Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories (27 page)

With all best wishes,
Laurie and Cass      

367 Calabria Road            
Passaic, New Jersey 07055

Dear Ms. Gunsel:

Forgive the delay in my response to your heartfelt letter of last month, but just after receiving it, I discovered that I had tasks to take care of in a distant city, and I could not spare even a moment for correspondence. Hence the delay. I was working on a job much reminiscent of my old profession, and while it felt good to be back in action, I must say I’m getting a little old and short of wind these days. Glad to be retired. But this was a labor of love.

So, now that I have returned, I am answering your letter as my first priority, even before I tend to the shocking condition of my unweeded and unwatered calla lilies and dusty miller plants, the erstwhile showpieces of my little garden. Nature waits for no man, Ms. Gunsel. But as distressing as I find my neglected botanical friends, the news of your plight upset me even more. Perhaps that is mere selfishness on my part, since I value Cass Cairncross far above calla lilies, and I would not want to lose the pleasure of her fictional company for such a shabby reason as the greed of that arrogant creep, your former spouse.

Let me just say that things tend to work out for the best, and I trust that you will see your way clear to continue your wonderful writing career. Sometimes people reap their just rewards, if you get my drift. Good people are allowed to keep doing good work, and bad people are stopped in their tracks. That’s my philosophy, anyhow.

So, your letter notwithstanding, I will continue to wait for the next Cass Cairncross novel, and the next.…

Wishing you all the best,
M.V.                           

Laurie Gunsel

Mr. Monty Vincent           
367 Calabria Road            
Passaic, New Jersey 07055

Dear Monty,

Thanks for your letter. I have finished the Cass Cairncross novel that I was working on when I last wrote to you, and I’m about to take off for Spain to begin my research on the next one.

Yes, there is going to be a next one. I am in the process of signing a new contract with Meadows & Hall for two more Cass Cairncross books. They’re very excited about the deal, and they promise TV advertising, a coast-to-coast tour, and a half-page ad in
The New York Times
! It’s a wonderful break for me, and I’m glad that I could accept it.

Of course, the circumstances under which I’m able to accept are sobering. I think you summed it up best when you said that sometimes “bad people are stopped in their tracks.” There is no longer a lawsuit pending about the Cass Cairncross novels, because—I can’t think of any delicate way to put this—Malcolm and his new wife are dead. Apparently, it was an act of random urban violence, perhaps a robbery. At least the police have no suspects and no leads. According to the news reports, Malcolm and Kristi were in their room at the Atlanta Hyatt, when someone entered through the door (with a passkey?) and shot them as they slept. They were both shot above the left ear with a 9mm. Glock, killing them instantly. In Malcolm’s case a roll of toilet paper was placed under his chin and unrolled to the level of his waist.

The police questioned me, of course, because of the lawsuit, but it happened over Labor Day weekend when I was in Charlotte at the mystery conference, so my alibi was the rest of the nine A.M. panel: Joan Hess,
Sharyn McCrumb, and Carolyn Hart (“Southern Mysteries: Mayhem, Malice, and Mirth”). I told the investigators that I knew nothing whatsoever about the incident, and could not help them in any way. Of course, I issued a press release from my publishers’ publicity department saying that I regretted violence of any sort against anyone, and that even though Malcolm and I had our differences, he was a respected member of the legal profession, and I was sure he would be missed.

So, rather unexpectedly, all the domestic hassles are over. Now I’m going to Spain (with an indignant Diesel in the cat carrier) to try to regain my composure and to wait for the furor to die down. Publicity is nice, but I don’t want my personal life on
A Current Affair
. (Book sales
are
up, though.) There seems to be a lot of new interest in me. I even got a letter from a publisher asking if I’d consider ghostwriting the autobiography of hit man Vinnie Montuori, now in the federal witness protection program and living somewhere in obscurity under an assumed name. But I said I didn’t do nonfiction, and anyway I’d be too busy writing the adventures of Cass Cairncross, and I hoped they’d understand.

