Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (32 page)

Rosalee seemed unfazed by her paramour’s thievery.

“Do you like my bag?” She displayed the new purse. “It’s a Birkin—do you believe it? Alan had like, twenty of them boxed up in his closet, Brenda said. They go for two thousand dollars a pop back home. Brenda was happier than a pig in shit when I told her what they’re worth. That’s why she let me have one.” She displayed the bag in a coquettish pose. “Who knows who he ripped them off from? If he wants this back, he’s going to have to fight me for it. Besides, Brenda would have sold it anyway. She’s so pissed at him.”

I smiled, saying nothing. I found it fitting that Rosalee and Brenda had bonded over looting Alan’s stash of swag. But I wondered what had happened to the rest of the faux Hermès bags. There had been hundreds in that warehouse.

Rosalee headed for the kitchen. “I’m getting a cup of coffee. Let me make you some more tea. You’ve got to get your rest, baby girl. You still look awful.”

I closed up my suitcase, saying a little prayer of thanks for Alan Greene’s serendipitous larceny.

A few minutes later, Rosalee returned with a steaming mug. Her smile was radiantly phony.

“I totally forgot to tell you. I guess that other body in the dungeon—it wasn’t Peter Sherwood after all. It was some lowlife named Willy Small. Henry said he had a criminal record. So those two bodies were just a couple of crooks. Nobody we know.”

Peter. Not dead. That’s what she said.

I stared at the offered mug and then into Rosalee’s big, bland face, wondering if I’d heard correctly.

“Peter is… alive?”

“Yeah. And I’ll bet he’s going to make a shitload of trouble for me.” Rosalee gestured at the tea. “I made it strong. Tell me if it needs more honey.”

If I hadn’t felt so weak, I would have stood up and screamed my thanks at the heavens. I had to admit I shared Rosalee’s lack of compassion for Barnacle Bill, and this Willy Small person—whoever he was. Probably some prison pal Bill had recruited for the faux designer bag scheme.

Rosalee flopped into the easy chair.

“I hope Mr. Sherwood isn’t there when I go back to the office tomorrow. I want to get my final edits to Henry before that Sherwood guy shows up and starts bossing everybody around.”

Peter. I pictured him back in his office—alive and well—and felt a thrill of pure joy.

“Peter Sherwood is the managing director of the company,” I said, “Bossing people around is his job description.”

I was unwilling to accept negativity while I basked in the news. Good news. I wouldn’t let it be otherwise. I decided to take it as a sign that Peter wasn’t involved in anything as vile as Lance’s murder.

“Just because Alan doesn’t like his boss doesn’t mean you won’t. It might pay to keep an open mind.”

“I guess. Maybe he won’t be such an asshole now that Barnacle guy is dead. Alan told me Peter was scared shitless of that old guy.”

I doubted anybody made Peter feel poop-inducing fear. Still, I realized, with Bill gone, Peter’s life would no doubt get a whole lot easier.

Peter was alive. I could rid myself of that horrific image of him in that dungeon, half-eaten by rats. And my poor maligned book might actually be published. The news cheered me so much, I downed the bitter tea in one gulp. Time to get well. I would be seeing Peter again. Soon.

I did so much hope he wouldn’t turn out to be Lance’s murderer.

Unfortunately, my body did not respond as readily to the good news about Peter as my spirits did. I spent much of the night being sick in a tin wastebasket with a picture of Princess Diana on the side. I woke from sweaty, fitful sleep to see Rosalee standing over me, tears contorting her pink face. Behind her, mid-day light streamed in through the dormer window.

“God, why does this always happen to me!” Rosalee wailed, plunking herself on the side of the bed. “I’ve been to Swynsby and… oh my god, you wouldn’t believe…the body in the dungeon—that person named Willy Small? That was Alan! Willy Small was his real name. Brenda had to identify the body.” She sobbed into a soggy tissue. “Alan’s dead. I can’t believe it. I don’t know what I’m going to do. He was my back-up plan.”

I fought the fog of sick in my head.

