The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (9 page)

They say bad luck comes in threes. The next morning Meg calls me. I’m back at the Sheraton Park Lane after driving to London in the wee hours of the morning.

“The Palace pulled the plug on the project.”

For a moment, I yawn and stretch. Then I ask Meg what in the name of Sargon she is talking about.

“The biography of the Prince, it’s over, in light of that man being killed outside your cottage and all.”

I sit bolt upright. “What?”

“Listen, Trudy, I have no idea what is going on,” she pauses, sounding somewhat accusatory.

“I-I don’t either. Someone broke into the cottage and I barely got out in time. That man who was killed, he was just a neighbor, he thought he could stop the burglar and now he’s dead. That bullet that killed him may have been meant for me, I don’t know,” I hesitate, wondering if I should tell her my suspicions about Sean and Tamara. I wonder if I should tell her about the picture I found of me and Sean in Sardis, the one where my face was cut out.

Before I can respond, Meg spooks me further by saying, “Someone broke into my office last night as well.”

A chill runs down my spine.

“Look, Trudy, if you know something, you have to tell me. Sean’s dead, and now someone may have been trying to kill you… and at the same time on this side of the Atlantic, someone has broken into my office. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Honestly, Meg, I have no idea what is going on.”

“Perhaps you should hop on that Tube-Tube thing and head straight to Heathrow.”

“I can’t. The Cotswolds police have informed me that I’m not allowed to leave the country.”

Meg sighs. She sounds exasperated, as if she doesn’t know what to believe.

“Well, Schnellings won’t be paying your expenses anymore since the Palace has terminated your contract.”

“Wait a minute, that’s not fair. I have nowhere to go. I can’t afford a hotel room in London.”

“I’m sorry, Trudy. I really am. We’ll pay the bill till the end of the week. You need to return the rental car too. That’s costing a small fortune. Oh, and you might be happy to know, Tatum made bail. She’s out. She’s got another lawyer. A different one. She hired Nancy Chan, a very high profile attorney here in New York. So I’m sure Tatum will be fine.”

I do feel relieved to hear this. I may not care for Tatum, but I certainly don’t want her rotting away in jail for an act I’m sure she didn’t commit.

“Oh, and another thing; the mailman has been forwarding your mail to me at Schnellings, so I’ve put it all in one large envelope and forwarded it to the Park Lane. There wasn’t much, a few bills and something from the Goodwill store in Brooklyn. Take care of yourself, Trudy,” she adds ominously, “and watch your back.”

With nowhere to go and nothing to do, I return my rental car to the nearest office before heading out for a mind-clearing walk through Hyde Park, another place I used to visit with my parents.

How I love Hyde Park. It seems to stretch on forever. I stop by the small children’s playground and am swept back in time. I can remember vividly being pushed on the swings by my father. I can’t even enter the playground now. It is off limits to anyone without a child. Instead, I make my way slowly along the edge of the Serpentine. An hour later, I am busy purchasing an ice cream from a small vendor near the Lido Restaurant when someone calls my name.

“Ms. Rue?” After the events of the last few days I jump as if I’ve just heard gunfire. I turn around to find, Jack Preston, the man in tweed who chased down my papers in Green Park. He’s walking his bicycle.

“Hello,” I manage, not at all in the mood to talk. The clerk hands me my ice cream and my change. Ignoring Jack Preston completely, I turn to head off deep into the wilds of the park.

But Jack, acting as if we are best friends, catches up to walk along beside me. I glare daggers at him. He smiles back at me. He has a lovely lop-sided grin. For a moment, I am caught off-guard.

“Strolling through the park again? Luckily for you this outing won’t end with you being run over. Marianne is at work, and therefore, not currently a menace to pedestrians until
”
—
he eyes his watc
h
—
“she leaves the Ministry of Public Works at five o’clock. You’ll want to be out of the park by then.” He lets out a cheery laugh.

I scowl at him.

“It’s just a joke. British humor, you know. Marianne’s a menace on a Schwinn.”

I still don’t laugh. Given everything that has happened lately, nothing amuses me.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rue. I don’t mean to bother you. I’m just glad to see you looking right as rain, no longer scraped up or anything. I’m sure my sister Marianne will be happy to hear of your recovery.” He tilts his fedora. I stop walking and look him in the eyes. They are a lovely deep brown. Coupled with his nerdy professor appearance and five o’clock shadow, the man is definitely handsome.

