I managed to call 911 and keep calm until the police arrived and paramedics took away the footless body. But when they took my Prada pump as evidence, I sank onto the back stairs and broke into sobs—not snuffly, oh-how-sad tears, but uncontrolled, little-kid wails. I couldn’t have said if they were for the coyote-gnawed clerk, or Habib’s betrayal, or the whole crashing-down, twenty-first century world.
The officer sat next to me on the bottom stair. “You’re taking this pretty hard, Ms. Randall. Why is that? Didn’t you say you only met Larry this afternoon?”
I sniffed back the waterworks. “I’m not used to seeing people eaten by wild animals. And I don’t mean to be impolite, but the man’s name was Lance, not Larry.” I almost wished I hadn’t called 911. If it turned out Lance hadn’t been killed by the evil-eyed coyote, I’d set myself up as a murder suspect. No good deed goes unpunished.
“His license gives his name as Larry McNerlin,” the officer said. “Does he have family in the area? Friends we can contact?”
“I told you—all I know is he was working in the bookstore on the corner when I went in this afternoon.” I’d had my fill of fake-clueless questions. “But if you don’t think the coyote killed him, I have a suspect for you.”
I told him about the Englishman in the green hoodie.
The officer looked skeptical, but wrote something in his notebook.
A few minutes later, his partner reappeared.
“We’ve found a coyote eating human remains,” he said. “Over in Duboce park.” He gave me a nod. “Your story checks out. You can go back upstairs, ma’am. We’ll contact you if we have any more questions.”
“Ma’am.” That’s who I was now. An anonymous ma’am. I wondered if Jonathan, my ex, had descended so quickly from Page Six to anonymity.
I escaped to the apartment, but Plant’s airy studio didn’t feel safe any more. The high ceilings and open floor plan of the modernized Victorian made me feel exposed. I wanted a tiny, secret place to burrow into. I took a long shower and swallowed one of the tranquilizers Valentina gave me the day we got the notice that Metrofeatures was dropping my column. I fell into bed and drifted in and out of ridiculous nightmares about pipe-smoking coyotes attacking my feet.
But through the druggy haze I heard sounds from the hallway outside. Heavy footsteps. A clunk. My brain snapped back to full consciousness. Had the hoodie pervert come back with his knife? My own stupid fault for flirting with an alley-person.
I made myself take a deep breath and think rational thoughts. Maybe this was the police—back to ask about my “relationship with the deceased” again.
“Officers?” I called into the dark. No answer. I jumped from the bed, put on my robe and looked around for a weapon. “If you’re not the police,” I called at the door— “I’ve got a gun in here. A whole bunch. We collect guns. Major NRA fans.”
I heard a laugh.
“Darling, you’re an awful liar,” a voice said.
Chapter 4—Little Beige Lies
A key clicked in the lock and the door burst open. The light flicked on and there was Plantagenet, looking disheveled—or as disheveled as one can in a bespoke Zegna suit.
He rushed to hug me. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t remember you were staying here. I just assumed you’d be visiting your nice policeman, Rick…”
He could probably tell from my expression that Rick was a sore subject.
“But of course—you wrote you were interviewing for a job at the San Francisco Chronicle. I should have offered…oh, darling, I apologize for being in such a fog. But it’s wonderful to see you. I’m glad you found your way in.”
I couldn’t say anything. I clung to him. His hug made me feel safer than I had in months. I felt the sting of incipient tears as I tried to put all the recent horrors into words.
He handed me his handkerchief. “Of course. Losing your mother and dealing with that skinflint ex of yours—I’m sure it’s been terrible. I apologize for not being a better correspondent.”
He poured himself a Grey Goose and sighed.
“I’m not in such good shape myself. I’ve left Silas—walked out on him and all his pretentious dinner guests. They’re probably still waiting for me to fetch another case of Viognier. I don’t need to be somebody’s damned househusband.” He gulped vodka. “Especially since Silas seems to be having a thing on the side with a clerk in his Berkeley bookstore.”
A bookstore clerk. Too ironic. And sad.
