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

by Allen, Anne R.

  Camilla was still chattering away. Luckily, she had no reason to connect "Dorothy" with Marvin, so Marvin had no reason to come in here.

  Deep breath. She was probably perfectly safe. This was a small community. People knew each other. Marvin's visit probably didn't have anything to do with her. She should lie down, get some sleep, and hope the man would be gone when she woke up.

  But just in case, she decided to borrow something to wear and take off Marvin's clothes. A jogging suit would do. She took off the Manners Doctor outfit and laid it carefully on the bed.

  A shout from the patio startled her. Plantagenet. He sounded angry. She was pretty sure what he said was—

  "Call the police!"

  She froze, trapped, unable to breathe. She should have known better than to come here. They were George and Enrique's friends. George and Enrique might have tipped them off.

  This place was not safe. She grabbed a navy blue jogging suit. The drab color would be good for sneaking around in the dark. She had to roll up the pant legs about four times, and the sleeves were ridiculous, but it was clothing.

  She pulled up the zipper. Something bulky in the pocket turned out to be a ski-cap. Great. It would hide her hair, already matted from that wig. And it would keep her warm.

  It was going to be cold out there.

  And out there is where she had to go.

  Lickity split.

  Grabbing the Chanel bag, she headed toward the front door. She'd go out to the street and hitchhike. Pretend to have a broken-down car or something.

  She had no idea where she'd hitchhike to. Any place away from here.

  The doorbell rang.

  Could the police be here already?

  People were definitely at the front door. She could hear voices in the front hall.

  She couldn't go that way.

  She hoped there was a back door that didn't go right onto the patio where Marvin lay in wait. Through the garage, maybe. Yes. At the end of the hall she found a door that led into a dark garage. She squeezed between dusty boxes and shadowy tools and felt around for an outlet to the back yard.

  She found a knob, pushed open a door, and stepped out into the night.

  Camilla and Marvin were huddled over their wine at the outside table, looking like a couple of conspirators in the glow of the patio lights.

  Slithering along the outside wall, Doria hoped the dark would hide her in spite of the nearly full moon. When she reached the corner of the house, she had to choose whether to take a chance of being seen by the maybe-cops at the front door or Marvin and Camilla on the patio. She decided cops were scarier than Marvin and took off running toward the willows by the creek.

  She kept running until the patio with its elegant coach-lamp lighting was far enough away that she felt invisible.

  But her heel sank into a hole. Damn. She tripped and collapsed onto the soft grass. The dizziness was back. Maybe she should rest here.

  And hope there were no wild animals around.

  Her mind filled with those stories she'd heard at the homeless camp about lions and bears.

  Then she saw one.

  A cat. A very big cat. Loping down toward the creek. At least she was pretty sure it was a cat. With tufts on its ears. A mountain lion? A lynx?

  She was going to be eaten by a wild beast and nobody would even know.

  To the world, she was already dead.

  Chapter 68—Marva

  "Camilla, I'm Marva." Marvin's voice moved to a slightly higher register. "You caught me, um, impersonating the Manners Doctor a few years back. Down in Santa Ynez. A little blackmail thing with your ex-husband?"

  My breath stopped as I looked into that almost-familiar face. Maybe, with make-up and false eyelashes, in the right light, it might be…

  Yes. It probably was.

  "Marva! I thought you were going to have an operation. You stole all that money so you could get the sex-reassignment surgery…"

  Marvin looked away and gave an embarrassed smile.

  "I managed to lose it. They want you to go through counseling before surgery, so I invested the money while I was in therapy. Unfortunately I invested it with Harry the Shark…"

  "You too? He seems to have stolen from everybody—he sounds more like an octopus than a shark. Silas and Plant have been almost bankrupted…"

  "I know," Marvin said. "I'm the one who introduced them to Harry. Pressured them, even. Harry gave me a nice commission, which of course I 'reinvested'…. Nobody ever won Harry's games but Harry." He glanced toward the sliding doors to the dining room, where Silas and Plant sat poring over papers with Lureen.

