I kept my face impassive as Rosalee laced her pink and silver Sketchers and Alan punched a number into the phone.
I hoped Alan wasn’t calling the police. Things could get sticky very fast if Peter and Liam and Davey walked into the middle of a police investigation while carrying another load of counterfeit leather goods. I wished I’d had the foresight to ask Peter when he planned to be back from Hull.
But Alan didn’t seem to be talking to the police. He asked for an extension at Balliol College.
“This is Dr. Alan Greene,” he said in a pompous voice. “Tell the Chancellor I need to set up a meeting with him at Balliol tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in Oxford at noon…” He glanced over at Rosalee and gave her a reassuring nod.
“He knows lots of important people,” Rosalee whispered, grabbing my arm. “They can make Mr. Sherwood keep my book on the list.”
I tried to look sympathetic, but as I turned to leave, I spotted the cord of the unplugged phone lying on the floor—just where Peter had tossed it the night before.
I picked it up and waved the little plastic plug at Rosalee, then—I couldn’t resist—handed it to Alan.
Alan turned away and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He looked out the window and resumed his ridiculous charade, as if he somehow hadn’t noticed he had been talking to no one on a disconnected phone.
Chapter 54—Distressed Damsels
I stifled my laughter until we got outside. “Poor Alan,” I said. “I suppose I was rude. But sometimes rudeness is the only way to speak to rudeness,”
“I don’t get it. He was only pretending to make that phone call?”
I nodded.
“Does he even know important people at Oxford University? I’ll bet he doesn’t. What a shit!” Rosalee’s lip trembled as she burst into a loud wail. She ran ahead of me down to the river walk, where she collapsed on one of the benches. I followed at a more dignified pace. I wasn’t in the mood for more theatrics.
When I reached the bench, Rosalee hugged me like a long lost sister.
“Thanks for being here for me. You’re the only person I can trust. I don’t know who to believe. Alan told me Mr. Sherwood wanted to stop publication of my novel. He said he’d have to talk to these college people to put pressure on the Sherwood company, and he’d have to, like, call in all these favors, and it would be this huge hassle for him, and so I had to, well…you saw.” She unearthed a pink tissue from her purse and blew her nose with vigor. “At least he didn’t make me do it in that horrible dungeon. That’s what he wanted. He called this morning and said I had to come over and ‘have some fun in his playroom.’ Oh, I feel so filthy.” She launched into operatic sobbing.
I would have felt more sympathy if I hadn’t seen Rosalee making cow-eyes at Alan only minutes earlier. I stood and offered Rosalee a hand.
“Let’s walk. I find walking always calms me down, don’t you?”
Rosalee stayed put like a sulky child.
“No. I want to go back to the cottage—and you have to come with me. I can’t stand another minute all alone out there.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Please come with me? You can walk in Puddlethorpe. There’s lots of cute little farms and country lanes and stuff.” She dug into her purse for something—a set of car keys. She handed them to me with a sniffle. “Would you drive? I can’t get the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road. I was scared shitless driving here this morning.”
I held the keys gingerly. I hoped it wouldn’t take too long. I wanted to be here when Peter came back. I had so many questions I needed to ask him.
“You drove Colin’s car here to hook up with Alan? Don’t you think he’ll be angry?”
Rosalee let out an energetic wail. “Colin’s gone! Gone! You wouldn’t believe…Oh, Camilla, I’ve been a total idiot. He lied. Everything he said was a lie. He’s married! He lives in Lincoln with his wife and kids. And Fairy Thimble Cottage—it’s a rental. He didn’t grow up there at all. How stupid could I be?”
I suppressed an urge to make unkind speculations on that subject and offered some words about how it was better to discover a deception sooner rather than later. Personally, I felt considerable relief knowing that if I went to the cottage again, there would be no more Viagra-fuelled confrontations.
“Please come with me. Don’t make me go back there alone!”
I examined the keys. “Colin is still letting you drive his car?”
