No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (12 page)

As they rushed toward the parking lot, I looked around one more time, but didn't see a glimpse of Ronzo or Mr. Skinner, although Ronzo's rented Ford was exactly where we'd left it.

Fine. Let them look for me. I didn't have time to deal with inconsiderate men anymore.

Doria took a bit too long choosing her ensemble at the Dress for Less store, and when she got to the jewelry shop, the owners—a nice gay couple—were locking up.

"I'm sorry," said one—a sweet-faced man in a Jhane Barnes shirt—"We're just closing. We'd love to see you tomorrow."

But the other man gave Doria a look that seemed to zing from terror to pleasure and back again. He grabbed the other man's forearm.

"Oh, my God, it's…! George, stop."

The man in Jhane Barnes stopped fiddling with the keys and looked at her. The same odd expressions flickered across his face, but he recovered and gave her a dazzling smile.

"Doria. Do come in."

They ushered her into the little store, luxurious with thick burgundy carpeting and old-world chandeliers

"Enrique and I were so sorry to hear about Harry," George said.

So polite. Not a word about Harry being a low-life crook who had ruined people's lives. And nothing about the nasty things people said in USA Today.

Nobody understands the importance of being nonjudgmental as well as people who sell high-end products.

"What can we do for you?" Enrique, too, used exactly the right tone of not-prying friendliness. If he hadn't taken a surreptitious glance at his watch, Doria would have thought there was nothing the two of them would rather do than sit here chatting.

"My engagement ring," she said, getting right to the point. She wiggled it, trying to get it off her slightly swollen fingers. "I'd like to sell it, and I thought you might give me an idea of how much it's worth and where I might find a buyer."

The men exchanged enigmatic looks.

"We, um, do buy estate jewelry on occasion," George said. "Do you want me to take a look?" He went to his desk and pulled out a jeweler's loupe.

Doria twisted the ring again, but couldn't get it off. Her fingers seemed to be swollen. "I've just had surgery. Maybe some drug is making me retain water."

George gave her some lotion from a bottle in his desk. "Happens all the time. This works like magic."

Enrique's phone rang as she finally got the ring off her finger and handed it to George.

"We might be a tiny bit late," he said to the phone. "We've got…um, a customer still here."

George examined the ring through his loupe, stood, and handed it back, his perfect smile still in place, but something in his eyes had changed.

"Doria, do you think we could do this another time? We're meeting friends for an early dinner."

She tried to get it back on her finger, but it wouldn't go on.

"Can't you keep it in your vault until tomorrow?" She held it out to George.

The diamond would be safer here. After all, she had no idea where she was going to spend the night. Better not to be wearing flashy jewelry. She'd have to use Betsy's credit card to check into a motel. Not a nice thing to do, but the cash was pretty much gone. She'd phone Betsy from the motel phone and explain things.

But George seemed to look right through her.

"Please? I can't get it back on my finger."

She tried to shove the ring back on over her swollen knuckle, but it wouldn't budge. She held it out to Enrique.

But he only shifted his weight and looked at his watch.

"Um, Doria, it's not a good idea to come back tomorrow. Tomorrow wouldn't be a good time."

She turned to George. His smile looked like it hurt his face.

"Enrique is right. It's not a good idea for you to be here right now. We've been hearing some, um, strange things about you."

"I've heard them too," Doria said. "Well, not actually heard, but I read some things in USA Today. Sheer nonsense, most of it. I suppose they're saying even crazier things on the Internet. They always do. Real journalism is dead. Nobody ever checks their facts. If you have a local newspaper, you probably have a much better idea of what's going on than I do. USA Today isn't big on details."

The men exchanged another look.

"You tell her, George," said Enrique. "I'll finish locking up."

"Doria, you'd better sit down," George said.

She sank onto a velvet chair as George filled her in. According to the news reports, Doria was a fugitive. In possession of a car and credit cards stolen from TV star Betsy Baylor. And had last been seen heading for the Van Nuys airport. The FBI was conducting an international search. People had reported seeing her everywhere from a café in the Maldives to a Paris Hermès store.

Doria wasn't sure she could bear it. She wanted to put her hands over her ears and make it stop, but George had more—

It seemed some of the investigators had finally figured out that Harry might have been the victim of murder.

This would have been a step in the right direction, but unfortunately, they thought Doria herself might be the murderer, because that imbecile receptionist she'd fired last month gave a reporter some quote about how Doria was "the devil in 2000-thread count sheets".

And—worst of all—Miss Betsy Baylor agreed. She had accused Doria of grand theft auto.

Plus—now Doria's head began to roar—it seemed Harry had filed for divorce the day before the fire.

Her body felt as if it had been pressed into the plush chair by a huge weight.

"Harry was divorcing me?" She could hardly get the words out.

She didn't know why the fact Harry had been planning to divorce her was the part of the dreadful story that hit her hardest, but now she had to fight tears.

"You didn't know?" Enrique hovered above her, clutching a set of keys. "Oh, sweetie, we're so sorry."

George rolled his eyes. "That's not exactly the worst of Doria's problems. The police think she's a murderer." He patted her shoulder. "But we know you didn't kill him, Doria. You'd never burn down your house right after you had all that decorating done."

They were interrupted by loud knocking on the display window outside. A group of well-dressed people peered in the window. A large, bearded man held up a wine bottle, while his handsome silver-haired companion waved. Beside them, a pretty blonde woman in Chanel smiled, most of her face hidden by huge sunglasses. She looked familiar. As if she might be a celebrity.

