So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (28 page)

Plant nodded. "He hates that line, by the way. Shakespeare didn't write it."

Peter let out a big laugh. "Yes. But how did your Richard know about it? Did he escape from his car park to go out haunting productions of Shakespeare through the ages?"

"He...didn't say." Plant realized this was a very reasonable question that put his ghost-liberated-from-the-car-park theory in question. "I don't believe in ghosts, of course. But I don't know how I could have hallucinated all those historical facts I never knew before. Especially about Buckingham being in line for the throne."

"You never studied English history?"

"Oh, I did. I was an English literature major. But..."

Peter gave a half-smile. "We all forget 90% of the information we take in. But it's buried in our memory banks somewhere. Unusual circumstances will bring it back."

"I've certainly been through some unusual circumstances in the past week."

"Camilla said the same thing. And I feel awful that Sherwood is responsible for much of it."

"You?" English self-deprecation was one thing, but Peter seemed to be going a little far with the mea-culpas. "You didn't kill Neville or write Camilla's terrible reviews, did you? How could Sherwood have anything to do with our run of bad luck?"

"We published Lutterworth's book," Peter said. "It's made a lot of money, but unfortunately it's responsible for the catastrophes that have happened to both you and Camilla. And Sherwood publishing. Our operations have come to a complete halt. Henry and I have to pick up the pieces this week."

"I saw the building," Plant said. "It does look as if your people will have a lot of clean-up to deal with. Somebody said it was attacked by some gang from Dorchester? Is that why Camilla hasn't got her royalties?"

Peter nodded. "Pradeep says insurance will cover most of the damage, and Camilla has been paid, but I have to admit things have been a bit dire. At first it was just online—book review swarms and hacking our website—but then they attacked the building. I can't prove the reviewers and the attackers were the same people, but I suspect they are. They all use pseudonyms of course, but I've tracked down the IP addresses of some of them, like Owain Glendower, Alfred the Cake, and DickonthePig, and they come from the area around Swynsby and Doncaster."

Plant laughed. "They don't sound very dangerous. I do remember Camilla talking about the Dickon person. He upset her with a nasty review, but he's not dangerous is he? These are just Internet trolls."

"That's what Pradeep thought. It's why he thought it was safe to leave the country. Nobody thought those pillocks would make good on their threats. But obviously they did."

"And that's why Vera called Peter Sherwood back from beyond the grave?"

Peter gave a lopsided smile. "Yes. I've tried to stay deceased because of possible legal repercussions and, er...insurance irregularities. Which is why I'm allergic to coppers at the moment. Remember you must call me Piotr Stygar."

"And what about Camilla? What does she call you? How did she react to your resurrection?" Plant knew that was a little snarky, but Peter's cavalier disregard of Camilla's feelings had been unkind. She had mourned him a long time.

"She was understandably angry with me. I rushed to see her when I realized she was being terrorized by the anti-Hinckley Lutterworth brigade. They can't find Mr. Lutterworth, so she became their substitute target. Her name did not work in her favor."

"Where is this man hiding? Doesn't he have an Internet presence they can stalk?"

"No. He hasn't. And nobody's even met him. Nobody but Pradeep."

"Won't Pradeep introduce you, now that you're back in England?"

"He doesn't have to." Peter finished off his fried bread. "I've finally sussed who Mr. Lutterworth really is and I think it's time for him to come out of his author closet."

––––––––

I
found the Red Barn without much trouble, in spite of the fact my heart was pounding and a good deal of my brain was occupied with keeping myself from screaming.

But I found it: a barn, painted red.

Well, sort of a red-brown, and it was smack in the center of the little town of Los Osos, surrounded by a playground and picnic tables on one side and a skate park on the other.

I saw a parking lot behind it, which seemed to be full. I drove around twice, trying to remember to breathe normally as I searched for a space. What would happen if Elijah showed up here? The place was full of children and pets. Elijah didn't seem to have a weapon, but he had enough nastiness in him to do a lot of harm.

I could see a group of shaggy-haired men filing from a van toward the barn carrying instruments. I rolled down my window and called to them.

