that I had no such suspicions, he went on with his long list of reasons for visiting. “I also wanted to see the city where my sister made her life. Meet her friends. Do my best to understand why everything happened as it did.”

  It was a wonderful bittersweet moment quickly despoiled by Dale’s next question. “Your sister ran a rather far-flung fake antique ring. Did he, she, or whatever exhibit any larcenous tendencies as a kid?”

  Before the prince could answer, Gabriella asked the same question in a more sensitive way. “She lived such a respectful life. So many people loved her. I can’t understand why she would resort to selling fakes instead of asking for help.”

  The prince started to answer. “Well, Miss Nash-”

  Dale stopped him. “How about answering my question?”

  Gabriella’s eyes narrowed. They’d been tripping over each other’s questions for a good hour. “It’s the same question,” she growled.

  Dale slowly swung his head and shoulders toward her. He was equally peeved. “Except that I asked it the right way.”

  “A question does not need to be disrespectful,” she snapped back.

  Dale was suddenly Mount Vesuvius, a trembling lump about to blow. “But a question does need to be a question! Not an admission of your own befuddlement!”

  “Befuddlement?”

  “Baffled. Bewildered.”

  “I know what it means, you condescending dick!”

  “Condescending dick?”

  “Patronizing. Penis.”

  Prince Anton shouted at both of them. “For God’s sake! Will the two of you button up?” Tinker hit the stop button on his recorder. The two reporters shriveled. I-well, I yawned.

  The prince now answered both of their questions. “Petru never stole anything when he was a boy, Mr. Marabout. Except his brother’s heart. As to Gabriella’s question about why in later life she resorted to selling fake antiques, I can only tell you what Maddy and the police have told me. She sought to maintain her lifestyle. And she became desperate. And little by little got in over her head. There is no pride more self-destructive than the foolish pride of a royal.”

  Gabriella then asked what I considered a very good question. “Was Petru always interested in antiques?”

  Apparently the prince considered it a good question, too. He gave her the best quote of the interview. “We Clopotars are antiques ourselves. It must have seemed a natural enterprise for her. The family business as it were.”

  The interview went on. Both Dale and Gabriella minding their Ps and Qs. I’m not sure of every question they asked because-well, good gravy-because I fell asleep.

/>   It was the prince who gently shook me awake. “Maddy,” he whispered. “You’re snoring.”

  22

  Tuesday, August 29

  Monday hadn’t been an Ike night. But I was still pooped the next morning. After that three-ring circus in Tinker’s office with Dale Marabout, Gabriella Nash, and Prince Anton, I’d spent another hour bringing Dale up to speed on my investigation. Then I’d spent a couple of hours with Gabriella, helping her get “a mental picture” of the story she had to write for Wednesday. Then I’d gone back to the morgue and marked up the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday papers, all the while keeping an eye on Eric as he grudgingly researched Phil McPhee’s many marriages. After that I’d been forced to have dinner with Bob Averill, Detective Grant, and Prince Anton at Stu Kenly’s Grille, the city’s swankiest restaurant. We’d dined on the street-side patio, they in their coats and ties, me in my tea-stained Tweetie Bird tee, the tiny white Christmas lights twinkling above us in the trees, the New Age music crackling through the speakers hidden in the geranium pots, the wrought iron fence that couldn’t have stopped a runaway tricycle let alone any of the cars and trucks zipping back and forth on West Apple. Then I’d foolishly walked next door with them to Lenny’s Pub for beer and stale nachos. Then thanks to the industrial-strength pee stain James left on my dining room rug-a well-deserved reward for my irresponsibility-I hadn’t crawled into bed until one in the morning. And now it was nine o’clock Tuesday morning and thanks to my big mouth, I’d promised to spend the day showing Prince Anton our fair city.

  Prince Anton was waiting for me at the paper, in the small, dusty downstairs lobby that immediately lets visitors know they have not exactly entered the hallowed halls of The New York Times. The prince was wearing white slacks, a blue-checked gingham shirt, argyle socks and sandals. His shirt pocket was bulging with a pipe and tobacco pouch. “I’m raring to go!” he announced.

  I wanted to curl up on the little sofa and take a long nap. Instead I yawned and gave him our first destination. “There’s a wonderful little coffee shop just down the hill,” I said. “Best caffeine in town.”

  And so we got in my Dodge Shadow and drove down to Ike’s. Ike shook the prince’s hand and said the most inane thing: “Now don’t go thinking you can steal Maddy away to that island of yours. She’s already got a handsome prince.”

  “I shall resist the temptation,” the prince promised.

  We took our tea and muffins to my favorite table by the front window. There was a rumpled copy of The Herald-Union waiting for us, paid for by someone else and read by who knows how many people that morning. I’d already read Dale Marabout’s story on Violeta’s royal past at home, of course, and the prince had already read it at his hotel, but we both took turns reading it again.

  Of all the facts Dale had stuffed into his story, the most important to me were these:

  Chief Homicide Detecitve Scott “Scotty” Grant refused to speculate about what impact the revelations about Bell’s past might have on the murder investigation. “It could be important, or simply a bizarre turn of events that doesn’t have anything to do with anything,” he said, after meeting with the prince Monday at The Herald-Union.

  For his part, Prince Anton promised to assist the police in any way he could. “It’s good to know what happened to my brother after all these years,” he said. “And it’s good to know that he, as Violeta Bell, had a good life here. But the fact is, a member of my family was murdered. And the one who did it remains free as a goose.”

  “Be honest with me Maddy,” the prince said, as he frowned his way through the sports pages. “So Maddy, do you think you’ll ever find the murderer?”

