No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries)

by Allen, Anne R.

  The concert. We'd been looking forward to it for months—San Francisco's glorious a cappella men's choir singing in SLO's eighteenth-century mission. And a nice dinner first with Silas's friends George and Enrique, the couple who had talked Silas and Plant into finally tying the knot.

  But now the thought of spending tomorrow evening with Silas and Plant and their happily married friends filled me with nothing but dread.

  Chapter 13—Burning Jacuzzis

  Doria sat in silence as Mr. Sanchez wove expertly through the traffic and zoomed onto the freeway. The sight of a Silverstone Ferrari Spyder like Harry's brought her another wave of grief.

  Harry. Dead.

  It didn't make sense.

  Neither did that phone call from Mistress Nightshade. Even if it hadn't been a hallucination, it defied logic. For one thing, he/she said Harry thought the Jacuzzi would be a good place to wait out the fire.

  But Harry would never do that.

  He'd lost his friend Spuds Ryan in a wildfire that swept through the Santa Barbara hills a couple of years before. Spuds had tried to take refuge in his Jacuzzi. The water boiled away and his remains were charred beyond recognition. The funeral had been gruesome.

  Doria could believe there was something funny going on with Harry's money. His complicated tax sheltering had always made her nervous, and she knew he'd been getting insider tips that might annoy the SEC. And he'd said something last week about how his new boat company had triggered an investigation by some federal bureau or other.

  She'd been terrified he'd end up in jail like poor Martha Stewart.

  But dead? Burned up in a Jacuzzi like Spuds? Nothing about the story felt true.

  The city was zooming by. Because Doria had spent her childhood in a gritty New England mill town, Los Angeles had never seemed quite real to her—all those lollypop palm trees looking so stark against an impossibly blue sky.

  Part of her wanted to believe none of it was real.

  She tried to tell herself maybe it wasn't. Maybe she was still in the hospital—and her subconscious was inventing this because she'd been dreading the trip up to the Central Coast.

  She'd been apprehensive about being alone with Harry. He'd been having such crazy mood swings and strange silences. Their relationship had been strained ever since she moved back to New York and he stayed on the West Coast. Plus he'd flown down to Colombia twice—without warning—and refused to tell her what it was about.

  She did hope he hadn't taken up drugs at his time of life. His heart couldn't take it.

  Btu he was definitely keeping things from her. Sometimes he'd avoid her calls and emails for weeks. Then he'd pretend nothing was wrong and do something strangely sweet—like upgrading her engagement diamond and offering the tummy tuck with Dr. Singh, surgeon to the stars. Initially she'd been afraid the gifts meant he wanted something.

  Like maybe a divorce.

  His bimboing had become epic in recent months, according to her friends who followed the tabloids. She'd been trying to avoid the gossip papers and TV shows, but people seemed to feel compelled to tell her things.

  When Mr. Sanchez pulled up to Betsy's house, everything looked unfortunately un-dreamlike: there was the cold, spiky iron gate built to keep out the riff-raff.

  Doria announced herself through the speaker, feeling a little panicky. What if Betsy wouldn't let her in? What if the face lift hadn't kept her at home after all? She might have decided to recuperate at some spa.

  She fought for breath, like a drowning person, clinging to the gate for stability.

  How could she have mismanaged her life so badly that her welfare depended on somebody as flaky as Betsy Baylor?

  Without Betsy, she was alone in the world with nowhere to go.

  Chapter 14—Ronzo

  I was about to dig into my five-fat-gram, broccoli-chicken fettuccine when a knock on the door to my cottage made me jump. I so hoped it wasn't Plant and Silas, needing to spend the night again.

  But it wasn't.

  It was Mr. X.

  With that sparkly look in his eye.

  And here I was: bra-less, in my oldest, grungiest sweats.

  "Hey! You do live back here. I took a chance. I hope you don't mind."

  Of course I didn't. But for some reason, I couldn't make those particular words come out of my mouth. I stood still, with an idiotic grin on my face, the steaming box of fettuccine in one hand and my wine glass in the other.

