Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd.

by Anne R. Allen

  Peter finally hung up the phone, and with great drama, unplugged its cord.

  “Business is done for the day, Duchess.” He turned to give me a deep, lingering kiss. As he enveloped me in his arms, I felt the solid muscle of his body under his sweatshirt. A month at sea had made his slim body fit and sinewy. I felt a primal urge to give myself to him—this alpha male, strong enough to fight off danger with his bare hands. A man who could protect me.

  All right—he was a criminal. So was Robin Hood, after all. And there I was, in Sherwood. In the arms of a merry outlaw. Under the spell of a green fairy.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  Chapter 51—The Third Man

  I woke to a sunny morning, smelling the yummy toast aroma from the maltings. From out in the street came the music of a calliope, playing a familiar tune, oddly menacing, although it tinkled away like a children’s melody—plink plink PLINK, plink plinkity plink… drifting from out on Threadneedle Street. Moving slowly. An ice cream truck maybe.

  I watched Peter’s chest move up and down in sleep and realized that for the first time since I’d arrived in England—maybe for the first time since my divorce—I was happy to be where I was. I didn’t want to budge. I only wanted to be here: with him. Peter made me feel thrilled and safe at the same time—like a ride in Disneyland. All the disasters in my life had led me to this man. I remembered the double rainbow we’d seen on our day of exploring Swynsby. It had felt like such a joyous sign. Maybe it had been.

  The things Gordon Trask said couldn’t be true. I was angry with myself for believing him. Maybe his stories had sounded more reasonable to me because he was an American, talking to me in the accents of home. But the man had to be paranoid—a “nutter” as Peter called him. The self-admitted dog-poisoner had tried to poison my mind as well. And my fears had made me ripe for poisoning. But now I knew Peter was kind and rational. Maybe the only rational person at Sherwood.

  The sort of man I could love, if he let me.

  I pushed all of Trask’s nonsense from my mind as just more of the craziness that had taken over the company. I wondered how Peter would react when I told him the details of the past two months: how I’d been literally starving. He still didn’t know I hadn’t been paid the promised advance, or even the few pounds for my reader job. I wished talking about money didn’t embarrass me so much. I’d have to think of a non-whiny way to bring it up in conversation.

  But when Peter woke, he wasn’t in a conversational mood.

  “Bollocks!” he said, looking at his watch. He jumped to his feet and glowered at me. “Why didn’t you wake me, Duchess?” He scrambled into a pair of trousers. “It’s half ten. My meeting is at noon. In Hull. I can only pray there won’t be hordes of Sunday beach-goers clogging the motorway.” He buttoned up a cream-colored shirt. “Sorry to run, lass.” He pulled his hair back into its elastic band, slipped into a well-cut blazer I hadn’t seen before, and zipped his duffle.

  I sat up and tried to ask him when he’d be back, but he stopped me with a kiss.

  “You’re beautiful in the morning, Duchess.”

  He grabbed his duffle and briefcase, and was gone with a slam of the door.

  I lay on the futon, listening to the plinky melody, which had started up again out on the street. Now I recognized it: the theme from The Third Man: the old Orson Welles film about an evil Englishman named Harry Lime—a con artist and cold blooded killer who sold fake pharmaceuticals to war-ravaged Berlin.

  Fake pharmaceuticals. Isn’t that what Gordon Trask said Barnacle Bill had been smuggling?

  No. I wasn’t going to let my mind go there. I was glad the weather was sunny. That helped mitigate the creepiness of being alone in the Maidenette Building, with out even Much around for protection.

  Without access to my Wendy house, I had to dress in the serviceable, but now rather grimy suit I’d been wearing since Friday, washing up with the few necessities I’d taken to Puddlethorpe in my tote bag. I’d brought along some changes of underwear and a couple of tops, so I could get through one more day, but I’d soon look like a homeless person if I couldn’t get at my things.

  Of course, in actual fact, I was a homeless person. I wished I’d told Peter about my dire straits before he left. But instead I’d let myself be bewitched. My own damned fault. Now I’d have to wait until Liam and Davey got back. I should have asked Peter when he expected them. My brain did turn to mush around the man.

