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- Herausgeber: Kotu Beach Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Comedy with a conscience. A laugh-out-loud mashup of romantic comedy, crime fiction, and satire: Dorothy Parker meets Dorothy L. Sayers.
Perennially down-and-out socialite Camilla Randall a.k.a. "The Manners Doctor" is a magnet for murder, mayhem and Mr. Wrong, but she always solves the mystery in her quirky, but oh-so-polite way. Usually with more than a little help from her gay best friend, Plantagenet Smith.
Doria Windsor, the uber-rich editor of Home decorating magazine loses everything, including her Ponzi-schemer husband, when their luxury wine-country home mysteriously goes up in flames. Homeless, destitute, presumed dead and branded a criminal, 59-yr-old Doria has a crash course in reality…and a second chance at love.
Meanwhile, reluctant sleuth Camilla Randall is facing homelessness too, as Doria's husband's schemes unravel and take down innocent bystanders along the way. When the mysterious—and dangerously attractive—Mr. X. turns up at Camilla's bookstore looking for clues to the death of a missing homeless man, Camilla joins in the search.
With the help of brave trio of homeless people and a little dog named Toto, Doria, Camilla and Mr. X journey to unmask the real killer and reveal the dark secrets of Doria's "financial wizard" husband.
Anne. R. Allen weaves her usual blend of archetypal images (this time from The Wizard of Oz) with unique and wacky characters, hilarious situations, and laugh-out-loud one-liners that all somehow come together and make perfect sense at the end.
No Place Like Home is the fourth of the Camilla Randall Mysteries, but can be read as a stand-alone novel.
"Snarky, quirky, and hilarious!"
"A warp-speed, lighthearted comedy mystery, No Place Like Home offers lasting laughs beneath which a message resounds – Being homeless is scary"
"Don't miss this wild and wacky ride from the gorgeous Morro Bay and the Edna Valley wineries to the Big Sur coastline. It's a real hoot!"
"Allen's genius comes through as she opens a window on the world of the homeless showing the reader a sensitivity toward these people who have lost everything, often through no fault of their own."
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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NO PLACE LIKE HOME
The Camilla Randall Mysteries # 4
a comedy
by
Anne R. Allen
This edition copyright Anne R. Allen 2014.
Published by Kotu Beach Press.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1—Mistress Nightshade
Chapter 2—Everybody Loves a Lover
Chapter 3—Property of Satan
Chapter 4—Homeless
Chapter 5—Doing Time in Munchkinland
Chapter 6—Sweet Home
Chapter 7— The Wicked Witch
Chapter 8—Shredding Resumes
Chapter 9—Life is but a Dream
Chapter 10—Mr. X
Chapter 11—Hollywood Starline Tour
Chapter 12—Disasters Waiting to Happen
Chapter 13—Burning Jacuzzis
Chapter 14—Ronzo
Chapter 15—Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
Chapter 16—Cozy Little Treasure
Chapter 17—Harry's Biggest Fan
Chapter 18—Screw Rich People
Chapter 19—Tornado
Chapter 20—Enchanted New Jersey
Chapter 21—Chocolate for Breakfast
Chapter 22—Orphans in the Storm
Chapter 23—Between Beverly Hills and Nowhere
Chapter 24—One-Night Stand
Chapter 25—The Wolf at the Door
Chapter 26—Blue Notebook
Chapter 27—The Yellow Brick Road
Chapter 28—Mafioso
Chapter 29—A Girl's Best Friend
Chapter 30—The Soldier
Chapter 31—The Happiest Town on Earth
Chapter 32— Tasting Wine
Chapter 33—The Devil in 2000-Thread Count Sheets
Chapter 34—Police Presence
Chapter 36—Dishy Boyfriend
Chapter 37—Menthol Magic
Chapter 38—Not Exactly "Cheers"
Chapter 39—Lucky and Bucky
Chapter 40—New Jersey Lawyer
Chapter 41—Ding Dong the Witch is Dead
Chapter 42—The Walls of Jericho
Chapter 43—Clean and Sober
Chapter 44—The Royal Snail
Chapter 45—Barbeque
Chapter 46—The Price of a Handbag
Chapter 47—And Your Little Dog Too
Chapter 48—Morro Bay Drizzle
Chapter 49—Marvin's Birkin
Chapter 50—Gangster's Moll
Chapter 51—Getting Clean
Chapter 52—Par Avion
Chapter 53—Marvin's Secret
Chapter 54—Backless
Chapter 55—Kinky Stuff
Chapter 56—The Two-Night Stand
Chapter 57—Size Thirteen Wide
Chapter 58—The Secretarial Handbook
Chapter 59—Being a Ghost
Chapter 60—Cash Mob
Chapter 61—Fakes
Chapter 62—Mother Manners
Chapter 63—Dea Ex Machina
Chapter 64—Zo What?
