Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd.

by Anne R. Allen

  Apparently Professor had heard me weeping.

  “Don’t waste tears on Tom Mowbray,” he said. “He’s been through worse. Charlie will land on his feet as well. We Yellowbellies are tough as old boots. As far as your book tour, Peter will set things right when he gets back. He won’t let some old woman’s toy boy destroy his company.”

  The Professor’s smile was so sympathetic, and Meggy’s sturdy presence so reassuring, that I poured out the whole story of Plant’s heart attack, and the rats, my computer’s demise, and how desperately I needed access to e-mail.

  Meggy shook her head in sympathy.

  “I doubt Davey will have had time to fix your computer.” Henry’s got us all working overtime on his book. We finally got our load of paper.”

  The Professor looked more optimistic.

  “Davey’s got broadband in his lair,” he said. “He’s in there. I’m sure he’ll let you use it for a moment, in spite of the rush to get Rodd Whippington’s new opus to his adoring fans.”

  When I told Davey the story of Henry and Alan and the computer, Davey snorted and typed something into the search window of his computer.

  “Look,” he said as the first page of results came up. “‘Allan Greene’ is indeed a fellow at Balliol College, Oxford.” He pointed at the screen. “‘Allen Green’ was also an editor at Random House. The only problem is the Oxford don is in his fifties and the editor died two years ago.”

  The Google search page said the number of results was 42,700,000.

  “The Baron has found the world’s most gormless techo-moron in Henry Weems,” Davey said. “Poor old Henry can barely navigate his e-mail program. He’d be dazzled by this, and not bother to look further.” Davey clicked on one of the search results and brought up a photograph of a tattooed teenager standing in front of a large computer- manipulated photograph. “Meet Alan Greene,” he said. “Student at the Royal College of Art.” He sighed. “But I can’t find one photo of the Baron. I doubt it’s even his real name. The only thing we know for certain about him is that he’s a pathological liar.”

  This reminded me that Peter Sherwood wasn’t much different from this liar known as Alan Greene. The one thing I knew about them both was they were tricksters—smart, slick—and totally untrustworthy. I thought of the horrible coyote I encountered in that alley with Peter. The Native Americans called coyote the trickster. Maybe the Universe had been trying to tell me something.

  After bringing up pictures and data on a few more Alan Greenes, including one who claimed to be the love child of Princess Margaret and Elvis, Davey helped me go to my iGoogle page and mailbox. I did have a few new messages, including another one from Valentina demanding her cousin Rico’s money, but there was nothing from Silas or Plant.

  “Don’t worry, Duchess, I’ll sort things in the office,” Davey said. “You should have access to that computer whenever you need it. It belongs to me, not Henry or Alan bloody Greene—whoever the hell he may be.”

  Late that night, I was using my bucket “en suite” when Much jumped up from the bed and gave a sharp bark. Then a menacing growl. He ran out into the warehouse, barking loudly.

  Quickly pulling myself together, I grabbed my robe and shone a flashlight in the direction of the barks. I could see Much standing at the big double doors that led out to the parking lot. As I tried to quiet him, I heard something scrape against the door. Then I heard—or thought I heard—a metallic sound. It could have been someone locking the loading doors. Or trying to unlock them.

  Much stood immobile, letting out another low growl. I pulled my robe tight. Should I wake Davey and Liam?

  Now I heard footsteps crunching across the gravel parking lot outside. Turning off the flashlight, I peered through a grimy window. I could see a man—short, bearded, balding—and could it be?—what looked like a patch over one eye.

  Barnacle Bill. I could barely breathe.

  Much made a quick turn to bark at something behind us.

  “I don’t recommend going outside dressed like that,” said a voice from the shadows. “Not at pub-closing time. Lots of randy bastards out there.”

  It was Alan Greene. He looked slimier and more dangerous in the dark, with his leather jacket and too-tight jeans. He leaned over to give Much a piece of biscuit from his pocket. Much took his bribe to a corner, abdicating his role as my champion.

