"He doesn't have to." Peter finished off his fried bread. "I've finally sussed who Mr. Lutterworth really is and I think it's time for him to come out of his author closet."
Part VIII—True Hope Flies on Swallows Wings
Chapter 73—Camilla
I found the Red Barn without much trouble, in spite of the fact my heart was pounding and a good deal of my brain was occupied with keeping myself from screaming.
But I found it: a barn, painted red.
Well, sort of a red-brown, and it was smack in the center of the little town of Los Osos, surrounded by a playground and picnic tables on one side and a skate park on the other.
I saw a parking lot behind it, which seemed to be full. I drove around twice, trying to remember to breathe normally as I searched for a space. What would happen if Elijah showed up here? The place was full of children and pets. Elijah didn't seem to have a weapon, but he had enough nastiness in him to do a lot of harm.
I could see a group of shaggy-haired men filing from a van toward the barn carrying instruments. I rolled down my window and called to them.
"Do you guys know the Boll Weevils? I have Joe's guitar. I was supposed to give it to him earlier today, but..."
One of the men came over to my window. He was gray-haired and had a nice smile. "We're the Weevils. You got Hobo Joe's guitar? Good deal. He's been goin' nuts."
I unlocked the back door so the man could get the guitar.
"Listen," I said. "Do you know the duo JenSation—two college girls? Are they here yet?"
"They're on stage right now."
"Tell them I've got an important message, okay? A matter of life and death."
"Oh, yeah. Sure thing. A wardrobe emergency?" The man smiled and ran off to join his band. Obviously he assumed because the Jens were young and blond that anything to do with them must be trivial or funny. I hoped the girls would be safe on stage. Elijah probably wasn't going to attack in front of an audience.
I had to drive around a bit and zoomed into a parking space as soon as somebody pulled out. I parked and looked around carefully, terrified Elijah might be lying in wait.
Buckingham gave a long, slow meow. It had elements of a growl. He was not a happy kitty. I couldn't leave him in the car again in any case. If Elijah found him, who knows what he'd do?
I took the carrier back down toward the barn as the place roared with applause. But even when I opened the door, I couldn't see the stage. Nothing was visible but the backs of people's bodies. They were packed in, standing behind the 60 or so chairs, three and four deep. This concert was definitely SRO.
No way could I worm my way in there, especially carrying a large cat carrier.
What was worse, Buckingham began yowling and bouncing around in it.
The Jens finished their encore—an old Beatles tune that sounded sweet in their close harmony even with less-than-virtuoso guitar playing. Then the Boll Weevils approached the stage. I caught a glimpse of the gray haired man whispering something to Jen B. Maybe he was giving her the message after all.
But whatever he said, the Jens didn't come outside to find me. They disappeared into the seating area right in front of the stage.
Buckingham yowled again. I attempted to sooth him as I tried to plot a course through the mass of bodies to get to Jen. Elijah might be right here, in this crowd.
Joe seemed to be the front man for the Boll Weevils and introduced what he called "an old-time tune I wrote last week". I could glimpse a little of him through the bodies. He struck a chord on his guitar and the fiddle followed. I could hear a banjo and a couple of guitars.
But Buckingham did not seem to be enjoying the music.
"Shut that cat up!' Somebody hissed.
I pushed my way back outside and put Buckingham's carrier on one of the picnic tables and sat so I could look at him at eye level through the mesh window.
"It's going to be okay, Buckingham," I said, trying to soothe him.
"Why don't you let that poor animal out of there?" A man's voice said. "He's obviously miserable in that cage. There's plenty of room for him to run around here." He came over to the table and before I realized what he was doing, he unzipped the door.
"No! He'll get lost..."
I was too late. Buckingham leapt off the table and scampered toward the barn before I was on my feet.
"Buckingham, no!"
Unfortunately, just then somebody opened the door and Buckingham disappeared into the crowd inside the barn.
I tried to push my way in, "Please," I said in a stage whisper. "My cat has escaped and he ran in here. I'm afraid he'll get stepped on!"
