No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (2 page)

The old song says "everybody loves a lover", but at this point in my life, I mostly found lovers annoying. One disastrous marriage and two failed affairs had left me without a lot of affection for Cupid and his shenanigans. As a divorcee in my extremely late thirties (my big four-O birthday was looming,) I felt ready for male companionship with no strings attached.

Tourists tend to come with very few strings, and Mr.
X
was definitely from out of town. Probably New Jersey, from the sound of his accent.

I unlocked the door—of course the lock had to stick—and ran for the phone, nearly tripping over my display of zombie books by the door.

I reached it just in time.

But it wasn't Mr.
X
. It was Plantagenet.

"Camilla, we've got to talk to you. Right away. Silas and I have…something to tell you."

"Can it wait?" Even though Silas and Plant always fed me gorgeous meals, I didn't want to sit through one more argument about the seating arrangements at their rehearsal dinner.

"No."

The phone went dead.

This did not bode well. Plant's terseness probably signaled a fight with Silas. Which meant he'd want to sleep on my couch—a major inconvenience in my tiny cottage. It also meant things would be strained with Silas, who was my landlord as well as my boss.

Altogether not good news.

But Plant had been my best friend for most of my life and I wasn't going to let him down, even though the last thing I wanted to do was drive anywhere. Especially on congested Highway One going south on a holiday weekend. Plant and Silas's new wine-country villa was only about thirty minutes' trip inland on a good day, but living in a cottage that was twenty yards from my workplace had spoiled me.

I looked toward the ocean and saw a dark layer of fog moving in from the bay, so I put on a jacket before jumping into my old Honda. It would probably be a chilly, foggy night, even in Edna Valley. I hoped I wouldn't find Plant and Silas's relationship had chilled, too. They were my only real friends in California, where I'd moved a year ago when my mother died and I discovered the family fortune had evaporated.

The fog moved ahead of me as I drove inland, and the big house seemed shrouded in an odd silence as I rang the front doorbell. Usually Plant would have some Broadway musical score blaring and Silas would be bustling around the kitchen creating enticing aromas.

I rang the bell again.

Not a sound.

Then I smelled smoke.

I hammered on the door. I was about to call 911 when I realized the smoke was probably coming from that huge new barbeque pit on the back deck.

Then I felt stupid. They were probably simply enjoying the new deck and barbequing dinner. Barbequed steaks were one of the few things Plant could cook. Maybe they weren't fighting after all. That would be a relief. Even though they'd bought this house together last September—joining in "holy real estate" as Plant called it, their fights always resulted in Plant stalking out, as if they were still living in Silas's home, not his.

I walked around to the back and found them sitting on the deck, with coals blazing in the huge outdoor fireplace but no meat on the grill. They both stared at the fog bank that hovered over the regiments of grapevines on the hills. They each held empty wine glasses. Big, bear-like Silas held his to his chest as if he were cradling a child, and the always-elegant Plant let his dangle from a languorous hand.

"Looks like you two need to hire a wine steward," I said, trying to brighten the mood. "Can I give you a refill? I grabbed the bottle of Viognier on the table, but it was empty.

"Oh, Camilla, I'm sorry," Plant said. "Let me get some more wine."

He disappeared inside and left me alone with Silas, who barely acknowledged me.

"Ingram hasn't sent the new shipment yet," I said, hoping some shop talk would break through the doom and gloom. "The AAUW book club is furious the new Michael Chabon isn't in yet. And we're nearly sold out of the SLO County walking tour books."

The guidebooks made me think of Mr. X. I wondered if he was off on one of those walking tours today. I'd love to be with him, instead of here with all this tension.

Silas still said nothing.

Plant came out and fussed with opening a new bottle—a Fumé Blanc this time, then filled my glass.

"More for you, Silas?" he said.

"Might as well." Silas gave an odd grin. "Might as well get good and drunk. The bank will take whatever's left, anyway."

"The bank? Are you two having mortgage trouble—" I stopped myself in the middle of the silly question. Silas Ryder was one of the wealthiest people in the county. Even though the bookstore business was fading, he'd inherited acres of family land. The Ryders had been movers and shakers in this part of the world for a hundred years.

"Mortgages, vendors: creditors of every kind you can think of. I'm flat broke, Camilla dear." Silas delivered this speech in such a dead tone of voice, I couldn't tell if he was joking.

I looked to Plant for cues. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

Silas went on. "The realtor is coming in a few minutes to show the house. I've also got to sell the store. All my other stores are leased, but I own your store and the cottage. I've got them mortgaged with the same bank as this house. They've all got to go as soon as possible."

"The bookstore? My cottage?" I could hardly get the words out. He was talking about my home. My livelihood. Everything I had in the world.

I looked out at the fogbank and felt the whole world closing in.

"Is it me or is the fog darker than usual," Plant said. "It seems to want to keep with the mood."

Silas stood with sudden agitation and sniffed the air. "That's not fog, Plant. That's smoke. Look."

At the top of the ridge of hills, through the thick haze, I could see orange.

Flames.

They were coming over the mountain, heading for Silas and Plantagenet's dream house.

When Doria's brain resurfaced, she was in the ICU, with curtains pulled around her bed. After she figured out where she was, she remembered the bizarre phone call. The strange androgynous voice talking about houses on fire and sado-masochism. Calling Harry a "crispy critter."

No. That couldn't have happened. It must have been a dream. She'd always been terrified of fire. Probably the fault of the nuns at St. Rita's Parish School. They'd put a fear of hellfire into her she'd never quite recovered from.

