Sanjay stood and grabbed his briefcase.
"That is nonsense, Mr. Smith. Pure nonsense. I do not believe in ghosts and I do not think you believe in them either. I need to know the truth. I cannot represent you if you will not tell me what happened on Sunday afternoon."
Sanjay's pudgy face took on a belligerent look that made him seem like a small boy who had been denied a treat.
"But I have told you the truth, Mr. Brumble. I honestly have told you everything I know."
Sanjay gave him a look of contempt and called for the custody officer.
Chapter 49—Camilla
I closed up the store a little early after the last browsing tourists wandered off in search of fish and chips. I was eager to get back to the cottage to ask Peter what he'd found out about Plant.
It apparently wasn't much. Except that the media all seemed to think he was guilty. And some reporter at The Daily Mail had been following him around since the Old Vic bombing and called him a "terrorist kingpin".
"Do you think people are going to believe this Daily Mail reporter?" I asked Peter.
"Not sensible people. But I'm afraid the Times is reporting it as a sex scandal, since both Plant and the deceased were openly gay. I know it's absurd, but it makes good copy."
Peter worked on opening a bottle of what looked like a good local wine. Apparently he'd been shopping along with his online miracle-working and news-reading today.
"I've spoken to Henry and asked him to investigate. He ought to be able to help your friend get a good lawyer in any case. Henry's out of hospital now, but he's still not cleared to drive because of the head injury. However, I'm sure he can make some useful phone calls."
I nodded and accepted a glass of wine. I didn't tell Peter I had little faith in his partner Henry Weems. Henry hadn't always been kind to me, and I found it hard to trust anybody who wrote smutty books under a name like Rodd Whippington. I'd always been less than enthusiastic about the kinky erotica books Sherwood published, although I knew they brought in more money than my own.
I looked around the kitchen, wondering what I'd feed Peter for dinner. I hadn't had time to shop in days.
"Sit, Camilla dear." Peter waved a hand at the living room couch. "You've been on your feet all day. Enjoy your wine. Dinner will be arriving shortly. I hope you like olives and peppers on your pizza."
Pizza. I'd start gaining weight if I stayed around Peter too long. I sat at my desk instead of the couch and booted up my laptop.
"First, I'd better see what new horrors have landed on Amazon."
"Don't." Peter swooped over and shut my laptop closed. "I've spoken to some chaps in Seattle and those reviews should be gone by morning. What's on there now is of no consequence at all."
"They're that bad?"
Peter took my glass and ushered me to the couch, where he seated me next to the sleeping Buckingham.
"They're pretty vile," he said. "For which we should be grateful. It gives Amazon no choice but to take them down. They won't remove all the one-stars—and you'll still have all twelve sock-puppet reviews that say 'Princess Diana was mudered', but they removed the obscenities and threats of 'the rape train'—whatever that means."
Rape train. That phrase was giving me nightmares. I had no idea what it meant but I didn't want to dwell on it.
"Sock puppet reviews? I've been reviewed by puppets?"
Peter scooped Buckingham onto his lap as he sat down next to me.
"Sock puppets are different false identities for the same person. I'm sure that 'DickonthePig', 'Duke of Gloucester', 'Duke of Buckingham', 'Earl Warwick " and all other the historical figures who supposedly wrote the comment about Princess Diana are the same person, since they have the same misspellings in all the comments, but Amazon doesn't ban that kind of nonsense. Their policy is 'the customer is always right' and you and I aren't customers. We're vendors."
"But I thought you said you got the reviews removed?" My spirits began to sink again.
"Oh, I did. Anything threatening rape or murder. I did let them know I've spoken to the FBI and Europol about those. Amazon isn't on the best terms with the European Union as you probably know. But as publishers, we're very much dependent on the Mighty Zon."
I didn't know anything about such things, but I was only beginning to learn about the book business. Before I bought the bookstore a few months ago, I was just an employee working for Silas.
"To better times, Camilla Randall." Peter raised his wine glass.
