So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (21 page)

"Nobody's better than Vera at getting things sorted. You'll see."

"But is Plant still in the Swynsby jail? It must be so awful for him."

"It's not very nice. I've spent some time there myself. But he's probably a free man as we speak. Henry will put up bail if need be."

I felt a moment of relief. If Plantagenet was all right, I could almost bear the rest of it.

Peter gave my shoulder another pat.

"And stop protecting your deceased Italian friend. It's yourself that you have to worry about. You need to get over this Mr. Ronzo."

I took a deep breath before I spoke again. I wanted to keep things light, but everything came spilling out.

"He wasn't Italian, he was Croatian. And his name wasn't Mr. Ronzo. It was Ronson V. Zolek. Ronzo was his nickname. He thought a homeless man in Morro Bay looked a lot like J. J. Tower. Somebody had sent photos of this man—who calls himself Hobo Joe—to Ronzo's blog. So Ronzo flew out here and hung out in my bookstore so he could talk to a homeless man who knew Joe, who used to sit on the bench in front of the store. Ronzo was kind of obsessed because he met J.J. back when he was a teenager with rock and roll dreams. Ronzo is a guitar player."

"I'd rather assumed so, given the way he decorated his arse."

I could have done without Peter's snark and bad language, but I kept going.

"I'll have you know Ronzo was very kind to the homeless people and had perfect manners in spite of his Tony Soprano accent. Plus he helped Silas and Plant get their house back, after they were scammed by that horrible Ponzi-schemer, Harry Sharkov."

Peter gave a harsh laugh.

"Oh, that makes all the difference. He wasn't Tony Soprano. He was a Croatian gangster with good manners."

"He wasn't a gangster! He wasn't a criminal. Well, not exactly..."

We had come to the turn-off for the airport. Thank goodness. I did not want to continue this conversation. I pulled into the short-term airport parking lot.

When we came to a stop, Peter turned to me and took my hand. Looking me in the eye, he spoke with sincerity.

"Camilla, if you were involved with somebody in organized crime, you need to call the police. People who throw knives about are dangerous. And the Croatian mafia can be every bit as terrifying as the Italian one. I know that first hand."

"I didn't say Ronzo was in any kind of mafia..."

"You said he was involved with bad people. Did it occur to you that maybe they eliminated him and now they think you have something they want? Maybe Mr. Ronzo posted something to you that hasn't arrived yet, like ill-gotten cash or..."

"Who are you to be talking about ill-gotten cash...?"

I stopped myself. What if Peter was right? Not about the mafia, but what if Ronzo had been murdered after all? I'd given up on that thought when I saw the video, but it really didn't rule out the possibility of murder.

I didn't know much about Ronzo's life in New Jersey, but Marva did say he grew up in a violent neighborhood. And it was obvious from the GoreFest video he'd been involved with shady people. Maybe they were run-of-the-mill criminals who did all kinds of porn and illegal stuff. Criminals were always killing each other off.

I hoped Ronzo had been an ordinary crook, in a way. That would make more sense.

"Whatever it is," Peter said. "Will you promise you'll ring the coppers if anything further happens? Just because I operate a bit outside the law is no reason you shouldn't have all the law enforcement protection your hard-earned taxes provide. Do I have your word you will do that?"

Now I felt embarrassed. I hadn't told him about the night Buckingham scared me into phoning 911.

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea. You see, I called the Morro Bay police earlier when I got that scary email, and they came by and were very nice, but I could tell they thought I was just some hysterical female. They said it wasn't a 'credible threat'."

"There's nothing hysterical about reporting someone throwing a knife at your door. Call them again." Peter opened the car door. "But now I have to get my own arse onto a bus and a plane and a train back to Lincolnshire."

He gave me a good-bye kiss. It was warm, but felt very final. I found myself clinging to him for a moment too long.

"Yes. Yes of course," I said after a moment. "You have so many problems to solve. I hope it all goes smoothly when you get to Heathrow. Let me know when you get to Swynsby, okay?"

He nodded, but he was already taking his things out of the car.

I wondered if I was an idiot to put my faith in Peter Sherwood one more time.

––––––––

P
lant sprang awake when he heard the sound of keys in the door to his cell. At least he thought he was awake. He couldn't tell any more. 

