So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5

by Anne R. Allen

  "So how do you know Buckingham? Do you know who his real owner is? How did you know he likes kibble and needs wet food?"

  Joe started up the path to the road and spoke over his shoulder.

  "Oh...he's a tomcat. Toms need wet food. Too much dry food messes with their urinary tract. Better hurry."

  "So did you have a cat here and Lucky and Bucky made you get rid of it? Is that why you have a cat carrier?"

  "Something like that."

  Had Buckingham been Joe's cat? He might have brought him to the bookstore knowing he'd find a good home with me or the Jens.

  "Thanks for the loan of the carrier. Buckingham seems to like it."

  Joe grunted something. Whatever Buckingham's history, it seemed to be a sore subject.

  I unlocked the car door so Joe could put the carrier in the back, but saw Joe's guitar case was still there.

  "You'll want your guitar."

  I reached for it, but Joe stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  "I was hoping maybe you could give me and my guitar a ride back to Morro Bay."

  "Happy to." I opened the passenger door for him. "Thanks for your gracious hospitality, Joe."

  He was a nice man. Dorothy said he'd been kind of a jerk when he was a rock star, but he'd had an epiphany when he almost died in the famous Texas roadhouse fire in the 'nineties. When another body was identified as his, he simply "went AWOL from his own life" and became a vagabond.

  Whatever his history, I felt a lot safer in Joe's company. Not only was Buckingham remarkably calmer around him, but Joe had proved more than once that he was brave and good in a crisis.

  And this certainly was a crisis. I didn't have the slightest idea what I'd encounter when I got to Morro Bay, but I knew it wouldn't be good.

  Chapter 64—Plantagenet

  "Why did you have to go and poison Neville?"

  Plantagenet peered out from his blankets at his new ghost.

  Alfred—or a dream image of him—was still there. Light from the bedside lamp glinted on his teeth. He looked like a furious beaver. He held what looked like a half-drunk bottle of cheap whiskey.

  "Poison is a girly way to kill if there ever was one. Just like a poofta, innit?"

  Plant sat up and rubbed his eyes. Alfred was still there. Still talking.

  "Neville was off his trolley, but you had no cause to off the poor bloke. We all could have made millions, Mr. Smith. That script is pure gold now. Look at all the publicity we've got. Absolutely free."

  "Publicity? You blew up the Old Vic as a publicity stunt? For a film that hasn't been made yet?"

  This certainly had the lack of logic of a dream, but Plant couldn't be absolutely positive this wasn't happening in real life.

  "They'll want to make the film now, won't they?" Alfred sat on the side of the bed. His breath stank of stale beer with an overlay of whiskey. "I can say I wrote the whole thing this week. Based on real events. The news story is still hot—all over the world. Grab a phone, ring your mates in Hollywood, tell them you have the author on speed dial, and Bob's your uncle."

  Plant sat up a bit and leaned against the headboard.

  "You got a terrorist to blow up the Old Vic to generate interest in a screenplay about terrorists who blow up the Old Vic?" Plant did not remember ever feeling so annoyed by a dream. "I assume that's what the script is about. I have to admit I didn't get past page ten."

  Alfred's face distorted in rage.

  "You didn't bloody read my script? What have you been doing all this time?"

  "I've been in jail. Partly because they found your screenplay in my possession. They've still got it. Along with my suitcase and passport. Apparently they consider it all evidence."

  Plant was acutely aware of the fact he was clad only in an old man's undershirt and tighty whities.

  "Evidence?" Alfred jumped up, still in his drunken high dudgeon. "Who told them it was evidence? You did! You got me fired, you prat. And now M-I-bloody-5 are looking for me. They think I'm a terrorist. It wasn't me what planted that bomb. That was Neville. I told him that idea was pants. Total pants. Only good for a film plot. But some of these blokes don't know fantasy from real life. I gave him your Old Vic ticket because I wanted him to sell you on the script, not explode you with a bloody fertilizer bomb."

  Alfred took a swig from his whisky bottle.

  "You...you gave Neville my extra ticket? You planned all along for us to meet?" This was extraordinary news, if any of this was really happening. "Why on earth did you want me to meet Neville?"

