I hoped it wasn't hugely important. I had no way of returning it to him. I didn't have his address or phone number. Or even a real name to Google. Maybe it was a bit rude to pry, but I flipped it open, hoping to find a phone number or address where I could return it to him.
Inside was nothing but numbers and squiggles. Pages of them. Like some kind of code.
Maybe he was a spy. That was as likely as anything else. How could I have fallen into bed with a nameless man I knew absolutely nothing about?
I dropped the notebook in my pocket. Maybe I'd run into him on the street or something—although I knew it would be better if I didn't. He was a complication I didn't need.
There was way too much stuff to deal with at the moment. The imminent death of the bookstore made me even sadder than losing my cottage. I was losing everything I loved.
I retrieved some broken-down boxes from the recycling bin and taped them together. It might not be my job to pack up the inventory, but I had some of my own things decorating the walls and the back office.
Silas and Plant would have to find a place to store my things. I had way too much stuff for a single room, which was all I was going to be able to afford, even if Silas could afford to pay me to work in another one of his stores.
First I packed things in the back room, then moved into the store. The fog hadn't lifted, so I turned on the lights, even though customers might see and think the store was open.
And sure enough, as I packed up my library lion bookends, book-shaped pen holder and framed portraits of Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf, I heard heavy knocking on the door.
I looked out and saw Brianna's face peering in the window. The girl didn't look well. Her untended streak of blue hair was fading to the color of old cheese, and her face was red, as if she'd been crying.
I opened the door and saw Brianna was accompanied by a young man. A very large young man, sporting a muscle tee-shirt and several ill-chosen tattoos.
"She wants the money you owe her," the muscle man said with a growl. "Now."
Chapter 27—The Yellow Brick Road
Doria finished her second cup of coffee slowly. Unfortunately a mother with four large children hovered nearby, giving her threatening looks, as if they owned her table.
Doria tried to ignore them as she gathered her thoughts. Okay, she knew what she had to do. She was a respected businesswoman. She'd talk to the police calmly and offer her help. She'd make it clear she had nothing to do with Harry's schemes. She'd even tried to talk him out of investing in that stupid boat company. Who would want to buy a four-person submarine? She had to tell them she was on their side and would do whatever possible make reparations to Harry's victims.
A trip back to the San Luis Obispo property would do her good. It would allow for closure. And of course she'd need to make arrangements for Harry—he had no other heirs that she knew of. She could also see whether anything could be salvaged from the house.
The grainy newspaper photographs didn't show if any part of the house had survived. But there was probably hope for the travertine marble fireplace. The stone should be worth something. And maybe some garden sculptures had avoided the flames. She'd bought so many lovely garden things during her stay there last January. Maybe she could start a garden art store.
Lovely place, San Luis Obispo. It would be a nice drive. Although it would be nicer if her tummy weren't hurting so much. The Vicodin was wearing off.
Damn. The Vicodin.
It was still at Betsy's house.
Doria looked through the purse, hoping to find something—at least Tylenol. She pulled out an amazing array of make-up before she felt it—something that might be a prescription bottle way in the bottom. Yes. She had to adjust her glasses to read the label, but there it was.
Oxycontin.
She said a silent thank-you to Betsy. She should have known Betsy would have the best drugs. She always did in the old days.
Doria took one tablet with the rest of her coffee and collected her things as the large family hovered closer. As Doria smiled sweetly and stood, they scrambled past her so fast they nearly knocked her over.
She went to the counter and ordered another coffee for the road, filled her water bottle, and headed for the parking lot.
The Mercedes still had nearly half a tank of gas and the edge was starting to come off her pain, thanks to Betsy's magic pill.
She had a whole bottle of Oxy, coffee, half a chocolate bar, and a sunny highway ahead. Doria's own yellow brick road. She would survive.
As she headed north on the 101, she realized how lucky she was. After all, if she hadn't been in L.A. getting the tummy tuck, she'd have been in that house with Harry. She would have burned up in that fire, too.
