Fit for a Queen

by Nicole Burnham

  Daniela stared out the window, hoping to absorb the quiet of the palace’s manicured grounds. It was a million miles from home, yet she couldn’t escape the sense of filth that gave her an urge to lift her blouse and scratch her back and stomach. “All right. You listened to her rant, gave her a compliment through the door, and she got angry. What happened then? Did she leave?”

  “She threatened to go to the town hall and report me. I told her that if she complained that there are rats in the country, they would laugh her out the door.” She said, ‘If you don’t have an exterminator here by the end of the month, we shall see who is forced out a door.’ Can you believe it?”

  Her mother’s last words were muffled by a thick whoomp. Daniela jerked at the sound. She’d heard that before, too. A month ago, when she’d spent a long weekend at home.

  “Mamma,” she said carefully, “all you all right?”

  “Of course—”

  “Was that your magazines?”

  She could envision her mother’s pursed lips. The defensive expression on her face as she scrambled for an excuse. It took only seconds for it to come.

  “Daniela, I know you wanted me to recycle those, but they are collector’s items and valuable. Someday you’ll be grateful I kept them. Did you know that I have one with Alberto Boldrini on the cover?”

  Everyone in Sarcaccia had a magazine with Alberto Boldrini on the cover. The man was a flirt, easy on the eyes, and—twenty years earlier—had brought home Sarcaccia’s first Olympic gold medal. He’d made more money on the speaking circuit with his oft-recycled words of inspiration than he ever had as an athlete.

  “Mamma, your life is also valuable. I’d much rather have you than a Boldrini magazine.”

  Her mother huffed and was about to argue, to say she just needed to fix the shelf or that she planned to file them and would get to it soon, or to accuse Daniela of exaggeration, but Daniela needed the call to end. “I’m at work, Mamma. You need my help or you wouldn’t have called.”

  “I’m perfectly fine. I called because I thought it was important for you to know about Gaetana’s visit, just in case.”

  “In case of what? Do you think the authorities will come again?” At her mother’s silence, Daniela’s fingers tightened around the phone. “I’ll see what flights are available and try to come home for the weekend.”

  “You don’t need to, but you may certainly visit if you wish. Maybe help me move a few things. But I don’t want—”

  “I’ll only do what’s absolutely necessary.”

  Her mother was quiet. Debating. “You’re a good daughter.”

  It was her mother’s way of warning Daniela that she needed to act according to her wishes in order to stay in her mother’s good graces. Daniela closed her eyes. She didn’t care about her mother’s opinion of her anymore, not to the extent she’d allow it to affect her actions. However, she did care about her mother’s well-being.

  If Daniela didn’t step in, the local authorities would. Some days, Daniela thought she should let them. The Carrini family would be thrilled. Daniela’s father would say it was long overdue. It was the ultimate solution to her mother’s problem.

  But whenever the idea crept into her brain, whenever Daniela pictured the local police and housing authorities hammering on her mother’s door with more force than Gaetana Carrini could ever muster, she feared the inevitable steps that followed would be disastrous to her mother’s mental health.

  Daniela used her index finger and thumb to pinch the bridge of her nose. She could do this. She had to do this. As many times as was necessary. Even if it meant running home her very first weekend in San Rimini.

  “I’ll call when I book a flight.”

  “I can pick you up.”

  “No, don’t. It’s easier if I go to my flat from the airport and pick up my car. I should be there before bedtime Friday.”

  “I’ll make sure your room is ready.”

  Daniela managed not to comment on their varying definitions of the word ready. Instead, she said goodbye, then set her phone on the immaculate surface of Queen Aletta’s desk.

  It would not be a pleasant weekend.

  Chapter 13

  The knock at Royce’s office door came a day earlier than originally scheduled.

  After five solid days of stripping wallpaper, he’d anticipated a quiet weekend. His Friday had been uneventful, particularly compared with Thursday’s unexpected foot traffic. Daniela had poked her head into the great room before noon and told him she was working through lunch because she needed to leave early, but wondered if he’d want lunch from Parioli again on Monday. When he’d said he would, she’d smiled and told him she looked forward to it. She’d promptly burst the happy bubble that’d arisen in his chest by adding that she couldn’t wait for another taste of the shop’s rye bread.

