22

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.”

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.

Our first stop was Swann’s, Hannawa’s legendary drive-in, where all of the car hops are muscle-bound college boys in matching green polos and khaki Bermudas. The minute you pull into a parking slot and click your headlights, they run to your car—actually run—and take your order.

So, for the next forty-five minutes our happy crew huddled inside the van wolfing hamburgers and onion rings and French fries and milkshakes, messing the upholstery and ourselves with catsup and salt and mustard and mayonnaise. It was great fun, even though the last thing my already roiling digestive track needed was a double cheeseburger and curly fries. Not to mention the pineapple shake. The prince graciously paid the bill. We hurried off to Bloomfield Township, to the Riverbend Moor Family Memory Garden, the cemetery where Violeta Bell’s ashes resided, inside a pretty purple urn.

We climbed the long walkway toward the columbarium. It was a beautiful evening with only the slightest breeze. Prince Anton, however, looked like he was walking into a hurricane. He was bent forward. Each step seemed a struggle. If he were to be believed, he’d spent the greater part of his life thinking his reunion with Petru would be in heaven. Now it was going to be here on earth. Here and now. I took his arm. “It’s quite a climb, isn’t it?”

He put his hand over mine. “Yes, it is.”

It would have been a wonderfully bittersweet moment if Weedy hadn’t been orbiting us like a wobbly moon, clicking his pictures. Or if every few steps Gabriella hadn’t stopped to scribble in her notebook. Their callous intrusions were the reason everybody hates the media. And why nobody would want to live without it. I apologized for their behavior nevertheless.

“They’re just making their way in the world,” the prince said, managing a weak grin. “Like everyone else.”

We reached the columbarium. Detective Grant held the door open for us.

Our footsteps on the marble floor banged with a hollow sadness. Weedy stopped orbiting. Gabriella stopped scribbling. We reached the glass cabinets. We found the niche holding Violeta’s urn.

The prince studied the urn in silence. It would have been impossible to know what he was thinking or feeling. But it was probably a lot of things. That’s always been my experience at cemeteries. Right when you need them at their solid best, your heart and brain go schizo on you.

I watched the prince’s reflection in the glass. His eyes were meandering from the urn to the objects that the other Queens of Never Dull had placed in the niche. I told him that the ceramic bell was from Kay, the classified section with the garage sales circled from Ariel, the small wooden box from Gloria. “Any idea what’s in it?” he asked me.

I admitted that I didn’t know. “I never saw,” I said. “And Gloria never said.”

“Probably something personal. Between the two of them.”

“Very likely.”

“Probably wouldn’t mean a hill of beans to any of us.”

“Probably not.”

Prince Anton turned to Detective Grant. “Would it be possible to take a look?”

Grant rubbed his eyebrows. He pulled his thumb and fingers down the bridge of his nose. He stroked his chin. He ran the back of his hand back and forth on his double chin. The body language of an important man who didn’t know what to say. “I don’t have the foggiest what the law books have to say on matters like this,” he finally said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say you don’t have the legal right to touch anything until the probate court gives you custody.” Then he shrugged and added this: “But, if I was in your shoes, well, I wouldn’t give a shit about the law.”

The prince chuckled. “So, you wouldn’t feel compelled to arrest me?”

“Not particularly,” Grant answered. “But there is a photographer and a reporter here. Not to mention the world’s nosiest librarian. Whether they’re as attitudinally laissez faire as me, I can’t say.”

“I don’t see a photographer,” Weedy said.

“I don’t see a reporter,” Gabriella said.

“And I don’t see a librarian,” I said.

“Well, then,” said Grant, “let’s go find the man with the keys. Whoever and wherever that may be.”

The prince had another idea. “I could just jimmy the lock. Save a lot of time.”

Grant offered three more useful foreign words. “Que sera sera.”

The prince gave him a quick, appreciative bow. Then he turned to me. “Wouldn’t have a bobby pin, would you, Maddy?”

I dug into my purse and produced one. I handed it to the prince. He pried it open, and with the skill of a burglar, inserted it into the tiny lock on the niche’s glass door. He wiggled it back and forth. Then up and down. Then sort of round and round. Clockwise then counterclockwise. Nothing. Grant took over. He, too, wiggled the pin every whichaway. With equal failure. I also tried—it was my bobby pin after all—but after two minutes of frantic jiggling handed the pin to Weedy. It took him about five seconds. “It’s pretty much the same kind of lock they have on our vending machines,” he explained.

Gabriella was shocked by his criminality. “You steal from the vending machines?”

“Not steal—get the candy I paid for.”

