Read Online So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 by Anne R. Allen - Free Book Online
Book: So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 by Anne R. Allen
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Anne R. Allen
Tags: camilla, rom-com mystery
Ads: Link
aging wrecks behind their facades. "
"So nobody was killed? The damage...doesn't look like a bomb?" Plant brushed the plaster off his own shoulders. It would be nice to know he hadn't been flirting with a bomber.
"If it was a bomb, it wasn't a big one. The damage is nowhere near as bad as it could have been. I'm seeing cuts and limps, but so far no fatalities. No need for panic. Of course you can't convince this lot of that..."
The tuxedo man gestured at the television crews who were gathering behind a line of police tape.
Plant found himself nudged into another queue. This one seemed to lead to a policeman who was asking people for their identification. It was beginning to rain again.
And his raincoat was probably under a pile of rubble.
Where he would be too, if it hadn't been for Neville.
Who was either clairvoyant or a terrorist.
Or maybe a hallucination.
He thought it over. He did not want to believe he'd been conversing with some paranormal entity. That would mean Glen Jones had won.
And he didn't want to believe he'd been attracted to a terrorist, either.
So he decided to go with hallucination. Sleep deprivation, jet-lag, and vodka had made his brain pretty mushy. It might very well have invented an attractive little gay pixie to keep him company. Why not?
In fact, it occurred to him that perhaps none of this was happening at all. Yes. That was the most logical explanation: he was still napping on the plane and this was a dream.
And if he wasn't having a nap, he desperately needed one. He hadn't had any real sleep in over 24 hours. But in order to get to his hotel bed he'd have to brave the army of reporters.
As soon as he ducked under the yellow tape, one of them accosted him.
"Is this the work of terrorists?" a bland-faced young man asked.
As if Plant would know. But if it wasn't a bomb, he didn't want to fuel any rumors.
"The people I've talked to seem to think it was an accident," Plant said.
"But what do you think, sir?" said a woman wearing camera-ready make-up.
Why did these people always interview the victims? They were the ones who had been ignorant enough to get caught in the disaster.
Plant shrugged and shaded his eyes from the lights.
"Who knows? Maybe it was the ghost of Richard III," he said with a sardonic grin. "Shaking up the Old Vic to protest what Shakespeare and his Tudor patrons did to the reputation of the last Plantagenet king. Maybe King Richard meant to let people know he didn't like being reinterred in the Midlands after languishing all those years under that Leicester parking lot."
Plant realized immediately he'd made a mistake. Not only was his joke rather unfunny, but he had given the reporters a sound bite. Now the whole lot swarmed around him.
He wasn't going to see his bed anytime soon.
Chapter 19—Camilla
––––––––
I had to accept the fact I now had a cat. I hoped Buckingham would be happy living outdoors. I could not deal with cat hair and claws messing up the antique furniture that was all I'd inherited from my once-wealthy family.
I also couldn't deal with the smell of a litter box. My cottage was tiny. Six hundred square feet. I had no place to put a cat box.
On Saturday evening, Buckingham trotted behind me as I locked up the store and walked the gravel path that led to my cottage.
It was obvious the animal expected to be invited in, but I explained to him that he could be in the store or outside, but he wasn't to come in the cottage.
He looked up at me and let out a polite meow.
"I suppose you think it's my job to feed you," I said.
He sat on the front step and began to lick a paw. Washing up for dinner, no doubt.
I went inside and found a can of tuna in a kitchen cupboard, spooned some into a Pyrex dish and placed it on the front step by the door.
Buckingham took one bite and sat back looking up at me as if he were waiting for the wine list.
Water. He probably wanted water. I filled another dish from the tap and put it down next
"So nobody was killed? The damage...doesn't look like a bomb?" Plant brushed the plaster off his own shoulders. It would be nice to know he hadn't been flirting with a bomber.
"If it was a bomb, it wasn't a big one. The damage is nowhere near as bad as it could have been. I'm seeing cuts and limps, but so far no fatalities. No need for panic. Of course you can't convince this lot of that..."
The tuxedo man gestured at the television crews who were gathering behind a line of police tape.
Plant found himself nudged into another queue. This one seemed to lead to a policeman who was asking people for their identification. It was beginning to rain again.
And his raincoat was probably under a pile of rubble.
Where he would be too, if it hadn't been for Neville.
Who was either clairvoyant or a terrorist.
Or maybe a hallucination.
He thought it over. He did not want to believe he'd been conversing with some paranormal entity. That would mean Glen Jones had won.
And he didn't want to believe he'd been attracted to a terrorist, either.
So he decided to go with hallucination. Sleep deprivation, jet-lag, and vodka had made his brain pretty mushy. It might very well have invented an attractive little gay pixie to keep him company. Why not?
In fact, it occurred to him that perhaps none of this was happening at all. Yes. That was the most logical explanation: he was still napping on the plane and this was a dream.
And if he wasn't having a nap, he desperately needed one. He hadn't had any real sleep in over 24 hours. But in order to get to his hotel bed he'd have to brave the army of reporters.
As soon as he ducked under the yellow tape, one of them accosted him.
"Is this the work of terrorists?" a bland-faced young man asked.
As if Plant would know. But if it wasn't a bomb, he didn't want to fuel any rumors.
"The people I've talked to seem to think it was an accident," Plant said.
"But what do you think, sir?" said a woman wearing camera-ready make-up.
Why did these people always interview the victims? They were the ones who had been ignorant enough to get caught in the disaster.
Plant shrugged and shaded his eyes from the lights.
"Who knows? Maybe it was the ghost of Richard III," he said with a sardonic grin. "Shaking up the Old Vic to protest what Shakespeare and his Tudor patrons did to the reputation of the last Plantagenet king. Maybe King Richard meant to let people know he didn't like being reinterred in the Midlands after languishing all those years under that Leicester parking lot."
Plant realized immediately he'd made a mistake. Not only was his joke rather unfunny, but he had given the reporters a sound bite. Now the whole lot swarmed around him.
He wasn't going to see his bed anytime soon.
Chapter 19—Camilla
––––––––
I had to accept the fact I now had a cat. I hoped Buckingham would be happy living outdoors. I could not deal with cat hair and claws messing up the antique furniture that was all I'd inherited from my once-wealthy family.
I also couldn't deal with the smell of a litter box. My cottage was tiny. Six hundred square feet. I had no place to put a cat box.
On Saturday evening, Buckingham trotted behind me as I locked up the store and walked the gravel path that led to my cottage.
It was obvious the animal expected to be invited in, but I explained to him that he could be in the store or outside, but he wasn't to come in the cottage.
He looked up at me and let out a polite meow.
"I suppose you think it's my job to feed you," I said.
He sat on the front step and began to lick a paw. Washing up for dinner, no doubt.
I went inside and found a can of tuna in a kitchen cupboard, spooned some into a Pyrex dish and placed it on the front step by the door.
Buckingham took one bite and sat back looking up at me as if he were waiting for the wine list.
Water. He probably wanted water. I filled another dish from the tap and put it down next
Similar Books