Chapter 65—In Transition
Chapter 66—Mr. Skinner
Chapter 67—An Old Friend
Chapter 68—Marva
Chapter 69— Strawberry Wine
Chapter 70—Missing Persons
Chapter 71—Zombie Jamboree
Chapter 72—Ronzo the Sailor-Man
Chapter 73—Bookkeeping
Chapter 74—Into the Mist
Chapter 75—The Fugitive
Chapter 76—Dorothy-Free
Chapter 77—Hobo Joe
Chapter 78—Doria's Biggest Fan
Chapter 79—Lucky and Co.
Chapter 80—Rat Bastard
Chapter 81—Narco-Subs
Chapter 82—Dangerous Dudes
Chapter 83—Cherchez la Femme
Chapter 84—Doria's Corpse
Chapter 85—A Nice Little Miracle
Chapter 86—Gregg Shorthand
Chapter 87—Invisible
Chapter 88—Home
Chapter 89—The Resurrection of #HarrytheShark
Chapter 90—Bedtime for Bonzo
About the Author
Other Books by Anne R. Allen
Chapter 1—Mistress Nightshade
––––––––
Doria Windsor first heard her house was on fire from somebody called Mistress Nightshade. In a breathy, but suspiciously baritone voice, he/she phoned Doria at the hospital to say the fire department was on its way, but the great room already looked like a total loss, the garage was about to go with both Ferraris inside—and Doria owed a bundle for the shackles, harnesses and five leather floggers.
"Real leather. Not the cheap pleather stuff. Mistress Nightshade's Traveling Discipline Show uses only the best."
Doria politely informed the person that he/she had the wrong number.
"Isn't this Harry Sharkov's wife?"
Doria replied she was indeed Doria Windsor Sharkov, but she was in Los Angeles, about to be wheeled into the operating room, and she was sure if their house were on fire, Harry would have phoned.
"Kind of hard when you're a crispy critter," said Mistress Nightshade.
"Tell Harry this has stopped being funny." In three years of marriage, Doria had never learned to enjoy Harry's practical jokes. She was sixty years old, not sixteen, and had outgrown that sort of humor many decades ago.
"Hasn't that tranquilizer kicked in yet?" The nurse made a grab for Doria's phone.
Doria started to turn it off, but Mistress Nightshade spoke again. "This isn't a joke, sweetie."
Doria brushed the nurse away and pressed the phone to her cheek. "Tell Harry I can't deal with this right now. They've already given me a pill."
"He was in an upstairs bedroom with one of the slaves," Mistress Nightshade said. "That's where the fire started. My girl managed to jump from the back deck, but I don't know about Mr. Sharkov. I guess he thought he was safe in the Jacuzzi. I gotta go. Ten thousand should cover the damages. Replacement value, plus a little something so I don't feel the need to talk to the press—you know?"
Doria could hear people shouting in the background as Mistress Nightshade gave instructions for sending a check.
Fat chance.
Harry loved his scandals almost as much as the tabloids did. If he was actually cavorting with sex slaves in the Jacuzzi, he'd want the world to know he could still cavort at the age of sixty-eight.
The inventor of Viagra had a lot to answer for.
