Fit for a Queen (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 1)

by Nicole Burnham

  “Huh.”

  Annoyance flitted across her face. “I know fashion doesn’t sound important, but there’s commercial value involved in outfitting someone as high profile as a queen. There’s also a sizable amount of money in Queen Aletta’s personal items. Do a search online and you’ll be gobsmacked by what some of Princess Grace or Princess Diana’s belongings have fetched on the auction block. A bookmark. A perfume bottle. Even a toothbrush holder. I could eat for two months on what someone paid. But something a queen wore? That appeared in photographs? That’s worth real money.”

  “And worth stealing.”

  She spread her hands, point made.

  “All right. So if you had to place a bet on how a counterfeit item got into Queen Aletta’s closet—let’s assume there are multiple counterfeit items—what would you say?”

  A frown notched the space between her brows. “You’re the security expert.”

  “Humor me. You were brainstorming innocent ways it might happen. What are the not-so-innocent ways?”

  Royce raised the carafe and divided what was left of the wine between them. Her eyes followed his movement. She remained quiet for a long moment, then said, “The odds are against the queen or her staff purchasing a counterfeit item, let alone multiple counterfeit items. So, if I had to bet, I’d say she owned the original and that someone replaced it with a fake.”

  In his brain, a gun cracked again. It was the scenario that had come to his mind, too, but he remained silent, giving Daniela a slight nod of encouragement to continue.

  “About nine months before she passed away, Queen Aletta carried the bag when she attended an outdoor lunch with a professional therapists’ group as part of National Mental Health day. There were several images taken in daylight. I couldn’t see the bag’s interior, obviously, but I could see the handle. The stitching didn’t match what I saw in her closet. It was the designer’s original thread color.”

  “That could have been a lighting issue, even with outdoor photographs. Not that I doubt you, just playing devil’s advocate.”

  “I thought the same thing. However, this particular handbag has feet to protect the leather. Like this.” She lifted her own bag and showed him four metal dots on the bottom. “In the photos, I could see that the feet on the queen’s bag were scuffed. One had a chip in the finish that was visible when I zoomed in. The bag that’s currently in the closet has no scuffs on its feet. They’re pristine. The first time Queen Aletta was photographed with the bag was six years before her death, and she was photographed with it on at least three other occasions that I could find. Given that usage, the scuffs make sense. My guess is that someone with access to the closet swapped the counterfeit for the original after that National Mental Health Day event. But I wouldn’t stake my job on whether it happened before the queen passed away or in the days between her death and when the king secured the room.”

  “You did a lot of research on this.”

  “Not research that proves anything, unfortunately.” She lifted a shoulder. “If I wanted to narrow down a time frame on a possible switch, I could ask Helena when the queen last carried the bag, but at this point, I don’t want to make her curious.”

  Royce grinned over his glass. “You’d make a decent investigator.”

  “I make a better assistant.”

  A noise at the front door had Daniela looking in the mirror. A lean man with aviator sunglasses and hair the color of black shoe polish entered and said something to Basia. She asked him a question, apparently confirming his order number, then strode toward the kitchen. The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket and checked the screen as he waited.

  Daniela ensured the customer was out of earshot, then said, “Another thing I learned during my phone call: the bag is one of a kind. A similar style was available for retail sale about seven years before the queen’s death, but only in the UK and at a price of over a thousand pounds. Given that price point and its limited production, and the fact the queen was photographed multiple times carrying her version of the bag, it would be quite valuable. Perhaps one of the most valuable in her collection.”

  Royce ran his fingers around the stem of his wineglass, thinking. “If the queen’s bag was custom made, it means the counterfeit bag would have been custom made, too. It couldn’t have been bought on the street and swapped for the real bag when the opportunity presented itself. It would have taken planning.”

  He couldn’t envision the undertaking. Too many steps, too much effort.

