No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) (3 page)

Two men staying in my tiny 650-square foot cottage made for a tight squeeze. Especially with somebody Silas's size. I slept in on Saturday, hoping they'd have gone to brunch or something by the time I woke up. But when I emerged from my little bedroom around ten, they were still there.

The tension was as thick as the marine layer hovering over Morro Bay.

Silas was hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table and Plant had his ear to my radio, listening to NPR.

"Great," Plant said. "They have an in-depth report about the railroad strike in Bulgaria, but not one word about the fire in San Luis Obispo."

"It's under control," Silas said in a flat voice. "I told you that. It's here on the CDF website. The fire demolished the Reynosa ranch and some of the vineyards, but the rest of the neighborhood is supposed to be intact. No word on when they're going to let us go home, though. I suppose there'll be smoke damage. The house is probably going to stink. That's not going to be good for home buyers."

The words "home buyers" made me shiver as I shoved two Nutri-Grain waffles in the toaster.

"It hasn't been the Reynosa ranch for thirty years, Silas. It was Harry's house" Plant said. "Your friend Harry the Shark, um, I mean the financial wizard." His tone dripped venom.

"Doria Windsor's house?" I had no idea what they were fighting about, but this struck me as something of a tragedy. "After she had all those decorators in? And we never even got to meet her. I suppose she'll never move out here from New York now."

I launched into a story about how my mother had hired Doria to redecorate Randall Hall, years ago, before she started Home Magazine.

"I remember her as being terribly edgy and chic. Married to some actor. What was his name? He was sort of the Charlie Sheen of the 1980s…"

Plant and Silas sat in cold silence. Obviously even celebrity gossip could be a touchy subject at the moment.

I grabbed my waffles as they popped up, spread them with sugar-free preserves and shoved the makeshift sandwich into a baggie. I could eat breakfast in the store. And make coffee there, too. This was supposed to be my day off, but Brianna would appreciate the help, and there were always books to be ordered and shelves to be dusted. Plus I had a pile of mail to deal with.

And maybe Mr.
X
would show up.

His friendly banter and cute grin might bring a little cheer to the dismal day.

Doria surfaced from a dream about small garishly-dressed people invading her hospital room—climbing on her bed and jumping on her tummy. The pain was excruciating.

The DVD player was on again. She found the remote, clicked it off and rang for a nurse.

Still no phone. Still no Harry. Still no Dr. Singh.

And as usual, the nurse was taking her own sweet time.

Anger gave Doria strength. She was not going to let these people keep her in the dark like a damned mushroom.

She managed to stagger out of bed and pull on a loose dress over her bandages. It was humiliating to be kept in bed in that hideous hospital gown. She often suspected they put patients in the dreadful things to keep them docile. Hard to stand up for yourself with your naked backside hanging out.

She had put on some make-up and made her hair presentable by the time a nurse finally showed up.

The nurse insisted Doria get back in bed. "Dr. Singh left very strict orders. You are not to be discharged. At least until they have more information…" She stopped herself and presented Doria with a zippered plastic bag. "I can't find your phone." The nurse's voice had an odd quaver. "But here's your watch and necklace and rings. That's a lovely diamond. Such a big one."

The flattery was lost on Doria. Mostly she was glad to have her guardian angel pendant back. Honestly, she wasn't that crazy about the way the ring looked. For Valentine's Day, Harry had replaced the engagement diamond with a bigger one in the same setting—nearly six carats. She thought it was more than a little vulgar, and her old three carat stone had more sparkle, but she knew Harry was only trying to be sweet. Or he was apologizing for something. Either way, it wouldn't have done to turn down the upgrade. Harry had been pretty much ignoring her since he bought the vineyard, so any kindness was to be encouraged.

"More information about what?" Something strange was definitely going on. "Get Dr. Singh on a landline. Lickity split." Doria managed to put on her watch and rings with clumsy fingers. It was time to get some answers.

The nurse looked flustered. "Dr. Singh is not on duty on weekends."

This was ridiculous. "Then I'll speak to his boss. Where's the administration office?"

A terrible pain shot through her abdomen as she stood up.

"No. You must not stand straight," said the nurse. "You will pull the stitches. You have a new navel that must heal."

Doria agreed to travel via wheelchair, and tried to be patient as the nurse found an orderly to push it.

But when she got to the administration office, Doria demanded the orderly stay outside the office with the wheelchair, so she could walk in on her own steam, even if she had to walk hunched over like Quasimodo.

She was not some feeble invalid.

She was Doria Windsor. Bent, but not broken.

The hospital administrator was a ferrety little woman with thin, unfortunate hair.

Doria found her smile unconvincing.

"Dr. Singh is not on call. "The woman spoke in a tone so officious it veered into self-parody. "But I do have something I need to discuss with you. Your procedure was elective surgery, so everything was supposed to be prepaid, Mrs. Sharkov."

This was silly. "Of course. We paid in full. Don't you know who I am?"

"Yes, Mrs. Sharkov, everybody knows who you are."

Doria wondered if she'd run up her Platinum card again. Home magazine had been hemorrhaging money for years, so it happened fairly often. Harry was usually careful to pay things off before she ran up more than $50,000 on any one card. But he'd been entranced with his vineyard and his crazy boat-building projects and she'd been back in New York for the last four months, so maybe he'd let things slide.

She pulled her wallet from her Birkin bag—which had probably cost more than this officious woman's entire net worth—and tossed a couple of other cards on the desk.