Plantagenet and I both had such abysmal taste in men, it was good we had each other. We’d been friends since my subdeb days, when he was an orphan kid from New Jersey, sneaking into fancy parties for the food, and I was the clueless little heiress to the Randall newspaper empire. But we drifted apart when I married Jonathan—the two didn’t get on—and we’d only reconnected when Jonathan and I split up last year.
Plant fixed me a Negroni and asked me to tell him all about the night’s disasters.
I accepted it gratefully and launched into my tale.
When I came to the part about finding Lance’s body, Plant stopped me, his face suddenly white.
“Lance? You’re sure the dead man’s name was Lance?”
“Actually, the police think he was named Larry McNerlin. But they also think my Prada pump was involved, so I don’t put a lot of trust in them. You knew him?”
Plant nodded as he blinked back incipient tears. “He called himself Lance McMerlin, but I can imagine he changed his name. A sweet young guy.” Plant bit his lip, then took a gulp of his Grey Goose. “Unfortunately, his literary taste ran to ersatz-medieval.” He gave a laugh that turned into a sigh. “We met when my screenplay for Wilde in the West was getting all the awards. He and I…let’s say Silas isn’t the only one who’s dallied with bookpersons. Silas was furious about Lance, the damned hypocrite.” Plant refilled his glass. “But if you say we belong together because we had matching boy toys, I’m going to cry.”
I was a little afraid he might. It felt awful to have delivered the bad news in such a casual way. I wanted to give him comfort, but Ativan and vodka had done their work. I stretched out on the suedey softness of the couch, fighting to keep my eyelids open.
“Darling, you don’t have to give up the bed,” Plant said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’m so glad you’re here. Stay as long as you like. We’ll make good roommates. After all, we don’t have the same taste in men or the same dress size…”
Whatever he said after that faded into more coyote dreams.
I woke to the aromas of Jumpin’ Java and Noah’s bagels and lox.
Plant looked showered and fresh in a Jhane Bharnes shirt and khakis. “I’ve been talking with Felix at the bookstore.” He handed me a double mocha. “The poor man. The police suspect him in Lance’s death, since he and Lance were occasional lovers.”
“The coyote didn’t kill Lance?” I didn’t know if that was good news or not.
“Lance had no pre-mortem wounds, according to Felix. That’s probably why your policemen friends suspect foul play. They questioned Felix for hours. Apparently Lance gave his notice yesterday. Felix got a little heated—in front of a witness, who happened to be Lance’s old girlfriend. But Lance may have OD’d. Felix says he seemed drugged and out-of-it recently. Not a good way to go, but better than being killed by a wild animal, I should think.
“Or murdered by a well-mannered Englishman.” It was quite possible I’d had a brush with a murderer. And he still might be out there.
All I could do was shiver.
Plant set out the bagels and lox for our breakfast—a taste of heaven after a week of scrounging meals from his understocked cupboards.
As I spread cream cheese on a second bagel-half, he gave me a penetrating look.
“Felix said an odd thing—he said you’d applied to work at his store. That wasn’t you, was it? What about your job at the Chronicle?”
My unfavorite subject again. “Evaporated. So has the editor who asked to interview me. I’m an etiquet
te columnist in the 21st century—about as much in demand as, well, a newspaper.”
“And they didn’t bother to tell you until you’d flown all the way across the country?”
I shrugged as I munched my bagel. I didn’t feel up to telling him the non-refundable ticket represented my entire net worth, and without his apartment to run to, I’d probably have spent the last week sleeping on a bench in Central Park.
Plant gave me a confused smile. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake, but I told Felix to go ahead and give Lance’s job to one of the other applicants. So many people are hurting for money these days, and you’ll be rolling in it once the Countess’s will is straightened out.”
“That could take a while.” I took another chomp of bagel to avoid having to admit my little beige lies. There was nothing to straighten out. My poor mother had six husbands, five of them rich, but the last one left her nothing but debts and a dubious title.
Plant put on a cheery voice. “I think the Universe has decreed you spend the summer working on a project of your own. Isn’t it time to do an update of Wedding Rx from the Manners Doctor or maybe Manners Rx for the Suddenly Single?”