Somebody up there had to be watching over her. She touched her angel pendant in silent thanks.
So, okay her life had been gutted. Now it was time to get rid of the moldy drywall, expose the beams, and do a complete remodel. She'd done it before.
It might even be fun.
Chapter 28—Mafioso
I tried to ignore Brianna's bruiser boyfriend and gave the girl what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.
"Isn't it awful that our paychecks bounced? Mr. Ryder is mortified about it. But he's getting together the money to pay us. I know he'll have it by next week."
Brianna wouldn't look me in the eye. "I can't wait until next week. We need it now. In cash. It's my money and you owe it to me."
"But it's Sunday," I said. "Even if he had the money, Silas couldn't get it for you in cash today."
"Jason needs to get his truck fixed, like, you know—today?" Brianna sounded like a whiny child. "It's missing like crazy and he needs sparkplugs and we're supposed to meet a bunch of people for a birthday pizza party tonight. It's a surprise. We are not going to miss a party for Jason's best friend just because Mr. Ryder wrote a rubber check. That guy is a billionaire. He doesn't care about the little people."
Jason loomed over me and gave a menacing grin.
"You heard the chick. It's her money. She's entitled. So hand over the cash."
The man's breath smelled of semi-digested beer.
"I can't give what I don't have." I gave him a cold smile.
Jason pounded a fist down on the cash register. A nasty tattoo of a yellow-faced dog bulged on his bicep as his arm came down within inches of my nose.
"Then what's in here, lady?"
"Only the change I need to open the store tomorrow." I kept fifty dollars in small bills, ones, fives and tens. "It's not enough to cover the bounced check, I'm afraid."
"Yeah, well you go on being afraid. Very afraid. Give it here. Whatever the hell is in there. A down payment. I gotta fix my truck."
Something in the young man's eyes gave me a chill. No humanity there. Nothing but need and rage. Maybe I should give him what he wanted. Who knew if I'd be opening the store tomorrow anyway? It might belong to the L.A. people by then.
"I don't have the key. I don't open to customers on Sundays…" The key to the register was back in my cottage. I pondered whether I should get it and sacrifice the fifty dollars.
But before I had a chance to think, he grabbed my wrist and squeezed so hard I winced.
"No more bullshit. Open it."
"Let me get the key. Stay here. I'll be right back."
I figured if I moved fast, I could dial 911 and get the police. Jason was a like a loaded gun. He needed to be in jail.
Who knew what he'd do to Brianna, poor thing.
"You're not going anywhere, bitch." Jason's voice lowered to a feral growl. He lifted his big hand as if he was going to hit me. That explained why Brianna had been wearing a lot more make-up than usual. This creep liked to hit women.
I tried to step back to dodge the blow, but I only got myself pinned against the counter.
The slap landed full across my face and knocked me backward against the counter. I slid down, collapsing in a painful heap on the floor. My face stung and my vision went fuzzy
.
"You didn't have to do that, Jason." Brianna's voice squeaked somewhere above my dizzy head. "Why don't you take the whole cash register? You can figure out how to open it later."
Jason grunted. "This sucker is heavy. You gonna help me or what?"
I fought nausea. I thought I saw a blur behind Jason. Somebody moving.
"Hands above your head, Mister," said a voice.
Ronzo's voice.
"Your guts would make one helluva nasty mess all over these nice books. I'd hate to have to do that."
Jason gave another grunt. In a higher register this time.
"Feel that?" Ronzo said. "That's a little Smith and Wesson 642 Airweight .38 revolver between your shoulder blades." I thought I heard a click. "You get those hands up too, girly." This seemed to be directed at Brianna. "Camilla, are you okay?"
Ronzo's voice sounded different. Mean. Without a hint of his cocky charm.
I tried to make an "I'm okay" noise, but had trouble forming words. The area around my right eye throbbed with pain.
Brianna started babbling as she raised her hands over her head.
