No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries)

by Allen, Anne R.

  Doria simply had to borrow the Mercedes for a few hours until then. Betsy probably wouldn't even notice it was gone.

  Chapter 22—Orphans in the Storm

  As Plant scrambled to pick up the roses from the floor, I clutched the blankets around me.

  At least Plant looked suitably sheepish.

  "I came to apologize, but I seem to have made things considerably worse. I am so sorry, darling. You didn't tell me you had a new boyfriend. I've been so caught up in financial dramas and all our ridiculous wedding plans…"

  I felt my face burn—partly with embarrassment at being caught naked with a strange man in my bedroom, and partly with sheer fury at Plantagenet.

  The fury won.

  "Plant, those buyers of yours are going to take my house. My store. They even want my chairs. The last of my mother's Chippendale dining set. She had such a battle with Brooke Astor's people over that set at Sotheby's."

  The thought of my dead mother brought me close to tears. Even though Mother had never been the warm and comforting type—and she'd let her sixth husband burn through the family fortune—I still missed her.

  I was an orphan now, with no living relatives. Plant was the closest thing I had to family. Sometimes I couldn't bear the loneliness of it.

  "The buyers cannot have the chairs. Silas already told them that." Plant's voice trailed off as he walked toward the kitchen. Probably to find a vase for the roses. He was always worried about things like that. Useless things.

  Why did I always surround myself with useless men?

  Ronzo didn't seem useless. But then he hadn't told me what he actually did for a living. I'd asked him several times, but somehow he avoided answering. He had an air of blue-collar authority that made me think he might be in law enforcement. But it probably didn't make sense for a Newark policeman to be here in Morro Bay. Not wearing a suit.

  Besides, it didn't matter. He was gone now. And he was unlikely to come back.

  Plant called to me over the sound of water running in the kitchen sink.

  "I can't believe those L.A. people wanted us to throw in furnishings—when they don't even want the books or the business. They want to turn the shop into a jewelry store. They say a bookstore isn't worth a thing in the era of e-books. They're really low-balling us. Silas and I have been fighting about it all morning. The buildings may be decrepit, but the land alone is worth more than they're offering."

  "My cottage is not decrepit!" I shouted toward the kitchen as I launched myself out of bed and ran to the bathroom, shutting the door with a slam. Which was less dramatic than I would have liked because the door was too warped to close tightly.

  Okay, the place was pretty tired. The store and my cottage were all that was left of a motel owned by Silas's great-grandfather, who had constructed a string of them on the coast between San Francisco and Los Angeles in the 1930s and '40s. But with some fixing up, this place could last a long time. It had been built solidly and had loads of cute built-in cupboards and cabinets and a lovely fold-down ironing board.

  Those people from L.A. hadn't even looked at the built-in ironing board.

  And they weren't going to buy the book inventory? Morro Bay did not need yet another jewelry store. But they were probably right about book stores. E-books were killing them. I refused to buy one of those Kindle things, but everybody else seemed to have them.

  I had let my publishers put my backlist of manners guidebooks into e-books for the international market, but I cringed every time they tried to tell me about the wonderful opportunities e-books gave me

  Nothing that caused the death of bookstores could be wonderful.

  My anger slowly dissolved as I stood soaking in the shower.

  Poor Plant—caught in the middle. It wasn't his fault Silas had lost all his money. A few weeks ago, Plant had been about to marry the multi-millionaire of his dreams and finally be rid of the money problems that had plagued his whole life.

  Now Plant and I were just two broke friends.

  Orphans in the storm.

  I needed to channel my anger elsewhere.

  Chapter 23—Between Beverly Hills and Nowhere

  Doria zoomed north on the 405, looking for somewhere she could pop into wearing granny-sweats, no make-up, and flip flops.

  Obviously not in posh Bel Air.

  And not the Getty or the Mountain Gate Country Club.

