Thank goodness they didn't know where she was. There would be a media feeding frenzy when they found her.
It was more ghastly than she could have imagined. Not only was Harry dead, he was a crook. At least the FBI thought so. The Times said they suspected some sort of Ponzi scheme.
The FBI. Somehow having them investigate seemed even more sordid than the Securities Exchange people or the IRS.
"My God," she said. "A Ponzi scheme? They think Harry was pulling a Bernie Madoff?"
Betsy refilled the shot glass. "It's so terrible, honey. Suicide is so selfish. My first husband killed himself, you know. I pretended it was an accidental O.D., but I know…"
"Suicide? There's nothing in there about suicide…."
Betsy's face said otherwise.
Doria bent over painfully, gathering the rest of the sections of the paper from the floor. This was making less and less sense by the minute.
There were two articles on suicide in the lifestyle section, both mentioning Harry's name. Everybody seemed to have decided that's what it was.
"His cause of death is under investigation" seemed to mean "we know he killed himself" to the press. Bastards. Did they really have to make stuff up when the story was so ghastly already?
"Suicide? Why are they saying that? No way did Harry commit suicide!"
Betsy gave her a pitying look.
Doria wasn't buying it. "Harry might have got burned up in a Jacuzzi, although I find that hard to believe, but never in a million years would that man harm himself. He was his own biggest fan."
Betsy reached out and squeezed Doria's hand.
"He'd lost everything." Betsy spoke in the voice Doria's mother would use when she tried to explain why little orphaned Joey Torres liked to splash mud on her new Easter Mary Janes.
"They said on the evening news he hadn't made a payment on that house for months." Betsy said. "I'm sure that's why he burned it down. He didn't want the bank to get it. Suicides are very angry people."
All Doria could do was shake her head as she flipped through the paper, looking at the grim photographs of the ruins of her home, surrounded by garlands of yellow police tape.
The blackened fireplace/chimney seemed to be all that was left of the great room.
Two twisted wrecks nearby might have once been their cars.
Only the barn and the ancient garage that had been turned into a tool shed seemed to be standing.
But probably nothing inside would be salvageable.
The word "suicide" still rattled around her head.
"Not suicide. Not Harry."
She gulped tequila. Never her favorite drink.
Betsy refilled her own glass, draining the bottle. "Sweetie, at least he didn't leave you for a bimbo half your age and make vicious remarks about your wrinkles on Telemundo."
Doria wasn't in the mood for one of Betsy's whine-fests.
"Somebody killed him, Bets. I think Harry was murdered."
And somebody named Mistress Nightshade knew who did it. Tomorrow, Doria was going to have to make a call to the San Luis Obispo police.
Chapter 18—Screw Rich People
When the horrible couple left, I ran to phone Plant and Silas. This could not be happening. It was insane. How could strangers just walk in and take my home. My workplace? My whole life? Buy it out from under me as if I had no needs, no feelings?
I'd been a rich person once. I was born into one of the wealthiest families in the U.S. I was the great-granddaughter of H. P. Randall, the founder of the Randall newspaper empire. Had he ever been that sociopathic? Had I?
Well, I had been pretty clueless…
I'd read a study recently that claimed to prove people with the highest incomes had the lowest empathy quotient. Now I could believe it.
Plant's line was busy. I slammed down the phone. I wanted to yell at him, not his voice mail. How could he and Silas have done this to me?
Fighting the urge to scream, I gulped wine. Then I tried stuffing a forkful of cold fettuccine into my mouth, but it felt like trying to eat a dishrag. I spat it out in the sink.
And gulped more wine.
Nothing could keep the anger stuffed inside me. I took the empty bottle and hurled it out the door in the direction of the recycling. It gave a satisfying clatter.
"I hope you get run over by a truck, you evil, clueless thieving parasites…" I screamed at the departed real estate buyers and the world in general. "Screw rich people!" There. I said it.