  "Yes. I live here," I said finally. "Twenty feet from work. The commute is great."

  "I've interrupted your dinner."

  "No. It's, you know…plastic food. I didn't feel like cooking…um, would you like some of this wine? It's an Edna Valley chardonnay…since you're interested in the area, you might like to try it…you were asking about the wine tasting event there tomorrow… um, weren't you? I mean, the other day… Remember, I told you about that great band that's playing? Classic rock."

  If he was here to ask me to go. I wished he'd come out and say it.

  "A glass of wine sounds great."

  Okay. Wine. I needed to pour him some wine.

  I went to the kitchen, put down the box of fettuccine and emptied the rest of the wine bottle into one of my Lalique glasses Plant had politely left—neatly washed—by the sink.

  Mr. X. followed and gave me another of his smiles.

  "I've taken the last of your wine."

  "Not mine. My friends left it. They were staying here overnight because of the fire… I mean, because they got evacuated. I have some more wine in the cupboard. Not as elegant as this…they always buy the best…at least they did…although they seem to have lost all their money…which is going to be hell for Silas…he's always been wealthy…I used to be, too, but now I'm…"

  Babbling. I was babbling again. I handed Mr. X a glass and shut myself up with a sip from my own.

  I hadn't had a straight male visitor in the tiny cottage before. Somehow the little former motel cabin seemed even smaller with his wide-shouldered, muscular body in it.

  I'd been here almost eight months, but I hadn't met anybody I felt comfortable enough with to invite over.

  Actually I didn't feel that comfortable with Mr. X.

  Why had I invited him in? I didn't even know his name.

  "Ronzo." He held out his hand, apparently mind-reading. "They call me Ronzo."

  I took the hand, wondering if that was a first or last name. But somehow I couldn't figure out how to ask. I hoped he couldn't really read minds. It could lead to serious embarrassment if I didn't stop thinking about what his body might look like under the stupid suit.

  "Do people still call you Dr. Manners?" He spoke with perfect politeness, but his eyes were flirty. That didn't help me access my speaking faculties.

  I shook my head. My days as an etiquette columnist seemed so long ago.

  "But you are the author of the Manners Doctor books, aren't you?"

  "You know about my books? They're out of print, unfortunately. All except one that came out in England last year. It's not exactly tearing up the bestseller lists."

  Uh-oh. Was he trying to remind me of my own manners? What was I thinking? I'd been standing there like a complete lout.

  "Um, please. Have a seat." I gestured at the tiny living room.

  Instead of choosing the easy chair or the couch, he pulled out one of the two Chippendale chairs by the small table overlooking the bay. Actual Chippendale chairs. Originals from Blair Castle in Perthshire. The last of my mother's dining set. I'd probably have to sell them now, too. As well as the Lalique glasses and the last of the Limoges china.

  I didn't really need them, of course, not with the way I lived now.

  I'd need them even less if I was to going to be homeless.

  I sat in the chair as he held it for me—so oddly formal. He'd been the same in the store—opening doors and offering to help old ladies reach books on high shelves. Very courtly and old-fashioned.

  He perched on the opposite chair as if
he were afraid it would break, looking almost as nervous as I felt.

  "Was there something you wanted to ask me?" I gave him my warmest smile.

  He had remarkably good bone structure—a perfect aquiline nose and a square jaw with just a hint of a cleft.

  He relaxed a bit and sipped his wine. "You sure you don't mind?"

  I wagged my head no as I smiled at him over my wine glass. Could he tell I wasn't wearing a bra?

  "Good. Actually, there are a couple of things..."

  I leaned in. "Sure. Ask me anything."

  "It's about Tom."

  The name hit me like a bucket of cold water. Tom. He wasn't asking me to a wine tasting. He was asking about the homeless guy. I felt my face heat up.

  "I don't know him, really." I sat up very straight. "I sometimes give him a yogurt or stuff from my lunch. He likes to come into the store for the free entertainment newspapers. He's sometimes a little disruptive. He can get pushy asking the tourists for money. But he obviously really needs to buy dentures. He always asks for money for new teeth."

