No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (13 page)

I had a flash of insight into what a service celebrities provided for ordinary people. Talking about the problems of famous people kept them from dwelling on their own. Of course I hadn't felt that way when I'd been one of those people myself, but now I saw that my own scandals might have contributed to the general good in a convoluted way. I felt an odd solidarity with the larcenous Ms. Windsor.

As they waited at the entrance with their tickets, I thought I heard somebody call my name. Probably Ronzo. The voice was loud and masculine. But I refused to turn around. I did not want to deal with any more drama today.

Mercifully, they were ushered into the Mission just at that moment.

Thank goodness. I was going to spend a couple of hours getting lost in the time-travel ambience of the eighteenth-century mission and the marvelous a cappella music of Chanticleer. I could forget about Ronzo's rudeness, celebrity scandals and even put off worrying about my own looming disasters.

When Doria got back to the car, she took some deep breaths and tried to assess her situation. It couldn't be as dire as it seemed. There had to be a way through this. She knew she had a guardian angel looking over her, and now her job was to stay calm and figure out the best way to let that angel give her a helping hand.

First she looked in Betsy's wallet and counted what was left—only about fifteen dollars. Enough to buy a little food, but not a place to sleep. The shopping trip and the donation to the homeless man had been mistakes, but what was done was done.

Now that she knew how complicated things were getting, she didn't dare use Betsy's credit cards for a motel. At least not until she'd had a talk with her—and that conversation would have to wait until Betsy had some time to cool down. Betsy could be nasty when she got into a temper.

It was tough to face, but she'd pretty much have to sleep in the Mercedes until she got things sorted with the police and could get the money for her diamond. The most sensible place to park was probably in the safety of a retail parking lot.

Somewhere near a bathroom.

She decided to drive out toward the property in Edna Valley—not because she much wanted to see the ruins of her dream house, but because she knew the neighborhood. She'd only stayed in this area about a month before she had to go back to work in New York, so she hadn't learned her way around.

But she did remember a few little shopping centers on the way from downtown to the vineyard house.

She stopped at a mini-mall that housed a supermarket, some small shops, and what looked to be a thriving pizza place called Slice of Heaven—where she headed. It seemed to have enough patrons that she wouldn't stand out, but not so many she'd have to wait in a long line for the ladies' room.

The pizza smelled delicious, but she resisted. No point in wasting her small reserve of cash on a restaurant meal when she could get something healthier at the market.

Besides, a group of rowdy young people celebrating a birthday at a large central table had obviously consumed vast amounts of beer. They were having way too much noisy fun for her to relax and think.

And that's what she needed to do: think.

She headed for the rest room and checked her incision and drains, the way Betsy had showed her. She sat on the toilet trying to block out the noise and tried to figure out how to approach the law enforcement people—either the local police or the FBI—and set them straight without risking arrest. She wished she knew a lawyer to call, but all of Harry's were likely to be crooks.

She'd feel no guilt telling them everything she knew about Harry's business. Not that she knew much. He often chattered on about business, but she'd found it all either boring or ridiculous. Personal submarines. That had been his latest kick. She couldn't think of anything worse than to be stuck under water with only one or two other human beings. But Harry had been able to talk people into investing in anything.

It was silly for people to suggest she'd killed Harry. Being on the operating table in Los Angeles at the time he died was a pretty good alibi. And if the Ponzi scheme accusations were true, he had more than his share of enemies. And there were those mysterious people in Colombia…

At least the rumors of suicide seemed to have been quashed. That was progress of some sort.

Finding out Harry had been planning to divorce her was disappointing, of course, but anybody who knew her would tell the police how ridiculous it was to think Doria Windsor would kill over a divorce.

After all, she'd already been through five. Harry would have been number six.

All of this whirled around in complete chaos in her brain. She knew she wasn't going to be able to make sense of things until she had some food and rest.

And some more Oxycontin. The pain was coming back. The bandage thing was like the most sadistic girdle she'd ever worn. It made her a little nauseous, but she figured she should probably eat before she took the pills, since it wasn't usually good to take meds on an empty stomach.

Someone banged on the bathroom door.

"Hey lady, did you fall in or what? I gotta go like crazy. Come on!"

More banging.

Doria walked out and gave the young woman as polite a smile as she could. The creature had a badly done streak of blue hair and a face red and puffy from too much beer.

"Why do old people spend so much time in the john?" the girl said. "I am never getting old!"

Doria was happy to hope for the young woman's wish to come true.

The supermarket had a deli where she bought a small tub of chicken salad. It was so inexpensive, she decided she could afford a little wine to go with it. No reason not to be civilized simply because things were hitting a bad patch.

She went back to enjoy her meal in the luxurious leather seats of the old Mercedes. How could she feel sorry for herself when she was surrounded by all this luxury—the burlwood dash, the maple and leather steering wheel, the surround sound speakers. She reached to turn on the radio, but decided against it. Listening to stupid lies about herself wouldn't do anything for her state of mind. She played the Nelson Riddle CD again instead.

The chicken salad was a bit heavy on the mayo, but perfectly adequate, and the screw-top Pino Grigio wasn't half bad. Drinking it out of the bottle reminded Doria of her teenaged days when she and Joey would go down to the Blackstone River with a bottle of Boone's Farm strawberry wine.

She panicked for a moment when she reached into the purse and pulled out a bottle of diuretics instead of the Oxy. Then a vial of tablets that looked like Wellbutrin. She once took those to quit smoking. She wondered if Betsy was fighting the nicotine demons again.

Funny. Doria hadn't thought about cigarettes for years. But right now, she craved one almost as desperately as the Oxycontin. She half wished she'd find an old pack in the purse.

