It looked as if Plant had called several times. He'd have arrived in London. Probably feeling lonely. I should call him back. But I didn't know what to say.
How can you tell somebody, "my dead boyfriend turned out to be a disgusting pervert who tortured small animals while naked. So I shouldn't even feel sad he's dead. But I'm miserable."
I fought back the annoying tears and tried to eat. But I couldn't swallow.
How could anybody eat a muffin when the entire world was going insane?
I decided to check my email again. But of course there was nothing from Swynsby. I opened the last email Ronzo had sent—ten days ago. It was sweet and funny, full of plans for visiting his favorite Central Coast haunts. And lots of stuff about taking me kayaking. I'd told him I found the thought terrifying. Lots of great white sharks in local waters. According to the local TV news, they sometimes bit into kayaks to get at the juicy humans inside.
But it turned out Ronzo had been more dangerous than any shark.
Grief constricted my throat. How had he managed to pretend to be such a lovely man, when he'd been a sick, horrible monster?
I deleted the email, then wondered if I should have.
It was all I had to remember him.
I made myself check my U.S. Amazon page and saw Good Manners for Bad Times now had over fifty one-star reviews. Most of them were incoherent strings of nonsense words, many of them obscene. The mysterious letters "BBA" were repeated endlessly. At least 12 said simply "Princess Diana was mudered." Different reviewer names, same misspelling.
I checked the buy pages of my other etiquette books—which had recently been reissued as e-books. I was relieved to see nothing much amiss on the buy page for Wedding Rx from the Manners Doctor. Except for one review that called it an "abomination" because it included gay weddings, all was well.
If being #979,987 in the Kindle store could be considered "well."
But when I clicked on Manners Rx for the Suddenly Single, I saw a whole new batch of one-stars. Over twenty. Very few mentioned "Tudor" but they all repeated the letters BBA and berated me for my response to the first one-star review. Mostly in obscene terms. Some even threatened me with rape.
I made myself read them all, and finally came on one that said, "This snotty b*** is a Badly Behaving Author. Why doesn't she show sum manors and not make coments on her own f***ing reviews?"
So. I had apparently committed a terrible breach of Internet etiquette by responding to that "Tudor" review. That's why I'd been branded a BBA—a "Badly Behaving Author."
Maybe that explained why my Facebook page had been hacked. These people were some kind of vigilante group who felt it was their duty to punish "BBA's" with one-star reviews.
At least there was an explanation for this surreal mess. But I had no idea how to undo it.
I needed Plant. I wanted him to be having a good time in London, but he was probably as miserable as I was.
How could a week that had started with something as joyful as a wedding have turned into such a tragic mess? The world made no sense anymore. It was so utterly ridiculous for Plant and Silas be splitting up when they hadn't even been married a week. I'd put endless hours of work into their wedding and been so happy for them.
And of course it was supposed to be joyful event for me, too—a reason to reunite with Ronzo.
But how could you reunite with somebody who never existed? The Ronzo I'd been expecting wasn't real. Never had been.
I gulped down a little tea and decided to phone Plant. I had to tell him the horrors I'd heard from Marva last night, painful as they were.
Plant had been my best friend for twenty years—the person I always turned to when things were hopeless.
And they'd never felt more hopeless than right now.
Chapter 14—Plantagenet
It wasn't Silas calling, but Camilla. Plant held the phone close to his ear, but nothing much came through over the din of the bar.
Except something that sounded like hiccups.
Camilla was trying to speak. Something about Amazon reviews. She kept breaking up.
She sounded as if she might burst into tears any minute. He wondered if she'd found out about Ronzo. Unfortunately, this was not the time to talk about it. The lights were dimming again. He only had a couple of minutes to get to his seat or he'd be shut out of the second act.
"Camilla? Darling, I can't hear..."
"Get your finger out!" Neville came up the stairs behind him and grabbed Plant's elbow again, his eyes flashing with that creepy passion. "Libra will rise!"
"Important call." Plant gave Neville a wave as he pushed his way through the crowd.