"To better times." I gave him a warm smile.
I so much wanted to believe Peter was essentially a good man. I'd almost forgiven him for letting me think he was dead for three years.
And I'd forgotten how lovely he was in bed.
Not as passionate as Ronzo, but...I didn’t want to think about Ronzo. I kept having to banish thoughts of him, like swatting away big, nasty flies.
Peter helped. And he made me feel safe.
He smiled back, put his wine down and gave me a deep, romantic kiss. I felt myself melt into him. I started to unbutton his shirt.
But we were interrupted by crunching on the gravel outside and a determined thump on the door.
"Pizza, milady." Peter jumped up, letting Buckingham scamper to a corner of the couch.
But there was no pizza delivery person at the door. Nobody at all.
"What's this?" Peter stepped outside and examined the door. A big butcher knife was stuck in it—right through the screen and embedded in the wooden door beneath. It pierced what looked like an eight-by-ten photograph of somebody's naked behind.
"What is it?" My stomach knotted.
"Obviously some crank who hasn't heard Marva's news. No matter." Peter pulled out the knife and tossed the photo in the kitchen waste bin. "Nobody will think it's you who likes spanking men's bums by tomorrow."
I ran to the bin and pulled out the photo. It was a man's behind, all right.
Adorned with a tattoo. Of a blue Stratocaster guitar. With wings.
Chapter 50—Plantagenet
Plant sat on his bunk, trying not to be angry with Sanjay. The custody officer seemed to be busy elsewhere, so Sanjay hadn't been able to make a suitably dramatic exit. He stood by the door playing with his iPad.
Plant reminded himself this young lawyer was the only person remotely on his side in this whole predicament.
If he was real. Plant couldn't be sure of anything.
The entire world seemed to be losing its marbles.
No. He knew if anybody had a marble deficiency, it was himself, unfortunately.
He must have conjured the ghost of Richard III out of fear, boredom, and these infernal blue-gray walls.
But why had he seen the same vision at that Old Hall? Could jet lag and sleep deprivation—and a pint of bitter—have created that kind of confusion in his brain? The young man in the Hall had seemed completely solid and real.
And so did the silent Sanjay, tapping away at his iPad.
Logic. Plant realized he had to return to logical thinking. Sherlock and Miss Marple thinking. He took a deep breath, stood up, and looked Sanjay in the eye.
"Mr. Brumble, what is my motive supposed to be for inventing a fake King Richard and murdering Neville?"
Sanjay gave a thin smile. "One of the oldest reasons there is, Mr. Smith. Neville Turnmarsh spurned your advances. You had a lover's quarrel."
"A lover's quarrel? With a man I only spoke with for five minutes?"
"You followed him to Swynsby, Mr. Smith. He left his name and number in your book."
Plant felt his forehead prickle with anger, but he kept his voice calm.
"I fall madly in love with a strange man who happens to sit next to me in a theater. He leaves his phone number in my book, and instead of using that number to ring him, I take a three hour train ride to a place that isn't even his home, so I can pop by and kill him in front of a lot of witnesses?"
Sanjay gave Plant a long look. "He was a known homosexual, and so are you."
"You obviously have a history with this man. The police will find more evidence, I am sure. You cannot hide anything."
Plant said nothing for a moment. No point in trying to defend himself against something so silly.
"What about the murder weapon, Mr. Brumble?" Plant spoke slowly and deliberately, as if he were talking to a small child. "Have the police bothered to look for the murder weapon? I know there were lots of swordy things around that day, but most were probably costume. Maybe they found one with blood. If Neville was somehow mixed up in the Old Vic bombing, he obviously hung around with some nasty people. Any of them might have stabbed him."
"Swordy things?" Sanjay's smile was back again, but now it only mocked him. "What do swordy things have to do with Neville Turnmarsh's murder?"
"There was so much blood. It had to be rather a big weapon, didn't it?"
Sanjay laughed as if this were uproariously funny.
