So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (26 page)

"No. It could be a bunch of people. Peter—he's a friend of mine—thinks they could be Croatian gangsters..."

That sounded really silly when I said it out loud.

"Okay, that's your friend," the detective said. "But why don't you tell me what you think? I'm not aware of a lot of Croatian gangs in San Luis Obispo County."

Detective Alvarez managed to keep a serene expression, but her eyes showed she was more than a little skeptical.

I shook my head. I felt my face heat with embarrassment.

"Who do you know who would be likely to call you a murderer?" Detective Alvarez tapped at the message on the back of the photo. "The word 'murderer' was painted on your window, too. It's a pretty powerful accusation."

I thought for a moment. There was no point in mentioning the kittens. That would just make me seem crazier.

"The Plantagenet people, maybe. Because of the princes in the Tower. They think Richard III didn't murder them, and Henry VII did, and they think I'm a Tudor lover, but I'm not. Well, not really. I don't know all that much about English history, but the first email with the rape threat—it was from these Plantagenet people who bomb things. Like the Old Vic in London. They're very angry with William Shakespeare."

Detective Alvarez's serenity was obviously beginning to fray.

"You think somebody torched your bookstore because they're angry with William Shakespeare? Hasn't he been dead kind of a long time?"

I took a breath, trying to figure out how to say this in a way that would make sense to a small town police detective.

"My books are published by the same company who recently came out with a historical novel called
The Poisonous Bunch-Back Toad.
It's a bestseller that says Richard III murdered the princes after all, and the Plantagenet Circle hate the author, Hinckley Lutterworth. But he's in hiding, so they attacked my Amazon page and sent me that message. They signed it 'Plantagenet O', and I thought it was from my friend Plantagenet, but it was from them—these Circle people—at least that's what my publisher said."

It was obvious Detective Alvarez wasn't any more interested in this theory than she was in the Croatian gangsters.

"How about somebody closer to home, Ms. Randall? Do you know a man named Joseph Torres?"

I shook my head again.

"He's a local transient. We've noticed he spends a lot of time hanging around your store. Could you have angered him in some way?"

"You mean Hobo Joe?" I did not like where this was going. "Yes, of course I know him. He sits on the bench in front of the store and plays his guitar. People love his music, and he doesn’t ask for money. Not verbally. He's very polite and a wonderful guitar player. No...this doesn't have anything to do him."

Detective Alvarez gave a smile that said she thought otherwise. I felt rising panic.

"Please. It could be a lot of people, but it's definitely not Joe. He's..."

The detective had already risen from her chair and started walking toward the door. I was being dismissed. 

"We'll find this guy, whoever it is, Miss Randall," the detective said.

But I had my doubts.

––––––––

P
lant's sleep didn't last long. 

He woke to the sort of authoritative knock that announced the presence of Law Enforcement.

He wrapped himself in his duvet, opened the door, and saw Piglet and Pooh.

So it had not been a dream. He scrambled back into George Winchester's gangster suit and clown shoes. Then it was back down to the police station, with Plant groggier than ever.

They took almost an hour to ask him all the questions they had about Alfred and
The Kingdom of Perpetual Night
, and they seemed awfully upset that he'd been sleeping at the Merry Miller and not Vera's address. They made noises about detaining him again.

The thought made him feel a little sick.

At least they were a bit less hostile in their questioning this time. Probably because Brenda had already corroborated his story of being attacked. And, strangely enough, Alfred seemed to have told the same story as well.

"Mr. Duffield claims he came to Swynsby to try to persuade you to get his screenplay made into a Hollywood film. Is that correct, Mr. Smith?"

"It is. As I told you before, the script is perfectly awful and my agent will delete it after the first three pages, but I agreed to send it if Mr. Duffield would provide an electronic copy. Which he refused to do. I have a feeling that manuscript you're holding as evidence may be the only copy. It may have been typed on an archaic typewriter. It's standard to use the Courier font for screenplays, so I couldn't tell."

"By 'manuscript' you mean the typescript titled
The Kingdom of Perpetual Night,
about the bombing of the Old Vic Theater in London?" Piglet said.