"If not at the White Boar, tomorrow in Swynsby at the Hall. You must meet Richard III." Neville's face lit up with a bizarre smile. "And of course, the Duke of Buckingham!"
"The Duke of Buckingham! Absolutely." Plant said. He let his own phony grin drop as he pushed ahead. The man made less sense by the minute. Obviously a complete lunatic. Thank goodness he wouldn't be in the next seat for the final two acts.
As Plant stood in the queue for the Dress Circle, he tried to make out what Camilla was saying.
"I'm here, darling," he said. "Sorry. Bad reception. I'm going to have to..."
"It's too horrible." She sniffled. "Marva showed me a video. I didn't want to believe it was Ronzo, but I saw his tattoo...Right there on his left, um, cheek."
"Ronzo had a face tattoo?" Plant couldn't remember any tattoos. Camilla was breaking up again.
"Turn that thing off, you prat. This is a theater." A red-faced man with whisky on his breath grabbed Plant's phone arm. "Turn off all mobile devices! Read the bloody sign!"
Plant realized he had to make a decision whether to talk to Camilla about Ronzo's tattoo or see the rest of this brilliant production.
He decided Camilla would have to wait. Richard III wouldn't. Who knew when Spacey would do the role again? After all, he was getting a little old. Richard Plantagenet had been only thirty-three when he died. Spacey was already in his fifties.
Besides, he and Camilla needed to have a real heart-to-heart about the Ronzo rumors. If she hadn’t heard about them, she would soon.
"Darling, I'll have to call you back..."
Chapter 15—Camilla
I felt disappointed and a little angry that Plant hadn't been his usual comforting self. Maybe it was jet lag. He seemed to be tuning me out. Then he'd talked gibberish.
It was so unlike him to hang up on me like that. Without saying goodbye.
When even Plantagenet had deserted me, what was I going to do?
What I needed was a brisk walk on the beach to clear my head. But it was past two and my lunchtime was up. Jen had to take her own break. Although Jen usually spent her lunch hour on the phone with her needy boyfriend.
I gulped down my tea, trying to make sense of what Plant had said. I kept repeating his enigmatic words.
"The Duke of Buckingham, absolutely."
What could that possibly mean? He'd been planning to see Richard III when he was in London. Maybe he was referring to the character in the play? The Duke got his head cut off or something.
Was Plant so shattered by his fight with Silas that he was losing his mind?
I redialed the number.
He didn't pick up.
I was overdue in the store. Jen might be swamped. This was usually our busiest time. Lots of weekend tourists looking for beach books.
I took a deep breath and walked the little gravel path back to the store, re-running the odd phone call in my mind.
"The Duke of Buckingham, absolutely," I said to Jen, who was ringing up a pile of westerns for a weather-faced old man. "What do you make of that?"
"Perfect. Totally!" Jen's face broke into a joyful smile. "Buckingham. A duke. He's such a gentleman. What do you think, ladies?"
Jen made this odd speech in the direction of three women who were trying to look at the remainder table which was now dominated by our pushy feline visit
or.
"Buckingham is the cat's name? How adorable," one of the women said. "Every bookstore needs a cat, doesn't it?"
"No!" I said, way too loudly. "No. I will not keep a cat! I can't..."
Jen looked personally wounded.
"But of course we can," Jen said. "He's so sweet. How can you be mean to him? He's obviously not feral. He's healthy and well-fed. Some tourist must have taken off without him. I'd bring him home with me, but my landlady doesn't allow pets. Besides, he's supposed to be your cat. He chose you. Didn't you, Buckingham?"
As if he'd been answering to the name all his life, the cat bounded down from the table and pranced over to wrap himself around my leg.
I wanted to push him away, but all I could think of was "GoreFest" and the terrible people who used it. What unspeakable thing might happen to this animal if I didn't take him in?
I had to pretend to like the creature. To somehow make up for Ronzo's evil.
I bent over and gave the cat's furry head a pat. He started to purr.
