So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (3 page)

Somebody was being paged and told to go to the "white courtesy telephone". Did they still have those things in the age of mobile phones?

Little Honey Boo-Boo was still staring at him with big, innocent brown eyes.

Why did the child think he was a bad man? Was it simple homophobia?

Plant put the iPhone back in his pocket. If he left a nasty review, he would definitely be a bad man.

Besides, composing a review on the tiny virtual keypad would be a hassle. He'd decided not to bring his laptop. No way was he going to feel like writing, and at least he wouldn't have the laptop reproaching him all the time.

He got up to escape the little girl's accusing eyes. He needed to get the circulation going anyway, before he became a sardine in the tin can of a plane for eleven hours.

He should probably get some food, too. Maybe a cheeseburger. With bacon. Revel in the fact he wasn't subsisting on kale smoothies and twig salads with Glen and Silas.

The young man at the burger counter gave him a sly smile. Was he flirting? Plant couldn’t quite tell. It had been so long.

He found a seat in a less inhabited corner and went back to reading about Richard III as he munched his burger. He didn't know if he believed Ms. Tey's revisionist history. She made Richard out to be too good. He must have had a little villain in him to be a ruler in those brutal days.

Everybody had a little bad guy in them, didn't they?

But Plant was glad he hadn't left a nasty review of Glen's operation. If he was going to do something wicked, it should be a lot more fun. Preferably with some young, hot London bloke.

Or two. Let Silas deal with that.

––––––––

I
wanted to feel glad that Plant had gone ahead with his trip. It would have been silly for him to miss seeing all those plays in order to stay home and be miserable with me.

Especially since Silas was cavorting in Maui with my former lawyer.

But as I pried myself out of bed on Saturday morning I already missed Plant terribly.

I found it hard to get myself dressed and ready for work. I didn't even bother with a shower. My body felt like a machine with dying batteries—something separate from myself. I pulled on some elastic-waist slacks and an old cashmere sweater and shoved my feet into some comfy flats.

Nobody would dream I'd been a fashion icon in my debutante days.

My half-packed suitcase lay on the floor of my bedroom. I knew I should unpack and tidy up, but the very thought exhausted me.

I'd been a different person when I packed that suitcase. A little whirlwind of hope and energy.

Now I felt like a lump of...nothing. The face in the mirror looked like somebody else's as I put on my make-up.

I'd barely slept all night, and every time I'd drifted off, reminders of Ronzo were there in my dreams: his goofy smile as he stumbled over a wine list...the silly cheap suit he wore to pretend to be a lawyer...his cute behind with its tattoo of a flying Fender guitar.

And in every one, he was alive. Vividly, vibrantly, alive.

I refused to believe he was dead. At least not by his own hand. How could he have done such a thing?

As I drifted into the kitchen, I thought about our last conversation—just ten days ago. We'd talked about what wineries we'd visit and whether I'd be brave enough to go kayaking. I'd planned to pick him up at the San Luis airport on Friday evening.

Last Friday. A week ago.

His talk had been all anticipation and flirtatious banter. No hint of suicidal depression. Not even a little case of the blues. In fact, the conversation had got a little phone-sexy there at the end.

In our months of emails and phone conversations, Ronzo had almost convinced me that he was somebody I could find happiness with. He'd even talked about moving out to California permanently to revive his abandoned music career.

How could the man have decided to check out like that when he'd let me get so close to loving him?

That was just rude. He could have sent me a suicide email. At least a text.

And the thing was: Ronzo was never rude.

His manners were old-fashioned and courtly. Even if he were dead—which I still didn't totally believe—I couldn't accept the idea that he'd killed himself. Why was everybody so eager to say he did?

And why was the coffee maker taking so long? I needed caffeine. Now. Lots of it.

Food held no interest for me, although I knew I should eat something. I'd bought some good bagels in anticipation of Ronzo's visit. I toasted one and spread it with cream cheese, but when I bit into it, the thing seemed to have turned to slime-coated Styrofoam.

I booted up my laptop. Maybe CNN would have recanted the stupid story.