"I do. At least I agree about the title. I haven't read past page ten, so I don't know the subject matter. It's a very slow opener."

"Are you and Mr. Duffield lovers, Mr. Smith?" This came from Pooh, whose big face was scrunched with disapproval.

"Good god, no. He broke into my room through a connecting door and threatened me with a knife. I certainly didn't invite him in. I had no intention of ever seeing him again. Except when I return to the hotel in London to retrieve my luggage. I don't enjoy keeping company with mad bombers, although I seem to have encountered two in my short stay in your country."

"Do you have knowledge that Mr. Duffield planned the bombing of the Old Vic?"

"No. He claims the bomb was all Neville's doing. But I'm not sure Mr. Duffield is entirely reliable on the subject. He seems a bit unhinged. At least when he's been drinking. He was very gentlemanly at the concierge desk at my hotel."

"And why was his script in your possession when you came to Swynsby?"

"As I told you earlier, he shoved it at me in a way I couldn't politely refuse." Plant sighed. "People are absolutely ignorant about the way the Hollywood system works. They think anybody who has a small success in Hollywood has connections with everybody else in Hollywood. It's as if all British people were expected to be on intimate terms with the Queen. I have exactly the same chance of getting Mr. Duffield's script in front of Stephen Spielberg as you have of being invited to Buckingham Palace for tea. Probably less, because of my werewolf picture."

Piglet actually laughed.

But Pooh was still all business.

"Now, tell me what you know about Mr. Stygar—the Australian who complained about the noise in your room. How do you know him?"

"Stygar is Australian?"

Pooh nodded.

"Oh thank god. I thought he was an Englishman. A dead one. I've been seeing things lately. That awful cell, you know. With nothing to read. I spent a good deal of my time there talking with Richard III."

"You talked with Richard III? Are you being treated for mental illness, Mr. Smith?"

"No. But I certainly felt ill while I was detained in your horrible little cell. I'm sure anybody would. I don't suppose it would be possible for me to go back to the Merry Miller so I can get some undisturbed sleep?

"It would be entirely possible," said the unmistakable voice of Sanjay Brumble.

The door to the interrogation room opened and Plant's lawyer was ushered in by a uniformed officer.

"My client is the victim of a crime, not the perpetrator. You have no grounds to charge him. You must release him immediately."

Plant did not remember ever having been so happy to see anyone. 

––––––––

M
y next stop was my insurance agent's office. But he wasn't terribly helpful. He said he couldn't guarantee a motel stay would be covered. Apparently Silas had set up the policy in the San Luis Office with somebody else, who was on vacation.

I sat in the office for what seemed like hours while the agent tried to get hold of Silas and/or the San Luis office. Somehow it made me feel a little better to know that Silas was ignoring calls from his insurance agent as well as from me.

Did the man really have no idea what had been going on in his absence, or did he just not care?

I sat in the waiting room until way past lunchtime and then decided to take myself out for a meal. With no electricity or gas, I couldn't very well feed myself at the cottage. Everything in the fridge would be going bad and the stove wouldn't work. I stopped at a café for a salad and sat in a little parklet with a whining Buckingham still in his carrier. He probably needed a bathroom break. And food.

There were lots of cans of Friskies Tasty Treasures back at the cottage. I needed to go back, although I knew it would feel weird. The fog had thickened and the place would be dark and cold without electricity.

When I got home, I let Buckingham out of the carrier, hoping he would stay inside, but he dashed out the crack in the closing door.

I had to hope he would come back in after he did his business. The music of the can opener usually summoned him.

Meanwhile, I decided pack a few more things into another suitcase. Like some nice shoes. Maybe people would give me more respect if I were wearing something other than my ancient Nikes. No reason to look homeless just because I'd spent the night in one of their camps.

I grabbed my favorite pair of much-resoled Manolos and tossed them into a second Vuitton case—sad relics of my former life as an heiress and wife of a media personality.

But I froze when I heard something rustling in the living room.

"Joe? Is that you?"

Silence. Maybe it was Buckingham.

I stepped into the living room and saw a man. A stranger.

He did not look friendly.

