When James approached his car, he saw a middle-aged couple chatting with Vern.
A sturdy woman wearing a coat over a red skirt and a faded blue blouse turned toward James and screamed, “Your Highness!” She pushed her way past the others and took a look at James. “My son, Vern, is in very special company.”
Embarrassed, Vern stepped between them. “Your Highness, this is Mr. and Mrs. Farrell. My parents.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Farrell.”
She attempted a poor rendition of a curtsy. “The pleasure is all mine. I hope my boy has been a good guard.”
“He has been superb.”
Mrs. Farrell continued. “I’m so sorry about what happened to your mum. Such a tragedy, and if you don’t mind me saying, such a lovely woman.”
“Thank you again, Mrs. Farrell.”
“Oh please, call me Louise, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Louise.”
Beside her was a burly middle-aged man who had a bum leg. His
hip bounced as he limped unevenly. “Oh hell, my apologies, sir.” He held his hand out. “Vern’s dad.”
James laughed. “Mr. Farrell. Please. I’m very fortunate to have your son looking out for my well-being.”
On Labor Day Sunday in 1997, like many others, I was shocked upon awakening to hear that Princess Diana had been killed in an automobile crash in Paris. Though I wasn’t yet a Diana fanatic, I was stunned and saddened. Because I work in the health care field, I researched what had happened that night in the Alma tunnel and I was disturbed and skeptical about the medical treatment Princess Diana received. I decided to write a book on my findings but in order to make it a compelling read I would write a fictional retelling and change all the names. Thus, “Death of the Queen of Hearts” was born.