  I had a good thought. At least I had access to the office now. Since it was a Sunday, I’d have free use the computer.

  I made myself a cup of tea while it booted up. I was comforted to see a message from Plant. He said he’d been eating lots of greens and staying off the Grey Goose and felt healthy enough to go back to work at the theater.

  But his news about Felix wasn’t good. Things looked dire, since poisoning was such a personal sort of crime—and Felix had easy access to the drug that killed Lance. The D.A. was painting a convincing case for jealousy as a motive. Apparently Lance had been seeing somebody in the East Bay who had talked him into leaving Felix and the store and moving to Berkeley, where he had a job with medical benefits lined up.

  All very sad, but it directed my suspicion away from Peter. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking that Felix might actually be guilty, especially if Lance was leaving him for some lover in Berkeley—and a job with health insurance.

  Besides, I was very close to being in love with Peter and I could not bear to be in love with a murderer.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t sufficiently convinced of that to share my feelings in my email to Plantagenet. Instead I wrote about the dramas at Fairy Thimble Cottage and Sherwood Forest and the deception wars between Rosalee Beebee and Colin the Cowboy.

  When I finished, I wandered back toward the warehouse, hoping that in daylight I might see a way to squeeze between the crates. I opened the doors and heard a sudden noise from the dungeon.

  A shout—then a string of curses.

  Alan came running up the stairs, his face white. “Bloody fucking hell! Did you know about this? Have you seen what that Serb bastard has done to my dungeon?”

  I shook my head. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s bloody wrong? Take a look for yourself.” He pointed down the stairs. “I’m going to call Henry. We’re gonna get the coppers in here. Get Peter Sherwood and his bloody ethnic cleanser locked up where they belong.”

  I peeked down into the dark and descended slowly. Had Peter decided to use the dungeon for storage, too? I didn’t want to have to get into a long explanation of the new storage business with Alan. Just being around him made me feel slimed.

  I opened the door to a scene that assaulted all my senses. I could barely breathe from the stench. The little room looked as if it had recently housed a pack of wild beasts. The manacles and cages had been torn from the walls, bolts and all. They lay on the floor, smashed and bent along with bits of shattered brick. The photo equipment lay smashed under them. The rubber fetish suit, ripped to shreds, hung from the light fixture. The dog collars and whips and paddles had been piled and covered with something that smelled and looked horribly like dog poo. And on the inside of the wooden door, impaled by a large knife, was a dead rat, bloody and dripping.

  After I screamed, I saw the words written next to the rat corpse. They said, painted in large red letters, “Death to Vermin.” It was signed, “Ratko.”

  I stood shaking in the stairwell, trying to quell my own panic. I didn’t realize Ratko had come back with Peter, but of course he would have.

  He would have gone down to the Rat Hole, expecting to relax in his cozy home. Instead, he’d have found the dungeon. I wondered if Peter knew what he’d done.

  By the time I got back up the stairs, Alan was gone—probably to call Henry. I hoped Ratko was safely off in Hull with Peter, or there might be violence.

  I wondered what was in Hull. Another shipment of whatever was being stored in the warehouse, probably. Having Ratko involved ma
de it all seem more dangerous. If only I’d asked Peter more questions—like how long he’d be gone, and what was being stored in those crates. Was it guns or drugs—maybe fake pharmaceuticals?

  In the chilly light of day, I realized Gordon Trask could have been right after all. Maybe Peter was in business with Barnacle Bill, and he wasn’t a Robin Hood sort of Englishman at all, but Harry Lime.

  Chapter 52—Fakes

  I couldn’t fight off the feeling that Barnacle Bill was probably the person Peter had rushed to meet in Hull. Peter and Ratko and Bill could very well have conspired to bring a shipment of contraband into England from Croatia on the Marynia—a shipment now sitting in the warehouse of the Maidenette Building. In fact, the real prize might not be the yacht itself, but the cargo.

