No Place Like Home
Title Page
Chapter 1—Mistress Nightshade
Chapter 2—Everybody Loves a Lover
Chapter 3—Property of Satan
Chapter 4—Homeless
Chapter 5—Doing Time in Munchkinland
Chapter 6—Sweet Home
Chapter 7— The Wicked Witch
Chapter 8—Shredding Resumes
Chapter 9—Life is but a Dream
Chapter 10—Mr. X
Chapter 11—Hollywood Starline Tour
Chapter 12—Disasters Waiting to Happen
Chapter 13—Burning Jacuzzis
Chapter 14—Ronzo
Chapter 15—Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
Chapter 16—Cozy Little Treasure
Chapter 17—Harry's Biggest Fan
Chapter 18—Screw Rich People
Chapter 19—Tornado
Chapter 20—Enchanted New Jersey
Chapter 21—Chocolate for Breakfast
Chapter 22—Orphans in the Storm
Chapter 23—Between Beverly Hills and Nowhere
Chapter 24—One-Night Stand
Chapter 25—The Wolf at the Door
Chapter 26—Blue Notebook
Chapter 27—The Yellow Brick Road
Chapter 28—Mafioso
Chapter 29—A Girl's Best Friend
Chapter 30—The Soldier
Chapter 31—The Happiest Town on Earth
Chapter 32— Tasting Wine
Chapter 33—The Devil in 2000-Thread Count Sheets
Chapter 34—Police Presence
Chapter 35—Slice of Heaven
Chapter 36—Dishy Boyfriend
Chapter 37—Menthol Magic
Chapter 38—Not Exactly "Cheers"
Chapter 39—Lucky and Bucky
Chapter 40—New Jersey Lawyer
Chapter 41—Ding Dong the Witch is Dead
Chapter 42—The Walls of Jericho
Chapter 43—Clean and Sober
Chapter 44—The Royal Snail
Chapter 45—Barbeque
Chapter 46—The Price of a Handbag
Chapter 47—And Your Little Dog Too
Chapter 48—Morro Bay Drizzle
Chapter 49—Marvin's Birkin
Chapter 50—Gangster's Moll
Chapter 51—Getting Clean
Chapter 52—Par Avion
Chapter 53—Marvin's Secret
Chapter 54—Backless
Chapter 55—Kinky Stuff
Chapter 56—The Two-Night Stand
Chapter 57—Size Thirteen Wide
Chapter 58—The Secretarial Handbook
Chapter 59—Being a Ghost
Chapter 60—Cash Mob
Chapter 61—Fakes
Chapter 62—Mother Manners
Chapter 63—Dea Ex Machina
Chapter 64—Zo What?
Chapter 65—In Transition
Chapter 66—Mr. Skinner
Chapter 67— An Old Friend
Chapter 68—Marva
Chapter 69— Strawberry Wine
Chapter 70—Missing Persons
Chapter 71—Zombie Jamboree
Chapter 72—Into the Mist
Chapter 73— The Fugitive
Chapter 74—Dorothy-Free
Chapter 75—Hobo Joe
Chapter 76—Doria's Biggest Fan
Chapter 77—Lucky and Co.
Chapter 78—Rat Bastard
Chapter 79—Narco-Subs
Chapter 80—Dangerous Dudes
Chapter 81—Cherchez la Femme
Chapter 82—Doria's Corpse
Chapter 83—A Nice Little Miracle
Chapter 84—Gregg Shorthand
Chapter 85—Invisible
Chapter 86—Home
Chapter 87—The Resurrection of #HarrytheShark
Chapter 88—Bedtime for Bonzo
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
a Camilla Randall Mystery
by
Anne R. Allen
copyright Anne R. Allen 2012.
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-908961-06-8
Published by Mark Williams international Digital Publishing
Introduction.
When we think of the United States of America we tend to use superlatives.
Biggest, fastest, richest. Especially richest. It goes without saying that, in the land of plenty, with so many resources and so much land, there is wealth enough that no-one should go hungry, or be homeless.
My co-writer Mark Williams lives in West Africa, in one of the poorest countries on the planet. I live in the UK, variously the fourth or fifth richest country in the world, depending on which statistics you use. But the number one place for wealth and opportunity is always the United States of America. The USA is, unquestionably, the richest nation on Earth. Ever.
So when I first read Anne R. Allen’s delightful comedy-mystery Sherwood Ltd. (which is set mostly in England) I was bemused to find one of the characters had come to Britain not as a rich American visiting the ancestral home, but as a “health-tourist” seeking medical care beyond their means in the United States.
It was a much-needed reminder that, while the USA may have riches beyond imagination, the distribution of that wealth is as uneven as in countries far, far poorer and far less democratic.
In No Place Like Home author Anne R. Allen explores another dark side of American life. Homelessness.
Now we all know about homeless vagrants who choose to live on the fringes of society. Many are former servicemen and woman unable to adjust to life outside of the armed forces. Some choose that way of life, true. But for most it is not a choice.
