No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (4 page)

The janitor left Doria standing in her room, staring at her luggage. He picked up his mop and bucket and scurried out the door without acknowledging her at all—almost as if he hadn't seen her.

After a few minutes, she decided to go in search of the nurses' station. Unfortunately, her wheelchair seemed to have been spirited from the corridor where she left it.

As she made her slow way, leaning against walls for support, she began to realize she must be having one of those druggy dreams like Betsy's hallucinations about satanic tattoos. Nothing else made any sense.

When she reached the nurses' station, it was almost comical the way all three of them avoided eye contact with her.

In fact, they seemed to look right through her.

Then she got it: this was an invisibility dream. She supposed it had some surreal irony. Here she was—a woman who'd been in the public eye for forty-odd years—hallucinating that nobody could see her.

She decided to head back to her room, hoping she'd wake up in her bed. As she wobbled along, another nurse appeared—the tiny, apologetic one from the recovery room. She was carrying Doria's overnight case and tote bag and addressed her by name.

Doria found this development interesting. Apparently she wasn't invisible to everybody.

"I have your things, Ms. Windsor," the nurse said. "But I am not allowed to give these to you. You have had abdominal surgery. You cannot lift anything heavier than five pounds. Dr. Singh was most insistent."

"I can be thrown out on the street, but I can't carry my own luggage?"

Interesting she could talk in this dream. Not usual for her. But then nothing was usual right now.

The janitor who had been cleaning her room, a Hispanic man almost as tiny as the nurse, came by with his mop and bucket and looked Doria in the face. He gave her an apologetic smile. Apparently he could see her, too.

Maybe she was visible only to small people—and this was all part of the Munchkin dream she'd been having earlier.

The janitor turned to the nurse. "You're going to kick this lady out—after all she's been through?"

"Those are my orders." The nurse looked as if she might cry. "Dr. Singh wanted for her to stay. He is sure the money will be repaid, but they have told him no."

"I'm off shift in a minute," the janitor said. "I'll carry the case on my way out."

Doria leaned against the wall and watched the face of passersby as they continued to look through her. Clatters and bangs and blares of hospital noise filled the hallway as everybody busied themselves with papers and computers. Everything seemed magnified, and time crawled. Doria wondered how long the hallucination would last. Harry would probably laugh when she told him about it.

Finally the janitor reappeared with a wheelchair. He gestured at Doria to sit and muttered something to the little nurse as he shouldered her tote bag and picked up the overnight case, pushing the chair with his free hand.

As he wheeled Doria into an elevator, he leaned down and whispered, "Your nurse is going to meet us in the parking lot. She must not talk to you in front of her supervisor."

He gave a pained half-smile.

"You're so very kind," Doria said. "I wonder who you are?"

"Luis Sanchez, ma'am. My wife is crazy about Home magazine. She won't let me do anything around the house until she's checked with your Decorating Do's and Don'ts."

Doria craned her neck to look at him again. He looked so real. "I mean who you are in my dream. My therapist says the characters in dreams represent parts of one's own psyche. Often forgotten parts. You seem to be my survivor self. Small but powerful. And quite good-looking. I like that."

The other passengers in the elevator got off, and after Mr. Sanchez pushed the button for the parking lot he came around and looked Doria in the face. She found his expression a little frightening.

"Ms. Windsor," he said in a strained voice. "You're on some heavy meds right now. But you aren't having a dream. This is real. I wish to God it wasn't."

She tried to laugh. "But if this were real, that would mean my house has burned down, my husband might be dead, and I'm broke. I don't think…"

Mr. Sanchez nodded his head vigorously.

"No." Doria's body went icy. "No. That isn't true."

Mr. Sanchez's dark eyes glinted with what looked like tears. "I saw it on the news. They have found a body at the house. They say it is Mr. Sharkov."

It was no dream. It was a nightmare. And Doria wasn't going to wake up any time soon.

I was closing up the store for the day when Mr.
X
walked in. I usually hated it when customers showed up after closing time, but today I'd have gladly stayed at work all evening if it meant spending it with a good-looking, cheerful tourist instead of the morose Silas and Plant.

They had stopped in earlier to say they were going to try to get access to their house, and I knew it would be a dismal Saturday night for us all if they didn't.

"Do you have any other postcards?" Mr.
X
asked as he twirled the card carousel on the counter desk. "Anything of the Edna Valley wine country?"

He was wearing the silly suit again, with an awful tie. He looked as if he'd be more comfortable in a denim jacket and jeans. And his shaggy blonde hair looked as if it wanted to be longer. In fact, if it were a little longer, he'd look amazingly like Jon Bon Jovi.

His intense, pale eyes focused on me. I'd forgotten what he'd asked.

"These are all beach scenes," he said, twirling the carousel. "But you're so close to wine country. Up the Cuesta Grade in Paso Robles and over in Edna Valley…"

I laughed. It came out a little too shrill. I tried to sound casual. "I think Morro Bay has been selling those same postcards for thirty years. When most of those photos were taken, there was no Central Coast wine country. Just three wineries in the whole county. That's what my friends tell me anyway. I only moved here from New York last year."

I was babbling. I felt like an idiot.

"I know. I used to see you in the society pages."

"You know who I am? You're from the City?" My Manhattan socialite days seemed so far behind me. It was weird to remember the days when my biggest problem was escaping the paparazzi.

