Read Online No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) by Anne R. Allen - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne R. Allen
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cabinets and a lovely fold-down ironing board.
Those people from L.A. hadn't even looked at the built-in ironing board.
And they weren't going to buy the book inventory? Morro Bay did not need yet another jewelry store. But they were probably right about book stores. E-books were killing them. I refused to buy one of those Kindle things, but everybody else seemed to have them.
I had let my publishers put my backlist of manners guidebooks into e-books for the international market, but I cringed every time they tried to tell me about the wonderful opportunities e-books gave me
Nothing that caused the death of bookstores could be wonderful.
My anger slowly dissolved as I stood soaking in the shower.
Poor Plant—caught in the middle. It wasn't his fault Silas had lost all his money. A few weeks ago, Plant had been about to marry the multi-millionaire of his dreams and finally be rid of the money problems that had plagued his whole life.
Now Plant and I were just two broke friends.
Orphans in the storm.
I needed to channel my anger elsewhere.
Chapter 23—Between Beverly Hills and Nowhere
Doria zoomed north on the 405, looking for somewhere she could pop into wearing granny-sweats, no make-up, and flip flops.
Obviously not in posh Bel Air.
And not the Getty or the Mountain Gate Country Club.
Whatever was going to happen to Home magazine in the wake of all this mess, it wouldn't be helped by a paparazzo shot of her looking like somebody's grandmother on her way to Wal-Mart. Even though she'd retired as editor, she was still the face of the magazine.
As she conducted a stern conversation with her bladder, she realized it would have been wiser to turn south, not north.
She was headed for the Van Nuys airport.
On second thought, an airport might be good. Lots of bathrooms. And nobody dressed to travel these days. She wouldn't be noticed.
But no. Harry had a movie producer friend who kept his Cessna there. It would be awful to be recognized looking like this.
She saw the exit for the 101 and headed toward Tarzana. That sounded like the sort of place a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit might escape notice.
The sight of the golden arches ahead filled her with relief. Amazing to be so happy to see a McDonalds.
She made a bee-line for the ladies'.
In the privacy of her stall, she delved into Betsy's bag and found some treasures—a wallet with over a hundred dollars in cash, several credit cards, plus make-up.
The make-up was too pasty for Doria's dark complexion, but even the wrong lipstick and eye shadow could make her look less like a re-animated corpse.
She felt almost human by the time she went to order coffee and a McMuffin.
The place was crowded, but she found an unbussed table away from the windows. There was even a crumpled copy of USA Today to hide behind. After a sip of coffee, she willed herself to relax.
This would all be fine. No need for panic. The magazine had lawyers. And separate financial accounts. It wasn't terribly flush, but there ought to be a way to get hold of that money and start a real investigation into what caused Harry's death. Find out about his mysterious trips to Colombia. That boat-building company he was obsessed with. All sorts of shady people could have wanted to harm him. She could probably fix things with a few phone calls. If only the hospital nincompoops hadn't lost her phone.
Once things calmed down back at Betsy's, she'd call the office. And her realtor. Who knows, maybe the sale of her apartment hadn't gone through. And even if it had, there were others.
Doria still had her own life, separate from Harry. She'd miss the bastard, but it wasn't the end of the world.
Back home in New York, she could start over. She didn't believe much of the stuff the nuns taught her at St. Rita's parish school as a kid, but she still believed in guardian angels. She touched her necklace, glad she'd kept it on last night. Somehow, her angel would help her get things back on
Those people from L.A. hadn't even looked at the built-in ironing board.
And they weren't going to buy the book inventory? Morro Bay did not need yet another jewelry store. But they were probably right about book stores. E-books were killing them. I refused to buy one of those Kindle things, but everybody else seemed to have them.
I had let my publishers put my backlist of manners guidebooks into e-books for the international market, but I cringed every time they tried to tell me about the wonderful opportunities e-books gave me
Nothing that caused the death of bookstores could be wonderful.
My anger slowly dissolved as I stood soaking in the shower.
Poor Plant—caught in the middle. It wasn't his fault Silas had lost all his money. A few weeks ago, Plant had been about to marry the multi-millionaire of his dreams and finally be rid of the money problems that had plagued his whole life.
Now Plant and I were just two broke friends.
Orphans in the storm.
I needed to channel my anger elsewhere.
Chapter 23—Between Beverly Hills and Nowhere
Doria zoomed north on the 405, looking for somewhere she could pop into wearing granny-sweats, no make-up, and flip flops.
Obviously not in posh Bel Air.
And not the Getty or the Mountain Gate Country Club.
Whatever was going to happen to Home magazine in the wake of all this mess, it wouldn't be helped by a paparazzo shot of her looking like somebody's grandmother on her way to Wal-Mart. Even though she'd retired as editor, she was still the face of the magazine.
As she conducted a stern conversation with her bladder, she realized it would have been wiser to turn south, not north.
She was headed for the Van Nuys airport.
On second thought, an airport might be good. Lots of bathrooms. And nobody dressed to travel these days. She wouldn't be noticed.
But no. Harry had a movie producer friend who kept his Cessna there. It would be awful to be recognized looking like this.
She saw the exit for the 101 and headed toward Tarzana. That sounded like the sort of place a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit might escape notice.
The sight of the golden arches ahead filled her with relief. Amazing to be so happy to see a McDonalds.
She made a bee-line for the ladies'.
In the privacy of her stall, she delved into Betsy's bag and found some treasures—a wallet with over a hundred dollars in cash, several credit cards, plus make-up.
The make-up was too pasty for Doria's dark complexion, but even the wrong lipstick and eye shadow could make her look less like a re-animated corpse.
She felt almost human by the time she went to order coffee and a McMuffin.
The place was crowded, but she found an unbussed table away from the windows. There was even a crumpled copy of USA Today to hide behind. After a sip of coffee, she willed herself to relax.
This would all be fine. No need for panic. The magazine had lawyers. And separate financial accounts. It wasn't terribly flush, but there ought to be a way to get hold of that money and start a real investigation into what caused Harry's death. Find out about his mysterious trips to Colombia. That boat-building company he was obsessed with. All sorts of shady people could have wanted to harm him. She could probably fix things with a few phone calls. If only the hospital nincompoops hadn't lost her phone.
Once things calmed down back at Betsy's, she'd call the office. And her realtor. Who knows, maybe the sale of her apartment hadn't gone through. And even if it had, there were others.
Doria still had her own life, separate from Harry. She'd miss the bastard, but it wasn't the end of the world.
Back home in New York, she could start over. She didn't believe much of the stuff the nuns taught her at St. Rita's parish school as a kid, but she still believed in guardian angels. She touched her necklace, glad she'd kept it on last night. Somehow, her angel would help her get things back on
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