So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (4 page)

Plant felt serious guilt pangs.

He shouldn't have left Camilla. He should at least have insisted she come to London with him. It would have been so much better for her to be far away from what was sure to be vicious media coverage.

A crush fetishist. Who would have thought? Ronzo had seemed a thoroughly decent man. The most likeable of all of Camilla's boyfriends.

Her publisher Peter Sherwood—the boyfriend before Ronzo—had been charming, but something of a rogue. Besides, he had met a watery death when his yacht sank off Jamaica several years ago.

Camilla did have abysmal luck with men.

As if he didn't.

The thought knotted Plant's throat again as his bulky seat mate climbed over him and back into Silas's seat.

Plant wondered if Camilla knew about the allegations yet. She was going to be shattered when she found out Ronzo had been a sociopath.

Of course there was a chance it wouldn't hit national media. Camilla was such a Luddite that if she didn't read something in print in the
New York Times
, she'd probably give it no credence whatsoever.

––––––––

I
t wasn't Marvin who showed up at my door, but Marva. In full drag. Dressed as Martha Stewart—or maybe Hillary Clinton—in a conservative navy pants suit, blonde wig, and large, tailored Gucci pumps. Probably knock-offs.

Marva gave me a hug.

Vanilla perfume. She must be Martha Stewart today. Marva specialized in impersonating strong women.

"Courvoisier?" Marva pulled a bottle of cognac from her copious tote bag—a faux Dooney and Bourke that didn't quite match the pumps. "I figured you deserved the best."

"It's not even five o'clock." I didn't feel like drinking. My stomach still hurt. I just wanted to know something—anything—about what had happened to Ronzo. Even if it was as awful as Marva had implied on the phone.

"It's nearly seven P.M. in New Jersey," Marva settled into the sofa and put the bottle on the coffee table. "Which is where your heart is, I know. Where are your brandy snifters? Seriously. You need this."

"Why? What do you know?"

This was so annoying. Marva was never straightforward about anything.

"That it's not true!" Marva said. "Not one word. Did he ever tell you about the night we found the puppies in the bombed-out shed in Fallujah and he tried to save the one that was still alive...?" 

I shook my head. Ronzo didn't tell war stories. I'd always been grateful for that.

And I supposed I should be grateful to Marvin/Marva, who worked with veterans and volunteered to help them find housing when he wasn't plying his trade as a cross-dressing dominatrix.

But right now, I was in no mood for Marva's games.

I stifled myself as I went to the china cabinet. I supposed it wouldn't be polite to refuse Marva a glass for her own cognac. The Manners Doctor would not approve.

I placed the single Waterford snifter on the coffee table next to the bottle, making it clear, I hoped, that I had no interest in drinking at the moment.

"What does any of this military history have to do with Ronzo's suicide? If that's what it is. Do you think it's something caused by PTSD from being in combat?"

"Oh, heavens no." Marva settled into the couch. "Ronzo is one of the few vets I know who has hardly any symptoms of PTSD. He lets things bounce off him. Maybe it's from growing up in such a violent neighborhood."

I didn't know Ronzo had grown up in a violent neighborhood. He didn't talk much about his childhood. All I knew was that he had no brothers and sisters and his parents were dead, but he had lots of cousins and aunts and uncles who did comical things at holidays. Mostly he talked about music, and playing in bands. He was a rock and roll guy. Easy going. A happy man. He'd always seemed to be, anyway.

I pulled over a chair and sat opposite Marva, putting on my businesslike face.

"If it's not something from the war, what could possibly have driven Ronzo to kill himself? If he's dead at all, I think he must have been murdered. Suicide makes no sense."

Marva pulled a Samsung tablet from her bag.

"There are websites... Oh Camilla, you're so innocent. I don't know how much you know about what goes on in the world of kink..."

"I'm not that innocent. Tell me." I had been married to a newsman for over a decade. One who accused me of sadomasochism and necrophilia in a bad joke during our divorce. I'd heard it all.

Marva took a deep breath.