“It’s rented, too. I made him pay for it—and the cottage—for two months. I told him if he left me high and dry I’d call his wife. Her name is Dorcas—can you believe it? Who marries somebody named Dork-ass? Oh, I wish I’d never heard of Sherwood Limited!”
I let it escape that I’d had a great-aunt named Dorcas, who had been married twice—once to a Vanderbilt and once to a Greek shipping magnate. Rosalee gave me a reproachful look and remained on the bench—a whimpering damsel in distress—as a gathering of Sunday river-walkers showed concern.
A plump woman with a child in a pram approached me.
“Is she all right, your friend? I couldn’t help overhearing. Has the Sherwood company made her redundant?”
I shook my head, trying to signal there was no need for concern.
But the woman went on.
“It happened to me Dad, you know. One day everything was right as rain, and the next day he was sacked. Without a word of explanation. They’re a bunch of lunatics, if you ask me—those smut peddlers at Sherwood.”
“Your father? What’s his name?” I thought perhaps I saw an echo of Charlie Vicars in the woman’s smile and ample girth.
But the baby began to wail, and Rosalee jumped up.
“Come on!” she said in a petulant tone. “Are you coming to Puddlethorpe, or are you going to abandon me when I need you the most?”
The woman gave us a quick smile and pushed the pram along.
Rosalee was already bounding back toward the parking lot. I followed slowly, not eager for more of Rosalee’s oh-poor-me routine. I looked at my Tinker Bell watch: it wasn’t yet noon. Peter wouldn’t be back for hours. I’d probably be better off going to Puddlethorpe.
Whatever dramas Rosalee might be planning, they’d be preferable to an afternoon alone with Alan Greene in the Maidenette Building, where I might end up a distressed damsel myself.
Chapter 55—A Spot of Weather
While Rosalee stood sniffling by the passenger door of Colin’s rented Ford, I headed for the driver’s side, wondering if I should mention my expired driver’s license. I decided against it. Legal or not, I’d feel safer with myself at the wheel. I feared Rosalee’s driving might be similar to her pedestrian form of propulsion—which was something between a lurch and a hurtle.
The Taurus was easy enough to drive, once I got used to everything being backward. Rosalee babbled happily, her sexual ordeal with Alan apparently forgotten. She insisted on buying us lunch at a pub along the way.
We had a pleasant meal of Sunday roast and Yorkshire pudding—although Rosalee was seriously disappointed that the “pudding” wasn’t of the Jell-O variety.
But when we stepped outside, the sun had vanished and ominous clouds had begun to gather. A man in the parking lot said we should hurry home, because we were in for “a spot of weather.” And indeed, as we made our way to Puddlethorpe, the sky darkened and, with a roar of thunder, expelled a torrent of rain—more rain than I had ever seen come out of the sky all at once. I had to creep along the last few miles of country roads as the frantic windshield wipers, on highest speed, barely managed to provide visibility.
When we turned onto the lane that led to Fairy Thimble Cottage, the Taurus plunged into a sea of mud. I tried to keep going, but about a hundred feet from the driveway, it sank into muck and the wheels spun around in vain.
“We’re going to have to leave it here,” I told Rosalee, who had been talking for most of the trip about her health problems, which seemed to be as large and dramatic as Rosalee herself.
“
We what?” said Rosalee. “Did you hear what I just said? I have fibromyalgia. It’s been acting up. I can hardly move. It’s pouring out there.”
“Yes. And it’s not showing any signs of letting up.” I looked out at the rain, still coming down in near-Biblical torrents. “Do you want to spend the night in a car stuck in the mud, or inside a cozy little cottage?”
Rosalee gave a petulant sigh.
“It’s June. How can there be all this rain in June?”
My patience with Rosalee’s California myopia and childish behavior was nearly used up, but I managed to fake a smile.
“I’ll race you!”
Rosalee beat me to the door, although she lost one of her Sketchers in a patch of bogginess by the front gate. By the time we got inside, into the dry kitchen, we were so soaked and filthy that we both burst into giggles. I stood in the middle of the elfin kitchen, dripping mud on the wooden floor and laughing until my stomach hurt.