  "When did you last see him?"

  I tried to think. It was hard, with the embarrassment roaring in my head.

  "Thursday? Maybe not…maybe Wednesday. I'm pretty sure he wasn't there on Friday. We were super-busy, though, so he could have been there for a little while and I might not have noticed."

  Why did he want to know? This was all so bizarre.

  "Try to think. It's important."

  I tried to picture the store on Thursday. Mostly what I'd noticed that day was that Ronzo himself hadn't been in, even though I'd been kind of hoping, since he'd been so friendly on Tuesday and Wednesday.

  But I didn't remember seeing Tom that day.

  "Maybe not Thursday. The last time I remember seeing him, he was talking to, um, I think it was you, actually. I saw you give him some tooth money. That's what he called it when he begged: 'tooth money.' It was very kind of you to donate."

  "So Wednesday around four P.M.?"

  I nodded and took a sip of wine.

  "And what about Joe? Do you know of a homeless guy they call Hobo Joe? Old dude? Lots of gray hair?"

  That described half of the homeless people in town. I was embarrassed that I didn't know any of their names. I sort of shrugged.

  Ronzo stood abruptly. "Thanks for your time, Camilla. I appreciate the glass of wine." He offered his hand.

  I shook it and saw him to the door. When he was gone, I went back to pick up his glass. He'd hardly touched it. Whatever sparked his interest in Edna Valley, it probably wasn't the wine.

  Or me. Definitely he wasn't interested in taking me to a wine tasting…or anywhere else. I hadn't felt so embarrassed since sixth grade dancing school, when I asked Wentworth Farley to dance because he kept smiling at me, but it turned out he was laughing at me because my bra strap was showing.

  I heard Ronzo's feet crunch the gravel outside as he walked toward the street.

  Maybe just as well. I didn't need a man to further complicate my life right now.

  Chapter 15—Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

  Doria stood frozen in Betsy's driveway. Both of Betsy's cars were there: the sturdy old Mercedes and the new electric blue Porsche Betsy had bought for herself when the boyfriend bolted.

  That meant Betsy had to be there, didn't it? Why wouldn't she buzz open the gate?

  Mr. Sanchez held Doria's luggage, shifting from one foot to the other.

  "Maybe it's not locked," he said after a moment. "It wasn't closed right." He gave the gate a yank. Sure enough, it pulled right open.

  Doria sighed. That was so like Betsy. She was spectacularly un-mechanical. She used to leave the tops off all her pill bottles because she couldn't work those child-proof caps.

  Mr. Sanchez carried Doria's suitcase to the front door.

  "My wife is waiting," he said, pointing to his watch.

  Doria felt a moment of despair as he walked away, leaving her and her luggage alone in the middle of this nightmare…or whatever it was.

  She rang the bell and a maid answered—a new one Doria didn't recognize. With a stony look, the woman said Betsy wasn't at home.

  But Doria knew where Betsy had to be. She brushed past the maid and headed for the elevator. Betsy was sure to be ensconced in her inner sanctum on the third floor, watching DVDs of her 1980s sitcom, Heavens to Betsy.

  It's what she always did when one of her lovers dumped her.

  Doria could hear the TV as soon as the elevator door opened. It was the episode where the Martians invaded, disguised as nuns, and joined the convent choir in a rousing chorus of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." That show had jumped the shark after the third episode.

  Betsy was waving a tequila bottle at the screen and singing through her bandages in an ear-splitting soprano—

  "Girls just wanna have fu-un."

  "Got another glass?" Doria said.

  Betsy turned and dropped the bottle on the floor.

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

  As far as Doria knew, Betsy hadn't invoked that particular Catholic trinity since they were teenagers back in Pawtucket.

  Betsy stared at Doria as if she'd just risen from the grave.

  Chapter 16—Cozy Little Treasure

  I had been looking forward to my quiet evening alone, but Ronzo's rejection made my aloneness feel thrust upon me instead of chosen. It felt like being punished. I wasn't sure for what.