  She spread her hands at his look of doubt. “Think about art thieves. Often, they’ll outright steal a piece—grab it and go—but there have been instances where they’ve commissioned fakes to cover the theft of an original to delay discovery. This isn’t so different. For many people, fashion is art.”

  He had to concede the point. It wouldn’t be easy, but for the right person, a person with access to Aletta’s property, it was doable.

  “If more than one piece is involved, the profit could go into the millions, depending on the demand. That’s another reason I haven’t spoken to Prince Federico or King Eduardo yet. I wanted to do more research and see how extensive this is.” One side of her mouth lifted. “I also need to be confident in my findings. There was another handbag I thought was counterfeit my first day, but when I looked at it again yesterday, I realized it was fine. Absolutely the real deal. And there were two necklaces and a ring the king thought were missing, but they turned up at the bottom of one of the queen’s jewelry drawers.”

  Royce knocked back the last of his wine as she spoke. Basia hadn’t emerged from the kitchen with the customer’s order, but he appeared more agitated than the wait warranted, shifting his weight back and forth as he stared at the door to the kitchen. He huffed, then squatted and peered through the restaurant’s front window, as if checking on an illegally parked car, before turning back to the kitchen door.

  “Something wrong?” Daniela asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  He said no, but his gut told him yes. Not wrong, necessarily, but off. Street parking on Via Vespri was limited to two hours and there were no meters. It didn’t make sense for the guy to worry about being ticketed. There weren’t hydrants nearby, meaning he hadn’t left his car blocking one, and the parking spots for those who needed wheelchair accessibility were down the street, where a wide ramp was built into the sidewalk.

  Maybe he’d left a pet in his car.

  Royce shook off his suspicion and watched as Daniela wrapped a tendril of cheese around her fork. To change the subject, he asked, “So you went home for the weekend?”

  There was a hitch in her movement, but she nodded. “Helping my mother with a few things around the house. Thankfully, it’s an easy flight.”

  “You came back this morning?”

  “I did. She sent me with a loaf of zucchini bread, but I won’t eat any of it tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. I’ll still be full from this.”

  Daniela held her fork aloft, but before popping the cheesy bite into her mouth, she said, “Satisfy my curiosity. Where did you acquire the skills to run a painting business?”

  “You haven’t seen me paint yet. Who says I have skills?”

  “Anyone who watches you for five minutes can see it. You know what you’re doing.”

  “You’ve been watching me?”

  Her lips twitched, but she was unable to control her smile.

  “You work methodically, section by section,” she said after a moment. “You clean as you go. Your materials are pristine. That demonstrates care and patience.”

  “It demonstrates a healthy respect for Miroslav. And the Roscha sisters. I don’t want to hear about it from any of them.”

  That prompted a smile. “Maybe. But the palace is a landmark. King Eduardo wouldn’t have hired you unless he was certain you’d do a good job. Even if your primary task is to provide security, the king wouldn’t risk damage to the walls. You were also kind to the historian.”

  The observation
caught him by surprise, but not as much as when Daniela reached across the table and put her hand over his. Her fingers were long and elegant, her touch soft, but there was strength in her hands that evidenced a person used to hard work.

  “I heard you talking to her. It took skill to remove that wallpaper in a manner that would preserve it. Most contractors wouldn’t have been willing or able to do that.”

  He returned her smile, gratified that she’d noticed. “More patience than skill, but thank you.”

  She gave the back of his hand a light squeeze before she released it and reached for her wine. His gut tightened as he watched her. He loved being with her, simply enjoying dinner and listening to her talk. He might not understand fashion, but he understood her passion and appreciated her analytical mind.

  He envied men who spent all their evenings like this, ensconced over quiet meals with their partners, exchanging ideas and rehashing the events of the day. Watching the spark of interest in their partner’s eyes as they spoke, listening to the familiar cadence of a voice they’d heard express joy, frustration, and even ecstasy.

