So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 Read online

  So Much for Buckingham

  Camilla Randall Mystery #5

  a comedy

  by Anne R. Allen

  "Off with his head. So much for Buckingham."

  ...the most famous line of Shakespeare that Shakespeare never wrote.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Part 1—The Summer of our Discontent

  Chapter 1—Camilla

  Chapter 2—Plantagenet

  Chapter 3—Camilla

  Chapter 4—Plantagenet

  Chapter 5—Camilla

  Chapter 6—Plantagenet

  Chapter 7—Camilla

  Chapter 8—Plantagenet

  Part II— The Poisonous Bunch-Backed Toad

  Chapter 9—Camilla

  Chapter 10—Plantagenet

  Chapter 11—Camilla

  Chapter 12—Plantagenet

  Chapter 13—Camilla

  Chapter 14—Plantagenet

  Chapter 15—Camilla

  Chapter 16—Plantagenet

  Chapter 17—Camilla

  Chapter 18—Plantagenet

  Chapter 19—Camilla

  Part III—The Kingdom of Perpetual Night

  Chapter 20—Plantagenet

  Chapter 21—Camilla

  Chapter 22—Plantagenet

  Chapter 23—Camilla

  Chapter 24—Plantagenet

  Chapter 25—Camilla

  Chapter 26—Plantagenet

  Chapter 27—Camilla

  Chapter 28—Plantagenet

  Chapter 29—Camilla

  Chapter 30—Plantagenet

  Chapter 31—Camilla

  Part IV—Every Tale Condemns me for a Villain

  Chapter 32—Plantagenet

  Chapter 33—Camilla

  Chapter 34—Plantagenet

  Chapter 35—Camilla

  Chapter 36—Plantagenet

  Chapter 37—Camilla

  Chapter 38—Plantagenet

  Chapter 39—Camilla

  Chapter 40—Plantagenet

  Chapter 41—Camilla

  Part V—There is no Creature Loves Me

  Chapter 42—Plantagenet

  Chapter 43—Camilla

  Chapter 44—Plantagenet

  Chapter 45—Camilla

  Chapter 46—Plantagenet

  Chapter 47—Camilla

  Chapter 48—Plantagenet

  Chapter 49—Camilla

  Chapter 50—Plantagenet

  Chapter 51—Camilla

  Chapter 52—Plantagenet

  Part VI—An Honest Tale Speeds Best

  Chapter 53—Camilla

  Chapter 54—Plantagenet

  Chapter 55—Camilla

  Chapter 56—Plantagenet

  Chapter 57—Camilla

  Chapter 58—Plantagenet

  Chapter 59—Camilla

  Chapter 60—Plantagenet

  Chapter 61—Camilla

  Chapter 62—Plantagenet

  Part VII—Certain Dregs of Conscience

  Chapter 63—Camilla

  Chapter 64—Plantagenet

  Chapter 65—Camilla

  Chapter 66—Plantagenet

  Chapter 67—Camilla

  Chapter 68—Plantagenet

  Chapter 69—Camilla

  Chapter 70—Plantagenet

  Chapter 71—Camilla

  Chapter 72—Plantagenet

  Part VIII—True Hope Flies on Swallows Wings

  Chapter 73—Camilla

  Chapter 74—Plantagenet

  Chapter 75—Camilla

  Chapter 76—Plantagenet

  Chapter 77—Camilla

  Chapter 78—Plantagenet

  Chapter 79—Camilla

  About the Author

  Books by Anne R. Allen

  Nonfiction by Anne R. Allen

  Part 1—The Summer of our Discontent

  Chapter 1—Camilla

  Morro Bay fog did not creep in on little cat feet like Carl Sandburg's Chicago mists. It galumphed on elephant hooves and moved in for the summer. Why didn't people warn you that "sunny California" could be so gloomy?

  By the twenty-eighth of August, the gauge on my outdoor thermometer hadn't risen above sixty-five degrees for three solid months.

  Even my summer in the soggy English Midlands had been sunnier than here on the California coast. I glared at the fog bank that obscured my view of the bay and found myself actually longing for Lincolnshire, where I'd spent an eventful summer three years ago.

