"Shoes!" I said. "I need comfortable shoes! I can't be homeless in a pair of Manolo Blahniks." I felt close to tears now, as the awful painters kept slapping away and the paint roller hissed along the plaster walls.
Ronzo somehow found my Nikes—and even unearthed a pair of socks.
"Just grab what you need for tonight," he said. "We'll come back tomorrow with a U-Haul and get the rest of your stuff."
"Tonight? How do I know what I'm going to need for tonight? I'm homeless! I have no place to go!"
I threw in some toiletries I gathered from the bathroom and pulled an ancient parka from the closet. I'd spent every bit of cash I had on dinner. My bank account was overdrawn because of the bounced check, so my debit card would be refused. I had no credit cards because of last year's bankruptcy. What do you wear to sleep on a park bench? Maybe I'd end up sleeping on old Tom's bench.
The horror of it was too much. I fought back the tears. I didn't want to completely lose it in front of Ronzo.
But he just gave me a smile and clicked the suitcase shut.
"Come on. The Thrifty Motel isn't exactly five-star, but my room has two beds. You can bunk with me."
Sleeping with Ronzo. Exactly what I'd wanted to avoid.
But I had no choice. I followed him back to his car and tried to gather my thoughts as he put my suitcase in the trunk of his rental car.
I kept my body language stiff as we drove the few blocks to his motel, hoping to make it very clear I didn't want a repeat of last night.
The motel itself looked respectable enough, in spite of the name, and the parking lot was full of late-model cars.
But when he unlocked the door and ushered me in, I had second thoughts. The room was tiny. It had two beds, but they were only about a foot apart—and the bedspreads seemed to have been inspired by a bad dream by Jackson Pollack.
"Not exactly the Hilton." Ronzo seemed nervous as he put my suitcase on the rack at the end of one of the beds. "But at least the walls aren't pink—I mean mauve."
I wanted to laugh, but I was still too upset. Plus I was trying to figure out why a lawyer was staying in such down-market digs. It sort of went with his down-market suit. But was he really a lawyer at all? Nothing else about him had turned out to be true.
He seemed to take my silence as disapproval.
"It's a little cramped isn't it? Let me see if they've got another room for you." He scurried off like some intruder.
Okay, he'd picked up on my "no romance" signals, but I kind of missed his presence. Enigmatic as the man was, he seemed to have a calming effect on me.
I sat on the bed and stared at the awful bedspread as random thoughts zoomed around my head. How could my life have come to this? I'd grown up in a Connecticut mansion with forty-two rooms plus stables and guest cottages. With a brownstone in Manhattan and a vacation house in Barbados. Now it felt as if that life had happened to somebody else. Somebody I read about, or maybe saw in a movie.
When Ronzo came back in, he looked even more uncomfortable.
"Sorry. They don't have another vacancy. We're going to have to share the room."
I gave him a polite smile and set about unpacking my suitcase. But I couldn't deal with the half-truths any longer.
"How come you have to stay in a Thrifty Motel? Don't they pay lawyers in New Jersey?"
Ronzo's smile went goofy. "I'm, um, not a lawyer."
Oh, great. Maybe he was a Mafia thug after all.
"Then what was that card about? I suppose you're not named Ronson V. Zolek either?"
"I am indeed Ronson Zolek. And I work for those guys sometimes, but not as a lawyer. I do investigating for them. They pay for some of my expenses, but not all."
"And that's what you're doing out here? Investigating? That's why you wanted to find Tom? Like his family is looking for him or something?"
"Yeah. Something like that." He sat heavily on the second bed. "Hey, I know you don't want a repeat of last night. I'm disappointed, but I get it. It's my fault for being an idiot earlier with Mr. Smith and then leaving you at the winery. But don't worry. I promise to be a gentleman." He gave an odd laugh. "If you want, we can put up a clothesline between the two beds and hang a bedspread on it. You know like in that old 'thirties flick, It Happened One Night? Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert?
