Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince

by Nancy Atherton

  “Drink, anyone?” she asked, cocking her head toward a lucite corner cabinet covered in tiny mirrors.

  “No, thanks,” Bree and I chorused.

  “It’s a bit early for us,” I explained.

  “Is it?” said Gracie, her brow furrowing. “I thought journos knocked it back all day and all night.”

  “We’re freelancers,” Bree reminded her. “We play by different rules.”

  “I see.” Gracie pursed her red lips and nodded, as if a mystery of the universe had been revealed to her, then shrugged and crossed to the mirrored cabinet, her stilettos tapping sharply on the parquet floor. “I’ll have one myself, if it’s all the same to you. I need a little something to steady my nerves. I’m not used to giving interviews. Did you like the fountain?” she asked as she poured herself a large gin and tonic. “Cost us fifty grand, but worth every penny.” The ice in her glass tinkled as she left the drinks cabinet and nestled her shapely curves into the sofa facing ours. “We wanted to go to Rome on our honeymoon, Tony and me, but we couldn’t afford it. The fountain reminds us of how far we’ve come since then.”

  “It’s a remarkable work of art,” I said solemnly, “and a lasting monument to true love.”

  “Will you put that in your article?” she asked, looking delighted.

  “Absolutely,” said Bree, and she bent over her notebook to record my exact words.

  “Cheers.” Gracie raised her glass to us, then sipped from it daintily. “What made you choose Shangri-la to write about? God knows I’ve tried to get your lot out here often enough, but no one’s shown a flicker of interest until now.”

  “We heard about your home from Lord and Lady Boghwell,” I said.

  Gracie’s whole aspect changed. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw jutted pugnaciously, and her lips became a thin, crimson line.

  “I’ll bet you did,” she said, with a derisive snort. “Buffel, my foot. They’re so high and mighty they think they can change the English language. But I ask you: Since when is gh pronounced like F?

  “Enough?” said Bree.

  “I beg your pardon?” Gracie said testily.

  “The gh in enough is pronounced like an F,” Bree explained.

  “So it is,” Gracie marveled, her face brightening briefly. “You’re clever, you are. Anyway . . .” she went on, “my Tony calls them the Bogs. Spiteful old fossils. We tried to be friendly with them but they couldn’t be bothered with us. They’re as bad as that snooty wanker at Mirfield. Tony and me will never be good enough for some people,” she fumed. “I can imagine what the Bogs told you about Shangri-la.”

  “They told us your home wasn’t always called Shangri-la,” I said. “Did you and your husband change the name?”

  “Of course we did.” Gracie eyed me incredulously. “Tony couldn’t live in a place called Whiting Hall, now, could he? He gets enough fish at work!”

  I flinched as Bree let out a high-pitched squeal.

  “Fish cakes!” she exclaimed. “That’s why the house seems familiar!”

  I gaped at Gracie as the penny dropped. I didn’t serve Will and Rob frozen fish cakes often, but when I did, I served them Tony Thames Fish Cakes. It was an excellent product and, to judge by Shangri-la, a lucrative one.

  “From our nets to your plate,” I said dazedly, quoting the company’s slogan. “Your husband is the Tony Thames of Tony Thames Fish Cakes.”

  “That’s right,” said Gracie, smiling. “You’re right about the house looking familiar, too. We film a lot of Tony’s commercials here. It’s a bit of a nuisance, but it saves money and it gives us creative control.” She took a less dainty sip from her glass, smacked her lips, and glanced around the room with a satisfied air. “We had to do the place up, of course. Whiting Hall was in worse shape than bloody Risingholme when we bought it. Dry rot, subsidence, rising damp, woodworm—you name it, we had to deal with it. Took us two full years to whip the place into shape, but we got there in the end.”

  “How long have you owned Shangri-la?” I asked.

  “Twenty-two years next April,” she replied. “When we were kids, Tony and me dreamed about having a place in the country.” She gave a contented little shiver. “Shangri-la is our dream come true. Would you like to see the rest of it?”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “May I take photos?”