"I'm sure one of these will work. Or call my husband. He'll be coming down to pick me up shortly. He was due this morning. It may still be morning for all I know. I haven't a clue what time it is. Living in Munchkin hell has turned my brain to Coco Puffs."

"I can't imagine how you can joke about it, Mrs. Sharkov."

"I'm not joking. Please call my husband, now. And find my phone. Those idiots claim to have lost it."

The ferret-woman scowled. She opened her mouth. Her words came at Doria like pointy little weasel teeth. Most of what was said sounded like the plot of a really bad movie, but as Doria stood in front of her desk, fighting nausea and drug fog, she made out this horrible person wanted her to believe the following things—

1) Doria was to leave the hospital immediately, because the required prepayment of $35,000 had not gone through. The bank said all the Windsor assets had been frozen.

2) Harry wasn't coming. He was "missing", whatever that meant.

3) A fire had burned their Central Coast home to the ground.

It had to be some kind of sick, revolting joke. The same nasty prank that prompted that bizarre phone call yesterday.

It occurred to Doria that with her face painted green, the woman could do a nice turn as the Wicked Witch of the West.

Hanging onto the desk to keep herself upright, Doria told the witch she was being ridiculous and demanded to see her boss.

The creature replied that her boss was a conglomerate in Dubai.

Doria grabbed her purse, took back her credit cards and let the witch know that she and her flying Emirate monkeys would hear from the Sharkov lawyers.

If Doria had to go to Dubai to get the woman fired, she would. She always found Dubai blisteringly uncomfortable, but in this case, she was willing to make sacrifices.

She found her wheelchair, but the orderly was nowhere to be seen, so she used it as a walker to make her slow way back to her room. Deep pain started up in the area of her incision. She needed more drugs, lickity split.

But when she reached her room, she wasn't quite sure she was in the right place. The bed was stripped and a janitor was scrubbing the floor.

She checked the room number. It was hers. And there was her luggage—all packed up—sitting by the door.

The Wicked Witch had done her work.

I had never found Brianna an ideal employee—her streak of blue hair and tattooed cleavage did not put across the ideal image I wanted for the store, and the girl seemed incapable of finding books for customers or dusting and re-shelving. But least she'd been able to run a register and show up on time.

Until today.

A crowd of tourists were waiting for the store to open when I arrived at 10:15, with no sign of Brianna.

And the traffic didn't slow all day. By noon, I still hadn't had time to eat. Not that I was complaining. Strong sales might change Silas's mind about selling the store. I even had a chance to sell a copy of my own dismally-selling etiquette book, Good Manners for Bad Times. I recommended it to a woman wanting to settle a dispute with for her "bridezilla" niece.

Around two there was finally enough of a lull that I could go to the back room and make myself some much needed coffee and wolf down the Power Bar I had in my purse for emergencies.

When I went back to the register, I found my forgotten waffle-sandwich breakfast behind the counter and started to toss it. But I decided it would be nicer to give it to the homeless man who usually sat on the bench outside the store. He had no teeth, poor thing, but he could probably gum the mushy sandwich.

But he wasn't in his usual spot. He always wore a red plaid wool jacket, even in the summer, so he usually wasn't hard to find.

Around four, I went to my desk to attack the pile of mail I'd been too busy to deal with all week. Mostly resumes from hopeful job applicants. I'd planned to hire another part-time clerk for the summer, but with Silas's money troubles, I didn't see much point in looking.

I would have loved to replace the useless Brianna, but she'd been at the store since before I started as manager, and Silas felt he had to keep the girl on until she finished her degree at Cal Poly.

The first three resumes were obvious mass-mailings with no cover letter, so I didn't mind tossing them. The fourth was from an 80-year-old retired school teacher who said she had "time on her hands," but couldn't lift anything or drive at night. The fifth came in a hand-addressed envelope—with something odd and heavy inside.

I figured it was one of those gimmicky applications—probably another easy no. A key fell out as I opened it—probably a clunky metaphor from some misguided marketing book. I looked inside, expecting a resume with an enthusiastic cover letter about how the applicant was my "key" to success.

But it wasn't a resume. It was a note.

I recognized the handwriting. Brianna's:

"Dear Camilla and Mr. Ryder: My paycheck bounced. AGAIN. So my rent check bounced. AGAIN. I might even get evicted!! And there's, like, nearly a hundred bucks you owe me for penalties on top of making good the check. You gotta bring me the money right now IN CASH or my boyfriend says we take you to small claims court. No way am I going to trust you guys again. I'm outta there. Sorry, but my boyfriend says you don't deserve 2 weeks' notice. Here's the key to the stupid bookstore. Which any idiot could break into anyway. CREEPS!!!!!!"

She'd signed it with one bulbous "B" that took up the bottom half of the page.

I looked at the postmark. Wednesday morning. My own fault for not reading my mail for three days.

I wondered if I should rescue the resumes I'd been about to shred to look for Brianna's replacement.

No. If Silas didn't have enough money to make payroll, things were dire indeed, so he probably really did need to sell the store.

I stared at the key to the door I locked so carefully every night and realized Brianna was right. If anybody wanted to rob the store, they could probably get in with a strong shove on the ancient wood.

Something for the new owners to worry about.

I shoved one application after another into the slot and listened to the shredder roar.

Very soon I'd be the one sending out resumes.

With my history as a fired newspaper columnist and barely-selling writer of etiquette books, my resume would likely end up in some shredder, too. I had no idea what I was going to do.