At least about the suicide. If Ronzo was dead, he must have been murdered. The killer could have forged that suicide note.

Ronzo did have enemies. He reviewed a lot of music on his blog. He gave new musicians exposure for their YouTube videos and CDs. Fighting for his attention was something of an online game. People got totally bent out of shape when he didn't like their grainy amateur phone videos or whatever.

He did say some band got mad at him a few months ago. A steampunk band called Leftenant Froggenhall. I remembered the silly name. They did heavy metal versions of Victorian songs like
The Glow Worm
and
Bird in a Gilded Cage.
Ronzo said he sort of liked them, but his review wasn't glowing enough and they started sending him poison pen letters.

Maybe they'd sneaked into his apartment and stabbed him with an antique fountain pen or strangled him with aviator goggles or something.

The CNN story was still there on the website, and there were no updates. It didn't say anything more about how he supposedly died. Just that there was a suicide note and blood was found at the scene.

Ronzo didn't seem to be important enough to make the mainstream network news, and there was nothing about him at the
New York Times
. When I Googled him, all I got was endless links to his dead blog. I've never been much of a techie, so I wasn't sure where else to look.

I finally stumbled on the website of the New Jersey
Star-Ledger,
which reported that music blogger Ronson V. Zolek, who had been missing for a week, had presumably taken his own life. They repeated the story that the police had found a suicide note and blood in his Newark apartment. They also reported his vintage Camaro had been found abandoned near the waterfront and blood had been found inside it as well. They were searching the Passaic River for his body. It was presumed he had first stabbed himself and then thrown himself in the river.

Which meant he had botched the first attempt, but been so desperate to die that he had drowned himself.

How likely was that? This was looking more and more like murder to me.

If he'd been missing for a week it meant he would have done the deed last Friday. But that was the day he was supposed to fly out here. How could anything have happened between the phone call on Wednesday and Friday morning that was so catastrophically awful that he'd kill himself?

It had to be murder. Newark was a dangerous town. It could have been a burglary, or mistaken identity.

Or maybe it was all a mistake—maybe it wasn't even Ronzo.

Zolek was a fairly common Croatian name, he'd told me. He had lots of relatives in the area. And many of them, like his father, had worked for the Ronson Lighter Company he was named for.

Maybe it was some cousin. That was it. It had to be.

Of course, then where was he?

I did another Google search, but couldn't come up with anything more.

I poured another cup of coffee and hoped I wouldn't look too bleary-eyed to my customers this morning. It would be hard to explain that my sort-of boyfriend seemed to have sort-of committed suicide.

I got through the day somehow. Thank goodness for Jen—it was Jen Barrett, whom I just called "Jen B." Luckily she seemed to have solved the boyfriend problems that had her moping around all last week.

Jen took care of customers while I worked on the new shipment in the back room most of the day, trying to hide the periodic eruptions of tears.

Jen didn't seem to have heard the news. Just as well. Both Jens tended to be emotional, but Jen B. was more so. They both liked Ronzo.

In fact, he'd given a nice little mention of their You Tube performance as the singing duo "JenSation"—although I suspected he might have intended it to be ironic. 

Anyway, if the story turned out to be true, the Jens would hear soon enough. If it was just a mistake, I saw no reason they should go through the pain and confusion I was feeling.

At about four in the afternoon, my cellphone rang.

Probably Plant. I almost hoped he was going to tell me he'd decided not to board the plane at the last minute and was coming home to comfort me.

But the voice wasn't Plant's.

"Sweetheart, I'm sure you're as devastated as I am. But don't believe any of the nonsense. Somebody's lying. Ronzo was no pervert. And I know my pervs."

It was Marvin Skinner, a.k.a. Marva, Mistress Nightshade, owner of a kinky traveling brothel. He did indeed know his perverts. Marvin didn't have the best of manners, but this was a new low for him. Ronzo and Marvin had been army buddies in Iraq. He should be showing some respect.

"Why on earth would I think Ronzo was a pervert? And I don't believe he killed himself. He was too polite."

"You haven't heard the news?" Marvin's voice got softer.

