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

But there was no time for grieving. A bunch of new bills arrived in the morning mail. There was no way I could pay them.

I was going to have to find something else to sell from the store. Tourist items or knick-knacks. Nobody bought books in stores any more. This was the era of the e-book. Everybody bought from Amazon. Sometimes they even came into the store and looked at a book, then took out their tablets or smartphones and bought the book online. They didn't even seem to know how rude they were.

Postcards didn't sell either. These days people took selfies in front of Morro Rock and posted them on Facebook.

Maybe I could sell snow globes. Or floaty pens with little otters in them. Maybe some nightlights made from sea shells.

But I didn't have a penny to spend on new inventory. In fact, I couldn't pay the invoices on the books that had been delivered last week.

What were those people in Swynsby up to? Vera Winchester, the stalwart office manager, had always paid like clockwork now that she'd mastered the art of PayPal.

I checked my email. Nothing from Sherwood, Ltd.

Or Plantagenet.

I tried to pull up the Sherwood website, but couldn't find it. That might not mean anything. I never remembered to bookmark it and so many companies were called Sherwood, my publishers were hard to find with Google.

No need to even bother with my Amazon pages. With all those terrible reviews, my ranking was sure to have gone down. I probably hadn't sold a thing in days. And who knows what damage had been done on the Indian retail sites? India was my biggest market. I didn't even want to look.

I clicked on my Facebook page, hoping maybe my fans might have written something to give me a clue what was going on with those awful reviews. My books were read mostly by brides-to-be and wedding planners—who tended to be too frantically busy to post more than a question or two—but I also had a few nosy-auntie types who might be helpful.

But my page wasn't there.

Well, it wasn't exactly gone, but instead of my smiley author photo and the cover art for my books, the header showed what looked like a painting of some Renaissance prince. Not unattractive, bur very weird.

And my "wall" showed dozens of posts just like the Amazon reviews.

Some contained more mysterious accusations of a fondness for "Tudor" but most were incoherent hate-filled rants. Some were obscene. There were several people who called themselves Dukes or Duchesses and others had bookish names like "Trashybook" and "Bookworm from Hell." The latter accused me of being a "BBA".

I had no idea what that meant. Big Bad Architects? Batty Book Aholics?

A noise from inside the store startled me. The doors were still locked—I didn’t open until 10 A.M.—and Jen wasn't due in to work until eleven. I couldn't remember which Jen, but they both tended to come in late.

I opened the door that connected the back office to the inside of the store. I could see somebody had just pushed a pile of books onto the wooden floorboards.

I wasn't alone.

Someone was in the shop with me. I prayed whoever it was didn't have anything to do with Tudors or the mysterious BBA.

"Hello?" I called out.

Nobody replied.

I felt cold all over.

––––––––

A
t intermission Plant decided to have a drink in the famous Old Vic "Pit Bar," which Alfred had recommended.

But as soon as he managed to order his Grey Goose at the crowded bar, the fidgety trench coat man pushed in beside him, as unsmiling as before. He carried a little notebook, in which he scribbled with a cheap pen before sticking both in his pocket. Probably a critic. Or worse, a writer wannabe. They were everywhere.

"It's all porkies, innit?" the man said in a heavy regional accent. "Richard Three were one of England's best kings in the middle ages. He didn't murder the wee princes in the Tower, neither. It were Henry Seven what did the deed, like as not. Will Shakespeare weren't nothing but Queen Bess's poodle."

Plant had heard this kind of talk since he'd been at Princeton. And of course Richard's innocence was the premise of the Josephine Tey book he'd been reading. He still didn't quite buy it—he'd never been swayed by contrarians—but he was not in a mood to argue about the character of a long-dead English monarch with a semi-comprehensible stranger in the middle of a crowded bar.

Plant pulled
The Daughter of Time
from his pocket and held it up like a shield.

"Way ahead of you," he said in what he hoped was an unthreatening voice. "It's a classic."

Classic was a nice, non-committal word. He didn't say he agreed with it.