––––––––

S
anjay led Plant out of the police station to a waiting Mercedes, apparently his own.

"I've been instructed to take you to your friend's house to spend the night, Mr. Smith. He apologizes for the terrible things you have suffered because of so many misunderstandings. He would not have allowed this to happen, except he has been in Mumbai for the last two weeks. You have been the victim of a crime, not the perpetrator. We offer a thousand pardons."

"My friend...in Mumbai?"

"The esteemed Mr. Pradeep Balasubramariam. He contacted me when those cretins took you back to the police station. He has paid your legal fees. You have friends in high places, Mr. Smith."

Plant had never heard of anybody named Pradeep Balasubrmariam, and he was quite sure he had never met anybody who lived in Mumbai, but at this point he was willing to go along with whatever Sanjay had in store for him.

It had to be better than jail.

Sanjay drove to the outskirts of town to a modern street with large, well-maintained houses and gardens. He walked Plant to the door of a handsome house with a child's pram on the front porch.

"We must be very quiet so as not to wake the baby," Sanjay said. "Those are my instructions."

He rapped lightly on the door, and said in a low voice, "Mr. Smith is here."

The door opened and Plant saw a man in a wheelchair, wearing pajamas and an elegant silk robe.

He greeted them both with a big smile.

"How do you do Mr. Smith, I am Pradeep Balasubrimariam, Camilla's editor. She usually calls me 'Professor'—they all do at Sherwood." He turned to Sanjay. "Thank you so very much, Mr. Brumble. We will be in touch once we've all had some sleep."

Sanjay left and Plant was alone with this unusual, very cultured gentleman, who appeared to have been wrested from his bed.

"You...Camilla contacted you?" Plant said. "She knows I'm all right? Sherwood...it's still in business?"

"Oh yes, the company is very much in business, although we've had some recent setbacks. I chose the wrong moment to leave the country, obviously, and things have gone rather pear-shaped because of those Doncaster thugs and poor Henry getting knocked on the head. Not to mention Vera dealing with her son's nuptials. But all is well. Please, let's have a drink and then we'll all get some rest."

He gestured at a room to his left.

"My wife Meggy and our little one are asleep, so we'll have to be careful of noise."

"I'm so sorry to have waked you." Plant followed Pradeep into an opulent sitting room. It had what looked like a full bar, equipped with a pony-tailed bartender, wearing an elegant, if dated, Hugo Boss suit.

"No matter. I'm still on Mumbai time," Pradeep said. "For me it's nine in the morning."

"Grey Goose is your bevvy of choice as I remember, isn't it Mr. Smith?" The bartender looked a bit like the Mr. Stygar he'd seen a scarce two hours ago, but he was much better dressed and did not sound Australian. In fact, he looked even more like the Peter Sherwood Plant had met at the London Book Fair.

Pradeep was laughing as if this were all some sort of surreal cocktail party.

"I remember how dreadfully we misunderstood Camilla's need for grey geese when she was here last."

He motioned for Plant to sit in a leather arm chair while he wheeled over to face it.

"I'd love an Old Peculier if you want to bring me one, Mr. Stygar," Pradeep said. "Help yourself to whatever you like. They have fine beers in India, but I missed our Yorkshire ale."

"I've been out of the country for six weeks," Pradeep said, turning back to Plant. "Way too long. I had no idea what a shocking mess things would be when I returned."

"Nobody did," Mr. Stygar said. He handed Plant a crystal glass with a generous pour of Grey Goose over two ice cubes.

If Plant weren't already out of his mind, that drink was going to do it. Still, the first sip was pure, icy heaven after Alfred's dreadful rotgut.

"So you have retained Mr. Brumble on my behalf?" he asked Pradeep.

"Sherwood publishing has," Mr. Stygar said. "We will take care of all your legal fees. After all, this muddle is mostly Sherwood's fault. In any case, Sanjay says they have very little evidence against you, so I think that episode will soon come to a close. Especially after tonight's incident at the Merry Miller."

Plant felt a wave of dizziness and put his hand to his forehead. He seemed to have got a bump on the head in his scuffle with Alfred. Which might be why all of this made so little sense.