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.”
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?”