Sherwood Ltd.
A Camilla Randall Mystery


by 


Anne R. Allen





© Anne R. Allen 2011. 








This story is a work of fiction. 
The resemblance of any characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.




ISBN:  



Published by MWiDP

Introduction by Saffina Desforges.


In 2003, Anne R. Allen received an offer from Shadowline Publishing in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire to publish her comic novels Food of Love and The Best Revenge. Although Shadowline published mostly erotica, they were branching into mainstream and had already signed some prestigious US authors.
Her agent strongly advised against it, but Anne was tiring of living in submission hell while her novels collected endless rejections from New York publishers. 
When she learned that Gainsborough was just across the River Trent from Nottinghamshire, a few miles from Sherwood Forest, Anne couldn’t resist. She would not only get her novels into print, but she could visit the land of the Robin Hood legends, which had fascinated her since childhood.
She ended up staying in Lincolnshire almost three years, living and working in the crumbling 19th century Shadowline Building, with its motley crew of charming eccentrics. Although Shadowline eventually went under, she will never regret her English adventures. 
In her newest Camilla Randall mystery, Anne places the New York socialite-on-the-skids heroine of The Best Revenge and Ghostwriters in the Sky into a fictional version of the Shadowline Building. She puts it in a town she calls Swynsby-on-Trent—a riverside market town not entirely unlike Gainsborough. She added her usual crew of outrageous comic characters, including a clueless American RenFaire wench, a fierce little dog named Much, and a sexy, self-styled Robin Hood—who may or may not have murder on his mind.
It’s a recipe for another of Anne’s wild, witty romps that careen from farce to pathos and always make you think.

Saffina Desforges 

UK bestselling author of Sugar & Spice. the Rose Red crime thrillers and Anca's Story.




Chapter 1—The Man in the Green Hoodie


                                                                                          
Anybody can become an outlaw. For me, all it took was a little financial myopia, an inherited bad taste in spouses, a recession—and there I was, the great-granddaughter of newspaper baron H. P. Randall, edging around in alley-shadows, about to become a common thief.
Okay, I was only stealing trash: a clear plastic bag stuffed with enough bottles and cans to redeem for a quart of milk. I’d seen it from the window of my friend’s San Francisco apartment where I was doing a little uninvited house-sitting. All I’d found to pour on my morning flax flakes was a dusty bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. Not the best fortification for a day of job-hunting. 
I stretched an arm into the dumpster, but the bag of recyclables was just beyond my reach. Praying the gathering dusk would make me invisible to passersby, I kicked off my heels, hoisted myself to the dumpster’s rim and—with a triumphant clatter of Pellegrino bottles—extricated my treasure, safely unobserved.
Except by some dog who had materialized behind me in the alley—a skinny, bedraggled thing—investigating my discarded shoes with a hungry snout.
“You’re not to eat those.” I balanced on the edge of the dumpster, keeping my toes out of biting range. I adore dogs, but this one had odd, not-safe eyes. 
A light flared from the street end of the alley. 
I froze. 
“Are you all right up there?” A man moved toward me—all spiky hair and bony shoulders, silhouetted against the lights from out on Castro Street. I managed to twist around to a sitting position, clutching my trash bag. I hoped I wasn’t poaching on his territory. The homeless, like everybody else, would have rules of etiquette. What irony if an etiquette expert were to be attacked for bad manners.
 The man struck another match and reflected flame glinted off steel-rimmed glasses as he lit a pipe. The scent of tobacco wafted above the garbage stink. He came closer. I clutched the glass-filled bag, ready to use it as a weapon. 
“The coyote,” he said: “The trickster: ‘always poor, out of luck, and friendless’—Mark Twain said that, I believe.” His accent was British. Reassuring. “I’d hoped to see a bit of the wild life of San Francisco, but that’s not the sort I had in mind.”
An ulp moment. 
“That was a coyote?” I tried to breathe normally as the animal slunk away. “They don’t eat people, do they?” Thank goodness I was wearing my most conservative pants suit. I didn’t want to appear connected with “wild life” of any kind. 
“I’m told they like to nibble on human feet.” The man gave a half-smile.
I wiggled my naked toes and shuddered. “Thanks for scaring it away.”  
“I’m no expert on coyotes, mind you.” He puffed on his pipe. “We haven’t many in Nottinghamshire.” He was tall and good-looking, in an unkempt, What-Not-To-Wear sort of way: Oxford don meets Pirate of the Caribbean. A little older than me. Mid-forties, maybe. He wore a hooded green sweatshirt with the Golden Gate Bridge embroidered on the chest. Probably a tourist. I relaxed a bit. 
“Not a lot of coyotes in Manhattan either,” I said. “I’ve just arrived in San Francisco myself.” My instinct was to offer a hand and introduce myself, but: 
1) I didn’t think it wise to give my name to an alley-person—no matter how educated and/or attractive. 
2) I didn’t want my dumpster-dive to make its way into the press.
3) My free hand was occupied with keeping myself from sliding, derrière-first, into the smelly trash below. 
I decided it was time to make a quick exit. But a passing headlight showed the glitter of broken glass on the pavement below. Not nice for jumping on in bare feet.
“Let me help.” The man stuck his pipe in his teeth and reached up to circle my waist with big, powerful hands. He lifted me down gently. “Did you drop something valuable in the skip there?” He smelled of peach tobacco and Scotch.
“Just some recycling.” I avoided eye contact and made my way toward my shoes. I wished his touch hadn’t felt so electric. 
 “You risked life and limb rather than pollute? Are you sure you’re not a native?” He offered a supportive arm and friendly grin as I stepped into my pumps, but I resisted the urge to flirt. My soul-crushing divorce—plus a fizzled rebound romance—had cured me of trusting good-looking men. Even polite ones. Besides, this was the Castro; the man had to be gay.
He re-lit his pipe. “You’re here for a bit of a holiday then?” His accent wasn’t BBC English, but something edgier—more northern.
“No. Work,” I said, lying by omission. I picked up the bag. “I must run.”
“What sort of work do you do?” 
My least favorite question. Since MetroFeatures dropped my column six months ago, I hadn’t done any actual work—unless you counted nursing my dying mother, staging a ridiculously lavish funeral, fighting the foreclosure on my apartment—and dealing with those condescending debt consolidation people. 
“I write.” I gave him a dismissive smile and moved toward the building.
He laughed. “Indeed! I don’t suppose you have an unpublished novel lying about? Something a bit steamy?” He puffed his pipe. “Perhaps involving whips and chains?”
My head pounded. Of course. A stranger in a city alley at night—what made me think he wouldn’t be a pervert? With a quick pivot I took off toward the stairs.  
I could hear him running behind me. 
“Lass! I’m sorry!” I could feel his breath on my neck 
I launched the trash bag in the direction of his solar plexus and ran as quickly as stiletto heels would allow. I heard my Pellegrino bottles shatter as the bag fell short. 
The man wasn’t fazed a bit. “Don’t go!” 
One of his big hands clamped onto my wrist. With the other, he reached into his pocket.
Oh, great. He had a gun.




Chapter 2—Poor, Out of Luck, and Friendless




The man’s grip on my wrist tightened. In the shadowy dark, I couldn’t see what kind of weapon he had taken from his pocket. If it was a gun, it was small. Maybe a knife.
I looked around for a blunt instrument. I refused to be murdered here, without even an ID: an anonymous dead garbage thief.
But with a creepy move, he stuck his hand into the pocket of my jacket. I could feel the heat of his hand through the gabardine—no gun or knife—so what did he want?
A wallet? Keys? Yes: he probably intended to burgle the apartment. 
But I’d show him not to mess with a New Yorker. I faked a trip-and-fall movement, yanked off my shoe, and aimed the steel-tipped heel at his eyeball. 
His turn to run. 
“Get lost, creep!” I hurled the shoe at him, then slipped off the other, clutching it like a hammer. I shot up the back stairs, turned the deadbolt, and ran to the kitchen sink, not sure if I was going to be sick. 
Was it the English accent that made me think the man safe? Or the mention of Nottingham? I’ve always had a thing for Robin-Hoody stuff. 
I set the bronze leather Prada pump on the counter. It looked as alone and useless as I felt. I gulped some water and told myself to stop whining. 
Things could be worse. I could be homeless.
But my friend Plantagenet Smith had this lovely San Francisco pied a terre he wasn’t using. At least that’s what he said in his last e-mail before my phone and Internet service got cut off. He was staying at his boyfriend’s beach house in Morro Bay until he finished his screenplay. He usually wrote slowly, so I figured I had at least a month.
I hadn’t broken in—not technically. I simply used the extra key he keeps in the hat of the garden gnome by the back door. I probably should have phoned from somewhere to tell him I’d taken him up on his offer of hospitality “if you’re ever in San Francisco again.” But it’s hard to tell somebody who met you as a teenaged heiress to zillions that: 
1)Your mother, the Countess, died destitute. 
2)Your celebrity ex-husband has declared bankruptcy and flown off to Thailand in quest of enlightenment, affordable health care, and/or cheap sex, not necessarily in that order.
3)The hot L. A. policeman you’d been hoping to stay with in California wrote last week to say he’d found his soulmate—a sweet vice detective named Lola—and they’d be sure to invite you to the wedding. 
4)What was left of your last paycheck has gone to bribe Habib, your passive-aggressive Manhattan doorman, so he’ll keep your stuff in the basement until your former assistant can move it to her cousin’s garage in Queens. 
5)Your entire net worth is in your pocket: two quarters, an old subway token and some grimy Altoid mints. 
I breathed in the serenity of the tastefully decorated studio, telling myself it would all be okay, even though the job I thought I had at the Chronicle had been eliminated three days before I was supposed to fly out here on a non-refundable ticket. I’d find something soon. The clerk at the bookstore on the corner had been hopeful about an opening. Not that selling gay men’s books and erotic paraphernalia was my dream job, but I didn’t think it polite to judge. I hoped I wouldn’t have to dress in Goth regalia like that clerk, though. Black isn’t my color.
I poured myself a Campari and soda to soothe my stomach and booted my laptop, cheered to see email from Valentina. Hiding my reversal of fortune had meant cutting off my A-list friends—not a huge loss—but it meant my assistant was my only confidante.
But Valentina’s note was not warm. “WTF is going on with your stuff? Your terrorist doorman told my cousin Rico he’d never heard of you or your things. Rico’s pissed. He’s still gotta be paid for the gas and his time, so send a check ASAP.”
I steadied myself as this hit me like a gut-punch. Everything I had left. Gone. 
I poured some of Plant’s Grey Goose into my Campari. But it didn’t help my stomach. Or my heart. Which wasn’t so much breaking as deflating—a hissing, dying little balloon collapsing inside my chest. All the designer clothes, shoes, handbags. The furniture, china and silver I’d managed to save from the family estate. My whole identity.
I checked my watch. Nearly nine PM—midnight, New York time. No point in calling. And who would I call? The co-op board? Legally, I had no right to store anything in the building after the foreclosure on Wednesday. The police? To report that the man I bribed to commit a crime turned out to be a criminal? 
I sipped my make-shift Negroni and stared down into the alley as I fought despair. No signs of my attacker out there, but the dreadful coyote was back, chewing something: a man’s sandal. My Prada pump would probably be next. 
No. 
I wouldn’t let it happen. I grabbed a flashlight, stepped into my clogs and stomped down the stairs, shouting at the animal. The last shred of my former self was not going to become coyote food. I searched with the flashlight beam to make sure the area was Englishman-free, and located my pump at the end of the alley.
The coyote hardly looked up from its meal of Birkenstock à la dumpster-slime, even when I shone the light directly in its face. The sandal dripped ooze. I felt sick again, but managed to shoo the animal back into the shadows.
I approached my shoe with stealth, praying the pervert wasn’t lurking in some hidey-hole. As I bent to pick it up, I heard the coyote growl behind me: a serious, don’t-mess-with-my-lunch growl. With some stomping and shouting, I managed to drive the beast away—but only as far as the dumpster. Finally, after some banging on the dumpster’s metal sides, I thought I saw the creature slink away. I beamed the flashlight into the shadows to make sure it had gone. 
That’s when I saw the body—lying lifeless and twisted on top of a large garbage bag—a man dressed entirely in black, with a pentagram tattooed on his left hand. 
Lance. That was his name. The Goth clerk from the bookstore on the corner. One of his feet was nearly gone—his black jeans ending in a bloody stump. 




Chapter 3—No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I managed to call 911 and keep calm until the police arrived and paramedics took away the footless body. But when they took my Prada pump as evidence, I sank onto the back stairs and broke into sobs—not snuffly, oh-how-sad tears, but uncontrolled, little-kid wails. I couldn’t have said if they were for the coyote-gnawed clerk, or Habib’s betrayal, or the whole crashing-down, twenty-first century world. 
The officer sat next to me on the bottom stair. “You’re taking this pretty hard, Ms. Randall. Why is that? Didn’t you say you only met Larry this afternoon?”
I sniffed back the waterworks. “I’m not used to seeing people eaten by wild animals. And I don’t mean to be impolite, but the man’s name was Lance, not Larry.” I almost wished I hadn’t called 911. If it turned out Lance hadn’t been killed by the evil-eyed coyote, I’d set myself up as a murder suspect. No good deed goes unpunished. 
“His license gives his name as Larry McNerlin,” the officer said. “Does he have family in the area? Friends we can contact?”
 “I told you—all I know is he was working in the bookstore on the corner when I went in this afternoon.” I’d had my fill of fake-clueless questions. “But if you don’t think the coyote killed him, I have a suspect for you.” 
I told him about the Englishman in the green hoodie. 
The officer looked skeptical, but wrote something in his notebook. 
A few minutes later, his partner reappeared. 
“We’ve found a coyote eating human remains,” he said. “Over in Duboce park.” He gave me a nod. “Your story checks out. You can go back upstairs, ma’am. We’ll contact you if we have any more questions.” 
“Ma’am.” That’s who I was now. An anonymous ma’am. I wondered if Jonathan, my ex, had descended so quickly from Page Six to anonymity. 
I escaped to the apartment, but Plant’s airy studio didn’t feel safe any more. The high ceilings and open floor plan of the modernized Victorian made me feel exposed. I wanted a tiny, secret place to burrow into. I took a long shower and swallowed one of the tranquilizers Valentina gave me the day we got the notice that Metrofeatures was dropping my column. I fell into bed and drifted in and out of ridiculous nightmares about pipe-smoking coyotes attacking my feet.
But through the druggy haze I heard sounds from the hallway outside. Heavy footsteps. A clunk. My brain snapped back to full consciousness. Had the hoodie pervert come back with his knife? My own stupid fault for flirting with an alley-person. 
I made myself take a deep breath and think rational thoughts. Maybe this was the police—back to ask about my “relationship with the deceased” again.
“Officers?” I called into the dark. No answer. I jumped from the bed, put on my robe and looked around for a weapon. “If you’re not the police,” I called at the door— “I’ve got a gun in here. A whole bunch. We collect guns. Major NRA fans.”
I heard a laugh. 
“Darling, you’re an awful liar,” a voice said. 




Chapter 4—Little Beige Lies




A key clicked in the lock and the door burst open. The light flicked on and there was Plantagenet, looking disheveled—or as disheveled as one can in a bespoke Zegna suit. 
He rushed to hug me. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t remember you were staying here. I just assumed you’d be visiting your nice policeman, Rick…”
He could probably tell from my expression that Rick was a sore subject.
“But of course—you wrote you were interviewing for a job at the San Francisco Chronicle. I should have offered…oh, darling, I apologize for being in such a fog. But it’s wonderful to see you. I’m glad you found your way in.”
I couldn’t say anything. I clung to him. His hug made me feel safer than I had in months. I felt the sting of incipient tears as I tried to put all the recent horrors into words. 
He handed me his handkerchief. “Of course. Losing your mother and dealing with that skinflint ex of yours—I’m sure it’s been terrible. I apologize for not being a better correspondent.” 
He poured himself a Grey Goose and sighed. 
“I’m not in such good shape myself. I’ve left Silas—walked out on him and all his pretentious dinner guests. They’re probably still waiting for me to fetch another case of Viognier. I don’t need to be somebody’s damned househusband.” He gulped vodka. “Especially since Silas seems to be having a thing on the side with a clerk in his Berkeley bookstore.” 
A bookstore clerk. Too ironic. And sad. 
Plantagenet and I both had such abysmal taste in men, it was good we had each other. We’d been friends since my subdeb days, when he was an orphan kid from New Jersey, sneaking into fancy parties for the food, and I was the clueless little heiress to the Randall newspaper empire. But we drifted apart when I married Jonathan—the two didn’t get on—and we’d only reconnected when Jonathan and I split up last year. 
Plant fixed me a Negroni and asked me to tell him all about the night’s disasters.
I accepted it gratefully and launched into my tale. 
When I came to the part about finding Lance’s body, Plant stopped me, his face suddenly white. 
“Lance? You’re sure the dead man’s name was Lance?”
“Actually, the police think he was named Larry McNerlin. But they also think my Prada pump was involved, so I don’t put a lot of trust in them. You knew him?”
Plant nodded as he blinked back incipient tears. “He called himself Lance McMerlin, but I can imagine he changed his name. A sweet young guy.” Plant bit his lip, then took a gulp of his Grey Goose. “Unfortunately, his literary taste ran to ersatz-medieval.” He gave a laugh that turned into a sigh. “We met when my screenplay for Wilde in the West was getting all the awards. He and I…let’s say Silas isn’t the only one who’s dallied with bookpersons. Silas was furious about Lance, the damned hypocrite.” Plant refilled his glass. “But if you say we belong together because we had matching boy toys, I’m going to cry.”
I was a little afraid he might. It felt awful to have delivered the bad news in such a casual way. I wanted to give him comfort, but Ativan and vodka had done their work. I stretched out on the suedey softness of the couch, fighting to keep my eyelids open.
“Darling, you don’t have to give up the bed,” Plant said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’m so glad you’re here. Stay as long as you like. We’ll make good roommates. After all, we don’t have the same taste in men or the same dress size…”
Whatever he said after that faded into more coyote dreams.

I woke to the aromas of Jumpin’ Java and Noah’s bagels and lox.
Plant looked showered and fresh in a Jhane Bharnes shirt and khakis. “I’ve been talking with Felix at the bookstore.” He handed me a double mocha. “The poor man. The police suspect him in Lance’s death, since he and Lance were occasional lovers.”
 “The coyote didn’t kill Lance?” I didn’t know if that was good news or not.
“Lance had no pre-mortem wounds, according to Felix. That’s probably why your policemen friends suspect foul play. They questioned Felix for hours. Apparently Lance gave his notice yesterday. Felix got a little heated—in front of a witness, who happened to be Lance’s old girlfriend. But Lance may have OD’d. Felix says he seemed drugged and out-of-it recently. Not a good way to go, but better than being killed by a wild animal, I should think.
“Or murdered by a well-mannered Englishman.” It was quite possible I’d had a brush with a murderer. And he still might be out there. 
All I could do was shiver.
Plant set out the bagels and lox for our breakfast—a taste of heaven after a week of scrounging meals from his understocked cupboards.
 As I spread cream cheese on a second bagel-half, he gave me a penetrating look.
“Felix said an odd thing—he said you’d applied to work at his store. That wasn’t you, was it? What about your job at the Chronicle?” 
My unfavorite subject again. “Evaporated. So has the editor who asked to interview me. I’m an etiquette columnist in the 21st century—about as much in demand as, well, a newspaper.”
“And they didn’t bother to tell you until you’d flown all the way across the country?”
I shrugged as I munched my bagel. I didn’t feel up to telling him the non-refundable ticket represented my entire net worth, and without his apartment to run to, I’d probably have spent the last week sleeping on a bench in Central Park.
Plant gave me a confused smile. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake, but I told Felix to go ahead and give Lance’s job to one of the other applicants. So many people are hurting for money these days, and you’ll be rolling in it once the Countess’s will is straightened out.”
“That could take a while.” I took another chomp of bagel to avoid having to admit my little beige lies. There was nothing to straighten out. My poor mother had six husbands, five of them rich, but the last one left her nothing but debts and a dubious title. 
Plant put on a cheery voice. “I think the Universe has decreed you spend the summer working on a project of your own. Isn’t it time to do an update of Wedding Rx from the Manners Doctor or maybe Manners Rx for the Suddenly Single?” 
Another painful subject. “My agent says they’re totally last century and told me to start a blog. It lasted three months. I had ten followers.” 
“Then you’ll have to do a whole new book. Something more contemporary. How about Good Manners for Bad Times? I’ll put a curtain over the bed alcove and that can be your room.” He gestured at the area by the side window. “It used to be a separate bedroom. When I bought this place, I thought I’d only use it for an occasional theater weekend, so I remodeled for entertaining. I didn’t realize those Hollywood vampires would steal me blind. Do you believe they claim Wilde in the West never made a penny?” He offered me half of the last bagel. “And speaking of vampires, I want the dish on your ex. Has Jonathan Kahn really left the faux news business to find enlightenment…?”




Chapter 5—Sherwood, Ltd.




Plant and I did make pretty good roommates. And actually, the studio was bigger than my old three-room West Side apartment. 
I didn’t bring up the subject of Silas and Plant didn’t ask me about my failed romance with my policeman friend Rick. I even started to get used to the Stephen Sondheim mix constantly playing from Plant’s iPod speakers. I set up my laptop in an almost-private nook, and had a lot of evenings to myself, since Plant spent most of his time at Theater Rhino, where they were reviving one of his plays. 
I discovered a resale shop in Hayes Valley that gave me a reasonable amount for my Piaget watch and the diamond earrings Jonathan had given me on our tenth anniversary. After that, I could contribute groceries and buy a few necessities. I didn’t tell Plant where the money came from. He thought my new Tinker Bell Timex was a cute fashion statement. I didn’t need diamonds. I was living in jeans anyway.

That’s why it was over a month before I put on the Armani pants suit I’d worn job-hunting the day Lance/Larry the bookstore clerk had met his end.
Plant was treating me to Peruvian food to celebrate finishing up my book proposal and sample chapters to send to my agent. As we waited to get into Mochica in a drizzly March fog, I stuck a hand in my pocket for warmth, and felt something I didn’t remember putting there. I pulled out an elegant business card, printed on forest green stock with gilt lettering. 
“Sherwood Publishing Group, Ltd.,” it said. “Peter Sherwood, Managing Director. Maidenette Building/Threadneedle Street/Swynsby-on-Trent, Lincs, UK.” 
“Ooooh,” Plant took the card as I told him where it came from. “Your alley-person was Peter Sherwood? He really is a publisher, darling. Silas and I met him at the Frankfurt Book Fair. He’s the new owner of Dominion Books. His uncle’s an earl or something.” 
I felt my face flush. “How awful. I should write and apologize…” 
Plant smiled. “The fact he’s an aristocrat doesn’t mean he’s well-behaved. He wasn’t joking about the whips and chains. Dominion publishes erotica. He was probably peddling his wares to Felix.” 
I put the card in my purse as a waiter finally beckoned us inside. I felt terrible. “I gave the police his description. And called him a creep. The poor man.”
 “Don’t worry, darling,” Plant said after ordering the wine. “I’m sure Mr. Sherwood is fine. It’s Felix I’m worried about. He’s going to lose the store. He was barely breaking even before this happened—e-books have taken over the erotica market more than any other—and now, after the horrible thing with, um…” He stopped, then shook his head as if shaking off his grief.  “Since Lance’s death, he’s lost regulars.
“People honestly think Felix killed Lance?” It was hard to envision little baby-faced Felix perpetrating that awful thing I saw in the alley. 
But Plant nodded. “There are nasty rumors flying around—even though it now looks as if Lance probably died of a heart attack.”
“The police think Lance died of a heart attack? He couldn’t have been more than thirty. That’s scary.” 
Part of me was relieved to hear he died of natural causes, but I couldn’t help thinking how dreadful it would be to drop dead while taking out the trash. Especially with a hungry coyote lurking nearby.
 Plant nodded. “I guess it happens to younger people all the time. Of course, the police won’t know until the autopsy’s been done, and they’re still saying it could have been murder. When there’s suspicion of foul play, people always suspect a jilted lover.” He gave an unfunny laugh. “Apparently Lance’s high school girlfriend suspects Felix of all sorts of criminal activity. She keeps reappearing to make his life difficult. The woman must take clueless pills for breakfast. She actually tried to flirt with me—and kept asking if I’d read the manuscript of Lance’s novel.”
“I suppose a lot of book store clerks have novels lying around somewhere. Did you know about it?”
Plant rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes. He begged me so often that I finally had to look at it: a medieval vampire/werewolf saga—writteneth forsoothly. Dreadful. ” 
My mind was still on the enigmatic Mr. Sherwood. I wasn’t convinced he didn’t have something to do with Lance’s demise.
“There was something scary about Peter Sherwood. Maybe after I chased him away, he took Lance back to the alley for a quickie and killed him for some sort of kinky thrill…”
“I doubt Peter Sherwood is gay.” Plant poured our wine. “Dominion books are mostly hetero. Silas carries some of their titles. Rather classy-looking for what they are.” He sniffed. “He called this afternoon, by the way, Silas did. He wants me to pay half of last month’s bills, if you can believe it. He owns a bookstore empire and my screenplay has been in development hell for three years—but I have to pay half his damned water bill.” 
It was the first time Plant had mentioned Silas. I could see his pain was still raw.
I could also see he wanted to talk, so I let him spill out his anger at Silas. And I told him how my long-distance romance with Rick Zukowski had slowly fizzled while I nursed my mother through the surgery and chemo. 
When we got home that evening, I wrote a quick e-mail to the address on Peter Sherwood’s card, apologizing for the shoe-throwing. As I hit the send button, I hoped the man was safely back in his lair at Threadneedle Street/Swynsby-on-Trent/Lincs. 
Even if he wasn’t Lance’s murderer, I had a feeling that Mr. Peter Sherwood might make a dangerous enemy. 



   Chapter 6—Not Right for Us at This Time




I hid my growing panic from Plant as I left my futile job applications everywhere. With so many experienced people out of work, nobody wanted an ex-socialite with no employment history. But Plant didn’t need to be burdened with my worries. The split with Silas had sent him into a depression he couldn’t hide.
One afternoon in April, I returned from selling my graduation pearls to find a familiar-looking envelope addressed to me. Finally, word from my agent. Perfect timing: the book was edited, polished and ready to go. I tore open the letter as I climbed the stairs. Maybe my luck had finally turned. 
“Dear Writer,” it said. “This project is not right for us at this time…” 
My stomach thunked. Not even a personalized salutation. Why hadn’t I formed a plan B? Or told Plant I was broke? I had to tell him tonight. No: he said he’d be at the theater. 
Just as well. I was going to cry and it would probably be noisy.
But as I opened the door, I heard some sort of huffing and puffing coming from behind my bedroom curtain. A growl. And some grunting. Then voices. 
I stopped breathing. Until I recognized a voice: Silas’s—then Plant’s, murmuring softly. Okay, Silas and Plant seemed to be having a reconciliation. A very private one. I tiptoed back to the kitchen, but Silas’s booming baritone carried. I could hear him telling Plant, in soothing tones, how they mustn’t spend another moment apart and they could live part-time at the beach house in Morro Bay, and part time here in the City.
“But what about Camilla…?” Plant said in a throaty whisper. 
“She’s been mooching off you long enough. You’re on the verge of bankruptcy, and you won’t even ask her for rent. You take care of everybody but yourself, Plant.”
Bankruptcy? Another stomach-thunker. So Plant’s comments about being ripped off by Hollywood weren’t ordinary kvetching. 
Stifling my guilt with stale chocolate chips, I grabbed my laptop and went out to the back porch to give the lovers some privacy. I perched at the top of the stairs, looking out on the dumpster where Lance had met his end. I hoped they’d decide soon if Lance had died of a heart attack, or if some murderer was still lurking out there. 
When I checked my email, I was surprised to find, amidst the spam, a message from psherwood@tiscali.co.uk. I opened it, wishing my heart wouldn’t do that jumpy thing when I thought about him. I was not going to allow myself to be attracted to a scary pornographer—at least not one who lived on the other side of the planet.
“Dear Miss Randall,” he wrote. “It is I who must apologize—for terrifying you that night in San Francisco. May I plead that I was too dazzled by your beauty to think properly? Or offer the excuse of jet lag? Or nicotine-deprivation? Nowhere to smoke in that bloody town, which is why I was reduced to lurking in alleys with wild beasts.”
Okay, he was charming. Maybe too charming. But at least he wasn’t angry. The message went on. “I admit to giving you a quick Google. Are you the Camilla Randall who wrote the “Manners Doctor” books? Any interest in re-releasing them?” He went on to say that Sherwood Ltd. was launching a new mainstream imprint. He’d bought Dominion Books “in hopes the backlist of pervy tomes might support an independent publishing company that can take risks with new writers.” He was also reprinting nonfiction titles that could generate steady sales. “Your Wedding Rx might work nicely,” he said.
I tried to calm myself. There had to be a catch. 
“If you have other work available (whips and chains optional) I’d love to have a look. My best to you and the San Francisco wildlife. Cheers, Peter.” 
Reminding myself to breathe, I hit “reply” and attached the file of Good Manners for Bad Times. Then I took myself out to dinner. Maybe my luck-wheel had turned. 
Plant’s luck seemed to have improved, too—at least with Silas. When I tiptoed back to the apartment, I could hear them softly snoring from my bed-nook. I stretched out on the couch and slept better than I had in ages.

In the morning, cozy bacon-and-eggy aromas told me that Silas was still on premises. Toasting bagels was as close as Plant got to the culinary arts.
Big, bearded Silas looked gigantic in Plant’s tiny kitchen as he hovered by the stove. Plant looked up from his sunny-side eggs and gave me a goofy grin. Silas’s hello was warm. “You’re just in time for breakfast. How do you want your eggs?”
“Silas drove up yesterday,” Plant winked at Silas. “He says it’s because he wanted to make an offer on Felix’s bookstore, but I think he just wanted my body.” 
Silas gave Plant a quick kiss. “It’s true. But I’ve had my eye on that location for years. I have a store in the East Bay, but I need a downtown outlet.” Plant didn’t even flinch at the mention of the Berkeley store. Things seemed to be all patched up.
But as Silas scrambled eggs for me, Plant looked pained. “Camilla darling, Silas needs time to work things out with the bank. He’d, uh, hoped to stay through this week. ”
I poured coffee and tried to look cheerful. “Great. It will be fun. I’m perfectly happy on the couch.” 
I was dying to tell him the good news about my book, but unspoken tension choked the air. The Manners Doctor would have advised a quick move to a hotel. But The Manners Doctor had never been broke and unemployable. After gobbling the eggs, I pretended to be eager for a walk, and rushed outside to give the lovers their space.
 My mind on Peter Sherwood, I decided to check for his titles at Felix’s store. The Dominion erotica was shelved in a dark corner, amidst the leather fetish outfits and fur-lined handcuffs, which I supposed Silas would soon replace with Jane Austen note cards, library-lion bookends, and the other upscale decorator items that kept his business in the black in spite of the e-book revolution. 
Not that the Dominion covers were offensive. The drawings of buxom women in wisps of black underwear were no worse than Victoria’s Secret ads.
Back in the small mainstream fiction area, a book titled Robin Hood: The Call of Sherwood caught my eye: the green-clad archer blowing on a sheep’s horn looked rather like Peter—thin and spiky-haired. I bought it and retreated to a café to read tales of England’s “courteous outlaw” and his merry men.
When I ventured back to the apartment, Plant was mixing cocktails and singing along with Sondheim’s Into the Woods while Silas created magic in the kitchen.
“We have a treat tonight, darling.” Plant handed me a Negroni with a tangerine twist. “Silas is cooking venison tenderloin in a port reduction sauce.”
I relaxed. Venison and woodsy music seemed serendipitous after a day of Robin Hood stories. Everything was delicious. 
But after dinner, Silas gave me an odd smile and pulled an envelope from his pocket. “I have something for you, Camilla. I hope you’ll understand…” 
It was a ticket to New York. One way. For the day after tomorrow. 
Silas said with a strained grin that the date could be changed. “Or change the destination.” His voice was too loud. “If you want to take in the sights of Boston, Cancun—even Paris—let my travel agent know and I’ll pay the difference. I don’t want you to feel put out. But our plans have changed…” He squeezed Plant’s hand. 
Plant looked away, avoiding my eyes.
I armored myself with a Manners Doctor smile and escaped, murmuring about checking on line for flights. My hands shook as I watched my computer boot up, wondering if one could make reservations at a homeless shelter. 
My inbox held a message from psherwood. I opened it, hardly able to breathe. 
“We love Good Manners and we’d like to make an offer,” psherwood wrote.
An offer. Not much of an advance, but I’d be in print again. He went on, in a pottering English way, about a vast factory in Lincolnshire that he and his partner had recently bought, where employees had “set up house” in various nooks and crannies after moving from their former location in Nottingham.   
“…and we can offer your very own cranny. We’d like to launch ASAP and send you on a bit of a tour to promote your UK debut. If you come soon, you can meet our other American author, Gordon Trask, who has been visiting us...” 
Gordon Trask. Vietnam fighter pilot turned best-selling author. I had no idea he was still alive. He’d been nominated for a Pulitzer, as I remembered—decades ago.
England. I’d been invited to England. Flying back to New York, penniless, would be utter defeat, but moving to Swynsby-on-Trent, Lincolnshire, UK, to hobnob with publishing rebels and literary greats…that would be a glorious adventure.




Chapter 7—Robin Hood Airport




The efficient travel agent almost made up for Silas’s callousness. She got me on a flight from San Francisco to London, with a connecting flight to the charmingly named Robin Hood Airport in the East Midlands. I had been to England often, usually for Wimbledon or a theater week with Mother, but I’d never been north of Oxford. I was excited about seeing another part of the country.
Even though I was squished between two student travelers who listened to thumpy music that bled through their headphones, I got through the flight to London okay, thanks to a couple of Valentina’s tablets. No one recognized me, and I relaxed into my comfortable nobody-ness. I even slept a little—dreaming of Robin Hood, merry men and feasting under the greenwood tree. 
I’d Googled Swynsby-on-Trent, which wasn’t far from the real Sherwood Forest, on the border of Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire. It looked like a storybook English town, with a medieval market center featuring a half-timbered manor house where Richard III once stayed. An English major’s fantasy come true. 
I hadn’t found much online about Peter Sherwood or his company, but that was probably because the enterprise was so new. Silas said they were planning to take musty old Dominion, Ltd. into the e-book market in a big way. Their website didn’t mention their new mainstream books—just the whips and chains stuff, but Peter said that was new, too. I did find a picture of him with some blonde at a London club, plus a mention of his Frankfurt Book Fair partying in the blog of Miss Daisy Frost. He was obviously a man-about-town. 

 I got through Customs in a tranquilized fog, and the connecting flight to Robin Hood airport took less time than a taxi ride through Midtown at rush hour. 
The noisy crowd retrieving bags around me mostly wore the straw hats and inappropriate clothing of tourists arriving home from warmer climes. I almost felt out of place in my Burberry raincoat. I searched the crowd, but as my fellow passengers dispersed, I saw nobody who looked remotely like my alley-person. I hoped I’d recognize him without his coyote-and-corpse entourage. 
The memory of that night made me shudder. But I was already here and couldn’t afford the luxury of paranoia. 
I decided to go to the restroom to change out of my musty traveling clothes. I put on an all-British ensemble: an Alexander McQueen babydoll dress in anthracite wool, and a pair of Stella McCartney boots I hadn’t been able to sell because of a bent buckle. 
But when I emerged, my anxiety returned. The waiting room was nearly deserted except for a black man with wild dreadlocks—dyed an improbable tomato red. He gave me an odd grin. 
I went to the information desk to ask if anyone had left a message for me.
“Lookin’ fe Pe’ah Sha’wood?” said the scarlet-dreaded man, his northern accent barely understandable. He extended his hand. “I’m Liam, Miss Randall,” he said. “Your driver.” He made an elaborate, silly bow and grinned even wider as he picked up my bags and led me out into the damp, gloomy dusk of the parking lot. 
He stopped at a battered Mini Cooper. 
“Company limo,” he said with an ironic laugh as he stowed my bags in a trunk otherwise occupied by empty beer bottles and stacks of smutty books. It smelled of stale beer and cigarettes and unwashed socks. If I’d had the money to turn around and book a flight back to New York at that moment, I would have done it in a heartbeat. 
“Hop in the car,” Liam said, his dreadlocks glowing a bloody red in the parking lot light. 
I stood beside the car door, frozen. He wasn’t even going to open the door for me. I had just flown half way around the world to live with a gang of low-life pornographers. And I had no choice but to do whatever he told me.




