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

by Allen, Anne R.

  That nice little jewelry store in San Luis Obispo—she'd take it in there. They might even buy it. Or at least they could tell her what it might be worth and where to find a reputable buyer.

  The anxiety and horror of the morning's news lifted and Doria flew along the highway, feeling oddly content—maybe more content than she had in years. She was free.

  Free of all the anxiety about keeping Harry from dumping her.

  Free of her decade and a half of slavery to Home magazine.

  And now—the ring would give her plenty of money to get started again. Not in the magazine business. Print media was over. Maybe a little café. That had been her dream once, back in high school. She and Joey were going to open a coffee house where local musicians could play. Serve yummy little treats and fancy coffee.

  Hey, that business model still worked. Something simple. Complicated had brought her nothing but grief.

  Maybe she should have married Joey after all, with his guitar and his poetry and his Woody Guthrie socialism. Maybe if he'd been with her, he wouldn't have died like he did—burnt out from his sex, drugs, and rock and roll life. She touched her guardian angel pendant. He'd given it to her for her sixteenth birthday. Real gold. He must have saved for it for a year. Somehow, she felt Joey was her angel now, up there looking after her.

  Could she have saved him?

  Nah. The truth was she would have made the poor boy miserable. She'd made herself miserable enough—needing too much stuff. Equating stuff with security.

  But all that was behind her now. She had a new spouse-free life and the open road ahead of her. Anything was possible.

  Chapter 30—The Soldier

  I carefully applied make-up in front of my bathroom mirror. The red area around my eye still hurt, so I had to go gently, even though I knew Ronzo was in a hurry to get going. I could hear him pacing in the living room.

  I was going to have a black eye. Maybe I should stay home with an ice pack.

  The wine tasting was probably a bad idea. I didn't really have time, anyway. There was so much to do. Like packing. And reading my mail, for goodness' sake. I hadn't finished dealing with that stack of letters—or checked my email for days.

  My eye was definitely swelling. What an awful thug that Jason person was.

  Jason. What if he came back when he saw Ronzo gone? Maybe it wouldn't be smart to stay home alone.

  Whatever his faults, Ronzo had proved himself to be an excellent bodyguard. I'd be better off with him.

  I took an ibuprofen and went back to my make-up.

  Not that I felt entirely safe with Mr. Ronzoni—or whatever his name was. He'd been awfully scary when he thought I'd stolen his notebook. A notebook written in shorthand. So very archaic.

  And oddly sweet. He'd learned it from his mother.

  I grabbed my favorite summer outfit—a timeless Chanel jacket dress in pale green linen—cut exactly right to show off my figure while still looking ladylike. I dressed as fast as I could, knowing Ronzo was in a hurry to meet his friend.

  But as I gave myself one more look in the mirror, I worried maybe the dress wasn't casual enough for California. I should probably change into slacks. The Chanel dress was my signature Manners Doctor outfit, but maybe here it looked stuffy. I'd pretty much retired my Manners Doctor persona in the last year. Hardly anybody out here was even aware of my former celebrity. I rather enjoyed the freedom of being a nobody.

  "We gotta get going," Ronzo called from the living room.

  Okay, the Manners Doctor outfit would have to do. I stepped into my ancient Manolo sandals, grabbed my biggest sunglasses to hide the swelling black eye and rushed out to join him.

  "Wow. You look like your photos in People magazine. That dress is sensational." He gave me an appreciative look. "Skinner is not going to believe I'm dating the Manners Doctor."

  "Skinner –that's the man you're going to meet?"

  "Yeah. Old army buddy. Haven't seen him since Iraq, but we keep in touch. We fought together in Fallujah."

  Army. That explained it. Ronzo had been a soldier. That would explain the authority. And the ability to make himself seem dangerous. And actually be dangerous. Combat in Fallujah had been intense. He'd probably killed people.

  A weird thought.

  But he didn't seem dangerous now. Just sweet. I followed him out to his rental car and told myself this would be the kind of fun afternoon I needed to take my mind off all the impending disasters.

