So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (24 page)

Plant opened his eyes and could see the man had not disappeared. He was also not Richard Plantagenet. He had light, cropped, modern sort of hair and a big, toothy smile. He looked familiar, but Plant couldn't place him. As often happened in dreams.

"Who are you? I'd rather not have any more hallucinations, thank you very much. I've had a very bad week."

"What are you on about, mate?" The man's voice was rough and menacing. "I'm here for my script. We need to talk business. Thanks for letting me know where you'd be staying in Swynsby. Not very posh, this place, is it?"

"Business?" Plant reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. "At this hour of the night? Who the hell..."

It was Alfred from the London hotel. Author of
The Kingdom of Perpetual Night.
And presumably, Neville's accomplice in his terrorist activities.

This wasn't going to be a good dream.

"I can't believe they let you out, Yank. Neville was a right wanker, but you didn't have to kill him."

Plant pulled the blankets over his head and rolled over. He'd had quite enough of absurd dreams.

––––––––

I
woke from a horrifying nightmare in which I watched Plantagenet sit calmly inside a burning building. I kept yelling at him to get out and save himself, but no sound came out of my mouth.

I opened my eyes and smelled smoke. I still felt like screaming.

But then I smelled coffee, too. And remembered where I was.

I also had to deal with an urgent need. I wondered what these people did for bathrooms.

Joe was way ahead of me as I emerged from the tent.

"Fifty paces from the campsite, away from the creek." He pointed at a shovel stuck in the ground out by the willows. It had a roll of toilet paper stuck on the handle. "Oh, and watch out for the poison oak."

Poison oak. Relieving myself in the woods amongst the poisonous plants. No wonder Dorothy hadn't been able to manage this lifestyle.

And of course this sort of camping was entirely illegal.

Not that being arrested for pooping in the woods was my biggest fear right now. My entire being was filled with anxieties.

What time was it? The sun streaming through the willows was bright. I'd probably overslept. I'd be late for work.

No—I didn't have any work. My store was in ruins. My cottage probably was, too. Maybe I was as homeless as Hobo Joe.

But I did have some work to do. Like talking to the police and telling them about the threats. And warning the Jens. Luckily they weren't scheduled to work today. This was the day they wanted off for their "JenSation" concert.

I hoped the police could find my stalkers before I got hit again.

I needed to talk to my insurance agent. Thank goodness Silas had insisted on my paying for good coverage.

But first I wanted to go back to what was left of my home and assess the damage. And pray some of my clothes were wearable. I desperately needed a change of underwear.

Thank goodness I kept some hand sanitizer in my purse. I smoothed some on my hands and face. It stung a little. But at least I didn't feel so crusty.

I pulled out my phone to call the Jens, but it was dead. Why hadn't I plugged it in last night when I was watching TV? I'd been too distracted by that crazed email from "concernedcitizen".

When I got back to the campsite, Joe was nowhere in sight, but I heard him talking with a group of men somewhere nearby.

He had set a mug of coffee and a bowl of granola on the little table. There was even a paper napkin under my spoon. Dorothy's influence again.

"Help yourself to breakfast, Camilla!"  Joe called from the other side of a stand of willows. "There's a can of milk there for your granola."

Now I could see him through the trees, with two or three other men. They must be members of the homeless community here. One had a New Jersey accent like Ronzo's. It made my heart race.

How long would it take me to convince myself that Ronzo had been a terrible man and I was better off without him?

As I finished up my granola—very tasty, with flax seeds and dried berries—I heard Buckingham meowing from inside the tent. I tried to soothe him. But when I brought his carrier out, he meowed even louder.

Joe came crashing through the willows.

"You gotta get that cat outta here. He's making a racket. If Lucky and Bucky hear him, they're gonna kick my butt out of the camp."

"Are those the men you were talking to, Lucky and Bucky?"

"No. Lucky's a lady. And you do not want to cross her. She's queen of this camp. Bucky's her old man. Good folks. But they got rules. It's important to keep this place clean and safe for the kids."

Joe went over to the cat carrier and managed to calm Buckingham with a bit of what seemed to be cat treats he had in his pocket.

