The Mercedes purred to a stop on a big circle stone driveway in front of a sizeable French chateau, with a large fountain featuring a carved statue in the middle.
“Yay! We’re here,” Bea said, popped the door open, and hopped out. “I’m starving!”
“I love this place,” Joan said. She walked to the front door of the chateau, lifted the heavy decorative metal knob shaped like a lion’s head, and knocked. “Hello! We finally made it.”
Leo walked up behind her. “I’ve got a key. Nana can be a bit slow at times.”
“Why are we visiting Royal Nana?” I asked.
“She has a plan,” Bea said. “And, of course, brunch.”
Esmeralda leaned into the driver’s side window and recited her phone number for Captain Sam. “555,” she said and lowered her voice. “Five—like the number of times you called out my name our last night in Rome.”
He smiled and entered her digits into his phone.
“6677. Seven. You said you were done at six but then I surprised you with a few naughty bits, and hello solider, you popped out a seven.”
“I remember that.” He winked. “It’s been a pleasure, my Lady.” He saluted, put the SUV in gear, and drove away.
“Oh, Captain, my Captain!” Esmeralda blew him a kiss.
“You’re insatiable,” I said.
“Someone has to be. We’re turning into a sorry lot of old maids.” She bent down, touched her toes, stood back up, stretched her back, and performed a series of leg kicks. “Bea’s husband is consistently wrapped up in business and sports. Joan’s all nose to the grindstone, has a sixty-hour work week, and probably hasn’t had a date in a few months. And you’ve been left a blushing almost bride, yet again, at the altar. We’re only in our twenties. What in the hell will happen when we hit our fifties?”
“I have a feeling you already have that covered,” I said.
“On my off nights I plan ahead. How are you feeling, Missus?”
“Like shit. Did you all have to buy me a one hundred percent acrylic sweat suit outfit? I look like an octogenarian tourist on the Lido deck of an all expenses paid cruise to Alaska. This was the best disguise you could come up with?”
“We didn’t have a chance to go to the mall,” Esmeralda said. “We were limited to the hospital gift shop or the five kiosks in the town square that stayed open late in honor of your wedding. We decided to keep it on the down low and stayed in-house.”
“I Love Friedricksburgh Chocolate is emblazoned on my ass, matching sweat-shirt, ball cap, and tote. What happened to my day purse?”
“It’s back at your hotel room. You insisted that you didn’t want anyone to recognize you.” She stretched her arms over her head. “You said, and I repeat, ‘The paparazzi, Royal Weddings Consultants, Cable Bellèno News, and that mean Famke Kegan can bite my non-royal ass.’ I do believe that means mission accomplished on our part.”
“Fine,” I said. “Why are we really at Royal Nana’s country home?”
The front door to the chateau creaked open. Royal Nana rolled forward in her walker and my dog Roman raced around and bounded to my side. “Roman!” I dropped to one knee and hugged him. His tail wagged so hard it looked like it might fly off his stout body.
Royal Nana regarded us from the entryway. “What has taken you bitches so damn long? The eggs Benedict are soggy, the prune strudel has seen better days, and the coffee is cold. I don’t have another ten years, you know. Leo, FYI, I’ve promoted you to favorite grandson status.”
“Seriously, Nana?” He looked hopeful.
“For now. I heard there was a note. Do you still have it?”
“Yes,” Leo said.
“Show it to me. We need to get this show on the road. Hurry up, or I’ll write you all out of my will.”
Bea’s hand flew to her chest. “We’re in the will!”
Chapter 13
VIVIAN
We sat around a long, polished wood table in a dining room last decorated in the 1970s. The walls were burnt orange and Egyptian blue, and an Andy Warhol silk screen of a stunning regal woman wearing a tiara hung on the wall next to the maple china cabinet. Floral patterned Limoge plates and platters resting on the table were overflowing with bacon strips, Bellèno sausages, eggs Benedict, a variety of breads, strudels, jams, marmalades, and butter. Matching place settings sat in front of us.
