Finding It (2 page)

“This is not what it looks like…”

“Really? Because you appear to have nicked my notebook.”

Basil’s clipped, posh accent is as intimidating as his piercing, accusatory gaze. He is staring at me as if he knows all of my deep, dark secrets, like I am a twisted puzzle he effortlessly solved. I am waiting for him to point his bony finger at me and say,
“It’s elementary, my dear Miss Grant, when I eliminate all other factors, the one which remains is the truth, and the truth is, you are barking mad, a stalker of princes, a quibbler of truths, an imposter in a wretched Burberry knock-off.”

As so often happens when I am nervous, I begin blabbering ridiculousness, incriminating myself.

“Look,” I say, dropping the notebook on the table. “You got me. I was reading your notebook, but I wasn’t stalking Prince Harry.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He drops the manila envelope on the table beside his notebook and perches himself on the edge of the desk, crosses his arms, and looks down his beak-like nose at me.

“I am a columnist with
GoGirl! Magazine
on assignment to cover the lifestyles of the rich and royal. I told my editor I could get an interview with a member of the royal family, that I have connections, but…”

“You lied.”

“Yes!” I toss my hands in the air. “I lied! I lied!”

I’m squealing like a jailhouse snitch. I draw a deep breath and try to channel 50 Cent, Eminem, and Snoop Dogg, but I think I am projecting more Vanilla Ice than hardcore hood rat.

“Listen Basil—”

“Basil?” The detective looks at me beneath knit brows. A second later, his brow relaxes and a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Rathbone?”

“It was an obvious comparison,” I say, my own lips twitching. “You look a little like the actor.”

The detective rolls his eyes. “Why can’t Americans make British literary references beyond Sherlock or Shakespeare?”

“You mean like Austen, Dickens, Shelley, Byron. Brontë, Tolkien…” Now he’s pissed me off. It’s one thing to call me out on my cheap trench coat and my penchant for snooping, but don’t insult my knowledge of literature. “You might want to actually consider leaving your little island and crossing the pond. You would be amazed to discover most Americans possess a refinement beyond
Real Housewives
and Honey Boo Boo.”

“Have you taken any photographs?”

The abrupt change in conversation throws me off my game.

“Photographs? Yeah, I took a selfie in one of those red phone booths, another beneath the Harrods sign, one with the cab driver who picked me up at the airport...”

Basil releases a sigh “Out the window, madam. Did you take any photographs of the palace out your window?”

“No…but if Prince Harry happens by, I might take a snappie or two.” Shit! Why did I say that? “Kidding. I am just kidding. I haven’t taken any photographs of the palace, and I won’t be taking any of Harry.”

Old Basil frowns. If we moved through life with thought bubbles suspended over our heads, his would read:
We are not amused.

“Right,” Basil says, retrieving his notebook. “Again, why did you have a tripod in your hotel window aimed at the palace?”

Although I explained the situation to the Buckingham Palace Guards who busted through my hotel room door
and
the uniformed officers who escorted me to the Westminster Borough Precinct, I take a deep breath and begin again.

“My editor texted me last week to ask if I would like to write a piece on rubbing elbows with royals. You know, an article detailing all the places the royals like to romp: über-swank restaurants, shops, clubs. Well, who wouldn’t want to rub elbows with Prince Hottie Harry, right?”

Basil’s stoic expression remains frozen in place.

“Did I mention I am a magazine columnist?”

“
Go, Girl
.”

“That’s right! You are paying attention.”

“Yes, well”—Basil sniffs—“attention to detail is rather a prerequisite of my occupation.”

I fiddle with my trench coat belt and try to remember Basil’s original question. The unflappable British detective has rattled my nerves like a coffee can filled with coins.

“The tripod?”

“Yes! The tripod,” I say, warming. “I might have exaggerated my connections to the royal family just a little.”

Basil smirks.

“Okay, a lot. I exaggerated a lot. But my mother has a cousin who shares a hair stylist with Fergie…”

Basil looks at me blankly.

“The Duchess of York, not the Black Eyed Peas singer.”

“I trust this pointless but scintillating information is but a prelude to the story of how you ended up stalking His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Wales?”

“I am not a stalker!”