Chapter 8—Fairy Tale Villages and Mutant Zombies 




Liam stood behind me, beside the car, looking puzzled. 
“You fancy doing the driving? I don’t mind, but I thought you’d be knackered after your flight.” 
Of course, the English drove on the other side of the road. I should have remembered. I’d been about to climb into the driver’s seat.
 “I always drive because I’m the only one what’s got a valid driving license,” he said. “But your American license is good here…”
“I’m just—confused. Sorry.” 
We switched sides, and he did open the door for me after all, with rather an elegant flourish. But as I sat down, I remembered I didn’t actually have a valid American license. It had been up for renewal when I was in the middle of the mess with the foreclosure. I hadn’t owned a car since I’d moved to Manhattan after the divorce, so it hadn’t been an issue. I looked in my wallet. There it was—along with the picture of Jonathan I somehow hadn’t been able to part with—my New York driver’s license, expiration date: last November. 
Liam didn’t offer conversation—or any further information on the “rough evening.” He turned on the car radio and listened with intensity to a sports event, occasionally exploding with anger, or cheering when somebody made a wicket or whatever. I was burning with questions on everything from the whereabouts of Mr. Sherwood to what accommodations to expect, but Liam told me nothing. All I could figure out from the loud radio was that we were listening to something soccerish played by teams from Leeds and Manchester.  
We passed through misty fairy-tale villages with cobbled streets and half-timbered pubs, but they didn’t do much to allay my fears.
At one point, Liam got a call on his cell. His face went tense. 
“She’s here,” he said. “All sorted.” 
But when he clicked off, he turned the radio even louder, which did not make me feel “sorted” in any way. 
I told myself I shouldn’t have expected Peter Sherwood to meet me in person. He had more important authors to entertain, like Gordon Trask.
Liam slowed in front of a large, featureless red-brick building surrounded by an iron fence. He drove the Mini through an open gate and down a driveway scattered with bottles, wrappers, and drifting plastic bags—not exactly the quaint spot I had pictured.
 He parked next to an ancient van and put an arm around my shoulders, his tone secretive. 
“We’ve got a bit of a dodgy situation inside. If anyone asks, you don’t know Peter Sherwood. You’re with me. Look after yourself and stay out of the way.” 
He got out and opened the car door for me. 
I wanted to scream, maybe jump behind the wheel and drive back to the airport—anything but step out into the rainy night. I started to ask the obvious questions, but Liam silenced me with a shake of his head.
 “Don’t say owt to nark this bloke. He’s a right loon.” Although his speech was incomprehensible, Liam’s body language made it clear something was very wrong inside. 
I hesitated a moment longer, but the rain, heavier now, was soaking his hair and shoulders. I stepped out of the car and ran with him to the back of the building. He unlocked a door and gestured me into the darkness. 
It felt like one of those dumb-teenager scream movies—and this was the scene where they went into the crypt to be eaten by mutant zombies. But I’d thrown in my lot with these people, and I was going to have to go inside, zombies or no zombies. 
Liam led me along creaky wooden floors and down a brick-walled hallway that led to a cavernous room with barred windows. Large machines formed menacing silhouettes against oily yellow light from the street lamps outside. Men’s voices rumbled from behind double doors. Somebody let out a yell. 
Liam draped his damp arm over my shoulder and shouted in the direction of the double doors. 
“Just Liam and me girlfriend here.” 
He took me into a smoke-filled cafeteria, lit by a couple of elderly fluorescent light fixtures that buzzed and sputtered on the grimy ceiling. A group of scruffy men sat on greasy couches and assorted plastic chairs, mesmerized by a snowy television that broadcasted the soccer game that had been playing on the car radio. The men barely looked up as we entered.
“Here she is, mates, me girlfriend, um, er… Camilla.” 
This interested no one but a bald, gray-bearded man who straddled a chair in the center of the room. Square and muscular, with a patch over one eye, the man held in one hand a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels, and in the other—a chef’s knife. 
A very big knife.




            Chapter 9—Welcome to Sherwood




The man with the eye patch turned and stared at Liam and me, scrutinizing me like an item for sale. 
“Camilla?” His voice was larded with scorn. “We’ve got ourselves a bleeding duchess, have we?” He took a swig of the whiskey. “Where the fuck is Peter, Rasta-boy? I’m done waiting. And tell him his whiskey is witch’s piss.” He jumped up and came at us, waving the knife. I couldn’t tell if he was waving his weapon so near Liam’s throat out of homicidal menace or drunken stupidity. No one showed much fear, so I assumed he was simply drunk.
I wondered where Peter was. His absence was now bordering on rudeness.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I had no idea if this was how these people entertained themselves, but the knife was simply too much. “I’m terribly jet lagged and that’s making me nervous. Would you mind putting it away?”
The man gave a roar and aimed the knife at me. His powerful forearm, adorned with a tattooed anchor, looked as if it could do serious damage, with or without sharp, pointy kitchen implements. I tried to divert the blade from the vicinity of my throat with a finger against the blunt side of the blade, but that made him angrier.
“Your duchess thinks this is funny, Rasta-boy.” 
He felt the sleeve of my coat with the back of his finger, then gave me a one-eyed stare that froze my blood.
 “Not a bad Burberry knock-off,” he said. “And those McCartney boots look almost genuine. You get them off Peter?” He turned back to Liam. “Rasta-boy, you couldn’t pull a posh bird like this. She’s Peter’s tart, ain’t she?” He felt my coat again. “I hope that twatface didn’t tell you this is the real thing?”
I couldn’t have spoken, even if I’d had a response to give this madman. My knees had turned to custard. I held onto Liam, whose face was a mask of stony calm, although every muscle of the arm that circled my shoulders had gone tense. 
“How much time left?” Liam said to the television watchers, whose faces showed similar indifference to the armed and dangerous fashion policeman. 
“They’re going to chuck it any minute,” said one, lighting a cigarette. The others said nothing, only glancing for a moment from the television that transfixed them. Apparently nothing could pry them from their game, even a homicidal maniac.
The man moved his knife back toward Liam. 
“They’ve all been getting mysterious calls on their mobiles. You lads are up to something.”
The TV watchers yelled. A man in a paint-spattered hoodie threw a beer can at the television. 
“Bollocks!” he shouted. “Bleeding, bollocksy wankers!”
Eye-patch man gulped whiskey. 
“You’d better be a Leeds supporter, Duchess, or these barbarians will tear you limb from limb.”
I tried to smile, feeling as if I’d been dropped into a wild animal cage at an alien zoo. Those Merry Men of Sherwood stories were terribly romantic, but the reality of unwashed, uncivilized men was not. 
“Sorry, I don’t know anything about Leeds—or Manchester United either. I don’t follow soccer, I’m afraid.”
“What did you say?” said a small, dark man with a jutting jaw and eyebrows like wayward caterpillars. His voice held as much menace as the eye patch man’s. 
They all turned to glare at me. Soccer. I’d called it soccer. Not good. 
“I mean football. I don’t know much about Leeds or Manchester United, um, Man U, I guess it’s called…” 
No, I must have said that wrong, too. The glares got darker.
“You’ve got the pronunciation wrong there,” said the dark little man, who was rolling his own cigarette from what appeared to be a communal tobacco pouch. “Around here, you don’t say ‘Man U.’ It’s pronounced ‘scum’.” 
All the men laughed, including Eye-Patch. 
“We’re still fighting the Wars of the Roses over here,” said a young man who looked to be of Indian descent. “It’s still York vs. Lancashire, six hundred years later.” As he turned back to watch the screen, I noticed he sat in a wheelchair.
“You’re from America?” said Eye-Patch, scrutinizing me again. “You people don’t know shit about making whiskey.” He stumbled toward the TV, where something noisy was happening. After emptying the bottle with one last swallow, he threw it at an overflowing trash can in the corner. It missed and shattered on the floor.
The TV watchers gave an angry roar. 
“Lost again, fuckers!” somebody shouted.
Chaos descended. Liam, who had been backing toward the doors, disappeared into the factory. A second later, the lights went out. A crash came from above as a rusty trap door opened and a ladder swung down, knocking the drunken Eye-Patch to the floor. 
The men swarmed Eye-Patch. In the light from the streetlamp outside, I could see the dark little man grab the knife while two others held Eye-patch down. He roared in fury. They roared back, using a remarkable assortment of obscenities. 
An authoritative voice came from above. “Excellent work, lads.” A flashlight flared, and a man’s legs descended the ladder. “Take him outside,” the man said, shining the flashlight on Eye-Patch’s limp body. “The Swynsby constabulary can find him accommodation for the night.”
Peter Sherwood’s grinning face appeared as he hung from the swinging ladder.
“And lads…Watch your sodding language. There’s a lady present.” 
With raucous laughter they dragged the old man to the outer door. The man in the wheelchair led the charge to the cobbled street outside. 
“Hello, Camilla Randall!” Peter said, “Catch the torch!” 
He tossed me the flashlight. I directed the beam at the ceiling and saw Peter hanging from the ladder, wearing a tuxedo, complete with bow tie—a large, purple one. From the hole above him, he extricated a battered bouquet of daffodils and leaped to the cafeteria floor, landing with an athlete’s grace. 
He offered me the flowers along with an irresistible grin and a bow worth of Errol Flynn himself. 
“Welcome to Sherwood, M’lady.”





Chapter 10—Down the Rabbit Hole





I stood in the dark cafeteria—daffodils in one hand, flashlight in the other, alone with this tuxedo-clad man who had just knocked out an apparently homicidal creditor with a kick to the head. 
My new publisher. 
I didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. But since my face seemed to be frozen in a stiff smile, I did neither. 
 Peter, with a cheery grin, resumed custody of his “torch.” He let the beam linger on my boots. 
“Those boots are brilliant, Miss Randall.” He extended his other hand. “Splendid to see you again.” He shook my hand with tea-party politeness. 
“That man. With the eye patch. He had a knife.”
Peter laughed. “And I had no weapon of any kind. Which I believe gave me the moral advantage.” He looked absurdly sexy in the tuxedo: Keith Richards doing a Cary Grant impression. He peeked out a window and took a mobile phone from his pocket. “There’s a bloke lying on the pavement on Threadneedle Street,” he said. “Near the Merry Miller. Probably just pissed, but you might want to send an ambulance. Cheers.”
 After this surprising show of compassion. He disappeared through the double doors, and a moment later, the fluorescent lights above hummed to life and the television blared. He laughed as I blinked in befuddlement. “I phoned Liam earlier and told him to throw the switch as soon as the match was over,” he said. “I didn’t want to electrocute myself when I kicked through a ceiling with who knows how many live wires running through.” He glanced up at the rusty trap door and precariously hanging ladder. “Luckily, the electrical system seems to be intact. I’ve been wanting to replace that filthy ceiling anyway. Somebody tiled right over that nice trap door. Victorian, from the look of it.” He kicked away a piece of disintegrating ceiling tile that had fallen to the floor. 
On the television, a commercial showed a cartoon of cheery, bouncing bunnies. I felt as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in some demented cartoon-bunny land myself. I’d come for Robin Hood and found the White Rabbit. 
“I do apologize for the dramatics,” Peter said. “They weren’t entirely for your benefit, although I think it was rather a good entrance, don’t you?” He picked up a piece of broken glass bottle and tossed it in the vicinity of the trash bins. “I would have got rid of Barnacle Bill earlier, but he’s easier to handle with a whole bottle of whiskey in him than half. Usually passes out by then. Besides, I didn’t want to ask Liam to throw the switch until the game was over. The lads would have clobbered me instead of old Bill.” He gave me a sudden hug—quick and brotherly, but I couldn’t help reacting to his touch. He smelled of peppermints. “Are you all right, lass? How was your flight?”
“The flight was fine.” I wanted to tell him nothing had been close to fine since I’d landed on terra firma, but that seemed too obvious to state without being rude.
Peter brushed dust off his tuxedo. “It’s right nasty, up there in the attic. We haven’t had time to clean it. Although I did some brainstorming up there. It would make a brilliant flat. It has skylights and gobs of floor space.” He straightened his purple tie. “I wore this for your arrival. Ordered in some pizza and American whiskey, too, to make you feel at home, but I’m afraid Barnacle Bill availed himself of the treats.” He examined the mess around the trash container. “Sorry. Are you ravenous? Let’s get you some food. “I could do with a meat pie meself. Nothing like climbing about on rooftops and lying in rat turds to work up an appetite.”  
I’d been a little hungry, but that evaporated with talk of rat turds. Mostly I longed for bed. 
“I’d prefer to settle in now, if you don’t mind. It’s tomorrow morning for me.”
“But you’re in Blighty now, my dear.” He looked at his watch. “And here it’s only half nine. You’ll hate yourself if you go to bed now and wake at five AM. Come down the pub, lass. Brenda can fix you breakfast, dinner, supper—whatever you fancy. And you can meet Mr. Trask. Don’t you want to meet your fellow American scrivener?”
“Gordon Trask will be there?” Talking with a fellow American might make this seem less surreal.
“I assume so, since he’s terrified to walk about at night. Amazing about these macho authors. They’re generally big girl’s blouses when you meet them. Same with the whips and chains blokes. They all look like chartered accountants in person.” 
A siren wailing down the street. Peter peeked through the filthy curtains—wildly flowered in a print of orange and hot pink that probably dated from the days of the Beatles. 
“Here’s the ambulance. It’s all right then. They’ll get poor old Barnacle sorted.” He picked up a large purple umbrella and offered me his arm. “Come, m’lady. The brolly’s big enough for both of us. Let’s get you fed.” 
He led me into the rain and put up the umbrella. I took his offered elbow, although the thought of where it had been made this less appealing than it might have been. But I was happy for the stability on the slippery cobblestones.
Peter blithely led me past the paramedics attending to Barnacle Bill, who still lay lifeless on the sidewalk. 
“You’ll feel better when you’ve had a pint, lass. And I need to introduce you properly to the lads. I owe them a couple of rounds. Rather clever, I thought, calling them all on their mobiles to coordinate the maneuvers. I haven’t forgotten everything I learned while fighting for Queen and country in the Balkans.”
I digested this information. 
“So that was you who called Liam in the car?” 
He grinned. “Yes. I called from my perch up there. Awfully sorry I couldn’t welcome you myself. But as you saw, the old Barnacle had other plans for me.”
“So you’re previously acquainted with this…Barnacle person?” 
“He used to captain my yacht in the Caribbean.” 
Yachts. The Caribbean. Galaxies away from this soggy, nonsensical place. I felt as if I were watching a foreign film without subtitles. All I wanted was a bed. And a shower. 
But instead I was walking down a narrow, treacherous street in the direction of beer—warm beer, no doubt; Plant had warned me of that—with a man I did not know, and at the moment, had very little reason to trust.




                    Chapter 11—The Merry Men




As we rounded the corner, we came to a pub called the Merry Miller—a storybook half-timbered building with thick, bottle-glass window panes and a tiny arched wooden door that looked as if it had been made for Hobbits. So did the low ceilings. But the place glowed with inviting light from a big fireplace near the bar.
“A seventeenth century coaching inn,” Peter said. “There are still some guest rooms upstairs. Gordon Trask isn’t terribly impressed with them, but then Mr. Trask isn’t impressed with much.”
Before I could ask him to elaborate, Liam shouted from a big booth in the corner. “You owe us a pint, Peter.” 
“Brenda, pints all round for me brave lads!” Peter shouted at a large red-haired woman as he ushered me through the crowd. He seated me next to the wheelchair man. 
“So what was all that about, Peter?” said Mr. Eyebrows. “That geezer said you owed him money. Do you?”
Peter’s eyes twinkled. 
“It’s not impossible. I left Tobago Bay with some haste last year. I don’t know how he found me here.” He took out his pipe and filled it from a leather tobacco pouch. “He’s mostly harmless, except when he’s on the piss.”
“I don’t know why Meggy let him in. He were right bladdered,” said the man in the paint-spattered hoodie. He had a number of piercings in both ears and one in his nose. 
“It’s hardly fair to Meggy,” said the man in the wheelchair. He gave a professorial harrumph. “She’s a machine operator, not a bloody guard dog.” He extended his hand to me. “I’m Pradeep Balasubramarium, Miss Randall. Your editor.”
“We just call him Professor,” Peter said. “Got a Ph.D. from Cambridge, he does. No idea why he’s slumming with this lot.”  
The Professor gave my hand a shake. 
“Sorry I didn’t introduce myself over there. I didn’t want to let on that you were one of our authors, or that lunatic might have taken you hostage. He’d been threatening to abscond with my chair if we didn’t tell him where Peter was, so I was lying low.” 
“I coulda taken him in half a minute, knife or no knife,” said a big man with a scarred face and an accent even less comprehensible than the rest. 
“And killed the poor old sod,” Peter said. “We don’t need corpses bleeding all over our canteen floor, thank you very much.” 
Another homicidal lunatic. And here I was, cheerfully joining him for beer. Maybe I’d completely lost my own mind and I was back in Manhattan, hallucinating.
The pierced man offered a hand. 
“I’m Tom Mowbray—the art department. You’d better like your cover art, because I’ve got no time for alterations…”
Further conversation was thwarted by a burst of noise from a small stage at the end of the pub. An M.C. with hair slicked into a ratty pony tail announced in a Cockney accent that music was about to commence. Karaoke. I might have preferred Barnacle Bill.
I was grateful for the arrival of the beer. It was indeed room temperature—not a problem since the chilly room was about the temperature of American beer. I took a sip and found it pretty yummy. Peter ordered meat pies for both of us. 
Brenda was a worn-looking woman in her fifties, with quantities of dyed hair and a figure that must have been spectacular before gravity took its toll. She didn’t look particularly pleased to see Peter. 
“So are you going to settle up the account now?” 
“What account? We’re just getting started,” said Peter. 
“For the Yank. Three week’s lodging and meals.” She handed him a sheet of paper scribbled with numbers. “I’d prefer cash, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Brenda me love.” Peter gave her a wink. “I’ll have the money for you when he checks out.” He looked around the crowded pub. “Where is the illustrious Mr. Trask, by the way? I want him to meet Miss Randall here.”
“Gone,” Brenda said with a sniff. “Without so much as a wave goodbye. I cooked his bloody breakfast and carried it up to his room this morning, but he’d cleared off in the night. I had to charge you for the full English, by the way. He’s got to have them egg substitutes. Cost me three times as much as proper eggs.” 
Peter’s face distorted as he slammed the table in fury. “Bugger! You lot know anything about this?” He surveyed the table with a suspicious eye. “Trask never signed that bollocksy new contract. We’re screwed, mates. Bloody screwed.”
There it was—that feral thing I saw in Peter the night we met. 
I tensed. So did everybody else.
Or maybe that was because an emaciated young woman with maroon hair had joined the MC to sing something that had been awful when the Captain and Tennille sang it in the nineteen-seventies. 
The singers who followed were worse, but the meat pie was flaky and filling, and eventually the beer dulled my anxiety. But it also made me sleepy. When Liam got up to sing, I could hardly keep my head up, although he did a rousing rendition of the Animals’ 1960s anthem, “We Gotta Get Outta This Place.” By the last chorus, the entire pub was singing along. 
The patrons were still applauding Liam when a taxi driver appeared and the Professor took his leave. 
“Nice to meet you, Miss Randall,” he said over his shoulder as he wheeled himself toward the door. “Unlike this lot. I have a home to go to.” 
“Our American guest looks knackered,” Liam said as he resumed his seat. He gave me a smile. “Planning to stay upstairs?”
I looked to Peter for a cue. He shrugged, obviously still upset about Mr. Trask’s departure. 
“They have a vacancy, as you heard.” He picked up Brenda’s bill. “Your compatriot thinks Sherwood is a forest of money trees.” He stuffed the bill in a pocket. “So what do you say? Upstairs? Or our humble accommodations at the Maidenette Building? ”
Before I could speak, the M.C. came to the table and shook Peter’s hand. 
“Good to see you again, Mr. Sherwood. I hear your Yank has flown the coop.”
Peter gave him a dark look. The MC turned his smarmy smile on me.
 “But you’ve brought someone new. Who is this young lady? Does she sing?’ 
“You’ll thank me if I don’t.” I extended my hand. “I’m Camilla Randall—just arrived from San Francisco.” 
He squeezed my hand a little too long. “Alan Greene. I like San Francisco. Visited last summer. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack me spangled dress and boa.” He put on a stagy lisp. “I was so underdressed—the only dates I could pull were with women!” 
Brenda the barmaid appeared on the little stage, her apron off. She glared at Alan and grabbed the mike, sending out a wail of feedback.
“Duty calls!” Alan made a dramatic leap back to the stage to join Brenda in a duet of “I Got You Babe” that could have given Cher grounds to sue. 
“How long do they keep doing this?” I shouted when the noise let up a bit.
“They’re supposed to quit at midnight,” said Liam. “But it depends how many people Alan has signed to sing. You don’t want to give that bloke too much encouragement. He’ll talk your ear off, that one. And every word a lie.”
“He may call himself Alan, but we call him the Baron. As in Munchausen,” said Mr. Eyebrows. “He wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the arse. I doubt he’s ever been to San Francisco. Or anywhere but the East End. He’s just Brenda’s toy boy…”
A blast of Europop silenced him as a red-faced man in a rugby jersey stumbled onto the stage. My Tinker Bell watch said it was after ten. I turned to Peter. 
“I think it’s time I got to bed. I’m sure the Maidenette Building will be lovely.” 
I had no idea what I’d find back there, but at that point even mutant zombies wouldn’t scare me as much as the prospect of two hours of off-key “Sex on the Beach.”




Chapter 12—A Two-Headed Shilling




As we walked through the soggy night, huddled under the purple umbrella, I could feel tension radiating from Peter’s body. I wished I didn’t find him so attractive. I knew how badly that could cloud my judgment. Look at how stupid I’d been about Jonathan. Everybody in the business knew about his taste for street prostitutes but me.
When we passed the spot where Barnacle Bill had been rescued by the paramedics, Peter ran to pick up something from the trash-strewn street—a coin, glinting in the light from the street lamp.  
“Ever see a shilling?” He tossed the coin to me. “That was legal tender on this island for centuries before we got decimalized by the damned Europeans.” 
The coin was delicate and silvery, not like the thick brown pound coins I’d been given when I exchanged my meager funds at Heathrow. I tried to sound interested although I was now soaked as well as exhausted.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen a shilling before.” 
“You still haven’t. This one has two heads, see…” He flipped it over. “Her Majesty’s beloved countenance on both sides. ‘Heads I win/Heads you lose.’ Comes in handy when tossing for who pays the pub account.” He pocketed the coin. “Old Barnacle has had this as long as I’ve known him. Must have fallen from his pocket. I’ll take it to him when I pay his fine in the morning.” 
As I pondered this startling bit of kindness, Peter’s mood went dark again. He unlocked the door to the cafeteria and pushed it open with an angry shove. 
“What a bloody mess.” He pointed to the bits of ceiling plaster and rust that covered the linoleum floor. “That old pirate mucks things up wherever he goes.”
I looked around at the stained yellow walls, overflowing ashtrays and stacks of dirty dishes. A mess, certainly, but the sailor couldn’t be blamed for it all.
“You can tell the lads don’t pay the electric rates.” Peter turned off the television with an angry slap and led me through the cafeteria into the vast factory area. I had that scream-movie feeling again. The place was creepy. So was Peter’s anger. I thought of that night I’d met him. Of Lance’s mangled body. I wish Plant had been able to find out more about the real cause of Lance’s death. 
“Look.” Peter moved to a long, wooden table covered with books and picked one up. The title Home is the Hunter glowed in big, red lettering, and above it, even larger, was the name Gordon Trask. “A print run of five thousand—all rubbish now.” He gave an angry snort. “Trask’s contract lapsed because of delays caused by the move, so he started making absurd demands…he wanted to reserve the e-rights. E-books are the future, lass. We have perhaps five more years to sell paper books and then—they’ll be as obsolete as horse-drawn carts.” He tossed it back and put on a smile. “Sorry. Mustn’t natter on. Where are your bags? Still in the Mini?”  
As we trudged across the wet parking lot to fetch my bags, I started to wonder why Mr. Trask had left. Had he found out something terrible about Sherwood? About Peter? I caught a glimpse of the River Trent through the buildings—a dark, wide blackness between concrete banks. I had the awful thought that it would be easy for a person to disappear into it. I shivered as I watched Peter lift my suitcases from the car and start back toward the building. 
I followed him back inside—past the big machines and down a corridor that led to another wing of the building. He unlocked a wooden door and flipped a light switch to reveal a large, tidy office filled with desks and computers. About a dozen rather good paintings hung from the whitewashed walls, and glossy green plants looked to be thriving by a bank of net-curtained windows. 
A normal business office. Hardly the lair of criminals and murderers. Maybe jet lag was making me a little crazy.
He unlocked another door that led to a small office furnished with a mahogany desk, matching file cabinets, and a green leather couch. Another painting—of a gnarly, ancient oak tree—graced the white-painted brick wall above the couch.
He clicked on a space heater that filled the room with soothing warmth. 
“Please sit.” He indicated the leather couch. “I must show you something, then I’ll take you on a quick tour. The complex covers nearly the whole block...”
I sank onto the couch. I couldn’t imagine standing up again, much less taking a tour of the block, so I faked a large yawn. But Peter didn’t get the message as he pottered with things on his desk and lit a pipe. The sweet-sharp tobacco smoke surrounded him with a misty haze, as if he weren’t quite real. Or maybe that came from my own bleary eyes.
He sat next to me on the couch, bouncing on the springy cushions. 
“I just bought the office furniture. Do you like it?” 
“It’s lovely,” I murmured. “You’re lovely. Swynsby-on-Trent is lovely. But I’m afraid the only place I want you to take me right now is a bed.” 
Peter gave a mock-coy smile. 
“You think I’m lovely? You want me to take you to bed?” 
I pulled away and widened my eyes in an expression of cluelessness. I’ve always told my readers the best way to save both parties embarrassment after an unwanted advance is to pretend you’ve misunderstood. 
“I’m sure you didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s been a long day…” I reshouldered my laptop, wondering how far I would be required to hike to my room.
But he was very close now, looking into my eyes. I anticipated the kiss a moment before it came—quick and soft—not invasive, but the romantic intent was there. 
Exactly what I didn’t want at the moment. 
I stiffened and turned away as my fears came flooding back. 
What if Peter was exactly the kind of pervert he first seemed? Plant wasn’t certain about Lance having a heart attack. Had I just delivered myself into the hands of a murderer?




     Chapter 13—Good Manners for Bad Times




Peter stood, looking wounded at my rebuff of his kiss. He returned to earnest paper-shuffling. 
I fought the panic. I needed to trust this man, because I had nobody else to trust. No point in terrifying myself. Maybe he was just a little drunk.
“I’m afraid I’ve had no sleep for days. And lots of your nice beer…”
“Of course.” He lifted a pile of manuscripts and unearthed a paperback that had been hidden underneath. “Just one more thing before we call it a night. I thought you might like to see this…” He presented me with the book, designed in an understated palette of black and cream and silver. In an elegant engraver’s font was the title “Good Manners for Bad Times—a prescription for the 21st Century by Camilla Randall.”  
A thrill shot through me. A book—a real, solid book—with my own name on the cover. Not even a mention of the Manners Doctor. Just “Camilla Randall.” It was as if I was reborn—as myself. 
“It’s perfect. I don’t know what to say… I didn’t know you’d have it done already. I love it.” I gave him a gentle hug.  
This time he was the one to pull away. With a businesslike smile, he yanked on the lower part of the couch, opening it flat with a triumphant thump. 
“It’s a futon. Very comfy. I bought a new duvet—and a pillow.” He opened one of the office cabinets to reveal a wardrobe full of men’s clothes and some bedding on a shelf. He plopped down the bedding—all in a pretty green design. It was still in its store packaging.
I was finally getting it. “I’m going to sleep in your office? But what about your staff? What time do they arrive for work? I’ll be in the way…” 
Peter gave me a reassuring smile. His eyes—a glowing green-gold in this light—sparkled at me. 
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, lass. The place will be a tomb. No one rises till noon. And the lads are used to me sleeping in here.”
“This is where you sleep? Where will you go…?”
“Dozens of spots in this place. I’ll probably have a nice sleep in the canteen. Two couches in there. No worries.”
I had plenty of worries, but an urgent need overrode them all “Um, could you show me the way to the bathroom first…?” 
“You want a bath?” He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint. We have a shower, but there’s no heat in there. You might want to wait until morning…” He must have seen the horror in my face as I pictured trekking to some outhouse. “You mean the bog? The loo?” He gave me an indulgent smile, as if a request for indoor plumbing showed an amusing cultural quirk. “Come with me.” 
He led me down another narrow corridor and pointed to a door stenciled with the faded word “Ladies.” He pushed it open to reveal a couple of ancient sinks and two stalls, with the nicotine stains of the ages on their walls. The place smelled of cheap aftershave and mildew. 
“It used to have two toilets, but I converted one to a shower. I’ll have to remind the lads to knock before they go in. They’re rather used to this being an all male enclave on weekends.” He turned toward the door opposite, stenciled with the word “Gents.” He started to go in, then turned back to me. “Are we happy bunnies then?”
I nodded out of politeness. After a quick—and chilly—wash, I walked out to find him gone and the lights turned out. I had to feel my way back to the office where I was to camp—camping was certainly what this felt like. I might be living like some rabbity forest creature, but I couldn’t describe my mood as happy. 
When I reached what I hoped was the office, I felt around for the light switch in panic, fearing I might have wandered into some other wing of the factory altogether. Or some other dimension. Or world. I half expected to see some of Harry Potter’s cohorts, a mad hatter, or Robin Hood himself.
But the fluorescent light hummed to life and I saw I was indeed back in Peter’s cozy office, where the bouquet of daffodils now sat on a file cabinet, looking cheery in a beer stein full of water. I made up the futon and opened my suitcase, pulling out my Versace nightgown. Its familiarity was soothing, but I wished with all my heart that it would transmogrify into a cozy pair of flannel pajamas. 
Before I got in bed, I picked up my book again. That near-orgasmic thrill didn’t return, but I did like the cover—a clever design of a silver tray displaying the title on a calling card. The silver filigree design went around the spine and curled to encompass a stylized tree. “Major Oak Books,” it said.  
I clutched the book and felt its weight. This place might seem surreal, but here was a solid, actual book. Mine. It was going to save my career.  
I opened it slowly, savoring the moment. 
But all the pages were blank: not a bit of printing on any page. 
I would have cried, but I was too exhausted for tears.




Chapter 14—The Major Oak





I woke to see Peter standing above me, backlit by sunshine streaming through the window behind him. He was still wearing his tuxedo trousers, but he’d exchanged the jacket for his San Francisco green hoodie. He held two steaming mugs.
“You’d not forgive me if I let you sleep past noon, lass. You’re missing a fine day. Even the lads are stirring in their burrows.” He gave me a boyish smile, set down the mugs, and opened the curtains, revealing what looked like the establishing shot of a Masterpiece Theatre episode. 
Fluffy white sheep grazed on an idyllic greensward across the majestic river. Ancient buildings loomed in the distance: England’s green and pleasant land. 
Why had I been so terrified last night? I’d landed in a charming place, to work with people who might be unorthodox, but were kind and polite in their way. 
I sat up. “Is that tea?” It smelled as lovely as the scene outside.
Peter smiled. “I put in one lump. I hope that’s how you take it.” He handed me one of the mugs, which, on closer study, rather spoiled the mood. It was decorated with a cartoon of a naked male posterior and the caption, “Don’t use this mug. Davey farted in it.” The tea was milky and sweet—not my usual unsweetened with lemon—but delicious.
I would have liked to dress and make a run to the loo, but Peter seemed engrossed by the painting of the tree that hung on the wall above me. 
“Tom Mowbray painted that: the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest. Over six hundred years old. “If you choose to believe the folklore, Robin Hood himself hid from the Sheriff of Nottingham in that very tree. It’s hollow inside.”
I nodded, trying to remember the men I’d met last night. I thought Tom Mowbray must have been the paint-spattered one with the pierced nose and eyebrow. 
Peter gave me an inquiring look. 
“Do you think it will work as a logo? You can make out it’s a tree, can’t you?”
Okay, we were going to have an art discussion. I trotted out my galleryspeak. 
“The palette is calming—those greens and browns. It’s stylized, but I’d say it has a firm anchor in realism.” I sat up, pulling the duvet around me. The floor felt icy on my naked feet.
Peter kept studying the painting as if it held some hidden message. 
“My partner Henry Weems thinks it’s bollocks. He wants to use a photograph.”
I tried to sort through the names I’d heard last night as I rummaged through my suitcase for shoes. 
“Have I met Mr. Weems?”
“No. He’s in Nottingham. Has a family there. Wife and three ankle biters—two boys and a girl. You’ll meet him on Monday. He comes in three or four days a week, when he’s not working on a book. He has a literary opus he’s been slogging on for years—about Mr. Darcy’s childhood. He churns out Dominion books as well, under a pseudonym of course. His latest effort is due in the shops next month.” Peter lifted various heaps on his desk until he unearthed a small paperback decorated with a black and white drawing of a woman wearing stockings, stilettos and not much else. The Chiller font lettering identified it as Damsels in the Dungeon by Rodd Whippington.
I shuddered and pulled the duvet tighter. 
Peter laughed. “Pervy rubbish, but Dominion titles are what pay the bills.”
I couldn’t laugh with him, even to be polite. Here, the smutty books didn’t seem as harmless as they had in Felix’s store. And it would be awful if Peter liked that sort of thing himself. 
The desk phone rang. As Peter picked it up, I stuck my feet into my Nikes and made a dash for the loo. The outer office was empty, and I found the corridor that led to the bathrooms. On my way out, I nearly bumped into Tom Mowbray, still in his paint-spattered hoodie, exiting the Gents.
He blinked as if trying to dispel a hallucination. I realized how absurd I must look in my duvet-and-unlaced shoes ensemble.
“I love the cover you designed for my book, Mr. Mowbray,” I said, trying to make the situation less awkward. “It’s perfect. I like your oak tree painting too.”
He grunted, but said nothing as he scurried down the hallway to what I presumed was the “burrow” wing of the factory.
When I returned, Peter sat at his desk, still on the phone, looking like any executive in his office—except for the bits of my clothing draped over his furniture. Embarrassed, I quickly gathered them. He was talking about Trask’s defection again. Apparently quantities of the books had been ordered; a launch party planned; and an article on Mr. Trask planned for the local paper. 
I wondered what could drive a writer to walk out on his own book. I’d fallen in love with mine, even with blank pages. Leaving it would feel like abandoning a child.
Peter motioned at his watch to suggest he’d be on the phone a few more minutes, so I decided to haul my suitcase back to the ladies’ room. 
I felt a little better after the dribbly shower, although I hadn’t brought a towel, so I had to dry myself with a couple of tee-shirts. I hadn’t brought a hair dryer, either, because of the differences in electrical current. I dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans as my teeth chattered and my hair dripped icy rivulets down my back. 
I tried to cheer myself by remembering the pastoral scene out the office window. I could take advantage of the dry weather and explore—look for a more suitable place to stay, maybe. Or buy ear plugs. The pub might not be so awful if I could block the noise.
When I got back, Peter was still muttering things like “bloody” and “Yank” into his phone, but he grinned at me. 
“I must go. There’s a freshly showered girl in my office.” He returned the receiver to its cradle. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d need the office this weekend, but with this bloody Trask mess…” He walked to where I stood, my hair dripping on the parquet floor “Camilla Randall, you may be the most beautiful damp girl I’ve ever seen. In front of that painting, you might be Maid Marian, after a swim, waiting for Robin Hood to bring home a nice joint of venison.”
He moved closer. Maybe it was the mention of Robin Hood—or maybe it was his lopsided, childish grin, but this time, I rather hoped he would kiss me. In fact, if he came any closer, I might start the kissing myself. 
But at the last moment, he turned away and picked up my book. 
“Do you like it?” 
I took a quick breath. “I’d prefer it with words inside.” 
He laughed as if I’d told a joke and flipped the pages. 
“Indeed. Just a mock-up Davey printed for the art department. You like it?”
I nodded, feeling stupid again.
“Good. We’ll go with it. I’ve just been on the horn with the Professor. He’s suggested some edits, but I don’t think many will be required. Your market isn’t Oxbridge; it’s working class housewives who want to feel a bit posh. I want Davey to get it in print as soon as possible. We’ve pushed up your publication to May first.”
“May first?” Did he really mean that? Only two weeks away.
“No point in wasting time. We have a launch scheduled at the Lincoln Book Fair, and interviews with Radio Lincolnshire, BBC Yorkshire, and perhaps something on Radio Four. Plus the Swynsby Sentinel is sending somebody over.”
A book tour. Publicity. It was really happening. He’d clicked the restart button on my life.  
“Oh, one more thing.” He unearthed some documents from the pile on his desk. “You’ll need to sign your contract. Can’t do much without that, can we?”
I flipped through the pages of small print. My agent had always taken care of this sort of thing. I had no idea what to look for. 
“I…I’d better sit down and read this.” I thought about Gordon Trask. I wish I knew why he’d taken off in such a hurry. Was there something awful in the contract?
Peter stood by the small wardrobe at the back of the office. He pulled out an elegant charcoal suit with a Hugo Boss label still attached. 
“Whatever you like, lass, but it’s a standard British book contract. It protects you as much as it protects us.” He cut off the tags and pulled a red tie from a drawer. “I’m going to shower and get a bit more camera-ready. The Sentinel people will be here soon.”
Tiny print and words like “electronic rights” and “returns” swam before my eyes as I registered what he’d said. 
“The newspaper people are coming over now?” 
He looked at his watch. “In half an hour. You might want to change in to that smashing Burberry thing you wore yesterday.” He gave me one of his twinkly smiles. “Why don’t you sign that, so we’ll be all legal? I’ll write you a check for your advance in the morning, right after I transfer the funds into the account.”
He handed me a pen. I could feel his impatience as I stared at the blurring words. The disaster with my mortgage had left me leery of signing papers. But I had to keep a number of things in mind—
1) I’d already trusted Peter with my well-being—far more important than a book 
2) It wasn’t as if anybody else wanted it. 
3) I desperately needed the two thousand dollar advance. 
So I scribbled my name on both copies, and handed him back his pen. 
He looked relieved. “You’ll be happy you signed with us. I promise.” 
I gave him a smile and stuffed my copy in my laptop case, trying to believe him.
Peter grabbed a shirt and left me alone to scramble into my suit. 
As I dressed, I studied Tom’s painting again, looking for meaning in the abstracted whorls that drew the eye to the darkness at its center. Hollow inside. That’s what Peter said. The Major Oak was hollow inside. 
I hoped Peter’s promises weren’t the same.