So, anyway, Monty, you won’t hear from me again anytime soon. But I’m taking a laptop with me to Spain so that I can work on the new novel. If all goes well, it should be out next summer. When the book comes out, I’ll be sure to send you a signed copy, Monty. I owe you one.

Gratefully yours,
Laurie Gunsel    

HRH T
HE
P
RINCESS OF
W
ALES
B
ALMORAL
A
UGUST 1992

My dearest Wills,

Mummy has a longish letter to write you, although you won’t get it for years and years, as I’m going to leave instructions with someone clever whom I
really
trust.
Not
Robert Fellowes! He may be your Auntie Jane’s husband, but he is also “Brenda’s” private secretary, and to me he is neither kith nor kind! (I realize that you will be reading this years from now, so you may not know that “Brenda” was the magazine
Private Eye
’s name for HM, your Granny. I think I shall continue to call her that in this letter. Much safer really.)

I thought I’d better put all this down so that you’ll know what happened, in case there’s something you can do when you become King. I do hope you will believe what I tell you in this letter, and investigate the matter very, very carefully yourself. Courtiers cannot be trusted to tell you the truth, Wills! It is most important.

This week at Balmoral seemed the best time to write
an account of what happened. Heaven knows there’s nothing else to do here in the wilds of Scotland! I can’t think why Queen Victoria ever wanted to buy it, but apparently the madness was hereditary, because her descendants adore the place. Every morning everyone goes out with their beastly guns, stopping at noon to gobble sandwiches, and coming back at teatime caked with mud. Once they actually asked if I wanted to go with you boys and act as a beater, frightening the little birds out of the hedges. I said I thought not. I can be quite stubborn when I choose, you know, Wills. Anyhow, it’s damp and dreary outside, and even more dreary inside, with nothing to do but work on jigsaw puzzles and listen to that family go on about their horses’ ailments. No one will miss me, because I never say anything anyway, so I came away to write to you.

Funny to think of you as a great grown man reading this. I simply cannot picture it, or picture
me
having to drop a curtsey to my own darlingest King Wills. So you must pardon me there in the future as you read this for addressing you as a nine-year-old boy, but that is what you are as I write this. You and Harry have gone pony-trekking with the Phillips children, so I shall be quite alone for hours to write. It will take hours, as I’ve never been much of a hand at composition, so do bear with me if I ramble. I’m not clever, you know. Not with books. I daresay I’m clever enough in other ways.

Your Auntie Fergie (the Duchess of York) was always said to be the clever one, but it was me that she came to two summers ago when she found the papers and wondered what it all meant. It was here at Balmoral that it happened, as a matter of fact. Things weren’t so dreary here then, because she was such a lot of fun. Sarah and I had each other to talk to, and once we even took the family cars and raced each other round the back roads of the estate. We got a proper ticking off for it, too! It was a bit after that—I was in
my rooms doing ballet exercises—when Sarah turned up, with that impish grin she always has. She was wearing a heavy green woolen jumper and fawn corduroy trousers—good colors to offset her red hair, but not flattering for her rather bulky figure. Inwardly I shuddered, but I was too glad of her company to risk offending her with well-meaning criticism. She was raw from having got too much of the other kind.

“Hullo-ullo,” she said, waggling her fingers at me. “Stop trying to get a flatter tummy. You’ll only make me look worse in the tabloids.”

I made a face at her, and went on doing pliés. “You’re welcome to join me,” I said. “It wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

“No, but look, do stop for a bit. I’ve found something,” said Sarah. “Something actually interesting. Come and see.”

I thought it was a ploy to get me to stop practicing, but she seemed so earnest that I left off, and plopped beside her on the sofa. “What is it now? Did you come upon a stash of wine gums?”

Sarah shook her red curls, and her eyes glowed with that look that always means mischief. “I’ve been snooping!” she whispered, glancing about to make sure that no one was hovering.