What is wrong with me? I am being rude. Jack’s just being polite. In fact, I think he may be flirting. And I’m happy to hear that Marianne is his sister and not his girlfriend.

“I’m sorry, I was lost in thought. That’s all. I…I
…”  I just got a man murdered last night
, I want to say, but I stop myself. “I just lost my job.”

“Dreadful. You must feel awful. I won’t bother you any longer,” he commiserates and places a leg over his bike as if getting ready to peddle off. “Actually, if you’ve lost your job, and you’re feeling a little blue, why not allow me take you out to dinner.”

“Th-that’s very kind of you, but…”

“But your boyfriend back home would mind,” he ventures with a teasing grin.

“No, no. I don’t have a boyfriend. It’s just I’m a little frazzled these days.”

“Then allow me to unfrazzle you. You are still at the Park Lane? Should I pick you up tonight around sevenish?”

“I’m not really sure that would be a good idea…”

“Nonsense, it’s a great idea.” He throws me another grin.

“I think I’ll just eat in.” I can’t go out to dinner with Jack. I can’t go out to dinner with anyone. How can I trust anyone after what happened to that poor man in front of my cottage last night?

“Fine, we’ll eat in, at your hotel. It’s not my favorite, but the Sheraton restaurant is,” he makes a face, “okay.”

I glance around nervously, unsure what to do. Jack beams at me confidently, then mounts his bike, ready to take off. “It’s a date, then. I’ll see you at seven at the hotel?” He gives me a parting wave and then rides away in the opposite direction.

Left to my own devices, I wander deeper into Hyde Park, imagining potential threats behind every tree, under every shrub. As I walk, I begin to think about Sean. Unbidden, I see his light blue eyes before me. All of a sudden I am watching Sean smile with happiness. He has just received his first royalty check from Schnellings. He holds it up and laughs.

I walk on. My heart sinking a little with every step. Even though we broke up, I would never have wished any of this on Sean. Even though he left me for my best friend, there is still a part of me that wants to protect him. I want to protect the person of integrity that I thought he was. I suppose protecting his integrity is all blown to hell now. I think Sean was involved in something sordid;I think that is why I saw him change over the last yea
r
—
watched him grow overly ambitious. Watched him leave me for another woman.

It occurs to me as I stare at the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain, how tumultuous life can be. It can change overnight. I watch as the water cascades gently down one side of the oval ring, flowing free and clear. Yet on the other side of the oval, the water takes a twisted and tumultuous route, sometimes tricking the eye, and appearing as if it is going backwards. It’s a metaphor for life. How one part of us can seem calm and serene on the outside, but on the inside there is a darker side, a tempestuous side.

“Poor Princess Diana,” I sniff and a tear rolls down my cheek.

“Ah there, there,” mumbles an elderly woman standing beside me, “People barely even remember her. I was five when she died and that was what? Over 80 years ago now.”

I stop and stare at her. She has a tear in her eye too.

“But you know what Diana would have liked best about this memorial?” she asks. I shake my head.

“Look at all the children splashing in it.” She smiles a toothless smile.

I turn away, feeling like an absolute idiot as a tidal wave of tears cascades down my face. Maybe in the excitement of becoming a biographer to a prince, I didn’t really process all my feelings about Sean’s murder. Now, as strangers stare at me, the floodgates are unleashed; all the grief and fear connected with the past few weeks pour out of me.

I decide it’s time to head back for the safety of the Park Lane.

Chapter
15

“So you decided to show, Ms. Rue? May I call you Trudy?” Jack asks with a laugh. I find him waiting for me in the Palm Court at quarter past seven. He is sitting on a gold-colored sofa, with a gin and tonic in one hand.

After crying off and on all day, I decided, why not join Jack for dinner? True, I don’t know him, but if we don’t leave the hotel, how could anything bad happen?

Jack stands up and gives me his crooked grin. I beam back.

“Ah, the fine dining at Bracewells,” he laughs and motions toward the restaurant.

The restaurant at the Sheraton is more like a sports bar, with televisions blaring overhead. We sit down at a table for two and make small talk over a basket of focaccia. Jack orders scallops and I order a nice curry.

I do my best to answer his questions. Jack seems fascinated by my work. Turns out he’s a full time professor at the London School of Economics.

“I do research these days on current trends in the futures market.” He goes into some long-winded speech about how his research has led to better laws in banking. I lose the conversation. I’ve never been very interested in economics.