  Basia returned from the kitchen, sending the thought to the back of his mind. She told the waiting customer that his food was being packaged and would be out momentarily if he wished to pay. The man withdrew his wallet and opened it, paused, then raised his sunglasses to rest on top of his head so he could see the bills in the restaurant’s dim light. His motions were choppy with restrained irritation as he counted.

  Odd. The man’s order appeared to be for at least three or four people, yet he was paying in cash.

  Daniela pierced a green bean with the tines of her fork. “You didn’t answer my original question, you know. Where did you acquire the skills?”

  He frowned, tracking back the conversation until he realized she meant painting.

  “We moved frequently when I was a kid, which meant painting and updating several homes. My parents encouraged me to help. Of course, when I say encouraged, I mean that there would’ve been consequences if I hadn’t pitched in. With enthusiasm. I learned a few things along the way.”

  A knowing glint lit her eyes. “My parents are skilled at that kind of encouragement. I’m sure your help around the house was as enthusiastic as mine.”

  He grinned easily, though the customer at the door continued to draw his attention. There was something about the guy, something that didn’t add up. To Daniela, he said, “When I moved to San Rimini, I bought a flat that needed work. I learned a lot through trial and error. Learned more by watching videos and reading. Trying out…ah…experimenting with—”

  Royce’s breath caught as the customer raised his chin. He knew this man. Would have recognized him earlier if he hadn’t been wearing the sunglasses, which covered his distinctive eyes and obscured his cheekbones. Daniela frowned, then raised her head a notch so she could look into the mirror.

  “Keep right on eating and talking,” he told Daniela, keeping his voice low. “Whatever you do, don’t turn around. I need to make a call.”

  Chapter 18

  Royce’s relaxed smile stayed in place, but given the gravity with which he issued the order, he may as well have been James Bond instructing her to act normally at the same time he whipped out a gun.

  Daniela kept her smile in place, but whispered, “What is it?”

  “The man at the door is wanted by the Canadian government in connection with a case I worked recently. I need to let them know he’s here.” Royce kept his body in the same position, leaning forward as if they remained deep in conversation, but he withdrew a cell phone from his pocket.

  She took the hint, cutting her green bean to bite size and indicating with her eyes that she’d go along with what he instructed.

  “It’s Royce Dekker,” he said into the phone, his voice quiet but even. “Put me through to Jennifer Cavendish.” There was a pause. “Michael Davis, then. Ring him at home if you need to. It’s urgent.”

  Daniela continued to eat and sneak peeks into the mirror as Royce waited on the phone. Though anyone watching them would think all was well, she could feel the tension coiling in him. Whoever this man was at the restaurant door, he wasn’t wanted for shoplifting or skipping out on traffic tickets. Royce considered him dangerous.

  Behind them, the busboy emerged from the kitchen with a large bag, which he set on the counter near Basia. Basia glanced in the bag, checked the tag stapled to the side, then looked inside the bag again, this time with annoyance. She said something to the busboy, made a motion of apology to the customer, then escorted the busboy back to the kitchen.

  “Good,” Royce whispered as Basia and the busboy left the room, though more to himself than to Daniela. Into the phone he said, “Yes,” as whomever was on the other end picked up again. He said nothing, the lines on his forehead deepening as he listened.

  Daniela took a sip of her wine. As she returned the glass to its spot, she kept her chin down and looked through her lashes into the mirror to check on the man. His glasses remained on top of his head and he was squinting in their direction. Across from her, Royce lowered his head a fraction.

  “Now. Right now,” he said, then gave the address of the trattoria. She heard the person on the other end asking in a sharp voice whether the man was on foot or had come in a car and what he was wearing.

  “Unknown,” Royce said, his voice a notch lower with the man’s attention on them. “Dark jeans. Gray short sleeve T-shirt with black logo on the right side of his chest, but I can’t read it. Hair shorter than in the surveillance photos. Black athletic shoes. Adidas.”

  The man’s interest turned toward the takeaway bag on the counter. He lifted the slip attached to the top, as if checking the order, then blew out a hard breath.