Doria turned away, praying none of them had seen her face. This place was probably full of Hollywood people. Half of them ripped off by Harry, no doubt.

"They're waiting for us…" Enrique gave the window people a wave.

George tensed. "Get them out of here. Tell them we'll meet them at Novo."

His anxiety was contagious. Doria grabbed his hand.

"Do you think people really believe I'm a criminal?"

"Yes, people really believe you're a criminal," George said. "You need to find a safe place, then call your lawyer. I'll take you out the back so they don't see you."

Enrique called to George from the front door.

"Silas says we have to get over there and eat fast. We have to be at the mission by seven-thirty or they'll give away our seats."

George ushered Doria quickly to the back and through a little workshop. He opened the door and gave her hand a squeeze.

"I wish we could help more, Doria. Good luck."

She didn't want to let go. "When I come back—for you to appraise the ring…should I come in this door—would that be safer?"

George gave her a look of great pain, as if he were passing a kidney stone. He pulled away.

"Doria, you can't come back. We're breaking the law as it is, not telling the police."

"But where can I take the ring? I don't care if it's some pawn shop. I really need…"

She could feel George's oh-so-polite hand exert pressure on her back. He wanted her gone.

She dropped the ring into his pocket. "Please put it in the vault. It's all I have in the world…I'll come back after I've cleared things up with the police."

Of course she had no idea how she was going to do that now. The police would probably throw her in jail. Not the best place to recover from a tummy tuck.

She stepped down into the parking lot. Everything still looked the same: the sun was still beaming golden evening light on this happy little Oz of a town, and a delicate breeze still swayed the jacaranda trees—but everything had changed. There was not going to be any happiness for her here.

She was a suspect on the lam, dead broke, with nowhere to go.

I found it difficult to enjoy dinner. First I'd had to explain my black eye, which obviously made Silas miserable, since the bounced paycheck was his fault. He kept apologizing as I tried to get him to see he was only responsible for Brianna's check, not her taste in boyfriends.

I didn't tell them about my awful experience with Ronzo at the wine tasting. Some things are too humiliating to admit.

Once Enrique and George arrived, the men all talked inanities, way too loud, and everybody's smiles looked phony. Enrique and George were full of conflicting explanations of their tardiness, and there was hardly any time to enjoy the expensive appetizers and entrees Silas and Plant ordered.

I had no idea how they'd pay for them. Silas had brought wine from his own cellar, but of course there was a corkage fee. I couldn't afford to chip in much more than the price of my own meal. So embarrassing.

Enrique and George seemed to be embarrassed about something, too. They acted even more edgy than Plant and Silas. Maybe they were going through similar financial difficulties. George kept putting his hand in his pocket, as if he were feeling around for some non-existent cash.

My roast quail salad was delicious, but I only picked at it.

I made several almost-impolite mentions of the time, but the men insisted on lingering too long over dessert. Even though the restaurant was just across San Luis Creek from the Mission, this meant they had to rush to avoid losing their seats.

What was worse, some food or craft fair was closing up in the Mission Plaza, so their way was blocked by vans loading up market umbrellas and tables and boxes of avocado concoctions, hand-made birdhouses, and exotic costume jewelry.

They got through the maze and were half way up the mission steps when I saw him—on the other side of the plaza, out near the street.

Ronzo. I could see his blond head shining in the golden evening light.

He stood chatting with two policemen. They looked chummy.

So I'd been right the first time. He probably was a cop. At least he looked at ease with them—in fact he looked as if he was lecturing them. Maybe he was FBI, as Skinner said—which would explain the suit.

I turned away, hoping he wouldn't see me. I didn't need to hear his excuses. He had a phone. There was no reason to leave me alone for nearly two hours. I'd been an idiot to go to the winery with him after he'd showed he was a liar with that ancient phony gun trick. It would be my own stupid fault if I let him lie to me again.

"Quite a police presence in our little downtown tonight," Plant said, still faking cheerful banter with George and Enrique. "We saw a couple of uniformed cops by your store when we were waiting for you two. I wonder if something's up."

"What? Cops? Watching our store?" George froze like a trapped rabbit.

"Don't worry. I don't think they're expecting jewel thieves in particular. They always put more uniforms downtown in the summer. They want the tourists to feel safe," Silas gave one of his paternal smiles.

Enrique and George still looked like naughty children afraid they were about to be caught at something.

"Maybe they're looking for Doria Windsor," Plant said with a laugh. "I heard she's still in California."

"She's here?" Enrique's voice rose to a squeak.

Plant laughed again. "I don't really think so. I'm sure she's off in Rio or Costa Rica sitting on a nice beach. But talk radio has been crazy all day with people who say they've seen her. Some woman called into an L.A. talk show and swore she saw Doria Windsor in a Tarzana McDonald's. Eating an Egg McMuffin. She didn't know why the police wouldn't take her statement. Said she had all her children as witnesses."

Silas laughed too. "Doria Windsor at a McDonald's. Yes, I'm sure that's where somebody would go to spend illegal billions. I suppose Elvis was with her, chowing down on a Big Mac with peanut butter and bananas?"

"What makes you say Ms. Windsor has billions?" George sounded almost belligerent. "I thought the FBI froze the Sharkov accounts."

"Because that money is missing," Plant said. "Somehow the biggest Sharkov account was drained by the time the Feds got to it. At least that's what NBC tweeted about an hour ago."