But there wasn't so much as a tobacco shred. She did find a gold pillbox full of what might have been saccharine tablets sometime during the Clinton administration. Now they'd turned a dismal shade of gray.

Finally she unearthed the Oxy.

She took one, dumped the saccharine in the ashtray and put the Oxy in the pillbox so she wouldn't get it confused with the other pill vials next time.

She had no idea how women functioned with huge, unorganized purses, but Betsy's was making her loony, so she decided to dump the whole thing on the seat and sort through the mess.

She stuffed the rest of the cash in her pocket and put Betsy's wallet with the driver's license and cards in the glove compartment. No reason to keep them in the purse, since flashing around anything with Betsy's name on it would probably be unwise. She put the rest of Betsy's things into a shopping bag she found under the seat. All she needed for herself were some basic grooming products—Betsy even had a sample tube of toothpaste—and a tiny flashlight.

Which she used for reading a few chapters of Betsy's Oz mystery. A perfectly pleasant evening

Around nine, she felt ready for sleep. The wine was giving her a nice relaxing buzz and the Oxy was doing its magic. All she needed was a visit to the Slice of Heaven bathroom, and tomorrow morning, her life could start to get back on track.

The restaurant was now quite chaotic, with several of the birthday-partiers looking too drunk to drive home. The blue-haired girl was getting sick into an empty pizza box. Doria hoped they had designated drivers.

She lingered in the washroom, giving her teeth a finger-brushing, her body a bit of a sponge bath and checking to make sure all was well in the tummy tuck department. She'd brought the wine bottle to fill with water, but it was still half full, so she took a few more swigs and decided to buy some bottled water in the morning.

When she'd finished, she was glad to see the noisy patrons had gone, except the sick blue girl who was apparently crying to her mother on her phone. An irritated manager was cleaning up the mess.

"Who's raising these kids?" he said. "Look at this. Food all over the place. One of them barfed on my rug. You know how long it's going to take to get that stink out?"

Doria gave him a sympathetic smile. "It's sad when they don't learn manners when they're young. I suppose they come from underprivileged backgrounds."

"Underprivileged?" The man practically vomited the word. "No way, lady. These college kids get everything handed to them. You should have seen the car one of those jerks was driving. A vintage Mercedes, in primo condition."

Doria let out a yelp. She looked across the parking lot where Betsy's Mercedes had been parked.

The car was gone.

I enjoyed the music so much, I'd almost forgotten about Ronzo as the crowd drifted out of the Mission.

But there he was. Standing at the bottom of the Mission steps. Waiting for me.

He waved.

That must really have been him calling my name before the concert. Had he been waiting all this time?

"Oh, look," Plant said. "It's your dishy boyfriend. I feel so awful about what happened this morning."

I tried to stop him, but Plant scampered down to greet Ronzo with a hand extended.

"I am so sorry." Plant pumped Ronzo's hand. "A gentleman should never burst into a lady's boudoir without knocking. I was a total idiot. But I hope Camilla explained to you that I'm not her significant other." He waved Silas over. "I'm Plantagenet Smith, and this is my fiancé Silas Ryder."

"Ronzo," said Ronzo. He gave them all a big grin. An adorable grin.

But I was not going to be taken in by adorable. I'd seen been there before. More than once.

Plant tried to introduce George and Enrique, but they scurried off, still looking like naughty children with something to hide.

Ronzo gave Silas's hand a warm shake before turning back to Plant.

"Are you Plantagenet Smith, the playwright? Camilla didn't tell me your name. Awesome. I saw a revival of two of your one-acts at the Laura Pels Theatre last winter. Loved the twist endings. And Wilde in the West is one of my favorite films of the last decade. I cheered when you got that Oscar."

Oh great. He was charming Plant. Now it was going to be even more difficult to tell him to get lost. And how did a policeman know that much about Off Broadway theater?

"You guys want to go for a drink?" Ronzo beamed another affable smile. "It's only nine o'clock. The night is young." Clever move. He was going to include third parties. That meant I couldn't yell at him for abandoning me. Not that I would. I never yelled. I detached. And I was about to detach now.

"Sorry. We've got to run," Silas said. "We've got a crazy day tomorrow. A Monday from hell."

He avoided my eyes. His hell was my hell and we both knew it.

He whisked Plant into the milling crowd—leaving me with Ronzo.

And without a car.

As I realized what was happening, I pushed through the crowd, calling to Plant and Silas. They had to give me a ride. Yes, it was out of their way, but Silas owed me. It would cost a fortune for me to get a taxi to go out to Morro Bay at this hour. If I could even find one.

I called again. But Plant only turned to give me a raised thumb and a hand sign for "call me." He obviously thought Ronzo was hot and wanted all the details.

I hoped Ronzo hadn't seen the thumb. Yes, he was hot. He was also rude. And way, way too sure of himself. This was getting more humiliating by the minute.

"You didn't tell me Mr. Roses was Plantagenet Smith." Ronzo pushed through right behind me, dogging my steps. "I think he's one of the geniuses of contemporary American theater. He never should have gone to Hollywood. They don't get him out here."

I watched Plant and Silas cross the street at the light. Okay, I was stuck with dealing with rude, dishy Ronzo one more time. I would treat him politely until he got me safely home, then I'd give him a quick dismissal.

My life was precarious enough without another untrustworthy man to deal with.

I turned to Ronzo with a half-smile. "Hollywood hasn't been good to Plantagenet. His current screenplay has been in development hell for over two years and he's dead broke. So is Silas. But you probably figured that out from the little drama in the bookstore this morning. Brianna's paycheck isn't the only one that bounced."