  He shoved his glasses into place, grabbed the bag, and left.

  “He’s going,” Royce said, both to Daniela and to the person on the other end of the line. “I’ll follow to the door in case there’s a plate number.”

  To Daniela’s surprise, he pressed the phone into her palm as he rose. “An embassy official named Michael Davis should be on the line shortly. Tell him you’re my dinner companion at Trattoria Safina and that I believe I’ve spotted Delfino Del Prete. Tell Davis that the man didn’t wait for his order to be complete before he bolted. He may have ID’d me. I’m going to try to get a license plate number. Got all that?”

  “Davis. Del Prete. License plate.”

  Royce was gone before she said the last words, moving toward the trattoria’s front door faster than Daniela thought possible in the tight space. She turned to see him pause at the side of the front door, keeping out of sight as he peered through the glass, his mouth set in a determined line.

  “This is Michael Davis.”

  Royce’s eyes narrowed, then he slipped out to the street. Daniela stood and slowly walked to the front of the restaurant as she relayed the information to Michael Davis, then told him that Royce had gone outside.

  “Do you see them now?” Davis asked.

  “No.” She scanned the sidewalk as far as the narrow entry window allowed. “But I’m still inside and can only see two car lengths either direction.”

  “Stay put. Assistance is on the way. Anyone else in Safina’s?”

  “No customers, only the busboy, the waiter, and the hostess. They’re in the kitchen right now. I assume there are cooks in the back, too.” She turned to survey the countertop, then added that there weren’t any pending takeaway orders. “I haven’t heard the hostess take any phone calls for a while, so they may be done for the night.”

  He mulled that over for a breath. “I doubt Del Prete will return, but if he does, tell any staff who are present to go to the kitchen and stay there. All of you need to stay away from him.”

  There was a pause followed by scuffling sounds on the other end of the line, as if Davis had wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder as he tried to reach something. A man in a dark leather jacket and jeans rose from a bench across the street, the
movement attracting Daniela’s attention. She hadn’t noticed him before, but as he passed under a streetlight, he looked both directions, then crossed diagonally toward Trattoria Safina. When he reached the sidewalk, he picked up the pace, bypassing the restaurant and disappearing from view, heading the same direction Royce had gone.

  Davis came back on the line and thanked her for her assistance, saying he’d call back if he had more questions. Before he could hang up, Daniela asked, “Is Royce in danger?”

  Davis waited a beat too long to respond. “He knows what he’s doing, which is why he called me. He doesn’t take unnecessary risks.”

  Daniela thanked him, then ended the call so Davis could do what was needed on his end. She slid Royce’s phone into the rear pocket of her slacks at the same time Basia returned from the kitchen with a takeaway container of soup. The hostess started to apologize for the delay, realized the customer wasn’t there, and stopped short.

  “He needed to leave,” Daniela said, unsure how much she should reveal.

  “He left his minestrone.” She looked at the door as if willing the customer to return, then sighed. “I’ll take it back to the chef to keep it warm. He paid for it. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  Basia disappeared into the kitchen before Daniela could respond, then decided it was probably better that way. Royce’s failure to return concerned her. Checking a license plate should have taken seconds, not minutes.

  Surely if Del Prete had arrived on foot, Royce wouldn’t have followed him?

  A plastic bottle went spinning along the sidewalk in front of the door as if it’d been kicked, then the man in the dark leather jacket burst inside, his thin lips surrounded by angry creases. Royce was at the man’s back, his eyes dark and intense as his gaze lanced Daniela. “Go behind the counter and get down.”

  She rounded the counter and squatted without a second thought. Wedged between the wall and the counter, she maneuvered so her rear end was toward the street and she could see the tables. The counter blocked the chandelier’s light, giving her the sensation of being in a tunnel. Panic engulfed her, though it wasn’t generated by Royce’s commanding tone, or even the anger that radiated from the man in the leather jacket.