He looked around and saw no sign of King Richard. Thank goodness. He didn't want to go through another ghostly visitation.

It seemed to be daytime. At least the dim light that came through his opaque non-window was a lighter gray than it had been last time he'd been awake. Or thought he'd been awake.

A uniformed officer appeared.

"You have a guest, Mr. Smith," he said. "A lady."

Good god. He hoped it wasn't Queen Elizabeth I or any other dead royal personage.

"Am I in the right place?" A high pitched voice came from the corridor outside. "Is this where you have Mr. Plantagenet Smith? You must let him go. He's a famous Hollywood film writer. From America."

A sweet-faced woman in her fifties fluttered into the room. She wore a flowered dress and a large, swooping sort of hat over a no-nonsense gray bob.

"Mr. Plantagenet Smith?" she said. "I'm Vera Winchester. Office manager at Sherwood publishing." She extended a hand. "I'm afraid I was on my way to my son's rehearsal dinner, which is why the hat..." She patted her dramatic head gear. "He's getting married tomorrow. Our Callum. To his girl Bryony. Nice young woman, if a bit flighty. Her brother's not right in the head, unfortunately, but luckily it's not hereditary. She's in the family way, but of course they all are these days, aren't they? Cart before the horse. It's all been rush-rush-rush since we found out. They've had to throw together the wedding and tonight's rehearsal dinner is in the back room at our local. We had no time to do anything posh."

Plant clutched Vera's hand, not wanting to let go. He shook it again, hoping against hope that she was real.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he said. "So Camilla somehow got in touch with you? Is she all right?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Vera said. "I haven't heard a peep from Camilla and we've been that worried about her because of all those nasty reviews. But I suppose she doesn't have my home email address."

Maybe Camilla hadn't been overreacting to those reviews. Vera looked genuinely stricken.

She went on. "It's Henry Weems who sent me here. He's my boss at Sherwood Ltd. He's sent the money for bail, but apparently they don't need it yet. They're supposed to release you to my custody, he tells me. Although if you really were a murderer and wanted to escape, I can't imagine how I'd stop you, but...do you think I might have my hand back now?"

Plant realized he'd been hanging onto the poor woman's hand like a drowning man clutching a life preserver.

"You mean I can leave?" He needed to compose himself. "I'm free on bail?"

"No bail set, because you haven't been charged. You're still a person of interest. But you're free to roam the confines of Swynsby-on-Trent," she said. "Which means you may come to Callum's rehearsal dinner...I do hope you like roast beef. We're serving a roast, with Yorkshire pud, of course. Fresh peas and carrots from our community garden. And a nice cream cake for afters."

"That sounds like the food of the gods to me, Mrs. Winchester." Plant felt himself salivate. He didn't know exactly how long he'd been in here living on mystery meat sandwiches, but he knew that any real food would be a taste of heaven right now.

A different officer arrived and escorted them down the hall to the reception area where Plant had first come in—how many days ago? It could have been years.

Vera kept up her chatter as they walked.

"Bryony is watching her figure, and didn't want us to order a cream cake, but it's Callum's favorite. Bryony doesn't want her baby bump to show in her gown tomorrow, but of course it will. It's not as if everybody doesn't know already. The truth has a way of getting out, doesn't it?"

"The truth?" Plant stared at his unlikely rescuer as the custody sergeant sorted through some papers. 

"Oh, I certainly hope the truth will come out, Mrs. Winchester. I deeply hope so."

"When do I get my things," he asked the sergeant. "I'll have to change out of this, um, uniform or whatever it is."

"Not until the case is closed," the sergeant said.

"I'm supposed to walk out of here naked?"

"Oh, I forgot," Vera said. "I must run out to the car. They told me to bring you something to wear. So I brought you one of my George's old suits, since we're going directly to the rehearsal dinner. But you're quite a bit trimmer than George. I've also brought a shirt and shoes and some smalls. I do hope they fit."

Vera ran outside as Plant signed many pieces of paper and the sergeant informed him in a stiff voice that he must not leave the area, and must check into the station daily while the case was still pending or he would not receive his passport.

"And what is the Sywnsby address where you'll be staying?" he asked. "We can only allow you to go if you have a local address."