  "So he could chat you up, you both being pooftas and that. I didn't know he was going to bomb the place. I didn't even think those wankers could make a bloody bomb. They only know how to make death threats on the Internet."

  "You did a fine job of pitching the play to me without Neville's help. Why give him my ticket?"

  Alfred's breath was truly vile.

  "I didn't know if you'd listen, did I?" Alfred mercifully jumped up from the bed and began to pace. "I'm not all that good at flirting with blokes. I've been planning this for weeks, ever since I saw you had a reservation with us for August. Then when you appeared without your seat mate, it was like a big sign that Fate's on my side, innit?"

  "Fate?" This Alfred seemed more lunatic than Glen. Maybe he was Glen's stand-in for the dream.

  "Right," Alfred said. "It was meant to be. So I rang up Neville and told him I had the ticket." Alfred's face took on the eagerness of a small boy. "I told him he should chat you up and pitch my screenplay. He wanted my film made because of the anti-Tudor message. Those Plantagenet blokes do hate the Tudors."

  "Your script is all about setting off a bomb at the Old Vic, and I'm supposed to believe you didn't have anything to do with the actual bombing?"

  "Yeah. Just like I'm supposed to believe you don't plan to turn into a werewolf. It's a screenplay! That film is pants, by the way, your Oscar Wilde werewolf one." Alfred took another pull on the whiskey bottle.

  Plant took a deep breath. "You had no idea Neville wanted to bomb a production of Richard III?"

  "Of course I'd heard him talk about it. The Circle blokes talked about bombs a lot. How do you think I got the idea?"

  "The Plantagenet Circle? You and Neville were both members of the Plantagenet Circle?"

  "I went to some meetings, but only for research, you know? To get background for my film." Alfred sat down on the bed again.

  Plant sat up straighter. Alfred was a little close for comfortable conversation.

  "If Neville was simply supposed to get to know me, why did he carry a bomb? Just in case he was in the mood to blow up something?"

  "I only found out later, but I'm guessing the Circle told him to go ahead with the bombing. They thought if a famous Hollywood git died in the blast, the film would get much bigger offers. They're a bloodthirsty lot, those Circle blokes. They're always on the Internet threatening to kill people, but I never thought they'd go through with it."

  Plant ran this through his sleepy brain.

  "But Neville tried to keep me away from my seat before the bomb went off. How do you explain that if he wanted to kill me?"

  "I only know what he told me in the text he sent me on Monday morning from a petrol station on his way to Sywnsby, but I think when he met you at the Old Vic he got it in his head you were in the Circle too. I suppose I was wrong to sell him that ticket. But he paid double."

  Alfred leaned in, baring those odd teeth.

  "Why did you lie to him like that? He had a deranged fantasy that you were destined to be together and he thought you'd come up to Swynsby and fall into his arms. Instead you poisoned the poor sod."

  "I did not kill Neville! I didn't even know that he'd been poisoned until earlier this evening. I thought he'd been stabbed. There was all this...I thought it was blood, but it turned out to be partially digested beans on toast. Accompanied by Brenda's lovely pickled beetroot. What I thought was blood spatter must have been projectile vomiting."

&n
bsp; "You're a filthy liar!" Alfred's voice rose. He put down his bottle and took something from his pocket.

  It was a smallish knife.

  But not too small to be terrifying.

  Chapter 65—Camilla

  The fire damage wasn't as bad as I had feared. The store didn't seem to be a total loss—most of the damage was to the roof and the front of the store. My inventory was probably ruined by the water from the fire hoses, but I did have insurance.

  For me, the worst thing was the graffiti. The attackers had spray-painted all the windows with the word "murderer" in drippy red paint. Plus the usual obscenities and something weird about shoes. I needed to find out how to get that cleaned off ASAP. It would be as repulsive to my customers as it was scary for me.

  "Assholes," Joe said when we pulled into the driveway beside the store. "Excuse my French, Doctor, but that's what these people are. Who does something like that?"

  "Somebody who really, really hates me. I wish I had a clue why."