"Last week there was a horrific video of someone who...well, who looks a lot like Ronzo. It was on a crush site. Sick, sick stuff. I do not understand people who get off on torturing defenseless animals. Even the bug crushers. They're all disgusting."

"People squash bugs? And think it's sexy?"

"Usually women wearing stilettos do the crushing." Marva tapped something on her tablet. "It's gross but totally legal. So are the mice and moles and squirrels, but when it comes to pets..."

"Squirrels? People squash squirrels for fun?" I realized I would never understand large segments of the population.

"Baby ones. They look a bit like mice. These people kill little creatures in various ways. Usually while naked. Or wearing fetish outfits. I'm bringing up the site. It's illegal, so you don't want to access it on your own computer. I have to go to some creepy places because of my work, but you don't."

She waved the tablet in my direction.

"You don't want to click on the video, but I think if you take a glimpse of the site, you'll see how a guy could feel pretty awful about himself if he participated..."

I seized the tablet as politely as I could without tearing it from Marva's hands.

I was confronted with a website called "GoreFest." A photo of a black velvet curtain splattered with blood covered a discreet home page where it asked people to check a box saying they were over twenty-one to enter.

It had a list of links with titles like "Puppy Dog Eyes" and "I hate Gerbils." One said "Jer-Z-Boy and Teh Kittehs in the Towah."

Jer-Z-Boy. Ronzo always called himself "Jersey Boy" on his blog.

I knew I'd probably regret it, but Marva's drawn-out storytelling was making me crazy.

I hit the "over twenty-one" box and then the Jer-Z-Boy link while Marva ceremoniously opened the bottle of Courvoisier and filled the snifter.

What I saw made me want to throw up. In a dark, amateurish phone video, a man naked except for military boots marched toward a cat-climbing tower—one of those things covered in carpeting—where five or six tiny kittens played. He doused the tower with what looked like lighter fluid and lit a match.

The man could only be seen from the back. But his hair was a familiar blond, shaggy style. On his trim behind was a tattoo. A tattoo of a Fender Stratocaster guitar. A blue one. With wings.

As the kittens escaped the fire, the man raised his boot over a tiny black and white one.

I didn't need to see any more. I dropped the tablet on the coffee table, feeling as if it had seared the skin from my hands.

But even in the dark, jerky video, I could tell exactly who was torturing those kittens.

"You saw the tattoo?" Marva's voice was dark and subdued.

I managed to nod.

"Yeah," Marva said. "That's the clincher. I don't know how it could be anybody else. He was so proud of that Stratocaster tat. Even when he was one more grunt in the Sandbox, it let people know he was a rock and roll dude."

Marva handed me the snifter of cognac.

"You see why I brought this," she said.

I grabbed the snifter and downed the contents in one gulp.

––––––––

P
lant endured Customs and the long shuttle bus ride into London in a haze of sleep deprivation and mixed emotions: rage at Glen, hurt from Silas, and anxiety for Camilla.

He tried to phone Camilla several times from the bus, but the calls went to voicemail. She hadn't replied to his text. Of course, Camilla didn't like to text—she only had an old-fashioned flip phone without a QWERTY keyboard. It must have something to do with her channeling her "inner great aunt"—something she said she did when she wrote her etiquette columns.

He looked at his watch, which was still set to California time—2:30 A.M.

But his phone said it was 10:30 A.M. here, which was probably why he was felt so sleepy.

He planned on a power nap when he got to his hotel. He hoped his room would be quiet.

The hotel was a huge modern place near Westminster Bridge that he'd chosen mostly for proximity to theaters. It was far from the traditional London bed and breakfast he would have preferred, but as the bus pulled up in front of the big glass entryway, he was too exhausted to care.

At least the staff gave traditional British service. The helpful young man at the desk—Alfred—was straight out of
Downton Abbey.
He had a toothy smile and a slightly obsequious manner that would have been perfect for a second footman. He seemed familiar with the Old Vic and complemented Plant on his choice of seats. He recommended a trendy bistro nearby, said he could make a reservation, and even offered to sell the extra theater ticket for him.