"Dr. Singh is waiting," the nurse said. "This is his last surgery of the week. If we make him late for his Friday happy hour, there will be hell to pay." She confiscated Doria's phone and clicked it off. "I'm sure Home magazine can survive a few hours without you."
"It's not about my magazine." Doria fought the drug haze. Didn't the nurse know she'd retired from the magazine last week? It had made all the networks. "No. This is somebody who wants me to think my house is on fire; my husband is about to be incinerated after frolicking with a sex slave—and I'm being blackmailed by a transvestite dominatrix."
The nurse's grim face exploded in a big laugh.
"Yup. The drugs are working, honey. Let's get you into surgery. In a couple of hours, you'll have the tummy of a teenager."
Chapter 2—Everybody Loves a Lover
––––––––
The landline phone rang from the back room just as I was locking up the bookstore for the day. Normally I'd let the answering machine pick up the call—especially after a hectic week like this. Morro Bay's tourist season was off to a great start.
But there was a tiny chance the call might be from the mysterious Mr. X.
The hot guy with the badly-fitted suit and courtly manners had been in the store three times this week, buying local guidebooks and flirting like crazy. He'd mentioned something about going to a charity wine-tasting this weekend.
I sure would have loved to spend my Sunday off with somebody besides Plantagenet and Silas, who were madly planning their July wedding.
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 free and clear. It seems to be the biggest asset I have. I've got turn it into cash 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.
Chapter 3—Property of Satan
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."
Chapter 4—Homeless
––––––––
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."
Chapter 5—Doing Time in Munchkinland
––––––––
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."
Chapter 6—Sweet Home
––––––––
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.
Chapter 7— The Wicked Witch
––––––––
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.
Chapter 8—Shredding Resumes
––––––––
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 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.
Chapter 9—Life is but a Dream
––––––––
The janitor left Doria standing in her room, staring at her luggage.
He picked up his mop and bucket and scurried out the door without acknowledging her at all—almost as if he hadn't seen her.
After a few minutes, she decided to go in search of the nurses' station. Unfortunately, her wheelchair seemed to have been spirited from the corridor where she left it.
As she made her slow way, leaning against walls for support, she began to realize she must be having one of those druggy dreams like Betsy's hallucinations about satanic tattoos. Nothing else made any sense.
When she reached the nurses' station, it was almost comical the way all three of them avoided eye contact with her.
In fact, they seemed to look right through her.
Then she got it: this was an invisibility dream. She supposed it had some surreal irony. Here she was—a woman who'd been in the public eye for forty-odd years—hallucinating that nobody could see her.
She decided to head back to her room, hoping she'd wake up in her bed. As she wobbled along, another nurse appeared—the tiny, apologetic one from the recovery room. She was carrying Doria's overnight case and tote bag and addressed her by name.
Doria found this development interesting. Apparently she wasn't invisible to everybody.
"I have your things, Ms. Windsor," the nurse said. "But I am not allowed to give these to you. You have had abdominal surgery. You cannot lift anything heavier than five pounds. Dr. Singh was most insistent."
"I can be thrown out on the street, but I can't carry my own luggage?"
Interesting she could talk in this dream. Not usual for her. But then nothing was usual right now.
The janitor who had been cleaning her room, a Hispanic man almost as tiny as the nurse, came by with his mop and bucket and looked Doria in the face. He gave her an apologetic smile. Apparently he could see her, too.
Maybe she was visible only to small people—and this was all part of the Munchkin dream she'd been having earlier.
The janitor turned to the nurse. "You're going to kick this lady out—after all she's been through?"
"Those are my orders." The nurse looked as if she might cry. "Dr. Singh wanted for her to stay. He is sure the money will be repaid, but they have told him no."
"I'm off shift in a minute," the janitor said. "I'll carry the case on my way out."
Doria leaned against the wall and watched the face of passersby as they continued to look through her. Clatters and bangs and blares of hospital noise filled the hallway as everybody busied themselves with papers and computers. Everything seemed magnified, and time crawled. Doria wondered how long the hallucination would last. Harry would probably laugh when she told him about it.