  I dialed Plant. It was good to hear his voice. I needed to know things were all right with him and Silas.

  "The county fire people let you back into the house? Are things okay there?"

  "Kind of." His voice sounded weary. "It stinks of smoke, so Lureen wants to put off showing it. In fact, I was about to call you. She's on her way over there."

  "Lureen? Is that your realtor? What does she want to do here?"

  "She might have a buyer. Very motivated. These people are in the market for a Morro Bay business/residence combo for their daughter who was about to graduate from USC. They won't find a deal like this one anywhere on the coast. If Silas can get twenty-five thousand down, we might not have to sell our house right away and…"

  My mouth went dry. "Silas really is going to sell my, um, his store? The cottage? My home?"

  It was his store. His cottage. But my voice broke, like some little kid about to collapse in a puddle of tears.

  Plant sighed. "I know it's miserable, but we won't put you out in the cold. You know that. You'll always have a place to live as long as I do. And Silas will still have the store in San Luis. I'm sure he'll find you a job there."

  Perching in somebody else's house and working as a minimum wage clerk. Not exactly the same as running my own store and living in a cozy cottage by the sea.

  Besides, if two paychecks from Silas had bounced, the rest probably had too. There would probably be no bookstore jobs in San Luis Obispo or anywhere else. The paper book business was dying. That's what everybody said.

  I heard rapping on the front door.

  My inner teenager immediately thought: Ronzo! Maybe he changed his mind!

  What an idiot. Time to let go of that fantasy. I'd simply read his signals wrong.

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

  I was nearly forty and dressed like a homeless person. What was I thinking?

  "Yoo-hoo!" called out a chirpy voice.

  I pulled the door open. There was a bottle-blonde woman in a polyester suit with an overdressed fiftiesh couple in tow. They reeked of pricey perfume and big money. The older woman wore Christian Louboutin sandals—this year's version of a pair I'd owned just three years ago. Another lifetime ago.

  "Lureen. Mr. Ryder's realtor." The blonde spoke in a clipped, businesslike voice. She hardly glanced at me as she charged into the cottage.

  "Look how cozy!" she said to the Louboutin woman. "Isn't it perfect for your daughter? She's got a business in the front and this cozy little treasure to live in. Think of the money she'll save on commuting."

&n
bsp; The woman looked out the window at the glorious sunset over the water.

  "You said ocean view. Isn't that the bay, not the ocean?" She sniffed. "But I like the Chippendale chairs. We'll need you to throw in the chairs. And take the price down twenty thousand. We want a very quick escrow. Get the tenant out by the end of the month. We'll need to redecorate, and my daughter graduates next week. This is her graduation present."

  Lureen avoided my eyes and sputtered. "I'll take the offer to Mr. Ryder, but we have no control over how long it will take to get the loan…"

  The woman shut her up with an ocular dagger I recognized from my mother's arsenal.

  "Mr. Ryder will take the offer," she said. "We're paying cash."

  Chapter 17—Harry's Biggest Fan

  Doria rescued the tequila bottle from the floor, turned off the DVD player and plunked herself down in the chair opposite Betsy.

  "I need you to tell me the truth, Bets. What really happened to Harry?"

  Betsy stared at Doria for a few more beats, with what looked like of horror and disbelief, then leaned down to pick up the copy of the L.A. Times that lay scattered on the floor. She found the front page and handed it to Doria.

  The headline read:

  FINANCIER SHARKOV FOUND DEAD IN FIRE.

  While Doria reached into her bag for her reading glasses, Betsy got a shot glass from the sideboard and filled it from her bottle of Patron.

  "Drink," she said. "The whole thing."

  Doria drank. Then she read.

  According to the L.A. Times, it was all true. Every damned word the Wicked Witch said. And what nice Mr. Sanchez had been trying to tell her.

  Her Central Coast wine country home had burned to the ground—arson suspected.

  Harry Sharkov, the financial wizard, was dead.

  The cause was under investigation.

  His assets had been frozen. Frozen by the FBI. His wife, "home decorating maven Doria Windsor", was "unavailable for comment."