People kindly made themselves a little smaller so I could squeeze in. There was no sign of Buckingham, but I could see the band up on stage now. Joe played lead guitar and the gray haired man was on banjo. The fiddle player was wowing everybody with a lightning-fingered bluegrass riff.
Behind him, sort of in the shadows, was another guitar player, fit and wiry. He looked younger and less weathered than the others, but bald as an egg. He wore sunglasses, even though it was pretty dark in the windowless barn.
Then, suddenly, there was Buckingham, sauntering right across the stage.
The crowd exploded in laughter.
Joe showed what a pro he was, not missing a beat, and the fiddle player kept going too.
But Buckingham walked straight to the bald man and let out a loud meow.
The man set down his guitar.
"Hey!" He squatted to pick up the cat. "What are you doing here, Bucky?"
Bucky. He called my cat Bucky. Hard to hear over the music, but I was pretty sure that's what he said. How did he know what I called him?
Everybody but Joe stopped playing as the crowd focused on the bald man and Buckingham. It was like something out of a Super Bowl commercial. The man and the cat so obviously loved each other.
The man set down his guitar and took off his sunglasses to wipe away a tear.
That's when I saw his face.
Ronzo. The bald guitar player was Ronson V. Zolek. Alive and well.
I stood gaping with the rest of the audience as Ronzo cradled Buckingham in his arms and left the stage, shoving his sunglasses back on his face.
Joe, only stopping the music for a minute, struck a chord in another key and started singing, "The Cat Came Back." The crowd whooped and applauded.
I could see Ronzo disappear out a door in the back. I ran around to intercept him, my heart pounding with so many emotions I couldn't have spoken if I had to.
Ronzo ran toward the parking lot and I probably wouldn't have caught up with him if Buckingham hadn't bolted from his arms and bounded toward my car.
As he rounded a corner to grab the cat, I came around the other side of the car and stood in front of him.
"Ronson Zolek," I said. "You have my cat."
Chapter 74—Plantagenet
After Plant and Peter had consumed way too much "brekky," Peter announced it was time to get to the church for Callum's wedding. Plant had neglected to ask where it was, but Peter seemed to have everything in hand.
He said the church was only a few blocks from the café, so Plant followed obediently as he walked through the cobbled streets. Something about Peter was mesmerizing. Not that Plant was attracted to the man—although he could see why Camilla had been taken by him—but Peter had an authority about him, which combined with his considerable charm, made being in his company seem safe.
Although it was probably anything but.
Peter led them down some narrow medieval streets. Plant could see a glimpse of the Old Hall down one of them. Not really where he wanted to be going. But they soon emerged onto a grassy square. The handsome Georgian church on the other side of the green seemed to be their destination.
Peter stopped a few hundred yards from the church and gave Plant a pat on the back.
"This is where I leave you, mate. I can't risk having my photograph show up in some wedding keepsake photo. Do tell Vera I'm with
her in spirit. But I have to get to Nottingham to sort things with Henry. Just return the suit to Pradeep when you get your luggage back from the coppers."
Plant didn't like the sudden feeling of abandonment. But Peter pointed at the knot of people on the church steps.
"There are Liam and Davey. They'll keep you company. Sorry to rush off. I'm picking up a friend at the train station, then taking the noon train myself."
Plant walked blindly forward. He had no idea what Liam and Davey looked like or how he could approach them without feeling like an utter fool. Besides, the person he needed to talk to was Declan, the bride's odd brother.
If he could get Declan to acknowledge speaking with him in the Old Hall, he might help solve the mystery of Neville's demise and clear himself of suspicion so he could go home. Camilla obviously needed him.
As he approached the church, Plant saw the garden club woman from the rehearsal dinner. She wore a remarkable hat that looked as if it were about to take flight. She was accompanied by a pudgy, youngish man in rumpled slacks and a sport coat that looked as if it might have fit him when he was thirteen.
"Hello Mr. Smith," the woman said. "Do meet our Oliver."
Oliver. The historical reenactor who was a former friend of Declan. He might be a source of information.
Plant greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake. Maybe the man could give him some insight into how to approach the mentally fragile Declan.
