“God, why does this always happen to me!” Rosalee wailed, plunking herself on the side of the bed. “I’ve been to Swynsby and… oh my god, you wouldn’t believe…the body in the dungeon—that person named Willy Small? That was Alan! Willy Small was his real name. Brenda had to identify the body.” She sobbed into a soggy tissue. “Alan’s dead. I can’t believe it. I don’t know what I’m going to do. He was my back-up plan.”
I fought the fog of sick in my head.
“I’m sorry. …” I tried to give Rosalee a sympathetic hug, but my body felt too heavy to move. My skin felt itchy and tight.
With Rosalee’s help, I got out of bed and down the stairs. After a visit to the loo and a shower to soothe my skin rash, I resolved to find a doctor, somehow—as soon as I got Rosalee calmed down. I’d have to get her to drive me into Swynsby to beg Vera’s help. I managed to sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, where I politely asked the weeping Rosalee for the particulars.
“I thought Alan was supposed to be with Henry all this time. What happened?”
“Henry never saw Alan after the flood.” Rosalee snuffled. “And Alan never visited Oxford. He was with that Barnacle guy the whole time. He was going into business with him. That was his big money deal in America. Not Hollywood like stupid Brenda said. It was something in the Caribbean.”
The Caribbean. I remembered the eye-patch man I saw outside the warehouse the night of my bucket encounter with Alan. It must have been Bill after all. They must have been working together since then—or maybe before. What an operator Alan had been—blackmailing Henry with Peter’s criminal past, while profiting from Peter’s criminal present. I wondered if he and Bill had been in the process of stealing the fake Hermès bags from Peter when they were trapped by the flood waters.
Rosalee had been wailing with feigned grief, but stopped herself, mid-keen.
“And you know what else? They were murdered. Alan and that other guy.”
My already pained head didn’t have energy for manufactured drama.
“You said those people were electrocuted, Rosalee. It’s very sad, but it’s nobody’s fault. The wiring in that place was prehistoric—an accident waiting to happen.”
Rosalee shook her head.
“No. It wasn’t electrocution. They were poisoned, according to Vera.” She reached out and clutched my hand. “Aren’t you glad you were here with me? You could have been have been killed too, if you’d still been camping out in that warehouse. Thank god the cops arrested him this morning.
“Arrested? Alan and Barnacle Bill were murdered—and they’ve arrested a suspect?” Maybe it was my illness, but Rosalee seemed to be making less sense than usual.
“Yeah. It was Peter Sherwood. He killed Alan and the other guy. Him and that murderer they call Ratko. The cops came looking for them this morning. They were right there, sleeping in the cafeteria, Davey said. Ratko got away, but thank god—they got Peter Sherwood.”
The woman didn’t have conversations; she dropped verbal bombs: Peter really was a murderer.
“The police—they got Peter? Where is he now?”
“Jail. Davey said the cops came looking for him early this morning. Davey had been working on the machines all night so he saw the whole thing. The cops said they wanted to talk to Peter about the murders of Willy Small and William Barnstable. That’s what Davey said. Murders. They wanted Ratko, too, but he escaped somehow.”
So Peter and Ratko had come back to Swynsby last night. Strange that they’d decided to stay in the muddy factory when they had their nice yacht to live on—a nice yacht Peter no longer had to sell to pay back Barnacle Bill, presumably. Maybe he and Ratko had been trying to salvage some of the faux designer bags.
“Those guys are total lowlifes—all of them,” Rosalee said. “Peter, Ratko, and Alan—or whoever he was. Oh, how could we have been so clueless, baby girl?” She squeezed my hand again and spoke in a voice full of breathy conspiracy. “You know what? I think those guys killed Lance, too. In fact, I know they did.”
“Killed Lance?” It might have been easier to follow Rosalee’s verbal explosions if little halos didn’t keep perching on things. It was so surreal. How had Rosalee come up with the same suspicions I had? The last time she mentioned it, Rosalee said she thought Lance died of natural causes.
“You think Peter killed Lance? But I thought you said he had a heart attack?”