                   Chapter 15—Full English





The interview with the Swynsby Sentinel seemed to go all right, although the woman sent to write the article hadn’t heard about the demise of “The Manners Doctor” column—in fact, I suspected she’d never heard of me at all. She mostly asked how I was enjoying Lincolnshire. Although I didn’t have much to offer but praise for the meat pies and beer, this seemed to suffice. The photographer with her took my picture at the front entrance to the Maidenette Building. In the daylight, the old brick edifice looked ponderous with Victorian respectability. 
Peter came across with gravitas, too. Smoking an elegant briar pipe, he talked about the company’s plans for an international publishing center and how they would soon be hiring more local workers for the printing, dispatch, and editorial departments.
Not a word was said about whips and chains. By the time the interview was over, all the weirdness of the night before had vanished. Sherwood, Ltd. was obviously well regarded in the community. 
Even though they mostly published books about people having bad sex in clothing that featured black Pleather and grommets, I had to admit nothing really scary seemed to be going on. Time to stop worrying.
I was ravenous by the time the newspaper people left. As if reading my mind, Peter gave me a grin and said he was going to treat me to a “full English breakfast.” 
We set out walking along a cobbled path beside the river, between weeping willows and old brick buildings hung with pots of cascading flowers. Peter stopped and pointed at the far bank, where the fluffy sheep grazed in their blossom-strewn meadow. 
“That’s Nottinghamshire on the far side. Sherwood Forest used to come right up to the river in Robin Hood’s time. Richard the Lionheart’s time, I should say. Nobody’s quite sure when—or if—Robin Hood existed. But I like to believe, don’t you?”
Although the flat, treeless meadow looked nothing like a forest, I did want to believe—in Robin Hood and Maid Marian and Merry Olde England, and Sherwood. 
Peter led me around the picturesque town, by an open market where peddlers and farmers sold brightly colored ribbons, produce, cakes and meat—probably much as they had in Robin Hood’s day—and down a narrow street to an adorable café called The Mary Ann Evans Tea House.
 “It’s where Mary Ann Evans, a.k.a. George Elliot, lived when she wrote her great novel, The Mill on the Floss,” he told me.
We sat at a tiny lace-covered table and ate two “full English” breakfasts—heaping platters of sausage, mushrooms, beans, grilled tomatoes, eggs, something savory called “black pudding,” and fried bread. It was enough to feed a family for a week, but I ate and ate. The abundance helped quell the panic that had been living in my stomach for months. 
I relaxed and listened to Peter tell me the history of the town—founded by a Viking named Sven Forkbeard—Swinsby meant “Sven’s home” he said—and of the mighty river Trent, which George Elliot had dubbed “the Floss” in her famous novel.
“The name Trent comes from the Celtic word meaning ‘trespasser’,” he said. “Because the river floods its banks so often. It has a tidal bore called the Aegir: a wave caused by the funnel shape at the river’s mouth. It’s unpredictable, especially in spring. I’m a damned good sailor, but I’d rather fight a Caribbean hurricane than the Aegir in April.”
The darkness of his tone felt ominous.
But his sunnyness returned as we finished up our feast and he led me on a walking tour of the little town—its medieval manor house where Henry VIII had met Katherine Parr, and the hill where Cromwell and the Royalists once battled. 
As we walked along a path lined with flowering trees that showered pink petals on us like rosy snow. I let Peter put an arm around me. Although the sky had clouded and a soft drizzle misted our clothes, I enjoyed exploring the ancient streets and listening to Peter fill me in on his own history, entertaining me with tales of his life as a rock music promoter. 
“Then I sold up and chucked it all.” He stopped under an archway to light his pipe. “Four years ago, I bought a yacht and sailed to the Caribbean to live the richly rewarding life of a beach bum. I’d still be there if I my boat hadn’t sunk—and the banking collapse hadn’t bollixed up my finances.”
“It’s been hard on everybody,” I said. I hadn’t told him about my own slide into financial ruin, grateful he didn’t pry. I hoped he hadn’t read the nasty things Jonathan said about me during the throes of our divorce. He’d made me sound so cruel, when in truth, I hadn’t stopped loving the man; he’d stopped being the man I loved. 
I kept on my polite smile, reminding myself to resist Peter and all this English charm. Jonathan had charmed me once, too. I needed to stay on my guard. It wasn’t just the kinky books. I still didn’t know the full story about Lance. 
“What made you give up all that glamour and become a beach bum?” I asked, trying to banish my suspicions.
“My heart.” He clutched at his chest in that self-mocking way he had. “It broke. Literally. My wife left me for a drummer—took the kids, the house, everything—and then I had a heart attack. But the Caribbean was better medicine than any doctor could prescribe. I don’t even take me tablets any more half the time. I feel like a boy again.”
A heart attack. They did happen to youngish people, didn’t they? Like Lance. I should suspend my worries about murder until I had more facts. It would be as silly to succumb to irrational fear as to fall in love with such a charming stranger.
Peter brushed pink petals from his hair and went on with his tale. 
“After my yacht went down, I flew home, and a sweet deal to buy Dominion Books fell into my lap. I saw their outsourced printing operations were eating their profits, so I rounded up the lads, bought some POD machines, and found the Maidenette Building here in Swynsby. They’re practically giving away real estate in this town to anybody who will bring jobs. A ladies’ underwear company abandoned the place nearly a decade ago.”
“Ladies’ underwear? Appropriate for Dominion books.” 
Peter laughed. “Brilliant, isn’t it? I only needed something a quarter the size, but I couldn’t resist the idea of a knickers factory—and the price was too good to pass up.”
When we turned a corner I was surprised to see we were back on Threadneedle Street. The Merry Miller was just ahead, its timbers sagging with the weight of centuries of English history. The upstairs accommodations might be charming. I should rethink. 
Peter gave my hand a squeeze. 
“You’re helping to make this all happen for us—and for Swynsby, lass. You’re the first well-known author we’ll be publishing—and you’ll look a sight better than Trask on a telly chat show.” He stopped and looked into my eyes, his mocking mood gone, “Thank you so much, Camilla. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” 
 “I’m the one who should be grateful.” I tried not to react to the closeness of his body. “And you’re so efficient! I used to have to wait years for a book to come out with my old publisher.” 
 He gave a nervous laugh. 
“We didn’t plan to accelerate quite this fast, but everything was in place: TV and radio spots, caterer for the launch party. I was planning to officially launch Major Oak Books at the same time as Trask’s book.” 
I stepped away. Of course. This was Trask’s tour. Not about me at all. Okay, I had to ask the question rattling in my mind.
“What happened with Gordon Trask?” 
Peter’s smile slipped for a moment, but he soon recovered his cheery tone. 
“I haven’t the foggiest. Maybe it was that awful karaoke at the Merry Miller—perhaps it scrambled his brain. That’s new, you know—the karaoke. That chappie Alan Greene brought it in only a month or so ago. Something not right about that bloke. Bloody southerner.” 
It was possible Trask had simply snapped. I remembered reading he’d had some sort of mental problems after Vietnam. Maybe he didn’t want the stress of a book tour.
“Look!” Peter pointed toward the river, where a rainbow had appeared in the mist, with another forming above it. “A double rainbow. I think it’s a sign we’re going to have a great partnership, Camilla Randall.” 
He looked in my eyes, then leaned over and kissed me, long and hard. 

 I could blame all those romantic Robin Hood films, or Hugh Grant, who made the self-deprecating Englishman such an irresistible sex object; or even the disorienting effects of jet travel. But the truth is the fault was entirely my own. 
But I can’t say I regret playing Lady Marian to Peter’s Robin Hood. And there was nothing “pervy” about his gentle, generous lovemaking.
We were lying on the futon, under the duvet, beneath the painting of the Major Oak, basking in our blissfully silly, animal act, when the door burst open. It was Davey.
“We’ve no bloody paper,” he said. “I can’t finish the Whippington run. Our Friday shipment wasn’t delivered because the last check bounced. Which my paycheck did as well, by the way… are you awake under there?” 
Davey caught sight of me and his fearsome eyebrows glowered. 
“Oh, Duchess, you didn’t…Peter, you’re an ass.”
He slammed the door and was gone.




Chapter 16—Rubber Gregory




Davey’s intrusion didn’t seem to have the alarming effect on Peter that it did on me. He laughed. I fought grogginess and tried to tell myself I’d mis-heard. 
But a familiar panic seized my gut. I seemed to have come halfway around the world to work with somebody in as dire financial straits as me. Somebody who seemed to be as much of a slimeball with women as my ex-husband
“Vera must have been slow making the deposits again.” The futon bounced as Peter jumped off. “It’s disappointing we won’t have Henry’s book for the delivery date, but the pervs will survive without their new dose of smut for a few days. I’ll sort out things with Vera in the morning.” 
I opened one eye as he flipped the light switch. In the bright fluorescent glow, his pale body looked skinny and child-like, except for a few blond chest hairs. His sweet vulnerability rekindled my warmth. 
“Do you have to go? Is it morning?” I held my arms out to him.
But he barely gave me a glance as he grabbed his jeans and sweater from the back of his office chair and scrambled into them. 
“No lass, it’s still Sunday.” He put on his watch—a showy blue and gold Rolex Yachtmaster II. “But we’ve slept half the evening away. It’s high time we went down the pub.” He gave my shoulder another pat. “Don’t worry, lass. Davey will be fine once I’ve poured a few pints in him. Besides, it’s quiz night. With you on our team, we’ll beat them all to hell on the bloody American geography questions.” 
“It’s nighttime? You’re going out?” I didn’t bother to cover a yawn. I hadn’t the slightest desire to go “down the pub.” All I wanted was sleep—for days, weeks—however long it took for all the crazy panic to go away for good.  
“You’ll come, won’t you?” Peter gave me a quick kiss. “Don’t mind Davey. Bloody Northumbrian. Those Geordie bastards are in a temper from the day they’re born. Any normal bloke would be happy to have an excuse not to work on a Sunday night. Besides—the lads need him for quiz night. The locals keep beating us. Bloody embarrassing. Please come?” He handed me the clothes I’d left draped on the desk.
I pushed sleep from my brain as Peter sat next to me on the futon and put on his shoes—Bruno Maglis, from the look of them. Six hundred dollar shoes and a ten thousand dollar watch. Even in the heyday of his TV talk show, Jonathan wouldn’t have made such purchases lightly. Peter must be used to money. Every new business had cash flow problems—and dark little Davey did always seem in a foul mood. I suppressed the fears again. Peter was a wealthy businessman who believed in my book. Besides, he was adorable—and a gentle, cuddly lover.
 
As we walked through the evening drizzle to the Merry Miller, I told Peter about my thoughts of taking a room there after all. “Earplugs might make the situation bearable.”
 Peter looked wounded. “I thought that now…you might want to bunk with me.”
I’d often written in my column about how too much togetherness, too soon, destroys a relationship. But Peter’s kicked-puppy look warned me that this was not the time to quote the Manners Doctor. 
Instead I gave him a kiss. 
“I’m flattered by your offer, but a lady needs her privacy.”
He kissed me back, and kept his arm around me as we walked. 
“We’ll find you some decent digs soon,” he said as we reached the Merry Miller. “Better than here. Don’t bother Brenda right now.”
His tone had the sound of a command, so I dropped the subject.

The place was crowded and loud, but the atmosphere seemed less merry than the night before. The “lads”—all but the Professor—were already at their booth, scowling into their beers. The big, scarred man with the shaved head, who seemed to have no name but “Ratko,” greeted Peter with an expression even darker than Davey’s. 
“You’re buying tonight, Peter,” he said. “Brenda says it’s cash only from now on. Which we ain’t got, on account of our paychecks bouncing, doncha know. Me bank account wouldn’t spit out a penny at the hole-in-the-wall today. Same with all of us.” 
Liam gave Peter a sulky look over his bottle of Belgian lager and Davey nodded.
Vera’s slow depositing seemed to be having a lot of repercussions. Odd that Peter didn’t look concerned.
“Alan was kind enough to buy us a round.” Ratko nodded at the karaoke man. 
Alan turned to me. “Nice to see you again, Duchess. I hope you’ve got your thinking cap on. These blokes have lost the past three quiz nights.” 
So “Duchess” seemed to be my new nickname. It wasn’t flattering to be linked with the unpopular, aging second wife of the Prince of Wales, but I smiled anyway.
Alan leaned over the table to whisper to Peter as Brenda came bustling toward us. “Word to the wise,” he said, “Me Brenda’s on the warpath. You stuck her with a rubber Gregory as well. You’d better make it good or there will be hell to pay.” 
Brenda’s expression was icy as she stood by the table, looking as if she might throw us all out. I assumed “rubber Gregory” was Cockney slang for a bounced check, and Sherwood, Ltd. had given her a bad check, too. 
I did hope the same thing wouldn’t happen with my advance.





                      Chapter 17—Quiz Night




Peter seemed unfazed by Brenda’s anger. He gave her a grin and handed her a large banknote, then ordered another round, plus pies, and a couple of pints for the two of us. At least Peter’s personal cash seemed to be flowing freely. I looked again at his pricey watch and shoes. Brenda and his employees had a right to be angry about the bad checks, but it did seem to be a minor problem. Peter was obviously good at making money. And it sounded as if he intended to find me a more upscale home than the Merry Miller. 
Until then, it would be something of a romantic adventure to share his office-digs. I snuggled against him as he pulled me close. 
But his employees didn’t seem happy about my new position as the boss’s consort. Davey continued to glower from under his feral brows; Liam seemed overly engrossed in rolling a cigarette; and Tom avoided eye contact altogether. Only Ratko gave me a smile, but it held a hint of mockery.
Brenda brought the beer and pies, still in her silent huff. From the stage, Alan raised his beer to Peter in a gesture of thanks. 
Taking a pie, Ratko spoke to Peter. “Alan’s been asking when you’re going to decide on some manuscript by a lady friend of his. He says she’s hammering him for an answer. Is it bollocks?”
Peter sighed. “I can’t imagine how it wouldn’t be, but I haven’t had time to read it. Did you see that stack of rubbish on my desk? Which one is hers?”
“Some Robin Hood thing,” Ratko said. “Alan claims she’s an American author he met in the States. Probably some slapper from the East End. If she even exists.”
“Alan says she’s made a life work of studying the old Robin Hood ballads,” said Liam, his red dreadlocks shaking in disagreement. “With our Robin Hoodish logo and all, he thought we should have a Robin Hood book.”
 “Yes, but not a rubbish Robin Hood book. I’ve already turned down two—both from gormless Americans. You’d think after Kevin Costner’s fiasco and Russell Crowe’s snoozer, they’d leave the Robin Hooding to us Brits.” Peter gave Liam a sharp look. “And since when is Alan an expert on book publishing?”
“The Baron’s an expert on everything,” Davey said with heavy sarcasm. “I suppose you believe his story that he studied at Oxford, too?”
“I ain’t saying a word against a man when I’m drinking his beer,” Liam said. “I can look at the lady’s manuscript. It would make a nice break from the pervy shite.” 
Peter shook his head. “I can’t spare you. I need you get the new Dirk Scabbard to Davey by midweek, and there’s the summer Dominion catalogue to proof. What I need is to hire someone to handle the slush. Pity nobody in this town can read or write.” 
Hire someone. To read the slush pile. I perked up. Gainful employment would solve a good deal of my troubles—and maybe quiet that ever-lurking panic. But before I could speak, Davey grabbed Peter’s arm.
“Watch it,” Davey said, with a furtive glance at the closest table, where a gang of hefty young men were discussing football scores at high volume. “Don’t insult the Yellowbellies on their own turf. They’re bigger than us.” 
Ratko gave a low chuckle. “Besides, even if you did find one who could do the job, these Lincolnshire blokes would very likely expect to be paid.”
Peter’s expression made it clear the subject of bounced paychecks was closed. He explained to me that “Yellowbelly” was a name the folk of Lincolnshire wore proudly. Something to do with the color scheme of an eighteenth century stagecoach line. He then turned back to his men with a dramatic flourish. 
“Lads, I’ll pay you in cash tomorrow morning, as soon as the banks open. Hang on.” His voice edged into anger. “I just bought a bloody factory and paid for you lot to move house. Cost a few quid, that. Stop worrying. They love me in this town. Don’t they, lass?” He squeezed my shoulder. “She’ll tell you how I charmed the local press this morning.” He lifted his pint. “I’ll advertise for a reader at the University in Lincoln.”
I jumped in. “Actually, um, I’d love that job.” I tried not to sound desperate. “It would give me something to do.”
Peter studied my face, then grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Lass, you’re hired. I’ll discuss pay with Henry and Vera. It’ll be a bit dodgy since you’re a foreigner, but so is Ratko, and we manage to pay his exorbitant salary.”
“When the bloody check don’t go all bouncy-wouncy,” Ratko said. 
Hoping to move on from the touchy subject, I turned a bright smile on Ratko and asked where he was from. 
“I was born in a country called Yugoslavia,” he said in a tone that conveyed equal parts nostalgia and anger. “A country that is no more. I’m a Serb.” He leaned in and gave me a menacing glare. “Do I scare you, Duchess?” 
I kept my smile in place. I feared any reaction was likely to set off more belligerence. Luckily Alan took the microphone and announced the start of the weekly quiz. Regulars joined up in teams to field a series of general knowledge questions. Prizes consisted of drinks, paid for by the losers. It all turned out to be rather fun, and provided the added bonus of pre-empting the karaoke. 
Alan conducted the quiz with suitably smarmy pizzazz. But I agreed with Peter that something about Alan was “off.” Everything he said seemed to be scripted, and his feigned affection for the much older Brenda couldn’t be entirely believable, even to her.
But the “lads” began to treat me as one of the pack after I brought the team to victory by correctly naming the presidents depicted on Mount Rushmore, all of the Great Lakes, and the names of Scrooge McDuck’s three nephews. The victories—and accompanying beers—did much to lift the mood.
But as we started the final round, the table went deadly quiet. Liam’s scarlet locks seemed to stand on end. Davey’s eyebrows looked ready to do battle—and I might have imagined it, but I thought I saw a knife flash in Ratko’s hand.
I felt a presence move behind me, but was afraid to look.
 “Let’s toss for the next round,” said a voice above my head. “Heads Peter buys me a pint.” A coin bounced onto the table.
I froze as a two-headed shilling clattered on the tabletop. I turned around to see the smirking, one-eyed face of Barnacle Bill.




Chapter 18—Getting Sorted




“I’ve got a question for you lot,” the old sailor said in a voice loud enough to silence Alan. “Is Peter Sherwood going to pay me what he owes me, or am I going to have to take it out of his bloody hide?”
Ratko jumped to his feet. Peter rose more slowly, but his easy smile had faded. I feared a brawl, but the two persuaded the old sailor to step outside.
A few minutes later, Peter returned, without Ratko or Barnacle Bill. His voice strained with false cheer as he tossed a ten pound note on the table.
“I’m knackered, lads, but that should cover a few more rounds.” He turned to me. “Duchess, stay if you like, but you may not find another escort until these degenerates get tossed out at closing time.”
I followed him outside, looking with trepidation for Barnacle Bill. But Peter put a reassuring arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, lass, that old pirate’s gone. He and I are sorted. He talks tough, but he knows I’m the one who paid his fine this morning.” 
It was odd about the English and “sorting” It was as if proper categorization—perhaps with some cosmic “Sorting Hat”—could send one’s troubles off to their respective Griffindors, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins and make all things right.
But Peter didn’t look sorted. His mood was tense as we made our way home through the drizzle. When we got back to the office, he looked like a trapped animal. 
I gave him a kiss. “Whatever it is, let’s forget it until morning, okay?” 
But forgetting didn’t seem to be an option. He went to his desk and started pulling out drawers and rummaging for something. 
“Anything I can do to help?” I said as his searching grew more frantic. But he hardly seemed to hear. 
With him in this state, I didn’t feel right getting ready for bed in front of him. I gathered my things and went to the Ladies’ to wash up and change into my night things. I took another sputtery shower and, in spite of the chill, put on my Versace nightgown and matching robe, as well as a few of my last precious drops of Chanel No. 5. I hoped I could get back the happy, sexy feelings of the afternoon.
But when I returned to the office, it was empty. I opened the heavy doors to the factory and called, “Peter, are you there?” 
No answer.  
I waited a few minutes, but he didn’t appear. I put my robe and slippers back on and searched the factory, wandering amongst the machines in the spooky dark. I called Peter’s name, again and again, as panic rose. 
My voice echoed in the empty dark.
I had to face it. I was alone in the factory. 
Peter was gone.  




Chapter 19—A Nice Cup of Tea




I woke to a roar like a jet engine. I wondered for a moment if the past twenty-four hours had been a dream, and I was still on the plane. But as my eyes focused, I saw the office door open. A round-faced, middle-aged woman in a blue pants suit and sturdy shoes pushed her way in, wielding an industrial-type vacuum cleaner. 
“Oh! Sorry love,” she said, turning off the motor. “He didn’t tell me anybody was in here. I’m doing a bit of Hoovering before the men arrive and muck everything up again. You know how they are.” She had a big, friendly smile. “Can I get you a nice cup of tea before you go home? Mr. Weems will need the office when he arrives from Nottingham. We expect him at half eleven.”
“Home?” I pushed sleep from my brain. “I’m not going home. I’ve only just arrived. That is, I flew in on Saturday…” I sat up and pulled the duvet around me, feeling ridiculous in my revealing Versace silk. 
 The woman brightened. 
“Oh my. You’re the new American author—the Manners Doctor! And me here being so unmannerly.” She stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Vera Winchester. Office Manager.”
As I shook Mrs. Winchester’s hand, the fuzzy brown face of a small terrier-like dog peered from behind her navy blue trouser leg. The little creature barked loudly at me.
“This is too much,” Mrs. Winchester said, apparently to the dog. “I don’t know why he’s nervous around Americans. He barked at Mr. Trask, too.” The little dog inched toward the futon. “Much, say a proper hello to the Manners Doctor.” Mrs. Winchester pulled the vacuum cleaner out of the way and the dog approached me with a businesslike sniff. I reached out and gave him a pat between his ears. 
 “We thought you’d be staying at the Miller’s, like Mr. Trask. He’s gone, isn’t he? Pity. I quite liked him.”
“You liked him?” Maybe Mrs. Winchester could enlighten me about my mysterious disappearing countryman. “What was he like?”
“Friendly. But then Yanks are, generally, aren’t they? Don’t put on airs. I don’t know why Much behaves so badly around them.”
 “Much? That’s the dog’s name?”
 “Too Much is what the former owner called him, I suppose because of his eating habits. He came with the building. Peter liked the name because of Robin Hood’s comrade—Much the Miller’s son. He’s a good little ratter. I’ve just had him up to the house for the weekend for a visit to the vet and a nice bath.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll get you a cup of tea. I’ve got the kettle boiling in the canteen. What a mess I had to clean in there this morning. Looks as if the ceiling fell in. Good job I got here early.”
My watch said ten-fifteen. Mr. Weems was arriving at half eleven, but was that ten-thirty or eleven-thirty? I had no idea. I jumped out of bed and scrambled into my Burberry outfit, tossing my scattered things into my suitcase as I dressed. 
I was annoyed that Peter hadn’t warned me that Mr. Weems used this office—almost as annoyed as I was at Peter’s abrupt disappearance. 
I ran my fingers through my uncombed hair and peeked out the door. Luckily nobody else seemed to be working in spite of the late hour.
I made a dash for the loo and tried to make myself presentable as quickly as possible. On the way back to the office, I nearly collided with a pretty, plump young woman emerging from the canteen with two steamy mugs. She wore heavy make-up and slightly too-tight jeans. 
“You’ll be the Manners Doctor,” she said. “I’m Meggy Poole.” She handed me one of the mugs. “We gave you milk but no sugar. But I’ve the artificial stuff if you like.” She took a tiny container from her pocket that dispensed a tablet of Splenda. 
I accepted the tea gratefully.
“Had a bit of excitement over the weekend, did you?” Meggy hoisted herself to sit on the edge of one of the big tables. “With that smelly old man with the eye patch? Vera Winchester says the ceiling of the canteen fell on him. How did that happen?” 
I looked at my Tinker Bell watch. Ten-thirty. No time for chat. 
“Peter was quite the swashbuckling hero. I’m sure he’ll be eager to tell everybody the story.”
Meggy gave a throaty laugh. “That won’t be easy since he’s sunning himself on the Croatian Riviera, ain’t he?
I didn’t get the joke. “No. Peter’s right here—or he was last night…”
Meggy’s feet dangled in her sturdy shoes. “He ain’t here now. Rushed to the airport at seven this morning. Him and Ratko. Vera said they’re off to Pula.” 
 My head pounded. “Peter and Ratko went to…Pula? Is that in Croatia? Why would they go there?” This didn’t make sense. Peter had all those plans for my book publicity this week. The girl must be confused.
“Dunno, but they were out the door when I came in for my shift. Peter said him and Ratko had important business.” She snorted. “Business with some tart, like as not.”
Humiliation and anger constricted my throat as I stared at the Tinker Bell wings pointing to the time. I had to get my things out of the office. Where I was to take them, I didn’t know. 
I didn’t know anything except that Peter Sherwood had abandoned me.




          Chapter 20—Damsel in the Dungeon




I looked hard at Meggy, half hoping she was making some sort of joke. 
“Peter and Ratko—when will they be back?” I tried not to sound hysterical as I set down my tea and worked at stilling my shaky hands.
Meggy shrugged. I could make out a large purplish bruise under her make-up. 
“They don’t tell me nothing. No more than he do at home. I’m a mushroom, me: kept in the dark and covered in shite. This lot don’t even pay us half the time. Me friend Jilly’s looking for a new job in Lincoln.” She glanced out the window, where a car was coming up the drive. “That’ll be her now. Oh, no…” Her expression changed as she jumped down from her perch. “It’s Mr. Weems. I’d best be back to work by the time he gets his cuppa.” She grabbed my arm and whispered, “Between you and me, the whole lot of ’em are barking. Everyone but the Professor. He’s a gent.” 
I rushed back to the office and managed to stuff the rest of my things into my battered Vuitton cases before Vera Winchester appeared, wearing a tight smile, followed by a bird-like man in thick glasses who looked as if he might burst into tears any minute. Could this tiny person possibly be the man who wrote under the name Rodd Whippington?
“Bugger. We can’t print books without paper,” the little man announced. He walked right past me and set a steaming tea mug on the desk. “We’ve hundreds of pre-orders for my new book. And I need to talk to Mowbray about the cover. Where is he?” 
Only now did he notice me and my luggage. 
“What in blazes are you doing in my office, girl? It’s after ten in the morning. Don’t you have a home?” 
I wanted to say: no, I was homeless—and penniless as well, since I hadn’t been given my promised room or my advance. But I kept a polite silence.
“Henry, this is our new author from America,” Mrs. Winchester said, her voice pitched a bit too high.
For a moment, Henry Weems’ eyes looked as if they might start a fire through the coke-bottle glasses as he stared, first at me, then my Vuitton luggage. 
“I thought Peter’s bloody Yanks had gone back where they came from.”
I mustered up enough of my Manners Doctor persona to will myself to smile.
“I’m Camilla Randall, Mr. Weems.” I reached for his hand. “I wrote Good Manners for Bad Times. I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced you, staying in the office like this. There seems to have been some miscommunication with Mr. Sherwood.”
 Mr. Weems continued to stare at my offending suitcases as this information made its way to his brain. Finally he looked back up at me. 
“Oh. That’s all right then. I thought you were another of Peter’s tarts.” He dismissed me with a wave. “Pradeep won’t be in until afternoon. He wants a bit of editing on your book—correcting the American spelling and references to customs that are different here. Otherwise, everything will remain the same. We want it ready to launch by September or October at the latest…” 
“October?” My head roared. “Peter said we’d launch in two weeks…”
Mr. Weems sighed and pressed his forehead as if his head hurt. 
“I suppose he proposed marriage to you, too? And promised you a country house with a gardener and a chef? The man will say anything to pull a bird. Now please, I’ve got a business to run, and a partner who’s swanned off to Serbo-bloody-Croatia.” 
He rummaged through the things on Peter’s desk, pushing a huge pile of manuscript envelopes aside. He looked at the return address on one with a scornful snort.
“More Yanks. Why can’t he get us some Brits? Somebody who can promote sales amongst his sisters and his cousins and his aunts? I haven’t time to read this rubbish. None of us has.” He gave the pile another shove, and the envelopes slid onto the floor.
I stooped to gather them, trying to keep my anger and hurt under control. I had to make this man accept me, or I was going to be chucked out onto the streets of Swynsby. 
“Peter—that is, Mr. Sherwood—offered me a job reading the unsolicited manuscripts. Would you like me to get started reading these?”
Mr. Weems gave me a look of equal parts scorn and pity. 
“I don’t care. Do whatever you like. Major Oak is Peter’s brainchild. If he wants to pay you, it will have to come from his own pocket. We can’t pay the staff we have as it is.” He handed me another pile. “No wonder he’s gone for a beach holiday.” He pounced on the copy of Damsels in the Dungeon and gave it an incendiary stare. “Bugger!” he shouted. “Bugger all. It’s identical. It’s the same cover he put on Dirk Scabbard’s The Naked Nanny, except for the stockings.” His upper lip quivered. “Where is Mowbray? He’s bloody useless…”
I clutched the manuscripts. I figured I might as well read through a few. They’d provide me with something to do while I waited for Peter. 
The creep. At least Jonathan had bothered to think up excuses for going off on his escapades. I shouldered my purse, grabbed my laptop and pushed my stacked suitcases in front of me with a kick. But when I opened the door, Tom Mowbray blocked my way. He looked even angrier than his boss. He was flanked by Davey and Liam, ready to protect their mate.
Henry waved them away. “Just him,” he said, pulling Tom inside. “You two might try doing some work.” He gave the door a slam.
“Bloody hell.” Liam shook his scarlet head at the closed door. “Looks as if Henry needs a holiday too.” He eyed my burden. “Duchess, can you use a bit of help?”
Davey grabbed both of my suitcases with surprising strength as Liam took my laptop and the manuscripts. We marched out into the noisy factory, where Meggy and two other young women, wearing noise-muffling head gear, operated a guillotine-like device and another that smelled of burning glue. 
 “Where to, Duchess?” I could barely hear Davey over the roar.
I sighed. “The Merry Miller, I suppose.” 
Davey’s eyebrows shot upwards as he put down the suitcases. 
“Not wise. Brenda won’t take another Yank for a good long while. What about the White Stag Inn? It’s pricey, but…” he scanned my Vuitton luggage.
“Um, how much is it? I have…” I pulled out my wallet and counted the money I had left. “Twelve pounds and, um, three of these silvery ones.” I held out the coins.
“Your American credit cards are good here,” Liam said. 
I took a breath, then blurted the truth. “I don’t actually, um, have any credit cards. I had to shred them…I’m in a program for debt consolidation.”
Slowly I realized everyone was staring. Meggy had shut down her machine and taken off her headphones.
Liam let out a loud guffaw. “You’re skint? Peter told us your mum’s a Countess and you’re married to a telly presenter.”
“My mother died without a penny,” I said, fighting the catch in my throat. It felt so strange to be telling the truth at last. “There’s no money. Not anywhere. Her last husband stole everything she had. And my ex claims to be as destitute as I am since his drinking got him fired. He used to have millions, and I suspect he still does, but my lawyer couldn’t find anything and then I couldn’t pay the lawyer...oh, it’s all so tedious.” 
For the first time Davey looked at me without the dark hostility. He peered at the coins and let out a big laugh. 
“You hang onto that, Duchess. We’ll sort you a place to stay.” He looked at Liam, “What about Ratko’s hole?”
Meggy shook her head wildly, but Liam nodded. “Why not? Ratko’s buggered off to his motherland. Who knows when he’ll be back, if at all?”
I didn’t like the sound of this.
“Onward to the hole. Otherwise known as the dungeon,” said Liam. “It’s quite nice, really. Ratko’s not a slob like the rest of us, and Davey’s wired it with a broadband hook-up. ”
“The dungeon it is,” said Davey.




         Chapter 21—The Outlaws of Sherwood





Liam and Davey led me through the factory, past the bathrooms, up some steps and down a corridor where doors opened to small offices with views of the river.  
“Those are my digs,” Davey said as we passed a room stuffed with stereo equipment and computer parts. On the floor was a mattress covered with an old sleeping bag. The walls were lined with crates of old music albums. “If you’re into classic rock, I’ve got the best collection of vinyl in town. Come for a listen sometime.”
We approached another door, but Davey closed it quickly. 
“You don’t want to look, Duchess. That’s the toxic waste site Liam calls home.” 
Liam shrugged. “Got all me music gear in there. I wanted to leave it in my girlfriend’s flat, but I’ve got an ASBO. They wouldn’t let me in.”
“An ASBO?” I had been learning to understand their accents and strange slang, but this was unfathomable.
Liam laughed. “An anti-social behavior order. A kind of restraining order. I got drunk and busted up the place a few times.” 
“ASBOs are a matter of pride in some circles,” said Davey. 
Liam grinned and nodded. “But I’ve only got the one. Mowbray’s got several. His fists have a way of pounding holes in walls when he’s had a few. And we don’t want to talk about Ratko and his knife…”
“I’m quite outclassed,” said Davey. “Not an ASBO to my name.”
Liam laughed. “Yeah, but you’ve been inside. That trumps an ASBO any time.”
Davey gave a half-smile. “Did some time for selling cannabis when I was a child.” 
Sociopaths, drunks and drug dealers. I was living with a bunch of criminals. I tried to keep my smile in place as Davey led me through cobwebby rooms filled with junked sewing machines and ancient wooden looms. He opened a door that revealed stairs that descended into darkness. 
“Come on,” he said, leading the way. “This is the old coal cellar. Ratko says it’s the only place he feels safe. He still has flashbacks from the war.” 
As we descended, I had that White Rabbit feeling again. I seemed to be falling further and further into an insane land impervious to the laws of logic or reason.   
But I was amazed when Davey opened a door and flipped the light switch. It was a pleasant, modern room—windowless, but freshened by an air vent in the ceiling and fitted with simple furniture and carpets in a vaguely Asian theme—the look was sort of Zen Hobbit. There was a white laminate desk, a futon similar to Peter’s, and best of all—an inviting easy chair with a reading lamp above it. 
“There’s a heater if you get chilly,” said Davey. “Quite cozy. I can hook up your computer if you like.” He reached for my laptop and began to fiddle with wires that hung from the low ceiling.
Liam found clean sheets in a bamboo pattern and helped me make up the futon as a bed while Davey set up my computer. Liam assured me that if I signed a contract with Peter, Henry would have to honor it, and that the Professor loved a book that required so little editing. 
I almost forgot my distress at Peter’s abandonment until the two men went back upstairs and left me in the hole, alone. 
Then the tears came like a tsunami—not so much tears of grief as of rage: at Peter, and Henry, and Silas; at my ex-husband, my impecunious mother—and every cruel twist of fate that had left me here alone in this dismal hole on the other side of the planet from everything comfortable and sane. 
I cried into Ratko’s pillow until the beige and white bamboo sprigs were soggy. Thank goodness I hadn’t put on any make-up. Ratko might knife me to avenge the wrong to his bed linens when he came back.
Or maybe he wouldn’t come back. Maybe I was alone here with Liam and Davey and Tom. Who weren’t that bad, when I thought about it. Rough but kind. And Vera was lovely. Even Henry might be all right when he got over his anger at Peter. 
I looked at my flamingo pink laptop, now hooked up to the company broadband. 
Internet access. I could write Plant. Connect with the real world. I sat in the desk chair and booted up the computer. My iGoogle home page looked like a long lost friend. Had it only been four days since I left Plant and Silas at the San Francisco airport?
I was delighted to see an email from Plant with the header, “Greetings from Over the Pond.” I wanted to reach through the screen and hug him. 
“Darling,” he wrote, “I would have written sooner, but we had to spend the past few nights at a hotel. We had a break-in while we were chauffeuring you to the airport and came home to find everything ransacked. We’re still putting the place back together. Luckily not much is missing. These were very picky burglars. They only seem to have taken my iPod, phone, and Silas’s diamond cufflinks. Plus they had some fun in the liquor cabinet and made a mess of my old manuscripts—worthless stuff. Probably kids. I’m insured, so it’s more annoying than anything else.”
I hate to admit I found his awful news reassuring in a way. It reminded me that crime can happen anywhere. In fact, I might be in less danger in this crazy place than in Plant’s apartment. He had burglars and coyotes to deal with. But I’d be sleeping in an impenetrable bunker—protected by a band of fearsome men. 
Plant’s message went on. “At first we suspected our burglar might be Lance’s killer, since the police still aren’t sure if it was a heart attack.”
 Not a heart attack. My panic came back. I tried to quiet it as I read on. 
“You must be happily settled in at the Maidenette Building. I’ve Googled Swynsby-on-Trent and it looks idyllic. I picture you playing Maid Marian to Mr. Sherwood and his merry publishing outlaws. Do write us about your adventures. Other than the burgling excitement, things are dead boring here.”
Adventures. I took a deep breath and tried to reframe my situation as Plant might see it—not hurtling into some dark abyss at the mercy of a possible murderer—but swashbuckling through an exciting series of escapades. 
And even if Lance had been murdered, why suspect Peter? As a tourist looking for a place to smoke in California, he had a reason for being in that alley. 
Plant was right. I was here near Sherwood Forest itself—living with a charming rogue and his merry band of outlaws. I sat down to write back, spinning an only half-fanciful tale of falling for the romantic leader of a band of rough, but cheerful men. I had fun describing them in terms of the legendary Robin Hood archetypes. 
a) Little John was the big street-fighting Ratko.
b) Will Scarlet was Liam, of course, with his tomato-colored dreads.
c) Alan-a-Dale was Karaoke Alan—or maybe Davey, with his music collection.
d) Much was the little dog, Too Much 
I was living in a Robin Hood tale. How many women got to live a fantasy? I typed away, telling Plant about full English breakfasts and the antics at the Merry Miller. I even made Barnacle Bill sound like an amusing eccentric. 
I didn’t mention Peter’s abrupt, mysterious departure. That ruined the story.
Loud knocking on my door jolted me from tale-spinning. My heart gave a lurch. Was it Peter? Did I long for him or fear him? I didn’t know what to feel.
I smoothed my hair and checked my face my purse mirror. Disaster: my tear-puffed face was in desperate need of make-up, no matter who was at the door. The knocking got louder as a man’s voice called—loud and urgent. 
“Time to go, Miss Randall.”  
Not Peter. Henry? I dropped the compact back in my purse, my mood deflated. Henry was such a pill that I couldn’t cast him in my tale of merry men. Except—the thought cheered me: Henry lived in Nottingham. I now had—
e) The Sheriff of Nottingham
 “Time to go. We don’t want to be late,” said the voice. 
Late. I couldn’t imagine for what. Maybe I was in Alice’s rabbit hole after all. 
I opened the door. But my caller wasn’t Henry, or a White Rabbit—or anybody who could be cast as the Sheriff of Nottingham. This was a round-faced man of about sixty, wearing a rumpled suit and a bow tie. He offered me his hand and a wide smile.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you this morning,” he said. “An emergency with a grandchild in need of a chauffeur. I’m Charlie.” He squeezed my hand and gave me an expectant look. “Charlie Vicars—the sales manager? Don’t tell me Peter didn’t let you know—we’ve got an interview at Radio Lincolnshire at one.”
I could only stare. “The interview? My book? It’s still on?”
“Why ever not? We’ve an extensive publicity campaign planned. Surely Peter told you? We’re on live radio in Lincoln at two. That’s a smashing suit, by the way.” He thrust a grocery bag in my hands. “In case you haven’t had your lunch, I’ve brought some local goodies—a couple of sausage rolls made with real Lincolnshire sausage; our famous Poacher cheese; and apples from our garden. Plus my Sally put in a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits. She thinks no meal is complete without chocolate.” 
The food smelled yummy. I hadn’t eaten since my brunch with Peter yesterday. As I took a sausage roll from the bag, Charlie didn’t so much smile as shine—from his friendly blue eyes and rosy cheeks and polished bald head. Vicars. Didn’t that mean a clergyman of some sort? Of course. My tale was complete with—
f) Friar Tuck. 




