The Unraveling of Violeta Bell

by C. R. Corwin

  He knew where I was going. “I never knew he wasn’t happy being a man. Back then such a thing would never occur to you, would it? Not even today. But I knew he was confused to the bone about something.”

  I sat across from him. “So you assumed he committed suicide.”

  “We Clopotar men are known to take the unfairness of life head on,” he said.

  “And that’s what Petru did,” I said. “He burned his bridges and became the woman he should have been.”

  The prince smiled sadly. “I just wish he had let me in on it. I’ve missed him terribly all these years.”

  Memories of my own lost brother flooded my brain. I’d told the prince about him on Wolfe Island. “At least now you know Petru went on to live a long life as Violeta Bell. And from what her friends tell me, a happy one.”

  “Until her murder,” the prince said. “From what that detective told me, that must have been a frightening night for her.”

  I was surprised into silence. Not something that happens very often.

  He winked devilishly. “Oh yes, Maddy, I’ve already talked to your favorite detective. Last night at the hotel. He showed me the DNA results. And the scrapbook.”

  “Did he now?”

  “He is quite fond of you. Not to mention Irish coffee.” He dropped the big bombshell. “In fact, Mr. Grant is upstairs as we speak. With Mr. Averill and some extremely unhappy fellow named Winkler or something.”

  I corrected him. “Alec Tinker.”

  The prince stood up and flattened the pockets of his sports coat. “Actually I volunteered to come downstairs and fetch you.”

  I found a horrible plastic vase under the sink for my roses. I trimmed the stems with that plastic knife I’d fingered in the drawer. He carried the roses back to my desk for me. We took the elevator upstairs.

  Bob Averill’s office was gray and austere. The no-nonsense domain of a powerful man. He was slumped into his enormous black leather chair, slowly swiveling back and forth. The only thing on his desk was a copy of that morning’s paper. In front of him, on far more modest chairs, sat Detective Grant and Alec Tinker. There were empty chairs for the prince and me. The men were all wearing coats and ties. I was wearing baggy dungarees and that Tweetie Bird tee shirt with the big tea stain.

  The prince was right on the money when he’d said how unhappy Alec Tinker was. And I knew why that was. Tinker had been left out of the loop. He hadn’t known about my investigation. Or that Bob Averill had put me up to it. Or that Bob was in cahoots with Detective Grant.

  “Now—where were we?” Bob Averill asked when we were seated.

  Tinker glowered at him like a just-castrated bull. “You were about to answer my question. Am I managing editor of this paper or not?”

  Bob responded calmly. “Yes, you are, Alec. And you will remain so.”

  Alec’s response to that was not so calm. “Don’t count on that, Bob!”

  Said Bob, “There are plenty of starfish in the sea, Alec!”

  Said me, “Let’s not get into a pissing match, gentlemen.” I turned toward Tinker. “Bob didn’t ask me to look into Violeta Bell’s murder for the paper. He asked me because his wife was on his back. And she was on Bob’s back because her sorority sister, Jeannie Salapardi, was on her back. Because Eddie French was her brother. And so Bob got on my back. And I got on Detective Grant’s.”

  Tinker wasn’t appeased. “Sounds a little unethical, doesn’t it?”

  Prince Anton was amused. “Not to mention a little kinky.”

  We all laughed. And while everybody was still in good humor I tried to put things into perspective. “Alec,” I said, “the only way it would have been unethical was if Bob had included you in our conspiracy. Bob is an ethical man. He would never blur the lines between editor and hen-pecked husband. That’s why he turned to me. As a friend. And now you, Mr. Managing Editor, have one hell of a good story to cover.” I turned to the prince. “Assuming that the prince doesn’t mind sitting still for an interview.”

  “I’ve already told what little I know to Detective Grant,” the prince said. “I’ve no objection telling it to you good people as well.”

  Bob Averill relaxed into his big chair and started playing with the uneven ends of his necktie. “The ball’s in your court, Alec.”

  And so Tinker took over the meeting, demonstrating for the umpteenth time in two years why Bob had brought him in as managing editor. Tinker addressed his first question to Detective Grant. “You’d better wait outside.”

  Grant stood and bowed like a bad Shakespearean actor. “I’ll get some coffee.” He left the office.

  Tinker then turned his attention to the prince. “Telling the media a different version of what you told the police can get you into trouble,” he cautioned. “And there is still a murder investigation going on. By the police and apparently by one or more employees of this paper. So before you talk to us keep in mind that—”

  Prince Anton interrupted him. “Everything I say can and will be used against me?”

  “I just want you to go into this with a clear head,” Tinker said.

  I playfully leaned toward the prince and pretended to whisper. “We’re going to do the story whether you talk to us or not. So you might as well give us your side.”

  The prince nodded that he understood. “The police don’t suspect me of anything. And rightfully so. And I’m sure the people of Hannawa are as curious about Petru’s old life as I am about his new one as Violeta Bell. We’ll all fill in the blanks together.”

