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

by Allen, Anne R.

  OK, they'd found her. She threw off the tarp.

  This didn't have the desired effect. The man took a sharp breath and gave her a look of pure pity. Or was it horror?

  "It's really you. Oh, my God, what happened to you, Ms. Windsor? Did you try to…. Please tell me you didn't try to kill yourself?"

  Doria looked down and saw that the front of her Dress for Less suit was crusted with dried blood. The damned drains. She hadn't emptied them since her stop in the pizza place last night. They'd overflowed.

  "I…no." How insulting that he would assume she'd done this to herself. Outrage gave her strength. "I definitely did not try to kill myself. It's just a tummy tuck. I need my pills. Could you hand me my purse?"

  She seemed to have dropped Betsy's purse half way between the boxes and the chaise when she'd collapsed last night. Her whole body hurt like hell. All she wanted was her Oxy.

  The man picked up the big Fendi bag.

  "Since when did you carry a huge satchel like this, Ms. Windsor? Don't you prefer smaller bags like your little crocodile Birkin?"

  Doria pondered this as she pulled out the water bottle, took a swig, and rummaged for the pill box. It's true she hated this kind of cavernous purse where you could lose things for days. But she was overwhelmed by the creepiness of meeting this man who knew what kind of bag she carried.

  She'd almost rather he'd been a bear.

  "Now the FBI keeps files on what kind of handbags we carry? 'One nation, under surveillance.' That's what Harry always used to say."

  The man let out a loud laugh. "You thought I was an FBI agent? Oh, God forbid. I'm only a, um…neighbor. And a fan. I've been subscriber to Home magazine since forever. Seriously. You'll have to come and see my house. It's the December issue from last year—right down to the aubergine accent wall. I hired a decorator and told her to do everything you said."

  Doria wasn't going to let him butter her up. If he wasn't an officer of the law, he was trespassing.

  "A neighbor who likes to sneak around other people's property at the crack of dawn?"

  "Sorry. I'm being so rude." He held out his hand. "The name's Marvin. I've got a place nearby. I am—um, I was—a friend of Harry's. I left something here at a party—I think it might be in the pool house—and I was hoping to find it before the law enforcement people come back to spirit everything away as evidence."

  "You were a friend of Harry's?" The man looked to be in his thirties. Harry didn't often make friends with men of the younger generation. Unless they were wealthy celebrities, of course.

  "Oh yes. He invited me to lots of his parties."

  Doria felt the sting of something like jealousy. It felt strange to hear Harry entertained guests without her. That he'd made friends in the neighborhood. She'd been too busy with the magazine to ask. If Harry were still alive, they'd probably be entertaining neighbors right now—a lovely evening on the patio looking down at the vineyards and the creek.

  "Yes. Everybody loved his barbeque. That man could make magic with an open flame." Marvin stopped himself. "Oh shoot. That was insensitive. I'm so sorry."

  Doria remembered how obsessive Harry got about learning to barbeque. He'd never barbequed before he moved here—it's not a big thing in Manhattan. But he fell in love with it. His Webber grill. No propane. He liked to use the best mesquite. And now…he'd ended up barbequed himself.

  It was terrible.

  And also terribly funny.

  Somehow, Doria let a laugh come out. A little giggle. She tried to stop it, but that somehow turned it into a sob. A big, snotty sob.

  By the time Marvin got to the middle of his apology, she was crying like an infant. All the pain and grief of the last two days came gushing out and she fell back on the chaise, lying in the pool of her own blood. Everything suddenly felt so hopeless. Everything she'd worked for her whole life—gone up in flames. Barbequed.

  "Oh, you poor thing, you really loved the old bastard, didn't you?" Marvin put a strong arm around Doria's shoulders and let her cry into his corduroy jacket. He dug in his pocket and handed her an almost-unused tissue.

  His question gave her pause. She thought about it as she blew her nose.

