I surprised myself again. “What about Gabriella Nash?”
“She’s a gutsy girl,” Tinker said. “But I don’t think she’s ready for something this complex.”
His “gutsy girl” crack stuck in my craw. “You want me to cooperate, you give the story to Gabriella.”
Tinker put his foot down. “I’m giving it to Marabout.”
“Then I’m keeping my lips zipped,” I threatened.
Pontius Pilot metamorphosed into Solomon. “You could put them both on the story, Alec.”
Tinker immediately saw the wisdom of his suggestion. “Gabriella did interview Bell before her murder. And she could certainly add a lot of background color to the story. There’s no question about that.”
“And she is a gutsy girl,” I added.
It was decided. Dale Marabout and Gabriella Nash would do the story together.
The next thing to do was break the news to Dale and Gabriella. I cautioned against it, but Tinker had them summoned upstairs together. And of course both immediately balked at working together. “I’m not a big fan of double bylines,” Dale said.
I knew what his real objection was. Gabriella had not only cried when Violeta Bell was murdered, she’d had a hissy fit when Dale was given the story. “Gabriella will behave,” I assured him. “Won’t you, Gabriella?”
“I don’t like double bylines either,” she said, slumping back into an about-to-explode pout.
Bob Averill now played his best role. God. “We assign the stories. You write them.”
Of course even God needs a little help from time to time. “I don’t know beans about the news side,” I said. “But couldn’t they do separate stories? Dale a hard news story for tomorrow on Violeta’s previous identity and how we found the prince. And then for Wednesday, Gabriella could do an in-depth feature on the prince. And then for Thursday Dale could write about the police investigation going nowhere. Friday you could run that worthless story on me you want, written, of course, by Gabriella.”
Tinker loved my suggestion. “A four-day, page one series. Outstanding!”
Dale and Gabriella now quibbled about who should interview the prince first that afternoon. Gabriella said she should go first, since her feature was going to take a lot longer to write than Dale’s hard news story. Dale saw it differently. Not only was he not a fan of double bylines, he wasn’t a fan of “sloppy seconds” as he crudely put it. On top of that, he also had to cover Eddie French’s court appearance at four o’clock. So he’d have two stories to write for tomorrow.
And so it was decided that they would interview Prince Anton together, in Tinker’s office, in fifteen minutes, with him sitting in as a referee. I would sit in, too. His idea, not mine.
We gathered in Tinker’s office. There was coffee for everyone. Dale Marabout and Gabriella got their notebooks ready. Clicked their ballpoints. Tinker punched the button on his nifty little digital recorder. I sat there like the bump on the log I wanted to be. Yawning.
Dale Marabout asked the first question. “All these years you didn’t know your brother was still alive? Is that right?”
Said Prince Anton, “I thought he’d drowned himself.”
Gabriella asked her first question. “What was Petru like as a boy?”
“He was a wonderful big brother,” said the prince. “He teased me, of course. But not as much as most younger brothers get teased.”
Gabriella followed up. “How exactly did he tease you?”
“Knocked my toys about. Pinched my buca when we were saying grace at the dinner table.”
“Buca meaning backend?”
The prince nodded and spelled the word for her. “B. u.c.a.”
Asked Dale, “So you never knew he had a sex change operation?”
“Like I said, I thought he’d drowned.”
Asked Gabriella, “Was he a good student?”
“Our parents insisted that we both be good students.”
“Was he athletic?” she asked. “Did he play sports in school?”
“We both played tennis and football,” said the prince. “Soccer you’d call it. And we both loved swimming and boating. We spent our summers on the island. So, we’d better.”
Asked Dale, “So it’s feasible that he faked drowning and then easily swam to shore?”
“There’s no such thing as an easy swim in the St. Lawrence,” said the prince. “Not out in the current where he left the boat.”
“But he was capable of swimming to shore?” Dale asked more firmly.
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you and your brother have a happy childhood?” Gabriella asked. “Your parents treated you well?”
“Poppy was quick with the strap if we talked back or shirked our duties, and mama was a stickler for etiquette. We were royals, after all, but no two boys had better parents.”
Asked Dale, “Any hint that your brother wished he was your sister?”
“I never caught him trying on mama’s delicates, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
The interview went on like that forever. Dale asking hardball questions about Petru’s disappearance and sexual orientation. Gabriella lobbing softballs. Out in the newsroom, the desks were filling up and keyboards were starting to click. The pace would pick up little by little throughout the afternoon, with total bedlam breaking out just about the time when the rest of the city was going home for supper.
“Was there an expectation when you were growing up that the Romanian throne would actually be restored?” asked Gabriella.
“Yes,” said the prince. “There was real hope. Not only that the Communists would be booted out and the monarchy restored, but that the Romanian people would come to their senses and choose us Clopotars over King Michael’s clan, those damn interloping Hohenzollerns.”
“So in your minds, there was a real expectation that Petru would be invited home and crowned king?” she asked.
The prince gruffly corrected her. “The expectation was that my father would be invited home and crowned king. Petru’s reign would come many years later.”
Gabriella apologized. “Of course.”
Dale was ready with his next question. “Did your brother like girls?”
“What’s not to like about girls?” the prince asked back, winking at me as he did.
Dale tried again. “Did he date in high school?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I yowled at Dale, remembering the nerdy mess he was when he came to work at the paper. “You didn’t even date in college.”
“If my brother did consider himself a woman, then he wouldn’t have been a homosexual if he were attracted to boys,” the prince said calmly. “He would have been just as hetero as you, assuming that you are, Mr. Marabout.”
Dale winced. Everyone else laughed. I knew that Dale had to ask those kinds of questions. That reporting wasn’t a popularity contest. But I was sure hoping the interview would take a less contentious direction.
Gabriella gave me hope. “Why exactly did you come to Hannawa?”
Prince Anton’s mustache lifted, like a Canada goose taking wing. Apparently he was as pleased with the question as I was. “I suppose for many reasons. All under the rubric of being a good brother. Doing the right thing, as you Americans would say. I want to visit her resting place. Pay my respects and make sure all the final expenses are taken care of. And I certainly want to help the police find the murderer. Not for revenge, mind you. To make sure no one else is harmed.” He stopped and chuckled to himself. Winked at me again. “I did not come here to strangle Maddy for stealing my teaspoon and pipe.”
Dale turned his attention-not to mention his pen and reporter’s notebook-to me. “You stole the prince’s teaspoon and pipe?”
I had no choice but to explain. Both Dale and Gabriella scribbled furiously. Tinker made sure his recorder was getting my every word. “And so when the DNA report came back showing that Prince Anton was Violeta Bell’s brother, I immediately wrote him a letter apologizing for my-”
