No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (21 page)

With Toto at her heels, she made her slow way around the house until she found Marvin's room. She could see the door to another bathroom ajar on the far side of the room.

On the dresser were some pictures of him in an army uniform—and some with other soldiers. But no women.

She still hadn't seen anything of the woman he had risked so much for in retrieving that faux Birkin bag.

But now, as she made her slow way to his bathroom, Doria saw it—the faux Birkin bag—hanging on a hook inside Marvin's closet. She gave a quick peek to see if maybe she'd been wrong about it being a knock-off. She had been pretty groggy that day.

But no. It was definitely shoddy workmanship. The make-up case was cheap, too. Nothing else inside but a business card case and that twenty dollar bill. No driver's license. No credit cards. Nothing to show who owned it. But the card case was full of shiny black and red cards. Doria pulled one out.

And froze when she read the words:

"Mistress Nightshade's Traveling Discipline Show."

I lay in my bed at the hospital in San Luis Obispo, wearing an awful backless surgical gown, getting more furious with Ronzo by the minute. They were going to discharge me from the hospital at three P.M., and I had literally nothing to wear.

My blood-soaked clothes were now in the possession of the police as evidence against the pathetic Brianna.

And I was apparently going to be pushed out into the street naked.

Unfortunately, Silas, in his eagerness to protect my furniture, had hired movers to cart all my possessions into storage. Of course that was very sweet. It didn't make sense to put it back in the house with the carpeting torn up.

However, this meant my clothing was all in storage. Except what I'd left in Ronzo's motel room.

And the man would not return my calls. His story about looking for that homeless guy amongst the fisherpersons of Morro Bay hardly excused such a long silence.

It had been over twenty-four hours since I'd seen him. For all I knew, he hadn't even heard I'd been attacked.

He probably hadn't. Silas said he'd had a word with the local newspaper and television people to keep my name out of the media. I was simply "the manager of the Morro Bay branch of Ryderbooks." Most people had no idea of my name anyway, and even fewer knew I had once been famous as "The Manners Doctor." I was grateful to Silas for that. I didn't need for my former friends back in New York to know I was now a retail slave out in Nowhere, California—who let herself get attacked by disgruntled employees.

Luckily nothing was going to bump Doria Windsor as the lead story anyway. I'd had to turn off the TV in my hospital room. It was nothing but Doria Windsor 24/7. Amazing how so many newscasters could repeat the same story over and over.

Of course, it was bizarre about the stolen car and the dead boy-toy. If I were trying to get away with illegal millions, the last thing I'd do is steal a car, pick up a man a third my age and drive recklessly. The CHP officer who'd chased the Mercedes that went off the cliff said the license number matched that of the vehicle allegedly stolen by Doria Windsor, but he'd only seen one person in the car—a young man.

I mulled it over as I ate my tasteless hospital lunch.

The fact the stolen car was a Mercedes made me wonder if Jason wasn't involved somehow. But it seemed improbable that Doria Windsor would choose somebody like Jason for a lover. For Brianna's sake, I hoped Jason was alive and well in Lompoc, driving some other stolen Mercedes.

No. That wasn't for Brianna's sake. It was for mine. Brianna would be better off if Jason were at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

But there would be such a media circus if it turned out Doria Windsor had been involved with Brianna's boyfriend. I could see it now. Somebody would invent a love triangle—or what would you call it with four? A love parallelogram?—starring Doria, me, Brianna and the thuggish Jason.

It was the kind of story that would fuel celebrity gossips and late night comedy routines for months.

No. Jason couldn't be Doria Windsor's boy toy. Even if she would stoop to buying male companionship, I could not see a taste maven like Doria in bed with a man with a hideous yellow bulldog tattooed on his bicep.

On the other hand, there was something to be said for buying male company. It would be one way to avoid dealing with calloused louts like Ronzo. How could he not have phoned me?

I picked up my phone from the bedside table and checked it again. Nope. Not even a text.

Didn't he even notice my stuff was still in his room? He could have at least called to find out what happened to me.

And I couldn't help feeling that if he hadn't pretended to be a gangster, Brianna probably wouldn't have felt the need to get violent with me.

Of course, there was a possibility Ronzo actually was a gangster. I still didn't know much about him, and what I did know didn't add up to any coherent picture: an army veteran and sometime musician who "did some investigating" for a law firm. And took shorthand.

Whoever he was, he seemed to have dumped me, and didn't have the courtesy to return my suitcase and laptop. Which was just plain rude.

Luckily, I hadn't had much time to brood, with all the excitement about my magical check from England, which was going to solve a lot of problems for Silas and Plant if it cleared in time.

Who would have thought a stupid thing like an e-book could work such miracles? Maybe I'd have to start rethinking those things.

As I was finishing up my Jell-O-and-fruit-cocktail dessert, Plant rushed in with the news that the check had cleared. They could start working on getting the loan I needed to buy the store, he said. And if I couldn't get it, Silas would carry it, since he owned the property free and clear.

Plant was carrying several large shopping bags.

He dumped out the contents on the bed in front of me: three outfits with the tags still on them—on approval from my favorite local clothing store—and some brand new toiletries: a hairbrush, toothbrush, and even some make-up and my favorite brand of moisturizer. Very kind of him, but I'd be fine with the stuff from the motel, if Ronzo would only answer his stupid phone.

"Maybe I should try the motel's front desk." I grabbed my phone again. "They might let you into Ronzo's room to get my things."