  "I don't know if I loved him or not. I don't know anything. One minute I'm having a tummy tuck and the next, I'm a wanted criminal. For a crime I didn't even know about. I still don't know much about it, as a matter of fact. I have no money. No place to go. Even the homeless won't have me…"

  The gravel outside crunched.

  Toto barked.

  They both froze.

  Marvin's face went white. "Shoot. The cops."

  Chapter 46—The Price of a Handbag

  I woke to bright sunlight—but no Ronzo.

  He seemed to have managed to shower and dress without waking me. Very sweet. He'd told me he had to get up super-early because he wanted to interview some fisherman who might know something about Tom.

  I hoped he'd be back in time to drive me to work.

  I turned on the television for company as I dressed and carefully put make-up over my bruised eye. I did hope that Brianna would dump that horrible Jason. He must have been hitting her like this too. She'd come to work some days wearing oddly heavy make-up. It had seemed more appropriate for a nightclub than a bookstore. Now I knew why.

  The Harry Sharkov/ Doria Windsor brouhaha dominated the TV morning news. People do love to hear about celebrities gone bad. I turned to a local channel, hoping to get a weather report, but instead got more talk of Doria Windsor, and a shot of a reporter standing by a foggy cliff overlooking the ocean.

  "A body has been retrieved from the Mercedes that went over the cliff here in Pismo Beach last night. But it doesn't appear to be the body of Doria Windsor. The body is of a young male in his twenties. It is not known if the man was Ms. Windsor's companion, but no other bodies have been found."

  Pismo Beach. Less than a half hour away. So the rumors that Doria had been spotted in the SLO area were right. It was creepy to have a national scandal happening so close to home. Maybe Doria had found a young hunk and pulled a Thelma and Louise dive into oblivion.

  A dramatic exit from a dramatic life.

  But personally, I had no time for drama. All I wanted was to keep my job and get my home back.

  I started to turn off the television, but couldn't help listening to a few more details.

  "The car has been identified as the Mercedes Benz stolen from the Beverly Hills home of television star Betsy Baylor yesterday morning. Ms. Baylor's identification has been found inside. However, nothing has been found to tie Doria Windsor to the vehicle."

  I wished they'd make up their minds. Maybe Doria hadn't been in the car at all? Maybe she wasn't dead?

  I clicked it off. Probably all speculation. Local media trying to horn in on a major national news story.

  I checked the time—after eight o'clock. I wasn't going to have time to wait for Ronzo. Maybe I'd be stupid to show up for work acting as if I still had a job. I probably didn't, if the L.A people were already taking possession of the cottage. But I needed to get back to the store to salvage what little I could, before they painted the whole place mauve.

  Panic hit as I realized all my furniture was probably about to be hauled who knows where by the flooring people.

  The fact I was getting a big check didn't change that. I needed a van. This morning. And maybe a lawyer. Plus I had to reach Silas and Plant.

  I grabbed my phone.

  The sound of Plant's voice only made me angry. I let loose on him.

  "You let those painters go into my house and start splattering mauve Sherwin Williams all over my things? Without even giving me time to pack up my stuff? That place was mine until midnight. I paid rent. What kind of friends are you two?"

  Plant went silent on the other end of the line for long enough that I could tell this was probably the first he was hearing of it.

  "What painters?" His voice sounded a little choked. "Camilla, I don't know what you're tal
king about. Do you mean the cottage? They're going to paint it mauve? That's going to be so awful with the carpeting."

  "They're redoing the floor too. You didn't know?"

  "I don't know anything. Except that I'm exhausted and I've been up all night with George and Enrique and the FBI."

  I didn't need jokes right now. Plant wasn't making a bit of sense.

  "George and Enrique have been arrested by the FBI? What for? Being too neat and tidy?"