The prince opened the glass door. Put his head inside and lowered his nose over the little box. He lifted the lid. Without a smile or a frown he whispered, “Oh my!” He closed the lid. He pulled back his head. Moved his hands to the urn. He stroked it. Then he gently lifted it. Then he cradled it against his chest and kissed the shiny purple lid. “I wouldn’t have expected it to be this heavy,” he said. “Not that I ever held one before.”

That’s when Detective Grant had his epiphany. “Oh shit!” He coaxed the urn out of the prince’s hands and gently put it on the floor. He got on his knees and bent over the jar. The rest of us bent over him. He unscrewed the lid. He took a pair of latex gloves from his jacket. He wiggled his fingers into them. He undid the twist-tie on the plastic bag inside the urn. He held his breath and pulled the bag open. He slowly drilled a finger into the ashes. He slowly pulled out a small pistol.

Prince Anton had been a regular Rock of Gibraltar since the day he arrived in Hannawa. Sweet and patient. A gentleman. Now he went crazy.

And why wouldn’t he go crazy?

Can you imagine standing in that cold columbarium looking at the ashes of someone you’d missed horribly every minute of your life for fifty years? Then see that pistol emerge through those lifeless ashes like some ghastly demon? Good gravy, can you imagine it?

“What the hell kind of a country is this?” he screeched. “What kind of people?” He was grabbing at the pipe in his shirt pocket. I swear if it had been a knife he might have driven it through his heart.

Grant held the pistol just above the bag of ashes while Weedy snapped his pictures. While Gabriella furiously took her notes. I tried to comfort the prince. “What a horrible shock,” I kept repeating. I walked him to a pair of wrought iron chairs by the window overlooking the outside garden. He covered his face with his hands and cried. “I’m taking Petru home, Maddy.”

“Yes—you should.”

“Such a vile thing, Maddy.”

“Yes—it is.”

“I’ll sprinkle those damn ashes from one corner of Romania to the other.”

I pulled him up by the arm. Pulled him toward the others. “Come on.”

He pulled away. “No—I can’t stand to look.”

I let go of his arm. Called to Gabriella. “Bring your notebook over here. The prince has a quote.”

Gabriella knew enough to come.

I pinched my thumb and forefinger on the prince’s chin and swung his face toward mine. “Tell her exactly what you just told me,” I commanded.

The prince started stammering, unsure of what he’d said.

I gave him a hint. “About sprinkling.”

“Maybe it isn’t such a good idea that I say anything right now,” he stammered, trying to retreat.

I refused to let him. “Maybe it is. Tell her!”

He obeyed. “I told her I’m going to take Petru’s ashes home. To Romania. And sprinkle them from one corner to the other.” Now he embellished a bit. “It’s what she would want, I think.”

I waited until Gabriella stopped scribbling. “You get it all?”

“Of course I got it all,” she said.

Now I called Detective Grant over. Weedy came with him, snapping pictures like a frog in a swarm of flies. “Now Gabriella,” I said, “read your quote to the detective.”

She refused. “I don’t have to run my quotes by the police.”

“This one you do,” I said. “Read!”

And so she read: “I’m going to take Petru’s ashes home. To Romania. And sprinkle them from one corner to the other.”

I looked at Grant. Mentally crossed all my fingers and toes that he knew where I was going. Luckily he did. “There’s nothing I can do to stop you from reporting that,” he said to Gabriella. “But—so there’s no confusion—finding the gun in the ashes is part of an ongoing police investigation and strictly embargoed until I say so.” He looked squarely at Gabriella. “Agreed?”

Gabriella, by now, of course, knew that something was up. Something conspiratorial. More than likely unethical. “I think I’d better call Tinker before I agree to anything,” she said.

I set her straight. “The only call you’re going to make is to the metro desk. You’re going to have them insert Prince Anton’s quote into your story for tomorrow.”

She started raking through her purse for her cell phone. “I’m calling Tinker.”

I had to act fast, as they say. “And of course when they arrest the killer, tomorrow or the next day, Detective Grant will make sure you’re the one who gets the story. Even though Dale Marabout is the police reporter.”

That Gabriella understood. “Well, I can’t muck up an ongoing investigation, can I?”

“No you can’t,” I said. “And neither can you, Weedy.”

Weedy stopped snapping. He knew how to play the game. “It would be great to be on hand when the arrest is made.”

Gabriella called the metro desk. With my help, she gave the night editor a couple of paragraphs to insert in her story for the morning paper. We didn’t have to rearrange the facts much at all:

On an emotional visit yesterday to the Riverbend Moor Family Memory Garden in Bloomfield Township, Prince Anton announced his intention to take his sibling’s ashes back to their Eastern European homeland.

“I’m going to take Petru’s ashes home, to Romania,” he said, staring sadly at the purple urn and other mementoes inside the glass-covered niche in the columbarium. “And sprinkle them from one corner to the other. It’s what she would want, I think.”