“It wasn’t a heart attack!” Rosalee’s lower lip started to quiver. “At the office, they had a snail mail letter for me from my brother Dwayne. He sent me a clipping from the Fresno Bee. Lance was poisoned, baby girl. Murdered. They’ve arrested some rich faggot from Morro Bay. They’re calling it a gay love triangle.”
Poor Silas. Lance’s murder would be big news, of course, now that a high-profile gay man was a suspect.
“I’m not buying it, though.” Rosalee sniffled. “I think it was Peter Sherwood. I used to think Lance died before he could make it to that meeting, but I’ll bet they did meet, and Peter killed him for our manuscript. Him and Ratko. Alan told me that Ratko guy was always bragging about killing people.” She grabbed a tissue to stifle her sobs.
Pieces fell into place.
Rosalee had one thing right—we were a couple of clueless idiots.
Chapter 71—Chamomile Tea
“Are you sure Ratko was in San Francisco with Peter?” I tried to figure out if Rosalee was basing her suspicions on any actual fact, or her own imaginings. The idea that rights to Fangs of Sherwood Forest could motivate homicide was laughable, but if Ratko really was in that San Francisco alley, it changed things.
Where had he been that night—lurking behind the dumpster? Remembering that gruesome scene did not help my stomach. Ratko certainly had motive to kill Alan. Just as strong as Peter’s motive to kill Barnacle Bill. But why Lance?
I waited as Rosalee honked dramatically into her tissue. She didn’t seem to have understood my question, so I tried another tack.
“Is there any chance Lance knew Ratko or Peter in some other way? Some reason Ratko might have had a grudge against him—some reason to kill him other than your manuscript? Acquiring debut fiction doesn’t usually call for such, um, dramatic action.”
Rosalee’s face contorted for a tense moment, wavering from rage to grief to some other emotion I couldn’t read.
But a moment later, her warring expressions resolved themselves into a knowing smile.
“Oh, my god,” she said. “You know what—I think he did! I think Lance did a drug deal with somebody named Ratko. When he was in the Virgin Islands last year. He went on some faggot vacation cruise. He bought drugs from some foreign guy he called Ratko. I thought it was some made-up street name. The stuff was bogus and…some kind of fight went on.” Her tone had gone breezy. “I don’t remember that well…I totally hate drugs, after everything that went on at the RenFaire…”
“Do you have any proof—letters or emails Lance sent you about that trip?” Rosalee’s phony-casual manner signaled a bit of fabrication, but if Ratko had any connection with Lance—especially a criminal one—it was time to contact Plant, right away. “If it’s true, we have to let the police know about this: the San Francisco police. They could be prosecuting an innocent man…”
“If it’s true? Are you calling me a liar?”
I fought the nausea, too sick now to cope with more of Rosalee’s dramas. Time to give up trying to schmooze her into helping me, and drive into town myself.
“Sorry. I’m not feeling well. My stomach has been acting up. I need to get to a doctor right away.” I stood. “I can ask Vera to help me find somebody in Swynsby. I need to go in to use the computer anyway. I can drive myself…”
Rosalee’s anger evaporated as she leapt up and gave me an oddly intense hug.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had an upset stomach? Those herbs I gave you aren’t good when you have a bad stomach. They probably made it worse. What you need is plain old chamomile tea. That will fix you right u
p.”
After sipping some of the soothing tea, I did feel a bit better. And Rosalee talked me out of the doctor quest yet again. It would be an awful hassle to go to the office and have to deal with police. And if an English clinic was anything like an American emergency room, it would probably result in humiliation and stress and little healing.
I had enough stress to deal with—finding out that the man I’d been sleeping with was probably a murderer.
But I did have to get somewhere with Internet access to email Plant with Rosalee’s information. Silas’s life depended on it—and maybe my own, if Peter was the killer he seemed to be.
I hauled myself upstairs, donned my Burberry suit, and tried to make my hair look as if vermin hadn’t been nesting in it. After painting on what I hoped looked like a healthy face, I went back downstairs asked Rosalee for the car keys.