Chapter 22—Lincoln Green




Swynsby-on-Trent greeted us with warm sunshine as Charlie and I walked out to the parking lot. Even the air smelled welcoming—like fresh morning toast. 
Charlie inhaled deeply. “Splendid, isn’t it? That’s the maltings down the river. Lincolnshire is England’s breadbasket.” He led me to a battered Rover wagon and opened the door, tossing a couple of toy hedgehogs and a plush badger into the back seat. “Grandchildren,” he said with a laugh.
We shared the still-warm sausage rolls as Charlie drove out of town and onto a straight but narrow road through fields of grain and verdant hills. As he drove, he gave a running commentary about the history of the shire. This road had been built by the Romans, he explained, who once lived in the spot that was now the city of Lincoln—Lindum Colonia. In the middle ages, the city was the center of a prosperous textile industry. Their fabric, especially the wool dyed with local blue woad, overdyed with mustard, was known as “Lincoln Green”—the cloth worn by Robin Hood and his merry men, whom Charlie believed weren’t from Nottinghamshire at all, but Lincolnshire.
 “After all, it’s Lincolnshire that’s famous for its proud poachers,” he said with a grin. “Surely you know our county anthem?” He sang out in a deep baritone, “Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnshire/Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare/Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer/Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year.”
As he sang, Charlie reached into the white bag and pulled out some wedges of pale cheese, wrapped in waxed paper. “Poacher cheese. Lincs’ best. Try a bit”.
The cheese was rich and buttery, and utterly decadent with the sausage roll. I relaxed as we drove through the lush countryside. Peter Sherwood had brought me to this charming place, and a sweet man like Charlie Vicars trusted him—so shouldn’t I? 
The beauty of the ancient city further charmed me as the old car climbed through its spiraling streets to the citadel—dominated by a castle and a magnificent Gothic church.  
“Lincoln Cathedral,” Charlie said, full of civic pride. “Built by William the Conqueror in 1072. Next door, in the castle, is one of the four original copies of the Magna Carta.”
We parked behind a stone building and walked through streets too narrow for automobile traffic as Charlie acted as tour guide—pointing out bits of Roman columns built into twelfth century buildings that housed shops that sold iPhones and Starbucks. 
The interviewer from Radio Lincolnshire—who looked so much like John Cleese I half-expected him to get up and perform silly walks—charmed me with clever questions about whether a return to good manners might cure the ills of the 21st century. Our conversation was so easy, I was disappointed when he stopped me after our fifteen minute interview and signed off.
On the way home, I managed to get in a word between Charlie’s guidebook monologues to ask why Henry said my book wouldn’t be launched until autumn.
Charlie laughed. “Don’t pay him any mind. The poor chap is completely non compis when he’s working on a book, so we don’t bother him with updates. Once the new Rodd Whippington book has been launched, we’ll have the old Henry back. But for now, just ignore him. Peter’s the managing partner, so I take my orders from him.”
“So Peter—he will be back?” 
“Dear me, yes. He’s simply helping Jovan Ratko with some family business. Mr. Ratko saved his life, you know, during the Bosnian war. Peter was an RAF pilot. Ratko’s family nursed him back to health after his Tornado was shot down near Mostar. Peter would do anything for him.”
Peter was a soldier helping a service buddy—not some con man picking up beach bunnies while his friends starved. Not some alleyway murderer: a war hero. 


As we rode back to Swynsby, I felt the day get sunnier; the flowers brighter; the air sweeter. 
And chocolate digestive biscuits—wholegrain cookies iced with rich, dark chocolate—turned out to be pure heaven.
 




   Chapter 23—The Fangs of Sherwood Forest




When we returned to the factory, even the rat hole looked inviting. So did the stack of manuscripts on my desk. Work would pass the time until Peter came back. And he would come back. Charlie had put my mind at rest.
I picked up the top envelope—a nice thin one, addressed to “Domination Books,” containing the manuscript of something called the Prisoner of Zelda by Dominic Wilde. But after ten pages, I thought I might be sick. I had never imagined so many unpleasant things could be done to a man’s genitalia. If this sort of horror was erotic to anybody, I didn’t want to know about it. I stuffed the pages back in their envelope, wishing I could banish the images from my mind. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t tell good smut from bad smut. It was all icky to me.
I picked up the next manuscript in the pile—a thick, padded Tyvek envelope with a neatly typed label and the U.S. postmark Henry had dismissed with such scorn. I pulled out the pages—nearly five hundred—the complete manuscript of a hefty book. The title was printed in a Gothic font: Fangs of Sherwood Forest: the Confessions of Maid Marian. The author was somebody named Rosalee Beebee from Buttonwillow, California. It had no cover letter—just a note from Alan Greene asserting that the book would make more money than Harry Potter. 
Peter’s prediction seemed pretty much spot on. The book was written in laughable faux-archaic prose, narrated by a vampire Maid Marian who doubled as a sort of medieval aromatherapist. Her Robin Hood was a werewolf. Her verbs and nouns didn’t just disagree, they engaged in full-on warfare. But I put the manuscript in the “to be read” pile, mostly to keep peace at the pub.  
At around seven o’clock, I ventured upstairs and found the men in the canteen, parked in front of the television, much as they had been the night I arrived. The little dog Much sat between Davey and Tom on one couch and the Professor’s chair was parked near them. Liam worked at the counter, peeling potatoes. A case of beer sat on the floor, with a chipped beer glass next to it, holding a few coins and a five pound note.
“Beer’s over there, Duchess,” Liam said. “Such as it is. Throw something in the kitty and help yourself. Professor Pardeep bought us groceries this evening, but he’d like us to pay him back what we can.” 
The Professor waved at me, although his eyes remained glued to a televised game of “snooker”—a billiards-like game that seemed to fascinate them all. 
“I apologize for the generic brew,” he said. I reckoned it would be better than nothing. It seems I’m the only one getting a proper paycheck around here.”
As I popped open a beer, Liam explained that the Professor had a regular disability allowance from the government, and Peter got an editor at nearly no cost. 
Great. I was scrounging off a paraplegic’s disability check. I put two pound coins in the jar, picked up a knife and started peeling potatoes. Might as well make myself useful. As we chopped and peeled, Liam chatted. He told me he was of Jamaican descent and grew up in a small town in Yorkshire, where his family ran a fish and chips shop.
“You know what they say—‘you can always tell a Yorkshireman—but you can’t tell him much’,” Tom said over his shoulder. “We’re a stubborn lot.”
Liam said all of them but the Professor had been in a rock band called the Dire Weretoads, which Peter managed until he took off for the Caribbean. When Peter left, the band fell apart and they’d fallen out of touch until Peter showed up on Tom’s doorstep last September—mysteriously without luggage or funds.
I found this a little odd. If Peter had gone into partnership with Henry with no money—that meant Henry had paid for everything. No wonder he was annoyed.  
“Was Henry Weems a Weretoad?” I was finding this hard to picture.
 Raucous laughter came from the couch. 
“Not him and not me,” the Professor said. “Henry knows Peter from the army. He was already a writer for Dominion Books and talked Peter into buying the company with him. The rest of us—Vera, Charlie, and me, we’re locals. Me dad runs the curry shop on the High Street. Charlie used to run the bookshop next door until Tesco put him out of business. Vera worked at the old Maidenette company years ago.” 
“You see why we call him the Professor.” Liam laughed. “He knows everything.”
 “Poor old Henry,” Davey said. He’s a public school boy—a throwback to another time—when riff-raff like us knew our place.”
Tom let out a roar. “Poor old Henry? I’ll tell you when you can pity that wanker. When I kick his arse back to Nottingham, is when. Peter needs to get him sorted.”  
Liam gave me an eye roll while I turned the sausages.
Davey opened another beer. “Don’t hold your breath on that. Remember last time Peter got a yen for sunny beaches—he was gone four years.” 
Tom jumped up. “Don’t say that, mate. Don’t even say it.” 
I didn’t like the fear I heard in Tom’s voice. It fed my own. A lot of things didn’t quite fit. Like the Professor saying Peter had been in the army, when Charlie said he was RAF. And Plant thinking he was an aristocrat, when Davey saw him as fellow “riff-raff.” 
I was going to have to do some advanced Googling when I got back to my computer. I hoped I’d find some explanation—and also the magical source of his funds.
Liam dished the potato-vegetable mixture onto a platter with the sausage links. 
“Tea’s on.” 
“Bollocks!” Tom said. I had no idea if this was in reference to Charlie, tea, or the snooker, but I went ahead and set the table with an assortment of battle-scarred flatware, folded some paper towels for napkins and everyone came to the table cheerfully enough.
I didn’t want to think what all the pork products I was consuming would do to my figure, but the food was actually quite tasty. 
The platter had been scraped clean and I was on my second beer when there was a heavy knock on the outside door.
Everybody froze. I could tell we all had the same thought.
Tom gave Liam a triumphant look. 
“Peter?” he called. “Decided to drop in on Lincolnshire, you jet-setting bastard?”
My chest constricted as I felt equal parts apprehension, anger and…something more primal. 
Damn. Mr. Peter Sherwood definitely had a grip on my heart.





Chapter 24—Lost Boys



 
After more agitated knocking, Tom opened the canteen door. But it wasn’t Peter—just Karaoke Alan, looking slimier than ever in a squeaky new leather jacket and tight jeans. 
“Mr. Sherwood here? I wanted to talk to him about that manuscript. Has he read it? From the lady in California.”
I started to speak, but Liam stopped me with a sharp look. He turned to Alan and spoke in a flat voice. “Peter’s not available.” 
Tom went back to the couch as the others kept their eyes on the snooker.
Peter’s disappearing act was apparently not to be shared with outsiders.
Alan was undeterred. “She’s coming here—my authoress friend—flying into Heathrow from Los Angeles next week, and she plans to come straight to Swynsby.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I may have given her the impression I work here…I did read English literature at Balliol, you know.”
The Professor gave a hoot—only half-pretending to address it at the snooker players. Alan did not project the image of an Oxford scholar.
But Alan took a belligerent tone. “Google me. Alan Greene, Balliol College, Oxford.” He turned to me. “What about you, Duchess? Maybe you could put in a good word with Peter? It’s exactly what this place needs—a Robin Hood book or two. That’s what the tourists come for—the home of Lincoln Green: Robin Hood’s haberdashers. Rosalee’s got a publicity campaign planned. She worked in marketing for Hollywood. Her dad was in films.” 
I didn’t know the exact location of Buttonwillow CA,  but I was fairly certain it wasn’t a major hub of the film industry. 
“How fascinating,” I said with a polite smile. “I’ll tell Peter.” I was a co-conspirator now. 
“She have big tits, this authoress?” said Tom, over his shoulder. 
Alan chortled and took out his cell phone. He brought up a picture of a woman in what looked like a Renaissance Faire costume. He passed the phone around the room.
 “Oh, yes. I see immense literary talent there,” said Tom. 
“Two immense literary talents,” said Davey, lifting a furry eyebrow. “Does Brenda know about her?”
Alan gave a wounded shrug. “The book’s a damned good read. How about Peter’s partner? That Weems bloke. I want to talk to him.” His phone rang. “That’ll be me ball and chain. When’s a good time to stop by and talk to Mr. Weems?” 
“He usually comes in around half ten,” Davey said.
Everybody was silent until Alan went out the door. 
“Except tomorrow,” Davey said in the direction Alan had gone. “Never comes in on Wednesdays, Henry.”
I couldn’t help laughing with the rest of them. 
The snooker was only marginally more interesting than watching fungus grow, but I wanted to stay amidst the comraderie in the canteen rather than go back to my little hole. When the match finally ended, the Professor took his leave. 
“My taxi will be here soon. Better get myself assembled. I’ve work to do tonight.” He picked up his messenger bag from a nearby table. “Henry’s got me reading the slush. If I’m not in tomorrow, you’ll know I’m dead of a toxic overdose of bad prose.”
This was disturbing news. Had Henry given my job to the Professor? 
“You’re reading the slush too? How many submissions does the company get?” 
“Too many,” the Professor said. “But you’re reading for Major Oak, aren’t you? If you run into any pervy ones, save them for me. Dominion’s my job, more’s the pity.”
With relief, I told him about The Prisoner of Zelda and offered to run down to fetch it. I’d be happy to have the thing out of my sight.
Down in the neat little room, I grabbed the envelope. Next to it was the manuscript from Buttonwillow, CA. I wondered if I’d been too hasty in my judgment of Rosalee’s book. Alan had a point about the probability of Robin Hood stories selling well to tourists. I grabbed both manuscripts and caught the Professor on the street outside as his taxi pulled up to the curb.
“This is Alan’s friend’s novel—the Robin Hood thing. Since the author is arriving so soon…it’s full of awful mangled Elizabethan syntax, but maybe you can find some good in it.”
The Professor stuck both envelopes in his messenger bag, “The overwrought will provide a nice break from the oversexed. But I doubt there even is an authoress from California. You’ll soon learn that nothing that man says is true.”
I laughed as I watched the taxi took off into the night. But as I looked down the street, I saw a shadowy figure on the corner, watching. 
It looked a lot like Alan Greene. 
Why would a man lie so openly and not expect to get caught?
I made a cup of tea and took it down to my little room. I hoped there would be another message from Plant—a link to my own reality from this unfamiliar world.
Plant had indeed written—mostly about Silas buying Felix’s store and how the anxiety of getting a loan was making Silas impossible to live with. They’d had another fight. Silas was staying at a hotel and Plant was on his third Grey Goose. 
He was amused by my Robin Hood tales, but added, “It sounds as if the English legend you’re living isn’t Robin Hood but Peter Pan. You certainly had a terrifying encounter with Captain Hook. Funny, isn’t it—how similar the Robin Hood and Peter Pan stories are—both lending themselves to gay fantasies of untamed men in cute green tights. But your Englishmen don’t sound all that merry to me. More like Lost Boys. Don’t start casting yourself as Wendy, darling. Maid Marian had more fun.”
He was right. I had no idea if my Peter was Robin Hood or Peter Pan or simply a disappearing con man. I tried Googling him, but I didn’t get any farther than I had last time. The London club picture, a few mentions from the Frankfurt Book Fair, and…nothing. 
My panic came back, full force. This was the Internet Age. Nobody’s private life was that private. If Peter was a war hero, there would have been news stories. 
The one thing I knew for sure was that Peter was a liar. His whoppers might be worse than Alan Greene’s. And if Lance’s death hadn’t been a heart attack—I still had to consider the possibility that Peter was a cold-blooded killer.




Chapter 25—Vermin




I woke to odd, scratchy noises in the windowless dark. I reached for the lamp. When I clicked it on, I saw them. 
Rats. 
Dozens of them. All attacking the white paper bag I’d left on my desk—the one with the rest of the poacher cheese and chocolate digestive biscuits. They were crawling all over the manuscripts—and my laptop.
When my scream came out, it was full throated and sopranic. 
Davey came running down the stairs, followed by Liam. 
“What’s wrong?” Liam said. 
“Open your eyes,” said Davey, pointing at the seething mass of rat. “Duchess, didn’t we tell you not to bring food down here?”
They hadn’t, but it wouldn’t help to say so. Besides, I couldn’t make my mouth do anything but scream. The rats were still crawling all over the desk, ignoring the light and the presence of so many humans.
“Much!” Davey shouted. “Here, boy!” 
The little dog came tearing down the stairs, wagging the whole back half of his body along with his stubby tail. He jumped up on the desk and grabbed one of the rodents in his sharp teeth as the rest scurried to escape. The captured rat hissed, but Much gave it a quick shake and dropped it to the floor, its neck broken. Most of the other rats escaped behind the wardrobe, save one, who was trying to drag a whole digestive biscuit back into its lair. Much captured rat and biscuit with a quick paw, but sacrificing his prize, the creature escaped, leaving Much with the chocolatey bag. 
“Get the biscuits,” Liam said. “Chocolate is poisonous to dogs.”
I grabbed the bag, but it seemed weightier than I remembered. Then it moved. A rat hissed from inside. With a scream, I tossed it back on the desk. Much took a running leap and pounced, as he, the rat, and the bag landed on the floor.
So did the stack of manuscripts. And my laptop. I dove for it, but I was too late. It slid to the floor with a thunk, nearly landing on the deceased rodent. 
Davey picked it up, his eyebrows furrowing. 
“Not good,” he said. “This floor is bloody brick. But I’ve seen laptops survive worse. I’ll give it a look in the morning.”
I stared with horror at my beloved computer. My only link to the world.
“Don’t despair, Duchess,” said Liam, putting a brotherly arm around me. “Davey’s a genius with computers. Get some sleep and he’ll sort it in the morning.”
 “Sleep? Where?” I felt my voice crack, tight with anger and lurking despair. “I can deal with most things,” I said, trying to choke back tears. “My husband abandoning me for hookers; my mother dying and leaving me destitute; drunken sailors threatening me with knives, and publishers who promise advances and then evaporate without a word. I can even deal with living in a hole at the bottom of a pornography factory. But I cannot sleep with vermin. I simply can’t.”
Davey and Liam took me to the canteen and offered beer and reassuring words, although at this point I didn’t believe them any more than I would a couple of lost boys. 
But they did have a key to the main office and the inner office door wasn’t locked, so by three AM, I was back on Peter’s futon, trying to sleep, with Much curled at my feet. However, even with his watchful canine presence, every creak of the building made me flinch. I burrowed under the duvet and prayed for morning. 
And for Peter to show up soon, with a damned good explanation for everything.




            Chapter 26—Three Times Naught




Unfortunately, morning only brought Henry Weems. At precisely eight-thirty AM he pulled the door open and marched in, with Vera Winchester trailing behind.
“You never come in on Wednesdays, Henry. I wish you’d told me,” Vera said. “Everybody but me seems to have been informed. Alan Greene from the pub apparently knows all about it. He’s waiting outside. He says it’s urgent. I told him you never come in of a Wednesday, but here you are…”
“Somebody has to run this bloody company. I’ve got a book to print and ship by the end of the week.” Henry scowled at Vera, who had stopped to give Much a pat. “Where’s Mowbray? Get him in my office now. If he doesn’t have a new cover for me, he’s sacked.” He turned to glare at me. “This is a place of business, Miss Randall. Not a hostel for waifs and mongrels. Find yourself a room and get that beast out of here. Vera, make sure this door is locked before you leave this afternoon.”
I pulled the duvet tighter, as if it might protect me from Henry’s scattershot anger. Vera gave me a quick, but sympathetic smile. 
I escaped, trailing the duvet. I’d have to get my things out of the rat hole in order to dress. I was thankful for little Much, who trotted along at my side. 
I managed to get myself clothed, packed the rest of my things and carried my luggage upstairs. I’d rather face Henry’s wrath than set foot in that hole again. There had to be a nook somewhere that was both rat and Henry-free. 
As I climbed the stairs with my luggage, I nearly bumped into Liam, emerging from the factory with a cup of steaming tea. 
“You’re not leaving us, Duchess? Please don’t. We’re counting on you. We need a good mainstream book in the worst way. Otherwise we’ll be stuck publishing nothing but smut the rest of our lives. Please stay.”
I set down my suitcases. Didn’t they understand that I had nowhere to go? 
“I need a place to sleep. To put my things…”
He gestured at the big double doors at the end of the corridor. 
“I don’t see why Tom wouldn’t be willing to share the warehouse. Plenty of room in there.” He knocked on Davey’s door. “What say we move the Duchess to the warehouse?”
Davey, also clutching tea, opened his door. 
“Fine with me, but Tom may not be in the best of moods. He’s been summoned by Rodd Whippington.” 
Liam picked up a suitcase and led me through the double doors, revealing an industrial space, stacked high with cartons, old sewing equipment, and pallets of books. At one end, where big windows looked over the river, were several easels and paintings in various stages of completion, plus a sleeping bag unrolled on the floor.
Davey, following with the rest of the luggage, nodded in the direction of the windows. 
“That’s Tom’s studio. But maybe we could make you a room behind the book pallets—over here.” He walked toward a corner to the left of the doors.
“I think there’s probably an extra table somewhere around here,” said Liam. “And I can give you my futon. Hate the bloody thing. Only Much uses it.”
I sighed as Davey and Liam set down my luggage between two pallets stacked with Amber’s Agony, and Beauty in Bondage.
So this would be my new life: Snug amidst the smut; sleeping on a dog’s cast-off bed. But it was the only thing on offer. I attempted a smile and thanked them.
The doors burst open and Tom stomped in, looking as if he might hurt anybody who got in his way. 
“I’m off, mates,” he said in a fake-cheerful voice. “My services are no longer required.” He took a painting from an easel and slammed it against a large piece of machinery, ripping a hole in the center of the canvas. “Tell Peter I’ll be back to get my paintings from the office after Rodd fucking Whippington has left the premises.” He folded the easel and threw it to the floor, scooping up his paints and tossing them into a battered case. “I’ll have to go home by train, which means I’ll be able to take fuck-all with me. If Peter ever brings his bloody car back, tell him to bring my gear up to Leeds.” He grabbed an empty box from a stack and started tossing clothes inside.
“Just pack for a week or two,” said Liam. “Peter’s bound to re-hire you as soon as he gets back. He won’t be half wound up when he hears what Henry’s done.”
Tom shrugged. “I wouldn’t work here now if Peter offered me three times the money. Three times naught is naught. Henry did me a favor. This place is going under. Sooner than you think, mates.”
Davey started packing up Tom’s things with angry efficiency. 
“The only thing that surprises me about Henry,” he said. “Is how far he can crawl up his own arse. He wanted to sack me as soon as he heard I’ve been inside. Luckily I’m the only one what can take care of the bloody machines.”
Tom shouldered his backpack and lifted his artist’s kit. 
“I want to make the next train. Ring me when Peter gets back. If he gets back.” 
He let both doors slam as he stomped out. 
Henry had fired Peter’s best friend. I wondered what he knew that we didn’t.




          Chapter 27—The Wendy House




I looked around the warehouse as Davey packed boxes of Tom’s things. I tried to help by picking up a box, but I didn’t quite know what to do with it. I stacked it on top of several others, then piled another on top. I felt useless.
“Are you building a wall?”  Liam looked at my stack of boxes
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Davey. “We could build your room here in this corner by the windows, instead of over in the dark. There’s a nice view.”
A view—a glimpse of the river through iron bars and filthy glass—over a wall topped with razor wire. But yes, the river was magnificent. I would make the best of it. But Peter would have a lot to answer for when he got back. 
If he got back. 

A few hours later, with the help of a couple of hand trucks, the three of us had built a comical structure in the corner of the warehouse. Against one wall was Tom’s work table, which, although paint-spattered, made a serviceable desk. Against the other, we put Liam’s discarded futon, covered with the duvet I had used as a robe when escaping Henry that morning. The other two walls were constructed of cartons of books stacked six feet high and covered with old blankets. We’d pinned some of Tom’s sketches to the fabric, which gave it the look of particularly quirky avant-garde art gallery. My suitcase sat on a cast iron stand from an ancient sewing machine, and an old office chair faced the view of the river.  
“How about my computer?” I said as I cleaned paint off my improvised desk. “Is there computer hook-up here like in Ratko’s room?”
Liam laughed. “Never was a need. Tom’s a complete Luddite.” 
But Davey wasn’t laughing. His eyes looked sad under the dark brows. 
“Duchess, your computer…I might be able to salvage the hard drive, but it’s pretty bollixed up.”
I should have expected this, but the news hurt.
“I have a friend who might be able rebuild it,” Davey said. “He’s a bloody genius and he’s got parts for everything. But I can’t guarantee when he might get round to it. He sometimes goes walkabout and nobody hears from him for weeks…”
Apparently a common habit around here. I tried to smile. 
Davey patted my shoulder. “Buck up, Duchess. I’ve got a desktop in the office, and I’m hardly ever there. I prefer to work with my laptop in my digs.”
“Can I get my mail on it?”
“Of course. The office is warm, too. And Vera’s good company.” 
As if on cue, Vera appeared outside of the little room, carrying a tray of tea mugs with a sugar bowl and milk. 
“Oh, it isn’t half cozy!” she said as I lifted the blanket door and invited her in. She offered tea all around. “Like a little girl’s Wendy House. She gave me a smile. “I do apologize for Henry. He’s a good bloke, but he seems to have gone right bonkers. I can’t believe he sacked Tom. I’m still reeling.”
“Henry’s a stupid bloody ass,” said Davey, rolling himself a cigarette. “Peter will have to do a lot of persuading to get Tom to come back. And he’ll never find another artist to work for the pittance he was getting.”
Vera shook her head. “Henry’s already replaced him, I’m afraid.” 
Liam and Davey looked as if they might spit out their tea. “He’s hired another artist? Somebody local?”
Vera kept shaking her head, as if she wanted to negate her own words. “He’s hired Alan Greene, from the Merry Miller. Something not right about that chap. But he studied at the Royal College of Art, so Henry thinks the sun shines out his bum.” 
Davey and Liam exchanged eyerolls as Vera admired the little makeshift room. 
“So nice to see those pervy books put to good use,” Vera said. “All this place needs is some nice curtains and a comfy chair.” Her face lit up. “Or a settee. My husband George has been on about getting rid of the wicker settee and ottoman we have in the conservatory. He’d rather have something more modern. Why don’t I ask him and our Callum to bring them round tomorrow?” 
I gave Vera a hug—for her offered gifts and her comforting presence. And her charming idea that this ramshackle shelter resembled a “Wendy House.” Of course, I’d feel more charmed if Peter Pan/Robin himself would reappear. 
I couldn’t help thinking Tom might be right in his predictions about the dismal future of Sherwood, Ltd. 




Chapter 28—Greenwich Mean Time




The little dog Much seemed to have taken on permanent responsibility for my welfare, for which I was grateful. He wasn’t a cuddly dog—just as well since he had a tendency to drool—but he hovered near me wherever I went and, when I prepared for bed in my new digs, he curled up at the foot of the bed. 
I slept pretty well, in spite of the cold, thanks to several duvets donated by Liam and Davey. But the sun woke me at daybreak. I’d need some darkening curtains. Also, the trek to the bathroom in the half light turned out to be a dangerous obstacle course. I kicked something that fell over with a clatter as I walked by Davey’s room. His door opened and he peered out.
“Sorry I woke you. I’m trying to get to the loo,” I said. “Difficult in the dark.”
Davey pointed to a stack of plastic buckets in the corner. “Just use one of those,” he said. “Empty it in the morning. That’s what we do.”
So I’d gone from the Countess’s gold-plated bathroom fixtures to this. But as the Manners Doctor always said, “Time spent on regret was time wasted.” 
I made my pilgrimage to the flush toilet, but on the way back, I grabbed an emergency bucket.

The next morning, I woke to Vera’s cheerful voice, informing me that George and Callum had arrived with the settee and “a few bits and bobs to cheer up the place.” 
Liam and Davey helped open the doors on the side of the warehouse and the four men started bringing in the contents of a good-sized delivery truck. The settee had cushions of much-faded flowered chintz, and its matching ottoman showed signs of having accommodated many feet, but they were charming and comfortable. Vera’s “bits and bobs” consisted of a set of matching flowered curtains, some throw pillows, a pale blue duvet cover printed with ducks wearing bonnets, and a scruffy, but serviceable dresser. Vera’s husband—a smiling, quiet man who made deliveries for a bakery—and Callum, the energetic young son, made quick work of moving things in. 
Within an hour, my nook felt almost like a room in cozy English cottage—except for the industrial ceiling many feet above, and the fact that the “door” consisted of a blanket hung on a broom handle hung between stacks of kinky books. 
I was so grateful, I hardly knew what to say, but the cheery, matter-of-fact Winchesters behaved as if this were all in a day’s work. Vera told me where to go in town to find “charity shops” that sold second hand towels and sheets.
After I spent the afternoon giving another radio interview, escorted by the ebullient Mr. Vicars, I felt as if my Sherwood adventure might turn out all right, Peter or no Peter. After all, I wasn’t here for romance. I was here to publish a book. And Henry might be a pill, but he seemed a good deal more businesslike than Peter.
Davey showed me how to use his old computer at the desk behind Vera’s. I was disappointed to find nothing from Plant, but, then, I hadn’t even been gone a week. Plant did have a life. 
When I returned to my Wendy House, I found an ancient radio on my bed, with a note from Davey saying he’d found it in his room when he arrived, and although the sound quality was “bollocks” it would do for listening to myself on the chat shows.
The radio was about the size of a shoebox and made of red plastic, with big, chrome dials. I turned one and the machine blared to staticky life. After playing around a bit, I tuned in on a man’s voice identifying the station as BBC Radio Four. Then came the tolling of a sonorous bell. Six bongs. Big Ben, ringing the hour of six o’clock: six PM, Greenwich Mean Time. I felt a transcendent thrill. Here I was. In England—the mean; the meridian; the center—where my language, my culture, and my manners came from. A place as solid, sensible and reliable as Big Ben itself. 
Peter Sherwood—or whoever he was—might have disappeared. But I was in England, and I was going to make the most of it.

That evening, I found the men in the canteen, eating fish and chips and drinking ale from big brown bottles. They announced Henry had paid them some back pay, and promised to pay in full by the end of the week. 
Tom’s absence deadened the mood, but Liam offered me beer and the Professor said he agreed with my assessment of Fangs of Sherwood Forest.
“It’s Twilight for pooftas. And the prose is unpublishable,” he said in a voice edged with anger. “But now the Baron has Henry reading it.”
This seemed odd. “But Major Oak—isn’t that Peter’s domain, not Henry’s?” 
“Who knows?” the Professor said. “We’re all mushrooms—to use Meggy’s term.” His voice cracked a bit when he mentioned Meggy, and he looked nervous—so much that I wondered if something was going on between them. “But if you’d like to see my edits for your Dr. Manners book, we might as well behave as if it’s launching as planned. The lads have told me about the tragedy with your computer. But I’ve got your project on a flash drive. I’ll bring it in tomorrow with my edits. I know Peter wanted to go with it as is, but I think it will be even better with a few tweaks. Tiny things. Nothing like the overhaul that would be needed for that vampire mess.”
“I can’t imagine Peter will be happy if Henry accepts that silly book,” I said.
Nobody answered. In fact, nobody mentioned Peter’s name again all evening. 

The following morning, the Professor came wheeling into my Wendy House with the flash drive and an ancient laptop he said Davey had unearthed from the office. It had a primitive version of Word, so I was able to get down to work. Too old for Internet hook-up, but it allowed me to write. The Professor’s suggestions were good ones.
By afternoon I felt almost cheery, marching to the office dressed in my Burberry suit and Stella boots to meet Charlie for our outing to Lincoln for another interview. 
But I found nobody in the office but Vera, her face stiff and pale. She barely smiled as she worked intently on tallying invoices with an ancient adding machine. I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to interrupt, so I booted up Davey’s desktop to check for e-mail. 
There was still nothing from Plant, but I found a message from ryderbooks@charter.net. I almost deleted it before I realized Ryder Books must be the name of Silas’s company. He’d only written a few words, but they hit me like a truck. 
“Plant is in the hospital. Looks like a heart attack. I took him to the emergency room and they’ve admitted him. No word yet if he needs surgery. I’ll keep you posted. Let me know if you get this, and if there’s a phone number where you can be reached.”
My vision blurred. I didn’t want to let the words be true. I felt a stabbing pain in my own heart. How could this have happened? How could I live without Plantagenet? He was the person I loved most in the world. My best friend. My family. My only family.
Without him, I was trapped in this bizarre place with no way home.