  Tinker nodded back at him. “We’ll go ahead then.”

  Prince Anton was visibly pleased. He reached out and patted my hand as if to say thanks. “Is it my turn to exit stage right?”

  “If you don’t mind, we do have a couple of things to hash out,” Tinker said.

  The prince gave us an even grander bow than Scotty Grant had. He left.

  I started to get up. “Time for me to bow out, too, I suppose?”

  “Not so fast, Maddy,” said Tinker. “You know more about this story than anybody else. We’re going to need your wisdom.” He turned to Bob Averill. “If that’s okay with you, Bob.”

  Bob was still playing with his tie. “If it were up to me, I’d wear those clip-ons,” he said. “But the wife says I’m too important a man.”

  That was Bob’s way of playing Pontius Pilot, washing his hands of the whole mess. And why not? He’d been forced to get involved because of Jeannie Salapardi. And now Eddie was no longer a suspect. Jeannie had thrown a wonderful barbecue for him.

  Tinker happily continued with his ideas for our coverage. “As I see it, the story is this: An exhaustive Herald-Union investigation uncovers Violeta Bell’s shocking past. Finds her brother living on an island in Canada. A brother who, lo and behold, is a pretender to the Romanian throne. Which means Violeta’s claim to be royalty was true. How will these revelations affect the police investigation? Which plods on with little success.”

  “Sounds more like a book than a story,” I hissed.

  “We’ll give it all the space it needs,” said Tinker, undeterred by my sarcasm. “And of course we’ll do a story on you, Maddy. How your dogged research once again saved the day. We’ll recap your work on the Buddy Wing and Gordon Sweet murders.”

  It was time to for me to rain on his parade. “Absolutely not.”

  Pontius Pilot was suddenly interested in throwing his weight around again. “You’re a big part of the story, Maddy.”

  I wasn’t intimidated. “Let me put it in the clearest English I can. No way, José.”

  Unfortunately, Tinker wasn’t intimidated either. “To quote one Dolly Madison Sprowls, ‘We’re going to do the story whether you talk to us or not.’”

  I looked to Bob Averill for mercy. His grin told me none was coming.

  Tinker moved on with his plans. “It’s not exactly a police story. But I think Dale Marabout’s the guy for the job.”

  Dale Marabout is my best buddy at the paper. A t
errific reporter, too. So I was as surprised as Bob and Tinker when I heard myself squeak, “Marabout?”

  Said Tinker, “He’s the best we’ve got when it comes to a big investigative piece like this.”

  I surprised myself again. “What about Gabriella Nash?”

  “She’s a gutsy girl,” Tinker said. “But I don’t think she’s ready for something this complex.”

  His “gutsy girl” crack stuck in my craw. “You want me to cooperate, you give the story to Gabriella.”

  Tinker put his foot down. “I’m giving it to Marabout.”

  “Then I’m keeping my lips zipped,” I threatened.

  Pontius Pilot metamorphosed into Solomon. “You could put them both on the story, Alec.”

  Tinker immediately saw the wisdom of his suggestion. “Gabriella did interview Bell before her murder. And she could certainly add a lot of background color to the story. There’s no question about that.”

  “And she is a gutsy girl,” I added.

  It was decided. Dale Marabout and Gabriella Nash would do the story together.

  The next thing to do was break the news to Dale and Gabriella. I cautioned against it, but Tinker had them summoned upstairs together. And of course both immediately balked at working together. “I’m not a big fan of double bylines,” Dale said.

  I knew what his real objection was. Gabriella had not only cried when Violeta Bell was murdered, she’d had a hissy fit when Dale was given the story. “Gabriella will behave,” I assured him. “Won’t you, Gabriella?”

  “I don’t like double bylines either,” she said, slumping back into an about-to-explode pout.

  Bob Averill now played his best role. God. “We assign the stories. You write them.”

  Of course even God needs a little help from time to time. “I don’t know beans about the news side,” I said. “But couldn’t they do separate stories? Dale a hard news story for tomorrow on Violeta’s previous identity and how we found the prince. And then for Wednesday, Gabriella could do an in-depth feature on the prince. And then for Thursday Dale could write about the police investigation going nowhere. Friday you could run that worthless story on me you want, written, of course, by Gabriella.”

  Tinker loved my suggestion. “A four-day, page one series. Outstanding!”

  Dale and Gabriella now quibbled about who should interview the prince first that afternoon. Gabriella said she should go first, since her feature was going to take a lot longer to write than Dale’s hard news story. Dale saw it differently. Not only was he not a fan of double bylines, he wasn’t a fan of “sloppy seconds” as he crudely put it. On top of that, he also had to cover Eddie French’s court appearance at four o’clock. So he’d have two stories to write for tomorrow.