  “Snap away,” said Gracie. She finished her drink, placed the empty glass on the coffee table, and leaned farther forward, revealing a veritable Grand Canyon of a cleavage. “Tell you what. I’ll have Cook throw together some nibbles and a pitcher of margaritas and Divina can set it up by the pool. By the time we’re done with the house, we’ll need a pick-me-up. Back in a minute.”

  She got to her feet and clattered out of the drawing room without betraying the smallest sign of tipsiness. Either her drink held more tonic than gin, I reasoned, or her head was a lot harder than mine was.

  As soon as she closed the door behind her, I turned to Bree.

  “Drinks?” I said.

  “By the pool?” said Bree.

  “It’s too early for one and too cold for the other,” I observed, “but as the old saying goes: When in Rome . . .”

  Bree sniggered. “I wonder what Michelangelo would make of the fountain?”

  “It means the world to Gracie and Tony,” I said staunchly. “Who cares what anyone else thinks?”

  “Sorry,” said Bree, stifling her giggles. “I’m behaving like a Bog. I swear I won’t ridicule Gracie or her lovely home in my article.”

  “Your article?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Have you already marked Gracie and Tony down as innocent bystanders?”

  “Absolutely,” said Bree. “Think about it, Lori. They may be of Russian descent, but they didn’t inherit Whiting Hall from their émigré ancestors. They bought it twenty years ago. They haven’t lived here long enough to have anything to do with Mikhail or with a recipe written in 1925. Besides, Gracie wouldn’t show us around the place if she had something—or someone—to hide.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” I said. “Do you think we should bail on the tour?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Bree, her eyes dancing. “I’m dying to see Gracie’s bedroom!”

  Eighteen

  Gracie’s bedroom lived up to Bree’s highest expectations. I wasn’t sure what pleased her most, the heart-shaped bed, the hundreds of gold cupids on the ceiling, or the rows of stilettos in Gracie’s vast walk-in closet, but she jotted down descriptions of everything.

  Chrome, lucite, and leather dominated the decor throughout the house. Gracie’s children had stamped their personalities on their bedrooms by adding posters to the walls and teenage clutter to the shelves, but the rest of the rooms were bright, sleek, and seemingly untouched by human hands. When I thought of the mountains of mud my sons tracked into the cottage on a daily basis, I couldn’t help wondering how any mother could keep a place like Shangri-la clean without driving herself and her offspring bonkers.

  If the cellars had ever contained a dungeon, every sign of it had been erased by the Thameses’ relentless renovation. Where, as Gracie informed us, there once had been cobwebs, dusty wine racks, oil lanterns, and rough stone walls, there was now a fitness room, a sauna, a home theater, a climate-controlled wine cellar, a two-lane bowling alley, and a dramatically lit trophy room.

  It wasn’t until we entered the trophy room that I finally understood why the Thameses had employed Amanda Pickering. Its lucite display cases were brimming with trophies shaped like bowling balls, bowling pins, and various combinations of the two, almost all of them made of silver.

  “My Tony’s a champion bowler,” Gracie told us. “If he hadn’t gone into the family business, he’d have made a name for himself on the pro bowling circuit. We hold our own little tournaments here once a month. He likes to keep his hand in.”

  “Impressive,” said Bree, stepping forward to examine a silver bowling ball inscribed with Tony’s name.

  “I polished them myself until abo
ut a year ago, when I hired a girl to take over from me,” said Gracie. “Looks like I’ll be back at it, though. The girl didn’t show up for work on Wednesday and her landlady tells me she’s cleared out, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Are you speaking of Amanda Pickering?” I asked.

  Grace turned to me eagerly. “Do you know Mandy? Do you know where she’s gone? Do you know if she’s coming back?”

  “I’ve met Amanda,” I said, “but I don’t know her well. I’m afraid I don’t know where she went or what her plans are.”

  “Ah, well,” Gracie said with a resigned sigh. “Easy come, easy go.” She clasped her red-taloned hands together and looked brightly from me to Bree. “Tour’s over, ladies. Are we ready for our nibbles?”