"If by 'the city' you mean Newark, yeah." He grinned. "We read newspapers in New Jersey, you know." He glanced behind the counter and saw my abandoned waffle sandwich. "Looks like I'm keeping you from your dinner."

"Oh, no." Another stupid giggle. "That's breakfast. I mean it was going to be breakfast. And then I forgot and ate a PowerBar. And then I was going to give it to the homeless guy who hangs out on the bench outside. But he didn't show up…"

What was it about those hazel eyes of his that made me feel like a subdeb at my first formal dance?

"Tom?" he said. "You haven't seen the old guy all day?"

This made me like Mr. X even more. Most tourists didn't even see homeless people, much less know them by name.

I shook my head. "The police probably made him move. They've been clearing out the homeless camps all over town."

Mr. X took in a breath as if he was about to say something, but his phone rang. He grabbed it from his pocket.

"No, I'm not doing anything," he said to the phone. "Sure. I'll be there right away."

He gave me another grin, but his eyes were focused on the door.

"Gotta go," was all he said.

When they got outside the hospital, Mr. Sanchez pushed Doria to an out-of-the-way entrance—something that looked like a loading dock.

Sure enough, the nice nurse stood waiting for them, glancing around the parking lot as if she expected to be hit with a shower of sniper fire at any moment. She pulled a girdly bandage thing from a plastic bag and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

"You need to wear it for three weeks. There are instructions for changing the bandages and cleaning the drains in there, too. You need to get to a doctor in one week to have the drains and stitches removed."

She looked around again and squeezed two vials of pills into Doria's hand. "Your medications." Her whisper was barely audible. "Dr. Singh's instructions are on the bottles. You will need another Vicodin in two hours."

Doria tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth wouldn't move. No part of her face would. It felt like a mask—cold and distant—not part of her body at all.

Her brain tried to process what Mr. Sanchez had told her—

Harry was dead.

In a fire.

For real.

So maybe the Wicked Witch had been right: the house was gone, and their credit was in some sort of mess.

Doria looked in her purse. Aside from her apparently useless credit cards, her wallet held two twenty dollar bills and four pennies.

The nurse hovered like a bellboy waiting for a tip.

It took a moment for Doria to realize the woman wanted her to get out of the wheelchair. She stood slowly, trying not to look as shaky as she felt.

"Where do you want to go, Ms. Windsor?" Mr. Sanchez gave a cheery smile as the nurse disappeared with the chair.

Doria smiled back. Or tried to. But the truth was—she honestly had no idea where to go.

The plan had been for Harry to pick her up after a meeting with his bankers about the new boat company he was so excited about. He was then going to drive her up to the house in San Luis Obispo. She'd hardly seen the place since they bought it six months ago. She'd done all the plans for the redecorating in about a week, because she'd had to fly back to see to the magazine. Harry had stayed on, directing the contractors while he ran his company from his new home office. It was supposed to be their retirement dream house.

Not much to go up there for now.

No house.

No Harry.

"I have a car. I can take you." Mr. Sanchez set down the tote bag and case. "I will bring it around."

Where Doria really wanted to go was back to New York, but she'd let the Manhattan apartment go. Harry said he was through with New York and never wanted to go back. All he cared about was vineyards and boats. But New York was her home. Maybe she should call the super and find out if the new tenants had moved in. With any luck, they might have delayed the move and it might be empty a few more weeks.

She rummaged in her purse, feeling around for her phone. But then she remembered it hadn't been returned. She wondered if she should go back and fight for it. Probably not. She'd probably get the nice nurse in trouble. Besides, who knew if it would work? Maybe the Verizon bill hadn't been paid either. She couldn't imagine how all their credit could be tied up, but it seemed to be the case.

She kept staring into her handbag. Her gold Chanel compact glinted in the sun, as if nothing had changed since she packed the bag two days ago.

An ancient Chevrolet pulled up and Mr. Sanchez got out. He put the luggage in the battered trunk and gave Doria another of his generous smiles. He opened the passenger door as if he were ushering her into a limousine.

"Going to Beverly Hills? I am going there. To pick up my wife from work."

Doria knew lots of people in Beverly Hills, but none she could bear to visit right now. Certainly not in Mr. Sanchez's rattletrap car.

Well, there was Betsy.

Doria had descended on her old friend in worse states, back in their modeling days. Not that she particularly wanted a visit with Betsy right now.

Since she'd split with that Mexican soap opera star, Betsy had been whiny and impossible on the phone. But she'd probably be home. She'd had a facelift only two weeks ago so she wouldn't dare go out in public.

Mr. Sanchez sat with his keys in the ignition. "Beverly Hills?" he said again, using an overly cheerful voice, like somebody trying to coax a small child.

"Yes. Betsy Baylor's house." I'll get the address." At least Doria's little red and gold leather address book was still there. Its familiar feel brought the sting of unexpected tears.

Harry had written his number in it, the first time they met. Before people stored everything in their phones. So very long ago…

Mr. Sanchez was still smiling.

"Sorry." Doria used a crumpled tissue to blow her nose.

"I know where Miss Betsy Baylor lives." Mr. Sanchez said. The car started with a prodigious 'vroom.' "Everybody does. She's on the Hollywood Starline Tour."

Great, Doria thought. With her luck, there would be a busload of tourists from Milwaukee snapping photos as they rattled in.

But her only available transportation rattled, and her only possible destination seemed to be Betsy's, so it was a chance she was going to have to take.