  And so it was decided that they would interview Prince Anton together, in Tinker’s office, in fifteen minutes, with him sitting in as a referee. I would sit in, too. His idea, not mine.

  ***

  We gathered in Tinker’s office. There was coffee for everyone. Dale Marabout and Gabriella got their notebooks ready. Clicked their ballpoints. Tinker punched the button on his nifty little digital recorder. I sat there like the bump on the log I wanted to be. Yawning.

  Dale Marabout asked the first question. “All these years you didn’t know your brother was still alive? Is that right?”

  Said Prince Anton, “I thought he’d drowned himself.”

  Gabriella asked her first question. “What was Petru like as a boy?”

  “He was a wonderful big brother,” said the prince. “He teased me, of course. But not as much as most younger brothers get teased.”

  Gabriella followed up. “How exactly did he tease you?”

  “Knocked my toys about. Pinched my bucă when we were saying grace at the dinner table.”

  “Bucă meaning backend?”

  The prince nodded and spelled the word for her. “B.u.c.a.”

  Asked Dale, “So you never knew he had a sex change operation?”

  “Like I said, I thought he’d drowned.”

  Asked Gabriella, “Was he a good student?”

  “Our parents insisted that we both be good students.”

  “Was he athletic?” she asked. “Did he play sports in school?”

  “We both played tennis and football,” said the prince. “Soccer you’d call it. And we both loved swimming and boating. We spent our summers on the island. So, we’d better.”

  Asked Dale, “So it’s feasible that he faked drowning and then easily swam to shore?”

  “There’s no such thing as an easy swim in the St. Lawrence,” said the prince. “Not out in the current where he left the boat.”

  “But he was capable of swimming to shore?” Dale asked more firmly.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you and your brother have a happy childhood?” Gabriella asked. “Your parents treated you well?”

  “Poppy was quick with the strap if we talked back or shirked our duties, and mama was a stickler for etiquette. We were royals, after all, but no two boys had better parents.”

  Asked Dale, “Any hint that your brother wished he was your sister?”

  “I never caught him trying on mama’s delicates, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  The interview went on like that forever. Dale asking hardball questions about Petru’s disappearance and sexual orientation. Gabriella lobbing softballs. Out in the newsroom, the desks were filling up and keyboards were starting to click. The pace would pick up little by little throughout the afternoon, with total bedlam breaking out just about the time when the rest of the city was going home for supper.

  “Was there an expectation when you were growing up that the Romanian throne would actually be restored?” asked Gabriella.

  “Yes,” said the prince. “There was real hope. Not only that the Communists would be booted out and the monarchy restored, but that the Romanian people would come to their senses and choose us Clopotars over King Michael’s clan, those damn interloping Hohenzollerns.”

  “So in your minds, there was a real expectation that Petru would be invited home and crowned king?” she asked.

  The prince gruffly corrected her. “The expectation was that my father would be invited home and crowned king. Petru’s reign would come many years later.”

  Gabriella apologized. “Of course.”

  Dale was ready with his next question. “Did your brother like girls?”

  “What’s not to like about girls?” the prince asked back, winking at me as he did.

  Dale tried again. “Did he date in high school?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I yowled at Dale, remembering the nerdy mess he was when he came to work at the paper. “You didn’t even date in college.”

  “If my brother did consider himself a woman, then he wouldn’t have been a homosexual if he were attracted to boys,” the prince said calmly. “He would have been just as hetero as you, assuming that you are, Mr. Marabout.”

  Dale winced. Everyone else laughed. I knew that Dale had to ask those kinds of questions. That reporting wasn’t a popularity contest. But I was sure hoping the interview would take a less contentious direction.

  Gabriella gave me hope. “Why exactly did you come to Hannawa?”

  Prince Anton’s mustache lifted, like a Canada goose taking wing. Apparently he was as pleased with the question as I was. “I suppose for many reasons. All under the rubric of being a good brother. Doing the right thing, as you Americans would say. I want to visit her resting place. Pay my respects and make sure all the final expenses are taken care of. And I certainly want to help the police find the murderer. Not for revenge, mind you. To make sure no one else is harmed.” He stopped and chuckled to himself. Winked at me again. “I did not come here to strangle Maddy for stealing my teaspoon and pipe.”

  Dale turned his attention—not to mention his pen and reporter’s notebook—to me. “You stole the prince’s teaspoon and pipe?”

  I had no choice but t
o explain. Both Dale and Gabriella scribbled furiously. Tinker made sure his recorder was getting my every word. “And so when the DNA report came back showing that Prince Anton was Violeta Bell’s brother, I immediately wrote him a letter apologizing for my—”

  Prince Anton helped me out. “For your dexterity,” he said. “Which brings me to another reason for my visit. To personally thank Maddy for caring so much about the truth. Even though she suspected I might be the one who did poor Violeta in. To protect the throne for myself. For all I know she still suspects that.”