"What blood? There was no blood, Mr. Smith, any more than there was a ghost."
Plant took a deep breath. Was Sanjay playing some kind of game? He seemed to be deliberately forcing Plant to doubt his own sanity.
"When I found Neville, his body was lying in a pool of red ooze. And there was spatter on the stone wall. Are you saying it wasn't there? Because if it wasn't, somebody tampered with the crime scene before the police arrived."
Sanjay gave Plant a penetrating stare, then called for the officer again.
"I'm telling the truth. I saw blood. I also saw blood on the sleeve of the actor portraying King Richard." Plant worked at keeping his tone even. "If I stabbed Neville...if I knifed him during some violent lover's quarrel, wouldn't I have noticed the blood spurting all over? Wouldn't I have got some on my clothes?"
They must have taken his clothes for some reason.
"Can't they test my clothes for Neville's blood? If I'd stabbed somebody, I would have got blood all over myself. Not that I have any experience with stabbing people. But that's what happens on those police TV shows. Spatter. It's always about the blood spatter."
The custody officer finally appeared, and Sanjay turned to Plant as the door opened. He spoke stiffly.
"Are you trying to qualify for an insanity plea, Mr. Smith? This is very difficult in the United Kingdom. I suggest you produce some information I can use, or I cannot represent you."
Once he had gone, Plant felt completely and utterly alone.
Even his own sanity had abandoned him.
What if he'd been hallucinating this whole time? What if none of what he thought was real had happened? Maybe stuff he didn't even remember had happened instead.
Like murder.
Had he somehow killed Neville while in some sort of fugue state?
He shuddered when he thought about that afternoon in the Hall. Had he encountered the ghost of King Richard? Had the ghost visited him here? Could disturbing someone's remains waken a spiritual force the way it did in those ridiculous television ghost-hunting shows?
Glen would say it could.
Maybe he was right. Almost anything was more probable than what was actually happening.
Chapter 51—Camilla
My first instinct was to call the police about the knife-in-photo incident. But I was still embarrassed about the last time I called. Maybe they wouldn't think a knife in the door was a "credible threat" either.
Then there was the fact I had a known international criminal living in my house. If they started asking Peter questions, they might ask me about the money laundering. I'm such a terrible liar. I'd probably get us both thrown in jail.
I'd almost forgiven Peter for letting me think he was dead, but I don't think I could have forgiven him if his criminal activities landed me in jail. I got put in jail once and it wasn't at all nice.
And I probably should have told Peter why the knife photo was so scary. But that would have involved talking about Ronzo and I didn't want to do that. I had made it very clear to Peter that I didn't approve of his criminal activities, so it was going to be hard to explain that I'd been previously mixed up with a psychopath.
Besides, if Peter knew I was in danger, he might not go back to England right away. And I knew Plant needed help more than I did. Henry had reported Plant was still under suspicion although they hadn't officially charged him yet. Apparently they could keep him in jail for several days without charges.
Peter was probably the only person who could save him.
So I put the knife in a plastic bag and hid it in my sock drawer. Then I tried to bury my anxieties about the whole thing. I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened and that everything was back to normal.
Even Jen B. seemed to be her old self by Wednesday afternoon.
"I'm sorry I got so bent out of shape about Ronzo," she said as we worked on shelving the new shipment of books. "I told Elijah you'd never have dated him if you had any idea he was a psycho kitten killer. I told him how Ronzo seemed like this totally good guy, in spite of the Sopranos accent. But Elijah is still being crazy about it. I think I might have to break up with him. Now he won't let me wear leather shoes. I don't mind not eating meat, but I do not want to give up my shoes..."
Jen held up her foot, elegantly pedicured and wrapped in a strappy Sergio Rossi sandal.
I nodded, trying not to show the anxiety I felt when anybody mentioned Ronzo.
"I'm afraid if I had to choose between a man and my designer shoes, the man might lose out to the Manolos..." I gave her a smile.