Rosalee was the first one to pull herself together.
“Oh my god, I need a bath,” she said. She looked at my muddy feet. “So do you.”
“And we will require tea,” I said, filling the kettle. “When in England, do as the English do.” As Rosalee made her one-shoed way to the bathroom, I puttered around the little kitchen, pleased to see that she kept a full larder, with coffee, tea, canned milk and soup, and even some chocolate digestive biscuits—although the latter didn’t hold the charm for me they did initially.
The rain continued to pound the roof all day as we took turns bathing and tea drinking. The tub was huge and claw-footed, and the hot water plentiful. There was even a hand-held shower device for hair washing. Rosalee was kind enough to lend me one of her jogging suits—a track suit and tee, about six sizes too big, all made of a lumpy mauve fleece. But, I realized with a bit of pride, I didn’t give a damn what I looked like. I had lived for years in fear that some paparazzo was going to sneak up and take a humiliating photograph, but no more. There was freedom in being nobody.
Rosalee heated two frozen dinners of spaghetti and peas. She even brought out a bottle of wine—something she’d bought for a romantic evening with Colin that had never happened, she said.
By the time night fell, we were happily light-headed and I was more than content to go to up to the cozy upstairs bedroom. My night things were still neatly hung on the back of the door, and Murder at the Vicarage lay waiting on the night table. The pounding rain on the thatched roof sounded rather romantic now. One by one, I tried to put my worries on a mental shelf. Tomorrow I could think about—
Digging out the car
Getting access to my Wendy house
Sorting out the contract business with Peter and Henry
Getting my hands on some cash
Figuring out whether Peter Sherwood was an evil criminal mastermind or the man of my dreams.
But at the moment, I only wanted to drift off to sleep—thinking of nothing more sinister than Miss Jane Marple and the homicidal villagers of St. Mary Mead.
Chapter 56—My Life as a Plush Bunny
When I woke the next morning, I was a bit concerned to see the storm hadn’t let up. While Rosalee slept in, I dressed in the fuzzy jog suit—grateful for its warmth—then made myself some tea and stared out at the sheets of rain coating the windows. Getting back to Swynsby would be problematic. But until my sleeping situation was straightened out, maybe that was just as well.
Peter was bound to be overwhelmed with the job of getting his business back on track. Maybe it would be good for me to have day or two to sort out my feelings before I saw him again. Nothing wrong with a few days of relaxation. I sipped the rich, dark Assam tea and decided to enjoy my lifestyle upgrade.
I looked around for a radio or a television, but found none—perfectly all right. Less news would be good for my stress level. I was a little more concerned when I realized there was no telephone, either. But Rosalee had a cell phone. And we weren’t completely electronics-deprived. Rosalee’s laptop computer sat on an old writing desk in the sitting room. No Internet hook-up, of course, but I could work on editing Rosalee’s book and maybe even do some writing of my own. I could consider this a writer’s retreat.
I told myself things would be fine. I’d even written to Plant this morning, so he wouldn’t feel neglected by my silence. I was here in a fairy tale cottage full of books to read and plenty to eat. Except for the fact I was dressed like a giant plush Easter toy, I had no grounds for complaint. There was even an ironing board to press the wrinkles out of my Armani suit if it ever dried.
I was making a pot of oatmeal when I heard Rosalee stirring in her room. A few moments later, she bounced into the kitchen and squeezed me in a hug.
“A housemate who cooks! Who could ask for more? My friends back home would be so impressed to know I’m living with the Manners Doctor!” She poured herself a cup of tea. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’d be freaking out, stuck here all by myself.” She dug into the oatmeal I set in front of her. “But we can just be cozy for a few days, and you can work on my book. I’m sure Alan will work something out with Mr. Sherwood and Fangs will come out on schedule.”
I didn’t bother to say that if Peter went ahead with publishing Rosalee’s book, it would be in spite of the efforts of Alan Greene.