  Since Gracie had taken almost two hours to show us every gleaming inch of her dream home, I was ready for a roast suckling pig with all the trimmings, but nibbles were better than nothing.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “And the tour’s not over yet, Gracie. We still haven’t seen the swimming pool.”

  “You will in two ticks,” she said. “Follow me.”

  • • •

  Gracie’s heated swimming pool was pink, as was the heart-shaped spa next to it, but the statue of Venus rising from the landscaped waterfall at the deep end of the pool was carved from pure white marble and the dual barbecues, though inordinately large, were made of good old stainless steel.

  Happily, the pool area was equipped with infrared patio heaters that shed overlapping blankets of warmth on the tables and chairs Divina had arranged for us beside the waterfall. More happily still, Gracie’s notion of nibbles was as over-the-top as her fashion sense.

  The buffet that awaited us would not have looked out of place on a cruise ship. The covered platters and chafing dishes contained the expected—sausage rolls, deviled eggs, pork pies, lobster puffs, and miniature quiches—as well as the unexpected. The unexpected roused my curiosity.

  Sprinkled in among the standard fare were dishes I didn’t normally associate with English cookery: blinis topped with sour cream and caviar; latkes accompanied by a bowl of applesauce; mushroom pirogi; and black bread layered with pickled herring. When I turned to scan the sweets table, I spied a plateful of Russian tea cakes amid the tarts, eclairs, madeleines, and macaroons.

  Gracie, who’d already paid her respects to the pitcher of margaritas, took it upon herself to guide Bree through the less familiar nibbles.

  “The little pancakes are called blinis,” she explained, “the potato pancakes are latkes, and the mushroom dumplings are pirogi. I won’t let you leave until you’ve tried them all. They’re yummy, I promise you.”

  Gracie proceeded to load my plate as well as Bree’s with enough food to feed a post-match Rugby team, but while we dug in, she contented herself with a single caviar-laden blini.

  “The blini, the latkes, the pirogi,” I said between bites. “Are they family recipes?”

  “They are,” Gracie replied, “but they come from Tony’s family, not mine. Tony’s mum—God rest her soul—taught me how to make them and I taught Cook. My Tony can’t live without his latkes!”

  “Was Tony’s mother Russian?” I asked.

  “Russian Jewish,” Gracie confirmed. “I converted before Tony and me got married.” She laughed, but her eyes flashed with anger. “Cockney and Jewish! That’s two black marks in the Bogs’ book.”

  “Not in mine,” I said.

  “Nor mine,” said Bree. “And the Bogs’ book should be dropped in a bog.”

  “Too right it should.” Gracie’s laughter rang true this time and she raised her glass to Bree before taking a drink from it. “We’re doing all right for ourselves now, Tony and me, but my Tony’s family didn’t start at the top of the heap. It’s a tragic story, really. His granddad, Anton Tereschchenko, was the only member of the family to survive the Second World War. He was away from home when the Germans overran his village, rounded up the Jewish villagers, and slaughtered them.”

  Bree put her hand to her mouth and emitted a stricken “Oh.”

  “Granddad Anton made it to England with nothing but his faith and a strong back,” Gracie told us. “He sold fish from a barrow at Billingsgate, then moved up to a storefront in Stepney. Tony’s dad, Tony, and Tony Three were named after Granddad Anton. We named David, Naomi, and Talia after family members who didn’t escape the Nazis.”

  “What a beautiful way to honor their memory,” said Bree.

  “Well,” said Gracie, “we had to do something to keep Tony’s heritage alive.” She rose to top up her glass, carried the pitcher of margaritas back with her to our table, resumed her seat, and continued. “When Tony’s dad came up with the fish cake idea, he changed the family name from Tereschchenko to Thames. A few members of our congregation accused him of cutting himself off from his roots, but it was a business decision, plain and simple. He reckoned Tony Thames Fish Cakes would sell better than Tony Tereschchenko Fish Cakes and he was right. Shoppers won’t buy into a brand they can’t pronounce!”

  “From barrow to big business in three generations?” I said. “Sounds like a success story to me.”