"I have, but I don't believe it. Plant heard something on CNN last night, and I read the stuff on their website and at the New Jersey
Star Ledger
, and I keep Googling, but I can't find out anything else concrete. Like whether they've found his body. Why doesn't Google have chronological searches? All I can find is old links to his blog, which seems to have disappeared."

Marvin heaved a dramatic sigh.

"Go to
Gawker,
dear...Oh no, on the other hand, don't. If you haven't seen any of it, sweetie, just stay innocent. I can't believe Ronzo was in his right mind when he did it. The Ron Zolek I know would never hurt small animals. We were in combat together. This was a guy who risked his life to help a dying puppy."

"What if it isn't our Ron Zolek? What if the dead person is a cousin or something? He has oodles of cousins."

I'd been hanging onto this theory all day. It was what had got me through it so far.

But Marvin dismissed this with a second sigh. Then silence.

"Hurt small animals?" I said as Marvin's words finally sank in. "Who hurt small animals? What are you talking about?" My stomach suddenly felt queasy.

After sigh number three, Marvin said, "there's a video. I'm afraid it does look like our Ronzo. He must have completely snapped. No wonder he killed himself."

My throat started to make a wailing noise that would not form into words.

Jen came running in from the store.

"Camilla? What's wrong?"

I put a hand on my stomach and waved Jen back into the store.

"Tummy," I managed to say.

I had no idea what Marvin was talking about, but it sounded horrible. Had Ronzo hurt somebody's pet when he killed himself? It was too terrible to contemplate.

"Why don't you go back home?" Jen said. "I'll be okay on my own for a couple of hours. We're not busy. And my boyfriend Elijah is coming by. He can help if there's a rush. Seriously, you look awful. Get some rest."

Marvin was still on the phone blabbering some kind of apology.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry to be the one to break the news. But it's bound to get out. You need to be prepared. I'm so, so sorry."

I took a deep breath and tried not to sound as furious as I felt. Marvin was not one of my favorite people.

"Be prepared? For what?"

"Hold on. I can be there in less than an hour. Do you have brandy? I'll bring brandy. No—cognac. You'll need it."

––––––––

P
lant slept fitfully as British Airways propelled him over the North Pole toward the England's sceptered isle. Silas's seat next to him had been given to a large man who was engaged in reading every section of
The San Francisco Chronicle
with expansive movements and much rattling of pages.

Plant almost wanted to lend him his iPhone so he could read the
Chronicle
online without violating the boundaries of his assigned seating.

Of course Plant wouldn't actually part with his new iPhone for a minute. It was not only his link to the rest of the world, his guidebook and virtual assistant, but he'd loaded it with a library of 50 or so e-books. Never again would he have to worry about running out of reading material on a trip.

The hard copy of
Daughter of Time
was a nice gift, but he'd dump it when he finished. Paper was obsolete.

Not that he'd ever say such a thing to Camilla or Silas. Their livelihood depended on the archaic things.

Damn. Even a random thought of Silas constricted his throat with anger.

The
Chronicle
man snorted and turned the page, nearly hitting Plant's nose as he spread it out.

A smallish headline caught Plant's eye.

"DEAD MUSIC BLOGGER A CRUSH FETISHIST"

He thought he saw the name "Ronson Zolek" before the man folded up the paper again.

"Do you mind?" the man said, as if he weren't the one displaying bad manners.

"Do you think I might see it when you're done? I saw an article..."

The man gave him a cold stare.

Plant made another attempt at sleep. Maybe he'd just imagined it. Everything had seemed like a bad dream for the last four days. Maybe he'd wake up and find this was all a nightmare brought on by pre-wedding anxiety.

He woke when the man tapped him on the shoulder.

"Here's the bloody paper," he said. "I'm going to the loo."

Plant found the article buried in "entertainment news." Unfortunately, the story was indeed about Ronzo. It seemed Camilla's affable beau had a sick fetish for killing small animals. He'd posted videos of the cruelty on an illegal site called "GoreFest" under the name Jer-Z-Boy. An animal rights group had threatened to out Ronzo as Jer-Z-Boy, which was presumed to be the cause of his suicide.