  “Something woke Much,” I said. “I think somebody’s out in the parking lot…”

  “Mostly likely a business associate of mine,” Alan said. “I told him I’d meet him here after the pub closed. Nothing to trouble yourself with, Duchess.” His voice was low and oily as he moved toward me, reaching for the silky sleeve of my robe. “But what I would trouble myself about, if I were you…” He petted my arm as if it were a stray kitten. “…is sleeping rough in this warehouse. The council’s willing to allow a bit of slack with Davey and Liam, since Henry can claim they’re working as night watchmen, but we can hardly argue you’re staying here legally. I suggest you start looking for a more suitable spot to park your bum, sweetums…” He slid his arm toward the aforementioned area as his beery mouth moved toward my face.

  I gave him a firm shove and retreated into my Wendy house. But he followed, grabbing for me with clammy hands. The man was preposterous. In the dark, I reached for the first thing I could find—the bucket handle. I lifted the liquid-filled bucket and pressed it against his chest, pushing him back through the curtain.

  I heard a man outside call Alan’s name. It might have been Barnacle Bill’s. I couldn’t tell.

  “So sorry you have a previous engagement,” I said in a sunny voice.

  Then I did it—I let the bucket contents spill on his shoes.

  “Oops,” I said.

  The voice called Alan again.

  He looked at me with dark fury and ran to the door.

  I’d come an awfully long way from the Manners Doctor’s world, and I had no idea if I’d ever find my way back. Time to learn to live in this one.

  Chapter 31—The Panic Button

  I did not sleep well that night, but at least Alan never reappeared. Neither did his lurking “associate.” I wondered if Barnacle Bill might be trying to get the money Peter owed him out of Alan and Henry.

  Of course, I wasn’t sure if the man in the parking lot had been Bill at all. Perhaps the one-eyed pirate look was simply a common fashion statement in this part of England. In any case, I wouldn’t want to meet the man again. The thought came to me that Peter might have left to escape Bill’s threats. Peter didn’t seem like a man to run from trouble, but that would explain things.

  Mostly my restless thoughts were of Plant, and how much I needed to hear news of him. I was desperate for Internet access that wasn’t dependent on the whims of horrible Alan Greene.

  In the morning, over tea in the canteen, I told Liam and Davey about Alan’s midnight visit.

  They laughed at my bucket defense, but were furious I hadn’t waked them.

  “Next time, scream bloody murder,” Liam said. “I’ll leave me door unlocked. You can come for help any time.”

  Davey said nothing, but he sprang from his chair, looking as if he meant to do battle with an invisible enemy lurking in the vicinity of the rubbish bin. He fished a beer bottle from the trash, and holding it by the neck, smashed it against the brick wall. He then presented me with the jagged remains.

  “Keep this under your bed, Duchess,” he said. “All you have to do is wave it about. That prat won’t risk scarring up his pretty face. And…” he paused a moment, weighing his words. “He doesn’t need to stay alive, you know. I’m still in touch with some blokes…”

  Liam shook his head slowly. “Don’t bother. He’s already a dead man, the Baron. When Peter hears what he did, that git will die.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

  My skin went cold. Were they really talking about murder? Unless I was mistaken, Liam had just told me Peter had a habit of killing people who annoyed him.

  My mind
snapped back to the image of Lance’s body in that alley. It frightened me more than any amount of sexual harassment by the slimy Alan Greene.

  Davey was still agitated.

  “I’ll rig you an alarm that will go off in my room. A panic button. Push it and me and Liam will be there in two shakes. And don’t pay mind to the Baron’s threats about the Council. They won’t inspect for illegal living quarters without a complaint, and if Alan complains, he’ll be shooting himself in the arse. His sweetie-boy Henry would be the one to pay the fines.”

  As soon as Henry arrived that morning, Davey stormed into his office and announced that if “the Duchess” was not allowed full access to his office computer, he’d remove all his equipment from the premises.

  His ultimatum got me some grudging access to the Internet, but did not improve my relationship with Henry, who, as the week progressed, went from giving me disapproving scowls to pretending I didn’t exist. Alan, on the other hand, offered cheery smiles and acted as if the incident in the warehouse had never happened—almost creepier than the harassment.