“I beg to differ, madam.” Basil flips through the pages of his notebook. “‘Suspect detained after Buckingham Palace Guards observed questionable movements in a hotel room window facing the palace. WMB officers questioning hotel staff learned suspect made numerous inquiries as to the movements of members of the royal family and possible ‘hidden’ access points into the palace.’”

“I was only joking.”

“Joking?”

“Yes.”

“About stealing into the palace?”

“I’m an American. I have a sense of humor. I realize it’s a foreign concept to the British, but humor is a common conversation starter in America.”

“Let us assume you are telling the truth, that your ill-conceived comments about ‘hunting down Hot Harry’ and sneaking into the palace ‘like a thirteen-year-old Belieber at a Justin Bieber concert’ were woeful attempts at humor...”

I knew I shouldn’t have made the Belieber comment.

“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing at the Rubens?”

“I was in the hotel because I am a paying guest.”

“Naturally,” says Basil in his easy good-cop voice. “And what made you choose that particular hotel?”

“Duh!” Though I try, I can’t keep the sarcasm from staining my tone. “It’s called Rubens at the Palace for a reason. It’s the closest hotel to Buckingham Palace. Proximity is everything in reporting. I thought staying close to the palace would increase my chances of running into a royal. Besides, I am writing a piece about London’s poshest places, and the Rubens is pretty posh.”

“How do you explain the tripod in the window?”

“I was hot.”

Basil frowns.

“The air conditioner at the Rubens is crap. I used the tripod to prop the window open so I could get a breeze. That’s it.”

“And your questionable movements?”

“Questionable movements? What questionable movements? I came back to my room, took off my clothes, jumped in the shower, and—” A horrifying thought suddenly occurs to me. “Hang on! How long were the palace guards watching me? Did they see me naked?”

Basil’s cheeks flush crimson, and he studies his notebook with a new intensity.

“Oh, yeah, and I’m the sick one! Does the queen know her palace is crawling with pervos?

Basil clears his throat. “According to the report, the guards witnessed suspicious movements.”

“Brilliant!” I clap my hands, humiliation fueling my petulant sarcasm. “They foiled my diabolical plot to dance naked in my room. Did they check to make sure my iPod wasn’t ticking? I would love to see their end of shift report.
‘Watched naked woman dance in her hotel room. That is all. God save the Queen.’
”

“Yes, well…”

“Naked! I was naked in my hotel room! What kind of threat does a dancing naked woman pose to Prince Harry? Give me a freaking break! I have seen the photos of him partying naked at a Vegas rager, surrounded by naked girls. Where were your guards then, huh?” My boiling anger tempered only by my complete and utter mortification. “I was alone…in my hotel room…NAKED!”

Basil clears his throat. “We’ve established you were starkers. Now then, if we could-”

My cheeks grow hot. The word starkers paints a far more vivid picture than the word naked. Stark naked. Totally exposed.

Basil seizes the initiative. “And I suppose your appearance at the hospital was merely coincidental?”

“I was following Prince Harry.”

“Right.” Basil leans forward, his narrow nostrils flaring as if scenting prey. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

Poking a Mangina

“I think I have it now. First, you lied to your editor about your connection to the royal family because you thought your press credentials would get you close enough to rub elbows with ‘Prince Hottie Harry.’ Then, you followed the prince around London, hoping to get close enough to ask him which ‘über-swank’ club he prefers?” Basil shakes his head. “Brilliant! Crack reporting, Miss Grant.”

To hear the detective describe my farfetched plan makes me sound like a crap reporter. It doesn’t help that he speaks with a British accent. A British accent makes a person sound more intelligent.

“You must have been away with the fairies to believe you could approach Prince Harry as if he were P. Diddy,” Basil says. “Did you think you could just slip the Prince’s bodyguard a twenty and suddenly find yourself whisked through the palace gates? You made a right royal cock-up, Miss Grant. Next time, contact the appropriate channels, or you’ll find yourself living at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

I don’t need Benedict Cumberbatch to translate the phrases “right royal cock-up” and “away with the fairies.” The detective is implying I am a lousy reporter with a tenuous grasp on reality, but I am having a little difficulty working out the phrase “living at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” The Queen lives in a blooming palace. She probably has Google Fiber, three thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and a small army of domestics to scrub her golden commodes and serve her raspberry crumpets in bed. If old Basil meant to frighten me, throwing down the phrase “living at Her Majesty’s pleasure” wasn’t the way to go.