  Chapter 31—The Happiest Town on Earth

  San Luis Obispo looked even more adorable than Doria remembered, with manicured lawns, old California architecture, and jacaranda trees dripping with purple blooms. She found a parking place and walked toward the old mission with its glorious gardens full of jasmine and roses.

  A smelly homeless man panhandling by the fountain in the plaza was the only thing to mar the sheer gorgeousness of the golden late afternoon.

  The man confronted her and asked for spare change, looking directly in her eyes—as if he were challenging her to look at him. His leonine mane of white curls made his brown eyes shine with dark intensity. Something flashed. Something familiar and real—as if he might be an old friend who'd simply made a bad turn in his life.

  She broke from his gaze, pretending to be admiring the life-sized bronze bears in the fountain.

  "You'll feel better if you give me something," the man said.

  Part of her wanted to walk away from his manipulations, but she couldn't. The whole "there but for fortune" thing zapped through her brain. She'd never thought about the homeless much—a bunch of drunks and addicts. Now she realized how easily anybody could be one of them. She reached into Betsy's wallet and pulled out five dollars.

  The man accepted it with a half-smile.

  "You have a nice day, now, ma'am."

  She did feel better. Harry would have been furious and gone on about how she was only enabling the man's addictions, but strangely enough, she was actually having a nice day.

  Of course, maybe that was just the Oxycontin.

  She did feel a little floaty as she crossed the creek and headed down a little walkway flanked by shops.

  But the sight of her own reflection in a display window brought her down to earth. Her signature precision-cut bob was a windblown mess and her clothes were ridiculous. She couldn't go into that posh jewelry store in granny-sweats and flip-flops.

  Luckily, she spotted a Dress for Less discount store a few blocks away. She'd never been inside one, but was pleasantly surprised. She found a perfectly acceptable pants suit in a size up from what she usually wore, so it fit over her bandages and drains. She also found a nice blouse, a pair of non-descript pumps and an Oscar De La Renta scarf from about five seasons ago, discounted 90%. The whole outfit cost less than a hundred dollars. With the scarf over her hair and a pair of Jackie O sunglasses, she looked almost respectable.

  And what was more important, she didn't look like Doria Windsor.

  Until she could make it clear to the police—and the press—that she'd been entirely ignorant of Harry's nefarious schemes, she'd be better off traveling incognito.

  Which might be rather fun.

  Chapter 32— Tasting Wine

  I regretted my decision to come to the wine tasting almost as soon as we arrived.

  A balmy afternoon breeze made the golden afternoon in the vineyard feel idyllic, and the music was dancey and fun, but Ronzo seemed to have no interest in participating. He radiated tension, circling through the crowd, constantly scanning faces and checking his phone.

  He finally allowed us to settle at table and with a couple of glasses of wine, but when he sat, he looked even more nervous. He checked his phone again.

  His face relaxed a bit. "He says he's on his way. He should be here any minute."

  I sipped my golden wine. It tasted of smooth apricot, layered over satisfying notes of oak. A classic California chardonnay. I raised the glass and indicated Ronzo should raise his. Maybe a little alcohol woul
d calm him down.

  But as he picked up his glass, a slightly built, balding man in an Izod shirt came up behind him and knocked his elbow. Wine spilled on both of them.

  I saw anger flash in Ronzo's eyes as he stood and dabbed at his suit jacket with a napkin.

  "Ronzo!" The Izod man grabbed Ronzo's shoulder. "What the hell are you wearing? You look like a damn FBI agent. Or a missionary." After a quick hug, he pretended to pat Ronzo down to look for something. "So what is it? Are you packing heat? Or pamphlets?"

  Ronzo pulled away, like a small boy resisting the assault of an overly affectionate aunt.

  Skinner seemed to be deliberately ignoring me. I wondered if my sunglasses made me look a little unfriendly, but I didn't want to take them off and reveal my black eye. Ronzo's reunion with Mr. Skinner seemed strained enough. I didn't want him to think Ronzo was abusing me.