"Do you guys know the Boll Weevils? I have Joe's guitar. I was supposed to give it to him earlier today, but..."

One of the men came over to my window. He was gray-haired and had a nice smile. "We're the Weevils. You got Hobo Joe's guitar? Good deal. He's been goin' nuts."

I unlocked the back door so the man could get the guitar.

"Listen," I said. "Do you know the duo JenSation—two college girls? Are they here yet?"

"They're on stage right now."

"Tell them I've got an important message, okay? A matter of life and death."

"Oh, yeah. Sure thing. A wardrobe emergency?" The man smiled and ran off to join his band. Obviously he assumed because the Jens were young and blond that anything to do with them must be trivial or funny. I hoped the girls would be safe on stage. Elijah probably wasn't going to attack in front of an audience. 

I had to drive around a bit and zoomed into a parking space as soon as somebody pulled out. I parked and looked around carefully, terrified Elijah might be lying in wait. 

Buckingham gave a long, slow meow. It had elements of a growl. He was not a happy kitty. I couldn't leave him in the car again in any case. If Elijah found him, who knows what he'd do?

I took the carrier back down toward the barn as the place roared with applause. But even when I opened the door, I couldn't see the stage. Nothing was visible but the backs of people's bodies. They were packed in, standing behind the 60 or so chairs, three and four deep. This concert was definitely SRO.

No way could I worm my way in there, especially carrying a large cat carrier.

What was worse, Buckingham began yowling and bouncing around in it.

The Jens finished their encore—an old Beatles tune that sounded sweet in their close harmony even with less-than-virtuoso guitar playing. Then the Boll Weevils approached the stage. I caught a glimpse of the gray haired man whispering something to Jen B. Maybe he was giving her the message after all.

But whatever he said, the Jens didn't come outside to find me. They disappeared into the seating area right in front of the stage.

Buckingham yowled again. I attempted to sooth him as I tried to plot a course through the mass of bodies to get to Jen. Elijah might be right here, in this crowd. 

Joe seemed to be the front man for the Boll Weevils and introduced what he called "an old-time tune I wrote last week". I could glimpse a little of him through the bodies. He struck a chord on his guitar and the fiddle followed. I could hear a banjo and a couple of guitars.

But Buckingham did not seem to be enjoying the music.

"Shut that cat up!' Somebody hissed. 

I pushed my way back outside and put Buckingham's carrier on one of the picnic tables and sat so I could look at him at eye level through the mesh window.

"It's going to be okay, Buckingham," I said, trying to soothe him. 

"Why don't you let that poor animal out of there?" A man's voice said. "He's obviously miserable in that cage. There's plenty of room for him to run around here." He came over to the table and before I realized what he was doing, he unzipped the door.

"No! He'll get lost..."

I was too late. Buckingham leapt off the table and scampered toward the barn before I was on my feet.

"Buckingham, no!"

Unfortunately, just then somebody opened the door and Buckingham disappeared into the crowd inside the barn.

I tried to push my way in, "Please," I said in a stage whisper. "My cat has escaped and he ran in here. I'm afraid he'll get stepped on!"

People kindly made themselves a little smaller so I could squeeze in. There was no sign of Buckingham, but I could see the band up on stage now. Joe played lead guitar and the gray haired man was on banjo. The fiddle player was wowing everybody with a lightning-fingered bluegrass riff.

Behind him, sort of in the shadows, was another guitar player, fit and wiry. He looked younger and less weathered than the others, but bald as an egg. He wore sunglasses, even though it was pretty dark in the windowless barn.

Then, suddenly, there was Buckingham, sauntering right across the stage.

The crowd exploded in laughter.

Joe showed what a pro he was, not missing a beat, and the fiddle player kept going too.

But Buckingham walked straight to the bald man and let out a loud meow. 

The man set down his guitar.

"Hey!" He squatted to pick up the cat. "What are you doing here, Bucky?"

Bucky. He called my cat Bucky. Hard to hear over the music, but I was pretty sure that's what he said. How did he know what I called him?

Everybody but Joe stopped playing as the crowd focused on the bald man and Buckingham. It was like something out of a Super Bowl commercial. The man and the cat so obviously loved each other.