  “Actually, I think I’m pretty close.”

  “I hope not as close as the width of this table.”

  I smiled at him without answering.

  We finished our tea and muffins and drove out West Apple to Puritan Square, the fancy-schmancy shopping center where Violeta’s antique shop had been located. The storefront she’d occupied for thirty years now housed Madame La Femmes’ Fine Frocks and Accessories. The prince stood on the sidewalk outside and absorbed every brick. “Would you like to go inside?” he finally asked. “Perhaps I could buy you something. To show my appreciation.”

  No way in hell was I going to let him do that. “I’m afraid my handsome prince would flip his crown,” I said. I did, however, let the prince buy me a two-dollar sugar cookie at the little bakery two doors down.

  I drove him around Hemphill College, my alma mater, Gabriella’s too, and then circled around through the parkway to Meriwether Square. I pointed out Speckley’s to him. He talked me into going inside for an iced tea. By noon I’d shown him everything there was to see in Hannawa. Told him more uninteresting history than any brain could absorb. Then we drove out Hardihood Avenue to the Carmichael House for lunch with the Queens of Never Dull.

  It was at Gloria McPhee’s again, and again her husband, Phil, did the cooking. In honor of the Romanian prince, Phil first poured us goblets of wine made in Transylvania. He pronounced the name of the wine like Bela Lugosi, “Feteaca Regala!” Then he served us “ supa cu brinza, ” which I found quite delicious until he told us that the stuff floating on top of the soup was grated sheep’s cheese. Then he served us roast duck and baked apples. Then he served us walnut strudel, which he admitted he’d bought at the supermarket.

  Needless to say, I was stuffed. And more tired than ever. Still I couldn’t wait for Gloria to take us upstairs to Violeta’s condo.

  It was on the top floor, with an incredible view of downtown Hannawa and the abandoned factories beyond. All of the walls were painted a pale rose. Beautiful Persian carpets were placed here and there on the shiny hardwood floors like colorful islands. The furniture and bric-a-brac looked incredibly expensive. Knowing Violeta’s penchant for fakery diminished my awe a little, of course.

  Gloria had the key to the condo, so certainly she’d been there since the murder. And by the way Kay and Ariel were yakking about their upcoming Mediterranean cruise, they’d been up there since the murder, too. Prince Anton and I, however, walked around in silence, touching everything we could.

  The prince motioned for me to join him at the mantle. He was examining a fuzzy old snapshot in a small, oval frame. “See that, Maddy,” he whispered, on the cusp of crying. “That’s Petru and me when we were boys. In the backyard. Right about where you and I had tea. Poppy took it, I think.”

  I squinted at the photo. The two boys were wearing matching blazers and ties and short pants. I pointed to the shorter of the two boys, the one who was smiling. “That’s you?”

  “Cute as a button, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes you were.” I gently blew the dust off the picture frame. “It looks like she kept a special place in her heart for you.”

  “It does, doesn’t it.”

  Gloria interrupted us. “So, Prince Anton,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “What are you going to do with all this stuff?”

  He surveyed the living room. He seemed genuinely perplexed. “There will be a few legal hoops to jump through, I gather, proving to the courts I’m the rightful heir. But after that, well, I suppose there will be a few things I’ll want. Family things. Personal things.” He picked up the little picture. “But do make a list of anything you’d like. You and the others. I’ll do what I can.” He put the picture in his jacket pocket. He grinned. Impishly. “I don’t suppose the American judicial system would object, do you?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  We poked our heads in the bedrooms, the closets, the kitchen, all three bathrooms. Then we left.

  I dropped the prince off at his hotel. He wanted to swim and work out in the gym. Check his e-mails and take a nap. We had another long evening planned. I desperately needed a nap, too. Not to mention some Pepto-Bismol. But I had work to do. I drove back to the paper. I called Phil’s McPhee’s second wife. The phone rang and rang.

  Eric had also found Phil’s first wife
, his old high school sweetheart, Lois Palansky. Unfortunately he’d found her in Greenlawn Cemetery. After Lois divorced Phil in 1955-back then you had to have a reason to divorce somebody and the reason was adultery-she’d married a local Pepsi-Cola driver. She’d had three children. She’d died of lung cancer when she was fifty-seven.

  Phil’s second wife was still alive and living in a retirement community for well-to-do Lutherans, just forty miles away in Hiram Falls. She’d divorced Phil in 1962, after just three years of marriage. The divorce was granted on the grounds of his “utter desertion of the marriage.” She remarried in 1965 and had a couple of children.

  Finally someone picked up the phone.

  “Is this Elaine Shoaf?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She sounded like a mouse with laryngitis.

  “My name is Maddy Sprowls. I’m with The Hannawa Herald-Union.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said. “And I’m not trying to sell you a subscription. I’m the librarian. I’d like to talk to you about Phil McPhee.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “For research purposes. Nothing will appear in print.”

  “Did he die or something?”

  “He’s fine.”

  Elaine suddenly sounded like a rat with laryngitis. “That’s too bad.”

  “But he may or may not be in a little trouble.”

  “I hope so.”

  I took that as permission to ask my questions. “I’m interested in your divorce. He deserted you, is that right?”

  “His girlfriend was pregnant.”

  “Gloria Gillis?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Was she also your real estate agent?”

  “That’s how he met her.”

  I recapped. To make sure I had it right. “You and Phil were married in 1958. His second. Your first. Gloria was your agent when you bought your house on South Balch Street. He started having an affair with her. Got her pregnant. Deserted you. You divorced him and he married her two months before the baby was born.”