  Marvin shrugged. "Plantagenet was totally against it—He sensed Harry was a con before any of the rest of us, but I sort of seduced Silas and…"

  I held up a flattened hand to stop him. I did not need to hear the story. I knew as much about it as I cared to. I hadn't known the identity of the "little tramp" Silas had been seeing last January, but Plant had moved into my cottage for a week over that particular incident.

  "What does any of this have to do with Ronson V. Zolek?"

  I used my no-nonsense voice. Marva always had such a round-about way of getting to the point.

  Marva/Marvin sighed. "That's my fault too. I got him out here—kind of on false pretenses. He's got a running story on his blog about J. J. Tower, the guitar player. He thinks J. J. didn't die in the fire at that Texas roadhouse in 1992."

  I sat up and started paying more attention. Marva was a chronic liar, but this story might contain a grain of truth. Ronzo was definitely into '80s metal bands and he'd talked a lot about J.J. Tower.

  "Yes." I gave Marvin a smile to encourage the truth-telling. "He told me his theory that J.J. faked his death and became some kind of traveling minstrel. He said the best J.J. Tower songs were about how fame corrupts and life should be simple. But I'm afraid I never could understand the lyrics. I'm not a heavy metal fan."

  "Me, either." Marvin smiled back. A Marva smile. "But Ronzo is a major heavy metal guy. So on his blog, he asks people to send him pictures of people who might be J. J.—it's like Bigfoot spotting, you know? Or UFOs. So I emailed him a picture."

  "And why did you do that? Did you actually see somebody who looked like J.J. or were you just fooling an old army buddy into visiting you?"

  Marvin gave a masculine snort.

  "We weren't exactly buddies. I sort of got him shot. One night I couldn't find my body armor, so I borrowed his, and then the whole squad got sent into Fallujah…I don't suppose you really want to hear this?"

  I made an attempt at a smile. "Why don't you tell me about J.J. Tower first?" I could believe Marva might steal armor, but I didn't need to hear the story. I needed to pin down some facts in this increasingly bizarre situation with Ronzo. If the man really was in danger, I should do what I could.

  "There is this local homeless guy," Marva/Marvin said. "They call him Hobo Joe. I'm sure he's not J.J.—because J.J. is as dead as Elvis. Seriously. Some people will believe anything. But Hobo Joe looks a little like J.J. might look if he'd lived another twenty-five years. So I took his picture and sent it to Ronzo to get him out here."

  "But you haven't explained why you wanted to see him."

  "He's a detective—Ronzo is. Didn't you know that?"

  That Newark business card. Maybe it wasn't totally bogus.

  "He really does investigations for some law firm? I thought he was a blogger who spent his time invading the privacy of former celebrities."

  Marvin let out a derisive laugh. "He is. And he does. But bloggers have day jobs, you know? Nobody could live on what he makes with that Internet crap. They used to buy some of his freelance pieces for the print Rolling Stone, but now they've got him in the farm league in the blogs. His stuff is pretty out-there."

  Somehow it helped to know Ronzo's blog was considered "out there." Maybe my former socialite friends wouldn't have seen it.

  "So you're saying Mr. Zolek came all the way out from New Jersey b
ecause you sent him a picture of a hobo? Not because he wanted to write a tell-all piece about the Manners Doctor?"

  Marvin shrugged. "You were gravy for him. Well, more than gravy. He was head over heels. And I totally freaked when he said he was romancing you. I did not want you to recognize me and out me as trans. Ronzo is old-school and it would have complicated things no end. But no. He didn't come here looking for you. He's looking for J.J. He's totally obsessed with the guy."

  Head over heels. Right. Because he had somebody to make fun of on the Internet. But I had to let that go if Ronzo really was in some kind of danger. Some of Marvin's story made sense, but nothing connected.

  "Why did you want him to come all the way out here if you're not friends?"

  "Because of Harry. I knew Harry was planning something. He asked one of my girls to run away with him to South America. I overheard her talking about it. And now she's disappeared. Everybody keeps disappearing. I couldn't tell the police, for obvious reasons, but I figured if I got Ronzo interested, he might do some snooping on his own."

