The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter
9

At eight o’clock the next morning, I have three boxes of Sean’s clothes piled in my
Car to Go
. Tatum left a message with her doorman Jerry, and he was good enough to allow me into their apartment. I spent a couple of hours shoving blazers, trousers, shirts, and socks into boxes.

I am making my way out of Tatum’s apartment, carrying a very heavy fourth box, with my bag slung over one shoulder, when a small, mousy man in 4B opens his door.

“Good morning,” he blathers, and glares at me with huge, owlish eyes. This must be the neighbor who mentioned the ménage. I have half a mind to set him straight, but why should I defend Tatum and Sean? I didn’t even attend Sean’s funeral. Meg told me it was very tasteful and that Tatum actually wore a small black hat with a veil, reminiscent of Jackie O.

“Good morning,” I reply to the nosy neighbor.

“Yet another woman coming out of that apartment,” he sighs mysteriously. I edge past him and ring for the elevator.

“You’re tall. Just like that other girl who came here all the time,” he murmurs, following me.

I have to hold my tongue. I stopped being a “girl” a while back. It’s such an archaic term for a woman in this day and age. I push the down arrow again and mumble, “Mmm.”

“That girl was always here, but only when Tatum was out.”

My head swivels. What did he say? If Tatum wasn’t home when the other woman was visiting then there couldn’t have been any kind of a
ménage
. I knew Sean wouldn’t do anything like that.

“The other girl had brown hair in a ponytail, and a green knapsack that had a gold dragon on it.”

“A green knapsack?” I ask. I know someone who has a green knapsack with a gold dragon. “Tamara Banks, that’s who you’re talking about?” I question.

He looks stymied.

“Well, I certainly hope you didn’t tell the police that you thought anything untoward was happening in that apartment. Tamara Banks and Sean worked together, she’s a leading archeologist. She has tenure at Princeton.”

The man stares up at me, he must be 5’3” at the most, and he is incredibly thin. He wears a grey jogging suit and slippers. I watch as the expression on his face changes from one of curiosity to one of petulance. Perhaps he thought Sean was having an affair? Perhaps I have burst his bubble by telling him that Sean was just meeting with a colleague?

“She deserves better,” the neighbor from 4B sniffs, “And tell me what would his archeologist friend be doing coming over when Tatum was out, and at all hours of the day?”

I make a sort of exasperated sound, like a tire letting out air. Fortunately, at that moment the elevator doors open. I climb in and press the button for the lobby. To my dismay, Tatum’s creepy little neighbor pops through the gap in the doors at the last minute.

“Once I overheard them having a huge argument,” he sniffs as the elevator heads for the lobby.

“Tamara and Sean?”

“Yeah, that tall girl and Mr. McKenzie. He followed her out to the hall. She was yelling, and he was trying to shush her.”

I don’t respond. I’m feeling really uncomfortable at this point. The elevator still has three floors to go.

“I opened my door to see what was happening and the two of them were having a tussle right in the hallway. He pulled at her bag and this amazing golden crown fell out.”

“A crown?”

“Well, what looked like a crown. It was a wreath with all the tiny golden flowers.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it was amazing, like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“Are you sure it had flowers?”

“Yes, all kinds of flowers made out of gold. I thought maybe it was a stage prop at first. But by the way they both scrambled to put it back in the bag I thought it might be something more valuable.”

I ignore him and stare straight ahead.

“What’s
that
in your bag?” he asks, suddenly sounding shocked.

What an awful little man! Why is he looking in my bag?

“It’s meatloaf!” he shouts.

“It’s a tea cozy,” I snap, feeling quite hostile now.

Finally, the elevator emits a small “ding” of a noise. We have reached the lobby. The elevator doors part and I stampede out.

“Tamara Banks is a leading archeologist. She is working on a dig in Sardis. If she had an antiquity, I’m sure she was just showing it to a colleague. That’s all.” I project confidence as I say this, but inside I’m in turmoil. Only a fool would carry around a valuable antiquity in a knapsack; although, crazier things have happened. Harry Winston mailed the Hope Diamond to the Smithsonian. He thought the last thing a thief would suspect would be a diamond going through the U.S. Mail.

Yes, it is entirely possible that, in order to get an expert opinion on things, Tamara Banks might have brought something for Sean to examine. It could have been from her dig in Sardis or any of her other projects. Still, it seems strange that she would continue to visit Sean repeatedly.