  Whatever was going to happen to Home magazine in the wake of all this mess, it wouldn't be helped by a paparazzo shot of her looking like somebody's grandmother on her way to Wal-Mart. Even though she'd retired as editor, she was still the face of the magazine.

  As she conducted a stern conversation with her bladder, she realized it would have been wiser to turn south, not north.

  She was headed for the Van Nuys airport.

  On second thought, an airport might be good. Lots of bathrooms. And nobody dressed to travel these days. She wouldn't be noticed.

  But no. Harry had a movie producer friend who kept his Cessna there. It would be awful to be recognized looking like this.

  She saw the exit for the 101 and headed toward Tarzana. That sounded like the sort of place a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit might escape notice.

  The sight of the golden arches ahead filled her with relief. Amazing to be so happy to see a McDonalds.

  She made a bee-line for the ladies'.

  In the privacy of her stall, she delved into Betsy's bag and found some treasures—a wallet with over a hundred dollars in cash, several credit cards, plus make-up.

  The make-up was too pasty for Doria's dark complexion, but even the wrong lipstick and eye shadow could make her look less like a re-animated corpse.

  She felt almost human by the time she went to order coffee and a McMuffin.

  The place was crowded, but she found an unbussed table away from the windows. There was even a crumpled copy of USA Today to hide behind. After a sip of coffee, she willed herself to relax.

  This would all be fine. No need for panic. The magazine had lawyers. And separate financial accounts. It wasn't terribly flush, but there ought to be a way to get hold of that money and start a real investigation into what caused Harry's death. Find out about his mysterious trips to Colombia. That boat-building company he was obsessed with. All sorts of shady people could have wanted to harm him. She could probably fix things with a few phone calls. If only the hospital nincompoops hadn't lost her phone.

  Once things calmed down back at Betsy's, she'd call the office. And her realtor. Who knows, maybe the sale of her apartment hadn't gone through. And even if it had, there were others.

  Doria still had her own life, separate from Harry. She'd miss the bastard, but it wasn't the end of the world.

  Back home in New York, she could start over. She didn't believe much of the stuff the nuns taught her at St. Rita's parish school as a kid, but she still believed in guardian angels. She touched her necklace, glad she'd kept it on last night. Somehow, her angel would help her get things back on track, no matter how dire they looked.

  Doria picked up her Egg McMuffin and smoothed the newspaper open to the front page. "SHARKOV-WINDSOR CRIMINAL GANG BILKED CHARITIES" the headline said.

  Sharkov-Windsor? The ridiculous article made the two of them sound like Bonnie and Clyde. And it got worse. The reporter suggested Doria had been a partner in Harry's business—maybe even the mastermind. Somebody was quoted as saying Home magazine was probably a tax dodge and money laundering scam.

  Well, there went the last of her advertisers.

  And any thoughts of getting that money. Apparently it had been frozen, too.

  Flipping through the pages, she saw the worst headline of all.

  "HOLLYWOOD CELEBS BILKED BY PONZI SCHEME."

  Celebrities. Most of whom she knew. The list was long. And there at the top was telenovella star "Cesar Alonso." Harry had buttonholed Cesar at one of Betsy's parties last winter. Doria thought Harry was being extra-nice to the dreadful Cesar just to annoy her
.

  But no. Harry had been robbing him. Robbing them all—all her friends in the film industry, even—oh, please, no…

  Yup. There was her name, under the "B's": Betsy Baylor.

  If Doria had a guardian angel, he seemed to be sleeping on the job.

  Harry had ripped off her best friend. Betsy was probably in denial about it. That must have been what Cesar was talking about at breakfast.

  Maybe it didn't matter if anybody had murdered Harry. Doria was saved from having to do it herself.

  She tried to swallow, but the bite of McMuffin sat in her gullet, halfway between mouth and stomach, not moving.

  Exactly like her, sitting in this place between Beverly Hills—a place where she was not going to be welcome for some time—and…where? Certainly not New York. Not without money.

  She did not have a clue where to go.

  Chapter 24—One-Night Stand

  As I dressed, I smelled the heavenly scent of French Roast wafting from my kitchen.