“So, if you write biographies, how is it exactly that you lost your job?” Jack asks, changing topic.

I stop eating mid-bite. I’m a terrible liar. Still, I can’t divulge the fact that I was doing a biography of the Prince. That’s going to lead to questions about why the Palace let me go. And if I divulge the truth about being fired from the Palace, I might as well tell this very nice man that my ex was murdered two weeks ago. And if I do that, I might as well divulge that some man I barely knew was murdered outside a cottage I own in the Cotswolds.

“Was doing a biography on Emma of Normandy,” I reply evasively, “The editor pulled the plug. Market research shows there’s not much interest in Emma of Normandy.”

“Emma of Normandy, Emma of Normandy,” he muses, looking puzzled and proving my fictitious point about there not being much interest in the long dead Anglo-Saxon queen.

“Cnut the Great’s wife?” he ventures. I can tell by the strained look on his face that the poor man wracked his brains to come up with the answer.

I’m impressed. This is a man who knows his history.

“The very same.” I respond, feeling as if perhaps the night is looking up.  Just then, something on the overhead television catches my eye. It’s the Prince. I watch as he steps out of the back of a black Range Rover. Right behind him an impossibly thin woman with long silky blond hair jumps out of the car.

“So he’s back with Cressida,” Jack mumbles glancing up to see what has caught my eye. He appears unimpressed at the glamourous couple on the TV as he reaches for some pepper.

Cressida! I remember her. There were entire chapters on Cressida in Alfred Tarkin’s unofficial biography about Alex. According to Alfred, Cressida and the Prince have had an on again/off again romance for many years. Last year, royal watchers were sure the Prince was about to propose. People even put money on it. Three months later, the Prince was dating someone named Abai from Brazil. They were caught snogging, as the British say, on a beach in the Maldives. This led to some nasty commentary in Tarkin’s biography about the Prince being incapable of monogamy.

“Met him once,” Jack mutters, startling me.

“Who?” I ask, turning my attention back to my dinner date.

“Prince Alex. He’s a charming fellow. He was at a conference I attended. He was advocating for more infusion of low interest loans into third world countries. The Prince is no dummy. He’s interested in a better worl
d
—
which is why I suppose he was at the conference. Being Prince of Wales, he doesn’t get to speak his mind about much.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No, of course not. The royals can’t be partial or political in any way, but of course everyone knows that.”

I take a bite of my curry. It’s so hot it almost burns my mouth off. I swig down some water thinking, maybe it is better that I was taken off his biography. I really don’t know anything about modern royals, not to mention the fact that when the Prince stepped out of the car with that gorgeous woman, I felt a stab of jealousy. After all, weren’t the Prince and I alone together the other night? Alone and eating a frittata straight out of the pan in Holyrood Palace? Doesn’t that mean anything?

“He talked to me about the last bastions of poverty, in Africa, in Asia etc. and how he hoped the banking world would make it a mission to lift these people out of destitution with micro lending and such. It’s a crazy thing talking to the Prince of Wales. He has a way of making you think you are the only person in the room. He’s a genuinely nice, charismatic guy. No wonder the women love him. But the British press rakes him over the coals every time the poor man date’s someone new.”

“Why?”

“He’s twenty-nine and he’s the only heir to the throne. The royal family is so small, the whole country wants to see him married to the right woman and with a proper heir. What can I say, we love our traditions.”

I smile at this. It’s nice having a conversation with a normal human being. I need to relax and enjoy this moment. I am on a date with an intelligent, handsome man.

“Oh…my…what is this?” Jack questions, still watching the TV screen. The shot of the Prince stepping out on a red carpet has changed. Now the screen is red and a breaking news bulletin flashes across the bottom of the screen.

‘The Minster of Public Works, Shanika Wilks, was taken into custody today. A six month long investigation by Scotland Yard determined that Ms. Wilks and her undersecretaries have been taking part in a system of kickbacks, doling out building permits to several businesses in return for bribes. Careful monitoring of Swiss accounts opened by associates of Ms. Wilks reveal over five million pounds have been deposited into these accounts in recent months. When questioned about the activity, Prime Minister Morton denied knowing of any impropriety surrounding Wilks, even though the two have been close friends for over thirty years.”

“My goodness,” Jack sputters, “Marianne works for the Ministry of Public Works. She’s an administrative assistant. She works for a director who reports to Wilks. Would you excuse me, I think I should give her a call. See if she’s seen the news.”