"Are you a cop? Like, don't shoot, okay? We're not breaking the law. We only want what's ours. This place owes me almost three hundred dollars in back pay. Not to mention the penalties from the bank. They bounced my check. It's Jason's friend's birthday and he's coming up from Lompoc and they're having a party…"
"Sounds like that money belongs to you, girly, not this Bozo." Ronzo gave a rough laugh. "Go help Camilla get up, okay?"
I tried to focus my blurry vision. From my vantage point on the floor, I could barely see Ronzo where he was standing behind Jason. The only things I could make out clearly were his socks. He'd been wearing gray ones last night. These were blue. He must have gone to his hotel and changed before he came back.
Maybe that meant he was willing to give me another chance.
"That's right. The money is mine." Brianna's voice rose. "Jason, I keep telling you that. It's for the rent, not your stupid truck."
She extended a hand to me with a reluctant grimace. I managed to pull myself to my feet and leaned on the counter for support.
"Shut up, bitch," said Jason. "You're starting to sound like some FemiNazi."
Ronzo didn't move. "Well, you gonna shut up, da both o' youse. And you gonna turn around. And you gonna get da hell out of here and never come back. Got dat?" Ronzo's accent seemed to have thickened. He sounded like a villain out of an old gangster movie.
"I don't think you're a cop," Brianna said.
"No shit." Ronzo let out a string of colorful-sounding curses in what must have been a Sicilian dialect. "I ain't no pig. But I am what you might call 'connected' to some people who are gonna be way more trouble for youse dan de cops. Unnerstand?"
"Not really." Brianna looked down at me with an expression of pleading fear, as if she expected me to spring to her rescue.
Ronzo gave a growly laugh. "You tink you could understand your boyfriend's guts all over your nice clothes? Or is dat too tough for your little brain to understand?"
Jason winced and raised his hands higher as if Ronzo was pressing the gun deeper into his back.
"This dude is in the effing Mafia." Jason's arms started to shake. "Listen to him, Brianna."
"Out," Ronzo said. "I want you outta here, scumbag. You and the dumb chick. Both of youse. Like, disappeared. And you ain't never, ever comin' back. 'Cause I won't be so gentlemanly next time."
Brianna looked as if she might cry.
Ronzo marched them out the front door, slammed it behind them and turned to face me. He kept one hand in his pocket, still gripping that gun.
"You gonna live?" His voice sounded flat and menacing. He wasn't smiling.
I nodded.
"Good. Cause you got something that belongs to me. I've been over to your place and it's not there. So how about giving it back to me?"
He didn't move his hand from the gun in his pocket. He seemed to have it trained on me.
I fought dizziness and tried to figure out how to calm him down. Had I really slept with some wannabe Tony Soprano?
"Ronzo, please don't be like this. That man who walked into my bedroom was my gay best friend. Who is about to marry my landlord. He bought the roses to apologize for evicting me, okay? I told you about those awful rich people who are going to buy this place—that's what he was apologizing for. So how about not shooting me, okay?"
Ronzo finally took his hand from his pocket. He looked me up and down.
"What happened to my notebook?"
"I brought it with me. In case I ran into you. Here." I pulled the little blue notebook from my own pocket.
Ronzo took it, glanced over a couple of pages then and looked me in the eye. "That guy's not your boyfriend? The one with the roses? You weren't playing me to make him jealous?"
"I don't 'play' people, Mr. Ronzoni, or whatever your name is. I thank you for getting Brianna and her abusive boyfriend out of here. Now you can go back to doing your Mafia things. I have some important things to attend to."
Ronzo let out a huge laugh.
"Jeez, did you buy that? My gangster shtick? I thought I was laying that on pretty thick."
"You're not in the Mafia?"
"Of course not. But out here in California, all anybody knows about New Jersey is The Sopranos, so I figured if I bumped up my accent and threw in some classic gangster patois, I could put a scare in that Bozo." He took a step closer to me. "Hey are you really okay? You're going to have a bruise where that guy hit you. Maybe you should put some ice on it. You want me to get some from your fridge?"