Another painful subject. “My agent says they’re totally last century and told me to start a blog. It lasted three months. I had ten followers.”
“Then you’ll have to do a whole new book. Something more contemporary. How about Good Manners for Bad Times? I’ll put a curtain over the bed alcove and that can be your room.” He gestured at the area by the side window. “It used to be a separate bedroom. When I bought this place, I thought I’d only use it for an occasional theater weekend, so I remodeled for entertaining. I didn’t realize those Hollywood vampires would steal me blind. Do you believe they claim Wilde in the West never made a penny?” He offered me half of the last bagel. “And speaking of vampires, I want the dish on your ex. Has Jonathan Kahn really left the faux news business to find enlightenment…?”
Chapter 5—Sherwood, Ltd.
Plant and I did make pretty good roommates. And actually, the studio was bigger than my old three-room West Side apartment.
I didn’t bring up the subject of Silas and Plant didn’t ask me about my failed romance with my policeman friend Rick. I even started to get used to the Stephen Sondheim mix constantly playing from Plant’s iPod speakers. I set up my laptop in an almost-private nook, and had a lot of evenings to myself, since Plant spent most of his time at Theater Rhino, where they were reviving one of his plays.
I discovered a resale shop in Hayes Valley that gave me a reasonable amount for my Piaget watch and the diamond earrings Jonathan had given me on our tenth anniversary. After that, I could contribute groceries and buy a few necessities. I didn’t tell Plant where the money came from. He thought my new Tinker Bell Timex was a cute fashion statement. I didn’t need diamonds. I was living in jeans anyway.
That’s why it was over a month before I put on the Armani pants suit I’d worn job-hunting the day Lance/Larry the bookstore clerk had met his end.
Plant was treating me to Peruvian food to celebrate finishing up my book proposal and sample chapters to send to my agent. As we waited to get into Mochica in a drizzly March fog, I stuck a hand in my pocket for warmth, and felt something I didn’t remember putting there. I pulled out an elegant business card, printed on forest green stock with gilt lettering.
“Sherwood Publishing Group, Ltd.,” it said. “Peter Sherwood, Managing Director. Maidenette Building/Threadneedle Street/Swynsby-on-Trent, Lincs, UK.”
“Ooooh,” Plant took the card as I told him where it came from. “Your alley-person was Peter Sherwood? He really is a publisher, darling. Silas and I met him at the Frankfurt Book Fair. He’s the new owner of Dominion Books. His uncle’s an earl or something.”
I felt my face flush. “How awful. I should write and apologize…”
Plant smiled. “The fact he’s an aristocrat doesn’t mean he’s well-behaved. He wasn’t joking about the whips and chains. Dominion publishes erotica. He was probably peddling his wares to Felix.”
I put the card in my purse as a waiter finally beckoned us inside. I felt terrible. “I gave the police his description. And called him a creep. The poor man.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” Plant said after ordering the wine. “I’m sure Mr. Sherwood is fine. It’s Felix I’m worried about. He’s going to lose the store. He was barely breaking even before this happened—e-books have taken over the erotica market more than any other—and now, after the horrible thing with, um…” He stopped, then shook his head as if shaking off his grief. “Since Lance’s death, he’s lost regulars.
“People honestly think Felix killed Lance?” It was hard to envision little baby-faced Felix perpetrating that awful thing I saw in the alley.
But Plant nodded. “There are nasty rumors flying around—even though it now looks as if Lance probably died of a heart attack.”
“The police think Lance died of a heart attack? He couldn’t have been more than thirty. That’s scary.”
Part of me was relieved to hear he died of natural causes, but I couldn’t help thinking how dreadful it would be to drop dead while taking out the trash. Especially with a hungry coyote lurking nearby.
Plant nodded. “I guess it happens to younger people all the time. Of course, the police won’t know until the autopsy’s been done, and they’re still saying it could have been murder. When there’s suspicion of foul play, people always suspect a jilted lover.” He gave an unfunny laugh. “Apparently Lance’s high school girlfriend suspects Felix of all sorts of criminal activity. She keeps reappearing to make his life difficult. The woman must take clueless pills for breakfast. She actually tried to flirt with me—and kept asking if I’d read the manuscript of Lance’s novel.”
