No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (25 page)

"Do let me help," Doria said, eager to make herself welcome. She was looking forward to a nice clean bathroom to check her incision and take her medications. The Oxy was beginning to wear off. "I have a fabulous recipe for barbequed lamb with a rub of roasted garlic, fresh rosemary and lavender."

"Sounds a lot like Silas's," Plant said. "He got it from Home magazine. Whatever anybody says about Doria Windsor, her recipes were to die for."

I couldn't believe my luck in finding Dorothy. To have such a gracious, smart and mature woman walk into my store exactly when I needed her could only be described as miraculous.

Dorothy even seemed to understand the rage I felt about Ronzo's story.

Ronzo's betrayal, I should say. He'd treated me as a commodity. And an object of pity. While pretending to be falling in love with me.

The humiliation was excruciating. I'd almost rather he'd attacked me with a broken bottle, although my wounded arm ached with pain after the long day.

As I drove Dorothy to Plant and Silas's house for dinner, I told her about Ronzo's weird disappearances, the missing homeless man, and the blue notebook.

The notebook.

"I forgot," I said. "I was going to get the copy of the Secretarial Handbook from the store to see if I could decipher the shorthand in that notebook."

"Gregg Shorthand?" Dorothy smiled. "I can read that. I took it high school. All women were supposed to become secretaries in those days if they didn't marry right out of school. Unless we were going to be teachers or nurses. And teachers and nurses had to learn math. So I decided on secretary. I've never had a head for numbers."

She read shorthand. Dorothy was one miracle after another.

"I'll owe a big thank-you to your high school teacher if you can decipher this thing." I reached into my purse and pulled out the notebook. "Although at this point I don't suppose it matters. I can't believe I was worried about a man who was using me like that."

The thought of Ronzo made me grip the steering wheel in rage. I wanted it to be his lying throat.

Dorothy gave a sympathetic smile. "I'm beginning to think all men are liars, I dear. I've never found one I could trust."

She flipped through the notebook and read out loud in halting bursts of understanding.

"…the Manners Doctor now lives in a tiny cottage with warped doors and threadbare carpet. And even this is about to be taken away…"

"It's all about me?" I tightened my stranglehold on the steering wheel. "There's not even a mention of homeless veterans? All that time—on our date—he was taking notes about me? And I opened up to him so much…"

I'd been such an idiot. From the beginning. And here I thought the man might actually be attracted to me. I couldn't stand to hear any more.

"Stop reading," I said, my voice a little too shrill. "Thanks, but that's enough. I can probably read it all on his 'Zo What' blog anyway."

I almost missed the turn onto Edna Valley Road as my vision blurred with angry tears.

Dorothy gave a strange squeal. "Where—where are we going? I thought you were taking me to your friends' house."

I wondered what traumas Dorothy had been through that could make her so afraid of this lovely peaceful road.

"Yes. That's where we're going. Silas and Plant have a house on Edna Valley Road. Quite the mansion. They can't afford it, but it looks as if they can hang onto it for a bit longer. It's next door to the one that burned down last week. You know, where Doria Windsor and Harry Sharkov lived. Such a tragedy. Well, tragedies, plural—for both of them. It's so bizarre the way she went off that cliff. Very Thelma and Louise."

"Next door?" Dorothy's voice sounded choked.

"Not right next to it. These are mini-ranches, on lots of a half-acre or more. Don't worry about inhaling smoke or anything."

Dorothy still seemed nervous when we pulled into Plant and Silas's driveway.

"You must have seen the fire from here," Dorothy said in an odd voice. "Did you hear screams? Did Harry Sharkov scream when he died?"

I couldn't think what to say. I hated that even a person as nice as Dorothy could be cruel when it came to celebrities. I did understand why people hated the Sharkovs so much, but I didn't like it when they got ghoulish.

Finally I said, "I certainly hope his death was merciful. Doria Windsor was a friend of my mother's. Whatever they may have done wrong, the Sharkovs didn't deserve to die in such awful ways."

Doria enjoyed helping Silas barbeque the lamb according to her own recipe. It felt so odd, pretending to be someone else while talking about herself in the third person.

At least all three of her new friends were fans of her magazine.

Plantagenet poured some lovely wine as they sat out on the patio, gazing into the vineyards—rolling hills covered in beautifully regimented rows of grapes. Nature at its most tamed and elegant: the view she'd fallen in love with, sitting less than half a mile away, with Harry, drinking another bottle of Central Coast wine, not so many months ago.

How had it all gone so terribly wrong? Thank goodness for another dose of Oxy and the wine, which almost made it all bearable.

The two men told her how they'd avoided the "tragedy" of foreclosure this week.

Tragedy was such a relative term.

Apparently Camilla's book royalties had bailed them out. So the Manners Doctor wasn't as down and out as the mysterious blogger had said.

A good thing, since she expected Camilla to have the money to pay her an hourly wage.

Doria still had the blue notebook in her purse. She was enough of a snoop that she'd enjoy reading the rest of the blogger's notes. She'd only had a glimpse of the story on the blog on Jen's tiny phone screen. Those things were not made for old eyes.

"So where do you live, Dorothy?" Plant asked as he offered to refill her glass.

The question was perfectly normal, but it shocked Doria back to reality. What the hell was she going to say?

"I'm, um, new to the area. On my own. Don't have a place yet." The words spilled out. She hoped they made sense. It had been an exhausting day and she needed sleep. But first she had to find a place to do it. She'd wrangled this invitation and sort of hoped she could get one for overnight. It looked like a good-sized house. It must have four bedrooms at least.