  "No. It's…complicated. They know something about Doria Windsor. I thought they were acting cagey last night and I was right. Apparently she paid them a visit, right before she drove that car over the cliff in Pismo. They may have been the last people to see her alive. Enrique was close to hysterical when he heard about it on the eleven o'clock news. Silas talked them into calling the police to report what they knew and they wanted us to go with them. Such a stupid idea. Silas is in a terrible mess himself, and he goes off trying to solve other people's problems. He makes me crazy."

  "I don't think you're crazy, but why did you have to be there all night?"

  "The local police kept us forever and then the FBI people barged in and took over. Those people are tireless. And humorless. I really can't think straight, Camilla. We're probably going to be homeless within days. There's a mess with the payment check from the L.A. buyers. Silas is on his way to the bank to try to clear it up, but if we don't have some cash by tomorrow, we're going to lose everything. Is there any chance this can wait until I've had some sleep?"

  This was a new development. A hopeful one. I knew it was rude to keep Plant from sleep, but I had to know.

  "What do you mean there's a mess with the payment check? Are you talking about the people buying my cottage? Is it possible the sale isn't final yet?"

  If only I had proof those people didn't own the property yet. That would give me some leverage with the workmen. Maybe the house was still mine for a few more days. Or maybe…

  Why hadn't I thought of this last night?

  I probably had enough money for a down payment on that property now. Maybe I could buy it myself.

  "How much money do you need to get your house back?"

  "About twenty-five thousand," Plant said, his voice weary. "The kind of money you used to spend on a handbag. Now it's what's sitting between us and total ruin."

  I felt as if the top of my head might pop off. This was so brilliant.

  "What if somebody else came up with twenty-five thousand dollars? Could you stop the sale?"

  "I haven't the foggiest idea. Can I go to bed now?"

  I clicked off the phone and scrambled into my clothes. If only Vera had been able to send that money electronically. When had she sent that email about the check? It was a while ago. Maybe the money would come in time…

  Or maybe it already had.

  The mail—the pile I'd taken home to read on Saturday night. There was an envelope with British postage. That meant the check was already here. I had the money. Enough for a down payment on the cottage and the store. Right now.

  All I needed to do was get that check and take it to Silas at the San Luis bank.

  But my car was still back at the cottage. Morro Bay had a trolley-like bus that might take me there, but it would probably be quicker to walk.

  I laced up my Nikes and ran out the door. I waved happily at the motel manager, who probably thought I was nuts.

  Ronzo's rental car was still in the parking lot. He would probably be back soon. I should have left a note. Oh, well. He knew where to find me. I had a bookstore to run.

  Maybe a bookstore to save. For the price of a designer bag.

  Chapter 47—And Your Little Dog Too

  Marvin scooped up Toto, who was still barking like mad, and stepped outside the garage. Doria heard him greet somebody. Maybe two somebodies. A man and a woman.

  They sounded like Law Enforcement.

  She could hear pretty well through the uninsulated walls and you couldn't mistake that flat, "just the facts ma'am" tone of voice.

  Marvin was apparently offering some sort of identification. He said he was a neighbor, which seemed to satisfy.

  He then launched into a clever, elaborate story about how his dog had run away and he'd come looking here because Harry always fed the little guy scraps from his barbeques, so this is where he'd always run.

  "Harry loved his barbeque. Ironic, under the circumstances, isn't it? And tragic, of course."

  Law Enforcement showed no signs of amusement that Doria could hear. But Marvin went on.

  "Poor little dog didn't know about Harry's passing. Or that Harry was a crook. He seemed like a nice, neighborly fellow—and a generous host. Who knew?"

  Marvin sounded fairly convincing.

  The woman asked what the dog's name was.

  "Toto," Marvin said, without missing a beat. Odd. Doria didn't remember telling him the dog's name. "Doesn't he look like Toto in the Wizard of Oz?"

  "Not even a little bit," the woman said. "I've seen sewer rats cuter than that thing. Listen, this is a crime scene. We don't have the manpower to police it night and day, but the Feds are going to be here any time now, so you want to do us a favor and not get yourself arrested? It's gonna be paperwork for us and not much fun for you. Okay?"