  I had to know what was in those crates. Now. Before anybody came back.

  I’d seen a claw hammer down in the dungeon mess. Probably the tool Ratko had used to wreak his destruction. It would do to pry open one of those crates.

  I ran down to retrieve it, holding my breath against the stench.

  Hammer in hand, I tiptoed toward the warehouse door, hoping I wouldn’t run into more of Ratko’s horrors. But the crates were just as they’d been last night. I could push the door open enough to squeeze inside. The crates were stacked too high to see over, although I could see well enough between them to make out that my Wendy House was intact. In fact, the warehouse was still pretty empty. The crates seemed to have been stacked in front of the door to block the entrance—on purpose.

  I tried pushing on the crates, but they wouldn’t budge. They were about a meter square, made of sturdy wooden slats, and nailed tightly shut. Nothing was visible through the slats but what looked like more containers—cardboard ones—with shipping labels in Cyrillic lettering.

  Anger and curiosity made me strong. Taking the hammer to a couple of slats, I managed to pry off one, then a few more—enough to pull out a carton. I slid it out carefully and peeled back the tape, trying not to damage the packing slip. Now I could see a bit of what was inside, wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap: something leathery.

  Okay, it didn’t seem to be drugs. Or guns. I breathed a sigh of relief as I finally got the flap open. As soon as I got it out of the wrapping, I recognized the object inside: a Hermès Birkin bag—or something close enough to the real thing that a manicurist in Milton Keynes, or a barrista in Brooklyn would hardly be able to tell the difference.

  Peter and his friends were smuggling designer knock-offs.

  I took a deep breath and tried to sort through my feelings. I now had to admit that Gordon Trask had been right about one thing: Peter was a smuggler. The Cyrillic labels showed the bags had most likely been made in one of the former Eastern block countries. The Croatian port of Pula would probably be a convenient spot to ship them.

  I remembered Barnacle Bill’s bizarre remarks about my designer clothes during that terrifying first encounter. Something about asking if Peter had given them to me, and if Peter had told me they were “the real thing.” That certainly suggested Peter and Barnacle Bill had been in the business of selling designer knock-offs in the past.

  In fact, Barnacle Bill had as much as told me, but I’d been too clueless to understand.

  I carefully sealed the carton again and banged the crate back together as best I could, in hopes that Peter and his partners in crime wouldn’t realize their illegal wares had been discovered.

  But I had a sudden, awful thought: Alan had been talking about asking Henry to call the police. If Peter’s scheme were discovered now, Peter might go to jail, and things would only get worse for me. Not only would my book not be published, but I’d be out on the street—all of us would.

  As much as I deplored the counterfeit label trade, I was going to have to tolerate Peter’s criminal activities. His ill-gotten gains from this operation were probably intended to provide the “influx of cash” he’d promised for the company: robbing rich designers to give to poor unpublished authors. More Robin Hood fantasies.

  And right now, I had to stop Alan from bringing in the Sheriff of Nottingham.

  Chapter 53—Dr. Alan Greene Makes a Phone Call

  I’d spent the better part of an hour doing my snooping. Hoping I wasn’t too late to stop Alan from bringing in Henry—and the police—I rushed through the factory to the office.

  The door to the inner sanctum was locked. Alan had apparently locked himself in. He’d also locked in my tote bag, which held the only things I still owned—at least until I could get to my Wendy house.

  I banged on the door. “Alan! Don’t call the police. Please. It could be disastrous for the company!” I banged again. I knew someone was in there. I could hear voices. And giggling: two registers of giggles.

  The door opened and there was Alan, zipping up his trousers. On the futon, lying on the sheets where I had recently been making love with Peter, was Rosalee Beebee. And Rosalee’s remarkable breasts. Quite unrestrained.

  Alan gave me a satisfied smirk, but Rosalee turned her back while she scrambled into her pink jogging suit.

  I pretended to ignore the obvious fact that the two of them had just indulged in a quickie on Peter’s bed. I only hoped it had kept Alan too busy to report the vandalism in the dungeon.