"Hello Buckingham," I said almost warming to him. "Welcome to the Morro Bay Bookshop, Your Grace."
Chapter 16—Plantagenet
Plant felt a beefy hand clamp down on his as the red-faced man grabbed his iPhone. Plant grabbed back, but the phone fell onto the carpeted floor.
"Serves you right, wanker," somebody said as Plant bent over to retrieve it and the crowd surged around him.
"Stop! My iPhone's down there. It's an iPhone Six. They're totally destroyed if you bend them. Don't step on it!" Plant fell to his knees and tried to save his precious phone from the sturdy heel of a well-upholstered matron rushing for the door.
"No!" he screamed as her foot came down.
He finally managed to retrieve it, but the iPhone was bent like a spoon.
"Camilla?" He said into it. "Are you there, darling? My phone was knocked to the floor..."
An usher came toward him as Plant moved toward the doors to the Dress Circle.
"I'm sorry, sir. You must turn off all mobile devices to enter the theater."
"I know. I'm sorry. But it's been stepped on, you see. I wanted to check..." Ahead he could see the house lights dim and the stage lights came up, as Queen Anne and the two Duchesses entered the stage.
The usher closed the doors in Plant's face.
"Sorry, sir. Nobody can be seated while the performance is in progress."
"But I have a seat. My raincoat is in there. I've come all the way from California..."
Plant stepped back from the door. He could see from the usher's face that no amount of pleading would change his mind.
Plant was doomed to sit out the entire second half of the play in the lobby, missing Kevin Spacey's once-in-a-lifetime performance, waiting to get his raincoat back.
He wondered if Neville had left. He hoped so. The wait might be more bearable if he could get another Grey Goose in the Pit Bar without the distraction of attractive lunatics who claimed to be acquainted with long-dead monarchs.
He decided to take a chance and started down the stairs.
When he was half-way down he heard a loud pop from somewhere above.
And screams. Terrible screams.
Chapter 17—Camilla
I couldn't figure out why Plant hadn't called me back. Maybe his phone battery was low.
I felt so alone, wearing my smiley mask of "helpful book person" while everything inside me was screaming.
I desperately wanted to hear from somebody. I felt isolated from reality in the calm microcosm of the store. When there was a lull in customer traffic, I went to the back room and checked the computer.
Nothing of note in my inbox.
But there were a dozen more one-star reviews on my Amazon pages. Especially Good Manners for Bad Times.
These poisonous rants were even more toxic and threatening than the last batch. Some accused me of criminal behavior and others of sexual deviance. Lots of them threatened me with rape. Some also threatened somebody named Hinckley Lutterworth.
I didn't even know anybody named Hinckley Lutterworth, although the name rang a distant bell.
I felt a burning in my gut as I skimmed the headers. Part of me wanted to click away and pretend it wasn't happening, but I knew I had to face the full catastrophe.
The most recent "review" had come in only a minute before.
"Jezbellzbooks" said "Dr. Manners is a BBA. Sumbudy shud teach HER sum manners. Maybe with a **** up her ***. Or get a gun. Just shoot that old bat. Put her out of our misery."
A gun. They wanted to kill me. Apparently the crime of responding to a ridiculous "review" of my imagined taste in architecture was a capital offense to these people.
I refreshed the page and another one came up.
"Owain Glendower" said: "These bloody reviewers have completely lost the plot. As William Shakespeare said, 'Hell is empty and all the devils are here'. Looks like the work of You-Know-Who-You-Are-You-Sodding-Prats. The filth on Book Reviews dot Com is even worse. Utterly depraved. What's wrong with you people? Henry Tudor was one of the greatest kings Britain has ever seen."
Except for the weird reference to English history, that was the first "review" that had made any sense. It even gave me five stars.
I Googled Book Reviews dot Com and searched for my books.