Finally the janitor reappeared with a wheelchair. He gestured at Doria to sit and muttered something to the little nurse as he shouldered her tote bag and picked up the overnight case, pushing the chair with his free hand.
As he wheeled Doria into an elevator, he leaned down and whispered, "Your nurse is going to meet us in the parking lot. She must not talk to you in front of her supervisor."
He gave a pained half-smile.
"You're so very kind," Doria said. "I wonder who you are?"
"Luis Sanchez, ma'am. My wife is crazy about Home magazine. She won't let me do anything around the house until she's checked with your Decorating Do's and Don'ts."
Doria craned her neck to look at him again. He looked so real. "I mean who you are in my dream. My therapist says the characters in dreams represent parts of one's own psyche. Often forgotten parts. You seem to be my survivor self. Small but powerful. And quite good-looking. I like that."
The other passengers in the elevator got off, and after Mr. Sanchez pushed the button for the parking lot he came around and looked Doria in the face. She found his expression a little frightening.
"Ms. Windsor," he said in a strained voice. "You're on some heavy meds right now. But you aren't having a dream. This is real. I wish to God it wasn't."
She tried to laugh. "But if this were real, that would mean my house has burned down, my husband might be dead, and I'm broke. I don't think..."
Mr. Sanchez nodded his head vigorously.
"No." Doria's body went icy. "No. That isn't true."
Mr. Sanchez's dark eyes glinted with what looked like tears. "I saw it on the news. They have found a body at the house. They say it is Mr. Sharkov."
It was no dream. It was a nightmare. And Doria wasn't going to wake up any time soon.
Chapter 10—Mr. X
––––––––
I was closing up the store for the day when Mr. X walked in. I usually hated it when customers showed up after closing time, but today I'd have gladly stayed at work all evening if it meant spending it with a good-looking, cheerful tourist instead of the morose Silas and Plant.
They had stopped in earlier to say they were going to try to get access to their house, and I knew it would be a dismal Saturday night for us all if they didn't.
"Do you have any other postcards?" Mr. X asked as he twirled the card carousel on the counter desk. "Anything of the Edna Valley wine country?"
He was wearing the silly suit again, with an awful tie. He looked as if he'd be more comfortable in a denim jacket and jeans. And his shaggy blonde hair looked as if it wanted to be longer. In fact, if it were a little longer, he'd look amazingly like Jon Bon Jovi.
His intense, pale eyes focused on me. I'd forgotten what he'd asked.
"These are all beach scenes," he said, twirling the carousel. "But you're so close to wine country. Up the Cuesta Grade in Paso Robles and over in Edna Valley..."
I laughed. It came out a little too shrill. I tried to sound casual. "I think Morro Bay has been selling those same postcards for thirty years. When most of those photos were taken, there was no Central Coast wine country. Just three wineries in the whole county. That's what my friends tell me anyway. I only moved here from New York last year."
I was babbling. I felt like an idiot.
"I know. I used to see you in the society pages."
"You know who I am? You're from the City?" My Manhattan socialite days seemed so far behind me. It was weird to remember the days when my biggest problem was escaping the paparazzi.
"If by 'the city' you mean Newark, yeah." He grinned. "We read newspapers in New Jersey, you know." He glanced behind the counter and saw my abandoned waffle sandwich. "Looks like I'm keeping you from your dinner."
"Oh, no." Another stupid giggle. "That's breakfast. I mean it was going to be breakfast. And then I forgot and ate a PowerBar. And then I was going to give it to the homeless guy who hangs out on the bench outside. But he didn't show up..."
What was it about those hazel eyes of his that made me feel like a subdeb at my first formal dance?
"Tom?" he said. "You haven't seen the old guy all day?"
This made me like Mr. X even more. Most tourists didn't even see homeless people, much less know them by name.
I shook my head. "The police probably made him move. They've been clearing out the homeless camps all over town."
Mr. X took in a breath as if he was about to say something, but his phone rang. He grabbed it from his pocket.
"No, I'm not doing anything," he said to the phone. "Sure. I'll be there right away."
He gave me another grin, but his eyes were focused on the door.
"Gotta go," was all he said.
