So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5

by Anne R. Allen

  He had to hope that Camilla would sense something was amiss. When she started to worry, she'd call somebody. She used to know powerful people. Not that she'd had contact with them for years. But maybe the Randall name would still hold some clout here in England. Her mother had entertained Prince Charles and Diana at Randall Hall in Connecticut back in the 1980s.

  He'd heard Camilla's ancestral home was now owned by a rapper named RobbR.

  And Camilla was a penniless bookstore owner who was soon going to lose the store as well. The one thing that was clear in all this was that Camilla was not going to be paid the royalties owed her.

  Silas would probably gloat as he repossessed her store and cottage.

  Part VI—An Honest Tale Speeds Best

  Chapter 53—Camilla

  The drive down to the Santa Maria airport was not comfortable.

  I kept trying to say as little as possible about Ronzo and Peter kept asking for more. I found it annoying that a current sort-of boyfriend wanted to know so much about my former sort-of boyfriend. I dropped some hints that I thought his prying was a bit rude.

  But he didn't pick up on them.

  "Why are you being so cagy about this man? Is he still in your life? Why does everybody have kittens when his name comes up?"

  "Have kittens? What do you mean by that?"

  Did he know? He must know. I so much didn't want to talk about it. I felt my face heat up as I gripped the wheel. I did not want to talk about kittens. I didn't even want to think about kittens.

  "'Have kittens' is an expression," Peter said. "Maybe you don't use it in America? I simply meant the man's name makes people go jittery for some reason."

  I sighed. I decided to give him a sanitized version of Ronzo's suicide story and hope that would be the end of it.

  But Peter was not satisfied.

  "You were seeing this bloke, who was supposed to be your plus one at Plantagenet's wedding and the chap decided that rather than fly to a charming wedding in California wine country—on a ticket that was already paid for—he'd rather shuffle off his mortal coil?"

  I tried for a casual laugh.

  "That's it, in a nutshell, yes. I've been trying to tell myself it didn't have anything to do with me, but of course I felt hurt that he didn't feel he could turn to me."

  I swerved into the fast lane to avoid a slow-moving truck carrying a load of broccoli through the Nipomo Mesa. My old Honda was doing seventy miles an hour, but I still feared I might not make it to the airport in time for Peter's shuttle bus.

  Peter, on the other hand, continued to be infuriatingly calm. And infuriatingly nosy.

  "Camilla dear, I think you avoided some serious agro on that one. The man was obviously a bit potty. He chose death in New Jersey over a visit to a beautiful woman in California?"

  "I guess you could put it that way. It was pretty upsetting. I'm still not over it really. I only found out last Saturday."

  "You were in love with this bloke?"

  Was that jealousy I heard in Peter's voice?

  "No! I mean, I thought I was—sort of—but that was before I knew what kind of man he was. I found out he did terrible things. Unforgivable things. He was mixed up with some awful people."

  Peter went silent for a minute.

  "Did your Mr. Ronzo happen to be very fit?" he asked.

  "He had a good build, yes. He was wiry, like you." What a stupid question. Peter was in good shape himself and this kind of jealousy was totally out of character. "Peter, why are you being so rude about this? He's dead. I'm upset about it. Wouldn't you be upset if a friend committed suicide? No matter what he'd done?"

  "Yes, I would. Especially if somebody stuck a photo of him on my door with a large knife. Did Mr. Ronzo happen to have a tattoo of a Stratocaster guitar on his very fit bum?"

  How did Peter know? I clutched the wheel tighter.

  "Who told you that was a picture of Ronzo?"

  "You did. You froze up when that photo arrived." Peter gave a smug smile. "You usually babble when you're rattled by something, but you seemed to suffer through that photo incident in complete silence."

  "I babble?" I knew I talked a lot when I was nervous, but it was a bit rude for him to say so.

  "In a charming way, of course. Why won't you tell me about him? You can't think that I'd judge you for keeping company with someone who sometimes lives outside the law?"

  "It's not that. I don't even know if what he did is precisely illegal. It's just...horrible. And his friends are horrible. I thought I was in love with him, and for me, that's even more horrible."

  Peter was losing his calm. I could feel him stiffen beside me.