  Daniela left an hour ahead of her usual time, securing the doors to the queen’s rooms and offering him a cheery goodbye on her way out. Royce stayed until he’d finished the entirety of the wallpaper and hauled away the remnants. It was a good place to stop for the week.

  As was his habit each evening, he made several trips downstairs to load his van, surveying the employee lot as he went. Thanks to the information from Prince Federico, Royce was familiar with the vehicles of those with access to the king’s residence who’d been employed at the palace at the time of Queen Aletta’s death.

  The Volvo belonging to Chiara Ascardi, the chief of security, disappeared a little after five. Other weekday employees departed soon afterward, including Samuel Barden, the chef who served the king whenever the monarch chose to dine in his residence. As far as Royce knew, Barden hadn’t entered the suite since Daniela’s arrival, but given that the man had access privileges, Royce wasn’t going to leave the palace for the weekend before Barden did.

  The Roscha sisters used public transportation, but he’d spotted the pair walking through the employee gate as he’d shelved a box of plastic garbage bags in the back of his van. When he’d reentered the palace, he watched from a second story window as they boarded a bus on the opposite side of the street.

  Expensive watches. City bus. The combination made him wonder if they were thrifty and the watches were special items they’d saved to purchase, or if there was another explanation. Perhaps they’d been a gift from the royal family. He’d have to ask Federico.

  Finally, an hour after the weekend security team arrived, Miroslav departed, his antique Citroën duck car coughing twice before it rolled out the gate.

  Wind had buffeted Royce’s van as he’d guided it through the city streets. By the time he’d reached the office, clouds obscured the mountains and the air carried the damp scent of an impending storm. Rather than leave the van in its designated spot and walk to his boat as he usually did, he opted to stay at the office and wait out the storm. He’d originally had plans to meet with one of his college friends for a late dinner and drinks, but had received a text early that afternoon asking to reschedule.

  It wasn’t as if he had nothing to do. His accountant had asked for clarification on tax documentation, and he had updates to read regarding a Canadian embassy case he’d handled the month before. The man Royce had caught attempting to bug the building had inadvertently implicated two others, both of whom had disappeared. The Canadian and San Riminian authorities were searching for both men, but kept Royce in the loop as a courtesy.

  If he finished that, he had a lecture to watch on new surveillance technology. Better to do so in his office, where the Internet was reliable. He’d discovered soon after moving onto his boat that the marina didn’t have the best service during storms.

  After kicking off his work boots and queuing a playlist of classic rap and hiphop, he’d eased his tired body onto the sofa beside a stack of files and started to read.

  He’d been midway through a well-earned beer and nearly caught up on the Canadian embassy case when he received a message from Prince Federico. The prince had finished an engagement ear
lier than scheduled and was only three blocks away. If Royce could meet, doing so now was feasible without raising questions.

  Royce let the prince know that he was available. He’d set aside the beer, turned on the exterior light, and had just finished clearing the paperwork from his sofa and office chair when Prince Federico arrived, slipping inside, but leaving one arm outside the door for a moment to shake the rain from an umbrella. He appeared as well-groomed as ever, with no sign of a five o’clock shadow, every hair in place, and his loafers immaculate. Rather than his usual suit, he wore tailored gray slacks and a collared, pinstriped shirt with the top two buttons open.

  It was as casual as the prince ever appeared in public.

  Federico eyed the beer, which Royce had left sitting on one corner of his desk, but said nothing as Royce silenced the music. Royce could usually determine the direction of a person’s thoughts from their body language, even when one took pains to appear casual, but it was impossible to tell whether Federico considered the beer unprofessional or whether he wanted a drink himself.

  Royce gambled on the latter. “Would you care for one? I’m afraid I don’t have glasses, but they’re cold.”