Chapter 29—The Whole Chicken




I sat frozen in the office chair, trying not to let myself sink into despair about Plantagenet. He was going to be fine. I wouldn’t let myself think anything else. Plant was fit. He walked everywhere. Belonged to a gym. And he was a survivor. He’d grown up in the toughest neighborhoods of New Jersey and got himself a full ride to Princeton, then re-invented himself as a sophisticated, urbane playwright. 
But I hated myself for not being there with him—and I hated Silas for sending me away. 
I managed to type a reply—an entreaty to Silas to let me know immediately if I needed to come home. I told him e-mail was the best way to communicate. I gave him the company phone number, but told him it would be fairly useless, except during business hours, when Vera could take a message. 
But Vera didn’t look as if she’d be happy to take anybody’s personal messages at the moment. She sent ocular daggers at Henry and Alan when they came in after what must have been a boozy lunch.
“Duchess!” said Alan, leaning over my desk with beery breath. “Great news. Henry’s going to publish Rosalee’s novel! We’ll have two American authoresses to promote at the same time. Double the publicity for half the cost. You can help out as a tour guide for her. She’s going to be staying with friends in Puddlethorpe, which is only a half hour away.” He hovered by my desk. “Do you mind if I use this computer to send her the good news? That slacker Davey hasn’t yet managed to hook up my machine.” He pointed to an old Powerbook sitting on the desk opposite. “Henry’s promised me a new one, but until then, we have to make do with what we’ve got. This is the one I got as a prize when I won an academic competition at Oxford...”
I only half listened. If I hadn’t just heard that my best friend might be dying, the information that Rosalee Beebee’s dreadful book and mine were going to be linked might have qualified as the worst news ever. 
Alan took my seat as soon as I rose. I didn’t really mind. It was time to go anyway. Charlie was late. We were going to have to drive fast to make the interview. I decided to brave Vera’s bad mood and ask if she knew where Charlie was.
“Gone.” Vera’s voice was staccato with anger. “Given his walking papers this morning. Mr. Greene will be taking over his duties.” She gestured at Alan with her head as she kept her fingers on the adding machine, staring straight ahead, her jaw rigid.
I looked to Alan for confirmation of this bizarre piece of news. 
“You’re going to do Charlie’s job? But I thought you were taking over for Tom.”
“I’m a two-bird stone,” Alan said, laughing at his own joke. “Henry gets two employees for the price of one. I used to work for Random House, when I lived in New York. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No. You didn’t.” I wanted to ask him when he fit that in, between getting his degrees from Oxford and the Royal College of Art, but at the moment the important thing was getting to my interview. I didn’t even know where I was to go. “Well, we’d better get going then. We have an appointment in Lincoln in less than an hour.”
Alan didn’t look up from the computer screen. 
“I’ve cancelled all that. No point in doing anything until Rosalee arrives.” 
As I watched him peck with two fingers at the keyboard of Davey’s computer, I felt acute sympathy with Tom Mowbray and his penchant for punching holes in walls. My anger propelled me out of the building and into the parking lot. I walked along the river, my head so full of rage I hardly noticed the rain escalating from drizzle to downpour. 
I charged from the end of the river-walk park through the alley that led to the central square. But the place was gray and colorless—empty now of the tents and stalls of the market-day vendors. I stood in the rain, staring into the Mary Ann Evans tea house. It looked old and dirty through the fogged window. Why had I found this crumbling old mill town charming? 
Rain dripped from my hair down under my collar, as the natives rushed along, sensible and dry under their big, practical “brollys,” but I hardly felt the damp or chill. I knew now why anger was described in terms of heat—my body felt as if it were boiling with it—anger at Henry and Alan and Peter and the whole Sherwood mess. Anger at Silas, too. Who knows, maybe his fight with Plant had caused the heart attack. Why was their relationship so volatile? And why hadn’t he bought me a round-trip ticket?
But as the damp soaked in and chilled me, my anger turned inward. This was my own fault in so many ways. If I hadn’t allowed myself to be deluded by Peter’s charm, I wouldn’t be in this grim, soggy place, Silas or no Silas. 
It was time for me to end this crazed fantasy and get myself back home, somehow. And I had questions that needed answering. Now.
1)What hospital had Silas taken Plant to? 
2)What kind of surgery were the doctors contemplating? 
3)What exactly had they said? 
4)Would Silas lend me the money to get home?
I stomped back through the downpour to write another e-mail, immediately.
But Alan was still using Davey’s computer in the office. So was Henry, hovering above him, chortling at whatever they were viewing. When I rounded the desk, I could see hard-core pornographic images on the monitor. 
“Excuse me, but I have to use the computer for a moment.” I tried to sound calm. “I have an important e-mail…”
“This is a place of business,” Henry said. “Does your e-mail relate to this business?”
“It’s my best friend. He’s had a heart attack…”
Henry turned his back to me as he ogled improbably endowed females, bruised and bleeding—enduring torture for his amusement. 
“You’re making puddles all over the floor, Miss Randall,” he said. “Could you please go outside?”
Fury blinded me as I ran from the room. At that moment, I understood why people kill. If I’d stayed another second, I would have picked up the computer tower and hit Henry with it in his smug, perverted face. 
Now it wasn’t only anger that propelled me, but disgust. The images I’d seen on the computer screen made me want to retch. I’d always assumed erotica involved depictions of men and women having sex—or women and women, or men and men, or various mix-and-match assortments. Unpleasant sex, even—in dreadful little outfits. But sex. Not torture. Not what I’d seen on that screen.
I had a memory-flash of Plant at some gallery opening a decade ago, talking about the difference between erotica and porn— 
“Erotica is a feather, but pornography is using the whole chicken.” 
And here I was, trapped in a big, nasty chicken coop. 




Chapter 30—Tricksters



 
I hid my childish tears by ducking behind one of the big printing machines. I blew my nose and tried to pull myself together.
From the other side of the machine came the echo of a sniffle much louder than mine. I peered into the shadowy corner. 
Meggy Poole was talking in an agitated whisper to the Professor, who held her hand. He seemed to be kissing it. Then he pulled her down so he could kiss her lips. Just a quick kiss, but not a brotherly one. 
When Meggy saw me, her hand went to her eye, dark with a fresh bruise. 
“Oh, you didn’t half give me a start,” she said. “The Professor and me was talking about all this lunacy. Do you believe Henry’s sacked Charlie as well as Tom? It’ll be one of us next. And me Mick has already thrown a wobbly about me bounced paycheck.” She put her hand to her bruised eye.
I wondered if most women were secretly masochists, as the Rod Whippingtons would have us believe. I found myself angry with Meggy—and myself. Why did we put up with it?
Apparently Professor had heard me weeping. 
“Don’t waste tears on Tom Mowbray,” he said. “He’s been through worse. Charlie will land on his feet as well. We Yellowbellies are tough as old boots. As far as your book tour, Peter will set things right when he gets back. He won’t let some old woman’s toy boy destroy his company.”
The Professor’s smile was so sympathetic, and Meggy’s sturdy presence so reassuring, that I poured out the whole story of Plant’s heart attack, and the rats, my computer’s demise, and how desperately I needed access to e-mail.
Meggy shook her head in sympathy. 
“I doubt Davey will have had time to fix your computer.” Henry’s got us all working overtime on his book. We finally got our load of paper.”
The Professor looked more optimistic. 
“Davey’s got broadband in his lair,” he said. “He’s in there. I’m sure he’ll let you use it for a moment, in spite of the rush to get Rodd Whippington’s new opus to his adoring fans.” 

When I told Davey the story of Henry and Alan and the computer, Davey snorted and typed something into the search window of his computer. 
“Look,” he said as the first page of results came up. “‘Allan Greene’ is indeed a fellow at Balliol College, Oxford.” He pointed at the screen. “‘Allen Green’ was also an editor at Random House. The only problem is the Oxford don is in his fifties and the editor died two years ago.”
The Google search page said the number of results was 42,700,000.
“The Baron has found the world’s most gormless techo-moron in Henry Weems,” Davey said. “Poor old Henry can barely navigate his e-mail program. He’d be dazzled by this, and not bother to look further.” Davey clicked on one of the search results and brought up a photograph of a tattooed teenager standing in front of a large computer- manipulated photograph. “Meet Alan Greene,” he said. “Student at the Royal College of Art.” He sighed. “But I can’t find one photo of the Baron. I doubt it’s even his real name. The only thing we know for certain about him is that he’s a pathological liar.” 
This reminded me that Peter Sherwood wasn’t much different from this liar known as Alan Greene. The one thing I knew about them both was they were tricksters—smart, slick—and totally untrustworthy. I thought of the horrible coyote I encountered in that alley with Peter. The Native Americans called coyote the trickster. Maybe the Universe had been trying to tell me something.

After bringing up pictures and data on a few more Alan Greenes, including one who claimed to be the love child of Princess Margaret and Elvis, Davey helped me go to my iGoogle page and mailbox. I did have a few new messages, including another one from Valentina demanding her cousin Rico’s money, but there was nothing from Silas or Plant. 
“Don’t worry, Duchess, I’ll sort things in the office,” Davey said. “You should have access to that computer whenever you need it. It belongs to me, not Henry or Alan bloody Greene—whoever the hell he may be.”

Late that night, I was using my bucket “en suite” when Much jumped up from the bed and gave a sharp bark. Then a menacing growl. He ran out into the warehouse, barking loudly.
Quickly pulling myself together, I grabbed my robe and shone a flashlight in the direction of the barks. I could see Much standing at the big double doors that led out to the parking lot. As I tried to quiet him, I heard something scrape against the door. Then I heard—or thought I heard—a metallic sound. It could have been someone locking the loading doors. Or trying to unlock them.
Much stood immobile, letting out another low growl. I pulled my robe tight. Should I wake Davey and Liam?
Now I heard footsteps crunching across the gravel parking lot outside. Turning off the flashlight, I peered through a grimy window. I could see a man—short, bearded, balding—and could it be?—what looked like a patch over one eye.
Barnacle Bill. I could barely breathe. 
Much made a quick turn to bark at something behind us.
“I don’t recommend going outside dressed like that,” said a voice from the shadows. “Not at pub-closing time. Lots of randy bastards out there.”
It was Alan Greene. He looked slimier and more dangerous in the dark, with his leather jacket and too-tight jeans. He leaned over to give Much a piece of biscuit from his pocket. Much took his bribe to a corner, abdicating his role as my champion.
“Something woke Much,” I said. “I think somebody’s out in the parking lot…”
“Mostly likely a business associate of mine,” Alan said. “I told him I’d meet him here after the pub closed. Nothing to trouble yourself with, Duchess.” His voice was low and oily as he moved toward me, reaching for the silky sleeve of my robe. “But what I would trouble myself about, if I were you…” He petted my arm as if it were a stray kitten. “…is sleeping rough in this warehouse. The council’s willing to allow a bit of slack with Davey and Liam, since Henry can claim they’re working as night watchmen, but we can hardly argue you’re staying here legally. I suggest you start looking for a more suitable spot to park your bum, sweetums…” He slid his arm toward the aforementioned area as his beery mouth moved toward my face.
I gave him a firm shove and retreated into my Wendy house. But he followed, grabbing for me with clammy hands. The man was preposterous. In the dark, I reached for the first thing I could find—the bucket handle. I lifted the liquid-filled bucket and pressed it against his chest, pushing him back through the curtain.
I heard a man outside call Alan’s name. It might have been Barnacle Bill’s. I couldn’t tell.
“So sorry you have a previous engagement,” I said in a sunny voice.
Then I did it—I let the bucket contents spill on his shoes.
“Oops,” I said.
The voice called Alan again.
He looked at me with dark fury and ran to the door.
I’d come an awfully long way from the Manners Doctor’s world, and I had no idea if I’d ever find my way back. Time to learn to live in this one.






Chapter 31—The Panic Button




I did not sleep well that night, but at least Alan never reappeared. Neither did his lurking “associate.” I wondered if Barnacle Bill might be trying to get the money Peter owed him out of Alan and Henry. 
Of course, I wasn’t sure if the man in the parking lot had been Bill at all. Perhaps the one-eyed pirate look was simply a common fashion statement in this part of England. In any case, I wouldn’t want to meet the man again. The thought came to me that Peter might have left to escape Bill’s threats. Peter didn’t seem like a man to run from trouble, but that would explain things.
Mostly my restless thoughts were of Plant, and how much I needed to hear news of him. I was desperate for Internet access that wasn’t dependent on the whims of horrible Alan Greene.
In the morning, over tea in the canteen, I told Liam and Davey about Alan’s midnight visit.
They laughed at my bucket defense, but were furious I hadn’t waked them.
“Next time, scream bloody murder,” Liam said. “I’ll leave me door unlocked. You can come for help any time.”
Davey said nothing, but he sprang from his chair, looking as if he meant to do battle with an invisible enemy lurking in the vicinity of the rubbish bin. He fished a beer bottle from the trash, and holding it by the neck, smashed it against the brick wall. He then presented me with the jagged remains. 
“Keep this under your bed, Duchess,” he said. “All you have to do is wave it about. That prat won’t risk scarring up his pretty face. And…” he paused a moment, weighing his words. “He doesn’t need to stay alive, you know. I’m still in touch with some blokes…”
Liam shook his head slowly. “Don’t bother. He’s already a dead man, the Baron. When Peter hears what he did, that git will die.” His tone was matter-of-fact. 
My skin went cold. Were they really talking about murder? Unless I was mistaken, Liam had just told me Peter had a habit of killing people who annoyed him. 
My mind snapped back to the image of Lance’s body in that alley. It frightened me more than any amount of sexual harassment by the slimy Alan Greene.
Davey was still agitated. 
“I’ll rig you an alarm that will go off in my room. A panic button. Push it and me and Liam will be there in two shakes. And don’t pay mind to the Baron’s threats about the Council. They won’t inspect for illegal living quarters without a complaint, and if Alan complains, he’ll be shooting himself in the arse. His sweetie-boy Henry would be the one to pay the fines.”

As soon as Henry arrived that morning, Davey stormed into his office and announced that if “the Duchess” was not allowed full access to his office computer, he’d remove all his equipment from the premises.
His ultimatum got me some grudging access to the Internet, but did not improve my relationship with Henry, who, as the week progressed, went from giving me disapproving scowls to pretending I didn’t exist. Alan, on the other hand, offered cheery smiles and acted as if the incident in the warehouse had never happened—almost creepier than the harassment. 
I wondered if he was plotting some horrible revenge. 
The whole situation made me feel uncomfortable in the office, so I only went in to check my email a couple of times a day—always to be disappointed by the lack of news. I felt safer ensconced in my Wendy House, and was glad of the button Davey installed on the wall beside my futon. It activated a device in his room that let out an electronic shriek that could wake all of Threadneedle Street. 

But even when I finally had access to the office computer, I found not one word from Silas or Plant. Nothing. I checked my email dozens of times a day, never to find anything but spam. How could Silas be so cruel? I got more and more furious at him for his silence. 
What if Plant was dead? Was Silas afraid to tell me?





Chapter 32—Gisborne




Alan Greene’s power at Sherwood continued to rise. He quit his pub karaoke job and spent all his time at the Maidenette Building. No longer Alan-a-Dale, he was now Guy of Gisborne—top henchperson and co-schemer to Henry’s Sheriff of Nottingham.
And all schemes revolved around the launching of Fangs of Sherwood Forest as soon as possible. I wondered if they were hoping to get the whole thing underway before Peter returned, or if they really had given up on him. 
Only Vera mentioned Peter’s name with any regularity.
Preparations for the arrival of Rosalee Beebee dominated the office agenda, while my own book was never mentioned. I continued to work on my edits—translating my American spelling to Brit on the ancient laptop, whose spell check function only worked occasionally. But I had to fight my growing fear that it was all for nothing. Everything felt more pointless and crazy as I worked alone in my absurd Wendy House.
 And still my email brought no news of Plant. Every time I sat down at the computer and found nothing, I felt more panic. It was like living in the middle of an earthquake—where your basic foundations start shaking and sliding away.
Davey, Liam and Vera were all sympathetic with my frustrations about Plantagenet. Vera sometimes came by with a tea cake or a biscuit and a treat for Much—who still kept watch at my side.  
Davey even took the time to do a search for phone numbers for San Francisco Bay Area hospitals, and helped me ring them via the company account, but none seemed to have a patient named Plantagenet Smith. And nobody answered at the Castro apartment’s land line—or at either of the numbers I could dig up for Silas Ryder. 
If only Plant’s cell phone hadn’t been stolen. I wondered if the burglary had upset him more than he admitted—and somehow triggered the heart attack.
Not that I knew for certain that’s what had happened to him. The whole heart disease thing bothered me more and more. There seemed to be way too much of it going around. Peter said he had heart disease too. And mentioned “tablets.” I knew certain poisons could mimic heart attack symptoms—and so could an overdose of some heart medicines. Could Lance have been poisoned? Plant, too? 
I felt a pang of guilt every time my suspicions of Peter resurfaced. But being a cheated-on spouse had taught me that sometimes things were exactly as they seemed. I couldn’t deny the fact that the last person alone with Lance in that alley had been Peter Sherwood.
But murderers needed motives. And opportunity. Peter didn’t even know Plant, so if the incidents were linked, I had no reason to suspect him.
However, the same was not true of Silas. My anger started to give birth to suspicion.
An awful thing happened when I put Silas into the scenario: things fell into place with unpleasant—and not unlikely—logic. 
1) Silas had motive to hurt both Lance and Plant. 
2) Silas had been jealous of Lance—Plant said so. 
3) Silas and Plant were in the midst of a fight when Plant had his “heart attack.” 
Silas could have killed Lance, or had him killed—and might later have tried to poison Plant. 
I kept reading Plant’s last emails over and over, looking for clues. Plant complained about Silas’s neglect and controlling behavior—which I’d witnessed myself—but not about any real threat or violent behavior. 
Plant had written at some length about the convoluted aspects of the bookstore purchase—stuff I’d only skimmed the first time through. He said Lance had been part owner of the business: he’d been accepting shares in the store in lieu of raises as the recession reduced Felix’s profits. Silas had made an offer on the store six months ago, but Lance had objected. 
Would Silas have killed a man just in order to purchase a business? He did seem to want that bookstore pretty badly. Maybe he was another schemer like Alan.
If Silas was Plant’s loving partner, why the hell wasn’t he communicating? 
By Friday afternoon, when I’d still heard nothing, I decided to make a systematic search of the Web for Silas’s name, to see if anything suspicious appeared. I had free use of the desktop computer for most of the day, since the office was blissfully Henry-and-Alan-free. The two were driving down to Heathrow to greet Rosalee’s plane: no puddle jumper to Robin Hood Airport for the great Ms. Beebee.
I searched California newspapers for any evidence of Silas behaving badly. But instead I found stories of homeless-shelter benefits and generous gifts to the arts. The Ryder family had apparently been wealthy ranchers for generations, and Silas was lavish with donations. The bookstores seemed to be something of a hobby. Not exactly motivation for homicidal greed. I started feeling ashamed of my suspicions.
I switched to surfing literary and entertainment blogs, scrounging for news of Plant himself. He’d become something of a celebrity after winning his Oscar. Even though his last film tanked, I hoped maybe a major health crisis might get him a mention, but I couldn’t find a thing.
Finally I Googled Plantagenet’s name with the word “obituary” and held my breath.





                   Chapter 33—The Arrival




Luckily my searches for Plantagenet’s name only got me British history sites. But I kept up my search, hoping for something, dreading everything.
But I had to give up my futile Web surfing at four-thirty PM, when the office doors flew open and Rosalee Beebee made her entrance into our lives. 
With an American voice that blared like a trumpet fanfare, she stomped in, declaring the office to be “totally adorable.” Henry and Alan trailed behind, like weary footmen following their imperious queen.
I’m not sure what I had imagined Rosalee would look like, but it wasn’t this. She was tall and big-boned, with a large, friendly, moon-shaped face and quantities of reddish-blonde hair that looked as if it had never been near a grooming product. She was dressed in a velour jogging suit of a pale pink usually reserved for infant girls and plush Easter toys. 
Rosalee gave a squeal as soon as she saw me. 
“The Manners Doctor!” She bounded toward me like some giant puppy. “I can’t believe I’m here with you in person. You’re absolutely my idol. I always read your columns. You and Dear Abby and my horoscope. First thing. I’m a Cancer. Oh, this is, like, the best day of my whole life!” 
She was equally enthusiastic with Vera, nearly knocking her over with a bearish squeeze. 
“Oh, Mrs. Winchester, I’ve heard so much about you. Henry says you’re the person who keeps this company going.”
“Does he now? Perhaps it’s time I ask for a pay rise?” Vera managed a stiff smile.
“Oh, look at the sweet little doggie!” Rosalee spotted Much, who had wisely taken refuge under Vera’s desk. He gave her a menacing growl. “He probably smells my kitties on my clothes,” Rosalee said, undaunted. “I have two: Hermione and Galadriel. I had to leave them with my brother’s girlfriend. I hope she doesn’t starve them. She’s such a selfish bitch.” 
Davey and Liam peeked into the office to catch a glimpse of the new arrival and were immediately bestowed with ursine greetings as well. They looked more startled than pleased by the physical contact, and scurried away with protestations of unfinished work.
But nothing could squelch Rosalee’s enthusiasm. 
“Look at these old bricks!” she said, patting the dirty factory walls. She twirled around like a small child. “OMG. I’m totally in England! I want to get out and see, like, the whole country. Isn’t Harry Potter’s castle somewhere around here? I want to see it right after Sherwood Forest.”
The Professor gave a harrumph and looked pained as he wheeled up and introduced himself as her editor. 
“We’ve got a bit of work to do in the next few weeks Ms. Beebee, so I wouldn’t make extensive travel plans. You have a lot of revisions to get to work on.” 
Rosalee, who had been leaning down to hug him, stopped and straightened herself. 
“What?” Her voice became an angry bark. “What did you say to me?”
“Revisions. Edits.” The Professor gave a weary sigh. “Henry and Alan tell me they want to launch your book at the Lincoln Book Fair. That’s going to require some long days. Your book needs a good deal of editing.”
“Oh no. Ooh no…” Rosalee wagged a finger as if scolding a child. She stomped toward Henry and Alan, who had been retreating toward the inner office. “What are you guys trying to pull? Is this one of those scams? I’ve read about this stuff. You say you’re going to publish a book and then you charge an arm and a leg for the editing. No way. That book is fine like it is. I refuse to change one word. No way am I doing any more writing. That thing is done.” Rosalee’s lower lip trembled with dramatic grief. “The most perfect day of my life and you’re ruining it!” 
“I assure you, there’s no charge for editing, Ms. Beebee…” The Professor gave me a pleading look. “Perhaps Ms. Randall can explain the publishing process…?”
 I put on my Manners Doctor smile. 
“Why don’t I show you the market square and the old manor house, Rosalee? The town center is lovely. They don’t allow cars because the roads are so narrow. You’ll feel as if you’re walking back into Robin Hood’s time. I’m sure everybody can wait until later to discuss business.”
Rosalee’s sunny smile returned. 
“Yeah. Let’s go! My boyfriend is picking me up at seven, but maybe we could go for a walk first? Get a little something to eat?”
Boyfriend. This woman had already acquired a local boyfriend. 
“Oh, yes, do take her for a walk, Miss Randall,” Henry said with enthusiasm. “We’ll discuss the particulars on Monday. I’ll get Miss Beebee’s things out of the boot of my car. I need to be off to Nottingham. I’m already late. Emily—my wife—won’t like it if I miss tea.” 
“All sorted, then,” said Alan. “I’m off, too. I’m expected at home.” He looked as if he might actually be eager to return to his “ball and chain.” Whether this was due to Rosalee’s unexpected boyfriend or her aggressive manner wasn’t clear, but Rosalee didn’t appear to have fulfilled his expectations. Perhaps she had exaggerated her interest in him in order to land her contract. 
Or perhaps she was as outrageous a liar as Alan Greene himself, and the Baron had met his match.




Chapter 34—Cuddly Predators




Rosalee bounced back from her fit of pique as soon as we were outside. 
“This place is awesome!” she said, gazing toward the river. “You’ve got to show me everything.” She grabbed my wrist like an eager child. When we were out of earshot of the factory, she stopped, squeezed my arm and burst into laughter. “Those guys—they’re so Monty Python! How can you be around them without bursting into hysterics? I don’t know how you do it. But then, you know how to pretend to like people when you don’t. I mean, that’s what manners are about—right?”
I said nothing, which didn’t seem to concern Rosalee. Her patter didn’t leave much room for response. The woman hardly stopped for breath.
 “I can’t believe how totally boring those guys are,” she said with a giggle. “I met that Alan Greene guy in a forum for Robin Hood fans. Alan said his grandfather was Richard Greene, some guy who played Robin Hood on an old-time TV series, but do you think he has booked me on one TV show? No. Not one. Why have a grandfather who’s a hot shot TV star if you can’t even get somebody a spot on daytime talk?” She sighed. “I guess he thought we were going to hook up or something. He was all over me in the car. I had to move to the front seat with the old Hobbity guy when we stopped for gas.” 
I wondered if Rodd Whippington knew his new protégé considered him an “old Hobbity guy.” Her move to the front seat might explain why he felt he had to mention his wedded state back at the office.
“As if!” Rosalee pulled the zipper higher on her jogging suit to mask the lush contours of her figure. “And you know, I Googled it and book editors make about as much as, like, trash collectors. Who needs that? I’ve got to find an English guy who can support me.” She skipped along the river walk in her pink and silver running shoes, giving friendly waves at startled passersby.
So Alan Greene had told Rosalee he was an editor—no more implausible than his other stories. And claiming Richard Greene as a grandfather—that probably got him a few online conquests. I wondered how many Google-search personas the man had.
Rosalee went on. “Alan isn’t as good-looking as his picture, anyway, and I didn’t get a good feeling about him. First impressions are so important, aren’t they? Besides, my other English boyfriend Colin is a sales rep for a double-glazing company. They put windows in old buildings. He says he makes pots of money. I guess he would, since old buildings are the only kind they’ve got around here. Oh, look—photo op!” 
As we rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of the town square, Rosalee pulled out her camera phone and clicked a photo with hardly a pause in her monologue. 
“Colin talks like that: ‘pots of money.’ I’m going to stay with him in his cottage in this village called Puddlethorpe. It’s too sweet for words. I met him when he was visiting California. He’s into cowboys. Isn’t that cute? I’m into English outlaws and he’s into American outlaws: gunslingers and stuff, like Jesse James.”  
I had never thought of gunslingers as cute, but perhaps that’s what they had become, like Robin Hood and his band of thieves: once-fearsome predators, now reduced to cuddly entertainment for small children, like plastic dinosaurs and plush tigers. 
The Mary Ann Evans tea shop was closed. I peered inside, thinking of Peter and that idyllic day when I had almost fallen in love with him. 
Rosalee was right: first impressions were important. I had to remember my first impression of Peter had been that he was a rapist and a possible murderer. It was important to keep that thought firmly in my mind, in spite of my fervent wish to be proved wrong.
We found a pub in a narrow street off the central square, called The Green Man—full of noisy diners. After snapping a few more photos, Rosalee pulled me inside and insisted we order a mixed grill for two and sticky toffee pudding for dessert. It was a huge amount of food, but since what little money I had left would just about cover my share, I figured I’d better make the most of it, so I dug in.
Rosalee didn’t stop talking, even when she chewed, which meant I heard a good deal of Rosalee’s woeful history during the course of the meal. She was one of seven children, most of whom abused various substances, spouses and/or both. Several were incarcerated. Her mother had been a failed country singer, and the various fathers and stepfathers universally cruel. I thought I recognized some of the descriptions of abuse from a movie I’d seen on the Lifetime Channel, but luckily, I wasn’t required to do anything but nod. 
Rosalee went on to relate how she had escaped the horrors of life with the Beebees by joining a traveling Renaissance Faire, where she sang with a female singing group called the Madri-Gals. There, she confided, she’d met a “real vampire,” which was how she got the idea for her book.
I wondered how soon Rosalee would discover that her “other boyfriend” Alan Greene was more of a real vampire than anything with fangs and a cape.




    Chapter 35—The Witch and the Gunslinger




“I also had this friend who was a witch,” Rosalee told me in a stagy whisper as she dug into her sticky toffee pudding. “She’d been with the RenFaire forever. She taught me how to cast spells on bad people, and brew teas that can cure, like, practically everything.” But, she assured me, she was still, “like, a God-fearing Christian and everything,” and “totally not into gay marriage or abortion and disgusting stuff like that.”
I stifled myself with pudding, telling myself Rosalee was a product of her culture. But the bigoted remark brought back worries about Plant. My anxiety about him simmered beneath my thoughts all the time, along with my growing anger at Silas. Maybe the man was busy giving money to libraries and women’s shelters, but he had an obligation to me too.
I tried to pay attention as Rosalee went on to tell how she’d married a fellow RenFaire cast member, who had given her an “excellent education.” 
Unfortunately, the husband had recently died, apparently of something impervious to witchcraft. 
Describing her husband’s demise sent Rosalee into a fit of weeping so dramatic that it brought worried stares from the pub’s patrons. I tried to soothe her as I asked for the bill, hoping to escape without more drama.
When the server arrived, Rosalee snorted back tears, insisted it was her treat and pulled out a fifty-pound note. But as she set it on the table, a portly man in a cowboy hat came down the aisle and waved the money away.
He spoke in an exaggerated Texas drawl. “Let me cover that, little lady.” He slapped down a bill of his own and leaned in to give Rosalee a kiss. 
“You’re here!” She kissed him back with fervor. 
The man had to be close to sixty. I had the unkind thought that if he was indicative of Rosalee’s taste in men, perhaps the late husband had simply died of old age. Rosalee’s own age was hard to determine, given her matronly shape and wardrobe, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t much over thirty. 
Finally the man turned to me.
“Howdy, ma’am, I’m Cole. Cole Younger.” He touched his hat in a gesture purloined from the oeuvre of John Wayne.
Rosalee grabbed his hand. 
“Colin, don’t do that cowboy thing with her. She’s American. Cowboys are totally over back home. She’s the Manners Doctor—you know, like east coast debutantes and stuff? I told you about her on the phone.” She turned to me. “His name is really Colin Fullilove. Isn’t that a sweet name?”
Cole/Colin pouted like a scolded child. 
“Oh, come on,” Rosalee said in a teasing voice. “Talk with that English accent, Colin. You know it makes me totally hot.” 
He gave a feral growl and squeezed her hand, then turned and spoke to me with a clipped BBC accent. 
“Sorry. I’ve been to a weekend round-up in Sheffield. I belong to a historical re-enactment club. We specialize in American cowboy legends. I attended one in Bakersfield, California last year. That’s when I met my sweet Rosalee.” He gave Rosalee’s shoulder a pat, letting his hand slide down a little too far, making it obvious he hoped to get her to a more private venue as soon as possible. 
Rosalee gave him an ardent look. 
“It was in California City. The Gunslinger Round-up was moving into the park there, and the Elizabethan Pleasure Faire was moving out, and I heard this cowboy talking in an English accent and fell in love on the spot.” 
 “So are we off to Puddlethorpe then?” Colin said, his eyes on Rosalee’s cleavage.
Rosalee beamed at me. 
“Puddlethorpe is that little village I told you about. His house—it’s like out of a fairy tale. He sent me all these pictures….” She clicked buttons on her phone. The screen showed an image of a rose-covered cottage right out of a Disney fairy tale. “Fairy Thimble Cottage. That’s what it’s called. Isn’t it adorable?”
I couldn’t help feeling a pang of jealousy. It was a far cry from a nook in a pornography warehouse. 
Rosalee pressed the phone to her heart. I could see she was a woman in love. But not with Colin.
“Are you coming back to Puddlethorpe with us, Doctor Manners?” Colin spoke in a tone that made it obvious he hoped I wasn’t. “Time for us to be moseyin’ on home.”
I accepted a ride back to Threadneedle Street, where Rosalee picked up her luggage. The filling meal had made me sleepy. I wanted nothing more than a quiet evening in my Wendy House with the copy of Ivanhoe Davey had lent me.
But as I walked by the office, I could see that was not to be. Henry and Alan hadn’t gone home after all. They stopped me as I walked by the door.
“Come in here, Miss Randall,” Henry said in an ominous voice. “There’s something we must talk about.” He pointed at the chair opposite his desk. His face was flushed and sweaty. “We have a problem.”
I sat, although I was not in the mood to deal with Henry right now. 
“Rosalee won’t be a problem, really,” I said. Her manners are awkward, but she means well…”
Alan, who was perched on the edge of Henry’s desk, loomed over me like some desert buzzard, waiting for the wounded cowboy to die. 
“The problem isn’t with Rosalee, Duchess,” Alan said. “It’s with you.”
I looked up into his little rat face with disbelief. 
“What sort of problem could you have with me?”
Henry harrumphed. “We can’t publish your book, Miss Randall. You have no contract with this company. Time to get along back to America.”




Chapter 36—Honor Among Thieves




Henry tossed a print-out of my manuscript onto my lap. “There is no reason for you to stay here. We’re not going to publish this.”
I wanted to get up and run, but my legs felt too wobbly to hold me up. 
“What are you talking about? I signed a contract. It had Peter’s signature on it—and yours.” I clutched my manuscript to my chest as if it were a sick child. “If you’ve lost it, I’ll be happy to show you my copy.” 
“Really?” Henry’s voice relaxed a bit. “Well, I suppose if you have a copy of a valid contract….” He turned to Alan Greene, like an actor looking for his prompter.
I finally managed to stop shaking. 
“Yes, I do. And you owe me two thousand dollars, by the way…” 
Henry looked chagrined, but Alan’s mocking expression didn’t change. He leaned down so close I was afraid his spit might land on my face. 
“Sorry, Duchess, but I don’t believe you. Nobody, not even one as randy as Peter Sherwood, would pay good money for that bit of bangers and mash.” He pointed to the manuscript and said in a mocking, sing-song voice: “Good Manners for Bad Times? What is this, nineteen-bloody-forty-three? This company can’t afford to print something that won’t sell to anyone under the age of eighty.”
I managed to stand and plunked the manuscript back on the desk in front of Alan.
“No, it is not 1943, but the reason this country survived that horrible time is that the English all worked together. Working together takes good manners. Without them, you’re on your own.” I turned to Henry. “And Mr. Weems, I’m sorry that you’ve misplaced your copy of my contract. Mine is in my…” 
That’s when I remembered where I’d put the contract—in my computer case. Which Davey had sent to his friend in Newcastle. I felt my face flush.
“Yes?” Alan’s tone dripped mockery. “Where is this supposed contract?”
“It’s…with Davey,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’ll go see if he’s in.”
“It can wait.” Henry called, returning to his usual dithery mode. “I’m terribly late. I must get back to Nottingham…”
I ran as fast as I could from the office. 
Alan Greene had finally retaliated for the bucket incident. And in this, as in everything else, it looked as if he was going to get his way.

I was grateful to find Davey, Liam and the Professor congregated in Davey’s lair. Liam strummed his guitar while the three of them worked on a bottle of whiskey and a six pack of beer. Much was curled on a pile of dirty underwear at the foot of Davey’s futon. 
I walked in and immediately burst into tears.
“Duchess, whatever is wrong?” said the Professor. “Has someone hurt you?” He reached into a pocket of his wheelchair for his phone. “Shall I call 999?”
I shook my head as I sniffed and worked on controlling my rage. 
“Davey, did you send my computer to your friend in Newcastle?”
Davey nodded and offered me a beer. “Good English ale this time,” he said. “None of that Tesco piss. Liam bought it at the offy.”
“While Davey nicked us the bottle of whiskey,” Liam said with a laugh.
I tried to ignore the last remark. Thieves. I was living in a den of thieves. Best not to dwell on it. I needed to find my contract.
“Davey, did you send the case, too?”
“Of course. It was well padded, that case. I’m afraid I can’t guarantee anything, Duchess. He’s a bit erratic, and…”
Tears stung my nose again. I plunked down on the futon and roared.
“I hate Alan Greene!” 
Liam’s music stopped. 
Much nudged me with a cold nose.
Davey picked up an empty beer bottle by its neck and peered out into the hallway. 
Liam offered me the bottle of purloined whiskey, along with a grimy glass.
I shook my head. He was being generous, of course, but I’d never learned to like straight alcohol. Besides, drinking wasn’t the wisest thing to do when one was about to be thrown out into the streets of a foreign country without a penny. 
“I know it won’t actually help, but it will seem to, and that’s half the fight.” Liam grinned as he poured a good three fingers of whiskey in the glass. “Come on, Duchess. We may have the manners of cave men, but we’ll never get disgusting like the bloody Baron.”
It was true. Davey and Liam and the Professor had always treated me like a lady. I took the glass and, after a brave gulp, told them of my meeting with Henry and Alan and how Alan called my book bangers and mash—apparently Cockney slang for “trash.”
“That wanker is looking for a good beating,” Liam said. He strummed an ominous chord. 
“I say we slit his throat,” said Davey, brandishing the bottle again. “And let him bleed out slowly…”




              Chapter 37—Shagging the Devil



 
“Murder’s a bit untidy,” said the Professor. “Although I have no doubt the world would be a better place without the Baron. But first we might ferret out what’s wrong with Henry. I’ve already put in time editing your book. The company will be out the amount I’ve been paid, contract or no contract. I can’t fathom why Henry would waste the money.”
 “And you have Peter’s word,” said Liam. “That’s as good as a bloody contract. Whatever people say about him, Peter’s never gone back on his word to his mates.” He played another guitar riff in a minor key. “I don’t know what the bloody hell is going on with Henry. He weren’t such a bad bloke, before the Baron made his entrance.”
“Peter’s going to be looking for blood when he comes back,” said Davey. “What with this and that cow from California.”
Would Peter be looking for actual blood? I never knew how literally to take these people.  
“Rosalee’s a little brash,” I said. “But not a bad person. She bought me a nice meal. She’s just a pawn in Alan’s scheme, whatever it is.” 
“I see she’s taken a liking to you,” Davey said. “I’m surprised she didn’t smother you to death. Those breasts need their own post code.” He turned to his computer. “Here Duchess—do you want to see if there’s any news from your friend with the poncy name? Forget the Baron. We’ll get your book sorted.” He vacated his desk chair and motioned me to sit.
But as usual, my inbox held nothing from Plant or Silas. The thunk of disappointment was getting to feel routine now. It was as if I lived inside some computer game where everything in my life was being systematically deleted. 
 The Professor popped open a beer. “I told Henry that if Ms. Beebee is not prepared to rewrite, I’ll damn well do it myself,” he said. “The company can’t print that thing as is. A whiny vampire Maid Marian and a poofta werewolf Robin. We’d have the tourism bureau of Nottinghamshire sending a cease and desist order.”
I found if I swallowed the whiskey in gulps, I could almost get past the taste. I wondered how the British government dealt with foreign homeless people. There didn’t seem to be anyone living on the streets here, they way they do in the US. I’d probably be deported.
Liam went back to playing. “That Nottingham-Robin Hood thing is bollocks. Robin Hood were a Yorkshireman: Robin of Loxley. Loxley is in Yorkshire. Full stop.”
 Davey refilled his glass and shook his head at Liam. 
“The town of Loxley used to be on the Northumbrian border before they moved the line—so we could claim him for a Geordie. And the Yellowbellies think he’s one of theirs. He’s been put nearly everywhere on this island north of the Trent. That’s because he never lived anywhere, Liam, me lad. He’s a myth. A fairy tale.”
A fairy tale. That’s what I’d been living in. A crazy concoction of myths of merry old England and my own need to feel anchored somewhere—to feel I had some value. But I didn’t—not to Sherwood, Ltd., or anybody, really. 
Liam dismissed Davey with a strum of his guitar. “The bloke’s buried in Kirklees Priory in Hartshead, West Yorkshire. You can go see his grave.” He picked out a haunting melody in a minor key, then began to sing in a high, sweet tenor. It was an ancient song, in a mostly incomprehensible dialect, but I could recognize the names Robin Hood and Little John. The chorus ended with the line: “And there they buried bold Robin Hood/Within the fair Kirklees.”
When Liam finished, the Professor gave a ponderous harrumph. “Real or not, Robin Hood is the archetypal independent Englishman. He survives because he can be re-invented for every era. Cavaliers made him anti-Puritan; 1950s writers made him a socialist, and Michael Praed made him a pagan tree-hugger.”
I gulped more whiskey, joining the discussion to keep my panic at bay. 
“How do you suppose a werewolf Robin Hood speaks to our era?” 
 “Actually, that’s a rather clever conceit on the part of Miss Beebee,” the Professor said. “The medieval ballads called him a ‘wolfshead’—an expression meaning outlaw, so it’s a simple transition to werewolf. I don’t know why she makes him out to be such a nancy-boy though. Or how she came up with a vampire Marian. A vampire and a witch as well. Got her folklore a bit muddled.”
Liam refilled my glass. “Her heroine’s a witch? Perhaps it’s an autobiography.” 
The Professor laughed. “Perhaps. Her descriptions of shagging the Devil are pretty detailed.”  
Davey rolled himself a cigarette. “At least she’s not shagging the Baron, or Brenda would never let us back in the pub.” He turned to me. “He’s quit as Brenda’s entertainment director, the Baron has. Brenda’s spitting tacks about it. And she’s had a letter from Gordon Trask. He’s coming back for the things he left in his room—which she’s already sold to pay his bill. That’s why we’re drinking at home this evening. We want to avoid the dramatics.”
Gordon Trask. Jonathan had him on his show once. Maybe he could help me get back home safely.
The Professor sighed. “I fear there will be nothing but dramatics until Peter comes back and makes good his last check.” 
Davey’s fierce eyebrows knotted. “I ain’t sure he’s coming back. Henry wouldn’t be trying to send the Duchess away if he thought he’d have to answer to Peter. I wonder if he knows something. Remember what Peter pulled in Tobago…”
The Professor looked as panicked by this remark as I felt. 
“Tobago? What did he do?” the Professor said. “Should I know about this?”
Liam shot Davey a warning look, but Davey went on. He must have consumed most of the whiskey, since his speech had begun to slur. 
“He died, Peter did.” Davey stopped for a dramatic eyebrow lift. “Our fearless leader sailed off on his own into the Caribbean night, and his yacht was discovered a few days later, deserted. A yacht the bank was trying to repossess, as it happened. He resurfaced a few months later, back in Blighty, calling himself Sherwood. His name used to be…” 
Liam strummed louder. “Shut the fuck up, Davey. That all happened a long time ago. Peter had nothing to lose then, and those Columbians were after him. He’s a legitimate businessman now. You think he’d give up this building? He owns the place.”
The panic that had been lurking in my stomach now moved to my throat. Columbians. Staging his own death. How could I have fallen for a man like that? Maybe, like Rosalie’s character, I’d been shagging the Devil
“No. The bank owns the Maidenette Building,” Davey said. “Henry and Peter own a piece of it as long as they can keep up the payments. And right now, they can’t.” He held the whiskey bottle toward me.
“You mean we all have to leave?” said the Professor.
Davey and Liam nodded. 
“We’ll all be out in the streets. As early as two week’s time,” Davey said.
I took another swallow of whiskey. 