I found few more bottles in the trash can under the sink. I threw one and savored the shatter and clatter. Then threw another. Let the horrible Louboutin people pick up the mess.
"Fuck rich people!" I screamed as I hurled a third bottle.
I never, ever use that word, but it felt good to let it out.
"Yikes!" said a voice. "I'm not rich. I promise."
A tall figure emerged from the walkway to the store.
Ronzo.
"Wow," he said. "You could drink those Jersey Shore girls under the table. How many bottles have you had? I've only been gone an hour."
"I didn't. It wasn't me. I mean…um, those were Silas and Plant's bottles from last night. I'm still drinking the glass from before. When you were here. Before."
As he came toward the door, I looked into his grinning face and felt my own face scrunch with incipient tears.
Great. Now I was going to cry in front of this man. Who already thought I was a drunk. And needy. And undesirable.
"So you're not so drunk you can't have another glass? That would be good."
He grinned wider. "I wondered if you'd like to go out for a drink with me. I've finished my business in Morro Bay and I wanted to go into San Luis for a bite. I wondered if you'd like to come with me. You're the only person I know around here who's from back east. I thought maybe you could help me not look like an idiot to those wine waiters…."
"Not look like an idiot? When I'm standing here looking like the über-idiot of all time?" I sniffled and wiped my stinging eye with my sleeve.
"You're crying?" He looked genuinely concerned. "What happened?"
"It's a long story. A long, sad, stupid story."
"I'd love to hear it over dinner," he said, eyeing my Lean Cuisine box. "I see you never finished your fettuccine."
Chapter 19—Tornado
Doria woke in Betsy's guest house feeling as if she'd been in one of those devastating tornadoes they're always showing on the evening news. It was as if she'd been uprooted and whirled around for a few hours with flying branches, appliances, and pieces of house, then dumped to earth like so much useless debris.
And subsequently, a stray Buick had landed on her belly.
The pain was like a weight, pinning her to the bed.
In her sweet, drunken way, Betsy had helped Doria with the drains and bandages last night, and insisted she take two Vicodin in spite of Dr. Singh's prescription of one every four hours.
It had got her to sleep. But neither of them had factored in the added side effects of a tequila hangover.
Doria finally launched herself into the bathroom and took a Vicodin with quantities of water. Her stomach growled like a dangerous beast. She hadn't had any solid food in what—thirty-six hours? Maybe more. She wondered if Betsy had any Jell-O. Jell-O was what they gave you after abdominal surgery, wasn't it?
She managed to get herself into her underwear and a hideous jogging suit Betsy had lent her. Apparently she shouldn't expect to be able to wear regular clothes for a couple of days. Betsy had gone through three tummy tucks of her own, so she was a much better source of advice than Dr. Singh's people. Doria wished they'd warned her. She'd sent ahead all her loungey clothes to the new house.
They'd be incinerated now.
Along with the evidence of how Harry really died.
Doria knew she had to call the police up there—as soon as possible.
But until she had food, nothing was possible.
She walked along the poolside path and
slipped into the big house through the sliding patio doors, hoping not to wake Betsy.
Poor Betsy had got a call from the Mexican ex-boyfriend rather late in the evening. It sent her off looking for another bottle of tequila. Doria had opted for bed, but suspected Betsy might have had a late night.
Doria headed toward the kitchen, hoping the maid would be friendlier than she'd been yesterday.
But a voice booming from the breakfast room stopped her in her tracks. It was a male voice, deep and rich, with the lilt of a Hispanic accent. A relative of the housekeeper, maybe?
Doria wanted nobody—absolutely nobody—to see her like this. Especially somebody who might alert the press.
She heard Betsy shouting. "Cesar, you're lying. You're a lying bastard!"
Cesar. That was the boyfriend's name. It seemed the telenovella star was back.
And they were arguing.
In a room Doria needed to pass to get to the kitchen.
Not what she needed this morning.
But she was almost there and her stomach was growling. She'd just pop in to ask the maid to bring some Jell-O out to the pool.