The man set down his guitar and took off his sunglasses to wipe away a tear.

That's when I saw his face.

Ronzo. The bald guitar player was Ronson V. Zolek. Alive and well.

I stood gaping with the rest of the audience as Ronzo cradled Buckingham in his arms and left the stage, shoving his sunglasses back on his face.

Joe, only stopping the music for a minute, struck a chord in another key and started singing, "The Cat Came Back." The crowd whooped and applauded.

I could see Ronzo disappear out a door in the back. I ran around to intercept him, my heart pounding with so many emotions I couldn't have spoken if I had to.

Ronzo ran toward the parking lot and I probably wouldn't have caught up with him if Buckingham hadn't bolted from his arms and bounded toward my car.

As he rounded a corner to grab the cat, I came around the other side of the car and stood in front of him.

"Ronson Zolek," I said. "You have my cat."

––––––––

A
fter Plant and Peter had consumed way too much "brekky," Peter announced it was time to get to the church for Callum's wedding. Plant had neglected to ask where it was, but Peter seemed to have everything in hand.

He said the church was only a few blocks from the café, so Plant followed obediently as he walked through the cobbled streets. Something about Peter was mesmerizing. Not that Plant was attracted to the man—although he could see why Camilla had been taken by him—but Peter had an authority about him, which combined with his considerable charm, made being in his company seem safe.

Although it was probably anything but.

Peter led them down some narrow medieval streets. Plant could see a glimpse of the Old Hall down one of them. Not really where he wanted to be going. But they soon emerged onto a grassy square. The handsome Georgian church on the other side of the green seemed to be their destination.

Peter stopped a few hundred yards from the church and gave Plant a pat on the back.

"This is where I leave you, mate. I can't risk having my photograph show up in some wedding keepsake photo. Do tell Vera I'm with her in spirit. But I have to get to Nottingham to sort things with Henry. Just return the suit to Pradeep when you get your luggage back from the coppers."

Plant didn't like the sudden feeling of abandonment. But Peter pointed at the knot of people on the church steps.

"There are Liam and Davey. They'll keep you company. Sorry to rush off. I'm picking up a friend at the train station, then taking the noon train myself."

Plant walked blindly forward. He had no idea what Liam and Davey looked like or how he could approach them without feeling like an utter fool. Besides, the person he needed to talk to was Declan, the bride's odd brother.

If he could get Declan to acknowledge speaking with him in the Old Hall, he might help solve the mystery of Neville's demise and clear himself of suspicion so he could go home. Camilla obviously needed him.

As he approached the church, Plant saw the garden club woman from the rehearsal dinner. She wore a remarkable hat that looked as if it were about to take flight. She was accompanied by a pudgy, youngish man in rumpled slacks and a sport coat that looked as if it might have fit him when he was thirteen.

"Hello Mr. Smith," the woman said. "Do meet our Oliver."

Oliver. The historical reenactor who was a former friend of Declan. He might be a source of information.

Plant greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake. Maybe the man could give him some insight into how to approach the mentally fragile Declan.

"I've told him you're a film writer who works with Sherwood publishing," the garden club woman said. "Oliver writes too. He's very fond of Shakespeare."

She didn't mention Plant's notoriety as a murder suspect. He wondered if any of these people knew.

"Nice to meet you, Oliver," he said, extending a hand.

Oliver looked at Plant's hand as if it were a particularly revolting species of vermin.

So Oliver knew. Talking with him probably wouldn't be useful.

Plant turned back to the woman, feeling rather sorry for her.

"I need to speak to Declan, the bride's brother. Is he here today?"

Oliver let out at derisive laugh.

"No," his mother said. "Thank heavens. In fact there's been quite the to-do this morning at the bride's household. Seems the police are looking for young Declan. We're not sure why, but he has an unfortunate problem with drugs."

"Perhaps it's because Declan is a beslubbering, lily-livered pigeon-egg?" Oliver gave his mother a cold look. "From what you say, he should be arrested for that insufferable rant at the rehearsal dinner."