Free No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) by Anne R. Allen

lickity-split. The best way would be to talk to the investigators and let them know she would cooperate in any way she could.
    And that Harry would never, ever kill himself.
    Who knows, maybe if they found out they were wrong about the suicide, they'd find out they were wrong about all the other stuff they said Harry did.
    No. She didn't even believe that herself. It all made a dreadful kind of sense.
    The nasty thought came to her that Harry probably had indeed been using her magazine to launder money and shelter ill-gotten funds. He was always so cheerful about putting cash into the magazine's coffers.
    Who knows? Maybe that was the reason he'd married her in the first place. Their whirlwind "romance" had been more of a business merger than a seduction. He'd plied her with spectacular gifts, but never bothered much with declarations of love. He seemed to want the prestige of having a style maven on his arm, and of course she was wildly grateful to find an investor who could keep her magazine afloat.
    It had seemed like a good enough deal at the time. At the age of fifty-seven, she hadn't wanted the kind of romance she had with Joey Torres, her first love, or the glamour she sought with Chad, Sergio, or Jean-Pierre—or hot sex, like she had with Wayne and Brad.
    Betsy had warned her not to accept Harry's proposal, convinced Doria needed to find another Joey, but Doria really had been perfectly happy to marry for security. It had seemed okay to have separate bedrooms and only get together on the rare night when Harry felt romantic enough to keep his teeth in.
    But the laugh was on her. She'd wanted somebody to keep the wolf from the door and she'd married the damned wolf. And now people would think she was a wolf too, unless she set the police straight about a few things.
    So that's where she should go: San Luis Obispo.
    She would talk to the people who were investigating that fire.
    She needed to tell them everything she knew. Especially about that phone call from the person who called herself Mistress Nightshade.

Chapter 26—Blue Notebook
     
     
     
    After Plant left, reminding me of the Chanticleer concert that evening, I bounced around the cottage, wondering when the awful L.A. people would burst in on me again.
    I wasn't much looking forward to this evening's concert. I'd hoped maybe Plant and Silas would cancel the plans for dinner beforehand. George and Enrique always ordered the most expensive wine and expected to split the bill.
    I should probably have been packing. But I couldn't force myself to do it yet. I wanted a few more days to enjoy having a home of my own. I was about to be homeless. Again. The thought filled me with dread.
    I changed the sheets on the bed and tidied the bedroom. Next to my nightstand I found a small spiral-bound blue notebook.
    Ronzo's.
    He'd written something in it after he got a phone call at dinner last night. A cute low-tech aspect of him I found endearing. But the notebook must have fallen out of his jeans pocket when we undressed.
    I hoped it wasn't hugely important. I had no way of returning it to him. I didn't have his address or phone number. Or even a real name to Google. Maybe it was a bit rude to pry, but I flipped it open, hoping to find a phone number or address where I could return it to him.
    Inside was nothing but numbers and squiggles. Pages of them. Like some kind of code.
    Maybe he was a spy. That was as likely as anything else. How could I have fallen into bed with a nameless man I knew absolutely nothing about?
    I dropped the notebook in my pocket. Maybe I'd run into him on the street or something—although I knew it would be better if I didn't. He was a complication I didn't need.
    There was way too much stuff to deal with at the moment. The imminent death of the bookstore made me even sadder than losing my cottage. I was losing everything I loved.
    I retrieved some broken-down boxes from the recycling bin and taped them together. It might not be my job to pack up