Cesar's voice got louder. "You do not understand. You have a criminal in this house! This makes you a criminal also. You will be arrested."
"Calm down, baby. Nobody knows. Except Rosa. And she won't tell, will you, dear? After all, none of it has been proved. It will all be straightened out, I'm sure."
Doria could hear the maid and Betsy murmuring, but the words didn't come through. She tiptoed a little further down the hallway, hoping get more information about this criminal they were talking about. One of Betsy's stepdaughters had a terrible drug habit. Maybe she'd showed up, expecting a handout.
Damn. Everything would be a mess if the wayward stepdaughter wanted to stay in the pool house.
"I know about her," Cesar said, in that mellifluous actor's voice. "If Rosa knows, others will find out. You are not careful with security. The gate still is not locking correctly. Besides, she could be dangerous. I cannot bear for the woman I love to be in danger. We have both lost so much. But we have each other."
More murmurings. They seemed to be having a reconciliation. Something it wouldn't be wise to interrupt.
Doria leaned against the wall, thinking she should go back out to the pool house. But Cesar might see if she walked back along the pool. Maybe she'd be better off using the front door and going around to the back.
Betsy's voice rose again.
"She is not dangerous. She's a sixty-year old widow who's just lost her husband. And is recovering from a tummy tuck, for God's sake!"
Chapter 20—Enchanted New Jersey
I woke and saw Ronzo's golden head on my pillow, gently snoring.
Why had I done it?
Because he was so adorably dorky with the wine list at the fancy new restaurant downtown by the creek?
Because he had talked to all the homeless people who panhandled in front of the Mission and given them each a few dollars?
Because he was from New Jersey and felt somehow like home?
It didn't matter. I'd done it. Casual sex with a stranger on the first date. For the first time in my well-mannered life.
And I wasn't sorry.
His eyes opened.
"Hi there, Dr. Manners." He gave me a quick, warm kiss on the cheek.
Then he jumped from the bed, grabbed his clothes and headed for the bathroom. His naked body looked perfect even in the daylight. He had a cute tan line. He must spend some time on the Jersey Shore.
Hey, maybe he'd ask me to go back to Newark with him. It would be like going home. Almost. Only far enough from Manhattan that I wasn't likely to run into my old friends and feel the shame of my poverty. Rents were probably cheap in Newark. And there was probably a bookstore or two. I wouldn't have to move in with him or anything. I'd get my own place. We could start slow.
But we could spend enchanting weekends together, making sweet, slow love like we did last night...
A knock on the front door startled me.
I so hoped it wasn't those awful Louboutin people.
But it probably was. Fine. Let them stand there. I didn't have to open the door for them. My rent was paid to the end of the month. It was still my home.
The door was locked, wasn't it? I'd been pretty tipsy when we got back from dinner…maybe I hadn't locked it.
Uh-oh. I heard the door open. Footsteps.
"No!" I shouted. "Don't come in here! You're trespassing."
The bathroom door opened and Ronzo stood in the doorway, looking ready to protect me, wearing nothing but his not-quite zipped trousers. Good. Let Lureen be shocked.
But the person who opened the bedroom wasn't Lureen.
It was Plantagenet, looking very ashamed, holding a huge bouquet of pink roses.
"Darling, forgive me, please…" He stopped as his jaw fell.
So did the roses.
Oh, sorry, man," said Ronzo. He scrambled into his shirt. "Sorry, man. Sorry. Didn't know the lady was spoken for."
He grabbed his absurd suit jacket and ran past Plant without giving even a glance toward me.
The slam of my front door sounded awfully final.
Chapter 21—Chocolate for Breakfast
Doria's stomach growled as she hovered in the hallway, praying Betsy and Cesar couldn't hear the roar coming from her insides.
She was fifty-nine for three more months.
How could Betsy say she was sixty?
Witch.
And Cesar kept going on about how she was a criminal.