“I’m sorry. …” I tried to give Rosalee a sympathetic hug, but my body felt too heavy to move. My skin felt itchy and tight.

With Rosalee’s help, I got out of bed and down the stairs. After a visit to the loo and a shower to soothe my skin rash, I resolved to find a doctor, somehow—as soon as I got Rosalee calmed down. I’d have to get her to drive me into Swynsby to beg Vera’s help. I managed to sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, where I politely asked the weeping Rosalee for the particulars.

“I thought Alan was supposed to be with Henry all this time. What happened?”

“Henry never saw Alan after the flood.” Rosalee snuffled. “And Alan never visited Oxford. He was with that Barnacle guy the whole time. He was going into business with him. That was his big money deal in America. Not Hollywood like stupid Brenda said. It was something in the Caribbean.”

The Caribbean. I remembered the eye-patch man I saw outside the warehouse the night of my bucket encounter with Alan. It must have been Bill after all. They must have been working together since then—or maybe before. What an operator Alan had been—blackmailing Henry with Peter’s criminal past, while profiting from Peter’s criminal present. I wondered if he and Bill had been in the process of stealing the fake Hermès bags from Peter when they were trapped by the flood waters.

Rosalee had been wailing with feigned grief, but stopped herself, mid-keen.

“And you know what else? They were murdered. Alan and that other guy.”

My already pained head didn’t have energy for manufactured drama.

“You said those people were electrocuted, Rosalee. It’s very sad, but it’s nobody’s fault. The wiring in that place was prehistoric—an accident waiting to happen.”

Rosalee shook her head.

“No. It wasn’t electrocution. They were poisoned, according to Vera.” She reached out and clutched my hand. “Aren’t you glad you were here with me? You could have been have been killed too, if you’d still been camping out in that warehouse. Thank god the cops arrested him this morning.

“Arrested? Alan and Barnacle Bill were murdered—and they’ve arrested a suspect?” Maybe it was my illness, but Rosalee seemed to be making less sense than usual.

“Yeah. It was Peter Sherwood. He killed Alan and the other guy. Him and that murderer they call Ratko. The cops came looking for them this morning. They were right there, sleeping in the cafeteria, Davey said. Ratko got away, but thank god—they got Peter Sherwood.”

The woman didn’t have conversations; she dropped verbal bombs: Peter really was a murderer.

“The police—they got Peter? Where is he now?”

“Jail. Davey said the cops came looking for him early this morning. Davey had been working on the machines all night so he saw the whole thing. The cops said they wanted to talk to Peter about the murders of Willy Small and William Barnstable. That’s what Davey said. Murders. They wanted Ratko, too, but he escaped somehow.”

So Peter and Ratko had come back to Swynsby last night. Strange that they’d decided to stay in the muddy factory when they had their nice yacht to live on—a nice yacht Peter no longer had to sell to pay back Barnacle Bill, presumably. Maybe he and Ratko had been trying to salvage some of the faux designer bags.

“Those guys are total lowlifes—all of them,” Rosalee said. “Peter, Ratko, and Alan—or whoever he was. Oh, how could we have been so clueless, baby girl?” She squeezed my hand again and spoke in a voice full of breathy conspiracy. “You know what? I think those guys killed Lance, too. In fact, I know they did.”

“Killed Lance?” It might have been easier to follow Rosalee’s verbal explosions if little halos didn’t keep perching on things. It was so surreal. How had Rosalee come up with the same suspicions I had? The last time she mentioned it, Rosalee said she thought Lance died of natural causes.

“You think Peter killed Lance? But I thought you said he had a heart attack?”

“It wasn’t a heart attack!” Rosalee’s lower lip started to quiver. “At the office, they had a snail mail letter for me from my brother Dwayne. He sent me a clipping from the
Fresno Bee
. Lance was poisoned, baby girl. Murdered. They’ve arrested some rich faggot from Morro Bay. They’re calling it a gay love triangle.”

Poor Silas. Lance’s murder would be big news, of course, now that a high-profile gay man was a suspect.