  I felt an even stronger longing for the royalty check from my publishers at Sherwood, Ltd. that was nearly a month overdue.

  My bookstore wasn't paying its way, and bills were piling up.

  To make things worse, my boyfriend Ronzo had cancelled his planned visit from New Jersey this week, and now he wasn't even returning my calls or emails. I had no idea what was up with him. He couldn't claim his work kept him at home. He was a music review blogger who could live anywhere he wanted.

  But my inbox held nothing but spam this evening. Again.

  Plus I had a lunatic one-star review on the Amazon buy page for my bestselling etiquette book, The Manners Doctor's Good Manners for Bad Times.

  "This auther is a evil slutt and a Tudor-lover," said a reviewer identified as "DickonthePig."

  It was ridiculous what passed for a book review these days.

  Fury made me hit the button for "comments."

  I typed—In the Manners Doctor's signature third person voice—"This reviewer is mistaken. The Manners Doctor has never been fond of Tudor. When it comes to architecture, she much prefers Georgian simplicity. She also prefers correct spelling."

  Of course at the moment I lived in a biodegrading former motel cottage that was more Calvin Coolidgean than Georgian, but I didn't say that. It wasn't common knowledge that my family fortune had been wiped out by my deceased—and impecunious—mother.

  Of course, somebody who left one-star reviews about one's presumed taste in architecture was probably a lunatic. And might be dangerous.

  Maybe I shouldn't respond at all.

  Loud crunching on the gravel pathway outside the cottage startled me.

  Could it be Ronzo? My heart gave a little flip.

  Maybe he'd decided to surprise me. He had a habit of doing the unexpected. I felt so fluttery at the prospect of seeing him, I went to hit backspace to delete the comment, but hit "enter" by mistake.

  Well, it was done.

  And it felt good, even though it might not be considered entirely polite.

  I smoothed my hair and wished I hadn't scrambled into sweats so soon after work. I'd planned an evening of vegging in front of Netflix, not a romantic encounter with the adorable man I hadn't seen in person for months.

  "Hello!" I called in the direction of the door. "Ronzo? Is that you?"

  "Camilla! I'm so glad you're home."

  Not Ronzo. My best friend Plantagenet. He would forgive my sweats and mussy hair.

  "Come on in. The door's unlocked."

  Plant's body felt tense as he gave me a perfunctory squeeze and plunked himself down at my little dining table.

  Not a good sign. Plant and Silas were supposed to be leaving for their honeymoon tomorrow.

  Plant's rumpled state did not bode well either. He was usually impeccably dressed, even on his most casual days.

  "What's wrong?" I closed my laptop. I could tell this wasn't going to be a short visit.

  "Everything. It's over with Silas. We're cancelling our trip. Splitting up."

  I was a little bored with the histrionics of Plant and Silas's relationship, but I reached across the table an
d pressed his hand in sympathy. They'd been having spats for months over the details of their wedding.

  Plant's chest heaved with a troubled sigh.

  "You can't be splitting up," I said. "You've been married less than a week. What on earth is going on?"

  He ran his fingers through his silvering hair. I could tell he was fighting tears.

  "Glendower Jones," he said. "My old boyfriend. I don't know why I invited him to the wedding. He's become some kind of New Age guru and talks absolute nonsense."

  "Glen Jones? My lawyer from twenty years ago? The little guy with the cowlick? He was at the wedding?" I didn't even remember seeing him. I guess I wanted to forget my long-ago brush with the law.

  Plant gave a rough laugh.

  "He doesn't practice law any more. And he doesn't have a cowlick. Bald as an egg. And totally buffed. He's seriously into yoga now. I'm surprised he didn't seek you out to talk you into going off to his pricey tropical retreat. I guess you're not a big enough celebrity to matter anymore."

  Plant was obviously under stress, but this remark came across as a bit unkind. My syndicated etiquette column had died a sad death, but my books had been selling again, and were steady bestsellers in Asia.

