The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (11 page)

Peppered White Bean Spread
for bruschetta or as a side dish

2 Tbsp. olive oil, divided

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 tbsp. chopped thyme

1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice

2 cans cannellini beans

1 cup water

Salt and pepper

1. Sauté garlic for one minute in oil in a large skillet on medium low to medium heat.

2. Add thyme, lemon juice, beans and water. Cook four minutes, stirring as much as possible. Add salt and pepper to taste. Mash with potato masher -- for side dish or puree for bruschetta.

Quinoa Tabbouleh

2 1/2 cups quinoa

3 3/4 cups water

1 cup minced fresh parsley

2 cups peeled, seeded and diced cucumber

Leaves from 3 stalks of mint minced

1/4 cup diced red onion

1 tsp salt

2 apple cider vinegar

1/3 cup olive oil

Combine the quinoa with water in a pot. Bring to simmer before reducing heat to low. Cover and cook 35 minutes. Remove from heat. Let sit 5 minutes. Fluff with fork, cover and cool in refrigerator for 5 hours. Once chilled add to bowel with other ingredients. Mix together with a spoon and serve. Quinoa is a complete protein!

Tagliata ai Carciofi

4 artichokes

1/2 lemon juice

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons soy sauce

1 and 1/3 cup seitan

1 cup black olives

1 cup Chardonnay

Black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 360 degrees Fahrenheit.

2. Clean the artichokes by removing the stem and outer petals. Cut off their thorny tops. Cut artichokes in half and cut the halves into slices 1/8 inch thick. Rinse the artichoke pieces and place into a bowl of water and lemon juice. Drain them (retaining liquid) and place them in a baking dish.

3. Coat artichokes evenly with olive oil and soy sauce. Let marinate for 10 minutes. After marinating place in oven and bake for 20 minutes.

4. Slice seitan diagonally into small pieces. Place in a separate pan and sprinkle with soy sauce, olive oil, and a drop of water. Slightly warm seitan so that is softens.

5. Once artichokes have baked for 20 minutes, remove the pan and reheat oven to 350 degrees. Add the seitan and olives to the baking pan. Pour chardonnay over the top and a little bit of the retained liquid from earlier. Mix contents. Bake 10 minutes. Add pepper to taste.

Breakfast at the Earnest Ewe

French Toast Casserole

8 large eggs

2 cups half-and-half

1 cup milk (preferably whole)

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Kosher salt

1/2 cup pecans

1/4 cup raisins

1 and a 1/2 pound sourdough cut into thick slices

Unsalted butter

2 tablespoons raw sugar

1. Heat oven to 350 Fahrenheit.

2. Whisk together the eggs, half-and-half, milk, maple sugar, cinnamon and a pinch of salt in large bowl. Add the bread and soak, turn occasionally. Leave in bowl for 20 minutes.

3. Butter 3 quart baking dish. Arrange bread in an overlapping pattern. Pour any remaining liquid, nuts, and raisin. Sprinkle with raw sugar.

4. Bake until set. About 35 - 45 minutes. Serve warm. Add additional syrup as needed.

Chapter 1

It is a very strange story
how I, Lily Bilbury, came to be searching for the remnants of the French Blue. By remnants, I mean the 23.5 carats of the most famous diamond in the world, the diamond Louis XVI wore as a pendant. The French Blue, like Louis’ head, was lost during the French Revolution. It was subsequently cut down into the Hope Diamond. Francesca, my fellow housemaid at Villa Buschi, swears that the remnant diamonds are hidden somewhere on the estate. Of course Francesca isn’t exactly a reliable source, she also swears that Silvio Berlusconi, prime minister of Italy and chief troublemaker, is going to keel over at any moment.

Allow me to back up a bit and start at the beginning. My husband, soon to be my-ex-husband, Enrico Bettonina and I have had a serious falling out. Although I have tried wishing him away by clicking the heels of my glittering red shoes together three times, it has been three long years since the man cheated on me with Federica Corino, and I still haven’t obtained a divorce.

Enrico is the reason I’m in terrible economic straits. I discovered that he was cheating on me on the day I gave birth to my twins. Living 5,000 miles from my closest relatives, I was forced to move in with Enrico’s Aunt Alice and his Uncle Tomasso. Enrico kept our house, a wonderful two-bedroom with a tuck under garage on the outskirts of Arona, Italy; a house Uncle Tomasso was allowing us to live in rent free, while Enrico finally became a full-fledged doctor with a paying job. During the three years I lived with Enrico’s aunt and uncle, I could barely afford baby food and diapers. It was then that I developed a short and simple theory. And my theory goes like this: financial independence = happiness.

