C Corwin - The Unraveling of Violeta Bell

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.”

“Very noble of him, wasn’t it?” Elaine hissed.

I asked her a touchy question. “Did you know why his first wife divorced him?”

“I’m embarrassed to say I did.”

My next question was downright rude. “Were you dating him when he was still married?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So somebody else was the other woman.”

“Knowing what I know now, I’d say there were probably several somebody elses.”

She’d gotten to the point of my call before I did. “So, in your judgment Phil McPhee is-how should I put it-pathologically adulterous?” I asked.

She quickly let me know that was not the way I should have put it. “I’m not one of those who consider fooling around an addiction.”

“I’m with you,” I said. “I was married to a fooler-arounder, too.”

My flippancy didn’t go over well with her either. “You’re sure none of this is going to become public? I’ve been happily remarried for a long time.”

“This is just between you and me,” I assured her. “I’m not even writing anything down.” Which was the truth.

She softened again. “It was not an easy time,” she volunteered. “You can imagine finding out that the friendly real estate agent who sold you your first little house was carrying your husband’s baby. When you hadn’t had one yourself yet.” She analyzed what she’d said. “It’s not that I was jealous. When I realized what a bum I’d married, I was glad it was her and not me with a baby in her belly.”

“I understand.”

Elaine swallowed her self-conscious giggle. “I haven’t thought about this stuff for years. My marriage to George is just so good. We have the two of the best kids.”

I was not interested in how happy she was. I was yawning like the bears in the zoo and all the food and drink I’d had in the last twenty-four hours was beginning to take its collective toll on my nether regions. “Phil and Gloria have been married for a long time. Do you think he’s still that way?”

She didn’t have to think for a second. “Of course he’s still that way.”

“Once a bastard always a bastard? Or do you know for certain?”

“Hannawa isn’t the biggest city in the world,” Elaine said. “Over the years I’ve had to warn three or four women about him.”

My heart wasn’t in it-not to mention my mind-but I got busy marking up the paper. At five on the dot I headed for the elevator. I pushed the button for the lobby.

Was I surprised that Barbara Wilburger might be having an affair with Phil McPhee? Not in the slightest. First of all, people of every disposition and description have affairs. And I’d picked up on a couple of signs that first day Gabriella and I met the professor at her mother’s condo. They were small, incongruous signs to be sure, but revealing as hell in hindsight. One was the little BMW convertible she’d sped off in. Not your typical professor’s car. But it was the kind of toy someone trying to break out of a life-long rut might buy. The other thing that struck me was her wristwatch. It was old and gold and obviously expensive. Not the utilitarian timepiece you’d expect to find strapped to the wrist of a woman like Barbara Wilburger. I’d asked her if it was a family heirloom. She’d said it was a gift. From a friend. It’s doubtful that anyone who knew Barbara well enough to be called a friend would give her a watch like that. And Barbara would never wear a watch like that unless it came from a very special friend. One she wanted to keep. A lover. And if it were a gift from Phil McPhee, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’d bought that watch from his other lover, one Violeta Bell. Or that the watch was a fake.

Prince Anton and Detective Grant were waiting for me in the lobby. So was Gabriella. The four of us waited another ten minutes for Weedy. Just as I was about to call upstairs to the photo department to see where in the hell he was, he jiggled down the stairs with his camera equipment dangling from his shoulders and a cellophane bag of Cheez-its dangling from his clenched teeth. “Orry-ooh-eep-ooh-aiting,” he said.

Outside, we piled into the long, black police van Detective Grant had requisitioned for our outing. “I feel guilty just riding in this thing,” I said, as we drove off.