  "I told you. I'm working for a law firm now." Ronzo gave a pronounced nod toward me. "And this is my friend Camilla. The Manners Doctor. It's been cool to find somebody from home out here in California."

  Skinner's bland features morphed from goofy enthusiasm to pinched suspicion. He looked away, as if he were afraid of eye contact. His body stiffened and his voice tensed with anger.

  "I thought you were coming alone."

  Ronzo shrugged. "Camilla is, um, kind of my tour guide. She owns a local bookstore. In Morro Bay. Did you know that? She used to be famous—at least back east."

  Skinner hissed at Ronzo, "This is not something to discuss with strangers."

  I didn't want to let this display of rudeness go unchallenged. I stood and reached for Skinner's hand.

  "I'm Camilla Randall—so pleased to meet you, Mr. Skinner."

  His hand went from limp fish to bone-crusher as he pumped mine, still avoiding my eyes.

  Okay, this was not going to be the pleasant afternoon I envisioned. I'd have to try to make the best of it.

  "I'm sure you and Ronzo have lots of catching up to do," I said with my best tea-party smile. "Why don't I go refill Ronzo's glass and get one for you, Mr. Skinner? You two can catch up."

  But the line at the tasting bar was long and when I got back, the two men were gone. A couple of older women were seated at their table.

  "Camilla!" said one of the women. "Join us."

  I recognized them as customers—a couple of retired school teachers who used to frequent the shop, although they hadn't been by recently.

  I sat down, glad for the company. And a couple of other older women joined them too, crowding around the little table and talking about the current bestsellers. Okay, I was doing a little networking for the store, so my time wouldn't be totally wasted, but I felt increasingly angry as Ronzo failed to reappear.

  Especially when I remembered that my book-schmoozing was wasted. The store would be gone within weeks. Maybe days. My mind kept running over everything I should be doing back at home. What had I been thinking? I didn't have time to sit around sipping chardonnay all afternoon, Jason or no Jason.

  I drank the contents of both glasses as my mind raced. I should start contacting people. I didn't have to stay here. Maybe find some old friends who could take me in and help me find a job. My friends Wave and Jimmy had a chain of antique stores in the San Diego area. They'd helped me get top dollar for my mother's antiques. Maybe they'd hire me.

  I checked my phone, hoping for something from Ronzo explaining his absence. Unfortunately, I still didn't have his number. Or know his full name.

  One of the women at the table mentioned the smell of smoke in the air. She said the Sharkov house was just across the creek from here.

  "It's so sad about the fire," another one said. "Poor Doria Windsor. I've always liked her magazine."

  My friends weren't so sympathetic. "Poor Doria? It's the people who were victimized by that shrew who are poor. She and her husband stole billions. I'm glad he's dead. She should be too. But she's probably run off to Costa Rica or something."

  The women began to squabble. I couldn't help feeling sorry for Doria Windsor, who had lost so much in such a tragic way, but running away from the authorities did seem to indicate her guilt.

  I managed to steer the conversation back to a safer discussion of how the e-book was ruining the bookstore business.

  But it turned out the two schoolteachers had e-readers. That's why they hadn't been in the store recently. They looked a little sheepish.

  One of them glanced at her watch and said they had to go. They had a reservation for an early dinner before the concert in the mission that evening.

  The Chanticleer concert

  I checked the time. After five. And here I was with no car. How could Ronzo have abandoned me like this? It went beyond rude.

  I had to go. Now. I asked the teachers for a ride and luckily they had room.

  As they rushed toward the parking lot, I looked around one more time, but didn't see a glimpse of Ronzo or Mr. Skinner, although Ronzo's rented Ford was exactly where we'd left it.

  Fine. Let them look for me. I didn't have time to deal with inconsiderate men anymore.

  Chapter 33—The Devil in 2000-Thread Count Sheets

  Doria took a bit too long choosing her ensemble at the Dress for Less store, and when she got to the jewelry shop, the owners—a nice gay couple—were locking up.

  "I'm sorry," said one—a sweet-faced man in a Jhane Barnes shirt—"We're just closing. We'd love to see you tomorrow."