To achieve economic independence, I took a job working for Enrico’s severe aunt as a housemaid. As soon as I was hired, the children and I moved into a small apartment on Via Aurelia. I have to admit I was excited to start working at the incredible Villa Buschi. I’d seen it a million times in picture postcards sold all over Lago Maggiore. It’s a stately two-storied, cream-colored affair. Situated right on the edge of the lake, it’s simply divine.

Or at least it used to look divine. Apparently much had changed. The first time I drove up to decrepit gate and peeked through it iron-bars, I was shocked. The place was overrun with flora. The initial drive up that ox-cart of a driveway was a nightmare. At one point my Panda hit something large and log-like lying in the middle of the drive.

“What on earth,” I slammed on the brakes and checked my review mirror. Behind me on the road was the thickest, darkest, most virulent vine I had ever seen in my life. And I swear as I stared at it, it began to undulate.

I’m not proud of the fact that I shouted “Anaconda!” and gunned it. I just did. Driving around to the front of the villa, I found that the view did not improve.

“Sweet heavens,” I said to nobody but myself, “the gardens look as if they have been shelled.” The land was all tattered and cluttered, in a state of disrepair --with all manner of weeds growing and not a dainty bloom to be found. Quickly I parked my car in a stand of trees, right next to a beautiful yellow Ferrari. The Ferrari confused me because (a) I wondered how anybody could have made their way up that ox-cart of driveway in such a fine machine and (b) it was parked outside in the rain as if the owner couldn’t care less. There was no time to worry about it though, because I was already late.

As I climbed the steps to the ring the doorbell, I tripped over a small planter that sat abandoned on the top row with one forlorn stalk in it. I stared at the dead stalk for a moment until my gaze flitted to the gargoyle knocker mounted on the front door.

Hmm, grounds in chaos, dead-stalk in the planter and a gargoyle knocker. Weird, very weird.  It was all very Tim-Butonesque. Right then and there the door swung open and standing with her hands on her hip, looking scarier than anything out of a horror movie, was my soon to be ex-Aunt-in-law Alice Bettonina.

I knew by the look in her eyes that trying to put my theory of financial independence = happiness into motion was going to be torturous at best. By the way she glowered at me and shouted that as a member of the staff I should never again use the front entrance, I could tell there wouldn’t be anything good about my new job. Now, after several months of working at the villa, I know something in my life has to change, I have to find the remnants of the French Blue. To this end, I’ve finally agreed to Francesca’s request to help search for the diamonds, because, as already noted, my economic future, as well as the fate of one-hundred plus cats and dogs hangs in the balance.

Five Months Earlier   October

(Mostly drizzle with a chance of sun)

Chapter 2

EXACTLY FIVE MONTHS BEFORE I agree to help Francesca search for the diamonds, I find myself the victim of a horrible accident.

As a matter of fact, it happens on the day I first meet Francesca Di Campo. Simply put, Francesca is spacey with a capital S. This is apparent the moment I first see her. She is standing in the villa kitchen, staring up at the ceiling with her lips pursed tight. Who is this woman and what is she doing here, I wonder. Despite my best efforts, I stop and gawk and notice that even though this woman is spacey, she is definitely Italian. From a fashion point of view, she is pulled together—wearing these high-heeled black boots with a blood red patent toe that are straight out of last year’s Prada collection. I know, because I remember seeing them when I passed by the flagship Prada store on Via Montenapoleone in Milan. In addition to the boots, she also wore dark black designer jeans, and a flouncy white sheer blouse that sports a Dolce label.

“Ah, Lily, there you are,” Alice says, filing into the kitchen a moment later. “And I see you’ve met Francesca, good, good. Francesca will be helping you about the house. Today we will be deep cleaning the formal salon.”

I look over at Francesca to gauge her reaction to Alice’s exciting proposition. Nope. Nobody’s home. Francesca is definitely not hanging with the conversation. Her eyes are still completely transfixed on the ceiling.