"I told Elijah that wearing leather shoes isn't the same as killing kittens, but he lumps it all together."
I hated the thought I'd caused a rift between Jen and her sweetheart.
"I understand why he's upset about Ronzo. I am too."
Jen leaned in. "Well, I like your new boyfriend much better. That English accent is to die for."
Peter had been in and out of the store for the last two days, mostly to keep me updated on his cyber-triumphs. He always stopped to charm the Jens, too.
He was becoming more endearing by the hour. He had not only got the worst of the Amazon reviews removed, but he'd also got most of them off Book Reviews dot Com and managed to delete my Twitter and Facebook accounts.
He'd even created a new website for me, equipped with safeguards he said made it harder to hack.
"Peter's not exactly my boyfriend..." I started to say. But the truth was he was feeling more and more like one.
I was going to miss him a lot when he went back to England. Which would be soon. He was monitoring last-minute cancellations for flights out of both San Francisco and Los Angeles.
My cell phone rang. Peter.
"I've got a red-eye flight out of Los Angeles at 11:00 tonight," he said. "I've booked a shuttle bus to LAX that leaves from Santa Maria airport at 5:30. Can you drive me?"
"To Santa Maria? That's over an hour away!" I checked my watch. It was past four.
"Then we'll have to get started, won't we?"
I looked up and saw Peter sauntering into the store, wearing his backpack.
"Don't worry," Jen said. "I know how to close up the store. Go ahead." I turned to Peter. "Too bad you have to go. I like you so much better than that Ronzo."
"Who's Ronzo?" Peter said. "And why does everybody clam up when his name is mentioned?"
"Sorry. Gotta go," Jen said.
"We have a bus to catch." I ushered Peter out the door.
Chapter 52—Plantagenet
Plant reminded himself that despair was a useless emotion. Allowing it would mean Glen had won—that Glen had the more powerful, fit mind as well as body.
Plant was pretty positive he hadn't killed Neville. He might be capable of hallucinating dead monarchs, and even smiling young lawyers, but he could not kill anybody. Especially by stabbing them.
He had trouble killing spiders, for goodness sake. That awful squish.
This is what he knew: somebody or something had killed Neville. And somebody or
something was trying to pin the murder on him.
He had to figure out who the somebody or something was.
Logically. He needed to be logical. Which would be easier if he didn't keep getting visited by ectoplasmic apparitions.
Which he did not believe in.
Another thing he knew for certain.
A lot of the evidence against him seemed to come from the scribbling Neville did in his copy of the Daughter of Time: that address and phone number.
That's what had condemned him: scribbles—scribbles he hadn't even known existed. Although he would have if he'd read the book instead of Alfred Duffield's awful play.
But why had Neville written in his book? Was it really just a flirtation thing? A flirtation in the middle of a terrorist mission?
Pooh and Piglet said the Old Vic explosion had been caused by a bomb. And it was looking more and more as if Neville had planted that bomb.
Plant remembered Neville had a satchel. He hadn't taken it when he went to the Pit bar, had he? He'd left it under the seat. Next to Plant's raincoat. Which Sanjay said had bomb residue.
So Neville was a terrorist—and terrorists tended to have enemies. Which meant he could have been killed by anybody. Certainly anybody at the Old Hall that day. There were probably lots of people at the event with strong opinions about the burial of Richard III, if that's what the bombing had been about.
And a lot of them had big swords.
So why did Sanjay say there had been no blood?
That was the weirdest thing of all. How could anybody have imagined all that blood? And the stink. That place was so smelly.
So many things needed to be investigated, but now Plant seemed to have nobody to do any investigating while he sat in this dismal hole.
He had nobody at all. Camilla probably didn't have a clue anything was wrong. And Silas...just the thought made Plant's fists curl with rage.
Did the man know what was happening and simply did not care? Plant had no idea how he could ever forgive Silas for being on a tropical island, carrying on with Glen Jones while his husband was losing his mind in this terrible place.
So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 Page 15