                    Chapter 38—Wolfshead




I got through the rainy weekend with the help of Ivanhoe and the telly in the canteen. Because Liam and Davey were staying away from Brenda’s wrath at the Merry Miller, they were eating in, and I was happy to cook and clean in exchange for food. And drink. Way too much of the latter. Half the food and liquor had probably been shoplifted, but I was learning to turn off the part of my brain that was bothered by such things. 
I was an outlaw now, living illegally in a warehouse that might be foreclosed on at any moment.
On Sunday night, after another attempt at quelling panic with neat whiskey, I woke feeling as if my head had been battered by brigands with quarterstaffs. I heard odd noises in the warehouse outside. Footsteps. I froze as I heard—could it be?  The scratch of claws. The smell of wet fur. Something was out there. Something not human. My head pounded, but I couldn’t move. Something rustled right outside my curtain/door. I thought I could see the skinny nose of a big dog—or was it a coyote?—pushing through the curtain. 
But there weren’t any coyotes in England, were there? How did it get in? Barely breathing, I reached for Davey’s panic button, but couldn’t find it in the dark. My fingers grasped empty air.
But now I could see what poked through the curtain wasn’t a nose but an elbow, clad in black. A man’s elbow. It pushed the curtain aside. I heard a click as a flashlight beam blinded me. I lay paralyzed on my futon as the man came closer. I thought I could make something out behind the beam. Daffodils? A man hovered above me—holding a bouquet of daffodils in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
He spoke from the darkness behind the beam. 
“Why are you sleeping out here, Duchess? It’s fucking freezing. Me office too cramped for you?”
“Peter?” I could just make out his face above the bouquet. His handsome face—grinning. “Is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me.” Peter set the flashlight on the night stand. He wore the tuxedo he had on the night I met him, complete with the silly bow tie.
“The tie’s too much, isn’t it?” he said, pulling an end to unloose it. He slid it off his neck and dropped it to the floor. “In fact, it’s all too much.” With a laugh, he began to strip. “Mind if I join you? I’m freezing me bum off.” He scrambled under the duvet, enveloping me in his arms. 
I kissed him with all the longing and hunger I’d been feeling for so long. I wanted him to know how I’d been starving: for food, for hope, for him. I reached up to stroke his long, silky hair, but instead felt…a claw. 
It scratched at my face. I screamed, but no sound came out.
What was in my bed wasn’t Peter: it was a coyote. And I wasn’t in the warehouse, I was in a tent in the woods—a forest like Rosalee’s Sherwood, full of terrifying creatures: vampires, werewolves, demons—attacking and eating each other. 
I heard a snort as the claw came at my face again.
I reached to push the claw away, and woke. I’d been dreaming, but the claw—it was real. 
Much’s claw. The little dog was asleep beside me on the bed.
Finally coming to full consciousness after the nightmare, I realized Much must have crawled onto the futon sometime during the night and now slept beside me, his paw waving only inches from my face, in pursuit of some dreamworld prey. 
I was safely in my Wendy House in the factory. The panic button was within reach. I could see it in the yellow light from the parking lot outside. No woods. No coyote. No demons. And no Peter. I took deep breaths to still the thumping in my chest.
My mouth felt dry and nasty from last night’s whiskey. No wonder I was having bad dreams. No. It wasn’t entirely bad, that dream. Peter’s presence had felt so soothing, so erotic, so right.
I got up and opened a water bottle. I gulped it down with a couple of aspirin, hoping to alleviate the hangover I knew was coming. How odd I’d dreamed of Peter as some were-coyote. I hadn’t thought of that coyote since I left San Francisco. It all seemed so long ago and far away—like some book I’d read in childhood. 

I shivered and crawled back into bed, glad of Much’s body heat and comforting presence. 
Now I understand the lure of the werewolf romance. It was a fantasy of a lover as fiercely protective and loyal as a dog.




Chapter 39—A Handy Dungeon




Morning came too soon, along with excruciating hammering in my head. Not only from the hangover—which was intense—but something else. The whole warehouse shook. Something noisy was going on in the Rat Hole. On my run to the loo, I saw two workmen emerging from the hole carrying Ratko’s futon. On my way back, I saw them carrying his desk. 
Liam and Davey, both looking awful as I felt, stood staring from their doorways as the furniture piled up. 
“Anybody need a nice bed?” said Alan Greene. He climbed up from the stairwell and smoothed back his greasy mane “Some if this ain’t half bad. It’s all going to the charity shop if you don’t want it.” 
I waited for him to say something about my need to move out, but he seemed to have moved to bigger prey. He was taking on Jovan Ratko now—maybe trying to erase all traces of Peter and his friends from the building.
Liam watched the workmen take their burden out to the parking lot. “You’re mad to fuck with Ratko’s gear.” He shook his head. “That bloke has killed people, mate.”
“But he’s pulled a runner ain’t he?” Alan said. “He’ll never make it back from Croatia. He was here on an illegal visa. And we happen to be in need of a dungeon, and here we have one—right handy.” One of the workmen came in from the lot with a dolly loaded with several boxes. His cohort followed, carrying a tripod.
Davey wiped his eyes as if he thought he might still be dreaming. 
“You’re chucking Ratko’s gear to make yourself a photography studio?” Davey was still dressed in his clothes from the night before and stank of stale whiskey. I felt queasy. “I take it the bank’s been paid on this place?”
“Correct,” said Alan. “But we have to save every penny to keep up payments. Shooting our own covers will do that. My photography is widely published, you know. Lots of girls willing to pose for a free portfolio from an artist who shows in London galleries. Now look at these manacles I bought on e-Bay…” 
Davey’s brows rose with dark eloquence, but he said nothing as he headed off to the canteen.
Liam shook his head again. “Don’t underestimate Jovan Ratko, Alan. Or Peter. You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.”
Alan chortled. “I’ve a fine idea who I’m dealing with. So does Henry.” He opened another box, full of paddles and whips.
I escaped to the office to use the computer and ask Vera if she might know what Peter had done with my contract, but the atmosphere in the office was tense. Meggy came in to announce that the milk had gone off, but a tight-lipped Vera kept her eyes on her computer screen. 
The Professor’s voice came from the inner office, arguing loudly with Henry about Fangs of Sherwood. He kept repeating the words “Paranormal pooftas” at increasing decibels. 
I would have liked some non-spoiled milk, since the tea table carton was my main source of protein these days, but I put a couple of sugars in my black tea and went to the computer desk. I had once held carbohydrates in such contempt. Now I was grateful for any calorie I could find.
I tried to block out the chaos, and reminded myself to be happy the bank wasn’t going to evict us all. And grateful that Henry’s attention was on the Professor instead of my missing contract. With Alan busy with dungeon construction, the computer was mine for the day. After my usual heartbreaking visit to my gmail, I gulped my too-sweet tea and decided it was time to fight the despair.
My odd dream had somehow calmed me. I started to write a nice, long message to Plant, acting as if things were perfectly okay—as I’d often advised my readers to do in a time of crisis. After all, “as if” sometimes turns into reality. 
And even if it doesn’t, a little self-delusion always makes things easier to bear.
I wrote as if Plant would soon be home, recovered from his heart attack—and my book would soon be lucratively published by Sherwood, Ltd.—and I was not sleeping in a seedy warehouse soon to be shared with a sex dungeon.
I worked on picturing Plant reading my message on his old Mac when he got home from the hospital. Maybe with Silas in the kitchen cooking something low-cholesterol, but delicious. I even pretended I wanted that relationship to work, although right now, my anger at Silas bubbled up every time I thought about him. 
But I stifled it and wrote paragraphs filled with stories about Davey and Liam and the Professor, and Rosalee and her cowboy lover. I described the last weekend of alcohol abuse as a great lark, and even made the dungeon seem like a silly joke. 
If I could only convince myself of some of it, I might be able to banish my feelings of dread and doom.




               Chapter 40—Out of the Woods




Over the next few days, when nothing was done to evict me from the Maidenette Building, I went back to work on my editing and kept my hopes up for Peter’s return. But the atmosphere in the office continued to be so gloomy that I was actually pleased to see Rosalee bounce in for her editing conference with the Professor on Thursday. 
She stopped at my desk and beamed a sunny smile. 
“I hope Alan Greene isn’t here,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “I do not want to see that creep. Do you believe he keeps calling me trying to have phone sex? The first few times I went along with it, because Colin was out doing some sales thing, but Alan’s fantasies get so perverted. Gross me out!”
I tried to look sympathetic. 
“Maybe providing him with phone sex the first few times gave him the wrong idea. Have you thought of telling him you have a boyfriend?”
Rosalee had no time to respond, as the Professor wheeled by and summoned her into Henry’s office. 
“I feel like I’m being sent to the principal’s office in school,” she whispered. “Wish me luck.”
I tried to look wishful. At least the phone sex incident provided me with a new Rosalee story to tell Plant. I almost felt compassion for Alan. Rosalee’s mixed signals would befuddle any man.
But my compassion waned when Alan himself showed up a few minutes later, looking slimier than ever. He had slicked his hair back into the rat-tail again and changed from his work clothes into an Italian-cut jacket and Gucci knock-off boots. He gave me a contemptuous smile on his way to join in whatever dramas were taking place in Henry’s office. Now my fears were for Rosalee.

But when Rosalee emerged about an hour later, she was all smiles. I was afraid to ask what had transpired, for fear of triggering one of her mood swings.
Instead, I showed her a map of Swynsby-on-Trent I’d found on the town website.
“Do you want me to print it out for you? This area is full of fascinating places to explore. Did you know that King John stayed here—in the building next to what’s now the Green Man?” 
Rosalee looked at me blankly. 
“You know, the King John who was Prince John in the Robin Hood stories? Who signed the Magna Carta? There’s a copy of the original Magna Carta in Lincoln. We should take the bus into the city so we can see it—and the real King John’s own handwriting. Almost like being close to Robin Hood.”
Rosalee dismissed all this with a grunt. 
“Na. Let’s go to the Green Man. I need a drink, baby girl.”
So now I was her drinking buddy and “baby girl.” I decided to take that as a compliment. But as soon as we were out of earshot of the building, her happy mood faded. She launched into a tirade about Alan. She said he kept trying to “cop a feel.” 
“I can’t tell him to go screw himself, because I need him for a while longer, but as soon as my book comes out, I’m going to sue for sexual harassment. Not just Alan. The whole damned company. They call those books erotic? Have you looked at them? Nobody even has sex. It’s all sicko stuff. Talk about a hostile work environment! I’ll sue, totally.” Her face reddened and her shoulders rose as her rage escalated. “That old Mr. Weems acts so proper and everything, but Alan showed me his new book. Gross me out!” 
I tried to explain that the books were fantasies, sort of like vampire stories, and Henry didn’t want to torture people any more than she wanted to suck their blood. But I knew I wasn’t completely convincing. Mostly because I’d lost my own conviction that the stuff was harmless, since the dungeon building had started. The line between fantasy and reality seemed to be blurring with Henry and Alan. 
But Rosalee calmed down as we approached the pub, and after ordering a plate of chips and a raspberry Bacardi Breezer, her mood was chipper again. She announced that she’d decided to let the Professor do whatever rewrites he wanted, as long as he wasn’t going to bill her for them. Now, she said, it was time for us to plan our book tour, since she didn’t trust Henry or Alan to do it right.
She was so full of enthusiasm, I didn’t bother to tell her about my own book’s threatened cancellation. 
“That Alan is mental or something,” Rosalee said, pushing the plate of chips toward me in an offer of sharing. “He told Henry all these crazy things about me—like how I’d worked for some marketing place in Hollywood. Me! I did some publicity for the Renaissance Faire, is all. And he doesn’t even know you’re famous. ‘I’m doing a tour with the Manners Doctor,’ I said. ‘So I can get on any TV show I want.’ He acted all surprised. It’s hard to believe Alan can have all those PhDs, when he’s such a moron.”
I studied Rosalee’s big moon face as I accepted the offered chips, trying not to look like a ravening beast. It was comforting that Rosalee was growing suspicious of Alan’s grandiose lies. Maybe she’d actually prove to be an ally. Between bites of greasy, vinegar-soaked potato, I related the story of Alan’s new “studio.” 
Rosalee’s reaction was pure drama-queen. 
“Oh my god! You can’t stay there. How awful! That’s definitely a hostile work environment. Totally. You should sue.” She grabbed my hand. “We gotta get you out of there. Come to Puddlethorpe with me. Please?” She squeezed my hand. “Really. I’m bored to death out there. Colin has left me all by myself almost every night since I got here. He travels on business all the time. And there’s no Internet access and no TV. The only thing I can do is work in the garden. I love to garden, but at night—oh, my god, I’m going crazy.” She let go of my hand and smoothed her napkin with exaggerated prissiness. “I promise I won’t put my elbows on the table or anything.”
I declined as gracefully as possible, but the truth was, if the cottage had been equipped with Internet access, I might have chosen Rosalee’s nonstop monologuing over the dungeon-building. But at the moment I couldn’t go anywhere without access to email.
Not until I heard from Plant. He was never out of my thoughts.
When I got back at the factory, I bumped into Henry Weems, emerging from the stairwell to the dungeon. I was terrified he’d talk about evicting me again.
“Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.” he said in his befuddled-accountant way. “Er…Miss Beebee tells me you’re something of a celebrity in the States?” He peered at me over his glasses. “You have a column in a newspaper?”
I felt my mouth go dry. 
“It, um, was in a number of newspapers, actually…” This subject was even more dangerous than a lost contract. After all, I did have a copy of the contract somewhere, but my column was no more. “My copy. I have it. But it’s, um—in Newcastle. Davey mailed it by mistake.” With any luck, the computer and my contract would come back soon.
“You have a copy? Of the overseas phone message?”
“What phone message?” 
Henry rummaged in his pockets. “That’s why I’ve been looking for you…”
“You have a phone message for me? From the States? Who? When?” 
Plant. Let him not be dead. 
“It came sometime last week. I believe. Alan Greene took the message. I thought it was from a buyer. Somebody at Ryderbooks, in California. They’ve ordered from us in the past.” He reached in his jacket pocket again.
I wanted to hit him in his pinched little face. “What—what did it say?” 
“Oh, nothing much—some chap wanted you to know he’s well. It must be back in my office. Do you want me to fetch it?” 
I bit my lip as Henry unearthed the message from his desk. I could hardly read Alan’s misspelled scrawl. 
“Mr. Silas Ryder called. Tell Camilla that Plantagenet is out of the woods,” it said. “I’m taking him down to the beach house. All is well.”




                   Chapter 41—King Canute




Even though I no longer had to worry about Plant’s imminent demise, my anxieties didn’t fade. I made a point of avoiding Henry and Alan and stayed out of the Maidenette Building as much as I could, hoping to avoid discussions about my contract. Henry might have forgotten, but Alan Greene was another story. 
It was impossible to work in my room anyway, with the construction noises echoing from the dungeon. Luckily, I’d finished my edits. The Professor seemed pleased with the results, but he didn’t have anything hopeful to say about publication. 
I spent much of my time walking around the town, admiring the ancient buildings. All that history in Swynsby’s stones and timbers seemed to reduce my own problems to insignificance. The maligned Richard III had slept in that house. The Separatist “Pilgrim Fathers,” on their way to catch the Mayflower, had hidden from their persecutors in that building. King Canute had staged his feigned attempt to stop the tide right there on the banks of the Trent. 
I felt a bit like King Canute, trying to stop the waves of bad luck that had been crashing over me. 
The tragic tales from Swynsby’s history mixed with my own bittersweet memories of visiting the monuments with Peter—although those memories were fading into a misty past as well. 
Vera and Meggy were beginning to speak of Peter in the past tense. He had become a sort of legend, like Robin Hood himself. I had to face the fact that he really might not come back. And that my book might not be published—or if it was, that nobody would help me promote or market it. 
I had to come up with a plan B. I couldn’t ask Plant for help. If he’d been near bankruptcy before I left, he’d be pushed over the edge with hospital bills.
I thought about applying for work in one of the shops around the market square—or maybe setting up a stall of my own. It might be fun to sell bolts of cloth, pots of geraniums, or hot potatoes in their jackets. But I’d need money to start such a thing. 
I thought of trying again to find my ex, who still owed me hundreds of thousands. Jonathan must have hung onto some of his money if he was gallivanting around Indonesia or wherever it was. If I could get him to give me something, anything—what I used to spend on one handbag—I could at least get myself home to my own country where I’d have more hope of getting work. Some blogger said Jonathan had been spotted in Bali. The last time I saw my lawyer, he’d talked about hiring a private detective. Maybe he could...
No. I still owed that lawyer serious money.

By the end of the next week, I still had no plan B. Or C or D or Z—and was down to my last five pence. Liam and Davey hadn’t bought any groceries recently, so I had eaten nothing by Friday afternoon but a couple of stale biscuits I’d found in the back of a cupboard. I couldn’t bring myself to walk around the market with all its enticing smells, so I braved the unpleasantness of the office. It didn’t help that Plant still hadn’t written. Silas’s message had quelled my major worries, but I still wanted to hear from Plantagenet himself. 
Rosalee clomped in for her editorial conference with the Professor, looking dramatically wan and unkempt, because, she informed everybody, she had cramps. 
Vera said Alan was “down the pub” so I had free access to the computer. I signed in and there it was, finally: a message from Plantagenet.
It was annoyingly breezy and uninformative: “I’m being lazy at Silas’s house in Morro Bay. He’s promised to nurse me back to health with loving care. Unfortunately, the love is of the tough variety: cholesterol and alcohol-free, involving hours of forced marching with sand in my shoes. And only short sessions at the computer. He’s afraid I’ll start stressing about the film—yes, it’s still in development. Thanks for your tales of Adventures in Sherwood. It sounds as if you’re having a merry time indeed.” 
He went on to complain about hospital food, condescending doctors, and the trials of being without his stolen cell phone. No apology for the long silence. Not a thought to what I’d been going through, worrying about him. I stared at the computer screen in anger for several moments before I realized I couldn’t blame him for thinking I was having a merry time. 
After all, I’d sent him all those merry messages.
 Finally I scrolled down to read more of his newsy chatter. Much of it was about the awful things happening to Felix, the bookstore man. He’d been arrested for killing Lance/Larry. Apparently Lance’s autopsy showed signs of foul play after all. No doctor could confirm he’d ever had a heart condition. But Felix had one. And Lance had apparently died of an overdose of the same heart medicine Felix was taking. 
I flashed on Peter telling me about his heart “tablets.” I hoped that Peter, wherever he was, had been taking care of his heart.
If he had one. 
And he wasn’t a murderer. 
And he was planning to come back. 
I scrolled through Plant’s message: “Even if Lance was actually murdered, charging Felix is ridiculous. He had nothing to gain, and they weren’t even involved any more. Silas is doing what he can to help with legal expenses.”
Murder. Lance might really have been murdered. With heart medication. I knew I should be concerned for Felix, but at the moment all I felt was anger at Plant. He’d been out of the hospital for weeks. How could he have left me hanging so long without a word? And how could he write this anticlimactic nonsense?
Vera noticed my distress. 
“Bad news from home, dear?” She reached into her drawer and pulled out a bakery box that smelled of lemon and vanilla “Have a lemon tart, love. Sometimes it’s the only thing that helps.” 
I accepted the tart gratefully. It would have been delicious under any circumstances, but now it was ambrosia—lemony-creamy with a not-too-sweet, melty crust. But after I’d eaten half of it, I wrapped the rest in a napkin to save for dinner. 
I didn’t know when food would come to me again. 




Chapter 42—Dungeon Master




Day after day, I perused the classifieds in the Swynsby Sentinel. I fantasized that maybe I could lie my way into a job without a work permit. Pretend to be Irish—or Polish, maybe, some Euro-person with a funny accent.
I was considering my qualifications as a washer-upper or perhaps a salad chef de partie when Rosalee came out of one of her Friday editorial meetings, her lower lip set in a pout. 
“I can’t believe the number of corrections they want me to do.” She modulated her voice to a stagy whisper. “I don’t know why that professor guy can’t do them himself. What does he get paid for, anyway?”
She insisted I go to the Green Man with her immediately. I tried to beg off, citing lack of cash, but Rosalee was unswayed. 
“Don’t worry about it. You can pay me back whenever you get to the bank.”
Over beer (mine) and a pink Bacardi Breezer (Rosalee’s) I finally broke down and admitted my financial woes.
Rosalee gave an unbelieving stare. “But you’re like, a celebutante and everything. You were married to that guy on The Real Story, weren’t you?”
I decided to tell the whole truth, even though Rosalee was sure to spread the news to people back home. At this point, I didn’t care if the media found out. Snarky remarks on Page Six or some society-watcher’s blog weren’t going to affect me. The celebrisphere I once inhabited was as far from my present reality as the world of Robin Hood. I tried to explain in a few sound bites how I’d managed to sink so low, so fast. 
“After he lost his TV job, Jonathan lost pretty much everything we had—mostly to Bernie Madoff, he says—so I never got my divorce settlement. A friend paid my fare over here, and I thought I’d be getting an advance on my book, but I didn’t. I don’t even have the money to get home.”
“That is so unfair. Why didn’t it happen to Paris Hilton or somebody who deserves it? I mean, you’re so nice. Honestly, I expected you to be a snot, but you’re totally not. I never liked that Jonathan Kahn, anyway. Not after I saw the You Tube thing of him with all the hookers…oh my god—gross! I would have divorced him, too, baby girl. Although, you know, for an old guy, he’s pretty buffed.”
I tried to smile as I sipped beer. In her way, Rosalee was comforting 
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I’ve just hit a bad patch.”
“You know what I think?” Rosalee said after pondering this for a moment. “I think you need a job.” 
Rosalee’s way of stating the obvious as if it were breathtaking insight tested my ability to maintain a straight face. 
“Unfortunately, I have no permit to work in England. I haven’t figured out how to apply for a job without one.”
“You could work for me without a permit. I’d be willing to pay anything not to have to do this stupid editing myself. Well, not anything, but how about twenty an hour? I can give you English money. That’s like seventeen pounds and something, right? Totally under the table. I just got five thousand pounds for my advance, so I might as well share.”
I stared into my beer mug, wondering if human heads could actually explode. Mine felt as if it might. 
“An advance?” I said finally. “Five thousand pounds? You’ve been paid?”
“Well, duh,” said Rosalee, slurping her pink drink. “It’s not like I’d have come over here without getting a check first. I had them transfer the money to my bank after they faxed the contract.”
Rosalee was paid an advance. Almost four times what I had been promised. How was it that I couldn’t get paid a few pence for reading the slush pile, but this woman got thousands for an unreadable book? Obviously funds existed at Sherwood, somewhere.
I tried to cover up my anger. 
“You got the money—before you arrived? But I thought you were coming over here anyway. That’s what Alan Greene told us.”
Rosalee didn’t answer. Her attention was elsewhere. Her cowboy, again dressed in John Wayne-tribute regalia, had arrived. He swaggered toward the table. 
She jumped up and kissed him. 
“Colin! You’re early. We didn’t eat yet.”
“You object to me joining you pretty ladies for supper?”
Whatever his sartorial crimes, I had to admit I was happy to see the generous Colin as well. After he ordered fish and chips and drinks all around, Rosalee blurted that I was her new “assistant” who would help her “jump through whatever hoops those picky guys want” to get her book published. She then went on to announce I was returning to Puddlethorpe with them so I could work over the weekend. 
Before I could say a thing, Colin was making our weekend plans—promising to take the two of us to Sherwood Forest for the annual Robin Hood Festival. 
Since this all sounded infinitely more fun than a weekend of ear-splitting dungeon building, I accepted the invitation with enthusiasm.
But I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the dungeon. A soon as the word escaped my lips, Colin’s interest was piqued. 
“Those degenerates are building a dungeon on Threadneedle Street? This is something I must see.”
So after dinner and several beers, we all traipsed back to the factory.
Much was there to greet me at the door, but he growled at Colin and Rosalee, so I had to shut him in the office while I led them to the dungeon. I expected the construction crew to be finished for the day, since it was past seven, but I heard voices coming from the Rat Hole. From the top of the stairwell, I saw the door below standing open. A bright light shone from inside.
Colin rushed toward the stairs and Rosalee pounded after him.
A roar came from the hole as we descended. 
“Do you mind? This is private! We’re doing a bloody photo shoot!”   
Frozen halfway down the stairs, I saw a remarkable scenario: two young women—I recognized one as the maroon-haired karaoke singer from the pub—chained to the wall: quite naked. Wielding a nasty-looking cat ’o nine tails was a small, knobby-kneed man dressed in a rubber fetish outfit. Capturing the whole thing on camera, looking quite professional with a tripod and studio lights, was Alan Greene.
Rosalee screamed. 
Colin let forth curses.
I said, “Obviously this isn’t a good time” and ushered Rosalee and Colin back up the stairs, trying to mirror their shock. But it was hard to stifle my urge to giggle. If I wasn’t mistaken, the knobby-kneed man in the awful outfit was Henry Weems.

As I rode with Colin and Rosalee to Puddlethorpe, my brain reeled with the absurdity we’d seen: Henry Weems as porn star. It did explain why he was so eager to believe Alan Greene’s outrageous lies. Alan was playing on Henry’s Rodd Whippington fantasies.
If Rosalee had recognized Henry, she didn’t say. She was too busy soothing Colin, trying to reassure him that she wasn’t going to be involved in any sort of “pornography ring,” as he kept calling it.
“They’re just publishing my book. I don’t have anything else to do with them,” she said. “I had no idea they would be kinky weirdoes.” She repeated the story about Alan’s Robin Hoody credentials and his claim to be the grandson of Richard Greene. 
 “Of course he is,” Colin said with a snort. “And my mum’s the bloody Queen.”






Chapter 43—Fairy Thimble Cottage




The beauty of Fairy Thimble Cottage almost made up for the awkward tension between Rosalee and Colin. The place was as idyllic as Rosalee’s phone picture promised—a whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage, surrounded by a garden wild with foxglove, angelica and pennyroyal. It glowed in the golden light of the sun now setting into the rolling Lincolnshire Wolds—enough to bring flutters to the heart of Thomas Kincaid. 
“Isn’t it perfect?” Rosalee pulled me from the car and danced us down the flagged pathway to the house. “Green, green, green. When you come from Buttonwillow California, this is, like, paradise.” She picked a small pink foxglove blossom and put it on her finger, grinning with a childish delight. “See—fairy thimbles! Can you imagine how wonderful it would be to grow up here? I’d love to raise children in this place…” She gave a sidelong glance at Colin, who was busy with his cell phone and didn’t seem to notice. “But it’s way far from stores and stuff. I have to get a car and learn to drive all over again. Isn’t it creepy how they drive on the wrong side of the road? Makes me crazy. But Colin’s going to give me lessons. And rent me a car—isn’t that right, honey?”
“I have to make a phone call,” Colin said, pacing the dusty lane to get a signal.
“Come and look at what I’ve done in the garden,” Rosalee said. “It was all overgrown, but I’ve been weeding and planting. It keeps me grounded, you know? Except in the rain. I can’t believe how much it rains here. I mean, I knew it rained a lot, but it’s almost summer. I’ve never heard of rain in the summertime…”
I wondered if Rosalee’s fictional Sherwood Forest had a California, no-rain-in-summer climate. It certainly would make for more comfortable outlawing.
I followed my hostess to the back garden, where a small patio was shaded by a huge bush—a tree really—covered with pretty white flowers. 
“That’s an eldertree.” Rosalee said. “I’m thinking of making some elderberry cordial. Did you know it’s good for cramps? So is comfrey—those purple flowers over there—there’s a whole herb garden around this place. My witch friend at the RenFaire taught me all about herbs. I’m going to make myself some elderberry tea right now. I’ve got cramps you wouldn’t believe.”
She led me into the house through a Dutch door that led to the kitchen, a pretty little room lined with old-fashioned wooden cupboards and furnished with a rough hewn table and chairs. At first the place looked a bit primitive, but as Rosalee bustled around, I saw that the quaint wooden doors hid modern appliances, including a refrigerator and a small freezer full of frozen dinners.
 “I’m so pissed,” Rosalee said as she put on the kettle. “All week, I’ve been dying for Colin to stay with me, but he kept having to work. And now, when he can be home for the weekend, I’ve got my period. Life is so unfair.” She bounced toward a tiny door that led to the interior of the cottage. “Come on. I can’t wait to show you around. I’ve got a great bedroom down here and there’s the cutest little attic room upstairs.”
I had to stoop to get through the doorframe, which had apparently been made for Hobbits. Rosalee led me past a room with a big double bed, through a pretty parlor where Rosalee’s laptop was set up on a Victorian writing desk, and then to a steep, ladder-like staircase. At the top of the stairs was a tiny room under the eaves, decorated in frilly Victorian style with dried flowers in baskets and lace curtains at the windows. I could see why Rosalee was in love with the place. 
But what I didn’t see was any evidence that this was the residence of a gruff old cowboy-wannabe. Odd that Colin would have a place like this. There was a shelf of old books along one wall of the bedroom, but they were Agatha Christies and historical romances: not a Louis L’Amour or Zane Grey among them.
Colin called from below. “Are you ladies ready for a nightcap? I’ve bought a nice bottle of sherry. We want to be in bed early if we’re going to get to the Robin Hood festival when it opens.” He gave Rosalee a heated look. Obviously sleeping wasn’t the only activity he wanted an early start on. 
I was happy to leave the lovers alone while I enjoyed a non-wimpy hot shower.

Clean, cozy, and blissfully safe from vermin, I went to bed with Murder at the Vicarage and drifted in to peaceful sleep.
But I soon woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs—heavy footsteps. And labored breathing. I froze as the lamp on the dresser flared, illuminating a figure looming over me: Colin, wearing a thick plaid bathrobe—breathing as if he’d run a marathon. 
I looked at my watch—two AM. He wanted an early start, but this was silly. 
“Are we leaving for Nottinghamshire so soon? I’m afraid it will be awfully hard to pry me out of this cozy bed.”
Colin grabbed the duvet. “Then I’ll have to join you in there.” 
I managed to keep a firm grip on the bedclothes. My first thought was to scream, but I didn’t want to cause a scene if it could be helped. After all, this was Colin’s house. I sat up carefully, gripping the duvet with both hands. I spoke in a loud, sharp voice. 
“Colin! Wake up. You’re sleepwalking! Wake up. You’re in the wrong room. Rosalee is downstairs.” 
“Forget Rosalee.” Colin gave another silly grunt and continued to play tug o’ war with the duvet. “I already took me blue pill, and now she says she’s having her monthlies.”
“Colin, please. Wake up!” I tried again, louder this time—loud enough to wake Rosalee, I hoped. “This is not your room. Not now. Was this your bedroom when you were a little boy?” I hoped he had the sense to take the lifeline I was throwing.
But Colin only laughed. “Me? When I was small, I lived in a council flat in Manchester. This is just a place I’ve let for the summer—a little love nest for Rosalee and me. You have no idea the trouble I went through to get away from the wife for the weekend—and to buy some of these erection pills from a chemist who doesn’t know the family.” He gave me a conspiratorial grin. “But I can see you’re a sophisticated bird, working with those smut peddlers and all. I’ll bet you and the lads have a bit of fun down in that dungeon, don’t you?” He launched himself onto the bed.
Even though he was out of shape, Colin’s bulk gave him advantage. I wasn’t taking any more chances. I took a deep breath and shouted.
“Rosalee! Come quick! It’s Colin!”
Colin tried to put his hand over my mouth. “No! For god’s sake, woman, don’t…” 
I shook him off, slithered off the end of the bed and dashed down the stairs
“Come quick!” I knocked hard on Rosalee’s door.
As Rosalee emerged, I grabbed her in a hug. “Poor Colin,” I said. “He’s sleep-walking. You’ve got to help. I’m worried he might fall, with those steep stairs. Was that his room, when he was a little boy?” 
The subterfuge might have failed with Colin, but it worked on Rosalee, who, with a sympathetic coo, ran to help her red-faced lover down the steep staircase. 
After a dark glance in my direction, Colin accepted Rosalee’s ministerings, as she led him to the kitchen for “some calming herbal tea.” 
I declined to join them and scrambled back up the stairs to my cozy bed—but not before I wedged a chair under the handle of the door.