"I've told him you're a film writer who works with Sherwood publishing," the garden club woman said. "Oliver writes too. He's very fond of Shakespeare."
She didn't mention Plant's notoriety as a murder suspect. He wondered if any of these people knew.
"Nice to meet you, Oliver," he said, extending a hand.
Oliver looked at Plant's hand as if it were a particularly revolting species of vermin.
So Oliver knew. Talking with him probably wouldn't be useful.
Plant turned back to the woman, feeling rather sorry for her.
"I need to speak to Declan, the bride's brother. Is he here today?"
Oliver let out at derisive laugh.
"No," his mother said. "Thank heavens. In fact there's been quite the to-do this morning at the bride's household. Seems the police are looking for young Declan. We're not sure why, but he has an unfortunate problem with drugs."
"Perhaps it's because Declan is a beslubbering, lily-livered pigeon-egg?" Oliver gave his mother a cold look. "From what you say, he should be arrested for that insufferable rant at the rehearsal dinner."
"I do feel sorry for his poor mum." Oliver's mother swooped off to greet another woman in similarly avian headgear.
Plant was left facing the unfortunate Oliver.
"Your mother tells me you're involved with historical enactments, Oliver?"
"Mater has it wrong, as usual. My name is Owain. I changed it nearly a year ago, but she refuses to accept it. She belligerently remains part of the hoi polloi in spite of my attempts to educate her."
"Owain? As in Owain Glendower, the Welsh hero?" Plant realized he might have done better going into the church alone. The man was not only rude, he did not appear to be quite sane.
"Yes. 'He of Wales, that swore the devil his true liege-man'." Oliver spoke in a strange, stagey voice. "But you're from Hollywood. I don't suppose you've even heard of William Shakespeare in that place where 'foolish gnats make sport'."
"Actually, I majored in English Literature at Princeton..."
Oliver lifted his lip in an almost comical sneer.
"Oh, a tiresome, wrangling pedant."
Plant wasn't sure Oliver knew the meaning of any of the words he was reciting. It was hard to believe a person would be that insulting to a perfect stranger. So he took a leaf from the Manners Doctor's book again and pretended the man was merely befuddled and not the oaf he seemed.
"Owain, your mom said you were you at the reenactment at the Old Hall last Sunday. Did you happen to see Declan there? The bride's brother?"
"That base, fawning spaniel? I doubt it." Owain/Oliver kept his sneer in place, but his eyes went dark.
"Did you happen to notice if he was dressed as Richard III?"
Oliver's face contorted in rage.
"Why would I notice how he was dressed? He's a traitor. He used to be in the Glendower Retinue and now he's gone over to the Plantagenets, the ignoble wretch. Those toads threatened to kill me, you know."
This was interesting news.
"I didn't know. That's terrible. Declan threatened to kill you?"
Plant knew he was treading on dangerous ground. The man was obviously unbalanced. But if Declan had threatened Oliver, maybe he had done the same to Neville. Could Declan himself be Neville's killer?
"Declan is one of the villains who have been sending me death threats via email," Oliver said. "He calls himself Dickon online now. Dickon the Pig. Dickon was Richard III's nickname, and the white boar was his symbol. It is so fitting that the Plantagenets chose a pig for their emblem, isn't it? Swine, all of them. But only Declan is stupid enough to call himself a pig's willy. On that, I must agree with him."
Plant took a minute with this. "Oh, dick...on...the pig." I get it. I suppose he meant it as a pun?"
"Unlikely," Oliver said. "Dickon has no more brain in his skull than I have in my elbow. He and his friends Alfred the Cake and Libra Rising used to be nothing but tedious online trolls. But when they started sending me photographs of my mum's house and emails saying my mutilated corpse would appear in the Swynsby Sentinel, they crossed a line. But they've learned their lesson now, haven't they?"
Plantagenet found Oliver's seething anger a little terrifying.
"You think they learned a lesson? How?"
"Libra Rising is dead now, isn't he? I understand the witless coppers think you killed him. Probably because they're reading the idiot Daily Mail. But no Yank would be clever enough to use poison from the Old Hall garden. Poor little Neville, dead in a pool of his own vomit. Just deserts, I'd say. The other two had best heed the warning."