  "Speaking as someone who does occasionally bend the law," he said. "I think it's best not to take unnecessary risks. Don't you think we'd be wiser not to risk arrest?"

  "Aren't you risking arrest flying to the U.K. on a forged passport? And paying for it with laundered money?"

  I didn't have a clue where the conversation was going now. I didn't want to think about all the laws I was probably breaking simply by harboring a man like Peter. Or what I'd do if the police asked me about him.

  "Yes. Exactly," he said. "So let's not get ourselves pinched for speeding. I believe you're going a wee bit over ninety miles an hour."

  I reduced my pressure on the gas pedal.

  "Sorry. I don't want you to miss your plane." I had no idea I'd been going that fast.

  "Do you think you can talk about this Ronzo person without such a dramatic need for speed? Why don't you start from the beginning? When you thought he was a decent chap."

  "I thought he was a 'decent chap' until three days ago. When Marva showed me the video..."

  I bit my lip. I did not want to get emotional. Not in front of Peter. I took a deep breath and launched into the story of how Ronzo and I met. How he seemed like a tough New Jersey mafia type, but he turned out to be a music blogger for Rolling Stone who also worked as a detective for a law firm.

  I explained that his hobby was tracking down former stars and so he could do "where are they now" stories on his blog, and he'd come to Morro Bay trying to track down J.J. Tower, the legendary guitar player.

  "But J.J. Tower has been dead for over a decade. He died in a famous Texas roadhouse fire." Peter said. "It sounds as if Mr. Ronzo was a bit daft all along."

  "But he isn't! J.J. Tower didn't die in that fire! Ronzo knew what really happened..."

  "You're speeding again, Camilla, my love. If I miss the bus, I'll find another way to get to Los Angeles."

  I let up on the gas again. Thank goodness he'd changed the subject. I'd almost revealed a secret that wasn't mine to tell.

  "Don't be so worried about catching my flight. There will always be another. And your friend Plantagenet will soon be out of the nick, whether I get to Swynsby tomorrow or not." Peter gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Henry's put Vera Winchester on the job."

  "Do you think Vera can get help?" I adored Vera, but I wasn't certain that Sherwood's intrepid office manager could do battle with the entire British justice system.

  "Nobody's better than Vera at getting things sorted. You'll see."

  "But is Plant still in the Swynsby jail? It must be so awful for him."

  "It's not very nice. I've spent some time there myself. But he's probably a free man as we speak. Henry will put up bail if need be."

  I felt a moment of relief. If Plantagenet was all right, I could almost bear the rest of it.

  Peter gave my shoulder another pat.

  "And stop protecting your deceased Italian friend. It's yourself that you have to worry about. You need to get over this Mr. Ronzo."

  I took a deep breath before I spoke again. I wanted to keep things light, but everything came spilling out.

  "He wasn't Italian, he was Croatian. And his name wasn't Mr. Ronzo. It was Ronson V. Zolek. Ronzo was his nickname. He thought a homeless man in Morro Bay looked a lot like J. J. Tower. Somebody had sent photos of this man—who calls himse
lf Hobo Joe—to Ronzo's blog. So Ronzo flew out here and hung out in my bookstore so he could talk to a homeless man who knew Joe, who used to sit on the bench in front of the store. Ronzo was kind of obsessed because he met J.J. back when he was a teenager with rock and roll dreams. Ronzo is a guitar player."

  "I'd rather assumed so, given the way he decorated his arse."

  I could have done without Peter's snark and bad language, but I kept going.

  "I'll have you know Ronzo was very kind to the homeless people and had perfect manners in spite of his Tony Soprano accent. Plus he helped Silas and Plant get their house back, after they were scammed by that horrible Ponzi-schemer, Harry Sharkov."

  Peter gave a harsh laugh.

  "Oh, that makes all the difference. He wasn't Tony Soprano. He was a Croatian gangster with good manners."

  "He wasn't a gangster! He wasn't a criminal. Well, not exactly..."

  We had come to the turn-off for the airport. Thank goodness. I did not want to continue this conversation. I pulled into the short-term airport parking lot.