"Buck here likes his kibble. But you gotta give him the wet food, too, okay? At least a few times a week." He picked up the cat carrier. "You just about done there? You can take the coffee with you if you want. As long as you bring me back the cup."

I grabbed my purse from the tent and took Joe up on the offer to keep my cup of coffee. It was amazingly good. What was more amazing was the fact he knew what Buckingham liked better than I did.

"So how do you know Buckingham? Do you know who his real owner is? How did you know he likes kibble and needs wet food?"

Joe started up the path to the road and spoke over his shoulder.

"Oh...he's a tomcat. Toms need wet food. Too much dry food messes with their urinary tract. Better hurry."

"So did you have a cat here and Lucky and Bucky made you get rid of it? Is that why you have a cat carrier?"

"Something like that."

Had Buckingham been Joe's cat?  He might have brought him to the bookstore knowing he'd find a good home with me or the Jens.

"Thanks for the loan of the carrier. Buckingham seems to like it."

Joe grunted something. Whatever Buckingham's history, it seemed to be a sore subject.

I unlocked the car door so Joe could put the carrier in the back, but saw Joe's guitar case was still there.

"You'll want your guitar."

I reached for it, but Joe stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"I was hoping maybe you could give me and my guitar a ride back to Morro Bay."

"Happy to." I opened the passenger door for him. "Thanks for your gracious hospitality, Joe."

He was a nice man. Dorothy said he'd been kind of a jerk when he was a rock star, but he'd had an epiphany when he almost died in the famous Texas roadhouse fire in the 'nineties. When another body was identified as his, he simply "went AWOL from his own life" and became a vagabond.

Whatever his history, I felt a lot safer in Joe's company. Not only was Buckingham remarkably calmer around him, but Joe had proved more than once that he was brave and good in a crisis.

And this certainly was a crisis. I didn't have the slightest idea what I'd encounter when I got to Morro Bay, but I knew it wouldn't be good.

––––––––

"W
hy did you have to go and poison Neville?"

Plantagenet peered out from his blankets at his new ghost.

Alfred—or a dream image of him—was still there. Light from the bedside lamp glinted on his teeth. He looked like a furious beaver. He held what looked like a half-drunk bottle of cheap whiskey.

"Poison is a girly way to kill if there ever was one. Just like a poofta, innit?"

Plant sat up and rubbed his eyes. Alfred was still there. Still talking.

"Neville was off his trolley, but you had no cause to off the poor bloke. We all could have made millions, Mr. Smith. That script is pure gold now. Look at all the publicity we've got. Absolutely free."

"Publicity? You blew up the Old Vic as a publicity stunt? For a film that hasn't been made yet?"

This certainly had the lack of logic of a dream, but Plant couldn't be absolutely positive this wasn't happening in real life.

"They'll want to make the film now, won't they?" Alfred sat on the side of the bed. His breath stank of stale beer with an overlay of whiskey. "I can say I wrote the whole thing this week. Based on real events. The news story is still hot—all over the world. Grab a phone, ring your mates in Hollywood, tell them you have the author on speed dial, and Bob's your uncle."

Plant sat up a bit and leaned against the headboard.

"You got a terrorist to blow up the Old Vic to generate interest in a screenplay about terrorists who blow up the Old Vic?" Plant did not remember ever feeling so annoyed by a dream. "I assume that's what the script is about. I have to admit I didn't get past page ten."

Alfred's face distorted in rage.

"You didn't bloody read my script? What have you been doing all this time?"

"I've been in jail. Partly because they found your screenplay in my possession. They've still got it. Along with my suitcase and passport. Apparently they consider it all evidence."

Plant was acutely aware of the fact he was clad only in an old man's undershirt and tighty whities.

"Evidence?" Alfred jumped up, still in his drunken high dudgeon. "Who told them it was evidence? You did! You got me fired, you prat. And now M-I-bloody-5 are looking for me. They think I'm a terrorist. It wasn't me what planted that bomb. That was Neville. I told him that idea was pants. Total pants. Only good for a film plot. But some of these blokes don't know fantasy from real life. I gave him your Old Vic ticket because I wanted him to sell you on the script, not explode you with a bloody fertilizer bomb."