Plant's mind raced. "This Libra Rising—the man who threatened you—that was Neville Turnmarsh?"
How did Oliver know about the pool of vomit? Had that been in the papers?
Oliver nodded. "Worst of the lot. Bloody Londoner. The others simply followed him. Declan's too much of a muddy-mettled twit to do anything on his own. But now he knows what will happen if he threatens me again. Never fall afoul of a gardener who knows his medieval herbs."
Plant felt a chill that froze him to the spot.
Oliver/Owain's mother had said her son had a "stomach bug" after the reenactment on Sunday. The docent woman said even touching wolfsbane could cause intestinal distress. Oliver himself might have picked those stalks of wolfsbane. And taken some with him to feed to Neville.
"Are you Mr. Smith?" He was interrupted by remarkable-looking man tapped Plantagenet's shoulder. He looked to be of African descent—a rarity in this provincial town—and had dreadlocks that hung nearly to his waist, dyed a tomato red.
"I'm Liam," he said. "This is Davey." He gestured at a little man with fierce black eyebrows. "We're supposed to escort you into the church. Vera says the groom's side looks right barren compared with Bryony's crowd."
Plantagenet shook hands with them and turned to introduce them to Oliver/Owain.
But the man had evaporated.
Plant wondered if Oliver realized he had just confessed to murdering Neville Turnmarsh.
Chapter 75—Camilla
Ronzo handed Buckingham to me and helped me put him in the carrier.
The sun was setting over the bay. This bald Ronzo still looked remarkably handsome, silhouetted against the pale pink sky. He took off his sunglasses.
"I guess these aren't much of a disguise."
"Actually, they are. That and the hair. The no-hair. I wouldn't have recognized you. But somehow my cat did..."
Ronzo's eyes looked different. Frightened. His old swagger was gone.
; Neither of us said anything for a moment. The happy bluegrass fiddle tune wafted from the barn and I could smell Ronzo's familiar aftershave. It all seemed so normal, even right.
I wanted to hug him, but I had no idea who—or what—I'd be hugging.
"To tell you the truth, he's my cat," Ronzo said after a minute. "He had a sister, and they killed her. They said they were going to kill Bucky next—and then my Nana—so I put him in the carrier, left a suicide note and hopped on the plane. That ticket to California was about all I had. I'd got it cheap because my cousin Vinko bought it for me with his frequent flyer miles, so obviously I couldn't cash it in. Unfortunately, I didn't have much money on me that day. I didn't want to withdraw anything from my bank, or they'd know I wasn't dead."
I worked at taking this in.
"You've been here...all this time? You flew to San Luis Obispo the Friday before the wedding? Like we planned?"
"Well, not exactly like we'd planned, obviously...I couldn't see you. I had to play dead."
The fog was rolling in and the evening air took on a clammy chill. I felt as if I had landed in some kind of alternate reality. This was Ronzo, but not-Ronzo. This wasn't like Peter cheerily pulling one more con, but a raggedy bald guy who was a kind of pathetic shadow of Ronzo.
"You pretended to die to keep somebody from killing your cat? Were they getting back at you for stomping on those kittens?"
I put the cat carrier in the back seat of the car. I had no reason to trust this man, but part of me longed to believe in him.
"That wasn't me!" Ronzo's voice cracked with emotion. "Please. You gotta believe me, Camilla! It ain't me in that video. It's a guy named Mack Rattlebag—a musician I gave a bad review. Joe said you wouldn't believe me, even though I told him we had something special. I knew you were in his tent this morning, and I wanted to come over, but he nixed it."
The men Joe was talking to in the willows. No wonder the New Jersey accent reminded me of Ronzo.
I turned and faced him and saw his eyes were damp with tears. I could see he was feeling terrible anguish, whether he was lying or not. But I still didn't know if I should invite him to sit in the car with me to talk—or run to find a policeman. My body stayed tense, in case I had to jump in the car and get away from him.
So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 Page 22