Plant tried to remember where Brenda said Vera lived. "Rope...Rope Road," he stammered.

Luckily Vera reappeared, carrying a garment bag.

"1187 Ropery Road," she said. "Mr. Smith will be in my custody. Me and my husband, George Winchester. I think you know George from down the pub, don't you Sergeant?"

The sergeant gave a small smile. It made Plant hopeful.

He was taken to the room where his clothes had been confiscated last Sunday night and was allowed to change into the things Vera had brought: a pair of tighty whities, a tank style undershirt, a shirt three sizes too big, and a similarly large navy blue polyester suit, double breasted, with wide lapels. Obviously bought sometime during the Thatcher years. It also would have been suitable for a Prohibition-era speakeasy. There were also some socks and a pair of elderly brown loafers. Way too big as well.

All he needed was a red nose.

Or maybe a machine gun in a violin case.

But he was more than grateful to the helpful Vera. He might look like a clownish Al Capone, but he'd be a free clownish Al Capone.

––––––––

A
s I drove back up the 101 toward Morro Bay, I wondered if I'd ever see Peter again. Saying goodbye to him had been more emotional than I'd expected. I felt embarrassing tears ruining my make-up as I waved him off to the loading area for the shuttle bus.

I also wondered how much of what Peter had said about Ronzo and the mysterious photo might be true. I didn't know if there was any evidence that Ronzo had been murdered—I hadn't heard about any suspicions. In fact I didn't even know whether his body had been discovered. The kitten story seemed to have overridden any reports about his death.

But I shuddered at the possibility he'd been killed. Especially if the knife in the photo on my door was meant to be a warning that I was next.

I hadn't thought of that, and I wasn't entirely pleased that Peter had added that worry to my already overflowing collection of anxieties. But I knew he wasn't being unkind. His warnings about the Croatian mafia were certainly heartfelt. I hadn't asked him what happened to his own Croatian henchperson, Jovan Ratko, but I assumed the parting hadn't been entirely amicable.

I kept to the speed limit on my way north. In fact, part of me didn't want to go back at all. I wasn't going to enjoy being alone in my cottage. Home wouldn't feel safe now.

I wanted this whole nightmare to be over. For Plantagenet to be home safe and Silas to come to his senses and the book review nonsense to evaporate.

And mostly I wanted to erase Ronzo from my brain. To forget I ever knew anything about him and his tattooed behind.

Maybe I should get a room in a motel and not go home at all. Before this, I'd always felt safe in my little cottage, hidden away behind the store. But now all I could think of was how isolated it was back there.

I could afford a motel now, thanks to Peter's money. I owed most of it to Silas, of course, but I could afford a night or two.

I had to stop thinking of it as Peter's. It was mine. The royalties I'd earned. Paid by Sherwood Ltd.

No. I needed to get home. I had a cat to feed. I couldn't very well leave the poor thing in the store all night without food or water. It was important for me to be brave, at least for Buckingham's sake.

Even if it meant confronting Croatian mobsters.

~

B
ut I needn't have worried about Buckingham. When I got home, the cat was on the bench in front of the store, cozying up to Hobo Joe. Joe was playing his guitar and busking—strictly forbidden by city laws, but I never reported it. Joe played beautifully, and I knew he didn't waste the money on anything silly. He lived in a clean and sober camp.

And right now, I was awfully glad to see him.

"Hi Joe!" I waved at him as I pulled into the driveway. "Hear anything from Dorothy?"

"Na," he said. "She's back in her plastic world. Hustle-bustle and sleep-when-you're-dead. Not my thing."

I parked and went over to the bench to retrieve Buckingham. I wondered if Joe had heard about Ronzo. He had been something of a thorn in Joe's side for a while, trying to connect Joe to the dead rock god J. J. Tower.

Ronzo had been right, of course. But Joe described the hard-living J. J. as a "dead guy I used to be." Both Ronzo and I had agreed to keep his secret. 

Joe usually asked about "Bonzo"—as he called him. But not today. I hoped he didn't know.

I stood for a moment and listened to the haunting melody Joe was playing. I took a handful of dollar bills from my wallet and scattered them in his guitar case, hoping it would prompt other people to add to them.