“Come, come, ladies,” Alice says, clapping her hands. Following Alice out into the hallway, I give Francesca the once-over as she walks like Joan of Arc going to the pyre—she keeps her eyes up on the ceiling, saint-like, seemingly not impressed by the grandeur of the villa.

How can she do that? I don’t care how many times I see the magnificent rooms of Ca’ Buschi, it always blows me away. But Francesca never looks down. She never looks around. She doesn’t even steal a glance into any of the rooms that we pass.

“Good heavens! She’s as cracked as my good ol’ Auntie.” I thought to myself.

“There now, Francesca will be helping out when she is not attending classes,” Alice says as we come through the doorway of the main salon. “Francesca studies law at the Cattolica in Milan, don’t you dear?”

Law? Mercy, I can’t even imagine how boring that must be.

“But anyway, Francesca will be here four or five hours a day to help you, Lily, with all the housecleaning. And when there are guests in residence, she will be here full-time—as will we all,” Alice says this last part looking smug, but her attitude does not disturb me. I beam back at my aunt, taking her by surprise. Honestly, how could I not be happy? How wonderful to have somebody to help divide up the ridiculous Bible-thick list of tasks she gives me to complete every day. And who cares about having to work full time when “there are guests in residence?” From what Carla, the laundress, and Elenora, the cook, have told me, nobody ever comes to stay.

“Well then, I would like for the two of you to use your time together to deep clean all the rooms on a rotating schedule…” Alice prattles on while I stare out the French doors, soaking up the view of the lake.

“…and here are the first few pages of today’s task list. When you have finished with them, please come see me at my desk in the kitchen and I’ll give you the rest…”

What? Is she finally done talking? My gaze flits from the window back to Alice, who is standing there impatiently, flapping the sheets of paper in our direction. Slowly, Francesca reaches out a tentative hand and takes a set. She pulls the papers in close and stares at them intently, as if reading the answer to the meaning of life.

Anxious to see what Francesca sees, I hastily snatch my own set of sheets out of Alice’s hand, but I find no such providence. It’s just the regular checklist of things to clean. I flip mine over in case I am missing something.

“THANK YOU, THANK YOU, SIGNORA BETTONINA!” Francesca suddenly shouts out so loud that I jump.

“Very well, I shall leave you ladies to it,” Alice says, as though suddenly being shouted at is a perfectly normal occurrence. “Lily, if you would be so kind, please show Francesca what to do. Oh, and I do apologize, Francesca, I shall have to go over my three rules for keeping this villa functioning tomorrow. I’m sorry but I don’t have time today.”

Ah hah! Tomorrow, poor Joan-of-Arc-in-Prada over there is going to be subjected to the Alice Bettonina’s Three Principle Laws of Fine Villa Upkeep. Having already been subjected to them myself, I can only say all the laws are incredibly tedious. Finished speaking, Alice turns to leave, but Francesca makes a little “ah hem” noise that stops her in her tracks.

“Yes?” Alice says, “Did you have a question?”

“YES, I DO,” Francesca shouts in a high-pitched, singsong voice. “WHEN CAN WE NEXT EXPECT THE SIGNORE TO VISIT?”

“I have no idea,” Alice states with a blank look on her face. I shoot her a glance. Is she insane? Bringing a young, impressionable girl like Francesca into the house of a Hollywood star?

“Well then, I’ll leave you two to your work? Fine? Good?” Alice eyes us up and down and doesn’t wait for a reply. “I’m afraid I have some business to attend to. The phone company installed a new answering service last week and it isn’t working. I need to get that sorted out, and then I’ll work on the rest of your task sheets. Va bene?”

“Va bene,” Francesca whispers straight at the ceiling, although I do believe she is talking to Alice, who is already slipping out of the room, heading for the kitchen.

“Um, Francesca, if you could give me a moment,” I say as I hurry after my aunt, “I need to speak to Alice a second. I’ll be right back.”

“What on earth is wrong with you?” Alice hisses as I almost mow her down in the hallway. I don’t wait for her to finish her sentence. I press my face right up to her ear and whisper, “Are you crazy, Alice? Hiring a girl her age to work here—for the most eligible bachelor in the world?”

“Nonsense.” Alice pushes me off with both arms before leaning over to pick an errant piece of fluff off the floor. As she straightens back up, she adds, “Non si deve preocupare di Francesca.”

Which loosely translated means Francesca is nothing to worry about.

