"Yes. I need a lawyer. But they cost money. So I thought if you could give me a down payment on my diamond, I could set things in motion for my, um, resurrection. Do you happen to know a good criminal attorney?"
George shook his head no. He bit his lip and sputtered some more before he got the words out.
"Doria—the stone in your ring. It's not a diamond. The original stone has been replaced by a CZ. Manmade cubic zirconia. It's worth about ten dollars, tops."
Doria stopped breathing. The room started to spin.
"A zircon? Harry gave me a damned zircon?"
So that's why he had her ring "upgraded" to a bigger stone. He'd stolen her engagement diamond. How could she not have suspected anything?
"Oh, my God…It didn't sparkle. I told him it didn't sparkle. The rat. No. The Shark. That's what they all called him behind his back. Harry the Shark. He thought it was funny. Funny! The goddam…" Her words petered out in a stifled scream.
For the first time she felt one hundred percent glad that Harry Sharkov was dead.
Fat, wet tears started to slither down her face. She'd never felt so helpless. Not even when Joey Torres took his stupid cousin Bernice to the prom instead of her because Doria turned down his ridiculous marriage proposal. Her mind flashed back, and there she was: sitting in the living room of that dark little Pawtucket duplex, corseted into her prom dress, waiting for the date who never came—rivers of tears running down her face, wreaking havoc with her make-up.
Which they must be doing now. She asked George for a tissue.
George handed her one, but his eyes wouldn't meet hers.
"Doria, I'm so, so sorry. This whole thing is so…surreal. I can tell you it's not that uncommon." He fussed with things on the workbench. "We've even had some husbands ask us to 'repair' their wives rings with fake stones when they're strapped for cash. We'd never do such a thing, of course. Your replacement wasn't done by a very good jeweler, as I remember. We were going to take it to the FBI people, but after you, um, died, we figured it wasn't necessary…."
He drifted off and started searching through drawers in the workbench again.
"Men!" Doria couldn't come up with another word to express her frustration and rage.
The door swung open and Enrique poked his head in, his face flushed with anger.
"George, your customers are waiting…oh, my God."
It was Enrique's turn to do the saw-a-ghost thing. His lips seemed to disappear.
"You're dead," he said after a moment.
"So everybody tells me." Doria sniffed back her tears. "But I haven't felt like it until now."
"You told her about the CZ?" Enrique looked scared as much as anything.
"Yes. But…" George opened a small white envelope and slid something into his hand. Her ring. "The setting is 18 Karat. It's worth several hundred dollars. I can't tell you exactly, but if you'll allow us to remove the stone, we can weigh it for you."
"We don't have time, George," Enrique said. "We're going to lose at least two sales if we don't get out there."
"She has nothing, Enrique. We could at least give her…"
Enrique sputtered. "Not now, for God's sake!"
"Why?" George gave Enrique a sharp look. "The FBI aren't looking for her. Everybody thinks she's at the bottom of the ocean."
"The two cops who just walked in the store might notice a walking corpse."
George peered out the small window in the door that led back to the store. "Good Lord. Those guys are cops all right. And they don't look as if they're shopping for a wedding set."
Enrique opened the back door. "Doria, go." He gave her shoulder a squeeze as she scurried out. "Good luck."
She went—stepping out into the bright sunlight of the parking lot.
Dazed, she walked around the lot, where the jacaranda tree still scattered its purple bounty on the asphalt. The last time she'd been here—what was it, five days ago?—she thought she knew despair. But then she had a car. And the hope of a nest egg. Now she had nothing at all. Except maybe two cops tailing her. She didn't even know what direction to run.
She fought the damned tears, but they were winning.
"Oh, my God, you're beautiful," said a girlish voice. "That outfit is perfect. You totally put us to shame—you really do. That wig is genius."
Doria turned and saw two other fake Manners Doctors. That is, two women dressed very like her—in a more improvised fashion. Their wigs were made of glitter—obviously left over from Mardi Gras or Halloween—and several of the pieces still had Dress for Less tags.
