Read Online So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 by Anne R. Allen - Free Book Online Page B
Book: So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 by Anne R. Allen
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Authors: Anne R. Allen
Tags: camilla, rom-com mystery
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hug-inducing times.
But the message was anything but huggy.
"The rape train is coming. Your raped and mutilated corpse will be in tomorrow's Bay News . We will choke you with Hinckley Lutterworth's severed penis. Libra will rise."
There were two attachments, photos. When I enlarged the first I saw a 1930s California bungalow-style stucco cottage. Mine. The second was a picture of my store.
I started to shake. Partly with fear and partly with rage. These rapist, misogynist monsters had been here. In my very own courtyard, taking photos of my house. They could be out there right now. And worst of all, they were impersonating my best friend. Obviously they wanted me to feel entirely alone.
Which I pretty much did.
My first instinct was to call the police. But then I realized they would probably just laugh at me. People made stupid threats on the Internet all the time these days. You could see them in the comments of every online news article. In fact, I remembered reading that the Supreme Court had recently ruled that making online threats was perfectly legal if the threatener didn't mean to carry them out.
How was I supposed to know if this faux Plantagenet really intended to rape and murder me?
And who on earth was Hinckley Lutterworth? Was that some alias Ronzo had been using when he was on that awful GoreFest website?
Why didn't these people have lives?
I took a breath, trying to pull as much air into my lungs as possible. This was probably just a prank. Like the stupid Amazon reviews.
The screen door banged.
And banged again.
If this was a prank, it was entirely too close to home. It was time to call the police, no matter what the Supreme Court said.
Part III—The Kingdom of Perpetual Night
Chapter 20—Plantagenet
––––––––
P lantagenet woke feeling as if he'd been on the losing side of a bar fight. He had bruises on his arm and his knee ached where he'd fallen on it.
He must have been in shock last night.
It might have been wiser to let those National Health people look at him in that portable clinic, but after he'd talked endlessly to the dimwitted reporters and given his identification to the police, all he'd wanted was to get back to the hotel to sleep. And get warm. He'd been nearly soaked through by the time he got back to the hotel.
They never let him go back into the theater for his raincoat.
He'd had odd dreams—in which Neville featured strongly. Neville kept telling him to go to Swynsby. At one point, he appeared dressed up in the Richard III costume Kevin Spacey had been wearing.
"I'll see you in Swynsby," Neville-as-Richard said in an ominous tone.
Whatever Neville was—clairvoyant, hallucination or terrorist—Plant decided he should probably heed the advice and go to Swynsby. Not because he believed in dream messages—and he certainly had no desire to reconnect with Neville—but he needed to go for Camilla's sake.
He was here in England, less than two hundred miles from Swynsby-on-Trent, and he could do a good deed by tracking down Camilla's royalties. He needed for this benighted journey to have some useful purpose.
He should take the train up to Lincolnshire today.
Not that he relished the thought of more travel. He felt groggy from his accumulated lack of sleep, and longed for a twenty-four hour nap.
But he dutifully dressed—just a casual blazer and khakis, hopefully suitable for the country—and fortified himself with a hearty "full English breakfast."
He packed a few things into his carry-on bag in case he had to stay overnight. He brought his Armani jacket and dress slacks in case he had a business meeting with the Sherwood people. He packed his valuables, too. He was fairly sure his locked room was safe, but one could never be sure.
The ever-helpful desk clerk, Alfred, looked up the train schedule for Northeastern England and found a train leaving in an hour that stopped in Swynsby. He even phoned for a cab to pick Plant up in 10 minutes.
Plant
But the message was anything but huggy.
"The rape train is coming. Your raped and mutilated corpse will be in tomorrow's Bay News . We will choke you with Hinckley Lutterworth's severed penis. Libra will rise."
There were two attachments, photos. When I enlarged the first I saw a 1930s California bungalow-style stucco cottage. Mine. The second was a picture of my store.
I started to shake. Partly with fear and partly with rage. These rapist, misogynist monsters had been here. In my very own courtyard, taking photos of my house. They could be out there right now. And worst of all, they were impersonating my best friend. Obviously they wanted me to feel entirely alone.
Which I pretty much did.
My first instinct was to call the police. But then I realized they would probably just laugh at me. People made stupid threats on the Internet all the time these days. You could see them in the comments of every online news article. In fact, I remembered reading that the Supreme Court had recently ruled that making online threats was perfectly legal if the threatener didn't mean to carry them out.
How was I supposed to know if this faux Plantagenet really intended to rape and murder me?
And who on earth was Hinckley Lutterworth? Was that some alias Ronzo had been using when he was on that awful GoreFest website?
Why didn't these people have lives?
I took a breath, trying to pull as much air into my lungs as possible. This was probably just a prank. Like the stupid Amazon reviews.
The screen door banged.
And banged again.
If this was a prank, it was entirely too close to home. It was time to call the police, no matter what the Supreme Court said.
Part III—The Kingdom of Perpetual Night
Chapter 20—Plantagenet
––––––––
P lantagenet woke feeling as if he'd been on the losing side of a bar fight. He had bruises on his arm and his knee ached where he'd fallen on it.
He must have been in shock last night.
It might have been wiser to let those National Health people look at him in that portable clinic, but after he'd talked endlessly to the dimwitted reporters and given his identification to the police, all he'd wanted was to get back to the hotel to sleep. And get warm. He'd been nearly soaked through by the time he got back to the hotel.
They never let him go back into the theater for his raincoat.
He'd had odd dreams—in which Neville featured strongly. Neville kept telling him to go to Swynsby. At one point, he appeared dressed up in the Richard III costume Kevin Spacey had been wearing.
"I'll see you in Swynsby," Neville-as-Richard said in an ominous tone.
Whatever Neville was—clairvoyant, hallucination or terrorist—Plant decided he should probably heed the advice and go to Swynsby. Not because he believed in dream messages—and he certainly had no desire to reconnect with Neville—but he needed to go for Camilla's sake.
He was here in England, less than two hundred miles from Swynsby-on-Trent, and he could do a good deed by tracking down Camilla's royalties. He needed for this benighted journey to have some useful purpose.
He should take the train up to Lincolnshire today.
Not that he relished the thought of more travel. He felt groggy from his accumulated lack of sleep, and longed for a twenty-four hour nap.
But he dutifully dressed—just a casual blazer and khakis, hopefully suitable for the country—and fortified himself with a hearty "full English breakfast."
He packed a few things into his carry-on bag in case he had to stay overnight. He brought his Armani jacket and dress slacks in case he had a business meeting with the Sherwood people. He packed his valuables, too. He was fairly sure his locked room was safe, but one could never be sure.
The ever-helpful desk clerk, Alfred, looked up the train schedule for Northeastern England and found a train leaving in an hour that stopped in Swynsby. He even phoned for a cab to pick Plant up in 10 minutes.
Plant
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