Maybe this trip would be a good one after all. All Plant needed was a little sleep.

But when he got settled into his room, he realized his exhaustion was no match for the turmoil in his brain. He lay on the hotel bed feeling as if small animals with pointy claws were crawling around under his skin.

If he'd had any idea of the emotional mess he'd be, he certainly wouldn't have booked tickets for
Richard III
for the evening of the day they were to arrive. But the only tickets the Old Vic had for the rest of the week had been for nosebleed seats on Wednesday. And that was the only day he'd been able to book two seats together for
Billy Elliott
.

Two seats together. That had mattered so much. 

After a few hours of useless tossing and turning he made himself get up and shower. He might as well get an early start and walk to the restaurant.

He put on his dress shirt. The only cufflinks he'd brought were a pair Silas had given him last year for his birthday—high end jewelry from the store owned by their friends George and Enrique. He'd had them engrave a design, the symbol of Libra: the astrological sign he and Silas shared. A year ago, it had seemed such a thoughtful gift.

Now Plant almost changed his shirt rather than wear them.

But he really did need the dress shirt if he was going to wear his tux. And since he'd brought the thing, he damned well should wear it.

He put on his raincoat and headed out through the London drizzle toward the bistro where he had the reservation.

The helpful Alfred had even provided Plant with a voucher for a 25% discount.

It was an elegant place, but at this point, dinner for one seemed nothing but sad.

The Scottish salmon was probably excellent, but he could hardly taste it. He checked his phone several times for messages from Silas or Camilla.

No calls.

Lots of people were waiting outside to get into the sold-out performance. Plant realized he should probably have scalped Silas's ticket for a tidy profit rather than go through Alfred for a simple refund.

But no. It was probably wiser not to take any chances with his karma right now. He needed all the good juju he could muster. After all, here he was, a jilted, lonely middle-aged gay man, standing alone in the rain a world away from his home and friends.

Silas's New Agers would probably say he was atoning for something awful in a past life. Or that Betelgeuse was retrograde in his travel sector or whatever.

But Alfred was right about his choice of seats. When he was finally ushered in, Plant found himself in the second row of the Dress Circle, with a great view of the stage.

An unsmiling, rather good-looking young man in a classic beige trench coat sauntered in and took Silas's empty seat just as the lights dimmed for the first act. At least he was slim. He didn't take up the entire arm rest like the big man on the plane. He carried a large satchel, but put it politely on the floor.

Plant managed to ignore him as he became mesmerized by Kevin Spacey's growling, twisted Richard. It was a brilliant performance—the personification of a sociopath—but it made Plant feel even more immersed in negativity and chaos than ever.

And the man in the trench coat would not stop fidgeting. Plant could swear he felt the little man's eyes staring into the side of his head. The man seemed to be looking everywhere but at the stage.

Coming to England had begun to feel like a bad decision.

Plant wondered if he should have checked his horoscope.

––––––––

O
n Saturday morning, my head felt as if it had been trampled by elephants. I'd forgotten that even good cognac can do damage if you try to match somebody like Marva drink for drink.

No wonder Ronzo had wanted to die. His life would have been over anyway. Who would read a music review blog by a sociopathic kitten torturer? I wondered if he'd taken the blog down himself or if
Rolling Stone
had deleted it.

Not that it mattered. The blog was dead, and so was Ronzo. I had to accept it now. If he had been murdered, he pretty much deserved it.

After several cups of coffee, I managed to get dressed and stumble over to her store. Luckily it was only a few yards from my cottage. The store and cottage had both been units of a 1930s motel—now long gone except for these two buildings.

My buildings. I owned them now. Or at least I had given Silas a down payment and was trying desperately to cobble together enough money to keep them.

Some days being a shopkeeper was a bigger challenge than others. Today it was huge. I didn't know how I was going to smile politely at my customers this morning and pretend my world wasn't collapsing around me.

How could I have fallen in love with somebody who could do something so twisted?

I wanted go back to bed and bury my head in my pillow and cry for days. I desperately wanted to mourn the Ronzo I loved, even if he hadn't been real.