  Joe shook his head as he walked me back to the cottage. To my relief, it was free of the police tape that surrounded the store.

  I unlocked the door.

  "Looks as if the fire dudes saved your house. Very cool," Joe said. "You want me to check to make sure there's no jerks hanging around inside?"

  I hadn't thought of the possibility. How horrible that would be. Joe made a signal for me to stay as he walked inside.

  "Looks all clear, Doctor," he called after a few moments. "You might have a little smoke damage, but things look pretty good."

  "Thank goodness!" I entered the cottage with some trepidation, carrying Buckingham with me. Everything was as I had left it, including my half-drunk glass of wine.

  The place did smell horribly of smoke. I'd probably need to have the carpet and upholstered furniture shampooed to get the smell out, but the fire seemed to have been contained before it jumped the courtyard. I flicked on a light to see if there was damage in the bedroom, but the electricity seemed to have been turned off. That made sense. The cottage and the store were on the same meter.

  Buckingham meowed from his carrier and gave a cough.

  "The smoke might be bad for the cat," Joe said. "Want me to take him outside? I was planning on doing some busking from the bench outside the store. Looks like my bench didn't get any damage."

  Joe was such a kind soul. I didn't know what would have happened if he hadn't got me out of here last night. I was grateful to him for his concern, and for his mysterious affection for Buckingham.

  But now I didn't know where to start. Homeowner issues were probably not Joe's strong point. I didn't know of any handbook for people whose homes and businesses had been attacked by mad arsonists.

  I took a short, cold shower and put on some clean clothes. I pulled out a battered Vuitton case from the closet and tossed in what I'd need for a week or so. When I got to my sock drawer, I tossed in the scary knife, too. Whoever stuck it in my door might be my arsonist. I was glad I'd kept it.

  I clicked the bag shut and hoped my insurance would cover a motel stay. I had too much to keep in Joe's little tent. I sure hoped I could find a place that would take Buckingham.

  I checked my landline phone and was amazed to hear the dial tone. I made some calls and managed to get appointments with my insurance agent and left a message with somebody at the police department to say that I would be by to talk to them shortly.

  I fixed some food for Buckingham and started out the door with his dish when I saw what looked like a crumpled eight-by-ten photo stuffed in the bushes beside my front step.

  It made my skin go prickly

  I reached down and there it was—another copy of the photo of Ronzo's behind. Maybe it had been stuck to the door when Joe came by last night.

  Had he taken it down and tossed it here? I shuddered as I turned it over and saw a message scrawled on the back.

  "You need to die, bitch. The rape train is coming, you murdering whore."

  Chapter 66—Plantagenet

  Plantagenet looked at Alfred's knife, and then at Alfred.

  He had a growing suspicion this was not a dream. Nor a hallucination or ectoplasmic apparition. He was possibly about to be attacked by a very real, very bad screenwriter who thought Plant had killed his friend.

  Since Plant was a middle-aged man who had spent a very stressful five days, it was unlikely he was going to prevail in hand-to-hand combat with a young man in his twenties.

  Especially a demented one, and the grinning Alfred now looked like a severely mentally-challenged rodent.

  So Plant was going to have to use his wits, which he had to admit could have been sharper. But he had to give it a try. He swung his feet off the bed and sat up in what he hoped looked like a dignified position. Not entirely successful in his tighty whitey ensemble.

  He decided to handle this the way the Manners Doctor would—by pretending to ignore anything unpleasant.

  "So, let's talk business then, Alfred."

  Plant reached for the whiskey bottle and pretended not to see the knife at all.

  "How do you want to work this? The script could use a bit of a polish. I'd be willing to work on it for a writing credit. That way I can submit it through my agent." He took a swig from the bottle, trying not to gag, then held onto it.

  "Oh, no. Oh, no." Alfred wagged his finger. "That script is perfect. I've been working on it for months. It's exactly the way I want it." Alfred waved the knife around for emphasis.

  "So you want me to send it to my agent without a rewrite? I can't guarantee he'll look at it, but I'll certainly give it a try."