Chapter 44—The Swords of Sherwood




On the way to Nottinghamshire the next morning, in a gentle, warmish drizzle, Colin and Rosalee made no reference to the drama of the night before, and seemed to be cuddly lovebirds once again. A major relief. 
I felt a bit guilty for not informing Rosalee about Colin’s deception about the house, his wife, and nocturnal activities, but I needed time to present the information to Rosalee in a kind way. I knew the revelation would result in more dramatics. 
But, since I suspected Rosalee of a certain amount of deception herself, vis a vis her own affections, I felt less urgency about full disclosure.
We had a delicious breakfast at a roadside pub and the drive was breathtaking. As we neared Sherwood Forest, the rain let up and rays of sunlight burst through the clouds, illuminating bluebell-carpeted spinneys and daffodil-strewn meadows.  
As we approached the visitor’s area of Sherwood Forest Park, following a slow-moving line of cars, we were greeted by costumed re-enacters who strolled the sides of the road, some singing and playing lutes. The effect was charming. When Colin rounded the corner that led to the visitor’s center, Rosalee gasped.
“Major photo op! All those little Robin Hoods! Too adorable.”
She pointed at a grassy hillock where a group of little boys—all wearing green feathered hats— “battled” each other with plastic swords. There were at least thirty of them, ranging in age from about three to ten. The amassed cuteness was too much for Rosalee, who demanded that Colin stop then and there, as she reached for her camera. 
“Oh, I want a little boy of my very own!” she said as she opened the door. “What about you, Colin, do you want boys or girls?”
“I’ve already plenty of both. One of each and five grandchildren,” Colin said. 
Rosalee stopped, her face distorted with one of her sudden tempers. 
“What do you mean?” She turned on him, with the car door half open. “You’ve been married? You have children? Grandchildren?”
“Indeed,” said Colin. “A selfish lot—both the boys and the girls. Now why don’t you get out and look around while I find a place to park, all right? We’ve got a parade of vehicles behind us, and they’ll be after my blood if I don’t move ahead.” 
“No!” Rosalee stood her ground. “I want to know why you never told me about your kids before.” 
This was not the best moment for Rosalee to discover Colin’s deceptions. I stepped out of the car, gave an apologetic shrug at the people in the Rover behind us and opened Rosalee’s door. 
“Let’s get that photograph before the little boys get tired.” 
Rosalee got out, but her attention was still on Colin. “Are your kids going to cause trouble when we get married? Do they expect to inherit the cottage?”
Somebody behind us honked. Colin pulled his door shut and drove the car toward the parking lot, a fake smile pasted on his face.
Rosalee tried to follow, still ranting, but I pointed to the battling young Robin Hoods. 
“Look: two of them have left. You’d better take that picture.” 
I listened to the click, click, clack of the boys’ swords as Rosalee fiddled with her camera phone. 
“Isn’t it fun,” I said, in my cheeriest tone. “They’re not really fighting—just clicking their swords together. It’s not a battle, it’s a percussion concert.”  
But Rosalee had lost interest. 
“He has to marry me!” She waved the phone in my face. “I have to become a British citizen. Why does he think I came over here? Ooooh, he makes me so mad.” 
I nodded, wondering if my attempt at a sympathetic expression was remotely convincing. Colin and Rosalee seemed as equally matched in cluelessness as they were in deception. As Colin moseyed back from the parking lot, adjusting his cowboy hat, all I could think was that the two deserved each other. 
A roar came from the crowd around them as a costumed couple on horseback came trotting down a forest path. 
“Look! Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Major photo op,” I said, with more exaggerated cheer. “I wish I’d brought a camera, Rosalee. You’ll have to take pictures for us both.” 
Luckily, she took the cue instead of renewing her battle with Colin. 

Although the rest of the day was a little tense, nothing more was said concerning marriage, children or inheritances. Colin was pleasant enough, and paid for my tickets as well as buying us all a fine lunch of fire-roasted pork and applesauce. 
The festival was well organized, and I enjoyed watching costumed craftspeople demonstrate weaving, metalwork and pottery-making as practiced in the twelfth century. I found it sort of amazing we were all here honoring a man who might or might not have existed eight hundred years ago: re-enacting a history that never was.  
I followed my companions, trying to ignore their tense silence, but when we passed a rat catcher displaying his skills with trained rodents, which fascinated Rosalee, I begged off. We agreed to rendezvous later for the big performance—a choreographed mock battle with Robin’s merry men pitted against the Sheriff’s minions.
I wandered through the crowds of revelers until I found the Major Oak. I studied its ancient, propped-up limbs. Because it was supported by so many metal crutches, it wasn’t quite as romantic-looking as in Tom’s painting, but it was indeed hollow inside, just as Peter said. Watching children scurry in and out, posing for photos as they peeked from the darkness within, I remembered my worry, the night I arrived, that Peter might be hollow, too. Nothing had proved my anxiety groundless. 
In fact, I realized as I stared at the iconic old tree, the Peter I’d been pining for was very likely empty too—no more a hero than a little boy with a plastic sword.
 



         Chapter 45—The Way We Live Now





I had mixed feelings about returning to Puddlethorpe with Rosalee. Another night in the cottage bedroom with an Agatha Christie would be heaven, but not if I had to endure a repeat of last night’s encounter with Colin—or the dramas that were sure to ensue as he and Rosalee began to uncover each other’s deceptions.
So I was relieved when, as we approached the turnoff for Swynsby, Rosalee suggested they drop me off at the factory, and “put off the stupid editing business until Monday.” 
The parking lot was empty and the Maidenette Building peacefully quiet—except for the snores of little Much, asleep under Meggy’s work station. I didn’t hear the usual blast of TV from the canteen, or the thump of music from Liam and Davey’s rooms. And thankfully, not a clank or cry emanated from the darkness of the dungeon. Maybe everyone was at the pub, or sleeping off last night’s debauch in their respective dens. 
As much as I longed for a drama-free evening and early bedtime, I didn’t much like being alone in the building. Every creak of a floorboard sounded ominous. I headed to the office to check for mail, but found the outer door locked. Annoying. I’d have to wait until Davey showed up with the key.
I decided to go to bed early with a book. I’d left Murder at the Vicarage back in Puddlethorpe, but I still had Ivanhoe. A suitable read after my day in Sherwood Forest,  
But when I opened the door to the warehouse, I couldn’t get the door open more than a few inches. The path to my Wendy house seemed to be blocked. I peered in and saw huge wooden crates piled between the book pallets, barring the way. I tried to move a crate, but could only budge it a few inches. 
I had no way to get to my things, or my bed. I seemed to be descending into ever-deepening circles of homeless hell.
I knocked on the doors to Liam and Davey’s rooms, but got no reply. As I passed through the factory, Much woke and trotted behind me. I was glad of his company as I pushed open the doors to the canteen, which was also deserted. It smelled of rotting garbage. Much found himself a meat pie tin, still coated with gravy, and licked it clean. When he finished, he looked up at me, hoping for a more substantial main course. 
I searched the cupboards for dog food, but found them empty. I tried the tiny refrigerator, but it held nothing but a half-eaten can of beans, some stale bread and a cooked sausage with one end bitten off. I cut up the sausage and put it in the pie tin for Much and made myself some beans on toast. At least I knew I could pay whoever owned them when I got the money from Rosalee. 
I did hope Rosalee meant what she said about paying me to edit. It would be so nice to be able to afford a few groceries. It would also be nice if somebody around here were telling the truth about something.
I decided to clean up the kitchen, in spite of Plant’s warning about the perils of Wendy-ing. Garbage brought rats. I’d rather compromise feminist principle than face another rodent infestation. As I washed up the stacks of crusty dishes, I watched a BBC production of Trollope’s The Way We Live Now on the television. Not a bad way to spend an evening, I told myself. Better than being hit on by horny faux cowboys. 
But when the program was over, I couldn’t find a thing I wanted to watch. The snowy old set only got a few channels. I wished I had my copy of Ivanhoe, and began to seethe at the rudeness of whoever had loaded those crates. Probably Henry and Alan, with yet another scheme to drive me out. Liam and Davey wouldn’t have allowed it, I was sure. They must have been gone when the unloading went on.
Much stirred and went to the door to bark at something in the factory. I hoped it was Liam and Davey, but nobody appeared. The dog kept barking, so I opened the door and let him run out. Probably in pursuit of a bit of rat for dessert.
I hoped when the men got back from the pub or wherever, they’d be sober enough to move the crates so I could get to my bed. I did not relish the prospect of sleeping on one of the grimy canteen couches.
I turned on the TV again, flipping channels between a 1980s chop-socky movie, a snowy, colorless broadcast of a home decorating competition, and a documentary on the mating habits of voles. 
How annoying—as well as ironic—to be in a publishing factory without a readable book. But I had a thought. What about Gordon Trask’s novel? I wasn’t a big fan of war stories, but it certainly would provide a more pleasant diversion than the works of Rodd Whippington and Dirk Scabbard. I remembered that Meggy had stopped shredding the copies of Home is the Hunter—at least for a while—when the paper order came through for Henry’s book. Maybe she’d never got back to it.
I clicked on the bank of lights for the far end of the factory, where the books had been piled on the tables the night I’d arrived. But as I approached Meggy’s work station, I heard something. 
Something moving. And a thump. 
“Much?” I called. “Here boy!” 
But the dog didn’t appear. Maybe he was busy with rat-catching duties. His hunting might have been the sound I heard. Maybe. If he’d caught a very big rat.
“Liam? Davey?” I called.
Nobody answered.
But there was the noise again—close by. Two thumps. Footsteps. “Hello?” I called again. “Who’s there?”
A voice shot from the shadows, deep and male. American. 
“I’ve got a knife, so don’t try anything stupid, lady.” 




Chapter 46—Home is the Hunter




A man emerged from behind a stack of books, brandishing a camping knife—not huge, but with a blade long enough to do damage. He wasn’t young—maybe in his mid-sixties—but powerfully built, and over six feet tall, with wild white hair and a scar running down his cheek. 
I’d seen that scar before—on a book jacket. 
“Gordon Trask?” I couldn’t keep my voice from squeaking.
“One and the same,” said Mr. Trask. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” He lowered the knife. “You’re Jonathan Kahn’s ex-wife, aren’t you—that society chick?” He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kahn. Sherwood bragged that he was going to lure you over here.” 
I took his hand, still on guard. It was all so surreal. “I use my maiden name now. Camilla Randall.”
“Camilla! I remember. I went to one of your parties once.” He laughed. “At some mansion in the Hamptons. Back when I was a somebody.”
 “When we were both somebodies.” I gave a half smile. “Welcome to anonymity.”
Mr. Trask gestured at a pallet of Rodd Whippington books. 
“More like infamy.” He lowered his voice. “Are any of our pornographer friends around?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to let Mr. Trask know how alone I was.  
“Liam and Davey are around somewhere,” I said, without quite lying.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. 
“So have you discovered their secret yet? Do you know who they really are?”
I stiffened. “If you mean that Davey and Liam have had a, um, colorful past, yes, I do. But they’ve been very kind to me.”
“Davey and Liam? They’re small fry.” Trask gave a snarly laugh. “I’m talking about that asshole who calls himself Peter Sherwood—and his enforcer, Mr. Ratko. They’re a couple of crooks. Smugglers. All this—it’s just a cover.” 
“Smugglers?” The information hit me with staggering logic. It made perfect sense that Peter, with all his overseas travel, might be involved in smuggling. But my heart fought back, trying to disbelieve. “Who told you that?” 
Trask laughed. “A friend who used to work for Interpol. That’s why I got my ass the hell out of this freak show. Do you think I wanted to skip out on my first published novel in fifteen years—probably the best thing I ever wrote?” Trask reached down and picked up a copy of Home is the Hunter he had stuffed in his backpack. “My agent says nobody wants to read about war when they get their fill on the evening news.” He put on a Brooklyn-girl falsetto. “Vampires. Werewolves. Zombies. That’s what’s hot. Can’t you at least put in a couple of trolls?”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh. Again, what he said made sense, but I didn’t want to believe it. 
“Peter loves your book,” I said. “He was proud to be publishing it. And he never mentioned its dearth of trolls.”
Trask snorted. “Right. Proud I provided him with believable cover for his operations. You think he can make any money publishing a couple of dirty books a month—with all the porn you can get on the Internet?” He gestured around the vast building. “His book business takes up, what—about a tenth of this space? Storage is what he’s got here. That’s where the profit is. Floor space. To store contraband.” 
I could hardly breathe. That certainly would explain the crates in the warehouse. Were they full of drugs and guns?
Trask went on. “My Interpol friend told me that a major international smuggler was on his way here. He used to run drugs all around the Caribbean. Heroin, coke, fake pharmaceuticals—whatever.”
“So Peter isn’t a major smuggler?” I don’t know why this made a difference, but somehow it did.
“Not like this guy. He’s a sociopath named William Barnstable. He’s been in custody for a minor offence in Tobago, but he was released two months ago, and made a bee-line for England—and Nottingham. No doubt looking for his old partner—the man who is now calling himself Peter Sherwood.” 
My throat had gone dry. William Barnstable. Barnacle Bill. Peter had even admitted to owing the old sailor money. And to spending time in Tobago—the place where Liam and Davey said he sank his own boat and faked his death. It certainly would explain Barnacle Bill’s behavior. If Peter had been his partner and absconded with their ill-gotten gains while Bill was in prison…
I felt a wave of fear for Peter. Maybe Barnacle Bill had done something to him. Maybe Peter had never gone abroad at all. Maybe he was already dead, his body dumped in the Trent—an anonymous corpse carried far from Swynsby by that tidal bore.
 With awful irony, I remembered what Peter had said: “I’d rather fight a Caribbean hurricane than the Aegir in April.”
“He kills people—this Barnstable person?” Mr. Trask’s story had my mind in an out-of-control fear-spiral. 
“The police on several continents certainly think so. That’s why I got the hell out of this place. Either the guy was going to kill Sherwood, or team up with him and hang around.” 
I didn’t want to imagine Peter dead. Even if he was some awful criminal, it didn’t bear thinking about. Because that would mean we were all at the mercy of Barnacle Bill. 
Trask gave a rough laugh. “Either way, it would all turn into shit city for me. I’d already been working on killing the book deal, because of the weird stuff going down. I don’t mean the porn—to each his own—and it was a brilliant idea to use smut to fund real literature—but they never could meet their own deadlines. They kept changing my publication date. Until finally the contract ran out. I tried to renegotiate, and Sherwood had a fit. I was pretty sure that if I was still around when Barnstable showed up, I was going to end up in the river. That Serb had already threatened me. He loves to brag about how many people he’s killed.” 
How awful. I was just an actor in an elaborate hoax—a cover for a crime ring. 
“Liam, Davey, Henry—they’re all in on this?”
Trask shrugged. “Damned if I know. Probably not Weems. I think Sherwood partnered with him to give a little legitimacy to the operation. Henry’s pretty dense. Same with the office people like Vera. I don’t think they have a clue. Liam and Davey and Tom? I don’t know, but they’ve been buddies with Sherwood a long time. I’d watch out.” 
He picked up two more books to stuff in his pack. 
“So, are you going to rat on me—tell those guys that an old man is stealing a few of his books as souvenirs?” He gave me a challenging look. “I wanted to get something out of the three months I spent in this cesspool. The bitch over at the dump where I was staying already stole all the stuff I left there. She said she didn’t know I was coming back. Jeez, I left a hundred pounds and a note for her, but I guess she can’t read.”
I watched him arrange the books in his pack as I tried to collect my thoughts. 
“A hundred pounds? In cash?” 
“Yeah. I gave it to her asshole boyfriend.”
“You gave a hundred pounds to Alan Greene?” My tone was more bitter than I intended. “I’m sure Brenda never saw that money—or the note.” 
I picked up one of the book copies, with its dramatic silver and blood-red cover. “Of course you should have some copies—after all you went through. They’re only going to shred them. Let me help.” I handed him two more books. “I’m sorry this happened. And I’m, um, grateful for the information about Peter Sherwood.”
I wasn’t really. It made me feel like I’d been kicked. 
Trask grabbed my arm. 
“Honey, you’re a classy lady, and I like you—even though you were married to that jerk Kahn. So I want you to promise me something.”
I stiffened. Trask’s grip was too tight, and his face too close. Why did people think it was acceptable to call one’s ex-spouse a jerk? Maybe he was, but I’d loved him once, and he was my jerk.
Trask kept his grip tight. “I want you to promise me you’ll get your butt out of this porno palace before you take an unplanned swim in the Trent, or have a run-in with Mr. Ratko’s knife, or…” He gestured at the shredder and, further down the room—the huge blade of the book-trimming machine. “Or you have an unlucky accident. Don’t think you’re not in danger because Sherwood’s romancing you. Promise?”
I gave a nod. The trimming machine did look dangerous. Meggy always called it “the guillotine.” 
Everything Trask said made terrible sense. On the other hand, with his massive shoulders and scarred cheek, the man looked pretty dangerous himself. I was glad when he loosened his grip.
Trask lifted the pack to his shoulders and started toward the door. 
“Oh, and if you’re looking for that crazy little dog, he’s not dead. I just fed him a little Valium sandwich. I remember how he used to bark like crazy whenever he got a whiff of me, and I didn’t know who or what I was going to find in this place.” He shone his flashlight under one of the long tables, where Much lay in an uncharacteristic sprawl. 
My heart lurched. 
“Much!” I crawled under the table. The little dog was limp and inert. “How much did you give him? You may have killed him!” I called over my shoulder to Trask. “We have to get him to a vet!” 
I heard nothing but the slam of a door as Trask disappeared into the night. 









     Chapter 47—A Matter of Life and Death




I put my hand on Much’s snout. When I felt breath, I could finally get my own lungs to work. I slid the dog’s immobile body from under the table and lifted him—he was heavy for such a little guy—and carried him back to the canteen. I had to get him to a vet somehow. Where could I find one, without a car on a Saturday night? I laid him on the couch in front of the television and wondered if I should run to the Merry Miller in hopes of finding Liam and Davey. 
No. Trask would have seen them if they’d been at the pub. 
I needed to phone someone. Vera. Her home phone number would be listed somewhere in the office. That lock on the door was old. Maybe I could open it with a credit card the way people did in the movies. I pulled my wallet from my tote bag. Finally that maxed-out AmEx Card might be good for something.
After checking once more on Much, who seemed to be breathing regularly, I ran down to the office. I tried to slide the card between the door and the jamb but it wouldn’t fit. As my panic rose, I kicked the door a couple of times, hoping I might loosen it, but nothing happened.
Well, almost nothing. I might have imagined it, but after the first kick, I thought I heard movement inside. I did hope it wasn’t rats. Not when I was alone and Much was hors de combat.
There it was again. Something like a footstep, coming from inside the office. Had Trask got into the inner sanctum somehow? Maybe it was Davey. Or Alan. Probably Alan. Doing something kinky with some girl, no doubt. Obviously he wanted his privacy. Too bad. 
I rapped briskly on the door. 
“You in there! Open the door. This is an emergency.” I knocked again. “Please. It’s matter of life and death.”
“Life and death?” said a voice. “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating, Duchess?”
I’d know his voice through a dozen doors. 
“Peter?” I said, afraid to believe.
The door opened and there he was—deeply tanned and dressed in jeans and his green San Francisco hoodie—faded now—with his shaggy hair pulled back in a pony tail. 
Peter. Alive. Not murdered by Barnacle Bill. Not pursuing criminal exploits in some far corner of the planet. Here. 
Safe.
He clutched me and gave me a kiss so delicious that for a moment I forgot the urgency of my mission—and how much I should fear him, if any of Trask’s stories were true.
When my brain regained supremacy over my hormones, I pulled away. 
“There’s no time. Much needs help. Now. He’s lying unconscious in the canteen.” 
Peter’s face went pale. “Dear God, Duchess. Why didn’t you say so? Come on. We’ve got to get him to a vet.”
I ran after him, my body flooding with relief. International criminal or not, Peter Sherwood made me feel safer than anyone I knew.
When Peter saw Much, floppy and unresponsive on the canteen couch, his reaction was as horrified as mine. He checked for breath.
“He’s alive. Let’s take him up to Vera’s straight away. She has a neighbor who runs a veterinary surgery.” He listened to the dog’s breathing and picked him up. “What’s happened to him?”
I gave a bare-bones account of Trask’s visit, leaving out his talk of Peter’s criminal past, and of course, my promise to “get my butt out of this porno palace.”
“I’ll kill that Yank if I see him.”  Peter’s voice was cool and matter-of-fact as he petted the little dog with gentle care. “Trask never liked Much. I’m always wary of people who don’t like dogs. They usually don’t play well with others.” 
I followed as Peter carried Much through the drizzly rain to his car—the same Mini-Cooper Liam had used to pick me up from the airport when I first arrived—less than two months ago. But another lifetime. Peter told me to get the car’s keys out of his pocket. He lifted his elbow so I could have access to his jacket while he murmured words of encouragement to Much. 
I felt Peter’s body warmth as I reached into his fleecy pocket, wishing I hadn’t heard Gordon Trask’s awful accusations. For now, I had to allow myself to believe Trask was wrong. 
I opened the passenger side door and sat, reaching up for the little dog, who whimpered in his sleep as Peter set him gently on my lap. Peter ran around to the driver’s seat, gave Much a reassuring pat, then drove with dramatic speed through the narrow, deserted streets and up a dark, winding road as emotions crashed in my head.
“What time is it?” Peter said. “I hope Vera won’t be asleep.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s not quite ten.” 
His wrist was naked, his Rolex gone. And he wore cheap canvas shoes. I wondered if his rich-man trappings had financed his Croatian trip. And how he had acquired them in the first place. Were they stolen? Bought with drug money?
I had a thousand questions, but kept quiet as Peter launched into an emotional tale about a dog named Biscuit he’d had as a boy, growing up in the slums of Nottingham. 
He looked like a father with a sick child—hunched over the wheel with white-knuckle tension. 
It took me a moment to take in the implications of what Peter was saying: he had grown up in the slums of Nottingham. So much for Plant’s story of Peter’s rumored aristocratic lineage. Nothing I’d ever heard about Peter Sherwood—positive or negative—seemed to stand up to scrutiny. 
The truth was—I had no idea who this man was who was driving me at such alarming speed through the rainy night.




Chapter 48—Leader of the Pack




When we stopped at a red light, Peter reached over to pet Much. “I think if I was an animal in a former life, I was a dog.” He gave an odd laugh. “Probably a stray that got flattened by a lorry, like poor old Biscuit.” He grinned, his teeth reflecting the red of the traffic light. The red teeth brought to my mind my dream of the were-coyote. 
“What an awful thought,” I said, desperate to brighten the mood. “I think you would have been an alpha dog—with lots of buddies around you. Remember how that coyote ran from you in San Francisco? Maybe he knew you were the leader of the pack.” 
Peter let out another bark of laughter. 
“So you think I’m a coyote, eh? Poor, out of luck and friendless? Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Not that. Obviously you have lots of friends.”
He turned to me with a look that was all challenge. “Do I?”
I didn’t know what to say. Of course his people were loyal. Didn’t he know that? Maybe he found it lonely at the top. But if he felt friendless, it was his own fault—taking off without a word, leaving his company, and me, at the mercy of Rodd Whippington and the mendacious Alan Greene. 
But I decided this wasn’t the moment to say that. Instead I told him how relieved everybody would be to see him. 
I started to ask if Ratko had come back with him, and if Ratko knew his home had been turned into a porn studio, but after a hair-raising turn, Peter squealed the Mini to a stop in front of a neat brick bungalow surrounded by a lush garden. 
“I’ll get Vera,” he said. I watched him bound up to the door of the bungalow. 
I tried to think rational thoughts as I sat petting the unconscious dog. No matter what anybody told me about Peter, I couldn’t believe he was an evil man, especially now I knew he hadn’t gone off with Barnacle Bill, abandoning me and his company for some nefarious criminal scheme. 
And I was awfully happy Bill hadn’t murdered him. 
Maybe Trask had made up those stories. He was a fiction writer, after all. Besides, the man was an admitted dog poisoner. How could I believe what a person like that said?
Peter came back a few moments later with a pale, anxious Vera. She wore a raincoat over flannel pajamas. She said she’d called the clinic—only a few streets away—and somebody would be ready to see Much.
Vera didn’t seem moved by Peter’s miraculous reappearance. All her attention was focused on Much—and her anger at Gordon Trask. 
“I’m disappointed in that chap. If he wanted copies of his books, all he had to do was ring me. No need to resort to poison and thievery. Let’s hope it was only a tranquilizer he fed Much. But I wouldn’t put anything past a man who could do that. He’s nothing more than a common criminal.”
Common criminal. I wondered if there was such a thing. I’d met quite an assortment of criminals recently—all so very different. Some had their own code of honor, like Davey and Liam; some were parasitic and devious like Alan Greene; and others were threatening and violent like Barnacle Bill and Ratko. 
So what kind of criminal was Peter? I had to accept that he was one. His own tales of his Caribbean adventures made it clear he hadn’t always lived within the law.

When we reached the clinic, Vera said that since she’d put herself on record as Much’s owner, she needed to be the one to accompany him into the inner office. Peter and I were left to sit in the waiting room with the parents of a weeping child whose hamster had been mauled by the family dog, and a nervous little man whose cat had been run over by his mother’s motorized wheelchair. 
I was desperate to ask Peter the questions zinging around my brain, but I knew I couldn’t get any real answers while we were in public. So, in between the hamster-owner’s wails, I asked about the weather in Croatia. Peter said it was splendid and told me—at some length—about the pleasant little seaport town of Pula. 
A travelogue. I found it hard to pay attention to the words. Mostly I was aware of Peter’s lilting Midlands accent, and how gorgeous he looked with that healthy tan, and how much better he’d look with a haircut that didn’t remind me of Alan Greene’s. 
Peter misinterpreted my silence. 
“I’m sure he’ll be right as rain, Duchess. He’s a tough little fighter.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. His palm felt rough and warm. I didn’t want to let it go. Whatever he was or had been, right now, he made me feel safe. 
A few minutes later, Vera emerged, looking like herself again. 
“It’s most likely a tranquilizer after all.” She let out a sigh. “I wasn’t half terrified it might be rat poison. Henry brought some into the office the other day. He was bothered by the rats down in the coal cellar, so he’d bought a tin of strychnine, the moron. Do you know what would happen to Much if he ate a rat with a belly full of strychnine? Sometimes I don’t think Henry has the brains of a hat rack.”
The vet wanted Much left at the clinic overnight, but he had assured Vera that Much would probably sleep off the effects of the drug in a few hours.
Everything was smiles and relief until we got outside. Once we were all in the car—me in back and Vera and Peter in front—Vera turned to Peter.
“Do you know what’s been going on at Sherwood while you’ve been on holiday, Peter? Tom’s gone; Charlie’s sacked; they’ve built a pervy playroom in Mr. Ratko’s digs; and Brenda’s toy boy has taken over the company. I hope your holiday was worth it.”
Peter turned around and looked at me, then back at Vera. “What are you talking about? Brenda? From the pub? What toy boy?”
“Alan bloody Greene, he calls himself.” Vera sniffed. “Although I can’t for the life of me find any records for him under that name. That man really gets up my nose.”  
Peter looked back to me for confirmation. 
“Charlie Vicars—sacked? Who’s in charge of sales?”
Vera gave a sad laugh. 
I tried to put it in coherent words. “Alan Greene took over Mr. Vicars job. And the first thing he did was cancel my book tour.” My voice went shrill with pent-up anger. “He says I have no contract. No book. Everything is about Rosalee Beebee and her vampires. And…well, it’s been an awful time for all of us.”
Peter turned the keys in the ignition and squealed away from the curb. 
“I’ve never heard such bollocks in my life,” he said. “I have no idea what Henry’s up to, but he isn’t authorized to make those decisions without me. I knew he’d had a dust-up with Tom, but the rest of it…whatever is going on, I’ll sort it on Monday. Good man, Charlie Vicars. I hope he hasn’t found another position yet. We need him back. I’d speak to him tomorrow, but I’m only here overnight. I need to be in Hull tomorrow.” 
He leaned over and squeezed Vera’s shoulder. “Don’t worry lass. All will be well at Sherwood. This is rubbish. You know Henry goes mad as a box of spanners when he’s launching a Rodd Whippington book.” Peter turned to me. “You too, Duchess. We’ll get your book sorted. It will be fine—for you, Tom, Charlie. All of us. No worries.”
I wasn’t going to abandon my worries, but I believed Peter did intend to set things right, whether he was a criminal or not. 
He was our leader and he had come home.




Chapter 49—The Real Maid Marian




Peter’s reassuring manner disappeared as soon as he dropped Vera off at her bungalow. On the drive back down to the Maidenette Building, he let out a string of angry phrases, only a few of which I actually understood, but I could tell their meaning. 
“Alan’s a little trollop. Cockney scum. What’s happened to everybody, Duchess? Have they all had frontal bloody lobotomies? Tom sent me a text saying he’d moved back to Yorkshire, but I thought things between him and Henry would simmer down in a week or two. Where were Liam and Davey all this time? Down the pub, I suppose?”
I defended my friends. “They’re just as upset as you are. Although they have probably been drowning their sorrows somewhere. I’d hoped I was hearing them coming home when Gordon Trask made his appearance.”
Peter launched into another colorful tirade on the subject of Mr. Trask that lasted until we reached Threadneedle Street. 
The parking lot was empty and the building quiet and dark. 
“It looks as if Liam and Davey are still out on their pub crawl,” I said as we walked past the empty canteen. “I hope they come home soon. I need them to help move the…”  I stopped myself before I said “crates.” I wasn’t sure I should bring up the subject right now—especially if they were filled with drugs or guns. 
Peter rummaged in his pocket for keys. 
“The lads aren’t coming back till tomorrow. They’re in Hull. I’ve hired them out to an importer there. Mowbray, too. They’re all making more money for one day’s work than I can pay them in a fortnight.”
“An importer? What kind of importer?” 
“Haven’t the foggiest. Something from eastern Europe.” Peter shrugged and flicked on the office lights. “I was contacted by a shipping company that needs extra storage space. Since Tom isn’t using the warehouse for a studio any longer, I thought I’d hire out the space to generate a bit of cash flow. As you’ve probably gathered, Sherwood has been in something of a financial hole. I’m expecting an influx of cash, but not for a month or so.” 
I sighed. Evidently nobody had told Peter that I had moved in after Tom moved out. I didn’t understand how Liam and Davey could have been so cavalier about my living space. They must have been the ones who unloaded the crates into the warehouse—but it was oddly rude they hadn’t they left a path for me. I wondered if they knew what was in them. Maybe moving illegal guns or whatever made them so nervous they’d forgotten about me.
“How many more loads of, um, cargo will they be bringing in?” I was beginning to feel equally annoyed with all of them. “I’ve been living in the warehouse, you see…”
The phone interrupted as Peter led me into his inner office. He rushed to answer it, his voice launching into business mode. He talked of orders and shipments and invoice numbers as he rummaged for paperwork on the desk top—now nearly invisible under the stacks of letters and manuscripts that had collected in his absence. He lit his pipe and faded into his tobacco-fog and businessman persona.
I sat on the futon, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I studied Tom’s Major Oak painting, then looked back at Peter, still adorable in his now much-faded green hoodie. Here I was, falling under his Robin Hood spell again. I wondered if I would be so charmed if I’d never heard the legends—if I’d never had a childhood fantasy of playing Maid Marian to a romantic outlaw. 
Marian’s myth has such power: she was the superwoman who could hold her own at archery and swordplay, live rough in the woods, then emerge to act the high born lady—a modern woman in really cool fairy tale clothes. 
Finally Peter put down the phone and grinned at me. 
“What were you saying about getting into the warehouse? You haven’t been living in Tom’s digs? That place might be all right for a crusty old bachelor…”
I told him the story of my Wendy house. But before I got to the part about the crates, Peter interrupted and gave me a fierce hug.
“Oh Duchess,” he said. “How dreadful. I’m shocked that Henry let you sleep in that drafty old place.” He gave me a kiss. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” He kissed me again—this time with passion.
I gave in to the kiss, but I had to let him know I didn’t buy his act completely. I pulled away.
“Don’t promise me anything. I can’t believe a word you say.” 
He gave me a hang-dog look. 
“I probably shouldn’t have bolted like that without a word, should I?”
“No. It was horribly rude.”
  He kissed my forehead. 
“It all happened in a flash. I had to be in Pula in the morning and there was nothing out of Robin Hood Airport, so Ratko booked us tickets out of Manchester. We needed to leave immediately. You were in the shower when I went back to look for you.” He nuzzled my neck. “If I’d seen you all dripping wet again, I might have missed me plane.”
I tried to fight his charm. 
“What was so important in Croatia? Do they buy a lot of English erotica there?” 
“It was about a boat—not books. A once-in-a-lifetime deal: a yacht that was selling for almost nothing—a splendid little ketch that will sell for twenty times what I paid for her, over in the Caribbean. Volvo engine; all wood; mahogany hull—a classic. She’ll be seaworthy enough to sail around the world after a few repairs, but she was about to be junked. The marina was going to seize her. That very day. All I had to pay was the back rates on the slip.”
He was almost making sense. 
“You bought a yacht? For the price of a little back rent? What happened to the owner?”
“He’s spending a bit of time in the sunny Caribbean, courtesy of the law enforcement agencies of Trinidad and Tobago. Barnacle Bill had been a guest there himself, which is how he heard about the yacht. There was a monstrous amount of paper work, but since Ratko’s a Croatian citizen, we got through it. A week later, we were at sea. Have been ever since. Ran into a bit of weather, so we stopped in a little village in Portugal for a while to do some repairs. No Internet access, or I would have written. And my bloody phone service has been cut off. They’re rather nasty, the phone blokes, when you forget to pay them. But it will all be worth it when we sell the Marynia in the Caribbean. She’s a beauty. Here. I’ve got a photo…” He fished in the pocket of his jacket and produced a rumpled photograph of a classic two-masted sailing yacht. It did look gorgeous in the light of a Mediterranean sunset. 
His eyes went soft and dreamy with pride, like a man displaying a picture of his sweetheart. Like Rosalee with her pictures of Fairy Thimble Cottage. 
I wasn’t Peter’s Maid Marian: this yacht was. I felt an odd sense of relief. 




Chapter 50—The Green Fairy




“I thought you were supposed to be some latter-day Robin Hood.” I gave Peter a sly smile. “But it looks as if you’ve changed your storyline. What is it now—Treasure Island?”
Peter laughed. “Funny you should mention that. I met an English musician in Portugal who sang an old ballad about Robin Hood hiring himself out of Scarborough as a fisherman. Quite a tale. Robin turns out to be a dreadful sailor—and they’re about to toss him overboard for a lubber, whereupon Robin pulls out his little bow and arrow and kills the entire crew of a French pirate ship.” Peter sang a few bars of a lilting tune in a reedy tenor, endearingly off-key. “Something of a ruthless sod, was Robin Hood—but I fancy they’d be happy to see someone like him in Somalian waters these days.”
I couldn’t help reacting to the animation that sparkled in his green eyes—and the way he looked right at me as if he could see into my soul. 
“So, do you still refuse to believe my promises?” He feigned a little-boy pout.
I laughed, still wary. “I’d be an idiot if I believed anything anybody told me in this silly place.” 
Peter’s expression darkened, but a moment later, his face lit up with a grin.
“Speaking of silly…” He unzipped his duffle bag. “I’ve smuggled in something that will help make us believe whatever pretty lies we choose to tell each other.” 
“You’re a smuggler?” I tried to keep my voice steady. He was talking about lies, but he finally seemed to be telling some truth.
“Technically, I suppose I am.” He flashed another goofy smile and fished for something in the bag. He pulled out a squat, green glass bottle, topped with wax and a cork. The handwritten label said Absinthe, Suisse hausegemacht clandestine. “Care for a drop of the green fairy, Duchess?”
“Absinthe?” I eyed the bottle with trepidation. “Isn’t that against the law? I thought it had some weird drug in it.”
He twinkled. “This particular type isn’t quite legal. Ordinary absinthe is right as rain with our customs people—it was never banned in Britain, the way it was in France and America. But this is clandestine hausegemacht—the sort that’s been made in secret Swiss distilleries for centuries. It has much more thujone—which is the active ingredient in wormwood. Some say it has a similar effect to cannabis. Each little alpine distillery has its own secret formula.”
I peeked in the duffle. 
“I don’t suppose you have a nice bottle of Chardonnay in there?”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. A few drinks are quite safe. You have to consume boatloads before it makes you tear your clothes off and polka-dance yourself to death, like that character in the Zola novel.”
I wasn’t sure if taking my clothes off would be a good idea tonight, and I was quite certain I didn’t want to polka-dance to death, but I really could use a drink after the day I’d had.
Peter opened the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and pulled out two crystal brandy snifters. 
“At least Henry and his toy boy haven’t tampered with these.” He handed me a glass. “It’s traditional to drink it with water and sugar poured through a slotted spoon—or better yet, Hemingway-style, mixed with champagne—but it’s rather nice with sparkling water. He pulled an Evian bottle from the bag. “Can I pour you a wee dram?”
I hesitated. This was the moment to walk away—from Peter’s breezy callousness, and his criminal past. But if I ran, where would I go? And Peter looked so absurdly adorable as he ceremoniously poured the peridot-colored liquor into the snifters, then added the sparkling water. The liquid swirled with enchanting pale green clouds. 
“Come on Duchess,” he said. “It’s brilliant. Taste it. Besides, you know what they say: ‘Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder’.”
“You know that’s probably the world’s worst joke.”  
“Probably?” He leaned over and gave me a kiss. “Can you tell me a worse one?”
I took a sip of the now-milky liquid—herbal and anise-flavored—a little cough-mediciney, but not bad. I hoped it didn’t actually make the heart grow fonder. I didn’t need to be fonder of Peter Sherwood. I let him give me another licorice-y kiss, but I needed to talk business before this went any further.  
“My book—Henry says I have no contract with you. Fangs of Sherwood Forest is supposed to come out next month, and at first they said I could launch my book at the same time, so Rosalee and I could do promotions together, but now Henry and Alan say I have to leave…”
Peter wore a half smile as he scanned my face—as if waiting for a signal that I was joking. “Fangs of Sherwood Forest:  Is that the new fem-dom title?”
He looked truly clueless. 
I hardly knew where to begin. I took another gulp of absinthe and launched into the story of Rosalee’s book, and its miraculous ascent to the top of the priority list at Sherwood.
Peter looked first amused, then shocked, then angry as he shuffled through the foot-high stacks of manuscripts and letters piled on his desk. 
“This is the Robin Hood manuscript the Baron kept whinging about? That unreadable dreck? By his girlfriend from California with the tits? She’s here in Swynsby?” 
“Yes. The Professor has suggested some massive rewriting, and she’s hired me to help. It might not be so bad when we’re through…”
Peter shook his head. 
“It’s rubbish. Your book should be printed by now, and ready to ship. I have orders…” As he searched through another pile of papers, manuscript envelopes began slipping off the desk. He rescued them only to have another stack fall. “Henry has no business sense. I thought I was safe leaving him in charge, but…” Something clattered to the floor. Peter picked it up—a tin of rat poison. 
I shuddered, thinking how close Henry had come to poisoning Much.
But it was all right now. Peter was back. The real Peter. Not the one who had been demonized by his enemies and mythologized by his friends. Just Peter. A slightly unorthodox, outrageously charming English businessman.
I helped him retrieve the papers and pile them back on the desk. Our hands touched. With a laugh, he grabbed me and pulled me to him. 
“I’m ashamed of what this company has been doing to you. Please say you’ll forgive me?”
I set down my empty glass and took both his hands in mine. 
“Yes Peter,” I said. “I can forgive everything. Except maybe the hair.” It really was awful in that Alan Greene rat tail. “I think it’s time you let your hair down. Release your inner Fabio.” I reached to pull off the elastic that bound his sun-bleached locks. I fluffed his hair around his shoulders, feeling like a 1950s movie hero romancing the mousy librarian. I giggled. He giggled too, then drew me to him in an intense kiss. With lips locked, we sank onto the futon. His hands moved under my blouse. I let them.
The desk phone rang. Peter jumped. As he picked up, I buttoned my top, feeling chilly and embarrassed. I could stop this right now. I could plead sleepiness and make my bed in the canteen. Except I couldn’t. Peter was too dazzling, with his glowing tan, and his gilded hair flowing. 
The absinthe dazzled me, too. When I finished my sweet green drink, Peter held up the bottle, offering a refill. I let him fill my glass and went back to studying Tom’s painting. Tom hadn’t painted the inside of the tree as it really looked—decaying and empty. The opening in his Major Oak was a dark, mysterious void—a spooky portal to another realm. 
Peter finally hung up the phone, and with great drama, unplugged its cord.
“Business is done for the day, Duchess.” He turned to give me a deep, lingering kiss. As he enveloped me in his arms, I felt the solid muscle of his body under his sweatshirt. A month at sea had made his slim body fit and sinewy. I felt a primal urge to give myself to him—this alpha male, strong enough to fight off danger with his bare hands. A man who could protect me.
All right—he was a criminal. So was Robin Hood, after all. And there I was, in Sherwood. In the arms of a merry outlaw. Under the spell of a green fairy. 
I couldn’t help myself.