“No, Miss Grant, living at Her Majesty’s pleasure does not mean invited to stay in the palace,” Basil says, correctly reading my confused expression. “Living at Her Majesty’s pleasure means thrown in prison.”

“Listen Basil—”

“Mangina.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am Detective Inspector Harold Mangina, not Basil Rathbone.”

I can’t keep a bubble of laughter from rising up my throat. “Mangina? Are you serious?”

The detective presses his lips together.

“Mangina? Harold Mangina?” My laughter ricochets around the questioning room. I should show the detective the respect he deserves, but my pent-up fear and humiliation is spilling out in near-hysterical mirth. “Harry Mangina! Your name isn’t really Harry Mangina, is it?”

The detective reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me. I look at the words printed beside an embossed police badge.

DI Harold Mangina

Westminster Metropolitan Police

Special Branch

Belgravia Station

202-206 Buckingham Palace Road

Belgravia SW1W 9SX

I am laughing so hard now tears are spilling down my cheeks and my stomach feels like I’ve just completed Jillian Michaels’s ab-shredding Six-Pack Ab Workout. I keep hearing the name in my head—Mangina. Harold Mangina. Harry Mangina. The detective continues to stare at me, the “we are not amused” thought bubble hovering over his head.

“I’m sorry,” I say, dashing a tear from my cheek. “I’ve just never heard the name Mangina. Is that a British name?”

“Italian.”

I consider explaining what mangina means in American slang, but change my mind. I’ve already made some serious breaches of British etiquette; telling a staid detective that his surname is slang for a man who tucks his twigs and berries would be a right royal cock-up. Maybe cock-up isn’t the best choice of words, either.

“Just so you know, Inspector,” I say, omitting his surname, “I tried the usual avenues before following the prince. I contacted the Royal Communications offices at Clarence House and Buckingham Palace, but they didn’t respond to my request for an interview.”

“One wonders how they could have overlooked a request from a magazine as prestigious and thought-provoking as
GoGirl!
An egregious error, no doubt.”

Really? Trash talk from someone named Mangina?

I am tempted to tell Mister Twigs-and-Berries what I think of him and his Keystone Cops, but I just want to get out of the station, hop on a ferry to France, and put the snooty Rubens with their crap air conditioning behind me. A hot Frenchman is waiting for me in a hotel in Paris…a posh hotel with real working air conditioning.

“Look, if you would just call my editor—”

“Louanne Collins-London?”

“Yes! So you have at least done a rudimentary investigation of my background. Thank God. I was beginning to think MI-6 only existed in James Bond movies.”

“Tell me, Miss Grant, are you always so exuberantly candid?”

“Absolutely.” I grin. “It is
rawther
a prerequisite of my occupation.”

Accents aren’t really my forte, but I think I
rawther
nailed the detective’s clipped, snooty patois. From his pinched expression, I’d say he thinks I nailed it too.

“Now, if you would just call my editor.”

“I have spoken with Ms. Collins-London already. She corroborated your story and vouched for your mental fitness, though I have my reservations.”

“Then why am I still sitting here talking to you about my unfortunate penchant for dancing starkers?”

Now it’s the detective’s turn to wear a smug grin. “Call it an occupational prerogative.”

“In other words, you were pissed off when you saw me reading your notes and decided to have a little fun intimidating the barking mad colonial?”

“Indubitably.” He reaches for his notebook and slips it into his tweed coat pocket. “I would have been remiss in my duties had I released you without conducting a thorough interrogation.”

Nothing pisses me off more than a chauvinist abusing his power to subjugate the “lesser” sex. I would love to release a blistering barrage from my verbal arsenal, but I am afraid Detective Inspector Hairy Man Parts would throw me in some dank cell and withhold basic necessities, like my ionizing flat iron and iPhone. One week without my flat iron and I would look like Shaun White, or Carrot Top—I always get those two confused. Either way, my hair is not made for hard time.