"The walls of Jericho?" I laughed in spite of myself. It was one of my favorite classic movies. "No need. I'll change in the bathroom. I need a shower."
As I stepped into the shower and let the water soothe me, I realized Ronzo had once again managed to change the subject from his own identity.
I still didn't know who on earth the man was.
Chapter 43—Clean and Sober
Doria felt something wet on her face and opened her eyes to see a black imp from Hell staring at her with a fiery gaze. Her head buzzed. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard Joey Torres's voice calling to her. Poor, dead Joey.
Was she dead too?
The voices around her started to form into words.
"Toto, get away from the lady," said a boy's voice. Tyler. He was only a shadowy form in the darkness. The adults were huddled behind him, staring down at her.
The little bat-dog scurried off as Doria came to consciousness. She supposed its eyes weren't really that shade of red. Probably reflected firelight.
Somebody handed her a plastic bottle of water. She propped herself up and took a gulp. It helped, although the dented and grimy state of the bottle suggested it had been refilled with tap water many times. Maybe water from the creek. Who knew?
"Dorothy—you got booze in here? Really?" Bucky stood over her, holding Betsy's purse. He took out the wine bottle and held it up for the group to see.
Lucky took the purse and started rummaging through it.
"And what's this here?" she squealed "You got drugs on you?"
Damn. She'd found Betsy's pill box.
No. They were not going to take her pain pills.
"Help yourself to the wine," Doria said, trying to push herself up to a sitting position. "But please don't take my medication. I need that."
Lucky took out a round pink pill and held it toward the light from the fire.
"Oxy. Twenty mil. You're taking hillbilly heroin? Along with wine? Honey, no wonder you don't know where the hell you live."
Bucky poured the contents of Doria's wine bottle into the willows.
She was not going to let the pills be next.
"For God's sake, don't. That is a prescription medication." She reached for the tree to support herself. "You cannot have them." She slowly pulled herself to her feet. "I've just had surgery. Yesterday…or the day before. I don't know. They never gave me back my phone at that damned hospital."
"Surgery? Really? What for?" It was obvious Lucky thought Doria was making it all up.
"I had a tummy tuck—which is way more painful than a facelift, in case anybody wants to know. I wish somebody had warned me." Doria leaned against her tree, hoping she wouldn't pass out again. She did not want to go back to that weird place she'd been when she was coming to. It was not a time she wanted to be re-united with dead lovers. Not even Joey. She had a dreadful image of meeting Harry in the after-life. But she wouldn't. Certainly not if she went to Heaven. And she hadn't been that bad a person, had she? She touched her angel medal.
Lucky snorted. "Sure. Hospitals love giving homeless folks plastic surgery. I'm thinking of having a boob job next week." Lucky looked down at her flat chest.
The group broke into laughter.
Doria grabbed for the pillbox.
Lucky gave her a disgusted look but let her take it without much of a fight.
"Fine," Lucky said. "You're a junkie. I've been there. But you can't stay with us. It's bad enough we brought an addict in here. Sorry to have to kick you out at this time of night, but you heard Bucky. This is a clean and sober camp. You gotta go find your own place to sleep. You get yourself clean, you're welcome back."
Find he
r own place to sleep. In the woods. Which were full of man-eating beasts.
These hobos were kicking her off her own property.
"You can take Toto if you want," Tyler said. "He's little, but he's fierce. He'll let you know if there's anybody creeping around."
Doria looked down at the hideous little creature. Only a small boy could love something like that.
"He's your dog, Tyler. He'll want to stay with you."
"Na. He's the camp dog. He'll always come back here if you tell him to go home."
Home. This place was home to Tyler.
And his dog. The absurd thing wagged its tail at Doria as if it were greeting a long lost friend. She supposed she couldn't be choosy.
The thought of being on her own with nothing but a tiny dog for protection was beyond terrifying. She looked up at the lonely chimney on the other side of the vineyard and realized it was the only place she could go. She had to pray she could find a few blankets that hadn't been burned. She could sleep somewhere up there and then worry about what to do in the morning.