They looked young. College girls, maybe.
"Do you want to ride with us? We'll make such a great entrance with three of us. We might even get on the blog with the real Manners Doctor!"
The girl made absolutely no sense, but she had such a nice smile, Doria couldn't see the harm in humoring her.
"Oh, yes. Blogs are…very nice. I'm not very Internet savvy myself…"
"So you want to ride to Morro Bay with us? That's our car over there." The taller of the girls pointed to a late-model Prius a few yards away. "We'll bring you back here after the mob. Don't worry. We won't stay and party. We have to study tonight."
Doria wasn't even going to ask them why they were going to Morro Bay or what they meant by a "mob." They were offering to take her away from here, and that was good enough.
Chapter 62—Mother Manners
After the first two hours of ringing up sales for the "cash mob," I needed to go to the bathroom. Desperately. Plus my arm hurt like crazy. And I needed to call Plant and tell him why I wasn't home yet. He'd left a bunch of messages on my phone. I was grateful that all these people wanted to support me, but I felt dizzy and achy and needed to sit down. The whole thing was beginning to feel like a bad dream.
I almost wasn't surprised when the three Manners Doctors walked in.
Three. Manners Doctors.
Or rather, a mother Manners Doctor and two young Manners Doctors-In-Waiting. They were rather adorable, with glitter wigs and obviously fake Chanel bags. The two young ones pushed through the crowd while the older one trailed behind, looking almost as overwhelmed as I felt.
"She's here!" Somebody called out. "The Manners Doctor is here! Can I have your autograph?"
"I'm not really the Manners Doctor," the older woman said, obviously trying to be polite to somebody who wanted her to autograph a copy of Good Manners for Bad Times.
"We're here to help, Miss Randall," said the tall glittery one. "We figured you'd need some helpers if you got a big crowd."
"And she sure did," said the other, looking around at the packed store.
"Help?" Could this be true? "Do you know how to run a register?"
"We sure do," said the tall one. "I used to work at the Borders in the Glendale Galleria when I was in high school. You want me to take over?"
I stepped from behind the counter and gave the girl a hug.
"I need to take a quick break," I said.
"Gotta go potty?" said the short glitter girl.
"You don't say that in front of the Manners Doctor!" said the other, as she started to ring up a couple of thrillers for a young man in a Hawaiian shirt.
I didn't care what anybody called it. I just had to go.
I also had to call Plant and Silas and let them know what was happening.
~
When I returned, I found everything in chaos.
"This register. Something's wrong with it. It doesn't print real receipts," the tall girl said. "And I couldn't figure out where to slide in the credit card, so we're only taking cash and checks.
"They're not listening to me," said Mother Manners. "I told them it's right here." She pulled out the mechanical press I still used to process credit cards. "And here's the receipt book. You write it down with a pen."
"I could kiss you," I said to the woman. "Somebody from my century." I turned to the girls and said. "Your mom and I will take over now. Why don't you go out on the floor and tid
y up and see if any customers need help."
"As long as we get a picture of all of us together," the tall girl said.
"A picture?" The older woman's face took on a look of sheer terror. "No photographs. I don't do photographs."
"I feel the same way," I said. "I don't want these awful old clothes immortalized. I didn't even think I was going to be working today. You ladies all look more like me than I do."
I did promise to take a picture of the two girls behind the counter after things died down. Right now it was much more important to keep Mother Manners happy. The woman could process a MasterCard like a pro and wrote a lovely receipt in record time as I made change.
We made a great team. An hour later, when there was a lull in the rush, I asked her name.
The woman hesitated, as if she weren't quite sure what to call herself. I wondered if perhaps she'd recently gone through a divorce and had reverted to her maiden name. That was always a tough transition.
"Dorothy. Dorothy Castelo. With one "l". It's Portuguese."
I bagged a stack of romances for another tourist.
"Well, Dorothy, I can't thank you enough. I wish I could hire you on the spot. Are you and your daughters from San Luis Obispo?"