“Are you kidding me Alice? She is what, all of 19? She is going to go completely gaga as soon as the Signore first strolls through the door. He’s a huge movie star, you know?”

Alice actually locks eyes with me and gives a little laugh. She actually mocks what I believe is a very serious situation.

I glare at her appalled, but she rises to the challenge, squares her shoulders and says “Don’t be ridiculous. Francesca is far more concerned with the dead than she is with the living.” Before I can even think of a reply, she stalks off down the hall.

****

Apparently what Alice has told me is a hundred-percent true. Francesca is “far more concerned with the dead than the living.” I learn this quickly; as we begin to move furniture to the edge of the room in preparation for scrubbing the floor, Francesca begins to chat casually.

Well not really chat, actually, because that would involve two people. What she does is to start mumbling to herself or the wall or something. What she says is this—that by this time tomorrow Silvio Berlusconi will be six feet under. I am so stunned by this revelation that I stop pushing on my end of the sofa and stare at her in amazement.

“Blood feud with a street gang,” she sighs as she continues to shove on her end of the leather sofa.

“That’s horrible,” I gasp, watching as Francesca -who hasn’t seemed to notice that I am no longer pushing on my end- continues to try to muscle the huge piece of furniture out of the way. This is a bit comical actually, because it’s a really heavy sofa and Francesca is a tiny gal in dangerously high-heeled boots. As she shoves and shoves, the sofa doesn’t really go anywhere. In fact, all that happens is that she ends up sliding around on those slick Prada boots of hers.

“Yes, that is it, he will be killed during a blood feud with a street gang,” she states firmly.

“Really?” I venture back with a bit of concern—more for Francesca’s sanity than for Silvio’s forecasted doom.

“Really,” Francesca stops pushing the sofa, and looks happy that someone has joined in her private conversation. “It will happen early in the morning. In Reykjavik, I believe.”

“I had no idea the Prime Minister was in Iceland?”

“Yes.” She looks doleful as she turns her saucer-like eyes on me.

Well, that’s worth a smile. Yeah, I can imagine those street gangs in Reykjavik are pretty dangerous. I look at the floor trying not to laugh. When I glance back up, I notice that Francesca is still staring at me.

“Oh, oh right. Let me help you with that,” I say, and go back to pushing on my end. Together, we shove the sofa and the rest of the furniture to the edge of the room. Carefully we roll up the large wall-to-wall sheep carpet and prepare to scrub the tiles—on our hands and knees—as Alice insists it is the “only way to achieve a truly clean floor.”

While we scrub, I decide it best not to pursue the conversation. Yes, it is always best not to encourage crazy. Yet not a second later, I ignore my inner wisdom and ask, “How do you know all this about the Prime Minister, Francesca?”

“Because,” she says with all the conviction of a martyr, “His great-grandmother told me.”

Oh my stars...

Seven hours later, after listening to the chatter of the deluded for precisely 420 odd minutes, I pull out of the Villa Buschi parcheggio with great celerity. Like a woman trying to get away from a sheer maniac, that’s how I drive. I hit my gate-opening button right after I fasten my seatbelt. Then I race across Villa Buschi’s grounds doing my usual slalom to avoid shrubs, hedges and snake-like vines. As it is, I want to put as much distance as possible between me and the young gal in designer wear who talks to the dead great-grandmothers of elected officials.

I glance at the clock on the dash. 3:40. Perfect. I can easily get to the nursery school in Arona in twenty minutes. And today I must be on time because who knows what that headmistress will say if I am late again. The other day she told me she is certain the reason why Luca and Matteo are always late to school—and always late being picked up—is because they are from a “broken” family. Then she scolded me in front of several other mothers, saying that children with divorced parents suffer “huge handicaps” when it comes to learning. I have to say, I have enough guilt as it is, and I am getting more than a little tired of talking to people I barely know about my marital status.

Thinking over the headmistress’ comments as I drive, I begin to feel my blood boil. I grip my steering wheel fiercely and press on the accelerator. I gun the engine and zing around the villa, racing along at top speed. Overhung branches whip at my windshield, but I don’t care. I round the last curve and barrel down on the entrance. I am almost through the gate when it happens. The most surreal thing. The most absolutely amazing and surreal thing. You see, instead of going through the gate, my Panda is hurled backwards as if by some unseen and immovable force.