Doria had no idea why a person she'd never met would make up lies about her, but as she remembered from Betsy's stories, lying was something of a habit with the man.
Doria's stomach continued to vocalize. She needed food. Lickity split.
She knew she did not make good choices when underfed. There was that summer she lived on nothing but cocaine and cigarettes and ended up marrying Jean-Claude. If she'd had possession of her faculties, she'd have known better than to marry a bisexual photographer. Especially a French one.
She tiptoed to the foyer and saw Betsy's big Fendi bag sitting on the sideboard by the front door. Score. Betsy never went anywhere without chocolate. Doria tiptoed over and started searching. Betsy had always carried a huge, messy purse, even in high school, when she was everybody's go-to person for the extra safety pin or Midol tablet. True to form, she had a regular survival kit in there: wallet, water bottle, pill containers, a vast array of grooming products—even a paperback book.
But Doria couldn't see any chocolate. Betsy usually had one of those Lindt bars, the extra-dark kind.
She heard a shout from the kitchen.
"Cesar! No! Don't go out there. She's just had surgery. She needs her sleep."
"She can sleep in jail."
Betsy shouted again as Doria heard the patio door slide open. Cesar must be going out to the pool house to look for her.
This was taking a turn for the worse.
The man was half Betsy's age, and volatile. Doria suspected he'd knocked her around a couple of times.
Doria had no idea what Cesar had against her. Maybe he thought a guest might ruin his little make-up honeymoon with Betsy. In any case, a run-in with him could be unpleasant.
She grabbed the handbag, ran out the front door and crouched behind Cesar's red Ferrari. But the top was down so it didn't provide much cover. Betsy's big Mercedes would be better. Or maybe she could get inside the Mercedes—one of the keys in the bag should open it—and hide until Cesar left.
Then sit back and read whatever book was in Betsy's bag. A mystery, it looked like. Perfect.
The third key on Betsy's key ring opened the door.
After sliding into the driver's seat, Doria reached into the bottom of the bag and felt something wrapped in foil—the right shape. Yes! A Lindt chocolate bar. The kind with raspberry filling. Even a serving of fruit. She ate two squares.
Betsy and Cesar were now arguing loud
ly out by the pool. Better to lie low. Doria read a while—a fun mystery set in 1930s Hollywood—and ate two more chocolate squares washed down with the contents of Betsy's water bottle.
But once she had a little sugar in her blood, Doria realized staying in the car was a bad idea. When Cesar took off, he'd drive right by the Mercedes. She'd have to scootch down on the floor to keep him from seeing her, and her bandages made scootching problematic. Thank goodness she'd taken the Vicodin. It was kicking in. It made her brain a little floaty, but the pain was subsiding.
Finally the voices died down.
Good. They must be back in the main house by now. Time to sneak back to the pool house.
Tiptoeing along the side pathway, Doria was careful to step on the flagstones and not the noisy surrounding gravel. Now that she had food of sorts, it would be easy to hide out until Cesar left.
Thank goodness. The place had a lovely bathroom. A necessity at the moment.
Oh no. Betsy and Cesar were still out there. Not arguing. And not words, exactly, but…grunts and moans.
Damn. They were having make-up sex in Doria's bed.
Unfortunately, the bathroom problem was urgent. Maybe worth tiptoeing back to the big house.
But no. The door had shut behind her. The lock had clicked on automatically, the way the front gate was supposed to.
That front gate—it was still standing wide open at the end of the driveway.
Maybe she should simply take off—start up the Mercedes, drive out onto the street and find a bathroom. She wasn't dressed for an outing, but that did seem the wisest move. Betsy would understand.
Back in the Mercedes, Doria turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred quietly as she backed it out onto the street.
Now to find an anonymous coffee shop and have some real food, coffee and a bathroom break.
After a couple of hours, everything would blow over. Betsy and Cesar would have another fight and Cesar would macho off in his Ferrari.
Then Betsy would crawl into another tequila bottle, eager for a drinking buddy.
No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) Page 5