Then too there are people — often entire families — who have lost their home, through no fault of their own, and suddenly find themselves reduced to living in shelters and eating from soup kitchens, reliant on hand-outs. Honest American folk who would not long ago be giving to charities to help the poor in faraway places are now reliant on charity in their own homeland.
It seems beyond comprehension, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, there should be homeless and hungry people anywhere in the world, let alone in the United States. Surely this is the stuff of fiction?
Sadly, while Anne R. Allen’s characters and storyline are fictional, homelessness and poverty in the United States is very, very real.
Enjoy reading No Place Like Home. Then, whatever country you are in, spare a thought for the reality behind the fiction. For the many people for whom there really is no place like home.
Saffina Desforges
International best-selling author of Sugar & Spice, the Rose Red crime thriller series and the YA Holocaust novel Anca’s Story.
Chapter 1—Mistress Nightshade
Doria Windsor first heard her house was on fire from somebody called Mistress Nightshade. In a breathy, but suspiciously baritone voice, he/she phoned Doria at the hospital to say the fire department was on its way, but the great room already looked like a total loss, the garage was about to go with both Ferraris inside—and Doria owed a bundle for the shackles, harnesses and five leather floggers.
"Real leather. Not the cheap pleather stuff. Mistress Nightshade's Traveling Discipline Show uses only the best."
Doria politely informed the person that he/she had the wrong number.
"Isn't this Harry Sharkov's wife?"
Doria replied she was
indeed Doria Windsor Sharkov, but she was in Los Angeles, about to be wheeled into the operating room, and she was sure if their house were on fire, Harry would have phoned.
"Kind of hard when you're a crispy critter," said Mistress Nightshade.
"Tell Harry this has stopped being funny." In three years of marriage, Doria had never learned to enjoy Harry's practical jokes. She was sixty years old, not sixteen, and had outgrown that sort of humor many decades ago.
"Hasn't that tranquilizer kicked in yet?" The nurse made a grab for Doria's phone.
Doria started to turn it off, but Mistress Nightshade spoke again. "This isn't a joke, sweetie."
Doria brushed the nurse away and pressed the phone to her cheek. "Tell Harry I can't deal with this right now. They've already given me a pill."
"He was in an upstairs bedroom with one of the slaves," Mistress Nightshade said. "That's where the fire started. My girl managed to jump from the back deck, but I don't know about Mr. Sharkov. I guess he thought he was safe in the Jacuzzi. I gotta go. Ten thousand should cover the damages. Replacement value, plus a little something so I don't feel the need to talk to the press—you know?"
Doria could hear people shouting in the background as Mistress Nightshade gave instructions for sending a check.
Fat chance.
Harry loved his scandals almost as much as the tabloids did. If he was actually cavorting with sex slaves in the Jacuzzi, he'd want the world to know he could still cavort at the age of sixty-eight.
The inventor of Viagra had a lot to answer for.
"Dr. Singh is waiting," the nurse said. "This is his last surgery of the week. If we make him late for his Friday happy hour, there will be hell to pay." She confiscated Doria's phone and clicked it off. "I'm sure Home magazine can survive a few hours without you."
"It's not about my magazine." Doria fought the drug haze. Didn't the nurse know she'd retired from the magazine last week? It had made all the networks. "No. This is somebody who wants me to think my house is on fire; my husband is about to be incinerated after frolicking with a sex slave—and I'm being blackmailed by a transvestite dominatrix."
The nurse's grim face exploded in a big laugh.
"Yup. The drugs are working, honey. Let's get you into surgery. In a couple of hours, you'll have the tummy of a teenager."
Chapter 2—Everybody Loves a Lover
The landline phone rang from the back room just as I was locking up the bookstore for the day. Normally I'd let the answering machine pick up the call—especially after a hectic week like this. Morro Bay's tourist season was off to great start.
But there was a tiny chance the call might be from the mysterious Mr. X.
The hot guy with the badly-fitted suit and courtly manners had been in the store three times this week, buying local guidebooks and flirting like crazy. He'd mentioned something about going to a charity wine-tasting this weekend.
I sure would have loved to spend my Sunday off with somebody besides Plantagenet and Silas, who were madly planning their July wedding.
The old song says "everybody loves a lover", but at this point in my life, I mostly found lovers annoying. One disastrous marriage and two failed affairs had left me without a lot of affection for Cupid and his shenanigans. As a divorcee in my extremely late thirties (my big four-O birthday was looming,) I felt ready for male companionship with no strings attached.
Tourists tend to come with very few strings, and Mr. X was definitely from out of town. Probably New Jersey, from the sound of his accent.
I unlocked the door—of course the lock had to stick—and ran for the phone, nearly tripping over my display of zombie books by the door.
I reached it just in time.
But it wasn't Mr. X. It was Plantagenet.
"Camilla, we've got to talk to you. Right away. Silas and I have…something to tell you."
"Can it wait?" Even though Silas and Plant always fed me gorgeous meals, I didn't want to sit through one more argument about the seating arrangements at their rehearsal dinner.
"No."
The phone went dead.