“I’m not buying it, though.” Rosalee sniffled. “I think it was Peter Sherwood. I used to think Lance died before he could make it to that meeting, but I’ll bet they did meet, and Peter killed him for our manuscript. Him and Ratko. Alan told me that Ratko guy was always bragging about killing people.” She grabbed a tissue to stifle her sobs.

Pieces fell into place.

Rosalee had one thing right—we were a couple of clueless idiots.

“Are you sure Ratko was in San Francisco with Peter?” I tried to figure out if Rosalee was basing her suspicions on any actual fact, or her own imaginings. The idea that rights to
Fangs of
Sherwood Forest
could motivate homicide was laughable, but if Ratko really was in that San Francisco alley, it changed things.

Where had he been that night—lurking behind the dumpster? Remembering that gruesome scene did not help my stomach. Ratko certainly had motive to kill Alan. Just as strong as Peter’s motive to kill Barnacle Bill. But why Lance?

I waited as Rosalee honked dramatically into her tissue. She didn’t seem to have understood my question, so I tried another tack.

“Is there any chance Lance knew Ratko or Peter in some other way? Some reason Ratko might have had a grudge against him—some reason to kill him other than your manuscript? Acquiring debut fiction doesn’t usually call for such, um, dramatic action.”

Rosalee’s face contorted for a tense moment, wavering from rage to grief to some other emotion I couldn’t read.

But a moment later, her warring expressions resolved themselves into a knowing smile.

“Oh, my god,” she said. “You know what—I think he did! I think Lance did a drug deal with somebody named Ratko. When he was in the Virgin Islands last year. He went on some faggot vacation cruise. He bought drugs from some foreign guy he called Ratko. I thought it was some made-up street name. The stuff was bogus and…some kind of fight went on.” Her tone had gone breezy. “I don’t remember that well…I totally hate drugs, after everything that went on at the RenFaire…”

“Do you have any proof—letters or emails Lance sent you about that trip?” Rosalee’s phony-casual manner signaled a bit of fabrication, but if Ratko had any connection with Lance—especially a criminal one—it was time to contact Plant, right away. “If it’s true, we have to let the police know about this: the San Francisco police. They could be prosecuting an innocent man…”

“
If
it’s true? Are you calling me a liar?”

I fought the nausea, too sick now to cope with more of Rosalee’s dramas. Time to give up trying to schmooze her into helping me, and drive into town myself.

“Sorry. I’m not feeling well. My stomach has been acting up. I need to get to a doctor right away.” I stood. “I can ask Vera to help me find somebody in Swynsby. I need to go in to use the computer anyway. I can drive myself…”

Rosalee’s anger evaporated as she leapt up and gave me an oddly intense hug.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had an upset stomach? Those herbs I gave you aren’t good when you have a bad stomach. They probably made it worse. What you need is plain old chamomile tea. That will fix you right up.”

After sipping some of the soothing tea, I did feel a bit better. And Rosalee talked me out of the doctor quest yet again. It would be an awful hassle to go to the office and have to deal with police. And if an English clinic was anything like an American emergency room, it would probably result in humiliation and stress and little healing.

I had enough stress to deal with—finding out that the man I’d been sleeping with was probably a murderer.

But I did have to get somewhere with Internet access to email Plant with Rosalee’s information. Silas’s life depended on it—and maybe my own, if Peter was the killer he seemed to be.

I hauled myself upstairs, donned my Burberry suit, and tried to make my hair look as if vermin hadn’t been nesting in it. After painting on what I hoped looked like a healthy face, I went back downstairs asked Rosalee for the car keys.

“Your tea worked miracles,” I said, faking a smile. “Can I borrow the car for a little while? I have to do some errands in the village.”

“Oh, sure. You can hardly stand up, and you’re going out in the pouring rain.” She pointed at the droplets starting to mist the window. “And what am I going to do without my car all afternoon? You are so selfish! I need to go for groceries. Food doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Where are you going to shop—in Old Somercote? Could you drop me off at that Internet café while you do your shopping?”