  When we came to a stop, Peter turned to me and took my hand. Looking me in the eye, he spoke with sincerity.

  "Camilla, if you were involved with somebody in organized crime, you need to call the police. People who throw knives about are dangerous. And the Croatian mafia can be every bit as terrifying as the Italian one. I know that first hand."

  "I didn't say Ronzo was in any kind of mafia..."

  "You said he was involved with bad people. Did it occur to you that maybe they eliminated him and now they think you have something they want? Maybe Mr. Ronzo posted something to you that hasn't arrived yet, like ill-gotten cash or..."

  "Who are you to be talking about ill-gotten cash...?"

  I stopped myself. What if Peter was right? Not about the mafia, but what if Ronzo had been murdered after all? I'd given up on that thought when I saw the video, but it really didn't rule out the possibility of murder.

  I didn't know much about Ronzo's life in New Jersey, but Marva did say he grew up in a violent neighborhood. And it was obvious from the GoreFest video he'd been involved with shady people. Maybe they were run-of-the-mill criminals who did all kinds of porn and illegal stuff. Criminals were always killing each other off.

  I hoped Ronzo had been an ordinary crook, in a way. That would make more sense.

  "Whatever it is," Peter said. "Will you promise you'll ring the coppers if anything further happens? Just because I operate a bit outside the law is no reason you shouldn't have all the law enforcement protection your hard-earned taxes provide. Do I have your word you will do that?"

  Now I felt embarrassed. I hadn't told him about the night Buckingham scared me into phoning 911.

  "I'm not sure that would be a good idea. You see, I called the Morro Bay police earlier when I got that scary email, and they came by and were very nice, but I could tell they thought I was just some hysterical female. They said it wasn't a 'credible threat'."

  "There's nothing hysterical about reporting someone throwing a knife at your door. Call them again." Peter opened the car door. "But now I have to get my own arse onto a bus and a plane and a train back to Lincolnshire."

  He gave me a good-bye kiss. It was warm, but felt very final. I found myself clinging to him for a moment too long.

  "Yes. Yes of course," I said after a moment. "You have so many problems to solve. I hope it all goes smoothly when you get to Heathrow. Let me know when you get to Swynsby, okay?"

  He nodded, but he was already taking his things out of the car.

  I wondered if I was an idiot to put my faith in Peter Sherwood one more time.

  Chapter 54—Plantagenet

  Plant sprang awake when he heard the sound of keys in the door to his cell. At least he thought he was awake. He couldn't tell any more.

  He looked around and saw no sign of King Richard. Thank goodness. He didn't want to go through another ghostly visitation.

  It seemed to be daytime. At least the dim light that came through his opaque non-window was a lighter gray than it had been last time he'd been awake. Or thought he'd been awake.

  A uniformed officer appeared.

  "You have a guest, Mr. Smith," he said. "A lady."

  Good god. He hoped it wasn't Queen Elizabeth I or any other dead royal personage.

  "Am I in the right place?" A high pitched voice came from the corridor outside. "Is this where you have Mr. Plantagenet Smith? You must let him go. He's a famous Hollywood film writer. From America."

  A sweet-faced woman in her fifties fluttered into the room. She wore a flowered dress and a large, swooping sort of hat over a no-nonsense gray bob.

  "Mr. Plantagenet Smith?" she said. "I'm Vera Winchester. Office manager at Sherwood publishing." She extended a hand. "I'm afraid I was on my way to my son's rehearsal dinner, which is why the hat..." She patted her dramatic head gear. "He's getting married tomorrow. Our Callum. To his girl Bryony. Nice young woman, if a bit flighty. Her brother's not right in the head, unfortunately, but luckily it's not hereditary. She's in the family way, but of course they all are these days, aren't they? Cart before the horse. It's all been rush-rush-rush since we found out. They've had to throw together the wedding and tonight's rehearsal dinner is in the back room at our local. We had no time to do anything posh."

  Plant clutched Vera's hand, not wanting to let go. He shook it again, hoping against hope that she was real.

  "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he said. "So Camilla somehow got in touch with you? Is she all right?"

  "I haven't the foggiest," Vera said. "I haven't heard a peep from Camilla and we've been that worried about her because of all those nasty reviews. But I suppose she doesn't have my home email address."