“All clear,” I told her. “We’re off-duty at Balmoral, so there aren’t so many servants underfoot. If you want guaranteed privacy for hours, though, try ordering a sandwich. Now, what have you been up to?”

“I’ve been poking around. You know how dreary it gets, waiting for teatime. And I happened to go into the box room that holds junk—old vases, spare fishing rods—and I came across a trunk labeled
Mary R
, and I thought I’d have a look inside, to see why they stashed it. I could guess, of course.”

“I can guess, too,” I said, stifling a yawn. “You mean Queen Mary, Her Majesty’s grandmother, I take
it, not the ancient Tudor one? Then it’s hats. I’ve seen pictures of her wearing them. Dreadful! Was that it? A trunk full of ghastly hats?”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “You mean you haven’t heard about old Queen Mary? The old guard still whispers about it. Diana, she took things!”

“Oh, I knew that. It was common knowledge. Once in my grandfather’s time she came to Althorp, and the servants had spent hours packing away every little objet d’art and knickknack in the house. She didn’t pocket them, though. She asked for them and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so of course one always knew whether one’s treasures had gone, but the gifts were not cheerfully given.”

“And they dare to call me Freebie Fergie,” Sarah said, scowling. “At least people give me things because they want to. Nice tax deductible dresses and trips. I don’t go to people’s houses and nick the bric-a-brac!”

“One mustn’t be too hard on her, Sarah. She grew up terribly poor, in a grace-and-favor apartment at Kensington Palace with bill collectors forever trying to dun her father, Prince Francis, Duke of Teck. I suppose she became rather mercenary. Her little hobby does make life awkward for the rest of us, even though she’s been dead for forty years. Has anyone asked you about the teapot yet?”

Sarah was rooting around in our fruit basket, hoping that you and Harry had overlooked a banana. You hadn’t. “What teapot?”

“The one from Badminton House in Gloucestershire. Queen Mary spent the war there, and when she left, a few of the Duchess of Beaufort’s possessions went with her. The Beauforts are always trying to corner one of us and ask us to have a look round for the family trinkets. They’re particularly keen to get back a silver teakettle on silver gates that belonged to the Duchess, but I know you didn’t find that in the trunk.”

“No.” Sarah had settled for an orange and was peeling it with a look of intense concentration.

“That particular teapot is on the Queen Mum’s breakfast tray every morning. Hard luck to the Beauforts. What did you find in the trunk, then?”

“Oh, the usual array. Old silver brushes, and gloves, and yellowed handkerchiefs, but there were a few jade carvings that looked quite old, and one of those carved wooden puzzle boxes. I had one as a child.”

“A jewelry box?”

“It could be,” said Sarah. “There is a brass plate on the top that says
DUNGAVEL HOUSE
. The box is about eight inches long, made of different kinds of wood, inlaid in strips, and it opens to reveal a compartment that you can put things in. But the trick is that if you push a certain slot on the side, a hidden compartment opens up beneath the first one.”

“And did you find any jewelry?” I asked. I wish Sarah wouldn’t wear rubies. They clash dreadfully with her coloring.

She shook her head. “No. Just some papers.”

“How tiresome for you.” I yawned. “Did you bother to read them?”

“Of course I did. They were addressed to the Duke of Hamilton at Dungavel House.”

“Oh, a Scottish peer. Surely you don’t mean that he and Queen Mary—”

“Lord, no!” squealed Sarah. “They weren’t love letters, Diana. They were an official communiqué to the Duke from the Third Reich, dated 1941.”

I lost interest at once. I always found history quite stupendously boring. “I daresay Oxford might like to see them, or the British Museum for one of their moldy collections.”

Sarah’s eyes danced. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Not these papers! I’d rank this lot as yet another unexploded bomb from the war. They contain an offer from
Adolf Hitler, proposing to put Edward VIII on the throne of Russia.”