The sight of the book brought a startling change to the trench coat man's face. With a broad grin, he reached into his own pocket and brought out a copy of the same book, much dog-eared, with an old green and white Penguin cover from the 1950s.

"Sorry. Where's me manners?" He reached for Plant's hand and squeezed it. An intense squeeze. With lingering eye-contact. Was there a hint of a come-on there?

Maybe that's why he'd been staring.

"I'm Neville. I didn't know you was, er, one of us." The man gave a charming, intimate smile. "Can I have a butcher's?"

He leaned in close and seemed to be reaching for Plant's hand.

Was "butcher's" some sort of Brit gay code? Plant ignored the pass. He pretended to be studying his book's bright red cover with the little glimpse of Richard's portrait peeking through a medallion.

"That must be a Yank version," Neville said. "Never saw that cover before." Plant slowly realized Neville was interested in looking at his copy of
Daughter of Time
, not some bizarre meat-cutting adventure. "Have a butcher's" must be local slang for "have a look."

Plant handed Neville the book, feeling relief. Maybe the man wasn't coming on to him after all.

But then he'd called Plant "one of us." And he was standing awfully close. Of course one had to, in this crowd. But Plant's gaydar wasn't what it used to be, so he wasn't quite sure how to react.

It had been a long time since he'd been interested in casual encounters.

"I'm Plantagenet." He gave Neville a smile he hoped was warm but not too eager as he regained custody of his hand. This wasn't the moment for a fling, but he had to admit he was flattered. The man was at least fifteen years his junior and seriously good-looking, in a scruffy-haired, bearded sort of way.

He bore more than a little resemblance to the comedian Russell Brand.

Maybe this trip wasn't going to be so awful after all.

"Circle, not Alliance, right?" Neville said as if he were making some kind of sense.

Plant felt he should nod in agreement although he had no idea what the man was talking about.

"I'm Plantagenet too." Neville gave Plant a satisfied, unreadable smile as he examined Plant's book.

Neville Plantagenet. An unlikely name and an even unlikelier coincidence. Maybe the man was simply delusional.

"Libra will rise tonight, eh?" Neville said with what might have been a wink.

"Um...yes, I suppose Libra will rise." Plant felt a stab of fear. How could this man know his astrological sign?

Then he remembered his cufflinks. The man was certainly observant. Plant took a gulp of his drink. Was the old "what's your sign" thing back in pick-up fashion in the U.K.?

Neville handed the book back to Plant, then lowered his voice and leaned in. Looking deep into Plant's eyes, he proceeded to speak a rush of words that were completely incomprehensible in that accent of his. He might as well have been speaking Swedish.

Finally he gave Plant a pat on the shoulder and said, "Circle is the only Ricardians to get it right, innit? Not the poncy Alliance or the Leicester blokes. Blinkered, the lot of them. Richard of York belongs in York!" 

Neville's touch was electric, but Plant knew he wasn't ready for this. Not tonight anyway, even if Neville's words might make perfect sense in somebody's language.

Plant had no idea how to respond, so he sipped more vodka and tried to keep his face bland.

"To York Minster!" Neville said, raising his glass. His eyes flashed with a passion Plant found a little frightening.

This was absurd. He hadn't slept properly in two days. He didn't need an encounter with anybody right now, no matter how satisfying it would be to get back at Silas. He especially didn't need to be involved with somebody with mental health issues, which he was beginning to think was the case.

"To York Minster," Plant repeated, although he had no idea why they were drinking a toast to a cathedral at the other end of England. He clinked his glass against Neville's stein, since the man was apparently going to hold it aloft and undrunk until Plant reciprocated.

Plant took a sip of his own drink, wondering if he might be wise to down the whole thing now and return to the safety of his seat in the Dress Circle.

But of course Neville would be returning to the seat next to him. It was going to be awkward either way.

Plant hoped the play wouldn't go too late. Tomorrow he should take the train to Swynsby-on-Trent if he was going to keep his promise to Camilla to check on her delinquent publishers. But it was a three hour journey, and he might have to stay the night. He had to be back on Wednesday evening for his
Billy Elliot
tickets.

