Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (26 page)

The Taurus was easy enough to drive, once I got used to everything being backward. Rosalee babbled happily, her sexual ordeal with Alan apparently forgotten. She insisted on buying us lunch at a pub along the way.

We had a pleasant meal of Sunday roast and Yorkshire pudding—although Rosalee was seriously disappointed that the “pudding” wasn’t of the Jell-O variety.

But when we stepped outside, the sun had vanished and ominous clouds had begun to gather. A man in the parking lot said we should hurry home, because we were in for “a spot of weather.” And indeed, as we made our way to Puddlethorpe, the sky darkened and, with a roar of thunder, expelled a torrent of rain—more rain than I had ever seen come out of the sky all at once. I had to creep along the last few miles of country roads as the frantic windshield wipers, on highest speed, barely managed to provide visibility.

When we turned onto the lane that led to Fairy Thimble Cottage, the Taurus plunged into a sea of mud. I tried to keep going, but about a hundred feet from the driveway, it sank into muck and the wheels spun around in vain.

“We’re going to have to leave it here,” I told Rosalee, who had been talking for most of the trip about her health problems, which seemed to be as large and dramatic as Rosalee herself.

“We what?” said Rosalee. “Did you hear what I just said? I have fibromyalgia. It’s been acting up. I can hardly move. It’s pouring out there.”

“Yes. And it’s not showing any signs of letting up.” I looked out at the rain, still coming down in near-Biblical torrents. “Do you want to spend the night in a car stuck in the mud, or inside a cozy little cottage?”

Rosalee gave a petulant sigh.

“It’s June. How can there be all this rain in June?”

My patience with Rosalee’s California myopia and childish behavior was nearly used up, but I managed to fake a smile.

“I’ll race you!”

Rosalee beat me to the door, although she lost one of her Sketchers in a patch of bogginess by the front gate. By the time we got inside, into the dry kitchen, we were so soaked and filthy that we both burst into giggles. I stood in the middle of the elfin kitchen, dripping mud on the wooden floor and laughing until my stomach hurt.

Rosalee was the first one to pull herself together.

“Oh my god, I need a bath,” she said. She looked at my muddy feet. “So do you.”

“And we will require tea,” I said, filling the kettle. “When in England, do as the English do.” As Rosalee made her one-shoed way to the bathroom, I puttered around the little kitchen, pleased to see that she kept a full larder, with coffee, tea, canned milk and soup, and even some chocolate digestive biscuits—although the latter didn’t hold the charm for me they did initially.

The rain continued to pound the roof all day as we took turns bathing and tea drinking. The tub was huge and claw-footed, and the hot water plentiful. There was even a hand-held shower device for hair washing. Rosalee was kind enough to lend me one of her jogging suits—a track suit and tee, about six sizes too big, all made of a lumpy mauve fleece. But, I realized with a bit of pride, I didn’t give a damn what I looked like. I had lived for years in fear that some paparazzo was going to sneak up and take a humiliating photograph, but no more. There was freedom in being nobody.

Rosalee heated two frozen dinners of spaghetti and peas. She even brought out a bottle of wine—something she’d bought for a romantic evening with Colin that had never happened, she said.

By the time night fell, we were happily light-headed and I was more than content to go to up to the cozy upstairs bedroom. My night things were still neatly hung on the back of the door, and
Murder at
the Vicarage
lay waiting on the night table. The pounding rain on the thatched roof sounded rather romantic now. One by one, I tried to put my worries on a mental shelf. Tomorrow I could think about—

1. Digging out the car
   

2. Getting access to my Wendy house
   

3. Sorting out the contract business with Peter and Henry
   

4. Getting my hands on some cash
   

5. Figuring out whether Peter Sherwood was an evil criminal mastermind or the man of my dreams.
   

But at the moment, I only wanted to drift off to sleep—thinking of nothing more sinister than Miss Jane Marple and the homicidal villagers of St. Mary Mead.