  But the other man gave Doria a look that seemed to zing from terror to pleasure and back again. He grabbed the other man's forearm.

  "Oh, my God, it's…! George, stop."

  The man in Jhane Barnes stopped fiddling with the keys and looked at her. The same odd expressions flickered across his face, but he recovered and gave her a dazzling smile.

  "Doria. Do come in."

  They ushered her into the little store, luxurious with thick burgundy carpeting and old-world chandeliers

  "Enrique and I were so sorry to hear about Harry," George said.

  So polite. Not a word about Harry being a low-life crook who had ruined people's lives. And nothing about the nasty things people said in USA Today.

  Nobody understands the importance of being nonjudgmental as well as people who sell high-end products.

  "What can we do for you?" Enrique, too, used exactly the right tone of not-prying friendliness. If he hadn't taken a surreptitious glance at his watch, Doria would have thought there was nothing the two of them would rather do than sit here chatting.

  "My engagement ring," she said, getting right to the point. She wiggled it, trying to get it off her slightly swollen fingers. "I'd like to sell it, and I thought you might give me an idea of how much it's worth and where I might find a buyer."

  The men exchanged enigmatic looks.

  "We, um, do buy estate jewelry on occasion," George said. "Do you want me to take a look?" He went to his desk and pulled out a jeweler's loupe.

  Doria twisted the ring again, but couldn't get it off. Her fingers seemed to be swollen. "I've just had surgery. Maybe some drug is making me retain water."

  George gave her some lotion from a bottle in his desk. "Happens all the time. This works like magic."

  Enrique's phone rang as she finally got the ring off her finger and handed it to George.

  "We might be a tiny bit late," he said to the phone. "We've got…um, a customer still here."

  George examined the ring through his loupe, stood, and handed it back, his perfect smile still in place, but something in his eyes had changed.

  "Doria, do you think we could do this another time? We're meeting friends for an early dinner."

  She tried to get it back on her finger, but it wouldn't go on.

  "Can't you keep it in your vault until tomorrow?" She held it out to George.

  The diamond would be safer here. After all, she had no idea where she was going to spend the night. Better not to be wearing flashy jewelry. She'd have to use Betsy's credit card to check into a mo
tel. Not a nice thing to do, but the cash was pretty much gone. She'd phone Betsy from the motel phone and explain things.

  But George seemed to look right through her.

  "Please? I can't get it back on my finger."

  She tried to shove the ring back on over her swollen knuckle, but it wouldn't budge. She held it out to Enrique.

  But he only shifted his weight and looked at his watch.

  "Um, Doria, it's not a good idea to come back tomorrow. Tomorrow wouldn't be a good time."

  She turned to George. His smile looked like it hurt his face.

  "Enrique is right. It's not a good idea for you to be here right now. We've been hearing some, um, strange things about you."

  "I've heard them too," Doria said. "Well, not actually heard, but I read some things in USA Today. Sheer nonsense, most of it. I suppose they're saying even crazier things on the Internet. They always do. Real journalism is dead. Nobody ever checks their facts. If you have a local newspaper, you probably have a much better idea of what's going on than I do. USA Today isn't big on details."

  The men exchanged another look.

  "You tell her, George," said Enrique. "I'll finish locking up."

  "Doria, you'd better sit down," George said.

  She sank onto a velvet chair as George filled her in. According to the news reports, Doria was a fugitive. In possession of a car and credit cards stolen from TV star Betsy Baylor. And had last been seen heading for the Van Nuys airport. The FBI was conducting an international search. People had reported seeing her everywhere from a café in the Maldives to a Paris Hermès store.

  Doria wasn't sure she could bear it. She wanted to put her hands over her ears and make it stop, but George had more—

  It seemed some of the investigators had finally figured out that Harry might have been the victim of murder.

  This would have been a step in the right direction, but unfortunately, they thought Doria herself might be the murderer, because that imbecile receptionist she'd fired last month gave a reporter some quote about how Doria was "the devil in 2000-thread count sheets".