I mull this over in my mind as I use the weight of my whole body to squeeze the fourth box of clothes into the miniscule
Car to Go
. The nosy neighbor from 4B stands in the doorway, watching me. Once again, I ignore him and shove at my box. As I shove, I think over what this odd man has told me. I think about how it really wasn’t that long ago, a little over a year now, that Sean and I were visiting Tamara’s latest dig site. The two of us were working together on a biography about King Croesus. We ended up putting that book on hold when Sean obtained the job of writing the biography of Prime Minister Morton. Suffice it to say, we never took it up again. He left me, and the Croesus biography went into limbo.

Damn it. Why can’t I get this box to fit?

I continue to try to jam the box into the tiny car, thinking that perhaps Sean had taken up working on the biography of Croesus without me. Is that why he and Tamara were having secret meetings? Or was it something more than that? There’s a fortune to be made selling antiquities on the black market.

Stop that. Stop thinking like that right now. Sean would never do anything illegal.

With a sigh, I finally manage to squeeze the box into the tiny automobile. Seconds later, I turn the key in the ignition and drive everything to my favorite Goodwill store in Brooklyn. Given my paltry income, this is where I’ve been shopping for my clothes for the last five years. I’ve spent so much time here that I’ve actually become good friends with the manager, Sue Potts. Turns out she’s a history buff. Occasionally, we take in the odd history lecture at Columbia University. Today I find her working away in the back room.

“These suits are beautiful. I’m sorry that your Sean died, but this donation will help raise a lot of money for good causes.” She smiles as I deliver the fourth box.

“He wasn’t my Sean, not anymore,” I mumble. We chit chat about this and that for a while, before I return the
Car to Go
and head home. A few hours later, over a cup of Ramen noodles, my mind wanders. I imagine that the creepy neighbor back in 4B had a fantasy about being with Tatum. Maybe that’s why he was keeping tabs on everyone who went in and out of her apartment. I know the police believe that Sean was killed by a professional, but in my head, I can picture Mr. 4B sneaking up the back stairs of the art gallery and offing Sean in hopes of being the next Mr. Tatum Bouviers.

Who would have ever believed that mild-mannered Sean would have ever made any enemies?

Back and forth I go across the Atlantic like a ping pong ball. The next day, I leave for London feeling slightly panicked. My flight departs two and a half hours late, and I worry that I’ll miss my tight connection to Edinburgh.

Sure enough, I do miss the flight. I stand in line at the ticket counter at Heathrow and wait patiently. When I reach the counter, an irate British Airways attendant informs me, “All flights to Scotland are being cancelled left and right. There’s terrible fog on the ground in Edinburgh. The earliest I can get you on a plane is tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not possible.” I shake my head. “I’ll pay for a seat in first class,” and to show I mean business, I whip out my company credit card.

The British Airways attendant frowns. She proceeds to spend a ridiculous amount of time typing on a computer. “Nothing. We’re not sure there will be any more flights into Scotland at all today. But I can get you on a 6:05 a.m. tomorrow, confirmed.”

A half an hour later, I rent the most powerful BMW they have at Avis. That’s the wonderful thing about renting a car in the United Kingdom. They never give you a powerless car like a Chevrolet or a Honda. They give you a state-of-the-art BMW with serious horsepower. I slap down the Schnellings’ credit card on the Avis counter without a second thought. I’m sure even tight-fisted Meg wouldn’t want me to miss out on a private tour of Holyroodhouse conducted by the Prince of Wales.

At a quarter till ten in the morning, I am in possession of the rental car keys. Hastily I stow my bag in the back of the car, but darn if I don’t stare dumbfounded at a map for another twenty minutes before I pull out of the carpark. Forget the car’s GPS, AVIS gave me the directions to program it, but every time I punched in Holyrood a chipper voice kept saying, “Do you mean Hollywood, California?” And that chipper voice won’t stop. It repeats itself at random intervals, startling the heck out of me. Somewhere outside of Oxford I’m sure it’s shut itself off. Unfortunately, a second later it pipes up again, sounding more insistent than before, and demanding “Do you mean Hollywood, California? Please respond.”

As if it’s not enough to concentrate on driving on the left side of the road, trying to jab at the GPS controls at the same time is ridiculous. And no matter how many buttons I fiddle with, the chipper voice on the GPS won’t stop. Why must modern technology be so difficult? Why does it take nine remotes to turn on a television?

