Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (33 page)

“You’re going to hang out in some coffee shop—while you’re practically on your deathbed? You are so self-destructive. No wonder you lost all your money. It’s like you’ve got a death wish.”

This stung. I hadn’t had much financial foresight. That was true.

“I gotta go,” Rosalee said, reaching for her raincoat. “We’re out of peanut butter.”

The mention of peanut butter did unhappy things to my stomach. I sat down to fight the dizziness. But I couldn’t stand being left here with no hope of communicating with Plant. I had to get Rosalee to understand the importance of getting a message to him.

The only way to do that was to tell Rosalee everything I knew about Lance’s death. It was time.

I stopped Rosalee before she went out the kitchen door.

“I have to tell you something…” I ignored her impatient looks and motioned her back to the table.

I spilled out the whole story: about finding Lance’s body, and the coyote, and how weird Peter had been—and how I’d suspected him of being a rapist or murderer. I managed to keep Plant and Silas out of the story—knowing Rosalee’s dislike of Plant—saying only that I had “San Francisco friends” who needed to know Peter might be a suspect.

Rosalee listened to every word with uncharacteristic silence. Her expression ran from interest, to contempt, to anger, and back again.

“Well, at least you finally told me. You’re right. The police gotta hear this. You are so lucky. If you hadn’t been so quick with that shoe-throwing thing, Peter Sherwood would have killed you too. Look how many people he’s killed. Him and that Ratko.”

“So you see why I have to get somewhere with Internet access.” My eyes were playing tricks with the light again, and Rosalee’s frizzy locks had a golden halo around them. She looked like a large, petulant cherub.

The petulance changed to anxiety.

“No! You can’t come with me. You can’t. I…” She took my hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I just had this feeling. This weird feeling…oh, you are so lucky I follow my hunches!”

“What is it?” I tried to focus.

“I’m not going to Old Somercote. I have to go back to Swynsby. But I can’t take you because…” Rosalee bit her lip. “It’s those guys—the black guy and the weird one with the eyebrows. They said Peter was looking for you. So I…”

I felt unreasonable joy at this news.

“Peter wants to see me?” I tried to push away the feelings of elation. If I was pleased to hear that a murderer wanted to see me, I was sick with something no medicine could cure.

Rosalee took both my hands and looked into my eyes.

“Don’t worry. I said you were gone. Back to America. Peter Sherwood can’t hurt you now, baby girl.”

This was either the nastiest or kindest thing Rosalee had done yet.

“You told Liam and Davey I went home?”

“Yeah. Vera and Henry and that know-it-all Professor, too. I’ll bet Peter Sherwood would have hired somebody to come out here and kill you if he found out you were still around. After all, you’re a witness to Lance’s murder.”

Hearing Rosalee voice my own suspicions made the danger feel more real.

She kept going. “Ooohh, that’s why he invited you here to England, Camilla—to kill you! No wonder he never talked about your so-called book deal after you got here. There never was a book deal. Like Alan said: ‘what year is this—nineteen forty-three?’ Nobody cares about manners any more. And who would notice you were gone, in that crazy place?”

My itchy skin prickled with embarrassment. What Rosalee said made terrible sense—at least the fake book deal part. After I contacted Peter with that first email, he probably feared I knew something, and decided to lure me over here. What better hook than a book deal? Everybody has a book idea knocking around. He probably would have accepted the storybook I wrote for my Barbies when I was nine.

“You’re right. I was an idiot.” I could hardly bear to look at Rosalee, who might lack realism in career aspirations, but wasn’t as delusional as I had been. “I was so naïve to believe Peter—all that nonsense about how he loved my book.”

I thought back to all the corny ways he had seduced me into trusting him.

“I guess I just wanted to believe—the way I wanted to believe it was his kindness—not the absinthe—that was making my heart grow fonder.”

Now Peter’s hoary joke took on sinister meaning.

“What?” Rosalee looked genuinely alarmed. “Absinthe? Did you say he gave you absinthe? That illegal green liquor?”