The editing work wasn’t easy, but amazingly, Rosalee was. She gave me a list of things the Professor wanted changed.
“Do whatever. I get a headache from all that grammar stuff. All I want is for it to be published.”
Not a hint of drama. Things were looking up.
The Professor had asked for some pretty sweeping changes. He’d asked that the language be “either modernized or clarified”—a polite way of saying that every embarrassing “Thee must go,” and “I runneth fast” needed to be translated into actual English of one period or another. His notes also requested that the character of Marian be made “more sympathetic,” and Robin “less of a poofta.”
I saw what he meant. Robin Hood had far more interest in Little John’s body than he did in Marian’s, and Marian, although a whiz with helpful herbal remedies, was a whiny, demanding witch—an apparently clueless self-parody of Rosalee herself.
It was slow going, and by mid afternoon, when the rain finally let up a bit, I had only got through the first two chapters. Not that the book was entirely awful. There were some interesting characterizations, and a good feel for the clothes and customs of an earlier age. But by the time I finished the first fifty pages, it was nearly nine PM and my head hurt.
It hurt quite a lot. So did my throat.
When I woke the next morning, to yet more rain, I had to admit I had a cold. Rosalee ministered to me with herbal teas and lavender-scented compresses, but by noon, I had to collapse into bed again.
It wasn’t until Tuesday evening that Rosalee’s compulsion for drama re-emerged. When I descended the stairs for a promised dinner of chicken soup, I found Rosalee storming around the kitchen, banging down flatware and punishing the Wedgwood bowls. She announced that Peter Sherwood was the world’s most hateful man, and she was sure he’d postponed the launch of her book—or even canceled it.
But my own mood brightened at Peter’s name, even when it was spoken in anger.
“Peter? You’ve spoken to him? He got back from Hull all right?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Rosalee poured herself the last of the wine. “Nobody will even answer the phone over there. And the voice mail doesn’t seem to work. Alan won’t answer his cell, either. It’s like they’ve shut the whole place down, just to keep my book from being published.”
“Nobody answers at any of the phone numbers? Not even Vera?” This was odd, for a work day. “You tried during business hours?”
Rosalee nodded. “Alan said he was going to be in Oxford, but the rest of them should be there. It’s like, their job.”
I felt a chill, in spite of my fuzzy bunny suit. It sounded as if something might be very wrong at Sherwood Ltd.
Chapter 57—Summer Rain
Rosalee banged a soup bowl down in front of me and brought the soup pot to the table.
“I know they’re doing something sneaky back there in Swynsby. I just know it. Alan warned me things would hit the fan with Mr. Sherwood back in town.”
She sat down heavily. “Why is this guy such an asshole that he won’t publish something after they’ve paid me an advance? He’s not going to ask for the money back, is he?”
As I ladled myself some soup, I tried to assure her that Peter was not, in fact, an asshole, and the person who most resembled a smelly body part was probably Alan Greene.
“Oh, no. Don’t defend him. Peter Sherwood is a criminal! Sherwood’s not even his real name. He’s a gangster who even double-crossed his own partner. His partner went to jail and swore he’d kill Peter when he got out. That’s why Henry thought Peter was dead—not on vacation. But unfortunately, the asshole is alive—and he’s going to ruin everything.”
Rosalee’s speech provided me with an interesting insight into the mind of Alan Greene. Alan must have heard some talk about Peter’s past and used it to befuddle Rosalee into sleeping with him. I realized I had a tough task ahead, detoxing the poor woman’s mind from Alan’s poisonous lies.
I’ve observed that people tend to personalize the first information they hear, and furiously reject any data that threatens to supplant it, no matter how reasonable. But I felt the need to make an attempt.
“Actually, Peter is a lovely man. I like him very much. You might like him, too.”
I felt a moment of longing for Peter’s loveliness, and wondered, with a pang, if he knew where I was—or how to contact me. Alan might easily be withholding the information, out of sheer meanness, the way he had with the news about Plantagenet’s recovery.
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 19