  "Your girls? You have daughters? One is missing? "

  I tried to put all this information together while picturing Marva/Marvin as a parent, but I was saved from the mental gymnastics by Plant, who slid open the patio door.

  "Do you want to tell Camilla about your 'girls' or shall I?" Plant gave a not-nice smile. "Marvin here runs a brothel. An S/M brothel. Right here in our little neighborhood. He even takes it on the road as Mistress Nightshade's Traveling Discipline Show. Very handy for Harry Sharkov. I hear he was your best customer, Marvin."

  Silas and Lureen appeared in the doorway.

  "We've got papers for you to sign, Camilla," Silas said. "I'd love to sell you a little piece of property in Morro Bay."

  His welcome grin pulled my mind from the unpleasant things I'd been picturing.

  I was about to be a homeowner. And a business owner. My life was about to change for the better in so many ways.

  So why did I feel as if we were all on the brink of disaster?

  Chapter 69— Strawberry Wine

  Doria lay as still as she could in the cold grass, hoping the beast wouldn't see her. It might smell her of course. And the moon was bright.

  She hoped it would eat her quickly. It would be too horrific to have to watch.

  She shut her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Home. In Manhattan. And this was all one big, ghastly dream.

  She heard something behind her. Barking.

  A child's voice called out, "Toto! Come back! Don't run away again."

  Doria looked up and saw little Toto, wagging a joyous tail. Above him, young Tyler, who didn't look quite so pleased. She petted the little dog. Tyler had been right. Toto could obviously find his way home.

  "Are you that lady we kicked out before? Is that where Toto's been this whole time? With you?"

  Thank goodness. The homeless camp was still here. She'd have a place to hide until morning. With people. Wild beasts wouldn't attack a whole bunch of people, would they?

  She sat up and hugged Toto. "Did you scare him off?" She looked up at the boy. Did you see a mountain lion, Tyler? I was afraid I was going to be his dinner."

  "Nah." Tyler's tone was scornful. "That was only a bobcat. They don't bother people. Might eat Toto, though, which is why I was trying to keep him from leaving camp. Toto must have smelled you out here. I guess he really likes you. I was afraid he wouldn't come back this time."

  Doria heard a rustle in the willows. She prayed Tyler was right about bobcats.

  But it wasn't a cat. It was Joe, the man with the guitar from the camp. He didn't have a guitar this time. He had a big shovel.

  "What's going on here? You okay, Miss?"

  "It's that lady from before," Tyler said. "The one that took Toto. She was passed out here."

  "I didn't take Toto…" Doria sat up, trying to explain. "A man gave me a ride and he thought Toto was my dog…" She turned to Joe. "And I didn't pass out. I tripped."

  The man came closer. "You been drinking? Lucky and Bucky don't allow drinking."

  "I only had a little fume blanc with dinner," Doria said. "And I simply…fell down. These heels are low, but they're not for running. And there was a bobcat."

  "Yeah, that cat hangs out here sometimes. He won't bother you. Probably looking for the dead raccoon I just buried." He indicated the muddy shovel. "We don't like to have dead stuff stinking up the camp." Joe held out his free hand to help her up. "Good to see you, Dorothy. I never got to thank you for that fiver you gave me at the Mission last week. So you decided to come back to us?"

  "Yes. I'm um, I was staying with friends…up there." She gestured at Silas and Plant's glowing house up the hill. "But…" What on earth could she say? "There was somebody at the door. I thought it might be the police."

  Joe's face widened into a grin, as if this explained everything. "No prob. Listen, I can let you bunk in my campsite. As long as you don't get near enough to Lucky or Bucky for them to smell that wine."

  How a homeless person, reeking of B.O. and God knew what else could smell a little wine on somebody's breath, Dorothy did not know. But she wasn't asking. This nice homeless man with the deep, friendly eyes had come to her rescue.

  He gave her a wide grin. "Don't worry ma'am. I won't get fresh. You're safe with me."

  For some reason, she believed him. Something about him did feel safe.

  "Thank you so much. You're saving my life. Literally. I'm terrified of those animals."

