C Corwin - The Unraveling of Violeta Bell

“Actually well before that happy day,” he said, also joking but not joking. Then he turned into a teddy bear. “Look, Maddy, I don’t think you’re going to be the one finding the murderer this time-the gods do owe me this one-but your interference in the case has already done a lot of good.”

“Good? I haven’t discovered diddly.”

“But you have, Maddy,” he said. “You discovered who Violeta Bell really is. Or really was, I should say. And you found out what actually happened to the prince’s brother. He’ll be grateful as hell. Probably fall head-over-heels in love with you and whisk you away to some smelly old castle in Transylvania.”

It’s always fun sparring with Scotty Grant on the phone. Especially when I get the last jab. “So, while I’m writing my guess-who-your-brother-was letter to the prince, you’ll be following up on your other much-better leads?”

“That’s my plan.”

“Including which one of those two dead husbands was Violeta having an affair with?” I asked. “And whether they’re really dead?”

I’m sure if a cringe made a noise, my ear would have been ringing like the Liberty Bell. “Actually, when I went over the list I counted three husbands,” he said.

“You’re counting the ninety-seven-year-old?”

Thursday, August 17

Dear Prince Anton,

Thank you so much for your hospitality the other day. And for the autographed photograph. Given that I showed up at your door like a beggar, you didn’t have to be so kind. You were truly a gentleman.

Sorry to say, I was not exactly a lady. When you weren’t looking, I stole one of your teaspoons and then one of your pipes. I’ll return both when I get them back from the police.

I gave them to the police to have your DNA checked. Not because I doubted your royal lineage, mind you, or suspected that you might be somehow involved in Violeta Bell’s death. I just wanted to see if Miss Bell was truly a member of the Romanian royal family, as she claimed before her murder.

As it turns out, you and Miss Bell are siblings.

It’s all very complicated, but the coroner’s autopsy found that Miss Bell had undergone a sex change operation. Which means your brother faked his death and then sometime afterward had the aforementioned surgery.

I realize that this startling news will be hard for you to believe. And while it would be impolite to discuss the details of my research into the life and death of your brother/sister in this letter (some of those details are a little on the disappointing side, I’m afraid) I will be more than happy to share what I’ve learned with you, should you be interested.

Dolly Madison Sprowls

Head Librarian

The Hannawa Herald-Union

Saturday, August 26

Ike and I arrived at the Salapardis’ at six. The invitation was for five. We parked on the street and hiked up the winding asphalt drive toward the house. It was one of the biggest houses in Yellow Creek Township. Which was saying a lot. Yellow Creek is where Hannawa’s new money lives. In houses so showy that even the old money shakes its head.

Most of the new homes in Yellow Creek are fanciful reproductions of the golden past-plantation-style colonials, pointy-roofed Tudors, Victorians with gobs of gingerbread. The Salapardis’ house, however, was quite modern. It was comprised of a dozen or so glass boxes stacked this way and that like the pieces in a Jenga game.

The invitation said it was going to be a backyard barbecue, so we followed the cobblestone walk around the side of the house. “I’ll probably be the only black person here,” Ike grumbled.

I squeezed his arm. “And I’ll probably be the only Democrat.”

He smiled at me the way I wished he wouldn’t. I smiled back at him the way I wish I wouldn’t. We had a way of grounding each other-unfortunately. “Don’t worry, Sweetie,” he said. “I’m sure the serving staff will be Democrats.”

We laughed our way toward the enormous flagstone patio behind the house. Just below the patio was a swimming pool. Below the pool was a horse barn and fenced-in riding ring. Below that was a long sloping lawn sprinkled with dogwoods and blue spruce. Below that was a lake lined with yellow willows.

We climbed the stone steps to the patio. Both of our fears proved to be unfounded. Ike quickly counted three other black guests and I spotted one of the most prominent Democrats in the city, Ariel Wilburger-Gowdy. All-in-all there were maybe a hundred people there, dressed casually but expensively, mingling like a hive of honey bees. Bustling among them were those Democratic servers Ike had joked about, in crisp white shirts and black slacks, some balancing big trays of finger food on their palms, some toting wine bottles the size of artillery shells.

Jeannie Salapardi saw us and came running with her fishbowl-sized margarita. “Maddy! I’m so glad you could come.” She smooched the air a foot from my cheek. She stuck out her hand for Ike. “And you’re Mr. Sprowls?”

“So far I’m still Mr. Breeze,” he said. “Ike Breeze.”

“Well, Mr. Ike Breeze, don’t you let Maddy escape,” she said. “She’s one of a kind.”

“Thank God for that,” said Ike.

Now Jeannie got as serious as her margarita would allow. “Even though it didn’t work out exactly as we wanted, Eddie and I are still grateful for your help. My husband, too.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Ike said.

“Ike’s a businessman, too,” I explained.

Jeannie pouted apologetically. “Then you know how it is. Work-work-work, 24/7. But I’m hoping he’ll be here later.”

Jeannie hurried off to welcome another couple coming around the corner. Ike and I headed for the lemonade.

That night’s party was for Eddie. Sort of a combined going away and going straight party. After several meetings with the prosecutor’s office, Eddie had agreed to plead guilty to a single charge of aiding and abetting. In exchange, he agreed to tell everything he knew about Violeta Bell’s fake antique business. That had led to the arrest of antique dealers in Tuckahoe, New York and Brattleboro, Vermont. Also arrested were a pair of talented furniture makers in Buncombe County, North Carolina, a whiz-bang metalworker in Mckeesport, Pennsylvania, and a crafty potter in Zanesville, Ohio.

The antique dealer in Tuckahoe confirmed that on the night of July 4, just four hours before Violeta Bell was murdered, Eddie was at his store unloading a shipment of just-made 19th century mantle clocks. The Tuckahoe Motor Inn confirmed that Eddie had checked in shortly before midnight and had watched one X-rated pay-per-view movie after another until dawn. Another establishment in that leafy New York City suburb, G.W. Moley amp; Son Auto Repair, confirmed that on July 5 a yawning man wearing a bright orange baseball cap paid in cash to replace the muffler on an old bread truck.

So that coming Monday Eddie French was going to court. To plead guilty and start doing the twenty-four months in state prison the prosecutor’s office promised him.

Eddie, by the way, wasn’t the only member of the French family to have a heart-to-heart with Detective Grant. His sister, Jeannie, confessed that she owned that bread truck Eddie used to deliver Violeta Bell’s fake antiques. “My brother was broke, as usual, and was already driving his cab on a suspended license,” she explained. “He was crying how he could get his life in order if he only had a truck. So I made sure he had one.” She bought the old Hausenfelter truck from Richfield amp; Sons. She paid a mechanic at her husband’s Mitsubishi dealership to pry the identification number off the dashboard. She bought new license plates and stickers for it. She made sure it was insured. She filled it with gas and had it parked behind her brother’s apartment.