C Corwin - The Unraveling of Violeta Bell

“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.”

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.”