"Oh they're not mine," Dorothy said. She gave me an odd look. "Do you mean that? About hiring me? You have a job opening?"
I nodded as I took another stack of books from a patient customer.
"In case you didn't hear, my last clerk didn't quite work out." I indicated my bandaged arm.
Dorothy looked blank, but gamely rang up the books. Her fingers flew over the keys. The woman was a gem. Maybe she was indeed going through a divorce and needed money, in spite of her well-heeled look.
"You're hired," I said. "I'll put you on the clock for this afternoon and you can officially start tomorrow at nine A.M., Okay?"
Dorothy gave me a huge smile and went back to her work.
By five P.M., the crowd had thinned and I could finally take a breath,
Dorothy continued to ring up merchandise, a mistress of efficiency. The two girls—who both seemed to be named Jen—were busy tidying up the books that had been pulled out and mis-shelved. I wanted to kiss all three of them. The customers too.
Overcome with the love I felt from all of them, I stepped from behind the counter and started shaking people's hands.
When I got to the two Jens, I gave them both big hugs.
"I don't know how to thank you. I'll have to pay you for your time. I didn't know people could be so kind. You've restored my faith in human nature."
Tall Jen tossed her glittering mane. "Oh, we don't expect to be paid. But we're not just doing it to be kind. We were hoping maybe we'd make it onto the blog. We're singers. We're called 'Jen-Sation.' Maybe you've seen us on YouTube? Getting onto a Rolling Stone blog would get us a ton of hits."
"Somebody mentioned Rolling Stone earlier. Do you mean the music magazine?" I felt about a hundred years old as I realized I hadn't read it in at least a decade. "I'd love to know what sparked all this."
"So what." Jen said.
This seemed a remarkably rude answer from somebody who had been so polite up to now.
"'So what?' You mean you're not going to answer me?" I looked around the store wondering if I should rethink my hallucination theory. Maybe none of this was real.
A customer who was gathering a stack of books from the Sci-Fi section gave me a grin. "No. 'Zo What'—with a 'Z'. It's a blog," he said. "At RollingStone.com."
Short Jen took out her iPhone. "Here. I'll show it to you. You should thank this guy. He really cares about your store. He does 'where are they now' stories. He's awesome. Like he did one on the Saved by the Bell guy who made the sex tape, and the homeless Happy Days girl and that old rocker who disappeared, you know?"
Sounded like a muckraker like my ex-husband.
"You mean he invades the privacy of former celebrities?" I tried to stay calm and forced myself to keep smiling. "That's a strange name, even for a blog." I had never understood the whole blog thing. I tried one once and had maybe four followers.
"It's from his name. Zolek." Short Jen handed me the iPhone.
"Zolek?" It couldn't be a coincidence. My hands shook as I stared at the photo above the 'Zo What' logo.
His hair hung down below his collar—longer and blonder and shaggier—and he wore a brown leather motorcycle jacket and black jeans instead of the dorky suit. But there he was, grinning into the camera.
Ronzo.
Underneath was the headline—"The Manners Doctor—About to be Evicted!"
All that time.
While he pretended to be interested in some homeless guy.
While he pretended to be some dorky tourist.
While he pretended he had romantic feelings for me.
The man was just a sleazy reporter, making money off the misfortunes of the formerly rich and famous.
Creep. No wonder he'd taken off. Probably too much of a coward to face me.
Chapter 63—Dea Ex Machina
Doria couldn't believe her luck. Imagine that those odd girls in their funny get-ups had led her to a job. That guardian angel was still watching out for her.
Although she could have done without the speeding. The tall girl drove like a NASCAR driver on meth.
Doria wasn't looking forward to getting into a car with her again.
But for now she could keep ringing up the books and writing receipts, smiling at each customer and wishing them a nice day, the way she'd learned working the Christmas rush at the J.C. Penney's back in Pawtucket when she was eighteen. Amazing how these kids couldn't do anything without electronic gizmos these days.