  "Absolutely," Marvin said. "I'm out of here. That's my truck over there."

  Doria heard the three of them crunch away.

  Then the start of a car engine. And a truck's.

  Marvin was abandoning her. He'd even taken Toto. And the FBI were on their way.

  End of the line.

  She was going to have to turn herself in.

  Time to get ready for her close-up. She tried to button her suit jacket to hide the blood on the blouse and trousers, found a hairbrush in the purse to yank through her hair, then pulled out the compact. At that point, she nearly lost it. The creature in the mirror looked ten years older than the person who went in for the damned tummy tuck four days ago. And her gray roots made her look as if she had a bald spot where her hair was parted.

  No wonder Lucky and Bucky thought she was senile.

  With Betsy's make-up and some back-combing, she tried to do something to make herself look less like an Alzheimer's patient on walkabout. Unfortunately, it mostly made her look like a superannuated hooker.

  But it would have to do. The FBI probably wouldn't care.

  Chapter 48—Morro Bay Drizzle

  I managed to make it to my store in about fifteen minutes, moving along at a good New York walking pace, steering around the befuddled tourists and retail workers making their slow way along the sidewalk.

  But when I rounded the corner, I could see I was too late. The flooring people were already at work. The front door stood wide open.

  I wanted to scream. All the furniture had been pulled from the house and piled haphazardly in the little courtyard. Some of it was covered in tarps, but many pieces sat in the open exposed to the drizzly Morro Bay fog.

  Everything I owned—pulled from the house like so much garbage. I had absolutely no idea where they might have put my mail. Or even where to start looking.

  I tried Silas's phone again. He didn't pick up.

  I had a vague recollection of leaving the stack of mail on the kitchen counter. It could still be there. I walked into the house where men were busy pulling up the tired green carpeting. That, I wouldn't miss so much. I approached a man in coveralls who looked as if he might be in charge.

  "I need to get into the kitchen. My mail is in there."

  "We're about to pull up the linoleum, so you'd better get it quick."

  I pushed past the workers and madly started opening the drawers in the kitchen. All my silverware and kitchen things were still in place, but the counters seemed to have been cleared. I'd have to find a way to get the silver out before the horrible people moved in, but I didn't have time now. The man in coveralls was already giving me the "I don't have all day" look.

  No mail. Nothing. I probably had taken i
t to the living room to read it. Had I put it on a table? The couch? My mind went blank as my head roared.

  "Did you see a stack of mail? Anything on the counter?"

  The man shrugged and gave me a disdainful look. "We were told to move everything out. When you order a rush job like this, you should have your house ready. It's all there on our website."

  I tried to tell him I wasn't the one who ordered the flooring and this whole thing was a big, ugly case of bullying by the sociopathic rich who had no empathy and no concern for the consequences of their actions on society as a whole. But after I did some sputtering at his blank, uncomprehending face, I gave up. It was like talking to a tree.

  "You put everything outside? You didn't throw anything away? Papers? Envelopes?"

  The man nodded. "'Course I can't tell you what the painters did. They had to clean up before we could start."

  Those painters. They could have thrown my mail in the garbage out of spite. They sure didn't like Ronzo.

  Ronzo. Maybe he could help. He might remember seeing my mail. He seemed to pay attention to that sort of thing, like that note about the concert last night.

  He'd put his phone number in mine last night. I dialed. But he didn't pick up.

  Okay, I had to start somewhere. Lifting one of the tarps from the pile of furniture, I unearthed my dresser and began going through the drawers one by one, feeling more and more panicked.

  I heard somebody come up behind me. It didn't sound like a workman.

  "Time to pay up, bitch. Don't think I can't defend myself. I don't care how many mobsters you're screwing."

  I turned and saw Brianna, looking as if she'd had a very, very bad night.

  Chapter 49—Marvin's Birkin

  Doria heard a car approaching. And coming to a stop.

  A moment later, she heard the crunch of footsteps.