  I wondered if he was plotting some horrible revenge.

  The whole situation made me feel uncomfortable in the office, so I only went in to check my email a couple of times a day—always to be disappointed by the lack of news. I felt safer ensconced in my Wendy House, and was glad of the button Davey installed on the wall beside my futon. It activated a device in his room that let out an electronic shriek that could wake all of Threadneedle Street.

  But even when I finally had access to the office computer, I found not one word from Silas or Plant. Nothing. I checked my email dozens of times a day, never to find anything but spam. How could Silas be so cruel? I got more and more furious at him for his silence.

  What if Plant was dead? Was Silas afraid to tell me?

  Chapter 32—Gisborne

  Alan Greene’s power at Sherwood continued to rise. He quit his pub karaoke job and spent all his time at the Maidenette Building. No longer Alan-a-Dale, he was now Guy of Gisborne—top henchperson and co-schemer to Henry’s Sheriff of Nottingham.

  And all schemes revolved around the launching of Fangs of Sherwood Forest as soon as possible. I wondered if they were hoping to get the whole thing underway before Peter returned, or if they really had given up on him.

  Only Vera mentioned Peter’s name with any regularity.

  Preparations for the arrival of Rosalee Beebee dominated the office agenda, while my own book was never mentioned. I continued to work on my edits—translating my American spelling to Brit on the ancient laptop, whose spell check function only worked occasionally. But I had to fight my growing fear that it was all for nothing. Everything felt more pointless and crazy as I worked alone in my absurd Wendy House.

  And still my email brought no news of Plant. Every time I sat down at the computer and found nothing, I felt more panic. It was like living in the middle of an earthquake—where your basic foundations start shaking and sliding away.

  Davey, Liam and Vera were all sympathetic with my frustrations about Plantagenet. Vera sometimes came by with a tea cake or a biscuit and a treat for Much—who still kept watch at my side.

  Davey even took the time to do a search for phone numbers for San Francisco Bay Area hospitals, and helped me ring them via the company account, but none seemed to have a patient named Plantagenet Smith. And nobody answered at the Castro apartment’s land line—or at either of the numbers I could dig up for Silas Ryder.

  If only Plant’s cell phone hadn’t been stolen. I wondered if the burglary had upset him more than he admitted—and somehow triggered the heart attack.

  Not that I knew for certain that’s what had happened to him. The whole heart disease thing bothered me more and more. There seemed to be way too much of it going around. Peter said he had heart disease too. And mentioned “tablets.” I knew certain poisons could mimic heart attack symptoms—and so could an overdose of some heart medicines. Could Lance have been poisoned? Plant, too?

  I felt a pang of guilt every time my suspicions of Peter resurfaced. But being a cheated-on spouse had taught me that sometimes things were exactly as they seemed. I couldn’t deny the fact that the last person alone with Lance in that alley had been Peter Sherwood.

  But murderers needed motives. And opportunity. Peter didn’t even know Plant, so if the incidents were linked, I had no reason to suspect him.

  However, the same was not true of Silas. My anger started to give birth to suspicion.

  An awful thing happened when I put Silas into the scenario: things fell into place with unpleasant—and not unlikely—logic.

  1) Silas had motive to hurt both Lance and Plant.

  2) Silas had been jealous of Lance—Plant said so.

  3) Silas and Plant were in the midst of a fight when Plant had his “heart attack.”

  Silas could have killed Lance, or had him killed—and might later have tried to poison Plant.

  I kept reading Plant’s last emails over and over, looking for clues. Plant complained about Silas’s neglect and controlling behavior—which I’d witnessed myself—but not about any real threat or violent behavior.

  Plant had written at some length about the convoluted aspects of the bookstore purchase—stuff I’d only skimmed the first time through. He said Lance had been part owner of the business: he’d been accepting shares in the store in lieu of raises as the recession reduced Felix’s profits. Silas had made an offer on the store six months ago, but Lance had objected.

  Would Silas have killed a man just in order to purchase a business? He did seem to want that bookstore pretty badly. Maybe he was another schemer like Alan.