So far, Camilla Randall hadn't recognized her. They had met, a decade or so ago, when Doria worked on some redecorating of the Randall family mansion in Darien. Camilla had attended the showcase open house, with that dreadful newsman she'd been married to.
The newsman had drunk too much and insulted half the people at the party. Camilla may have been too busy covering for him to notice Doria much. She hoped so.
Because right now, the Manners Doctor and her little bookstore were providing the few shreds of hope Doria could cling to.
A large, tweedy man and his well-dressed partner burst into the store as Camilla was ushering the last customers out. Doria recognized them—the people from the window of the jewelry store last Sunday.
Damn. She'd forgotten Camilla was one of their party that night. Which meant Camilla knew George and Enrique. A little close for comfort.
But at this point she could do nothing but brazen it out, grinning as the two girls explained the outlandish outfits and the "cash mob."
Camilla introduced her as "Dorothy Castelo" to the two men—Silas and Plantagenet—who admired her costume but didn't show any signs of recognition.
"I'm feeling a little silly in this outfit by now," Doria said. "People keep asking me for my autograph. And of course the shoes are all wrong." She posed with her toe pointed. She wanted to keep them focused on her costume, and not her famous face. "But it's been fun for me to play the Manners Doctor today."
"Us too," the short girl said. She flipped her glitter wig. Can you take our pictures? We want to send our photos to Mr. Zolek so maybe it will get into tomorrow's blog. Although he hasn't updated all week. I don't know what's up with that."
"Who's Mr. Zolek?" said the man called Plantagenet.
"Ronson V. Zolek." Camilla almost spat out the name.
Odd to see that kind of anger erupt out of such a polite person.
"The creep formerly known as Ronzo. Your biggest fan, Plant. The guy who won't return my phone calls. The phony Mr. Ronzoni. He wasn't here as a tourist. He writes for Rolling Stone. He was writing a story on me. He specializes in 'riches to rags' pieces, it seems."
The two girls jumped to defend their blogger friend.
"But he didn't say anything bad about you, Doctor Manners," said the tall girl. "He said your poverty was 'genteel.' Li
ke Jane Austen or something. He wanted to help save your store."
"And it is your store now Camilla," Silas said. "Or it's one step closer. Let's go back home and celebrate. Lureen will have papers for you to sign later to officially open escrow. All the sales from the cash mob should be yours. I can't believe you handled this without any help. It looks as if you probably took in a good haul today."
"Let's split it," Camilla said. "Anyway, I couldn't have done it without my helpers." She smiled, back to her calm Doctor Manners self again. She snapped some photos of the girls amongst the books.
Luckily they didn't ask Doria to join them again. She did not want to come back to life on some ridiculous blog.
Plantagenet snapped a couple more shots and thanked the three of them.
"It was fun," the girls said. "Dorothy, come on. We gotta run. I have a million things to do tonight."
Doria froze. She didn't want another NASCAR ride in that girl's car. And she didn't want to leave this little enclave of normalcy.
She put on the smile she'd used to dazzle her way into many a millionaire's party in her modeling days.
"I think it would be only fitting if I help you celebrate, Camilla. After all, I guess I'm officially your employee now. And I'd love to hear more about this Mr. Zolek."
It worked. Camilla gave her a hug and said, "Oh, yes. Please come. You're my dea ex machina right now, Dorothy. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but thanks for showing up." She explained to the men that Doria had the magical abilities to write a receipt and make change, so she'd hired her on the spot.
Silas shook Doria's hand with vigor. "Welcome to our little family. I'm so glad you can join us. We have so much to celebrate. I'm going to barbeque some lamb."
"Do let me help," Doria said, eager to make herself welcome. She was looking forward to a nice clean bathroom to check her incision and take her medications. The Oxy was beginning to wear off. "I have a fabulous recipe for barbequed lamb with a rub of roasted garlic, fresh rosemary and lavender."
"Sounds a lot like Silas's," Plant said. "He got it from Home magazine. Whatever anybody says about Doria Windsor, her recipes were to die for."
No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) Page 17