I don’t know, I shake my head and press down on the accelerator. It’s a long drive to Scotland, but I’m not going to miss this opportunity. Never mind that I didn’t sleep a wink on the flight over, or that my hair is partially mated to my face from leaning against the airplane window. Never mind that I haven’t had a decent meal in hours. I speed along as fast as I can go. Somewhere around Manchester the chipper voice begins to slow down, spitting out:

“Doo youu mean Hollywoooood Cal -eee -forn -iaaaa?” At the same time the BMW begins to make strange knocking sounds. I ignore the extremely low, pixelated voice of the dying GPS, as well as the horrendous knocking noise, and drive on. I only stop to use the restroom or to gas up the car. They day goes by in a blur and even though the GPS must have repeated its message a hundred times, I smile the entire way. I’m spending the night at Holyrood Palace with the Prince and his friends. What could be better than that?

I cross the border into Scotland as twilight sets in. At this pace I should make it in time for my seven p.m. tour of the palace. By now, the car is making some pretty ominous sounds, and the GPS has gone completely haywire. Even though I’ve turned the volume way down, it still roars to life on occasion, spewing out things like, “whooo” or “garrr” or “woolee!”

I don’t care, I press on. I become a little alarmed with the check engine light turns on, and the oil light flips all the way over to bright orange, as if the car is on fire or perhaps possessed.

“Eeefiskkk” the GPS hisses right as I hit a huge wall of fog on the outskirts of Edinburgh. I don’t mind. What would Scotland be without the fog? Luckily there are bright green road signs pointing the way to the carpark outside Holyrood Palace.

“Oops, that’s right, I was supposed to call. They were going to send round a car to the airport to pick me up.” I pull into a space at the empty carpark and whip out my phone. Quickly I dial the number I was given.

“Lizzie, there you are, did you just get to the airport. I’m sorry, I can’t send a car. Take a taxi, I’ll pay for it,” Alex says.

“Actually, I’m here, in the carpark. It’s a long story, I had to drive from Heathrow.”

“That’s mad,” he replies. “Drive right up to the front gate. I’ll let you in.”

A moment later Alex pops out a side door of the castle with a bright black umbrella. He races for the gate. Why is he the one coming to let me in? Where’s the staff?

I stare through the fog as the Prince pulls a very ancient key from his pocket. For a while, he fiddles with the massive lock on the gate. It’s a padlock of sorts; a gigantic black padlock that matches the somber gate. Alex undoes it, let’s me in, and waves as I drive through.

I park the car as he puts the padlock back on the gate. Scrambling out of my BMW, I feel like a kid in the candy store. Are the Prince and I alone at this magnificent castle?

“Lizzie,” he says rushing up and putting the umbrella over us both, “this way, right through the front door. Here now, let the big brawny man take your bag. After all, you must be exhausted.”

I am exhausted. Nonetheless, I hurry inside and let out an enthusiastic gasp. Holyrood is everything Buckingham is not. Holyrood is dark and brooding. Part of the bottom step on the huge, brown staircase is crumbling away, and nobody seems to feel the need to fix it. I imagine it’s been that ways since James I ruled here. Why change it now?

Alex drops my bag and stows his umbrella in a stand.

“Look up, Lizzie,” he insists. I do. Honestly, it’s like seeing the sun for the first time. The ceiling is sheer heaven. The grand staircase at Holyrood was made to draw the eye upwards to the amazing plaster friezes overhead. High above us soar carved angels that are as large as human beings.

“It’s…it’s…” instantly the historian in me is unleashed and I am telling the Prince how the ceiling was made, how the plaster was pieced together on the floor and then lifted into place.

“Then the artists, lying on scaffolds, finished each intricate piece by hand.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Lizzie, although you look awful. You look as if you haven’t slept in days.”

I beam at him. “Who needs sleep, when you have this,” I raise my hands to the ceiling.

“C’mon, change of plans, I need help in the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen?” 

“Yes, the kitchen, hurry!” He pulls me by the hand.

“Look at all these fine tapestries. See how faded they are. Do you realize that when they were first sewn the colors were very vibrant, some would even say garish?” I inform as we pass a tapestry of a hunting scene.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he replies and rushes me through a room that is chock-a-block full of oil portraits. I fire off the names of each of the famous royals as I recognize them, while the Prince practically drags me along.

“Mary De Guise,” I shout. Alex tugs. “James the first,” I proclaim. “Oh, and that scoundrel, Lord Darnley himself.”

“Wait!” I stop, strong as a mule, “Is that
the
portrait of Mary Queen of Scots?”