What came up turned my stomach. There were many pages of obscene comments. "Author Should be Sodomized Sideways with a Garden Gnome" was repeated at least 50 times by different "reviewers" with monikers like "SmarterThanYouBitch", "Pottymouth" and "F***U2". Some had odd symbols instead of names. But they all called me a "badly behaving author" and threatened me with rape and torture. Hinckley Lutterworth got a number of threats too, although he didn't seem to get the "badly behaving author" accusations.
The only person who defended me was my Amazon friend "Owain Glendower," who appeared to be a civilized, non-psychopathic person. As a result, subsequent reviews attacked him, too.
DickonThePig, who seemed to be everywhere, said he knew where Owain lived and threatened to cut off his private parts with rusty garden shears. The one called "Alfred the Cake" threatened to blow him up with a fertilizer bomb, and "Libra Rising" thought Owain deserved garden gnome rape as well.
Gardening seemed to be a theme here.
But I didn't have a clue if the threats were real, or even why any of it was happening.
Well, maybe I did.
It must have to do with my connection to Ronzo. That was the only explanation for this kind of over-the-top hatred.
If these people knew I had been the girlfriend of a monster who tortured animals, maybe some of their rage at Ronzo had spilled over. He was dead and I wasn't, so I made a better target.
But it was odd there was not one word about Jer-Z-Boy or kitten torture in any of the "reviews".
There was, however, excessive verbiage about Richard III and Henry Tudor and British history. What these people thought I had to do with medieval English monarchs I couldn't even guess.
If I could blame this on Ronzo, the verbal abuse would somehow feel less personal.
It was so unfair that Ronzo had turned out to be a monster. And that he was dead.
I needed the man I'd fallen in love with. Right now. Desperately.
The Ronzo I knew could have helped me. He was tech-savvy. He'd understand about this Amazon nonsense. I was a cybermoron. With my publishers AWOL and Plant refusing to return my phone calls, I had no idea what to do about any of this. I didn't even have Silas to ask for help. All I had was the Jens. And Marva.
The Jens were sweet, but they were young people with their own lives. I certainly didn't want to inflict this stuff on them. And Marva—well, a cross-dressing dominatrix who had only a casual relationship with the truth was not somebody I could turn to for comfort.
Besides, I had no idea how to explain what was going on to any of them.
Right now Jen was calling from the front desk. She wanted help finding the latest James Patterson. Which I hadn'
t unpacked yet.
The world had to go on, but I couldn't remember why.
Chapter 18—Plantagenet
Plant's tux was covered with white plaster dust, and he'd slid down a few stairs, but other than minor scrapes—and what would probably be an ugly bruise on his forearm—he seemed to have avoided injury. He'd hit his arm on the railing when he tried to grab it for stability when the building had been rocked by...whatever it was.
It had felt like an earthquake.
He wandered into the cold, drizzly night, desperately wanting his raincoat. He wondered if they'd let him go in and look for it.
But that looked unlikely. There was a steady stream of theater goers coming out of the building. Whatever had happened inside was looking pretty scary. Some people were being carted out on stretchers and loaded into waiting ambulances.
No sign of Neville.
He heard muttering about bombs and terrorism. Somebody loudly blamed Middle Eastern extremists and somebody else claimed a resurgence of the IRA.
But others seemed to think it had been an accident.
Whatever it was apparently caused part of the Dress Circle to fall onto the orchestra seats below. The far left side of the Dress Circle.
Exactly where he had been sitting.
He shivered. He could so easily have been one of those poor wounded people limping out onto the sidewalk. He did hope nobody had been killed. And they would all be all right.
It was so very odd that Neville had urged him to leave the theater just before the incident. All that urgency: maybe it wasn't about going "down the Pig" at all—but escaping disaster. He had gone on about "the circle." Maybe he'd meant the Dress Circle. He'd been so fidgety—and not much interested in the play. How awful if he'd been there to plant a bomb.
Could he be with the IRA? His accent was strange, but didn't sound Irish.
He was too fair-skinned be Middle Eastern, although he did have that beard. But he hadn't been eager to blow himself up. Those religious fanatic types usually liked to add their own bodies to the carnage. Seventy-two virgins and all that.
So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 Page 5