This did not bode well. Plant's terseness probably signaled a fight with Silas. Which meant he'd want to sleep on my couch—a major inconvenience in my tiny cottage. It also meant things would be strained with Silas, who was my landlord as well as my boss.
Altogether not good news.
But Plant had been my best friend for most of my life and I wasn't going to let him down, even though the last thing I wanted to do was drive anywhere. Especially on congested Highway One going south on a holiday weekend. Plant and Silas's new wine-country villa was only about thirty minutes' trip inland on a good day, but living in a cottage that was twenty yards from my workplace had spoiled me.
I looked toward the ocean and saw a dark layer of fog moving in from the bay, so I put on a jacket before jumping into my old Honda. It would probably be a chilly, foggy night, even in Edna Valley. I hoped I wouldn't find Plant and Silas's relationship had chilled, too. They were my only real friends in California, where I'd moved a year ago when my mother died and I discovered the family fortune had evaporated.
The fog moved ahead of me as I drove inland, and the big house seemed shrouded in an odd silence as I rang the front doorbell. Usually Plant would have some Broadway musical score blaring and Silas would be bustling around the kitchen creating enticing aromas.
I rang the bell again.
Not a sound.
Then I smelled smoke.
I hammered on the door. I was about to call 911 when I realized the smoke was probably coming from that huge new barbeque pit on the back deck.
Then I felt stupid. They were probably simply enjoying the new deck and barbequing dinner. Barbequed steaks were one of the few things Plant could cook. Maybe they weren't fighting after all. That would be a relief. Even though they'd bought this house together last September—joining in "holy real estate" as Plant called it, their fights always resulted in Plant stalking out, as if they were still living in Silas's home, not his.
I walked around to the back and found them sitting on the deck, with coals blazing in the huge outdoor fireplace but no meat on the grill. They both stared at the fog bank that hovered over the regiments of grapevines on the hills. They each held empty wine glasses. Big, bear-like Silas held his to his chest as if he were cradling a child, and the always-elegant Plant let his dangle from a languorous hand.
"Looks like you two need to hire a wine steward," I said, trying to brighten the mood. "Can I give you a refill? I grabbed the bottle of Viognier on the table, but it was empty.
"Oh, Camilla, I'm sorry," Plant said. "Let me get some more wine."
He disappeared inside and left me alone with Silas, who barely acknowledged me.
"Ingram hasn't sent the new shipment yet," I said, hoping some shop talk would break through the doom and gloom. "The AAUW book club is furious the new Michael Chabon isn't in yet. And we're nearly sold out of the SLO County walking tour books."
The guidebooks made me think of Mr. X. I wondered if he was off on one of those walking tours today. I'd love to be with him, instead of here with all this tension.
Silas still said nothing.
Plant came out and fussed with opening a new bottle—a Fumé Blanc this time, then filled my glass.
"More for you, Silas?" he said.
"Might as well." Silas gave an odd grin. "Might as well get good and drunk. The bank will take whatever's left, anyway."
"The bank? Are you two having mortgage trouble—" I stopped myself in the middle of the silly question. Silas Ryder was one of the wealthiest people in the county. Even though the bookstore business was fading, he'd inherited acres of family land. The Ryders had been movers and shakers in this part of the world for a hundred years.
"Mortgages, vendors: creditors of every kind you can think of. I'm flat broke, Camilla dear." Silas delivered this speech in such a dead tone of voice, I couldn't tell if he was joking.
I looked
to Plant for cues. He wouldn't meet my eyes.
Silas went on. "The realtor is coming in a few minutes to show the house. I've also got to sell the store. All my other stores are leased, but I own your store and the cottage. I've got them mortgaged with the same bank as this house. They've all got to go as soon as possible."
"The bookstore? My cottage?" I could hardly get the words out. He was talking about my home. My livelihood. Everything I had in the world.
I looked out at the fogbank and felt the whole world closing in.
"Is it me or is the fog darker than usual," Plant said. "It seems to want to keep with the mood."
Silas stood with sudden agitation and sniffed the air. "That's not fog, Plant. That's smoke. Look."
At the top of the ridge of hills, through the thick haze, I could see orange.
Flames.
They were coming over the mountain, heading for Silas and Plantagenet's dream house.
Chapter 3—Property of Satan
When Doria's brain resurfaced, she was in the ICU, with curtains pulled around her bed. After she figured out where she was, she remembered the bizarre phone call. The strange androgynous voice talking about houses on fire and sado-masochism. Calling Harry a "crispy critter."
No. That couldn't have happened. It must have been a dream. She'd always been terrified of fire. Probably the fault of the nuns at St. Rita's Parish School. They'd put a fear of hellfire into her she'd never quite recovered from.
She reached for the gold guardian angel pendant she always wore—a gift from her high school sweetheart Joey Torres. Poor, dead Joey. Touching it always helped her feel safe when those childhood fears started sneaking in. But her arm felt as if it belonged to somebody else and it took forever to move it. Then she realized they'd taken the pendant, along with her wedding rings and watch. And her phone. She hoped they kept them locked up properly.
No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) Page 1