When I woke the next morning, I was a bit concerned to see the storm hadn’t let up. While Rosalee slept in, I dressed in the fuzzy jog suit—grateful for its warmth—then made myself some tea and stared out at the sheets of rain coating the windows. Getting back to Swynsby would be problematic. But until my sleeping situation was straightened out, maybe that was just as well.

Peter was bound to be overwhelmed with the job of getting his business back on track. Maybe it would be good for me to have day or two to sort out my feelings before I saw him again. Nothing wrong with a few days of relaxation. I sipped the rich, dark Assam tea and decided to enjoy my lifestyle upgrade.

I looked around for a radio or a television, but found none—perfectly all right. Less news would be good for my stress level. I was a little more concerned when I realized there was no telephone, either. But Rosalee had a cell phone. And we weren’t completely electronics-deprived. Rosalee’s laptop computer sat on an old writing desk in the sitting room. No Internet hook-up, of course, but I could work on editing Rosalee’s book and maybe even do some writing of my own. I could consider this a writer’s retreat.

I told myself things would be fine. I’d even written to Plant this morning, so he wouldn’t feel neglected by my silence. I was here in a fairy tale cottage full of books to read and plenty to eat. Except for the fact I was dressed like a giant plush Easter toy, I had no grounds for complaint. There was even an ironing board to press the wrinkles out of my Armani suit if it ever dried.

I was making a pot of oatmeal when I heard Rosalee stirring in her room. A few moments later, she bounced into the kitchen and squeezed me in a hug.

“A housemate who cooks! Who could ask for more? My friends back home would be so impressed to know I’m living with the Manners Doctor!” She poured herself a cup of tea. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’d be freaking out, stuck here all by myself.” She dug into the oatmeal I set in front of her. “But we can just be cozy for a few days, and you can work on my book. I’m sure Alan will work something out with Mr. Sherwood and
Fangs
will come out on schedule.”

I didn’t bother to say that if Peter went ahead with publishing Rosalee’s book, it would be in spite of the efforts of Alan Greene.

The editing work wasn’t easy, but amazingly, Rosalee was. She gave me a list of things the Professor wanted changed.

“Do whatever. I get a headache from all that grammar stuff. All I want is for it to be published.”

Not a hint of drama. Things were looking up.

The Professor had asked for some pretty sweeping changes. He’d asked that the language be “either modernized or clarified”—a polite way of saying that every embarrassing “Thee must go,” and “I runneth fast” needed to be translated into actual English of one period or another. His notes also requested that the character of Marian be made “more sympathetic,” and Robin “less of a poofta.”

I saw what he meant. Robin Hood had far more interest in Little John’s body than he did in Marian’s, and Marian, although a whiz with helpful herbal remedies, was a whiny, demanding witch—an apparently clueless self-parody of Rosalee herself.

It was slow going, and by mid afternoon, when the rain finally let up a bit, I had only got through the first two chapters. Not that the book was entirely awful. There were some interesting characterizations, and a good feel for the clothes and customs of an earlier age. But by the time I finished the first fifty pages, it was nearly nine PM and my head hurt.

It hurt quite a lot. So did my throat.

When I woke the next morning, to yet more rain, I had to admit I had a cold. Rosalee ministered to me with herbal teas and lavender-scented compresses, but by noon, I had to collapse into bed again.

It wasn’t until Tuesday evening that Rosalee’s compulsion for drama re-emerged. When I descended the stairs for a promised dinner of chicken soup, I found Rosalee storming around the kitchen, banging down flatware and punishing the Wedgwood bowls. She announced that Peter Sherwood was the world’s most hateful man, and she was sure he’d postponed the launch of her book—or even canceled it.

But my own mood brightened at Peter’s name, even when it was spoken in anger.