  If Silas was Plant’s loving partner, why the hell wasn’t he communicating?

  By Friday afternoon, when I’d still heard nothing, I decided to make a systematic search of the Web for Silas’s name, to see if anything suspicious appeared. I had free use of the desktop computer for most of the day, since the office was blissfully Henry-and-Alan-free. The two were driving down to Heathrow to greet Rosalee’s plane: no puddle jumper to Robin Hood Airport for the great Ms. Beebee.

  I searched California newspapers for any evidence of Silas behaving badly. But instead I found stories of homeless-shelter benefits and generous gifts to the arts. The Ryder family had apparently been wealthy ranchers for generations, and Silas was lavish with donations. The bookstores seemed to be something of a hobby. Not exactly motivation for homicidal greed. I started feeling ashamed of my suspicions.

  I switched to surfing literary and entertainment blogs, scrounging for news of Plant himself. He’d become something of a celebrity after winning his Oscar. Even though his last film tanked, I hoped maybe a major health crisis might get him a mention, but I couldn’t find a thing.

  Finally I Googled Plantagenet’s name with the word “obituary” and held my breath.

  Chapter 33—The Arrival

  Luckily my searches for Plantagenet’s name only got me British history sites. But I kept up my search, hoping for something, dreading everything.

  But I had to give up my futile Web surfing at four-thirty PM, when the office doors flew open and Rosalee Beebee made her entrance into our lives.

  With an American voice that blared like a trumpet fanfare, she stomped in, declaring the office to be “totally adorable.” Henry and Alan trailed behind, like weary footmen following their imperious queen.

  I’m not sure what I had imagined Rosalee would look like, but it wasn’t this. She was tall and big-boned, with a large, friendly, moon-shaped face and quantities of reddish-blonde hair that looked as if it had never been near a grooming product. She was dressed in a velour jogging suit of a pale pink usually reserved for infant girls and plush Easter toys.

  Rosalee gave a squeal as soon as she saw me.

  “The Manners Doctor!” She bounded toward me like some giant puppy. “I can’t believe I’m here with you in person. You’re absolutely my idol. I always read your columns. You and Dear Abby and my
horoscope. First thing. I’m a Cancer. Oh, this is, like, the best day of my whole life!”

  She was equally enthusiastic with Vera, nearly knocking her over with a bearish squeeze.

  “Oh, Mrs. Winchester, I’ve heard so much about you. Henry says you’re the person who keeps this company going.”

  “Does he now? Perhaps it’s time I ask for a pay rise?” Vera managed a stiff smile.

  “Oh, look at the sweet little doggie!” Rosalee spotted Much, who had wisely taken refuge under Vera’s desk. He gave her a menacing growl. “He probably smells my kitties on my clothes,” Rosalee said, undaunted. “I have two: Hermione and Galadriel. I had to leave them with my brother’s girlfriend. I hope she doesn’t starve them. She’s such a selfish bitch.”

  Davey and Liam peeked into the office to catch a glimpse of the new arrival and were immediately bestowed with ursine greetings as well. They looked more startled than pleased by the physical contact, and scurried away with protestations of unfinished work.

  But nothing could squelch Rosalee’s enthusiasm.

  “Look at these old bricks!” she said, patting the dirty factory walls. She twirled around like a small child. “OMG. I’m totally in England! I want to get out and see, like, the whole country. Isn’t Harry Potter’s castle somewhere around here? I want to see it right after Sherwood Forest.”

  The Professor gave a harrumph and looked pained as he wheeled up and introduced himself as her editor.

  “We’ve got a bit of work to do in the next few weeks Ms. Beebee, so I wouldn’t make extensive travel plans. You have a lot of revisions to get to work on.”

  Rosalee, who had been leaning down to hug him, stopped and straightened herself.

  “What?” Her voice became an angry bark. “What did you say to me?”

  “Revisions. Edits.” The Professor gave a weary sigh. “Henry and Alan tell me they want to launch your book at the Lincoln Book Fair. That’s going to require some long days. Your book needs a good deal of editing.”