  Plant had not only made coffee, but was arranging bagels and lox on two of my Limoges plates. I saw the bag came from my favorite deli in San Luis. Several miles out of his way. He was really trying.

  I gave him a hug.

  "I know it's not your fault, Plant. Silas is in a financial bind. He has to do something."

  Plant shook his head. "But not this. I had no idea Lureen was going to offer this property for under two hundred thousand. Or that the buyers would want to move so fast. We don't need cash for the whole amount anyway. Just a down payment. All we really need is enough to keep the house and get the bookstore business back on its feet again. We've cancelled the wedding and were able to get our deposits back on some things…"

  "You've cancelled your wedding?"

  This was not going to be good. If the two of them split up on top of everything else, it would be a catastrophe. Plant didn't have a penny of his own.

  He poured me a cup of coffee. "Of course. Under the circumstances it would be absurd."

  "Because you're fighting over my house?"

  "Of course not, darling. Silas and I will always be fighting over something until death do us part. But weddings cost money. And we don't have any. The accounts are empty and the cards are maxed. That's the cold truth." He took a sip of his coffee. "Don't try to cash your last paycheck, by the way."

  I nodded and told him about Brianna's note.

  He didn't look surprised. "Silas has been getting irate phone calls from employees all weekend. That's why he let Lureen bully him. He's never had anything like this happen to him and he's mortified. The Ryders are one of the old-money families of this county."

  That explained a little about why it had happened so fast.

  "Speaking of mortification, I'm really sorry about the man in my bedroom this morning."

  Plant gave me a grin. "Sorry? Why, darling? A man that hot? I'm the one who should apologize. The poor man obviously thought I was your wayward significant other. Where did you find him? Is he an actor or something?"

  Maybe it was good Ronzo thought Plant was my boyfriend. At least that way I didn't look like some lonely, desperate divorcée who fell in bed with anybody who bought her a glass of chardonnay.

  I felt doubly embarrassed when I thought of the domestic fantasies I'd been having about Ronzo earlier.

  He was a one-night stand. At least he'd used a condom. I could pretend it never happened.

  I tried to keep my tone breezy. "He's some tourist from New Jersey. He's been hanging around the store all week. I'm afraid I didn't find out what he does for a living. Is that terrible?"

  The admission made me feel embarrassed all over again. Even worse—I'd never even found out his real name. I'd tried to get a glimpse of his driver's license when he had his wallet open, but I couldn't see much without looking like a total snoop. Maybe Ronzo was short for Ronzoni? He could be a blond Italian. Like Jon Bon Jovi. He had mentioned he was a fan.

  "So what did you two talk about?"

  "A little about rock music. I guess he used to play in a band, and he'd into guitar gods like Stevie Ray Vaughn and J. J. Tower. But mostly we talked wine. And Edna Valley. He's very interested in your neighborhood."

  I didn't tell him what really happened. The truth was, Ronzo had done very little talking. Somehow too much wine and too much stress made me break every rule of good manners and talk about myself. For hours. I told him about my mother's awful sixth husband, Count Whatsis, who took every penny the family had left.

  And about my ex-husband, Jonathan, once the darling of Fox News, now apparently on a permanent international bender.

  And the nice policemen I fell in love with two years ago.

  And my wild trip to England to try to revive my career, which had resulted in a bout of homelessness and…

  All of it made me so embarrassed. Why had I told some stranger all that?

  Plant's expression got serious again. "Well if he's interested in moving to Edna, he'd better be a rock star himself. We should never have bought that mansion out there. If we could unload that pile and buy something sensible, everything would be fine…" He stopped himself. "I don't want to talk about our damned financial disasters. Let's talk about your hunky friend. Seriously, you didn't ask him what he does for work?"

  "I did, but he was cagey with his answers. I got a feeling he could be in law enforcement. Why did you think he's an actor?"