"My fridge? You're going to break into my house again?"
"I don't think it's called breaking in when the door is unlocked. I came back for my notebook and didn't hear voices. So I figured you and Mr. Roses were off having brunch, so I went inside, thinking it would be easy to spot. It wasn't. So I came here. End of story."
"No. It's not the end. Then you pulled a gun on Brianna's boyfriend, who was trying to rob me. Which was very helpful. Then you pulled a gun on me, which wasn't. It was rude."
Ronzo looked sheepish for moment. "Yeah. I was rude. But I thought you were using me to make that guy jealous. I don't like being put in that situation."
"I don't like people pointing guns at me."
"I didn't do that. I hate guns."
"What do you mean? I saw you."
Ronzo put his hand in his suit jacket pocket and pulled something silvery. I flinched—until I saw it was a ball point pen.
Ronzo clicked it. "Never underestimate the power of details to create realism. Well—you're a writer, you know that. I told him I had a Smith and Wesson 642 Airweight and he felt something poking him in his back. His mind did the rest. So did yours, apparently."
A trick as old as gangster movies. How could I have been so gullible? I didn't know if I wanted to hug the man or throw him out.
"I guess I have to be grateful to you for dropping that notebook, or I might have been beaten to a pulp. What's in it that's so important? I looked inside to see if I could find some contact information, but it's nothing but squiggles."
He gave me a grin. "Gregg shorthand. My mom taught me. She was a court reporter back before computers. It's like some ancient lost language now, but it works great, and this old notebook never runs out of batteries or loses a signal." He flipped through the pages. "Here it is. The address of a charity wine thing this afternoon. On, um…Biddle Ranch Road. There's a band. I'm supposed to meet somebody there."
"The tasting at Edna Valley Vineyards? The fundraiser for the homeless shelter?"
"Yeah. Want to come?"
So. He was inviting me to that wine tasting after all.
Part of me still wanted to go with him.
Chapter 29—A Girl's Best Friend
Doria pulled into a gas station after she made her way through the stop-and-go traffic of Santa Barbara. She considered using Betsy's Chevron card so she could save the cash for
incidentals, but figured she'd better get permission first.
There was a pay phone. She could call Betsy to let her know she'd had to borrow a few things until the mess blew over.
No. Better to give poor Betsy some time to get over the bad news about Harry's investments.
Doria did hope Betsy hadn't lost too much. She'd try to make it up to her as soon as things got straightened out.
She bought some more water and took another Oxy. The drug was like magic. Not that the pain in her abdomen wasn't there, but it had become dull and powerless—as if it had been wrapped in bubble pack and put away on a shelf in the basement of her brain.
She drove the purring Mercedes through the glorious oak-dotted hills of the Central Coast, listening to the classic jazz Betsy had in her CD player. With a nostalgic Nelson Riddle soundtrack, Doria reminisced about the fun she and Harry had driving this road last December, on their way to close escrow on the property outside San Luis Obispo—a lovely little town Oprah had declared the "happiest town on earth."
That was probably the happiest time of their marriage, too. Doria was happy she had a gorgeous new house to redecorate, and Harry was happy he'd got an incredible deal, in a short sale from a couple of over-extended Silicon Valley refugees.
They'd stopped for a fantastic meal and wandered the pretty little downtown, where Harry had picked up Doria's Christmas present—which he always wisely let her choose—at an elegant jewelry store near the Mission. Diamond earrings.
Damn. They were now in her suitcase back at Betsy's.
No. That was a good thing. It meant Betsy had collateral. Those earrings were worth a tidy sum. Okay, so—no more guilt about borrowing the car and credit cards. Totally win/win.
Diamonds. Wait! She did have a diamond. A girl's best friend. Her huge new rock glittered on her left hand in the afternoon sun.
She wasn't broke.
She had an asset on her finger worth more than most people make in a lifetime. Probably what…$500,000? Maybe a million. Harry always bought the best.
No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) Page 7