  Maybe Camilla hadn't been overreacting to those reviews. Vera looked genuinely stricken.

  She went on. "It's Henry Weems who sent me here. He's my boss at Sherwood Ltd. He's sent the money for bail, but apparently they don't need it yet. They're supposed to release you to my custody, he tells me. Although if you really were a murderer and wanted to escape, I can't imagine how I'd stop you, but...do you think I might have my hand back now?"

  Plant realized he'd been hanging onto the poor woman's hand like a drowning man clutching a life preserver.

  "You mean I can leave?" He needed to compose himself. "I'm free on bail?"

  "No bail set, because you haven't been charged. You're still a person of interest. But you're free to roam the confines of Swynsby-on-Trent," she said. "Which means you may come to Callum's rehearsal dinner...I do hope you like roast beef. We're serving a roast, with Yorkshire pud, of course. Fresh peas and carrots from our community garden. And a nice cream cake for afters."

  "That sounds like the food of the gods to me, Mrs. Winchester." Plant felt himself salivate. He didn't know exactly how long he'd been in here living on mystery meat sandwiches, but he knew that any real food would be a taste of heaven right now.

  A different officer arrived and escorted them down the hall to the reception area where Plant had first come in—how many days ago? It could have been years.

  Vera kept up her chatter as they walked.

  "Bryony is watching her figure, and didn't want us to order a cream cake, but it's Callum's favorite. Bryony doesn't want her baby bump to show in her gown tomorrow, but of course it will. It's not as if everybody doesn't know already. The truth has a way of getting out, doesn't it?"

  "The truth?" Plant stared at his unlikely rescuer as the custody sergeant sorted through some papers.

  "Oh, I certainly hope the truth will come out, Mrs. Winchester. I deeply hope so."

  "When do I get my things," he asked the sergeant. "I'll have to change out of this, um, uniform or whatever it is."

  "Not until the case is closed," the sergeant said.

  "I'm supposed to walk out of here naked?"

  "Oh, I forgot," Vera said. "I must run out to the car. They told me to bring you something to wear. So I brought you o
ne of my George's old suits, since we're going directly to the rehearsal dinner. But you're quite a bit trimmer than George. I've also brought a shirt and shoes and some smalls. I do hope they fit."

  Vera ran outside as Plant signed many pieces of paper and the sergeant informed him in a stiff voice that he must not leave the area, and must check into the station daily while the case was still pending or he would not receive his passport.

  "And what is the Sywnsby address where you'll be staying?" he asked. "We can only allow you to go if you have a local address."

  Plant tried to remember where Brenda said Vera lived. "Rope...Rope Road," he stammered.

  Luckily Vera reappeared, carrying a garment bag.

  "1187 Ropery Road," she said. "Mr. Smith will be in my custody. Me and my husband, George Winchester. I think you know George from down the pub, don't you Sergeant?"

  The sergeant gave a small smile. It made Plant hopeful.

  He was taken to the room where his clothes had been confiscated last Sunday night and was allowed to change into the things Vera had brought: a pair of tighty whities, a tank style undershirt, a shirt three sizes too big, and a similarly large navy blue polyester suit, double breasted, with wide lapels. Obviously bought sometime during the Thatcher years. It also would have been suitable for a Prohibition-era speakeasy. There were also some socks and a pair of elderly brown loafers. Way too big as well.

  All he needed was a red nose.

  Or maybe a machine gun in a violin case.

  But he was more than grateful to the helpful Vera. He might look like a clownish Al Capone, but he'd be a free clownish Al Capone.

  Chapter 55—Camilla

  As I drove back up the 101 toward Morro Bay, I wondered if I'd ever see Peter again. Saying goodbye to him had been more emotional than I'd expected. I felt embarrassing tears ruining my make-up as I waved him off to the loading area for the shuttle bus.

  I also wondered how much of what Peter had said about Ronzo and the mysterious photo might be true. I didn't know if there was any evidence that Ronzo had been murdered—I hadn't heard about any suspicions. In fact I didn't even know whether his body had been discovered. The kitten story seemed to have overridden any reports about his death.