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?”