Yes. She'd put off thinking until tomorrow.
The wine would have helped with that. She wished she'd fought to keep it.
She thanked everybody as they said their reproachful goodbyes. Like people sending a reprobate off to rehab.
She didn't want them to know she was planning to visit the ruins of the "Wall Street scum" house, so she set off along the creek for a bit until she came to a charred open space where the willows had been burned away. It must have been Mr. Tooth's camp. The clearing gave her a direct view of the house, which looked to be only a few hundred yards up the hill. She found a path through the grape vines, idly wondering what would happen with nobody tending them.
She trudged up the path, with only the light of a half-moon to guide her, little Toto following at her ankles. She had to admit she was glad for his company.
It had seemed such a short walk down to the creek when they first bought the house. Now it felt like the Bataan Death March.
But somehow, she made her way up the hill and was glad to see Bucky had been right—there were no law enforcement people in evidence. Nothing but a lot of yellow plastic ribbon garlanding the ruins. Inside the yellow barrier, the old 1920s garage was still standing, not looking burned at all. Next to the side door was the big Mexican pot full of succulents she'd planted last December, apparently unscathed.
She tried the door. Locked, of course.
But she had a vague memory of stashing a spare key under the pot. She'd always been forgetful about keys. Getting down on the ground was painful, but she managed to reach under the wooden stand of the pot hoping not to grab onto any poisonous insects or vermin or whatever. She let Toto sniff around a bit, glad he didn't seem to find anything interesting.
But she did. There it was—something metallic. She grabbed it with two fingers and slid it out: the key.
She opened the door and stepped into blackness and the stink of stale smoke. Feeling around, she could tell she was surrounded by cardboard packing boxes, stacked high. Probably untouched since the moving company unloaded them. She could make out a path between the stacks as she stepped ahead gingerly. Her knee bumped into something soft, covered by something crinkly. A piece of furniture covered in a plastic tarp. If she wasn't mistaken, it was her chaise longue, the one she wanted to use in the master bedroom, but the colors didn't work with the new aubergine accent wall. She'd intended to have it reupholstered.
But right now, that chaise was her idea of perfection. She pulled up the tarp and collapsed on it, as Toto jumped up beside her, and her exhausted eyes closed for the night.
Chapter 44—The Royal Snail
By the time I got out of the shower, Ronzo had fallen asleep. He'd taken off his shoes, tie and jacket, but was still wearing his suit trousers and shirt as he snored gently on the bed against the far wall.
I took the extra blanket from my bed and draped it over him. He looked younger when he slept. I realized he might be a bit younger than me. I wanted to kiss him and tuck him in, like a small child. Whoever he was, he certainly was cute.
And nice.
Mostly. Except when he went into his Tony Soprano routine.
He'd been such a sweet lover. Part of me wanted to ignore my apprehensions and snuggle into the bed with him.
But I hadn't been very warm to him tonight. He'd probably lost interest. Look at how easily he'd fallen asleep.
I wished I could do that. But I didn't feel sleepy at all. In fact, I felt as if I were about to jump out of my skin. My life after tonight was an abyss. I felt as if I should do something—anything, to fight the looming disaster. But there was nowhere to turn. Nothing I could do.
I needed a glass of wine and a good book to take my mind off all of it. Unfortunately I'd forgotten to pack either.
I got into bed with my laptop. At least I could read my email. There were over five hundred. Mostly spam.
I found a flurry of messages from about a week ago from my publisher in the UK. One from Vera, the office manager, and one from my editor, Pradeep Balasubramarium.
Vera's note was oddly apologetic, full of great detail about how she wasn't able to make a money wire transfer without more information. She said Pradeep wanted her to send my royalties electronically, but she was an old woman and all this electronic business was simply too much. So she'd sent the royalty check via the Royal Mail as per usual, and that would have to do.