  “We earned our success,” said Gracie, “unlike some I could mention.”

  “I noticed the Russian tea cakes on the sweets table,” I said. “Is that a family recipe as well?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Gracie, “Cook found the Russian tea cake recipe in an old book the previous cook left behind. Tony says it’s authentic, though, so I gave Cook the green light to use it.” Her gaze wandered to the sweets table. “Mandy’s daughter liked our Russian tea cakes. Do you know Daisy?”

  “I’ve met her,” I said.

  “What did you think of her?” Gracie asked.

  “I wish I’d known her better,” I said.

  Gracie nodded. “I’m glad I got to know her. She’s a strange little thing—too many brains in her head, if you know what I mean—but I loved having a kid around the house again. Not that she’s anything like my kids. She’s quieter, more of a dreamer than they ever were, the little monkeys. The stories she’d tell!” Gracie smiled as sweetly as Shanice had when recalling Daisy’s stories. “You wouldn’t think such a young girl could come up with so many wonderful stories.”

  “What type of stories were they?” I asked.

  “They were as strange as Daisy,” said Gracie, chuckling. “There was one about a fair-haired queen who lived in a castle all by herself until she got so lonely she began to ask strangers to come and stay with her. And there was one about a man who lived in a barn and wrote books while his wife painted pretty pictures in the garden. And one about a big round woman who wore a turban and lived in a kitchen and baked biscuits for her grumpy old boss.”

  Excitement began to blossom in me, along with a sense of vindication. I recognized the characters in Daisy’s stories because they were based on people I’d met. And if Daisy’s stories were about real people, then Mikhail, too, was real. I wasn’t a fool chasing after a figment of a little girl’s overactive imagination. I was a concerned human being looking for a man who lived and breathed, and who would continue to suffer until Bree and I rescued him from his tormentors. I shot Bree a meaningful look, then turned to stare at Gracie again as she proceeded to astonish me further.

  “Recently,” she said, “there was the story about the lost prince. It was different from the others, scarier and darker, and Daisy was different when she told it, less dreamy and more . . . urgent.” Gracie laughed. “Daisy must have told me about Prince Mikhail five times in a row the last time she was here.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that she might be telling the truth?” I asked.

  Gracie blinked at me. “The truth? About the lost prince? You’re joking, aren’t you? There’s no such thing as Russian princes.”

  “There are such things as old men, though,” I said gravely. “And elder abuse.”

  Gracie tossed back the rest of her drink, set her glass aside, and sat forw
ard in her chair, squinting at me in disbelief.

  “Are you telling me that Daisy’s lost prince is a real person?” she asked.

  “Everyone else Daisy told you about is real,” I said. “The lonely queen is Madeleine Sturgess, who’s turned her empty nest into a guest house. The writer is Felix Chesterton and the painter is his wife, Frances Wylton. They live in a converted barn.”

  “And the big round woman in the turban?” Gracie said. “Is she real, too?”

  “Her name is Shanice,” I said. “She’s the Boghwhells’ cook and general factotum.”

  “Daisy based the characters in her stories on the people she met when she went to work with her mother,” Bree explained. “We can give you their addresses.”

  Gracie opened and closed her mouth a few times, then fell back in her chair.

  “Well, I’ll be blowed,” she said. “If Daisy was talking about real people, then this Prince Mikhail of hers must be in real trouble.”

  “We’re afraid he might be,” I said. “If he is, we want to help him.”

  “Is that why you came to Shangri-la?” Gracie said, her eyes widening. “To pump me for information about the lost prince?”

  “We wanted to see your home as well,” Bree said quickly, “and we fully intend to write a glowing article about it, but . . . we’re also worried about Mikhail.”

  “Will anyone read your glowing article?” Gracie asked, looking anxiously from my face to Bree’s.

  “Yes,” Bree declared stoutly. “It may take awhile, Gracie, but I swear to you that my piece on Shangri-la will reach a worldwide readership.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Gracie, her face clearing. “After I talked to Cook about our nibbles, I rang my Tony to tell him about you. It would have broken his heart to find out you came here under false pretenses.”