Framed 8 X 10 photos of Royal Nana, her late husband, King Heinrich Rochartè of Bellèno, and visiting celebrities were lined on one long wall. It reminded me a little of ‘We Tidy Clean for You’ dry cleaners back in Chicago that featured photos of B-list actors and White Sox baseball players shaking hands with Mr. Lisowski, the guy who owned the joint.
Roman lay quietly next to my feet and thumped his tail on the carpet as I discretely fed him crumbled sausage bits.
An ancient butler walked to the table carrying a silver tray with a solitary thick manila file on top. “At your request, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Herr Fingerlachen,” Royal Nana said and continued chewing her strudel. “Would you be so kind as to pass out a copy to each of my guests?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He made his way around the table handing each of us a paper.
Joan held it up in front of her and squinted. “It looks like a mimeograph of the kiss-off note that Prince Maximillian left Vivian.”
“Can I have the original back?” I stared at my copy. “In a strange way it’s a keepsake.”
“You could sell it on eBay and make a pretty pence,” Bea said.
“No, you cannot have the original back,” Royal Nana said. “I saw the photos in All Right Magazine. You stuffed the note into your brassiere. I’ve watched enough true crime TV to realize that the evidence has been tampered with, but at the end of the day it’s still evidence. Herr Fingerlachen already contacted the Bellèno Intelligence Agency, which collected Maximillian’s message and sent it to the lab for analysis.”
“But we just got here,” Esmeralda said. “How’d you pull that one off?”
“A series of well-hidden tubes connect my chateau to a B.I.A. outpost just a few kilometres away.”
“I put it in the little bin, closed the hatch, and pushed the Send button,” Fingerlachen said. “It was quite easy.”
“I thought the tubes thing was just urban legend,” Joan said.
“Real,” Royal Nana said.
“So what are we doing?” I pushed my chair back from the table. “Besides enjoying a lovely brunch with you, Royal Nana. I’m grateful and yet I was dumped at the altar and Max has gone missing. I’m not sure it’s time to be resting.”
“I didn’t invite you to my mountain getaway to rest,” Royal Nana said. “I gathered you here to discuss what happened. To plot and plan.”
“Planning sounds terrific,” Bea said. “Could someone pass me the Champagne, please, or shall I boarding house reach?”
Joan grasped the bottle and topped off her flute.
“You’re a peach, Joan-y,” she said, and took a sip.
“I apologize for my lack of wait staff today,” Royal Nana said, “but, with the exception of Fingerlachen, I wanted to meet with you ladies and my favorite grandson privately.”
“Did you really think your wedding handlers were up to no good at the wedding?” I asked. “Is that why you requested that Max escort you inside to your pew?”
“The vast majority of my handlers are usually up to no good,” Royal Nana said, “but those cathedral people were an exceptionally squirrely bunch. I feared they would steal my royal jewels, or perhaps take advantage of me in a different kind of way, if you know what I mean.”
“No!” Joan said, one hand flying to her mouth.
“Oh, yes. You’d be surprised who and at what lengths wants to take a selfie with a Royal Nana.” She patted her mouth with a linen napkin.
“So, did you, or did you not ask for Max to escort you inside the cathedral?” I asked, tore a shred from my butter croissant, and snuck it to Roman who ni
bbled it from my outstretched hand.
“No. I’m not one to push my weight around during someone else’s wedding.”
“You scammed me into walking down the aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon,” I said.
“Fine. You caught me. I’d do anything to one up on that horrible Duchess Edith of Friedricksburgh. The woman’s insufferable. Lives right up the road from me and baits me every chance she gets. Do you know how many arguments I’ve endured at our Chateau Owner’s Association meetings? No, I did not request that Max escort me into the cathedral. I was seeing a man about a horse in the private bathroom reserved for people with special abilities.”
“You mean dis—” Bea said.