  “It’s tempting, but I imagine my wife would wonder how I managed to imbibe at a children’s pizza festival. That’s where I spent the last hour and a half.”

  Royce wasn’t sure which question to ask first: how Federico’s wife would know he drank a beer or what took place at a children’s pizza festival. The prince saved him the debate by asking if he had any water. Royce procured a bottle, offered the prince a seat, then slid into his desk chair.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much to report. Only two out-of-the-ordinary occurrences. The first was a visit from Helena Masciaretti yesterday morning. She had the code to enter the residence, so I didn’t question her appearance.” He gave the prince a brief rundown of his interaction with Helena, then said, “She was inside the closet with Daniela for approximately ten minutes before they moved to the sitting room, where I could hear their conversation. Nothing stood out. Your aunt confirmed that the queen wore a particular suit to a baptism and a navy blue dress to a World War II memorial ceremony in Belgium. She told Daniela that she’d also attended those events and offered to share a few of her private photographs if they’d be useful for the auction. When she left, she nodded to me, but didn’t say anything.”

  Federico listened intently. When Royce finished, the prince hesitated, as if looking for a nonexistent coaster, then he set his water bottle on the edge of the desk. “I did not expect my aunt to visit or I would have warned you. However, I am not surprised by it. My father thought she might wish to handle the closet inventory, given her role as my mother’s assistant, but preferred our current arrangement due to the circumstances. When he told my aunt about the auction, it was in the context of having already hired Ms. D’Ambrosio.”

  “Is your aunt aware of the thefts?”

  Federico’s jaw tightened, then he shook his head. “Isabella asked Helena about the missing handbag from India, the one she wished to carry the day of my mother’s funeral. According to my sister, the entire conversation was, ‘Have you seen the handbag Mother bought in India? The one she carried while touring the Taj Mahal? I’m thinking of carrying it to the service,’ and Helena told her which shelf she should find it on, but admitted she hadn’t seen it in some time. When it wasn’t there, Isabella didn’t raise the topic again. My father never told Aunt Helena it wasn’t found, nor did he tell her about the other items.”

  “Why not?”

  “Timing, mostly. Helena was understandably upset in the days immediately after my mother’s death. My father did not wish to bother her when he thought the piece was simply mislaid. In the midst of funeral preparations, it seemed a trivial matter. By the time he realized other items were missing, he feared that mentioning it to Helena would cause resentment. He didn’t want her to believe he held her responsible, as she’d been in charge of my mother’s wardrobe.”

  “That makes sense.” Royce likely would have done the same in the king’s situation. He took a long drink from his bottle, though the beer had warmed.

  Federico leaned back in his chair and studied Royce. “People have a habit of exercising caution when speaking to members of the royal family. However, in this instance, I would appreciate candor. What is your concern about my aunt?”

  Federico—like Daniela—was perceptive. Royce liked him more each time they spoke. “I don’t have a concern so much as a wish to know more,” Royce said. “I’d like to understand your aunt in the event she returns to the suite. The need for candor goes both ways.”

  “We are off the record?”

  Given the microscope under which Federico lived, Royce understood the prince’s hesitancy to speak freely. He waved a hand to encompass his office. “Nothing is being recorded. This is for my information only.”

  After a moment’s pause, Federico said, “I am not happy she entered my father’s residence without speaking to him first. However, this is not out of character for her. She makes her own decisions, does things her own way.”

  “For example?”

  Federico shrugged. “She ignores public opinion in favor of associating with whomever she pleases, whenever she pleases. During the Cannes Film Festival seven or eight years ago, she deliberately made friendly conversation in front of the paparazzi with an actor who’d been accused of bilking his manager out of millions the previous month. And last year, she was photographed with a well-known socialite whose husband filed for divorce following allegations she had cheated on him with his brother.”

  “I remember that,” Royce said. “The wife’s father is a billionaire? Shipping containers?”

  Federico’s mouth twitched. “That’s the one. Helena barely knows her, but when a tabloid reporter asked Helena about it, she took the attitude that the woman was an acquaintance and one spoke with one’s acquaintances.”