"You must go to Swynsby," Neville said in a matter-of-fact tone.

The back of Plant's neck went prickly. He hadn't mentioned one word of his Swynsby plans out loud.

Either this Neville person was able to read his mind, or this whole encounter was some sort of hallucination. Could jet lag do that?

Maybe he'd heard wrong. He hoped so.

Or could it be that Neville was some sort of paranormal being? Silas believed in such things. Maybe Neville was a spirit sent to bring Plant a message from the Great Beyond. Or the kind of angelic entity Glen Jones enjoyed "interfacing" with. 

The thought made Plant shiver. If angels had wings, he wondered if they had claws.

––––––––

I
heard the unmistakable sound of a meow.

A cat.

The intruder in the shop seemed to be of the feline variety.

I turned on the lights and took a breath.

The sleek black and white cat sat on one of the book tables in the back of the store. It seemed to have pushed its way between a stack of art books and the pile of remaindered political biographies, most of which had fallen to the floor.

How it got in, I had no idea. Maybe it had been here since yesterday evening, when Jen closed up. By closing time yesterday, I had been back at the cottage with Marva, well into my third cognac, confronting the horrible truth.

Just the sight of a cat made me feel queasy. The image of Ronzo's kittens was seared in my brain.

"Out!" I unlocked the front door and opened it wide. "Out, Mr. Cat. I cannot deal with one more nuisance today."

The cat stared at me for a moment, then began to wash.

"Shoo!"

The creature didn't budge. I went to the back room to get the broom.

But when I returned, a couple of tourists had wandered in.

"We're so glad you're open early," one of them said. "We're going out on a friend's boat and must have books. Fishing can be so tedious."

"What a beautiful cat," said the other. She walked over to pet the thing. "A gorgeous coat. He probably gets to eat lots of fish on the docks around here. Fish oil is very good for their fur."

I put the broom aside. I didn't want to be seen shooing the creature away in front of an obvious cat lover.

But as soon as they left, I used the broom to nudge it outside.

But the furry intruder didn't go far. In fact, each time a customer opened the door, he would run in and re-take his position on the back table.

I'd already shooed him out four times by the time Jen arrived.

But for some reason, Jen seemed delighted with him.

"Think of the cat as an automated dusting machine," she said. "Look how he's cleared the dust off that table in the back. I love a tuxedo kitty, don't you? Look how handsome he is with his little white paws and white bib. And he's really friendly. I saw him hanging out with that old homeless guy yesterday."

"Hobo Joe? Was he visiting our bench?" The park bench in front of the bookstore, meant for tourists to wait for the free trolley, was often the haunt of the local homeless men. I had come to appreciate them. Joe was my favorite because of his history with my former clerk, Dorothy.

"Yeah, Dorothy's friend. He was feeding the cat the meat out of his sandwich. Such a weird old guy. I never knew what Dorothy saw in him."

What Dorothy saw in Hobo Joe was her long-lost love from high school. But love hadn't been strong enough to get either of them to compromise on a mutually agreeable lifestyle. Of course I didn't tell Jen that. I would always keep Dorothy's secrets.

And Joe's. Joe was a man with many secrets.

"A cat will be friendly to anybody with a ham sandwich," I said.

The cat was now settling in between the stacks of remaindered books. Several more slid off the table. He was a big clumsy tomcat—not particularly graceful.

Jen ran to rescue the books.

"He knocked down Rush Limbaugh?" Jen picked up two shopworn copies of
See, I Told You So
from the floor. "I think this cat shows excellent taste."

I gave up and went back to my cottage for my lunch break. And more aspirin.

My headache would not go away.

Just like the stupid cat. 

––––––––

"S
wynsby. You must go tomorrow," Neville said again. "You'll regret it if you don't go."

This time he gave Plantagenet a knowing half-smile as if they were long-time lovers with shared secrets.

Plant felt sweat bead on his forehead. Here he was, sitting in a bar on the other side of the planet from home, getting hit on by someone who might well be a lunatic.

Or a psychic.

Or one of Glen's ectoplasmic apparitions.