The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) by Julie Sarff, The Hope Diamond, The Heir to Villa Buschi
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life companion then the friendship is over.
“I came to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You don’t have a million in the bank so you can post my bail?”
“No,” I reply quietly. “I wish I did. Your mom called me. She’s so distraught.”
Tatum snorts and looks like she is about to stand up and walk away. “I want you to pack up all his clothes and other crap and get it the hell out of my apartment. What’s left of it anyway, the police took his computer and some files. You take what remains. Everything was left to you anyway.”
Is that what she is angry about? Surely, not. She has a hefty weekly income, she’ll be okay. Yet it’s surprising that she doesn’t have one kind word for Sean. What kind of a person is she? Maybe she really did kill him. Maybe she wanted his book royalties. Maybe she was going to move to his cottage in the Cotswold where she would lure some other poor man into a dismal relationship.
I nod my head to her request. “I’ll remove his clothes and things from your apartment first thing tomorrow.” When I rise to my feet to leave, Tatum doesn’t even say good-bye.
That afternoon, right after arranging for a flight back to the U.K, I receive a phone call. Alistair’s voice comes through in impeccably enunciated English, “Hold please, for Alex of the House of Windsor.”
These words make me smile. A Mozart concerto plays in the background as I lie on my bed, back propped against my pillow. The hem of a long dress of mine brushes my face. I wait five, ten, fifteen minutes and then doze off.
“Lizzie!” An enthusiastic voice finally answers. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to keep anyone waiting.”
My eyes fly open. “Not a problem, not a problem.”
“Lizzie, they tell me you are coming back to London in time for the weekend.” He says this with so much fervor that you would think we were long, lost best friends.
“Oh, and the Palace told me you want more photos and news files from when I was six.”
“Yes,” I reply. Actually that’s not correct. I have a lot of information on Alex up until age three, but for some reason the Palace hasn’t sent me anything after that, except for a few recent headshots. I asked Alistair for more information about Alex “in years four and five.” Yet I haven’t received anything; no diary entries, no memoirs written by members of the royal family, no photos, nothing. I’m beginning to wonder if the lack of information has to do with the Prince’s brother’s accident, which happened when Alex was four. There must have been a lot of turmoil in those years. Based on what I remember, the death of the young Prince Albert was investigated and reinvestigated. The case was finally closed two years later when it was ruled an accident.
I must admit that I have been googling Albert’s death in the last few days. I was only three when it happened, and like I said, I’ve never been much interested in anything in recent history. From the scant bits that I have had time to read online, I learned that Alex and his nanny were alone with Prince Albert in the playroom at their maternal grandmother’s. The nanny and the boys were just entering the room when the nanny noticed the open window. She moved to close it, but not before young Prince Albert scooted past. Unfortunately, there was no screen on the window and the rest is tragic, tragic history.
“Yes, yes, more photos and news from age six would be great.” I decide not to press for years four and five, when the investigations were under way.
“Say, Lizzie,” Alex continues sounding so warm and inviting it is as if we are the only two people on the planet. “I won’t be in London this weekend, so I’m wondering if you could catch a flight to Edinburgh. You see, I’m
“I came to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You don’t have a million in the bank so you can post my bail?”
“No,” I reply quietly. “I wish I did. Your mom called me. She’s so distraught.”
Tatum snorts and looks like she is about to stand up and walk away. “I want you to pack up all his clothes and other crap and get it the hell out of my apartment. What’s left of it anyway, the police took his computer and some files. You take what remains. Everything was left to you anyway.”
Is that what she is angry about? Surely, not. She has a hefty weekly income, she’ll be okay. Yet it’s surprising that she doesn’t have one kind word for Sean. What kind of a person is she? Maybe she really did kill him. Maybe she wanted his book royalties. Maybe she was going to move to his cottage in the Cotswold where she would lure some other poor man into a dismal relationship.
I nod my head to her request. “I’ll remove his clothes and things from your apartment first thing tomorrow.” When I rise to my feet to leave, Tatum doesn’t even say good-bye.
That afternoon, right after arranging for a flight back to the U.K, I receive a phone call. Alistair’s voice comes through in impeccably enunciated English, “Hold please, for Alex of the House of Windsor.”
These words make me smile. A Mozart concerto plays in the background as I lie on my bed, back propped against my pillow. The hem of a long dress of mine brushes my face. I wait five, ten, fifteen minutes and then doze off.
“Lizzie!” An enthusiastic voice finally answers. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to keep anyone waiting.”
My eyes fly open. “Not a problem, not a problem.”
“Lizzie, they tell me you are coming back to London in time for the weekend.” He says this with so much fervor that you would think we were long, lost best friends.
“Oh, and the Palace told me you want more photos and news files from when I was six.”
“Yes,” I reply. Actually that’s not correct. I have a lot of information on Alex up until age three, but for some reason the Palace hasn’t sent me anything after that, except for a few recent headshots. I asked Alistair for more information about Alex “in years four and five.” Yet I haven’t received anything; no diary entries, no memoirs written by members of the royal family, no photos, nothing. I’m beginning to wonder if the lack of information has to do with the Prince’s brother’s accident, which happened when Alex was four. There must have been a lot of turmoil in those years. Based on what I remember, the death of the young Prince Albert was investigated and reinvestigated. The case was finally closed two years later when it was ruled an accident.
I must admit that I have been googling Albert’s death in the last few days. I was only three when it happened, and like I said, I’ve never been much interested in anything in recent history. From the scant bits that I have had time to read online, I learned that Alex and his nanny were alone with Prince Albert in the playroom at their maternal grandmother’s. The nanny and the boys were just entering the room when the nanny noticed the open window. She moved to close it, but not before young Prince Albert scooted past. Unfortunately, there was no screen on the window and the rest is tragic, tragic history.
“Yes, yes, more photos and news from age six would be great.” I decide not to press for years four and five, when the investigations were under way.
“Say, Lizzie,” Alex continues sounding so warm and inviting it is as if we are the only two people on the planet. “I won’t be in London this weekend, so I’m wondering if you could catch a flight to Edinburgh. You see, I’m
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