“Your tea worked miracles,” I said, faking a smile. “Can I borrow the car for a little while? I have to do some errands in the village.”
“Oh, sure. You can hardly stand up, and you’re going out in the pouring rain.” She pointed at the droplets starting to mist the window. “And what am I going to do without my car all afternoon? You are so selfish! I need to go for groceries. Food doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”
“Where are you going to shop—in Old Somercote? Could you drop me off at that Internet café while you do your shopping?”
“You’re going to hang out in some coffee shop—while you’re practically on your deathbed? You are so self-destructive. No wonder you lost all your money. It’s like you’ve got a death wish.”
This stung. I hadn’t had much financial foresight. That was true.
“I gotta go,” Rosalee said, reaching for her raincoat. “We’re out of peanut butter.”
The mention of peanut butter did unhappy things to my stomach. I sat down to fight the dizziness. But I couldn’t stand being left here with no hope of communicating with Plant. I had to get Rosalee to understand the importance of getting a message to him.
The only way to do that was to tell Rosalee everything I knew about Lance’s death. It was time.
Chapter 72—Storybook Barbies
I stopped Rosalee before she went out the kitchen door.
“I have to tell you something…” I ignored her impatient looks and motioned her back to the table.
I spilled out the whole story: about finding Lance’s body, and the coyote, and how weird Peter had been—and how I’d suspected him of being a rapist or murderer. I managed to keep Plant and Silas out of the story—knowing Rosalee’s dislike of Plant—saying only that I had “San Francisco friends” who needed to know Peter might be a suspect.
Rosalee listened to every word with uncharacteristic silence. Her expression ran from interest, to contempt, to anger, and back again.
“Well, at least you finally told me. You’re right. The police gotta hear this. You are so lucky. If you hadn’t been so quick with that shoe-throwing thing, Peter Sherwood would have killed you too. Look how many people he’s killed. Him and that Ratko.”
“So you see why I have to get somewhere with Internet access.” My eyes were playing tricks with the light again, and Rosalee’s frizzy locks had a golden halo around them. She looked like a large, petulant cherub.
The petulance changed to anxiety.
“No! You can’t come with me. You can’t. I…” She took my hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I just had this feeling. This weird feeling…oh, you are so lucky I follow my hunches!”
“What is it?” I tried to focus.
“I’m not going to Old Somercote. I have to go back to Swynsby. But I can’t take you because…” Rosalee bit her lip. “It’s those guys—the black guy and the weird one with the eyebrows. They said Peter was looking for you. So I…”
I felt unreasonable joy at this news.
“Peter wants to see me?” I tried to push away the feelings of elation. If I was pleased to hear that a murderer wanted to see me, I was sick with something no medicine could cure.
Rosalee took both my hands and looked into my eyes.
“Don’t worry. I said you were gone. Back to America. Peter Sherwood can’t hurt you now, baby girl.”
This was either the nastiest or kindest thing Rosalee had done yet.
“You told Liam and Davey I went home?”
“Yeah. Vera and Henry and that know-it-all Professor, too. I’ll bet Peter Sherwood would have hired somebody to come out here and kill you if he found out you were still around. After all, you’re a witness to Lance’s murder.”
Hearing Rosalee voice my own suspicions made the danger feel more real.
She kept going. “Ooohh, that’s why he invited you here to England, Camilla—to kill you! No wonder he never talked about your so-called book deal after you got here. There never was a book deal. Like Alan said: ‘what year is this—nineteen forty-three?’ Nobody cares about manners any more. And who would notice you were gone, in that crazy place?”
My itchy skin prickled with embarrassment. What Rosalee said made terrible sense—at least the fake book deal part. After I contacted Peter with that first email, he probably feared I knew something, and decided to lure me over here. What better hook than a book deal? Everybody has a book idea knocking around. He probably would have accepted the storybook I wrote for my Barbies when I was nine.
“You’re right. I was an idiot.” I could hardly bear to look at Rosalee, who might lack realism in career aspirations, but wasn’t as delusional as I had been. “I was so naïve to believe Peter—all that nonsense about how he loved my book.”