Jack stands up and heads outside. In modern day London, cell phones have been banned in every restaurant. People were tired of having their dinners ruined by someone blabbing away on a cell phone at the next table.

A moment later, Jack returns. “I’m sorry, Trudy. Do you mind if we call it a night. Marianne’s being questioned by the police.”

“Questioned by the police?”

“Yeah, it’s really confusing. I couldn’t understand a word of it. Sounds like she and several others who work at the Ministry have been rounded up to see what they know.” Jack’s brow furls in concern. “Marianne mumbled something about this scandal possibly going all the way up to the Prime Minister, like they just alluded to on the TV. My sister’s practically a kid. I need to get down there.”

I’m sorry to see him go, and just when I was getting some sense of normalcy. Being the gallant person he is, Jack offers to walk me up to my hotel room. I decline. I have had enough. I am tired of hearing about intrigue. All I want to do is fall down on my bed, close my eyes, and forget the world. He hesitates before he leaves, and then he gives me a quick kiss on my cheek. If everything weren’t so confusing right now, I might have relished that kiss. Instead, I walk zombie like to my room. Before going to bed I check the locks on my door three times.

‘It’s locked” I mumble to myself over and over from beneath my bed covers before I finally fall asleep somewhere around one in the morning.

Eight hours later the front desk rings, waking me up.

“Good Morning, Ms. Rue. We received a large envelope for you in today’s mail.”

Curiosity compels me to dress quickly and dash down the stairs. I open the flat parcel and find the mail Meg has forwarded. There are a few credit card offers, a bill from my dentist, and a large envelope from Goodwill. It must be a thank you letter from my friend, Sue Potts.  I head back upstairs to my room and open the letter. Inside, I find a thick role of papers with a sticky note that reads:

“These papers were found in the inside breast pockets of one of your ex’s jackets. Looked important. I thought I would return them.

Hope you are having fun with the prince,

Sue.”

Hastily I unroll the papers and flatten them. The first one is a hand-written letter that reads.

Sean,

I do believe this goes all the way up to Morton and I can prove it. Here are the photos I took.

Love, E.

I stare down at a grainy picture. Wait a minute, I recognize this woman in the picture. I flip through a few more pictures. Yes, I know this woman. She is the woman who was on the news last night. It is Shanika Wilks, the Minister of Public works. And oh, hold the phone, I also think I know the man in the picture.

It’s Pierre, the creepy guy from the art gallery!

What the heck? Many of the pictures show the two together in a luxurious office, drinking tea. Each photo contains a date stamp from over four month ago. In one photo, I notice Pierre is clearly pocketing a thick envelope.

I sit down on the bed. I have no idea what any of this means. How on earth does this tie anything to the Prime Minister of Great Britain like the mysterious E. has written? I’m so confused about everything now that I lay back on the bed and simply stare at the ceiling.

Sean is dead…the man from the pub who tried to be brave is dead….and the mysterious E., who I believe cut the picture of my head out of a photo, has been sending Sean pictures of the Public Works’ Minister with Pierre from the art gallery?

What is going on?

Feeling shaken, I decide to close my eyes and think of something happy. Immediately I see the warm smile of the Prince as we eat a frittata in the kitchen of Holyrood Palace.

Stop it, stop it. Fantasies of this sort are not healthy. I open my eyes, sit up and think that maybe I should call the police. Yes, yes, I should call the police but which one, the one in the Cotswolds or the NYPD? If I call the detective in New York what will I tell him exactly? That Sean was carrying around pictures of the Minister of Public Works with Pierre, the weird guy who chatted me up at the Mursk Gallery?

My cell rings and I jump. I scan the incoming number. It’s Jack. For a second, I think about hiding under the bed. I’m still not sure who I can trust. How odd is it that Jack’s sister Marianne works at the Ministry of Public Works? Could it be that being rundown by Marianne was not an accident?

Three rings later and I pick up the phone. I need some answers.

“Hello, Trudy?” Jack asks. “I’m downstairs. I know it’s early, but any chance you might be able to pop down for a cup of tea.”

“I’ll be right there.” I stuff the pictures into my bag. Trying to steady my nerves with deep, calm breaths, I take the elevator down to the lobby.

I stride out of the elevator, a woman on a mission. If Jack knows anything about what is going on, I am going to force his hand.