  "Don't worry." Joe grinned. "Anything really dangerous comes around, I'm pretty mean with this shovel. Carry a knife, too." He opened his coat to reveal a holstered Buck knife. "And I've got a shotgun in my tent. Somebody's gotta keep these kids safe."

  He ruffled Tyler's hair.

  "Kid, why don't you go back and let Lucky and Bucky know things are okay out here."

  Tyler and Toto disappeared into an opening in the willows.

  "So you shoot mountain lions and things? If they come to the camp?"

  "Never had much trouble with animals. We can usually scare off a bear or a cat. It's the humans you gotta watch out for. Got some real predators out there. They need to know we can look out for our own."

  Joe offered Doria his arm as they made their slow way down the hill.

  "Thanks," she said. "We all need somebody to look out for us now and then." He didn't even smell terribly bad. Perhaps these people had a place they could bathe.

  "I never looked out for a dead person before," he said. "I read in the paper that you're a dead woman, Miss Doria Windsor."

  Doria froze. She couldn't breathe. He knew.

  "Steady there," he said, holding her up with a strong arm. "Don't worry. I won't tell a soul."

  "How did you… how you know who I am?"

  He looked into her eyes. "I've known who you are for a long, long time, Dorothy."

  Something about that voice. Familiar, but raspier and older. She looked up at Joe's bearded face, shadowed in the moonlight, haloed by his wild gray hair. He looked like a crazy homeless guy. But those eyes—those compelling eyes she'd first seen in the sunlight in front of the San Luis Mission –they seemed to contain their own fire. Was she really feeling an attraction to a scruffy old homeless man?

  "You once said I knew you better than you knew yourself, Dorothy. You were such a tough little thing, even back in high school. I always said you were a survivor." He gave her shoulders a squeeze.

  Memories came in a flood. She was back on the banks of the Blackstone River, listening to him play "This Land is Your Land" on his J.C. Penney guitar as his sweet tenor voice drifted into the humid Rhode Island night.

  She could almost taste the strawberry wine.

  "Joey? Joey Torres? It's really you?"

  Chapter 70—Missing Persons

  Marvin came in from the patio as I signed the papers. Silas and Plant stood together, keeping their distance from him, like herd animals sensing a predator nearby.
<
br />   Lureen refused an offer of a glass of wine to toast my new venture and scurried off. I have to admit I was glad to see her go. I don't suppose it was her fault those awful L.A. people had bullied me, but she brought unpleasant associations.

  With icy politeness, Plant offered to top off Marvin's glass of fume blanc.

  "No thanks," Marvin said. "I need a clear head. I've got to start looking for Ronzo as soon as it's light." His voice was all business now. "If the poor bastard is still alive, every minute counts. I need to see whatever you've got of his, Camilla. If there's a clue in there, it might save his life."

  "You're that worried about him—and your missing hooker—but you won't call the police?" Plant set the bottle on the sideboard.

  "Ronzo's already tried to talk to them about Tom's disappearance twice. They wouldn't even take a missing persons report." Marvin snorted. "And I can't prove Fantasia is missing. I don't have an address for her. Only a cell phone number. And obviously that's not her real name. But I know she wouldn't stop picking up unless she was in trouble. I've still got her pay from the last gig."

  Plant gave an unfunny laugh. "So your girl isn't missing. She's simply not taking your calls. Maybe she just doesn't want to work for you any more, Marvin." He sat heavily in the dining chair next to Silas.

  "That's certainly what the police would say, which is why I haven't reported it." Marvin gave an elaborate shrug. "They're not exactly my number one fans, as you can imagine. Fantasia's father is a macho fisherman type, and sometimes he beats her up, so he could have hurt her, but I don't think so. I think Harry took her."

  "Harry Sharkov took her? Where, to hell?" Silas was obviously not buying a word of this.

  "Hear me out," Marvin said. "First, I know Harry asked Fantasia to take a trip to South America with him, and second, I know Harry was with her when the fire broke out. She was one of the two girls he asked for in the Jacuzzi. And she brought her own car that day even though it's the rule that everybody meets first to do costume and make-up, then travels with the Mistress. But Fantasia arrived late, by herself. I was furious."