  "Because he looks awfully familiar." Plant offered me a refill on my coffee. "I'm almost positive I've seen his picture somewhere, but I can't quite place him."

  Maybe that's why Ronzo felt like "home". Maybe I had seen him on TV or something. I hadn't asked him if his band was famous. Maybe he actually was a rock star. But it didn't matter.

  The one thing I knew for certain was that I'd never see him again.

  Chapter 25—The Wolf at the Door

  Doria sat in the Tarzana McDonald's, reading Betsy's Hollywood mystery novel, Murder on the Yellow Brick Road. She was trying to let her mind go blank—except the part that was schmoozing with movie stars in a fictional 1930s Hollywood. Sometimes when she needed to come up with a new idea at the magazine, she'd do that—turn off her brain and immerse herself in some totally unrelated reading until the idea burst forth.

  But ideas weren't bursting. Anger was. Lots of it. It seemed she'd been married to somebody who'd been doing a very competent impersonation of Beelzebub.

  And now he was dead, and she didn't even get to yell at him.

  She hoped the real Satan was punishing him. All that Hell stuff the nuns taught her back at St. Rita's—for once, she hoped it was true. Right down to the flaming pitchforks.

  But anger wasn't going to get her out of the Tarzana McDonald's, and the staff were starting to look at her funny. The lunch rush was on, and people were waiting for tables.

  Okay. She had a car. It was Betsy's car, but Betsy would have to understand. What Doria needed to do was get some truth into the newspapers lickity-split. The best way would be to talk to the investigators and let them know she would cooperate in any way she could.

  And that Harry would never, ever kill himself.

  Who knows, maybe if they found out they were wrong about the suicide, they'd find out they were wrong about all the other stuff they said Harry did.

  No. She didn't even believe that herself. It all made a dreadful kind of sense.

  The nasty thought came to her that Harry probably had indeed been using her magazine to launder money and shelter ill-gotten funds. He was always so cheerful about putting cash into the magazine's coffers.

  Who knows? Maybe that was the reason he'd married her in the first place. Their whirlwind "romance" had been more of a business merger than a seduction. He'd plied her with spectacular gifts, but never bothered much with declarations of love. He seemed to want the prestige of having a style maven on his arm, and of course she was wildly grateful to find an investor who could keep her magazine afloat.

  It had seemed like a good enou
gh deal at the time. At the age of fifty-seven, she hadn't wanted the kind of romance she had with Joey Torres, her first love, or the glamour she sought with Chad, Sergio, or Jean-Pierre—or hot sex, like she had with Wayne and Brad.

  Betsy had warned her not to accept Harry's proposal, convinced Doria needed to find another Joey, but Doria really had been perfectly happy to marry for security. It had seemed okay to have separate bedrooms and only get together on the rare night when Harry felt romantic enough to keep his teeth in.

  But the laugh was on her. She'd wanted somebody to keep the wolf from the door and she'd married the damned wolf. And now people would think she was a wolf too, unless she set the police straight about a few things.

  So that's where she should go: San Luis Obispo.

  She would talk to the people who were investigating that fire.

  She needed to tell them everything she knew. Especially about that phone call from the person who called herself Mistress Nightshade.

  Chapter 26—Blue Notebook

  After Plant left, reminding me of the Chanticleer concert that evening, I bounced around the cottage, wondering when the awful L.A. people would burst in on me again.

  I wasn't much looking forward to this evening's concert. I'd hoped maybe Plant and Silas would cancel the plans for dinner beforehand. George and Enrique always ordered the most expensive wine and expected to split the bill.

  I should probably have been packing. But I couldn't force myself to do it yet. I wanted a few more days to enjoy having a home of my own. I was about to be homeless. Again. The thought filled me with dread.

  I changed the sheets on the bed and tidied the bedroom. Next to my nightstand I found a small spiral-bound blue notebook.

  Ronzo's.

  He'd written something in it after he got a phone call at dinner last night. A cute low-tech aspect of him I found endearing. But the notebook must have fallen out of his jeans pocket when we undressed.