I'd told Plant about Sunday night's sleeping arrangements, which now made me more ashamed than ever. I'd fallen for that man twice. It was getting embarrassing.

Plant dropped his façade of buoyant good cheer.

"I already thought of that. But they wouldn't let me in. Your friend hasn't checked out, so it's his still his room and we'd be trespassing."

"He never checked out?"

"Not when I talked to the motel clerk last night. And you're not the only person looking for him. The manager said somebody else has been asking around, a Mr. Skinner.

This was odd. If Skinner didn't know where Ronzo was, his disappearance couldn't be excused by the story of an altruistic search for homeless veterans.

The mysterious Ronzo kept getting mysteriouser.

Doria's hand trembled as she studied the raised metallic red lettering on Mistress Nightshade's card. It showed no mailing address or website. Only a phone number, email address, and a stylized picture of a woman in a corset wielding a cat o'nine tails.

Yuck. Doria had never been a fan of the kinky stuff.

She took a deep breath and tried to focus. Okay, now she knew Mistress Nightshade was real. She hadn't hallucinated that. A fine thing to know.

But the fact Marvin had something to do with this person gave her a terrible chill.

Toto seemed to sense her discomfort and gave her a quizzical look.

"Is our friend Marvin a kinky freak?" she asked him.

Toto wagged his tail emphatically.

She had to agree.

She slipped a card into the pocket of her borrowed robe. It would be helpful when she talked to a lawyer.

That faux Birkin had probably been left at the house on the day of the fire—and Doria was pretty sure it belonged to the person called Mistress Nightshade.

That meant Marvin was a close friend this person. Or a client. And according to Mistress Nightshade's phone call, some kind of orgy had been going on the afternoon Harry died. Which meant Marvin might have been at that orgy.

He didn't seem like the type, but then, they never do.

But he did seem sneaky. She'd suspected that from the beginning. And now she realized he probably knew things about Harry—and Harry's death—that he wasn't telling her.

Toto barked. A door closed in another room.

Damn. Marvin was home.

Doria slipped the card case back in the knock-off Birkin and ducked into the bathroom. Unfortunately Toto rushed in with her, still barking.

Great. Now she was going to be caught snooping.

She opened cabinets, looking wildly for toilet paper so she'd have an excuse to be there. With relief she found a four-pack of Charmin and tore it open as she heard Marvin walk in.

She emerged from the bathroom holding the roll, and struck a triumphant pose.

"I found it! I've used up all the paper in the guest bath, I'm afraid."

"Look at you!" Marvin said with a too-big smile. "Walking around all on your own. We'll have you back to normal in no time."

His words were perfectly pleasant, but she sensed underlying anger. Marvin definitely didn't want her in his room.

No wonder. If he had anything to do with Mistress Nightshade, he probably had all sorts of kinky paraphernalia in here.

Pretending nothing was amiss, she called Toto and returned to her bed. Now she knew she should start making plans to leave Marvin's house sooner rather than later.

But first, she needed to find the identity of the mysterious Mistress Nightshade—who might be the only person in the world who knew how Harry really died.

Plant and Silas insisted I spend a couple of days recovering at their house before they'd take me home to view the damage.

But I needed my car, which I hoped I'd find still parked in the driveway. I hated being so dependent on them.

I also wanted to see what kind of mess the L.A. people and their contractors had made so I could make plans to fix it.

Plus I needed to see the store. Now that it was mine. My bookstore. I owned something. A business. Maybe not with any I's dotted or T's crossed, but it was mine as far as Silas was concerned. My advance check had cleared. That's what was important. It was going to pay his mortgage payments and fees. He and Plant got to keep their home, and so did I. Things were looking up.

On Thursday morning, Plant agreed to drive me back to Morro Bay.

Things didn't look too bad from the street except that the back courtyard and my cottage were ringed with yellow police tape. It looked as if I wouldn't be able to assess the damage to my house. Luckily the tape didn't include my car in the driveway. It looked as if it hadn't been touched. The store wasn't taped either, but a sign in the window said:

"Closed Temporarily for Police Investigation."

"Oh, no," I said to Plant as he parked. "Does that mean we can't go inside the store either?"

Plant opened the car door for me. "No. Don't worry. The sign was Silas's idea. He thought it would be best to let customers think the closure was on account of the disgruntled employee attack, not our financial fiasco."

"A fiasco that's going to be over soon." I squeezed his hand.

He shrugged. "Temporarily. But darling, even though you've been a huge help, things are never going to be the same for Silas. He's lost 90% of his net worth. He's probably going to have to let go of the other bookstores. They've been operating at a loss for a long time. You need be aware of that if you're counting on this store to keep up your payments. As a profitable business investment, a bookstore is somewhere up there with VCR rental and film developing.

I sort of knew this, but refused to accept the possibility of defeat. If I had to, I'd sell something else alongside the books. Antiques. Shoes. Something. I'd work more hours. Maybe not hire any assistants.

That hadn't worked out so well, anyway.

A few passersby lingered at the window. Potential customers. I had to remind myself I was only here to get my car. The doctors wanted me to avoid using my lacerated arm.

Plant gave me a quick kiss and made me promise not to open the store.

"Just give things a look and drive right back to the house, OK?"

I agreed. The store looked a little discombobulated—books had fallen to the floor and things were out of place on the counter—but I'd be able to tidy up without much trouble. I straightened a few things and left the rest for tomorrow.