  "Sorry." I could see Plant wince at his own bad manners. "I didn't mean it like that. You can't compete with me in the nobody department. At least you're not a screenwriter who hasn't sold a script in three years. But since Silas got his fortune back from Harry Sharkov, he's worth Glen's notice, apparently."

  "Silas flirted with some bald hippie at his own wedding?" I couldn't stifle a laugh. "I know Silas's flirting can be outrageous. But it's not enough to break up about."

  "No...no." Plant's voice went froggy with emotion. "I don't give a damn about flirting. We're way beyond that. It's...Glen started going on about the old days and he, well, he told Silas about us."

  I love Plant—he's been my best friend for over twenty years—but I knew better than to let him get me involved in one of his operatic spats with Silas.

  Anyway, I had my own drama with Silas—involving my three-weeks-late payment for the bookstore and cottage I was buying from him.

  I offered Plant what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.

  "Silas is upset you had a thing with Glen twenty years ago? You're forty-seven, Plant. How could you not have old boyfriends?"

  Plant gave a pained look.

  "Not me and Glen. Me and you. Glen told Silas about our...romance."

  "You never told him?" I couldn't keep the anger from my voice. "You've been together what? Four years? And you never told him you and I were once engaged?"

  "It never came up."

  I wanted to shake him. I'd felt like a third wheel in their relationship more than once. Silas often seemed to resent me. I assumed my long-ago affair with Plant—and his bisexuality—had been the "elephant in the room" nobody spoke of.

  But it seemed Silas had been unaware of the resident pachyderm.

  "I'm sure he'll forgive you. He needs a little time to process."

  Plant didn't look convinced.

  I took a bottle of chardonnay out of the fridge as I tried to think of something more soothing to say.

  "Why don't you have some wine, take a few breaths, and give him a call." I carefully filled two glasses. "You two have to catch a plane to London tomorrow. And you have all those theater tickets. He's not going to miss a chance to see Billy Elliot...."

  Plant took an airline envelope out of his pocket and tossed it on the table.

  "Silas threw the tickets at me when he took off yesterday. God knows where he went. I hoped he'd come back, but he hasn't even phoned. He could be dead on the highway somewhere. He said he never wanted to go to England anyway. He would have preferred Maui. Maui! What is there to see in Maui?"

  A sunny Hawaiian island sounded pretty appealing to me at that point, but I didn't say so. I sipped my chardonnay: a gorgeous Chamisal Califa from Edna Valley I'd bought to share with Ronzo. Probably the last bottle of good wine I'd be able to afford for some time.

  Plant jumped up and grabbed my hand.

  "Come with me, Camilla. Come to London. It's all paid for. We even got tickets to see Kevin Spacey as Richard III—he's reprising the role for a limited run. It's the chance of a lifetime. Nobody does evil like Spacey."

  I nearly spilled my wine as I pulled my hand away.

  "Plant, that is a terrible idea on so many levels. You should go, but not with me."

  "Why? Please come. My treat. Consider it an early present for your big 4-0 birthday in November."

  My mind filled with "why-nots."

  "First, we'd cause more hurt and paranoia for Silas, second, I have a bookstore to run..."

  Plant's phone rang. He reached in his pocket and took the call.

  "Silas?"

  Plant stood very still for a moment, his face going from white to crimson. He started to speak, then clicked off his iPhone, obviously on the verge of tears.

  "What's wrong?"

  "At least I know where Silas is. Maui. Apparently having a hot romantic encounter with Mr. Glendower Jones."

  Chapter 2—Plantagenet

  Plant's eyes burned as he drove his aging Ferrari home from Morro Bay. But no way would he let the tears fall.

  Silas did not deserve them.

  Neither did Glendower Jones, the mealy-mouthed little charlatan.

  "I have a damned Oscar!" Plant shouted at the vine-covered hills as he sped toward his Edna Valley home. "I've been nominated for two Tonys. What does that hairless idiot have?"

  But he knew the answer.

  What Glen had was a place in Maui. And a great body.

  Plant knew he should exercise more. Plus he hadn't written anything in nearly a year. His last screenplay was never going to be made. He was over in Hollywood. And Broadway had all but forgotten him.