I thought back to all the corny ways he had seduced me into trusting him.
“I guess I just wanted to believe—the way I wanted to believe it was his kindness—not the absinthe—that was making my heart grow fonder.”
Now Peter’s hoary joke took on sinister meaning.
“What?” Rosalee looked genuinely alarmed. “Absinthe? Did you say he gave you absinthe? That illegal green liquor?”
I nodded.
“Oh my god. That’s what killed Alan. And that other guy. They found poison in that absinthe bottle. Rat poison. Oh, my god! When did you start to feel bad?”
I thought back. “The day of the flood.”
“The day after you drank absinthe with Peter Sherwood? Oh my god, you’ve been poisoned, baby girl!”
Chapter 73—Lady Bountiful
“I can’t believe that bastard poisoned you!” Rosalee, in protective mother mode, jumped up and got me a glass of water from the tap. “You’ve got to detox, baby girl.” She filled the tea kettle. “I’ll make you some tea that will get those toxins out.” She bustled around with her herbs.
I was still reeling from this new information.
“Alan and Barnacle Bill—they were poisoned with that bottle of absinthe? The one on Peter’s desk? The police say so?” I could hardly bear to think about it. Peter had fed me poison. That night when I thought we were falling in love, I wasn’t playing Marian to his Robin Hood. I was playing pathetic, needy victim to a murderer. Knowing that was almost worse than the pain in my gut.
But Peter drank some absinthe himself—I was pretty sure. I tried to get my sick-addled brain to call up the memory of that night. Peter only had one glass. Maybe he’d put the poison in afterward. I remembered seeing the tin next to the bottle on the messy desk. He must have put it in after the ritual of mixing our first drinks—when I was relaxed and trusting after taking Much to the vet. After that, it would have been easy—that strong, cough-mediciney absinthe taste would have masked the poison.
I should have been suspicious when Peter only had the one drink. Thank goodness I’d only had two—it was probably why I was still alive. But Alan and Barnacle Bill finished the rest of the bottle together. And died instead of me.
My whole body began to shake as I realized what I had escaped.
Rosalee went to her own bedroom for a quilt and put it around my shoulders. “I know.
You had it bad for that Sherwood guy, didn’t you? But baby girl—hello? You knew the guy made his living with kinky-ass pornography. Fantasies about torturing women. You don’t have to be Dr. Phil….”
Rosalee was right. I cringed at the realization of how I’d allowed myself to be manipulated. I’d been duped into thinking my writing was worth something. That I was worth something. I felt a wave of anguish.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Rosalee said, fussing with the quilt. “You’ve been fighting the poison this long, so you must have a good immune system. I’m sure the worst is over. With some detoxing herbs, you’ll be fine.” She put a steaming cup in front of me on the table. “But honey, it’s time for you to get the hell outta Dodge. Peter Sherwood is in jail, but Ratko is still out there. If that murderer finds out where you are, you are dog meat.” She shuddered.
I watched her bustle off to the parlor as I sipped the bitter tea and tried to come up with a plan. Rosalee was right. I needed to get out of England. Now.
Rosalee bounced back in, with her raincoat and new faux Birkin bag.
“I’ll go buy you the plane ticket now, okay? You can send me the money once you’ve got a job back home. There’s a travel agency in Swynsby that’s advertising great deals to New York. That’s where you live, right?”
I looked at Rosalee with amazement.
“You’re going to lend me money for a ticket home? We’re talking hundreds of dollars. Do you have that much to spare?”
Rosalee gave a benevolent smile.
“Sure. But I’ll need your ID. You have to have a name on the ticket—you know, for Homeland Security or whatever.”
I nodded toward my bag, sitting on a chair. I’d once been so protective of my purse, but there was nothing in it now but money Rosalee herself had provided.
“Don’t worry about me.” Rosalee said, sliding the license from my wallet. “I’ve still got plenty left from my advance, and when that runs out, I’ll have tons rolling in from my book. I’ll be fine.”
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 24