I tossed my croissant at Lady Bea Hafligher. It bounced off her forehead, and shut her up. “You totally rock the special abilities, Royal Nana. Continue, please.”
“I heard someone who sounded like Max outside the door to the ladies room. He was talking to a few people, but between the church music and the drip-drip-drip of the faucet, I could only make out the voice of one woman. I think she said, ‘We have a scooter under the covers and in space. Let’s spin or we spill your ride.’ By the time I exited the bathroom, the flower van was puttering away, and a kind young person walked me into the church.”
“A man or a woman?” Joan asked.
Royal Nana shrugged. “I refuse to take sides on that issue.”
“I’m not sure of the issue you’re talking about, Royal Nana,” Joan said.
“You know the one,” she said. “The gender issue. Everyone’s fluid these days. Frankly, I don’t care as long as you’re kind-hearted and you vote. An usher helped me take my seat in the first pew next to a few third cousins who’d crammed in and tried to steal my spot because I was late. Isn’t that always the case with distant relatives?”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute!” I stood up, smacked my forehead and paced around the room. Roman jumped to standing and regarded me anxiously. “Famke Kegan at Royal Wedding Consultants told me that the Royal Rochartè Family took out loans to cover my last almost marriage to Prince Leo.”
“Not really,” Leo said. “The loans were already re-negotiated.”
“That’s only half of the story,” Royal Nana said and reached for a chocolate croissant.
“Famke said that Bellèno desperately needed tourism dollars, and somehow this wedding, my wedding, played into all of it. There are political ramifications left and right, and perhaps something happened to Max because of this.”
“I too smelled something fishy,” Royal Nana said. “It might have been Duke Harold, the second cousin seated in my row—I never liked that side of the family. Herr Fingerlachen!”
“It wasn’t me, Your Highness.” He bowed.
“I know it wasn’t you. I’m looking at our lovely table and see that something is missing. Did we forget to serve our ladies and my favorite grandson their special brunch delight?”
“My sincerest apologies, Your Highness.” He clicked his heels and trod off.
She shook her head. “Old age is catching up with him. I plan on letting it chase me around until I’m dead. But Fingerlachen’s been with me for sixty years now and I can’t let him go.”
“Why can’t you let him go, Royal Nana?” I asked.
“Because he’s loyal,” she said.
“You trust Herr Fingerlachen?”
“With my life.”
I grabbed my copy of Max’s note. “I trust my Maximillian. Who has a pen?”
Joan opened her bag and tossed me a silver Montblanc.
“Max’s note that was handed to me at the altar—it’s a code,” I said, hunched over the copy, and circled words.
“Herr Fingerlachen!” Royal Nana called. “I hear you fumbling around the living room. We’re in the dining room.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “Ice cream Grasshoppers coming right up, just the way you like them. Half crème de menthe and crème de cacao with fresh homemade vanilla ice crème. None of that store bought stuff for the King’s mother.” He shuffled to the table carrying the silver tray with petite liquor glasses filled with minty green concoctions.
“Thank you. Your memory is impeccable,” Royal Nana said. “Could you be a love and bring me House of Bellèno’s Book of Ciphers? Do you remember where it’s tucked away?”
His hands shook and the tray rattled. “Of course I remember.”
“Excellent,” Royal Nana said. “Put the tray on the table and fetch the book. I think it holds the answers that we so desperately desire.”
Chapter 14
MAXIMILLIAN
Growing up as a prince in the House of Bellèno might have appeared odd to outsiders but it was all my brother and I knew. We were doted on by our parents, considered privileged little shits by the jealous second cousins, and too often found ourselves in the public eye.
In addition to a traditional education, we learned the history of our House, and were taught how to govern. A part of our education was geared toward how to handle worst case scenarios, gaffes, and the occasional faux pas. When people said inappropriate things or tried to take advantage of our position.
Repeated lessons covered the invasion of privacy and how to avoid uncompromising situations. I underwent actual training about what to do in case of a kidnapping. I don’t recall a chapter about how to handle kidnapping that included being taken on one’s wedding day.