  “I do apologize for the interruption,” I said. “But I wondered if you’d phoned Henry? Are the police coming?”

  “Didn’t you just say you didn’t want the coppers here, Duchess?” Alan’s voice was lazy and mocking as he buttoned up his shirt. “Something about how it would be disastrous for the company? You’ll have to make up your mind.”

  I steadied my voice.

  “I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear. I’m asking if anybody has notified the police about the vandalism in the dungeon.”

  Alan said nothing as he slipped on a rather well-cut suit jacket. His wardrobe had improved since he’d taken over Sherwood.

  Rosalee jumped in. “Henry said we shouldn’t bring the cops yet.” She opened her eyes wide, as if relating a fabulous tale. “And he told us terrible news. His partner, Mr. Sherwood, is back. He’s totally evil and has all these gangster friends. Alan says he might try to stop my book from being published—can you believe it? Thank goodness I’ve got Alan on my side—right?” She sidled up to Alan and gave him a soulful look, which he ignored. To cover the snub, Rosalee picked up the still quite-full bottle of absinthe from the desk. “Look what this guy drinks. This stuff gives you hallucinations and makes you insane. It’s totally against the law.”

  “Actually, absinthe has never been illegal in the UK.” Alan looked at her with condescension. “It’s only you Yanks what got your knickers in a bunch about it. The Froggie wine blokes told a lot of lies to eliminate the competition. No more drugs in absinthe than you find in sage leaves or juniper berries. We carry two kinds of absinthe over at the pub. It’s quite good.” He grabbed the bottle. “Not that I’d touch this label. It looks dodgy. Like everything else about Peter Sherwood.”

  He shoved the bottle back at Rosalee, as if she were responsible for its dodginess. Their roles seemed to have been reversed. Why had Rosalee given in to him? Maybe she and Colin had a serious tiff after they dropped me off yesterday.

  Rosalee set down the bottle and turned to me.

  “Please—you gotta tell that guy how we’ve got plans to launch our books together. He can’t wreck all our plans!”

  I started to speak, but Alan spoke right over me to Rosalee.

  “I told you the only person who can influence Mr. Sherwood is my friend at Oxford. But I doubt anything can be done as long as he has that murdering Serb as his right-hand man.” Alan sat at Peter’s desk as if it were his own, and let his hand rest on the receiver of the telephone. “Maybe it’s Interpol I should be calling.”

  I knew he was playing a game, but I needed to win this round for Peter’s sake.

  “Liam and Davey are expected back later today,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll clean up that d
readful mess. No need to bring in law enforcement.” I glanced at Rosalee. “Have you seen my tote bag? I left it in here last night.”

  I worried how they’d react to the information that I’d spent the night in Peter’s office, but neither of them paid the slightest attention. Alan was flipping dramatically through a phone directory while Rosalee seemed to be engrossed in reading the label of the tin of rat poison still sitting on the desk. It was almost comical to watch the two working so hard at ignoring each other.

  I went on. “I know Mr. Ratko has behaved badly, but you did destroy his home and throw away his belongings while he was away on company business. I don’t think Sherwood, Ltd. needs an expensive legal mess right now, does it?”

  Alan took the phone and the directory into his lap, and swiveled the chair so he was facing the window.

  Rosalee stared at his back before finally turning to me.

  “It’s under the bed,” she said. “That Vuitton bag of yours.”

  I went to the futon, lifted the bedding and spotted my bag, shoved way underneath. I had to get down on my knees to retrieve it. Neither of them helped, of course. Alan played with the telephone as Rosalee fussed with things on the desk, re-arranging the poison tin and the absinthe bottle as if they were decorative objets d’art.

  I stood, shouldered my bag, and headed for the door.

  “I’ll be out for a walk, if anybody asks.” I thought it wise to get away from this drama, whatever it was about.

  “Wait for me, please, baby girl!” Rosalee said, with one of her abrupt mood changes. “I’ve got to talk to you. There’s so much I need to tell you. Colin has been a total shit…”