“Peter? You’ve spoken to him? He got back from Hull all right?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Rosalee poured herself the last of the wine. “Nobody will even answer the phone over there. And the voice mail doesn’t seem to work. Alan won’t answer his cell, either. It’s like they’ve shut the whole place down, just to keep my book from being published.”

“Nobody answers at any of the phone numbers? Not even Vera?” This was odd, for a work day. “You tried during business hours?”

Rosalee nodded. “Alan said he was going to be in Oxford, but the rest of them should be there. It’s like, their job.”

I felt a chill, in spite of my fuzzy bunny suit. It sounded as if something might be very wrong at Sherwood Ltd.

Rosalee banged a soup bowl down in front of me and brought the soup pot to the table.

“I know they’re doing something sneaky back there in Swynsby. I just know it. Alan warned me things would hit the fan with Mr. Sherwood back in town.”

She sat down heavily. “Why is this guy such an asshole that he won’t publish something after they’ve paid me an advance? He’s not going to ask for the money back, is he?”

As I ladled myself some soup, I tried to assure her that Peter was not, in fact, an asshole, and the person who most resembled a smelly body part was probably Alan Greene.

“Oh, no. Don’t defend him. Peter Sherwood is a criminal! Sherwood’s not even his real name. He’s a gangster who even double-crossed his own partner. His partner went to jail and swore he’d kill Peter when he got out. That’s why Henry thought Peter was dead—not on vacation. But unfortunately, the asshole is alive—and he’s going to ruin everything.”

Rosalee’s speech provided me with an interesting insight into the mind of Alan Greene. Alan must have heard some talk about Peter’s past and used it to befuddle Rosalee into sleeping with him. I realized I had a tough task ahead, detoxing the poor woman’s mind from Alan’s poisonous lies.

I’ve observed that people tend to personalize the first information they hear, and furiously reject any data that threatens to supplant it, no matter how reasonable. But I felt the need to make an attempt.

“Actually, Peter is a lovely man. I like him very much. You might like him, too.”

I felt a moment of longing for Peter’s loveliness, and wondered, with a pang, if he knew where I was—or how to contact me. Alan might easily be withholding the information, out of sheer meanness, the way he had with the news about Plantagenet’s recovery.

“Why don’t we call Vera in the morning?” Maybe she hadn’t been in this afternoon, and nobody else had bothered to answer the phone. “She’ll know how to reach Henry, and she’ll probably know if Alan’s still in Oxford. Plus, maybe she can connect me with Peter and I can find out what’s going on with both our books.”

I longed to talk to him. Not only because I was beginning to feel like a jilted lover again, but I wanted to resolve the question of my contract.

“You
want
to talk to him?” Rosalee looked at me as if I were a dimwitted child. “Why? He’s low-life scum. And that Vera is his pet—Alan said I shouldn’t trust her one bit. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, baby girl.”

The next morning, I woke still sniffly, but feeling a bit better. Rosalee’s potions seemed to be working—helped by the bright sunshine streaming through my dormer window.

Downstairs, I found Rosalee already dressed, coming in from assessing the damage to her cottage garden. She wasn’t in a good mood.

“The garden’s a mess, and I’ve been calling the Sherwood office all morning, and still nobody answers. It’s so unprofessional.”

I agreed, but tried to push away my anxiety. After all, Peter and the men might have stayed in Hull because of the storm. And sometimes Vera went out on the factory floor to help with shipping. Henry’s absence was worrying—unless it was his Wednesday off. Between my cold and the weather, I’d lost track of time.

“What day is it?”

Once we had determined it was indeed Wednesday, I explained about Henry’s Wednesday’s off and urged Rosalee to relax and enjoy a day in the garden. I reminded her how pleased everybody would be when we announced the edits were done. I promised to make more progress today.

My head-cold fog made Rosalee’s book seem more surreal, but I plodded through, cutting a lot of unnecessary description—especially of the men’s muscular bodies. An odd thing for Rosalee to write about so copiously, since her current paramours didn’t look as if they’d ever seen the inside of a gym.