  Glen, on the other hand, glowed with self-confidence. And he was obviously at ease with his hair loss—something Silas obsessed about. Plus of course Glen was actualized and soul-centered and probably could interface with angelic entities.

  Or whatever woo stuff Silas was into this week.

  Silas had been reading a string of New Age books recently, and when he started talking all that spiritualist babble, Plant always tuned out.

  Now it was obvious he should have paid more attention.

  Instead, Plant had spent the last year obsessed with the wedding and re-decorating their behemoth of a house after the smoke damage last summer—while Silas fought in the courts to get his family's fortune back from Harry the Shark.

  But they'd won. The infusion of capital had revived Silas's five remaining bookstores. And the house was more elegant than ever. Their wedding had gone off pretty much without a hitch.

  Of course it helped to have the Manners Doctor as a best friend.

  Plant realized he had probably spent more time with Camilla than with Silas in the past six months. Coordinating florists and bakers and caterers and guests' hotel accommodations became a full time job.

  He did know that Silas had been drifting away. Their sex life had been practically nonexistent for months.

  Being the victim of a con man had left Silas off-balance. Silas was convinced the Sharkov incident had been a "wake-up call" and a sign he'd been "sleepwalking through life".

  So now Silas had sleepwalked off to Maui. With his new husband's old boyfriend. How enlightened.

  Plant pulled into the driveway of their Edna Valley Tuscan-style villa and wondered how the hell he'd ended up here. He was a Princeton graduate. An intellectual. Now he lived in an overpriced McMansion with a guy who read horoscopes and talked about "planets in retrograde".

  Plant didn't know about Silas, but he'd been sleepwalking through his own life.

  It was time to wake up. He was going to London, with Camilla, his best friend. A perfect opportunity to recharge and regain his sense of self.

  Inside the all-too-quiet empty house, he poured himself a stiff Grey Goose, hoping
it would calm his nerves and help him sleep. He wasn't ready for bed, but he didn't have anything left to do. He'd already packed his suitcase, which stood waiting by the door, and even had his carry-on filled with all but the last minute things.

  His book was in there too: Josephine Tey's Daughter of Time, a 1930s mystery novel about Richard III. One of Silas's bookstore clerks had presented it to them at the wedding, insisting they read it before they saw Spacey's Richard.

  Plant didn't feel like pulling it out of the bag, or starting something new, so he turned on the television. It was tuned to CNN. If anything would make him sleepy, it would be endlessly rehashed news about manufactured political crises.

  But he was startled to hear a familiar name from the announcer.

  "Ronson V. Zolek," the New Jersey music blogger at "Zo What" has taken his own life."

  Camilla's Ronzo. No wonder he hadn't shown up for the wedding.

  Chapter 3—Camilla

  After a frantic half hour of searching the cottage, I finally found my passport in my winter navy Chanel bag.

  This was probably crazy, but I could see Plant was devastated by whatever was going on with Silas. He needed me. And I had to admit it would be lovely to visit London and see all those plays. Besides, I could use the opportunity to go up to Swynsby-on-Trent and find out why the people at Sherwood, Ltd. had stopped paying my royalties.

  But it meant that somehow I had to be ready to leave for the San Francisco airport by eight AM to catch the three PM flight to Heathrow.

  I was a little apprehensive about leaving the Jens in charge of the bookstore for a week. The two Cal Poly students—both named Jen—were eager and great with customers, but they didn't understand anything about ordering or receiving books or doing the accounts.

  If only the uber-efficient Dorothy were still around, but she'd been lured back to her old life running Home magazine in New York after her ex-husband Harry Sharkov admitted she had nothing to do with his Ponzi schemes.

  I pulled some of my less-dated designer clothes from the back of the closet, wondering what would be suitable for the West End of London at this time of year.

  I booted up my laptop and Googled today's weather in London. 71 degrees and raining. Okay, rain gear. I still had my Burberry raincoat. I could wear that on the plane.

  Since I was online, I checked my email again, half hoping something from Ronzo would keep me from dashing off on this iffy adventure.