She reached for the gold guardian angel pendant she always wore—a gift from her high school sweetheart Joey Torres. Poor, dead Joey. Touching it always helped her feel safe when those childhood fears started sneaking in. But her arm felt as if it belonged to somebody else and it took forever to move it. Then she realized they'd taken the pendant, along with her wedding rings and watch. And her phone. She hoped they kept them locked up properly.

She decided the telephone call from the mysterious Nightshade person must have been an anesthesia-induced hallucination. She'd heard they could be remarkably vivid.

Her friend Betsy, who was an atheist now, claimed she had one after her last boob job. Betsy said she felt fully awake when she saw, quite clearly, the words "property of Satan" tattooed on her chest. Apparently her screams woke half the floor before she finally came to.

Doria started to feel cold. Fire would be the worst way to go, but she didn't want to freeze either. And she wanted her guardian angel pendant. She called for a nurse.

A few minutes later, a tiny young woman came running in. She seemed to have a guilty conscience about something.

"I'm sorry, Miss Windsor" the nurse said over and over. "I mean, Mrs. Sharkov. I'm so very, very sorry."

Silas called 911 as Plant and I threw clothes into suitcases, in case they got the order to evacuate.

"The fire was probably started by the damned homeless," Plant said. "They camp down there by the creek. Light fires. Burn themselves up. It's awful."

I stopped tossing clothes into Silas's suitcase and looked straight at Plant. "I can't believe you said that. It's not their fault they're homeless. I've been homeless myself." I didn't like to think about the months after my mother's death when I had to resort to dumpster diving and camping out in a warehouse in the chilly north of England.

Plant stopped and gave me a hug. "Of course, darling. I didn't mean it to sound…I'm angry they have to be there, is all. With no money for food and shelter in the richest country in the world. It's a disgrace. And last night…"

His voice hiccupped with the hint of uncharacteristic grief. "Last night, while I was waiting for Silas to come back from talking to his bankers in Santa Barbara, I went walking by the creek. Without my phone. I wanted to get away from all of it for an hour or so. But when I got down there by the willows, I smelled smoke. Then I saw flames in the brush ahead. I ran back up the hill to call county fire, and on the way I heard screams. Horrible screams. I've never heard anything so awful."

He collapsed on the side of the king-sized bed.

I put a comforting arm around him. "Did you get through to the fire department?

Plant nodded. "Eventually. It didn't take them long to put it out. And I didn't see anything in the paper about any injuries. But those screams…"

I watched the smoke thicken outside the patio doors. "I wonder if CDF didn't get all the embers from last night's fire—maybe something re-ignited."

"If I'd had my damned phone with me…" Plant looked as if he might cry for a moment, then pulled himself together. "I haven't even talked to Silas about it yet. With all this financial stuff…" He waved his hand as if he were trying to shove away an invisible enemy.

"What haven't you talked to Silas about yet?" Silas stood in the doorway, his face dark.

"Just—the homeless people set fire to some brush last night." Plant stood and resumed packing. "Somebody got burned, I think."

"We wondered if it's the same fire that's burning out there now—if it re-lit itself or something." I thought it best to keep things in the present. "I don't know if what I'm packing is okay. Do think you'll really have to evacuate?"

"Yes. We really have to evacuate." Silas said. "Right now. The old Reynosa ranch is on fire."

"Where's the Reynosa ranch?" I knew Californians called these mini-estates "ranches" but I couldn't remember which one that was.

"Right over the hill." Silas's voice was hoarse. "The house is already gone. The fire is out of control and headed this way."

Plant's face went white. "Camilla, we have to go. Now."

Doria felt as if she'd been lying semi-comatose in her hospital bed for days—maybe weeks. She'd lost all track of time. The TV in her room was out of order and would only play DVDs—and of course all the films the hospital had were G-rated. Mostly cartoons for small children.

In spite of the endless supply of drugs they kept feeding her, anxiety pushed through the haze.

For one thing, she'd heard nothing from Harry. She also hadn't had a visit from Dr. Singh. Plus her cell phone had not been returned. Annoyance filtered through the druggy fog and she finally clicked off the DVD of The Wizard of Oz she'd been watching for the third time and realized something wasn't right.

She should have been up and moving around by now. They always did that the next day, no matter how dreadful you felt. She wished she knew how long she'd been in this drugged stupor. Were they keeping her in the dark on purpose?

Maybe Dr. Singh had botched the operation. Or he'd found something ghastly he was afraid to tell her about. She rang for the nurse.

When a nurse arrived—she took forever—she looked annoyed.

"What is it, Doria?"

Doria disliked having young people use her first name. Being an elder should have some privileges. She sat up as straight as she could and fought the drug haze.

"Is the doctor avoiding telling me something? What—did he find my body riddled with leprosy?"

The nurse seemed absorbed in something on her clipboard and pretended not to hear.

This made Doria even angrier. It was a tactic she used herself when some editor was overstepping her authority at the magazine.

"I want to talk to Dr. Singh right now. Something got botched, didn't it? I got wheeled into the wrong operating room and some idiot removed my spleen?"

The nurse gave a weary sigh. "Do you want me to turn the DVD player back on? Would you like to get back to the Wizard of Oz?"

"No," Doria said. "If I spend one more minute in Munchkinland I'm going to go remove somebody's spleen myself. Get me the doctor. Lickity split."

Another nurse appeared at the door. "Time for Doria's meds."

"Thank goodness," said nurse number one. "The pain seems to be making her delirious."