“The one that shows her as pure Catholic martyr?” he replies and continues to tug on my hand.

The portrait of Mary is all-encompassing. She stares out, spooky as can be in a black dress with a high frilly collar.

“Then, this is the one?” I ask

“Which shows her being beheaded in one corner, yeah, this is the one.” He drags me onwards, through more dark, brooding rooms. I turn my head to look in every nook and cranny. Toward the back of the house, we reach a different set of apartments. These rooms are not for the tourists. These rooms have been redone. No faded tapestries or dark oil paintings here. Here there is plush carpet and tasteful, relaxed furniture. The walls are painted a most fashionable color of brown. This is obviously a room for people living in modern times. This is a room where the royal family must spend their time when they come for the one week of the year they spend at Holyrood.

“You know,” the Prince muses as I catch a whiff of something -smoke? - coming from the room ahead. “You are the first woman whose hand I have held who hasn’t become a pile of mush.”

I stop glancing around the room and glare at him as if he has nine heads. “On behalf of my sex, I am insulted,” I say reproachfully. Wait now, yes, it’s definitely smoke; I can see it pouring out from under a door.

“Leave it to the historian to be more taken with the stuff in the castle than she is with its Prince,” he laughs.

My mind reels. What is he saying? To be honest, I did feel a thrill down my spine when Alex took my hand. I mean look at him, he’s gorgeous - huge smile, tousled hair, big ears and all. But then he seems in such a hurry to reach the kitchen that I didn’t take it personally when he started pulling me along. After all, a prince like him would never be interested in a woman like me. A prince like him marries small, dainty, extraordinarily beautiful girls from wealthy, well-bred families. They don’t marry tall, pudgy women. Everyone knows that.

Alex pushes open the door of the kitchen and we hurry through. The smoke is so overwhelming, it makes me cough.

“What on earth?” I ask as he lets go off my hand and makes his way to the most glittering stainless-steel range I have ever seen. Quickly he dons a pair of oven mitts and pulls open a door.

“The frittata!” he yells.

“You’re making a frittata?” I ask, wondering why Alex is doing his own cooking.

He pulls a heavy iron-cast skillet out of one of the ovens. Standing in front of me, with smoke swirling all about, I can’t see a thing.

“Where did you learn how to make a frittata?” I laugh, finding everything so absurd.

“Eton,” he responds and places the smoking dish down on the kitchen island.

“It’s a little burned, not that bad,” he adds.

“It looks like an enormous hockey puck!” I reply.

“You’re right, you’re right. I need to go with Plan C.”

He seems to be devising “Plan C” on the spot. As he leans against the kitchen island deep in thought, I examine the room. Except for the stone floors, stone walls, and a stone sink that runs the expanse of the east wall, the rest of the Holyrood kitchen appears to be retrofitted to the most modern of standards.

“Where’s the staff?”

“On vacation, except for a few guards in the guard house. Holyrood is closed for renovation, starting yesterday. That’s why I thought it would be the perfect place for a private birthday party.”

“And you thought you would cook for… how many people?”

“Ah now, that part was not planned. You see, I was going to hire the palace chef, as she lives about a mile from here. She agreed to do it but she’s come down with a bout of the flu. Didn’t know that till I got here a couple hours ago. So it was quick over to the grocers and back. But look, I’ve made a green salad,” he points to a pile of butter lettuce, dressed every so lightly. He’s placed it in a beautiful blue porcelain bowl that looks hundreds of years old.

“I bought some bread and a cake and I thought -- I can make a few frittatas. That should be enough to tide us over till morning when we can all head out to the Dark Horse for a proper Scottish breakfast. I was just in the middle of it when you rang.”

Hmm, when he puts it that way, I feel slightly guilty. Apparently I came at an inopportune time and as a result his frittata is burnt to a crisp.

“How many people will we be cooking for?” I enquire, reaching for a clean apron that hangs on a hook.

“That’s the spirit, Liz, we’ll dig in. I’ll show you how to do it. We’ll cook them up on the stove. Then we’ll add the cheese and tuck them into the ovens. Although perhaps for a little less time than the previous one.”

It turns out the Prince is expecting twenty people to show up in about an hour. As I whisk eggs around in a big white bowl, Alex concentrates on cooking the frittata over the open flame. Soon things are starting to smell good. My empty stomach grumbles, revealing the fact that I am starved. Hearing my loud stomach, Alex tells me to help myself to some bread.