I didn't understand. My quarterly checks usually amounted to less than fifty dollars, so a delay of a week or so for snail mail didn't much matter. Still, I could use fifty dollars right now, so I was grateful to know that the check was on its way.
"Professor" Pradeep's note was longer. It started with his usual slavish praise of the electronic book and how it was revolutionizing the publishing business. He went on and on about how the e-book department now put Sherwood, Ltd. on the "cutting edge" of the industry. He'd talked the owners into offering Sherwood's e-books in India—which has one of the largest English-speaking populations in the world, which is under-served, blah, blah.... I did wish he wouldn't write to me about all this. He knew my negative views about the Kindle and all its spawn and he wasn't going to change my mind.
But when I came to the third paragraph, I had to read it three times to make sure I understood correctly. He said he'd put Good Manners for Bad Times on Amazon's new India site and other websites with bizarre names like "Junglee" and "Eswar" and it had become a bestseller.
A bestseller. That's what he said. My book—which had been selling maybe twenty copies a month since it was published over a year ago—was suddenly a bestseller. In India.
Pradeep said Good Manners had been number one in Indian nonfiction for over three months. Indians wanted to know how to do business with Americans, so an up-to-date, easy-to-understand manners guide was exactly what they wanted.
And—I had to read this several more times—My royalties for the previous quarter amounted to £16,000—a little over $25,000. He had wanted to wire it right away, he said, but that was beyond Vera, who was "getting things sorted" and would "send a cheque as fast as the Royal snail mail could carry it."
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
I let out a yelp. I did try to stifle it—but I was a bit too late.
Ronzo threw off his blanket and jumped up from the bed.
"What is it? Are you okay?
"Oh, yes," I said. "More than okay." I motioned him over to look at my computer screen.
He perched next to me on the bed and took the laptop. He started to grin as he read the e-mail.
"I guess you're not going to be homeless, after all, huh? No more sharing cheap rooms with strange guys from New Jersey?"
"Oh, I think I may still have time for sharing with a guy from New Jersey."
I couldn't help myself. I leaned over and kissed him.
He kissed back.
I helped him out of his clothes, and we celebrated my good fortune under the Jackso
n Pollack bedspread, well into the night.
Chapter 45—Barbeque
Doria woke to Toto's annoying barking. The little dog had jumped down to the floor. His nose pointed toward the gray dawn light that peeked through window beyond the packing boxes.
He was barking ferociously at something/somebody outside.
Something that crunched heavily on the gravel pathway.
Doria prayed it wasn't a large carnivorous beast.
No, those sounded like human footsteps. Right outside. Had she locked the door behind her?
The door creaked open.
Apparently not.
Toto ran toward the door and disappeared behind the stacks of packing boxes.
"Hi there, little guy!" a male voice spoke in a soothing tone, presumably to Toto. "Have you been trapped in here since the fire? Poor doggy. Come 'ere."
Toto stopped barking. Defecting to the sweet-talking intruder, apparently
Doria was on her own. She couldn't see around the pile of packing boxes, but the man could only be only a few feet away. She could feel a chilly morning breeze coming through the open door.
Who was he? A policeman? An FBI agent? Doria found herself wishing he'd turn out to be a nice homeless person, simply looking for something to steal. Of course, even if he were, it would be best to stay out of sight. She pulled the tarp up over her head.
Bad idea. The plastic made a crackly noise.
"Hey! Who's in there?"
Silence. Then some footsteps. And a presence, looming over the chaise.
She peeked from under the tarp. Standing over her was a well-groomed, youngish man who held Toto cradled in his arms. He had a nice smile.
But when he saw Doria, he made an odd sound. A sort of squeak. Toto jumped to the floor.
The man stood with his mouth open for a moment before he formed any words.
"Oh. My. God. It can't be. It wasn't you who went over that cliff in Pismo?"
Doria tried to sit up. Since she'd obviously been recognized, she wanted to show a little dignity. The man's hair was cropped short, in a military sort of cut. She wondered if he might be from the FBI.
No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) Page 12
