He knew where I was going. “I never knew he wasn’t happy being a man. Back then such a thing would never occur to you, would it? Not even today. But I knew he was confused to the bone about something.”
I sat across from him. “So you assumed he committed suicide.”
“We Clopotar men are known to take the unfairness of life head on,” he said.
“And that’s what Petru did,” I said. “He burned his bridges and became the woman he should have been.”
The prince smiled sadly. “I just wish he had let me in on it. I’ve missed him terribly all these years.”
Memories of my own lost brother flooded my brain. I’d told the prince about him on Wolfe Island. “At least now you know Petru went on to live a long life as Violeta Bell. And from what her friends tell me, a happy one.”
“Until her murder,” the prince said. “From what that detective told me, that must have been a frightening night for her.”
I was surprised into silence. Not something that happens very often.
He winked devilishly. “Oh yes, Maddy, I’ve already talked to your favorite detective. Last night at the hotel. He showed me the DNA results. And the scrapbook.”
“Did he now?”
“He is quite fond of you. Not to mention Irish coffee.” He dropped the big bombshell. “In fact, Mr. Grant is upstairs as we speak. With Mr. Averill and some extremely unhappy fellow named Winkler or something.”
I corrected him. “Alec Tinker.”
The prince stood up and flattened the pockets of his sports coat. “Actually I volunteered to come downstairs and fetch you.”
I found a horrible plastic vase under the sink for my roses. I trimmed the stems with that plastic knife I’d fingered in the drawer. He carried the roses back to my desk for me. We took the elevator upstairs.
Bob Averill’s office was gray and austere. The no-nonsense domain of a powerful man. He was slumped into his enormous black leather chair, slowly swiveling back and forth. The only thing on his desk was a copy of that morning’s paper. In front of him, on far more modest chairs, sat Detective Grant and Alec Tinker. There were empty chairs for the prince and me. The men were all wearing coats and ties. I was wearing baggy dungarees and that Tweetie Bird tee shirt with the big tea stain.
The prince was right on the money when he’d said how unhappy Alec Tinker was. And I knew why that was. Tinker had been left out of the loop. He hadn’t known about my investigation. Or that Bob Averill had put me up to it. Or that Bob was in cahoots with Detective Grant.
“Now-where were we?” Bob Averill asked when we were seated.
Tinker glowered at him like a just-castrated bull. “You were about to answer my question. Am I managing editor of this paper or not?”
Bob responded calmly. “Yes, you are, Alec. And you will remain so.”
Alec’s response to that was not so calm. “Don’t count on that, Bob!”
Said Bob, “There are plenty of starfish in the sea, Alec!”
Said me, “Let’s not get into a pissing match, gentlemen.” I turned toward Tinker. “Bob didn’t ask me to look into Violeta Bell’s murder for the paper. He asked me because his wife was on his back. And she was on Bob’s back because her sorority sister, Jeannie Salapardi, was on her back. Because Eddie French was her brother. And so Bob got on my back. And I got on Detective Grant’s.”
Tinker wasn’t appeased. “Sounds a little unethical, doesn’t it?”
Prince Anton was amused. “Not to mention a little kinky.”
We all laughed. And while everybody was still in good humor I tried to put things into perspective. “Alec,” I said, “the only way it would have been unethical was if Bob had included you in our conspiracy. Bob is an ethical man. He would never blur the lines between editor and hen-pecked husband. That’s why he turned to me. As a friend. And now you, Mr. Managing Editor, have one hell of a good story to cover.” I turned to the prince. “Assuming that the prince doesn’t mind sitting still for an interview.”
“I’ve already told what little I know to Detective Grant,” the prince said. “I’ve no objection telling it to you good people as well.”
Bob Averill relaxed into his big chair and started playing with the uneven ends of his necktie. “The ball’s in your court, Alec.”
And so Tinker took over the meeting, demonstrating for the umpteenth time in two years why Bob had brought him in as managing editor. Tinker addressed his first question to Detective Grant. “You’d better wait outside.”
Grant stood and bowed like a bad Shakespearean actor. “I’ll get some coffee.” He left the office.
Tinker then turned his attention to the prince. “Telling the media a different version of what you told the police can get you into trouble,” he cautioned. “And there is still a murder investigation going on. By the police and apparently by one or more employees of this paper. So before you talk to us keep in mind that-”
Prince Anton interrupted him. “Everything I say can and will be used against me?”
“I just want you to go into this with a clear head,” Tinker said.
I playfully leaned toward the prince and pretended to whisper. “We’re going to do the story whether you talk to us or not. So you might as well give us your side.”
The prince nodded that he understood. “The police don’t suspect me of anything. And rightfully so. And I’m sure the people of Hannawa are as curious about Petru’s old life as I am about his new one as Violeta Bell. We’ll all fill in the blanks together.”
Tinker nodded back at him. “We’ll go ahead then.”
Prince Anton was visibly pleased. He reached out and patted my hand as if to say thanks. “Is it my turn to exit stage right?”
“If you don’t mind, we do have a couple of things to hash out,” Tinker said.
The prince gave us an even grander bow than Scotty Grant had. He left.
I started to get up. “Time for me to bow out, too, I suppose?”
“Not so fast, Maddy,” said Tinker. “You know more about this story than anybody else. We’re going to need your wisdom.” He turned to Bob Averill. “If that’s okay with you, Bob.”
Bob was still playing with his tie. “If it were up to me, I’d wear those clip-ons,” he said. “But the wife says I’m too important a man.”
That was Bob’s way of playing Pontius Pilot, washing his hands of the whole mess. And why not? He’d been forced to get involved because of Jeannie Salapardi. And now Eddie was no longer a suspect. Jeannie had thrown a wonderful barbecue for him.
Tinker happily continued with his ideas for our coverage. “As I see it, the story is this: An exhaustive Herald-Union investigation uncovers Violeta Bell’s shocking past. Finds her brother living on an island in Canada. A brother who, lo and behold, is a pretender to the Romanian throne. Which means Violeta’s claim to be royalty was true. How will these revelations affect the police investigation? Which plods on with little success.”
“Sounds more like a book than a story,” I hissed.
“We’ll give it all the space it needs,” said Tinker, undeterred by my sarcasm. “And of course we’ll do a story on you, Maddy. How your dogged research once again saved the day. We’ll recap your work on the Buddy Wing and Gordon Sweet murders.”
It was time to for me to rain on his parade. “Absolutely not.”
Pontius Pilot was suddenly interested in throwing his weight around again. “You’re a big part of the story, Maddy.”
I wasn’t intimidated. “Let me put it in the clearest English I can. No way, Jose.”
Unfortunately, Tinker wasn’t intimidated either. “To quote one Dolly Madison Sprowls, ‘We’re going to do the story whether you talk to us or not.’”
I looked to Bob Averill for mercy. His grin told me none was coming.
Tinker moved on with his plans. “It’s not exactly a police story. But I think Dale Marabout’s the guy for the job.”
Dale Marabout is my best buddy at the paper. A terrific reporter, too. So I was as surprised as Bob and Tinker when I heard myself squeak, “Marabout?”
Said Tinker, “He’s the best we’ve got when it comes to a big investigative piece like this.”