I nodded.

“Oh my god. That’s what killed Alan. And that other guy. They found poison in that absinthe bottle. Rat poison. Oh, my god! When did you start to feel bad?”

I thought back. “The day of the flood.”

“The day after you drank absinthe with Peter Sherwood? Oh my god, you’ve been poisoned, baby girl!”

“I can’t believe that bastard poisoned you!” Rosalee, in protective mother mode, jumped up and got me a glass of water from the tap. “You’ve got to detox, baby girl.” She filled the tea kettle. “I’ll make you some tea that will get those toxins out.” She bustled around with her herbs.

I was still reeling from this new information.

“Alan and Barnacle Bill—they were poisoned with that bottle of absinthe? The one on Peter’s desk? The police say so?” I could hardly bear to think about it. Peter had fed me poison. That night when I thought we were falling in love, I wasn’t playing Marian to his Robin Hood. I was playing pathetic, needy victim to a murderer. Knowing that was almost worse than the pain in my gut.

But Peter drank some absinthe himself—I was pretty sure. I tried to get my sick-addled brain to call up the memory of that night. Peter only had one glass. Maybe he’d put the poison in afterward. I remembered seeing the tin next to the bottle on the messy desk. He must have put it in after the ritual of mixing our first drinks—when I was relaxed and trusting after taking Much to the vet. After that, it would have been easy—that strong, cough-mediciney absinthe taste would have masked the poison.

I should have been suspicious when Peter only had the one drink. Thank goodness I’d only had two—it was probably why I was still alive. But Alan and Barnacle Bill finished the rest of the bottle together. And died instead of me.

My whole body began to shake as I realized what I had escaped.

Rosalee went to her own bedroom for a quilt and put it around my shoulders. “I know. You had it bad for that Sherwood guy, didn’t you? But baby girl—hello? You knew the guy made his living with kinky-ass pornography. Fantasies about torturing women. You don’t have to be Dr. Phil….”

Rosalee was right. I cringed at the realization of how I’d allowed myself to be manipulated. I’d been duped into thinking my writing was worth something. That I was worth something. I felt a wave of anguish.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Rosalee said, fussing with the quilt. “You’ve been fighting the poison this long, so you must have a good immune system. I’m sure the worst is over. With some detoxing herbs, you’ll be fine.” She put a steaming cup in front of me on the table. “But honey, it’s time for you to get the hell outta Dodge. Peter Sherwood is in jail, but Ratko is still out there. If that murderer finds out where you are, you are dog meat.” She shuddered.

I watched her bustle off to the parlor as I sipped the bitter tea and tried to come up with a plan. Rosalee was right. I needed to get out of England. Now.

Rosalee bounced back in, with her raincoat and new faux Birkin bag.

“I’ll go buy you the plane ticket now, okay? You can send me the money once you’ve got a job back home. There’s a travel agency in Swynsby that’s advertising great deals to New York. That’s where you live, right?”

I looked at Rosalee with amazement.

“You’re going to lend me money for a ticket home? We’re talking hundreds of dollars. Do you have that much to spare?”

Rosalee gave a benevolent smile.

“Sure. But I’ll need your ID. You have to have a name on the ticket—you know, for Homeland Security or whatever.”

I nodded toward my bag, sitting on a chair. I’d once been so protective of my purse, but there was nothing in it now but money Rosalee herself had provided.

“Don’t worry about me.” Rosalee said, sliding the license from my wallet. “I’ve still got plenty left from my advance, and when that runs out, I’ll have tons rolling in from my book. I’ll be fine.”

I looked up at Rosalee’s eager, clueless face. The poor woman had no idea that, even with the massive edits, her novel was unlikely to earn out its advance.

“Are you sure you’ll have enough to live on?” I said. “Generally, you don’t see royalties for eighteen months or more…” I stopped myself. It would be imprudent, as well as unkind, to tell the whole truth at this point.