Alfred took a swig from his whisky bottle.

"You...you gave Neville my extra ticket? You planned all along for us to meet?" This was extraordinary news, if any of this was really happening. "Why on earth did you want me to meet Neville?"

"So he could chat you up, you both being pooftas and that. I didn't know he was going to bomb the place. I didn't even think those wankers could make a bloody bomb. They only know how to make death threats on the Internet."

"You did a fine job of pitching the play to me without Neville's help. Why give him my ticket?"

Alfred's breath was truly vile.

"I didn't know if you'd listen, did I?" Alfred mercifully jumped up from the bed and began to pace. "I'm not all that good at flirting with blokes. I've been planning this for weeks, ever since I saw you had a reservation with us for August. Then when you appeared without your seat mate, it was like a big sign that Fate's on my side, innit?"

"Fate?" This Alfred seemed more lunatic than Glen. Maybe he was Glen's stand-in for the dream.

"Right," Alfred said. "It was meant to be. So I rang up Neville and told him I had the ticket." Alfred's face took on the eagerness of a small boy. "I told him he should chat you up and pitch my screenplay. He wanted my film made because of the anti-Tudor message. Those Plantagenet blokes do hate the Tudors."

"Your script is all about setting off a bomb at the Old Vic, and I'm supposed to believe you didn't have anything to do with the actual bombing?"

"Yeah. Just like I'm supposed to believe you don't plan to turn into a werewolf. It's a screenplay! That film is pants, by the way, your Oscar Wilde werewolf one." Alfred took another pull on the whiskey bottle.

Plant took a deep breath. "You had no idea Neville wanted to bomb a production of
Richard III
?"

"Of course I'd heard him talk about it. The Circle blokes talked about bombs a lot. How do you think I got the idea?"

"The Plantagenet Circle? You and Neville were both members of the Plantagenet Circle?"

"I went to some meetings, but only for research, you know? To get background for my film." Alfred sat down on the bed again.

Plant sat up straighter. Alfred was a little close for comfortable conversation.

"If Neville was simply supposed to get to know me, why did he carry a bomb? Just in case he was in the mood to blow up something?"

"I only found out later, but I'm guessing the Circle told him to go ahead with the bombing. They thought if a famous Hollywood git died in the blast, the film would get much bigger offers. They're a bloodthirsty lot, those Circle blokes. They're always on the Internet threatening to kill people, but I never thought they'd go through with it."

Plant ran this through his sleepy brain.

"But Neville tried to keep me away from my seat before the bomb went off. How do you explain that if he wanted to kill me?"

"I only know what he told me in the text he sent me on Monday morning from a petrol station on his way to Sywnsby, but I think when he met you at the Old Vic he got it in his head you were in the Circle too. I suppose I was wrong to sell him that ticket. But he paid double."

Alfred leaned in, baring those odd teeth.

"Why did you lie to him like that? He had a deranged fantasy that you were destined to be together and he thought you'd come up to Swynsby and fall into his arms. Instead you poisoned the poor sod."

"I did not kill Neville! I didn't even know that he'd been poisoned until earlier this evening. I thought he'd been stabbed. There was all this...I thought it was blood, but it turned out to be partially digested beans on toast. Accompanied by Brenda's lovely pickled beetroot. What I thought was blood spatter must have been projectile vomiting."

"You're a filthy liar!" Alfred's voice rose. He put down his bottle and took something from his pocket.

It was a smallish knife.

But not too small to be terrifying.

––––––––

T
he fire damage wasn't as bad as I had feared. The store didn't seem to be a total loss—most of the damage was to the roof and the front of the store. My inventory was probably ruined by the water from the fire hoses, but I did have insurance.

For me, the worst thing was the graffiti. The attackers had spray-painted all the windows with the word "murderer" in drippy red paint. Plus the usual obscenities and something weird about shoes. I needed to find out how to get that cleaned off ASAP. It would be as repulsive to my customers as it was scary for me.