  Royce didn’t follow the tabloids, but he recalled seeing something else about the story. Not about Helena, but about the socialite. “Didn’t it come out that the husband and his brother made it all up?”

  “He admitted it a few months later. It was a play for alimony. Apparently, he’d gone into debt making luxury purchases without informing his wife and payments had come due. It was a similar situation with the actor. The manager had lost money gambling, yet claimed he hadn’t been paid by the actor’s accountants in order to receive a duplicate paycheck.”

  Royce grimaced. It boggled his mind that so many people possessed the ego to believe they could get away with stupid crimes.

  “As you can imagine, my aunt’s willingness to stand by her friends has made her beloved amongst San Rimini’s elite, and—ironically—it has made for positive coverage by the very press whose opinions she’d shrugged off. Of course, it helped that in those two prominent cases, the accusations proved false.”

  “Even so, you didn’t approve of her choices?” Royce needed to tread carefully, but he wanted to get a better read on Helena’s relationship with her in-laws.

  “It’s not for me to approve or disapprove. In fact, I respect her for doing what she believes is right.” He steepled his fingers over his knee. “Aunt Helena is family. However, she isn’t a diTalora. To bear this last name is to represent the country. In the minds of many, our personal and our public actions are indistinct. In that regard, Aunt Helena is a private citizen. She owes nothing to our country’s citizens in terms of service. However, she has a unique tie to the diTalora name, and has lived in the palace much of her adult life. It’s a difficult position.”

  Royce nodded his understanding. As a member of the royal family, Federico would never say or do certain things. One of those was to say that he wished his Aunt Helena would act with the caution and propriety expected of a diTalora, even if her last name was Masciaretti.

  “Appearances matter, even when they shouldn’t,” Federico continued, picking up his water bottle. “Even if we know th
e truth of a particular situation and have good intentions, when we are dragged into negative press coverage, we are compelled to spend time addressing it. As a result, the issues that truly matter get lost. The day after Helena appeared with the actor in Cannes, my mother was asked about it. She was in the midst of opening a new cancer wing at the hospital, one that had been in the works for a decade. All the fundraising, all the hard work the researchers were pursuing, all the new facilities available for our citizens…all of it was glossed over in favor of questions about an actor. There have been similar situations when Helena attracted press attention and my parents were compelled to answer for it. Again, we’re off the record, but that particular situation left my father frustrated.”

  “Did they argue?”

  “Not to my knowledge, though they have always had a certain friction.” He paused, then shook his head “No, friction is perhaps too strong a word. Knowing my father, at most he would have asked Aunt Helena to anticipate the ramifications of her behavior.”

  Federico’s gaze hitched on the Real San Rimini calendar pinned to the wall beside Royce’s desk. It featured the team’s goalkeeper making a diving save during a Champions League game.

  “Fútbol provides a good analogy for their relationship,” Federico said, eyeing the image. “My father views the entire royal family as a team, one united to achieve a common goal. When one member draws negative attention, it is a distraction. However, it does not help the team captain to chastise that player, who is an independent adult with his own ego at stake. The better approach is to ask the player to consider the effect of their behavior on the team, both positive and negative. That player will—hopefully—come to the conclusion on their own that they achieve a personal victory by acting in support of a team victory.”

  That meshed with everything Royce had observed about the king. “And your mother?”

  “Caught in the middle, I suspect.” Federico rolled his water bottle between his palms. A wistful look slashed through his eyes, then was gone. “She knew Helena better than anyone. She believed that asking Helena to change would be like asking the wind to cease blowing. She also understood both her own and my father’s roles as representatives of the country. I once heard her remind my father that the incidents with Helena were always temporary. And, unlike royal in-laws elsewhere in the world, Helena’s actions weren’t immoral or against the law, they were simply fodder for gossips. Helena was an excellent assistant to my mother and was—still is—a wonderful aunt to me and my siblings. She never had children and has treated us as her own. My father recognizes that and appreciates it. It’s why he invited Helena to continue to live at the palace after my mother passed away.”