When the familiar looking woman in the suit leaned in and whispered that there was a threat, and could I come with her, please, Your Majesty. I could have simply said no. I could have resisted. But when I was informed that there was the distinct possibility of a bomb secreted into the chapel that would most likely blow if I didn’t leave with my abductors on the spot—my gut decision was to save Vivian, protect my family, and everyone inside that church.
Therefore, I willingly accompanied my captors without a fuss or fight. Climbed into the back of that floral van where a gun was held to my face, my hands zip tied behind my back, and I was pushed onto the floor. I was blindfolded and someone jammed a pair of headphones onto my head and cranked up the heavy metal music.
The van rolled off, and I was wondered what the fuck would happen next. Would I hear a blast over this noise? Maybe not—but I’d feel the vibration from the detonation, or be jostled about if the ride rocked abruptly to and fro.
Time passed and there was no explosion. More time passed with no shocking reverberations. What felt like hours later a band of muscular tightness had grown up the back of my spine into my head. My shoulders hit my ears and my jaw clenched from worrying about Vivian and my family. The odor of flowers permeated my brain and I’d be happy if I never smelled another flower ever again.
The van stopped. I was dragged out of the back and shuffled forward. A door creaked open. I was half pulled half shoved down a flight of concrete stairs into a cold area that smelled of more flowers and cinnamon.
I had to keep my wits about me because I that was the only way I figure this out. Figure out where I was, how to escape how the best way to capture the flag and return to home base. I just hoped Leo would take care of my Vivian. Keep her safe and sound until I could return. Do his best to hold down the fort.
Chapter 15
VIVIAN
My hands shook as I held the mimeographed paper with Max’s note and compared it to page seventy-six of House of Bellèno’s Book of Ciphers. “Max’s kiss off letter that I received at the altar was actually a secret code,” I said, “Look. It’s every third word.”
My sweet Vivian,
* * *
I’m really sorry.
Change of heart.
Don’t love you.
Bond can be borrowed not taken.
Not your hostage.
Not your Max
“‘Vivian — Sorry — Heart — You —Be — Taken — Hostage — Max.’”
I slapped my hand on my forehead. “He was kidnapped.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Leo said.
“The House of Bellèno has not received a ransom note.”
“We will,” Royal Nana said. “Max is usually good with words, but that note wasn’t his best work. The finest codes are more intricate than every third word, and their ciphers are after page one hundred in House of Bellèno’s Book of Ciphers.”
“He probably had seconds to improvise.” I plunked down on the dining room chair that felt like it had last been upholstered in 1972, and winced at the hardness of the wooden seat. Ever the sensitive one, Roman whined, pawed at me, and jammed his head between my knees. I petted his soft coat, finding comfort and kindness in my fur baby. “In a strange way I am relieved Max didn’t willingly stand me up at the altar.”
“Let’s assume for a moment he was kidnapped. Why? Who? To what purpose?” Bea asked. “Joan, can you pass the Champagne again?”
Joan topped her off. “What do these people always want? Money. Attention. Power.”
“Money,” Esmeralda said. “Always follow the money.”
“I’ll call the authorities and get an update,” Joan said. “We can go all the way to the top. I know the chief of Bellèno’s Secret Police.”
“I slept with the chief of Bellèno’s Secret Police,” Royal Nana said.
“Sasha Krause?” Esmeralda asked. “Seriously, you bagged Sasha Krause? Hats off to you, Royal Nana. He’s forty years old. I’d tap that.”
“Do I look like a pedophile? I slept with his grandfather, the original Sasha Krause, after my beloved Heinrich died. I could ring him right now—”
“No,” I said. “Royal Nana, I’m repeating what you said five minutes ago because I want to make sure I’ve got this right. You said, ‘I could only make out the voice of one woman. And that woman said, ‘We have a scooter under the covers and in space. Let’s spin or we spill your ride.’”
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