"Dorothy is in transition right now," Camilla said, giving Doria's hand a pat. "A divorce, is it? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Doria liked Camilla more by the minute. One thing she had to admire about people who were born to privilege: they were trained not to pry. Rich people were never addicted, criminal or crazy. They were "having difficulties", "experiencing a cash-flow problem," or "eccentric".

"It's…yes. My husband filed for divorce last week," Doria said, speaking at least a partial truth. "I'm looking for a place I can afford." No point in pretending she wasn't destitute. After all, she'd just accepted a minimum-wage job.

A buzzer from inside the house sent Plant scurrying. "That's the front door," he said. "It might be Lureen with our papers to sign."

Camilla launched into a rather tedious story, explaining why she was buying the bookstore and the adjoining cottage.

"Mauve," she kept saying. "These awful people from L.A. painted my whole house mauve."

It was hard for Doria to pay attention. Her head had started to nod. She really did need to think about where she was going to sleep.

"Mauve is terribly dated." She tried to sound sympathetic to Camilla's woes. "So late '80s."

Camilla gave her an odd look. "So lateys?"

Doria realized she'd slurred her words. Oxy and wine and fatigue. Sleep soup.

"Do you need to lie down?" Silas said. "We have a second guest room. It's not much—originally a maid's room, but the bed is made up. After the day you've had, you probably could use a nap."

They were humoring her. Glances between Camilla and Silas showed they thought they had a drunk on their hands. Fine. They had a bed. She needed one. She could be like Scarlett O'Hara. Think about it tomorrow.

"I do think I might like to lie down," she said. "I'm taking some medication that probably doesn't mix well with wine…"

Camilla led her into the house. As they passed through the living room, she heard Plantagenet arguing with a man in the front hall. A man with a familiar voice. He sounded frantic.

"I won't go until I talk to the Manners Doctor," the man said. "She was the last person to see Ronzo. I have to find him."

Marvin. Marvin was here.

I recognized the man's voice as I led the drunken Dorothy to the guest room.

Skinner. Here. How had he found me? He sounded upset.

Obviously Plant had picked up on whatever weirdness it was that I'd felt coming from Skinner when I met him. Something about him seemed phony. Untrustworthy.

Plant spoke to him in an uncharacteristic tone—sharp, bordering on rudeness. He obviously didn't want the man in his house.

I heard Skinner say he wanted was Ronzo's things. Which were still in the trunk of my car. Better for Skinner to have them than me. I had no desire to see Mr. Ronson V. Zolek again for any reason.

I was torn between the need to tell Skinner I had what he wanted and the need to put the wobbly Dorothy to bed.

Right now, Dorothy's needs seemed more urgent.

"I'm so embarrassed," Dorothy kept saying. "You probably think I'm some sort of dreadful lush. But it's the medication. I'm on these pills…"

I hoped the medication was to blame. It would be so awful if my new employee turned out to be an alcoholic. A complication I didn't need.

I opened the door to the little guest room, pointed Dorothy toward the bed, then dashed away, hoping she wouldn't find me rude.

But I had to rescue Plant from Skinner. The man was Ronzo's friend and Ronzo was my fault. Entirely my fault. He was a slimeball and I'd slept with him. Twice. I felt like kicking myself.

As I entered the front hall, I had a feeling Mr. Skinner might do the kicking for me. Or maybe Plant would. They both looked furious.

"Mr. Skinner!" I said in what I hoped was a cheerful tone. "I thought that was your voice. I'm so sorry I didn't come sooner. My new employee is having a, um, medical problem."

I turned to give Plant a reassuring smile.

"Mr. Skinner is a friend of Ronzo's." I explained. "He helps homeless veterans. They've been looking for a homeless man who used to beg outside of the bookstore."

"I have met Marvin," Plant said. His tone made it clear the meeting hadn't been entirely cordial.

I turned back to Skinner, whose first name seemed to be Marvin. "What can I do for you, Marvin? Have you heard from Mr. Zolek? I have his things in my car."

"No. No." Marvin looked as if he might jump out of his skin. "Nobody's seen him. Not for days. Missing. He's missing. My houseguest is missing too. Everybody seems to be going missing. The people from the motel gave me this address."

"Um, why don't we sit down?" I raised a Manners Doctor eyebrow at Plant.

Plant gave a defeated sigh and invited Marvin to join us in the back yard.

Silas didn't look terribly happy to see Marvin either.

But I pretended all was well and suggested another bottle of the fume blanc might be nice. While Plant and Silas fussed with bottles and corkscrews, I told them the story of homeless Tom and Ronzo's quest. It wasn't a story I believed much anymore, but it was best to keep up the fiction that Ronzo wasn't a lying sleazeball as long as his army friend was here.

After wine had been poured all around, I sat next to Marvin on one of the patio lounge chairs where I could rest my bandaged arm and related—in what I hope were soothing tones—the few things I knew about Ronzo's recent activities.

"So you see, I think he's probably at home in Newark, having a good laugh. Nothing to be upset about." I tried not to let my anger seep through. "Those clothes he left were probably throw-aways. I saw a tip about that in a magazine recently: travel with disposable clothing, so you don't have to pay those extra luggage fees. Ronzo appeared to be, um, watching his expenses."

Marvin refused to be placated.

"You don't understand. Ronzo has disappeared. He found proof Tom is dead, went looking for evidence and dropped off the map…"

I gave him an indulgent smile. He obviously cared about Tom, but I didn't think his friend Ronzo cared about much of anything—except his stupid blog.

"I have a feeling Mr. 'Zo What' has only been pretending to look for poor old Tom in order to get me to trust him. He'd been working on another story all along—about my own, um, reduced circumstances. He's probably at home, laughing at us all."