Read Online No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) by Anne R. Allen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne R. Allen
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thought Plant was my boyfriend. At least that way I didn't look like some lonely, desperate divorcée who fell in bed with anybody who bought her a glass of chardonnay.
I felt doubly embarrassed when I thought of the domestic fantasies I'd been having about Ronzo earlier.
He was a one-night stand. At least he'd used a condom. I could pretend it never happened.
I tried to keep my tone breezy. "He's some tourist from New Jersey. He's been hanging around the store all week. I'm afraid I didn't find out what he does for a living. Is that terrible?"
The admission made me feel embarrassed all over again. Even worse—I'd never even found out his real name. I'd tried to get a glimpse of his driver's license when he had his wallet open, but I couldn't see much without looking like a total snoop. Maybe Ronzo was short for Ronzoni? He could be a blond Italian. Like Jon Bon Jovi. He had mentioned he was a fan.
"So what did you two talk about?"
"A little about rock music. I guess he used to play in a band, and he'd into guitar gods like Stevie Ray Vaughn and J. J. Tower. But mostly we talked wine. And Edna Valley. He's very interested in your neighborhood."
I didn't tell him what really happened. The truth was, Ronzo had done very little talking. Somehow too much wine and too much stress made me break every rule of good manners and talk about myself. For hours. I told him about my mother's awful sixth husband, Count Whatsis, who took every penny the family had left.
And about my ex-husband, Jonathan, once the darling of Fox News, now apparently on a permanent international bender.
And the nice policemen I fell in love with two years ago.
And my wild trip to England to try to revive my career, which had resulted in a bout of homelessness and…
All of it made me so embarrassed. Why had I told some stranger all that?
Plant's expression got serious again. "Well if he's interested in moving to Edna, he'd better be a rock star himself. We should never have bought that mansion out there. If we could unload that pile and buy something sensible, everything would be fine…" He stopped himself. "I don't want to talk about our damned financial disasters. Let's talk about your hunky friend. Seriously, you didn't ask him what he does for work?"
"I did, but he was cagey with his answers. I got a feeling he could be in law enforcement. Why did you think he's an actor?"
"Because he looks awfully familiar." Plant offered me a refill on my coffee. "I'm almost positive I've seen his picture somewhere, but I can't quite place him."
Maybe that's why Ronzo felt like "home". Maybe I had seen him on TV or something. I hadn't asked him if his band was famous. Maybe he actually was a rock star. But it didn't matter.
The one thing I knew for certain was that I'd never see him again.
Chapter 25—The Wolf at the Door
Doria sat in the Tarzana McDonald's, reading Betsy's Hollywood mystery novel, Murder on the Yellow Brick Road. She was trying to let her mind go blank—except the part that was schmoozing with movie stars in a fictional 1930s Hollywood. Sometimes when she needed to come up with a new idea at the magazine, she'd do that—turn off her brain and immerse herself in some totally unrelated reading until the idea burst forth.
But ideas weren't bursting. Anger was. Lots of it. It seemed she'd been married to somebody who'd been doing a very competent impersonation of Beelzebub.
And now he was dead, and she didn't even get to yell at him.
She hoped the real Satan was punishing him. All that Hell stuff the nuns taught her back at St. Rita's—for once, she hoped it was true. Right down to the flaming pitchforks.
But anger wasn't going to get her out of the Tarzana McDonald's, and the staff were starting to look at her funny. The lunch rush was on, and people were waiting for tables.
Okay. She had a car. It was Betsy's car, but Betsy would have to understand. What Doria needed to do was get some truth into the newspapers
I felt doubly embarrassed when I thought of the domestic fantasies I'd been having about Ronzo earlier.
He was a one-night stand. At least he'd used a condom. I could pretend it never happened.
I tried to keep my tone breezy. "He's some tourist from New Jersey. He's been hanging around the store all week. I'm afraid I didn't find out what he does for a living. Is that terrible?"
The admission made me feel embarrassed all over again. Even worse—I'd never even found out his real name. I'd tried to get a glimpse of his driver's license when he had his wallet open, but I couldn't see much without looking like a total snoop. Maybe Ronzo was short for Ronzoni? He could be a blond Italian. Like Jon Bon Jovi. He had mentioned he was a fan.
"So what did you two talk about?"
"A little about rock music. I guess he used to play in a band, and he'd into guitar gods like Stevie Ray Vaughn and J. J. Tower. But mostly we talked wine. And Edna Valley. He's very interested in your neighborhood."
I didn't tell him what really happened. The truth was, Ronzo had done very little talking. Somehow too much wine and too much stress made me break every rule of good manners and talk about myself. For hours. I told him about my mother's awful sixth husband, Count Whatsis, who took every penny the family had left.
And about my ex-husband, Jonathan, once the darling of Fox News, now apparently on a permanent international bender.
And the nice policemen I fell in love with two years ago.
And my wild trip to England to try to revive my career, which had resulted in a bout of homelessness and…
All of it made me so embarrassed. Why had I told some stranger all that?
Plant's expression got serious again. "Well if he's interested in moving to Edna, he'd better be a rock star himself. We should never have bought that mansion out there. If we could unload that pile and buy something sensible, everything would be fine…" He stopped himself. "I don't want to talk about our damned financial disasters. Let's talk about your hunky friend. Seriously, you didn't ask him what he does for work?"
"I did, but he was cagey with his answers. I got a feeling he could be in law enforcement. Why did you think he's an actor?"
"Because he looks awfully familiar." Plant offered me a refill on my coffee. "I'm almost positive I've seen his picture somewhere, but I can't quite place him."
Maybe that's why Ronzo felt like "home". Maybe I had seen him on TV or something. I hadn't asked him if his band was famous. Maybe he actually was a rock star. But it didn't matter.
The one thing I knew for certain was that I'd never see him again.
Chapter 25—The Wolf at the Door
Doria sat in the Tarzana McDonald's, reading Betsy's Hollywood mystery novel, Murder on the Yellow Brick Road. She was trying to let her mind go blank—except the part that was schmoozing with movie stars in a fictional 1930s Hollywood. Sometimes when she needed to come up with a new idea at the magazine, she'd do that—turn off her brain and immerse herself in some totally unrelated reading until the idea burst forth.
But ideas weren't bursting. Anger was. Lots of it. It seemed she'd been married to somebody who'd been doing a very competent impersonation of Beelzebub.
And now he was dead, and she didn't even get to yell at him.
She hoped the real Satan was punishing him. All that Hell stuff the nuns taught her back at St. Rita's—for once, she hoped it was true. Right down to the flaming pitchforks.
But anger wasn't going to get her out of the Tarzana McDonald's, and the staff were starting to look at her funny. The lunch rush was on, and people were waiting for tables.
Okay. She had a car. It was Betsy's car, but Betsy would have to understand. What Doria needed to do was get some truth into the newspapers
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