  Plant pictured his agent opening The Kingdom of Perpetual Night. If he didn't think Plantagenet Smith was a washed-up loser before this, he certainly would now.

  "That's the ticket," Alfred said. "I want your agent to look at it. Maybe send it to Spielberg."

  "I'll tell him that." Plant worked at keeping his expression serious. "Spielberg it is. You send me a copy as an email attachment and I'll send it along as soon as I'm back in California."

  "No. You're going send him the copy I gave you. And you're going to send it tomorrow morning. Where is it?" Alfred looked around the room and started opening and closing the drawers of the tiny bureau as if Plant had squirreled it away somewhere.

  "Don't tell me you don't have electronic copies?" Had this poor man typed the thing on an old fashioned typewriter? "I told you the police took my copy. I think they may have sent it to MI5."

  "MI5! Bloody MI5! They came to the house, me mum said. Looking for me. All on account of you! And if you think I'm barmy enough to make electronic copies anybody can pirate, you're stupider than you look."

  Alfred waved the knife and came at Plant again.

  "I'm not going to be much use to you dead," Plant said. "Why don't we discuss this in the morning? I've spent the most awful five days..."

  "Well you should have thought of that before you murdered Neville, shouldn't you?" Alfred put on the demented-beaver smile again.

  "Actually, I didn't do that. I never saw him alive after our little encounter at the Pit Bar on Saturday evening. I thought he'd been stabbed."

  "I'll tell you who is going to be stabbed. It's you, you Hollywood ponce. Stop bloody lying to me. Everything you say is a lie!"

  Alfred came at Plant with the knife, and Plant stood abruptly and whacked at Alfred's knife arm with the whiskey bottle, but he misjudged the hardness of Alfred's arm. The bottle bounced, slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.

  Alfred kept yelling incomprehensible things about liars as he lamented the loss of his whiskey.

  Plant ran to the open door hoping to escape into Alfred's room, but the drunken man swung around and pinned Plant against the door, holding the knife very close to his throat.

  Plant tried to sound calm. "Alfred. I think..."

  "I think you're both keeping me up past me bedtime!" A voice shouted through the door from the hallway outside. "Brenda, can you unlock this door
?"

  The door swung open and there stood Brenda, with a scruffy-looking man in a hoody behind her.

  "What in bloody hell is going on here, Mr. Duffield?" Brenda said.

  Alfred folded the knife and stood back. "Just a bit of fun," he said. "Sorry we disturbed you."

  The scruffy man stepped forward and grabbed the knife with a swift, authoritative move.

  "Alfred Duffield is a suspected terrorist who is wanted by MI5," the man said. "You'll need to call the authorities, Brenda."

  "The police? Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I'm sure." The man turned to Plantagenet. "Are you all right, Mr. Smith?"

  Something about the man was familiar, but Plant couldn't place him. He had no idea how this stranger knew his name. Maybe from the newspaper stories about Neville's murder.

  "I think Mr. Duffield's story will probably exonerate Mr. Smith once and for all," the stranger said.

  "If the coppers are coming, you'd better make yourself scarce, Peter, I mean Mr. Stygar," Brenda said. She picked up the broken whiskey bottle and made a threatening motion at Alfred. "And you'll have to pay for this mess, Mr. Duffield."

  "Brenda's right. Time for me to disappear." Mr. Stygar gave Plant a broad grin. "Glad to see you again, Mr. Smith. Camilla will be that relieved to know you're all right."

  The man dashed down the stairs, with the formidable Brenda forcing Alfred to follow.

  Plant now remembered where he'd seen "Mr. Stygar" before. But he also knew that man was dead. He was Camilla's former publisher, Peter Sherwood. He and Silas had met Sherwood once at the Frankfort book fair.

  But Peter Sherwood had died three years ago.

  Which meant Plant was only dreaming after all.

  He got back into his cozy, comfy bed and went to sleep.

  Chapter 67—Camilla

  I presented the photo of Ronzo's behind to Joe with a shaky hand.

  Joe pretended it was "probably some advertisement", but it was obvious he'd seen it before. He paid a lot more attention when I showed him the writing on the back.