“I suppose a lot of book store clerks have novels lying around somewhere. Did you know about it?”
Plant rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes. He begged me so often that I finally had to look at it: a medieval vampire/werewolf saga—writteneth forsoothly. Dreadful. ”
My mind was still on the enigmatic Mr. Sherwood. I wasn’t convinced he didn’t have something to do with Lance’s demise.
“There was something scary about Peter Sherwood. Maybe after I chased him away, he took Lance back to the alley for a quickie and killed him for some sort of kinky thrill…”
“I doubt Peter Sherwood is gay.” Plant poured our wine. “Dominion books are mostly hetero. Silas carries some of their titles. Rather classy-looking for what they are.” He sniffed. “He called this afternoon, by the way, Silas did. He wants me to pay half of last month’s bills, if you can believe it. He owns a bookstore empire and my screenplay has been in development hell for three years—but I have to pay half his damned water bill.”
It was the first time Plant had mentioned Silas. I could see his pain was still raw.
I could also see he wanted to talk, so I let him spill out his anger at Silas. And I told him how my long-distance romance with Rick Zukowski had slowly fizzled while I nursed my mother through the surgery and chemo.
When we got home that evening, I wrote a quick e-mail to the address on Peter Sherwood’s card, apologizing for the shoe-throwing. As I hit the send button, I hoped the man was safely back in his lair at Threadneedle Street/Swynsby-on-Trent/Lincs.
Even if he wasn’t Lance’s murderer, I had a feeling that Mr. Peter Sherwood might make a dangerous enemy.
Chapter 6—Not Right for Us at This Time
I hid my growing panic from Plant as I left my futile job applications everywhere. With so many experienced people out of work, nobody wanted an ex-socialite with no employment history. But Plant didn’t need to be burdened with my worries. The split with Silas had sent him into a depression he couldn’t hide.
One afternoon in April, I returned from selling my graduation pearls to find a familiar-looking envelope addressed to me. Finally, word from my agent. Perfect timing: the book was edited, polished and ready to go. I tore open the l
etter as I climbed the stairs. Maybe my luck had finally turned.
“Dear Writer,” it said. “This project is not right for us at this time…”
My stomach thunked. Not even a personalized salutation. Why hadn’t I formed a plan B? Or told Plant I was broke? I had to tell him tonight. No: he said he’d be at the theater.
Just as well. I was going to cry and it would probably be noisy.
But as I opened the door, I heard some sort of huffing and puffing coming from behind my bedroom curtain. A growl. And some grunting. Then voices.
I stopped breathing. Until I recognized a voice: Silas’s—then Plant’s, murmuring softly. Okay, Silas and Plant seemed to be having a reconciliation. A very private one. I tiptoed back to the kitchen, but Silas’s booming baritone carried. I could hear him telling Plant, in soothing tones, how they mustn’t spend another moment apart and they could live part-time at the beach house in Morro Bay, and part time here in the City.
“But what about Camilla…?” Plant said in a throaty whisper.
“She’s been mooching off you long enough. You’re on the verge of bankruptcy, and you won’t even ask her for rent. You take care of everybody but yourself, Plant.”
Bankruptcy? Another stomach-thunker. So Plant’s comments about being ripped off by Hollywood weren’t ordinary kvetching.
Stifling my guilt with stale chocolate chips, I grabbed my laptop and went out to the back porch to give the lovers some privacy. I perched at the top of the stairs, looking out on the dumpster where Lance had met his end. I hoped they’d decide soon if Lance had died of a heart attack, or if some murderer was still lurking out there.
When I checked my email, I was surprised to find, amidst the spam, a message from [email protected]. I opened it, wishing my heart wouldn’t do that jumpy thing when I thought about him. I was not going to allow myself to be attracted to a scary pornographer—at least not one who lived on the other side of the planet.
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 2