Rosalee put a sisterly hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, baby girl. I’ve always got a back-up plan. I brought over a bunch of stuff I can sell—jewelry and electronics. I hate to let them go, but…”

I gave a sad laugh. “I’ve been there. I lived on my jewelry for months, but now it’s pretty much gone.” For some reason, my eyes teared at the thought of my lost watch, earrings and the rest. I had never felt such despair. It was as if my soul had been poisoned along with my body.

Rosalee gave me a hug. “We’ve got a lot in common, you and me. More than I ever would have thought. Maybe you can help me figure out what the stuff is worth. I don’t want to get ripped off.” She ran to the bedroom and came back with a zippered jewelry case and dumped the contents on the table in front of me—a couple of rings, some jeweled brooches, a faux-diamond tennis bracelet, a pair of men’s cufflinks, a cell phone and an iPod, circa 2006. Nothing of much value. I picked up one of the brooches—a pretty Deco piece, but obviously costume—wondering what to say. “Are you sure you want to part with these? They must have sentimental value…” It was so sad, Rosalee trying to play Lady Bountiful, with so few resources of her own.

“Na. Those belonged to Lance’s mom. Such a bitch. But I’m sure they’re worth something. She kept that stuff locked up and never wore it except like, on Christmas. But after she died, Lance wanted me to have her things.”

I studied the small, worthless treasures and felt profound sorrow for the late Mrs. McNerlin of Buttonwillow CA. My tears made little blurry halos around the sparkling faux jewels.

Rosalee put on her coat.

“I gotta get to Swynsby. Henry needs me to meet some publicity people. If you give me your friend’s e-mail address, I’ll send him a message for you.” She reached into her purse for a notebook. “You better give me the password for your email account, so he’ll know it’s from you and it won’t be eaten by a spam blocker.”

I was shocked from my hypnotic state. My password. A few days ago, such a request would have set alarms clanging in my head, but now I realized my identity wasn’t worth stealing.

“Emilypost2—that’s my password.” My poisoned brain felt as if it were floating away from me.

Rosalee wrote with precise, childish handwriting.

“So what’s your gay friend’s email address? Is there anything else you want me to tell him?”

I recited the address.

Rosalee’s lips went thin. She took a quick breath.

“Plantagenet Smith? Did you say your friend’s name is Plantagenet Smith?”

I braced myself for a dramatic reaction to my accidental revelation about Plantagenet.

“Yes,” I told the silent Rosalee. “I’m afraid my friend is that ‘super-snotty screenwriter’ Lance used to date. He may have seemed snobby, but if you got to know him…”

Now even my eyes itched. I rubbed them. It didn’t help much.

“No shit?” Rosalee gave me an odd look. “So Plantagenet Smith—he’s the one who had the heart attack? But you said he’s, like, okay now?”

I nodded. Sometimes I thought Rosalee paid no attention to what I said, but obviously she had listened to the story about Plant.

“Yes. Thanks for asking. He’s better. But you’ll be happy to know his boyfriend won’t let him drink any ‘fancy-ass vodka’.”

Rosalee gave a sarcastic laugh.

“Oh, poor Mr. Hollywood. Anything else you want me to tell him?”

“Just say I’ll be home pretty soon and I’ll email him when I get back.” I tried to picture myself back in New York—where? In Valentina’s cousin’s garage? I’d be even poorer than before, now owing Rosalee for a transatlantic ticket. It wasn’t going to be a joyous homecoming.

Rosalee puttered in the kitchen for a few minutes and then returned to the parlor.

“I’ve left more tea for you on the stove,” she said, her sunny mood restored. “Tea and sleep. That’s what you need to detox. Lots of liquids. Make sure you drink it all, baby girl. You gotta get all that shit out of your system.”

After I heard the front door slam shut, I lay back on the sofa in the little parlor, hoping Rosalee’s tea would do its detoxifying magic soon. It better, since everybody who might have helped me negotiate the British healthcare system now believed I’d left the country, and/or wanted to kill me.