13
Wednesday, August 2
You’d think a pretender to a throne would live in a big old castle, wouldn’t you? At least a pretend castle. There are more than a few of each sprinkled throughout the Thousand Islands. But Prince Anton Alexandur Clopotar lived in a bungalow only slightly less modest than my own shoebox back in Hannawa. It was located on the western end of Wolfe Island, on the southern shoreline of Reed’s Bay. On Easy Lane, if you can believe it.
It was ten in the morning. A reasonable time, I figured, to show up uninvited at the prince’s door. I’d left James at the cottage. Not everybody likes dogs. Especially dogs that bump into things and shed like a Christmas tree. I parked on the lane, played with my hair in the rearview mirror until my adrenaline was pumping, and then followed the winding brick walk to the front porch. The bricks were slippery with moss.
Prince Anton came to the door on my fifth knock. I was expecting a Romanian accent-whatever that sounds like-but his voice was as sterile as any other Canadian’s. “Hope you didn’t have to knock too many times,” he said.
I was also expecting him to be dressed like he was in that picture on his website. That double-breasted blazer with the emblem on the pocket. That polka dot bow tie sticking out on each side of his many-layered chin. That big pipe clenched in his teeth. Instead he was wearing a baggy pair of shorts, old canvas shoes, and a pink oxford shirt with the tails hanging out and the sleeves rolled up above his droopy elbows. I extended my hand. “My name is Maddy Sprowls. I’m renting a cottage from Alana McWiggens. I wanted to meet you.”
He didn’t exactly kiss the back of my hand. He just shook it once and let go. “I hope you’re not one of those mystery writers.”
“Heaven’s to Betsy, no. I’m a librarian.”
He was not the least bit relieved. “It’s a busy morning for me.”
He wasn’t going to close the door in my face that easily. “I wanted to meet you for a purpose. Regarding your claim to the Romanian throne.”
You would have thought I’d showed up with a bundle of balloons and a huge check from Publishers Clearing House. “I am boiling water for tea-if you’ve got time to join me.”
“All the time in the world.”
He stood aside. In I went.
I’d already been surprised by his small house, casual dress, and accent-free voice. Now it was time to be surprised by his interior decorating skills. There were no dingy tapestries on the walls, no suits of armor, no stag’s head over a be-gargoyled fireplace. Instead his living room was decorated, if that’s the word for it, with the same lifetime of good buys you’d find in anybody’s house. The only sign of his purported royalty was a big blue, yellow, and red flag dangled from the ceiling on a pair of cheap plant hangers. “Is that the Romanian flag?” I asked, already knowing the answer. More than likely it was the same one he’s posed with on his website.
He hurried to the flag. He smoothed out the furls, like a sales girl in the drapery department. “This is the old royal flag,” he said. “The new one is a little simpler. No eagle, no tongue-wagging lions, no crown. Just the three stripes.” Then he rolled his eyes. “It is a little big for the room, isn’t it?”
I smiled graciously. “It’s a very cozy cottage. Right out of a magazine.”
“It’s been in the family forever,” he said. “Well, since we came to Canada. We had a more substantial house in Toronto, of course. But most summer weekends we were here.”
“I heard you live here year round now.”
“Oh, yes. Agnes and I retired here after my stint with the government. She just loved it. And so do I, of course.” His eyes danced about the room. No doubt he was savoring some special memory. “Anyway, I’m happy that you like it.”
I nodded that I did. “And the mansion in Toronto-your family still owns that?”
He laughed. “Mansion? I only said it was more substantial than this little box. My mother sold it and bought a condo on the lakefront after my father died.” He motioned me toward the kitchen. “We can have our tea by the water if you like.”
He poured a boiling saucepan of water into a beautiful bone china teapot. He placed it on a silver tray, along with a pair of matching cups and saucers, a sugar bowl and creamer. He emptied a canister of teabags on the counter. “I’m a Darjeeling man myself,” he said, picking through the bags. “But I’ve got at least one of everything.”
“I’m a Darjeeling man, too,” I said.
He lowered two teabags into the china pot. He picked up the tray and headed for the back door. “Too good a day to hide inside, wouldn’t you agree?”
He held the door open for me with his rump. We headed down his backyard toward the bay. There were plots of vegetables everywhere, surrounded with low chicken wire fences to keep out the rabbits or raccoons or whatever other short-legged beasts lived on the island. On a knoll just above his boat landing he had a small garden table and chairs. He poured my tea for me. It was so European. So aristocratic. No way was I going to tell him I grew up just over the border in LaFargeville. No way in the world.
“So Miss Sprowls-it is miss isn’t it?”
“Miss and Mrs. I’ve been widowed for some time.” Just as I wasn’t going to tell him that I was from LaFargeville, I wasn’t going to tell him that my husband had died long after I’d divorced his womanizing behind. I wanted him to relate to me. So he might just tell me things he’d never told anyone before.
He stirred a small mountain of sugar into his tea and then licked the spoon. “I’m a widower, too.”
“I saw your website.”
He brightened. “Did you, really? I don’t get anywhere the hits I thought I would.” He laughed. “Nobody gives a damn about grouchy old men who think they should be king these days.”
I took a sip of my tea. The sailboats and gulls made it taste that much better. “It’s a cruel world, isn’t it?”
“Actually, it’s a beautiful world.” He toasted me. Took a sip of his own. “If you read my website, then you know I’m quite content if the people of my homeland don’t want to restore the monarchy. But if they ever do vote to restore it, they ought to do it right.”
“Recognize the Clopotars.”
“The throne is rightfully ours.”
He was right, assuming that everything I read on the Internet about the Romanian royal bloodlines was true, of course. Prince Anton was the great-great-grandson of King Carol I. His greatgrandfather, Prince Anthony, to the king’s dismay, had married the daughter of a cavalry officer. When Anthony died unexpectedly, his bride-baby in her belly-was banished from the royal household. That baby was Prince Anton’s grandfather.
It was time to steer the conversation to my investigation. “As I recall, your great-grandmother, Princess Violeta, married a commoner after she was banished from the royal family.”
The prince became a bit defensive. “Gavril Clopotar. A very fine man.”
“He raised Prince Anthony’s son as his own,” I agreed.
“Yes, he did. A fine thing for him to do.”
I let him know I’d done my homework. “And Prince Anthony’s son-your grandfather, Constantin-should have followed Carol I as king. Instead, the throne went to a nephew of the king. And the living heir of that nephew is King Michael I. Who was kicked off the throne when the Communists took control in the forties. And if the monarchy were restored, Michael would get the throne back. Unless the parliament did the proper thing and recognized you.”
He toasted me again. “You are a diligent student.”
I was ready to let the cat out of the bag. “The truth is, I’m working on a murder investigation for my newspaper – the Hannawa, Ohio, Herald-Union. In a roundabout way it may have something to do with you.”
He reacted to this startling news by warming up my tea. “Such an American thing, murder.”
“We’re very good at it, no doubt about that.”
“And just who was murdered, Miss Sprowls?”
“Another Violeta.”