Chapter 51—The Third Man




I woke to a sunny morning, smelling the yummy toast aroma from the maltings. From out in the street came the music of a calliope, playing a familiar tune, oddly menacing, although it tinkled away like a children’s melody—plink plink PLINK, plink plinkity plink… drifting from out on Threadneedle Street. Moving slowly. An ice cream truck maybe. 
I watched Peter’s chest move up and down in sleep and realized that for the first time since I’d arrived in England—maybe for the first time since my divorce—I was happy to be where I was. I didn’t want to budge. I only wanted to be here: with him. Peter made me feel thrilled and safe at the same time—like a ride in Disneyland. All the disasters in my life had led me to this man. I remembered the double rainbow we’d seen on our day of exploring Swynsby. It had felt like such a joyous sign. Maybe it had been.
The things Gordon Trask said couldn’t be true. I was angry with myself for believing him. Maybe his stories had sounded more reasonable to me because he was an American, talking to me in the accents of home. But the man had to be paranoid—a “nutter” as Peter called him. The self-admitted dog-poisoner had tried to poison my mind as well. And my fears had made me ripe for poisoning. But now I knew Peter was kind and rational. Maybe the only rational person at Sherwood.
The sort of man I could love, if he let me.
I pushed all of Trask’s nonsense from my mind as just more of the craziness that had taken over the company. I wondered how Peter would react when I told him the details of the past two months: how I’d been literally starving. He still didn’t know I hadn’t been paid the promised advance, or even the few pounds for my reader job. I wished talking about money didn’t embarrass me so much. I’d have to think of a non-whiny way to bring it up in conversation.
But when Peter woke, he wasn’t in a conversational mood. 
“Bollocks!” he said, looking at his watch. He jumped to his feet and glowered at me. “Why didn’t you wake me, Duchess?” He scrambled into a pair of trousers. “It’s half ten. My meeting is at noon. In Hull. I can only pray there won’t be hordes of Sunday beach-goers clogging the motorway.” He buttoned up a cream-colored shirt. “Sorry to run, lass.” He pulled his hair back into its elastic band, slipped into a well-cut blazer I hadn’t seen before, and zipped his duffle.
I sat up and tried to ask him when he’d be back, but he stopped me with a kiss. 
“You’re beautiful in the morning, Duchess.” 
He grabbed his duffle and briefcase, and was gone with a slam of the door.
I lay on the futon, listening to the plinky melody, which had started up again out on the street. Now I recognized it: the theme from The Third Man: the old Orson Welles film about an evil Englishman named Harry Lime—a con artist and cold blooded killer who sold fake pharmaceuticals to war-ravaged Berlin. 
Fake pharmaceuticals. Isn’t that what Gordon Trask said Barnacle Bill had been smuggling? 
No. I wasn’t going to let my mind go there. I was glad the weather was sunny. That helped mitigate the creepiness of being alone in the Maidenette Building, with out even Much around for protection. 
Without access to my Wendy house, I had to dress in the serviceable, but now rather grimy suit I’d been wearing since Friday, washing up with the few necessities I’d taken to Puddlethorpe in my tote bag. I’d brought along some changes of underwear and a couple of tops, so I could get through one more day, but I’d soon look like a homeless person if I couldn’t get at my things. 
Of course, in actual fact, I was a homeless person. I wished I’d told Peter about my dire straits before he left. But instead I’d let myself be bewitched. My own damned fault. Now I’d have to wait until Liam and Davey got back. I should have asked Peter when he expected them. My brain did turn to mush around the man.
I had a good thought. At least I had access to the office now. Since it was a Sunday, I’d have free use the computer. 
I made myself a cup of tea while it booted up. I was comforted to see a message from Plant. He said he’d been eating lots of greens and staying off the Grey Goose and felt healthy enough to go back to work at the theater. 
But his news about Felix wasn’t good. Things looked dire, since poisoning was such a personal sort of crime—and Felix had easy access to the drug that killed Lance. The D.A. was painting a convincing case for jealousy as a motive. Apparently Lance had been seeing somebody in the East Bay who had talked him into leaving Felix and the store and moving to Berkeley, where he had a job with medical benefits lined up.
All very sad, but it directed my suspicion away from Peter. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking that Felix might actually be guilty, especially if Lance was leaving him for some lover in Berkeley—and a job with health insurance. 
Besides, I was very close to being in love with Peter and I could not bear to be in love with a murderer. 
Unfortunately, I wasn’t sufficiently convinced of that to share my feelings in my email to Plantagenet. Instead I wrote about the dramas at Fairy Thimble Cottage and Sherwood Forest and the deception wars between Rosalee Beebee and Colin the Cowboy. 
When I finished, I wandered back toward the warehouse, hoping that in daylight I might see a way to squeeze between the crates. I opened the doors and heard a sudden noise from the dungeon. 
A shout—then a string of curses. 
Alan came running up the stairs, his face white. “Bloody fucking hell! Did you know about this? Have you seen what that Serb bastard has done to my dungeon?”
I shook my head. “What’s wrong?” 
“What’s bloody wrong? Take a look for yourself.” He pointed down the stairs. “I’m going to call Henry. We’re gonna get the coppers in here. Get Peter Sherwood and his bloody ethnic cleanser locked up where they belong.”
I peeked down into the dark and descended slowly. Had Peter decided to use the dungeon for storage, too? I didn’t want to have to get into a long explanation of the new storage business with Alan. Just being around him made me feel slimed.
I opened the door to a scene that assaulted all my senses. I could barely breathe from the stench. The little room looked as if it had recently housed a pack of wild beasts. The manacles and cages had been torn from the walls, bolts and all. They lay on the floor, smashed and bent along with bits of shattered brick. The photo equipment lay smashed under them. The rubber fetish suit, ripped to shreds, hung from the light fixture. The dog collars and whips and paddles had been piled and covered with something that smelled and looked horribly like dog poo. And on the inside of the wooden door, impaled by a large knife, was a dead rat, bloody and dripping. 
After I screamed, I saw the words written next to the rat corpse. They said, painted in large red letters, “Death to Vermin.” It was signed, “Ratko.”
I stood shaking in the stairwell, trying to quell my own panic. I didn’t realize Ratko had come back with Peter, but of course he would have. 
He would have gone down to the Rat Hole, expecting to relax in his cozy home. Instead, he’d have found the dungeon. I wondered if Peter knew what he’d done.
By the time I got back up the stairs, Alan was gone—probably to call Henry. I hoped Ratko was safely off in Hull with Peter, or there might be violence. 
I wondered what was in Hull. Another shipment of whatever was being stored in the warehouse, probably. Having Ratko involved made it all seem more dangerous. If only I’d asked Peter more questions—like how long he’d be gone, and what was being stored in those crates. Was it guns or drugs—maybe fake pharmaceuticals?
In the chilly light of day, I realized Gordon Trask could have been right after all. Maybe Peter was in business with Barnacle Bill, and he wasn’t a Robin Hood sort of Englishman at all, but Harry Lime. 




Chapter 52—Fakes




I couldn’t fight off the feeling that Barnacle Bill was probably the person Peter had rushed to meet in Hull. Peter and Ratko and Bill could very well have conspired to bring a shipment of contraband into England from Croatia on the Marynia—a shipment now sitting in the warehouse of the Maidenette Building. In fact, the real prize might not be the yacht itself, but the cargo.
I had to know what was in those crates. Now. Before anybody came back. 
I’d seen a claw hammer down in the dungeon mess. Probably the tool Ratko had used to wreak his destruction. It would do to pry open one of those crates. 
I ran down to retrieve it, holding my breath against the stench.
 Hammer in hand, I tiptoed toward the warehouse door, hoping I wouldn’t run into more of Ratko’s horrors. But the crates were just as they’d been last night. I could push the door open enough to squeeze inside. The crates were stacked too high to see over, although I could see well enough between them to make out that my Wendy House was intact. In fact, the warehouse was still pretty empty. The crates seemed to have been stacked in front of the door to block the entrance—on purpose. 
I tried pushing on the crates, but they wouldn’t budge. They were about a meter square, made of sturdy wooden slats, and nailed tightly shut. Nothing was visible through the slats but what looked like more containers—cardboard ones—with shipping labels in Cyrillic lettering. 
Anger and curiosity made me strong. Taking the hammer to a couple of slats, I managed to pry off one, then a few more—enough to pull out a carton. I slid it out carefully and peeled back the tape, trying not to damage the packing slip. Now I could see a bit of what was inside, wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap: something leathery. 
Okay, it didn’t seem to be drugs. Or guns. I breathed a sigh of relief as I finally got the flap open. As soon as I got it out of the wrapping, I recognized the object inside: a Hermès Birkin bag—or something close enough to the real thing that a manicurist in Milton Keynes, or a barrista in Brooklyn would hardly be able to tell the difference.
Peter and his friends were smuggling designer knock-offs.
I took a deep breath and tried to sort through my feelings. I now had to admit that Gordon Trask had been right about one thing: Peter was a smuggler. The Cyrillic labels showed the bags had most likely been made in one of the former Eastern block countries. The Croatian port of Pula would probably be a convenient spot to ship them.
I remembered Barnacle Bill’s bizarre remarks about my designer clothes during that terrifying first encounter. Something about asking if Peter had given them to me, and if Peter had told me they were “the real thing.” That certainly suggested Peter and Barnacle Bill had been in the business of selling designer knock-offs in the past. 
In fact, Barnacle Bill had as much as told me, but I’d been too clueless to understand.
I carefully sealed the carton again and banged the crate back together as best I could, in hopes that Peter and his partners in crime wouldn’t realize their illegal wares had been discovered.
But I had a sudden, awful thought: Alan had been talking about asking Henry to call the police. If Peter’s scheme were discovered now, Peter might go to jail, and things would only get worse for me. Not only would my book not be published, but I’d be out on the street—all of us would.
 As much as I deplored the counterfeit label trade, I was going to have to tolerate Peter’s criminal activities. His ill-gotten gains from this operation were probably intended to provide the “influx of cash” he’d promised for the company: robbing rich designers to give to poor unpublished authors. More Robin Hood fantasies.  
And right now, I had to stop Alan from bringing in the Sheriff of Nottingham. 




Chapter 53—Dr. Alan Greene Makes a Phone Call




I’d spent the better part of an hour doing my snooping. Hoping I wasn’t too late to stop Alan from bringing in Henry—and the police—I rushed through the factory to the office. 
The door to the inner sanctum was locked. Alan had apparently locked himself in. He’d also locked in my tote bag, which held the only things I still owned—at least until I could get to my Wendy house. 
I banged on the door.  “Alan! Don’t call the police. Please. It could be disastrous for the company!” I banged again. I knew someone was in there. I could hear voices. And giggling: two registers of giggles. 
The door opened and there was Alan, zipping up his trousers. On the futon, lying on the sheets where I had recently been making love with Peter, was Rosalee Beebee. And Rosalee’s remarkable breasts. Quite unrestrained.
Alan gave me a satisfied smirk, but Rosalee turned her back while she scrambled into her pink jogging suit.
I pretended to ignore the obvious fact that the two of them had just indulged in a quickie on Peter’s bed. I only hoped it had kept Alan too busy to report the vandalism in the dungeon. 
“I do apologize for the interruption,” I said. “But I wondered if you’d phoned Henry? Are the police coming?”
“Didn’t you just say you didn’t want the coppers here, Duchess?” Alan’s voice was lazy and mocking as he buttoned up his shirt. “Something about how it would be disastrous for the company? You’ll have to make up your mind.”
I steadied my voice. 
“I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear. I’m asking if anybody has notified the police about the vandalism in the dungeon.” 
Alan said nothing as he slipped on a rather well-cut suit jacket. His wardrobe had improved since he’d taken over Sherwood.
Rosalee jumped in. “Henry said we shouldn’t bring the cops yet.” She opened her eyes wide, as if relating a fabulous tale. “And he told us terrible news. His partner, Mr. Sherwood, is back. He’s totally evil and has all these gangster friends. Alan says he might try to stop my book from being published—can you believe it? Thank goodness I’ve got Alan on my side—right?” She sidled up to Alan and gave him a soulful look, which he ignored. To cover the snub, Rosalee picked up the still quite-full bottle of absinthe from the desk. “Look what this guy drinks. This stuff gives you hallucinations and makes you insane. It’s totally against the law.”
“Actually, absinthe has never been illegal in the UK.” Alan looked at her with condescension. “It’s only you Yanks what got your knickers in a bunch about it. The Froggie wine blokes told a lot of lies to eliminate the competition. No more drugs in absinthe than you find in sage leaves or juniper berries. We carry two kinds of absinthe over at the pub. It’s quite good.” He grabbed the bottle. “Not that I’d touch this label. It looks dodgy. Like everything else about Peter Sherwood.”
 He shoved the bottle back at Rosalee, as if she were responsible for its dodginess. Their roles seemed to have been reversed. Why had Rosalee given in to him? Maybe she and Colin had a serious tiff after they dropped me off yesterday. 
Rosalee set down the bottle and turned to me. 
“Please—you gotta tell that guy how we’ve got plans to launch our books together. He can’t wreck all our plans!”
I started to speak, but Alan spoke right over me to Rosalee. 
“I told you the only person who can influence Mr. Sherwood is my friend at Oxford. But I doubt anything can be done as long as he has that murdering Serb as his right-hand man.” Alan sat at Peter’s desk as if it were his own, and let his hand rest on the receiver of the telephone. “Maybe it’s Interpol I should be calling.”
I knew he was playing a game, but I needed to win this round for Peter’s sake.
“Liam and Davey are expected back later today,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll clean up that dreadful mess. No need to bring in law enforcement.” I glanced at Rosalee. “Have you seen my tote bag? I left it in here last night.” 
I worried how they’d react to the information that I’d spent the night in Peter’s office, but neither of them paid the slightest attention. Alan was flipping dramatically through a phone directory while Rosalee seemed to be engrossed in reading the label of the tin of rat poison still sitting on the desk. It was almost comical to watch the two working so hard at ignoring each other.
I went on. “I know Mr. Ratko has behaved badly, but you did destroy his home and throw away his belongings while he was away on company business. I don’t think Sherwood, Ltd. needs an expensive legal mess right now, does it?”
Alan took the phone and the directory into his lap, and swiveled the chair so he was facing the window. 
Rosalee stared at his back before finally turning to me. 
“It’s under the bed,” she said. “That Vuitton bag of yours.”
I went to the futon, lifted the bedding and spotted my bag, shoved way underneath. I had to get down on my knees to retrieve it. Neither of them helped, of course. Alan played with the telephone as Rosalee fussed with things on the desk, re-arranging the poison tin and the absinthe bottle as if they were decorative objets d’art. 
I stood, shouldered my bag, and headed for the door. 
“I’ll be out for a walk, if anybody asks.” I thought it wise to get away from this drama, whatever it was about.
 “Wait for me, please, baby girl!” Rosalee said, with one of her abrupt mood changes. “I’ve got to talk to you. There’s so much I need to tell you. Colin has been a total shit…”
I kept my face impassive as Rosalee laced her pink and silver Sketchers and Alan punched a number into the phone.
I hoped Alan wasn’t calling the police. Things could get sticky very fast if Peter and Liam and Davey walked into the middle of a police investigation while carrying another load of counterfeit leather goods. I wished I’d had the foresight to ask Peter when he planned to be back from Hull.
But Alan didn’t seem to be talking to the police. He asked for an extension at Balliol College. 
“This is Dr. Alan Greene,” he said in a pompous voice. “Tell the Chancellor I need to set up a meeting with him at Balliol tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in Oxford at noon…” He glanced over at Rosalee and gave her a reassuring nod.
“He knows lots of important people,” Rosalee whispered, grabbing my arm. “They can make Mr. Sherwood keep my book on the list.”
I tried to look sympathetic, but as I turned to leave, I spotted the cord of the unplugged phone lying on the floor—just where Peter had tossed it the night before. 
I picked it up and waved the little plastic plug at Rosalee, then—I couldn’t resist—handed it to Alan.
Alan turned away and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He looked out the window and resumed his ridiculous charade, as if he somehow hadn’t noticed he had been talking to no one on a disconnected phone.

 



Chapter 54—Distressed Damsels




I stifled my laughter until we got outside. “Poor Alan,” I said. “I suppose I was rude. But sometimes rudeness is the only way to speak to rudeness,” 
“I don’t get it. He was only pretending to make that phone call?”
I nodded.  
“Does he even know important people at Oxford University? I’ll bet he doesn’t. What a shit!” Rosalee’s lip trembled as she burst into a loud wail. She ran ahead of me down to the river walk, where she collapsed on one of the benches. I followed at a more dignified pace. I wasn’t in the mood for more theatrics.
When I reached the bench, Rosalee hugged me like a long lost sister. 
“Thanks for being here for me. You’re the only person I can trust. I don’t know who to believe. Alan told me Mr. Sherwood wanted to stop publication of my novel. He said he’d have to talk to these college people to put pressure on the Sherwood company, and he’d have to, like, call in all these favors, and it would be this huge hassle for him, and so I had to, well…you saw.” She unearthed a pink tissue from her purse and blew her nose with vigor. “At least he didn’t make me do it in that horrible dungeon. That’s what he wanted. He called this morning and said I had to come over and ‘have some fun in his playroom.’ Oh, I feel so filthy.” She launched into operatic sobbing. 
I would have felt more sympathy if I hadn’t seen Rosalee making cow-eyes at Alan only minutes earlier. I stood and offered Rosalee a hand. 
“Let’s walk. I find walking always calms me down, don’t you?” 
Rosalee stayed put like a sulky child. 
“No. I want to go back to the cottage—and you have to come with me. I can’t stand another minute all alone out there.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Please come with me? You can walk in Puddlethorpe. There’s lots of cute little farms and country lanes and stuff.” She dug into her purse for something—a set of car keys. She handed them to me with a sniffle. “Would you drive? I can’t get the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road. I was scared shitless driving here this morning.”
I held the keys gingerly. I hoped it wouldn’t take too long. I wanted to be here when Peter came back. I had so many questions I needed to ask him. 
“You drove Colin’s car here to hook up with Alan? Don’t you think he’ll be angry?” 
Rosalee let out an energetic wail. “Colin’s gone! Gone! You wouldn’t believe…Oh, Camilla, I’ve been a total idiot. He lied. Everything he said was a lie. He’s married! He lives in Lincoln with his wife and kids. And Fairy Thimble Cottage—it’s a rental. He didn’t grow up there at all. How stupid could I be?”
I suppressed an urge to make unkind speculations on that subject and offered some words about how it was better to discover a deception sooner rather than later. Personally, I felt considerable relief knowing that if I went to the cottage again, there would be no more Viagra-fuelled confrontations.
“Please come with me. Don’t make me go back there alone!”
 I examined the keys. “Colin is still letting you drive his car?”
“It’s rented, too. I made him pay for it—and the cottage—for two months. I told him if he left me high and dry I’d call his wife. Her name is Dorcas—can you believe it? Who marries somebody named Dork-ass? Oh, I wish I’d never heard of Sherwood Limited!”
I let it escape that I’d had a great-aunt named Dorcas, who had been married twice—once to a Vanderbilt and once to a Greek shipping magnate. Rosalee gave me a reproachful look and remained on the bench—a whimpering damsel in distress—as a gathering of Sunday river-walkers showed concern. 
A plump woman with a child in a pram approached me.
“Is she all right, your friend? I couldn’t help overhearing. Has the Sherwood company made her redundant?”
I shook my head, trying to signal there was no need for concern.
But the woman went on. 
“It happened to me Dad, you know. One day everything was right as rain, and the next day he was sacked. Without a word of explanation. They’re a bunch of lunatics, if you ask me—those smut peddlers at Sherwood.”
“Your father? What’s his name?” I thought perhaps I saw an echo of Charlie Vicars in the woman’s smile and ample girth.
But the baby began to wail, and Rosalee jumped up. 
“Come on!” she said in a petulant tone. “Are you coming to Puddlethorpe, or are you going to abandon me when I need you the most?”
The woman gave us a quick smile and pushed the pram along. 
Rosalee was already bounding back toward the parking lot. I followed slowly, not eager for more of Rosalee’s oh-poor-me routine. I looked at my Tinker Bell watch: it wasn’t yet noon. Peter wouldn’t be back for hours. I’d probably be better off going to Puddlethorpe.
Whatever dramas Rosalee might be planning, they’d be preferable to an afternoon alone with Alan Greene in the Maidenette Building, where I might end up a distressed damsel myself.




               Chapter 55—A Spot of Weather




While Rosalee stood sniffling by the passenger door of Colin’s rented Ford, I headed for the driver’s side, wondering if I should mention my expired driver’s license. I decided against it. Legal or not, I’d feel safer with myself at the wheel. I feared Rosalee’s driving might be similar to her pedestrian form of propulsion—which was something between a lurch and a hurtle.
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 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.




Chapter  56—My Life as a Plush Bunny




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 a 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. 




                   Chapter 57—Summer Rain




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. 
After lunch, I attacked a passage where Robin Hood and Little John were trapped in a cave by torrential rains on a steamy August day. But after I’d cut a few of the purpler sentences, I stopped. 
A steamy August day. Rain. 
What happened to Rosalee’s California-centric disbelief in summer rainstorms? 
I’d heard tales people who claimed to have “channeled” a book they believed was dictated from the spirit world. Those stories stretched belief—but so did the idea that Rosalee was the sole author of that passage.
I hoped to find the right moment to ask her what had inspired her rainstorm scene. But at dinner she was in one of her manic moods and talked nonstop. She’d decided to restart her elaborate plans for “our” book tour, apparently in preparation for her dreaded meeting with Peter. She seemed to think that my Manners Doctor celebrity would open whatever door she chose. Which might explain why she was being so gracious in opening up her home. I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to enlighten her. 
 “We need to have everything in place when we talk to them,” she said, barely stopping to slurp soup. “We need to launch at the Lincoln Book Fair in two weeks. Then we have to get on the Richard and Judy show. They’re like the English Oprahs or something. I don’t mean they’re black, but Judy is kind of fat, I think…”
It was probably my cold, but I couldn’t help tuning out. I sorely missed Charlie Vicars. I thought of the woman with the pram and wished I’d had a chance to ask if Charlie had taken a new position. If not, maybe Peter could hire him back.
“We should listen to the radio and see what stations have talk shows we can go on,” Rosalee was saying. “Alan says there’s this desert island show on Radio Four…”
I missed my radio. BBC Four had been my most constant friend during my time at Sherwood. 
“I have a radio back in Swynsby,” I said. “When we get the car going again, maybe I can pick it up.” I hoped the crates would be gone by the time we got back to town. I needed to retrieve more than my radio. I had only two sets of underwear and they were taking so long to dry, I had to put on the rinsed-out ones while still damp.
“We’ve got a radio right now. In the rental car—duh,” Rosalee said. “If you’ll do the dishes, I’ll go check it out.”
As I washed up, staring out the kitchen window at Rosalee sitting in the still-mudbound Taurus, I pondered the amazing difference between the Rosalee Beebee who had written Fangs of Sherwood Forest and my volatile and clueless young housemate. I couldn’t quite made sense of it. 
No more than I could make sense of Rosalee’s cries from the car, or her dramatic gesturing to me to join her. 
I tossed on my raincoat and slogged through the mud to the car, where Rosalee sat, pointing in wide-eyed horror at the radio in the dash. A man’s voice was delivering the weather report in mellifluous BBC tones. 
“It’s flooded!” Rosalee shrieked. “Swynsby-on-Trent. It’s under water. The whole riverfront. They found bodies. Right there on Threadneedle Street.”




               Chapter 58—The Trespasser




I sat next to Rosalee inside the mud-trapped Taurus, trying to make sense of the terrible news: twenty-six inches of rain in fourteen hours—that’s what Swynsby-on-Trent received on Sunday, the announcer said. And ten more inches in the next two days. The whole riverfront had been flooded.
No wonder nobody had answered the phone at the Maidenette Building.  
I thought of my idyllic first day with Peter, when he told me the Trent’s name meant “trespasser.” So the ancient river had trespassed into human habitat yet again. It was all too Mill on the Floss. I said a silent prayer for the safety of my friends. I couldn’t bear to think of anybody at Sherwood, Ltd. being drowned like the Tulliver siblings in George Elliot’s novel. Not even Alan Greene.
I tried to get information out of the hysterical Rosalee. 
“What did you hear? You said somebody mentioned Threadneedle Street…?”
“Yup.” Rosalee’s sharp tone was almost smug. “They interviewed some guy who said he saw bodies floating around Threadneedle Street. Dead bodies. Everywhere. And some drunk ran out of the Merry Miller and got washed into a drain—it killed him, like, instantly.” Her tone rose with hysteria. “I wonder if it was one of those guys—Liam and Davey—with the way they like to drink. Hell, they could all be dead. That weird little dog, too. It’s insane. How could there be that much rain?” She gave a whimper. “Thank goodness Alan was in Oxford. But I know this will ruin all our plans…oh, god, why does this stuff always happen to me?”
I said nothing as tears of grief mingled with the product of my head cold. I rolled down the car window, breathing in the clean, rain-washed air, focusing on the misty-green Wolds in the distance. I tried to block out Rosalee’s dire hypothesizing, remembering that Much would have been safely out of harm’s way at the veterinarian’s—and Vera, too, since her house was in the hills. But as for the denizens of the Maidenette Building, Rosalee made a terrifying point: they did drink rather a lot—all of them: Peter, Ratko, Liam, and Davey. They might very well have been sleeping off a pub crawl on Sunday night, after celebrating that business deal in Hull…
No. I couldn’t let myself think that way. I turned back to Rosalee and faked a cheery tone. 
“Don’t let’s kill off our friends before we get some facts, okay? I think we should call Vera Winchester at home. She’ll be able to tell us more.” 
Rosalee gave a protesting sigh, but finally agreed to go back inside and try to reach someone with her cell phone. Unfortunately, the cottage had no phone directory, and several attempts to reach Swynsby information services didn’t go through. We tried calling the local constabulary number and the Swynsby Sentinel office, but got nothing but recorded messages. Ditto Radio Lincolnshire. By the time we decided to give up, it was too dark to think about digging out the car.
Rosalee ceremoniously made a pot of “calming” tea, with a variety of herbs she promised would knock us out. We decided that tomorrow we could excavate the Taurus using a garden shovel and some plywood we found in the shed. Then we would brave the muddy drive into Swynsby-on-Trent. 
Or “Swynsby-like-totally-under-Trent,” Rosalee said, with a burst of black humor. 
I knew there was nothing more for me to do that night but work to still the pounding worry in my heart.




           Chapter 59—Swynsby-Under-Trent




Rosalee’s tea did its job and I slept like the dead until morning. The bright sunshine streaming through my dormer window seemed like a good sign. I cheered myself with the thought that Peter might sensibly have nixed a plan to transport and unload leather goods in the middle of a rainstorm. I worked on visualizing the four men happily weathering the storm in some dockside pub in Hull. 
Even my cold seemed better. At least it had moved from the feverish stage to merely fountainous. After blowing through a number of tissues in the decorative pink box on the bedside table, I went to the window. I was amazed to see Rosalee already at work outside, putting down the plywood in front of the Taurus’s embedded tires.
I threw on the bunny suit and ran down to help with the car. When I got outside, I could hear voices coming from the radio. 
“They still don’t have any names,” Rosalee called. “I guess they haven’t identified all the bodies. We’re going to have to drive in there to find out what the hell is going on. Oh, my god, I hope this doesn’t hold up the publication of my book…” 
I said nothing. Rosalee’s self-absorption was so predictable, it was almost soothing. 
Rosalee said she had experience getting vehicles out of mud, since they had mostly dirt roads where she grew up. And she proved herself right: after rocking the car back and forth, she got it out of the hole and onto the more solid paving of the driveway.
After a quick breakfast, I started to go upstairs to change, but Rosalee turned on me with a burst of anger. 
“Our publishers—our friends—might be dead in the streets, and you have to change into Armani? Please. Camilla, sometimes you’re so narcissistic!”
I forced a smile and got into the car wearing the muddy bunny suit. 

It was slow going along the boggy country lanes as we made our way toward Swynsby. While I drove, Rosalee recounted what she had learned about the flood from the radio. The Trent hadn’t actually overflowed its banks, she said. Ironically, the disaster was caused by newly-built barriers along the riverbank. The barriers, designed to protect the town from floods like the one that killed the woebegone characters in the Mill on the Floss, had prevented the record-breaking dump of rain from making its way into the river. The first torrents had clogged the floodwall’s drain system with debris, and after that, the water had nowhere to go. 
But apparently a concerted unclogging effort had allowed the water to drain quickly. In fact, Swynsby-on-Trent looked mostly undamaged as we drove down the winding road into town. Even the old medieval section looked unchanged, except for a bit of mud between the cobblestones. It wasn’t until we reached the riverfront that we saw signs of real disaster. Mud caked the lower stories of factories; windows were shattered or boarded up, and doors had been torn loose from their hinges. I had to raise the car windows against the smell—raw sewage, rot, and the stink of death.
As I turned onto the still-soggy Threadneedle Street, I took shallow breaths and said a silent prayer.
The parking lot of the Maidenette Building, although much puddled, was dry enough to enter. It was full of vans and various utility vehicles. A team of men in orange vests and hard hats were gathered around the delivery entrance to the warehouse. 
I scanned the lot for Peter’s Mini, and relaxed a bit when I didn’t see it. I took it as a good sign. He and the others must indeed have stayed in Hull with their merchandise. 
But I tensed again when I remembered the crates in the warehouse. What would the inspectors do when they found them? Would they report their find to the police?
Rosalee tried to peer into the mud-caked windows, but the men shooed her away.
“They don’t seem to understand you live here,” she said, a little too loud.
I steered her away. This wasn’t the time to discuss the fact my living arrangements were not entirely legal.  
“They better not mess with your stuff. I can’t lend you my clothes forever.” 
But as I stepped over a muddy heap of debris, I began to lose hope of getting my wardrobe back. I recognized the titles of ruined Dominion books that had once formed the walls of my Wendy House. The water must have flowed through the warehouse with considerable force—probably taking my things as well as the Sherwood inventory. There was something tragic in seeing books—even smutty ones—soaking in a puddle. Lucky for Gordon Trask that he’d stolen a few of his books before the flood. They’d all be gone now.
We peered through the muddy, but intact, windows of the office end of the building, which didn’t seem as severely damaged as the rest. I caught sight of Vera, who bustled out to meet us, cool and businesslike in her navy blue suit. 
But her eyes were full of worry. 
“They won’t let you two inside, I’m afraid. They have to make certain the building is sound. They can’t turn on the power until they’re confident we won’t all be electrocuted. They’ve cleared the office area, which didn’t have as much damage as the rest of the building, but they’ll only allow essential management personnel in there. That seems to be me. Henry’s back in Nottingham. He wasn’t making much sense, so I sent him home.” She shook her head as if she were talking about a slow child.
I was almost afraid to ask.
“Peter...? Liam, Davey and Ratko? Are they...?
“Liam and Davey are fine, but Mr. Ratko and Peter…” Vera’s look darkened. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of them since the flood.”
My mouth went dry.
“Maybe Peter and Ratko are still in Hull?” I tried to hide my panic. “Peter drove to there on Sunday morning.” 
I couldn’t bear to think what I was thinking. 
 “All I know is Peter was here in the building on Sunday evening,” Vera shook her head sadly. “But after that…we simply don’t know.”





Chapter 60—Not Precisely All Right




 “If Peter Sherwood was sleeping in the building when the flood came, he’d have been totally drowned…” A triumphant smile passed over Rosalee’s face before she put on a somber mask to match Vera’s. “How horrible…”
Fighting the urge to do violence to the gloating Rosalee, I urged Vera to elaborate. 
Vera spoke slowly, as if she were relating the events of a dream, “I should have got more information out of him. But you see, he kept ringing in the middle of our Sunday tea, and George and our Callum were terribly irritated with all the interruptions. They thought he had a nerve, to call of a Sunday evening, out of the blue, when he’d left me alone with that lot for months. Callum calls this place the Smutworks, and they both keep begging me to quit. But where can I find another position at my age?” 
She waved her hand, dismissing the thought and went on. 
“What Peter wanted was last month’s accounts, which he couldn’t find. That wasn’t a surprise to me, since Henry’s head has been all in a muddle since Alan Greene took over. Peter must have called five times. I kept telling him to try the desk Alan had been using, and Henry’s—but he said he had cleared out both of them, and finally… well, I turned off the telephone. Or rather, Callum did. I’d made a nice shepherd’s pie that was getting cold…” Vera bit her lip. “So we finished our tea, and had a bit of Stilton for afters. Then I did the washing up…”
Rosalee gave an impatient stomp. “Yadda yadda. So what happened to Mr. Sherwood?
Vera gave her a cold look and went on with her story. 
“It couldn’t have been more than an hour later that I turned on the telly and saw the awful flooding. I rang the office, but nobody answered. I tried Peter’s mobile, but he hasn’t restarted his service, and…” She gave a heavy sigh. “I haven’t heard from him since. I don’t know if he ever found those accounts. They’re certainly gone now.” She gestured at the muddy mess inside.
I tried to keep my voice calm. 
“But you know Peter was in the building? During the storm?” 
If Peter had interrupted Vera’s evening meal, that would have been around seven o’clock—hours after the rain started. The water would have been building up around the clogged riverbank by then.
Vera gave a half-smile. “Peter said he was planning to leave at any moment. He and Mr. Ratko. He was in an awful rush to leave Swynsby. That’s why he kept ringing, you see.”
So. Peter had been planning to take off again without a word to me. I took a breath as anger joined my mix of emotions. “He was leaving again? Without saying where he was going?”
Vera nodded. “He told me they’d be back Monday week, but didn’t say where they were off to—or when they were planning to leave. Or perhaps he did… and I didn’t hear. I had me menfolk talking my ear off at the same moment.”
“So you don’t know if they left…or not?” I tried not to sound hysterical.
 Vera sighed. “I have to believe Peter left before the flood and he’ll come back when he hears what’s happened.”
Rosalee, who had been peering through a window into the office, turned and gave them an eye-roll. 
“Oh, right,” she said. “Mr. Lowlife Sherwood is going to show up for clean-up day? Alan said he was moving some big smuggling shipment. If he’s not dead, he’s probably off celebrating with his gangster friends.”
So Alan knew about the “shipment.” And so did Rosalee. Not good news for Peter, wherever he was.
But Vera dismissed it all with a head shake. 
“That’s twaddle, Miss Beebee. Another of Alan Greene’s fairy stories. Everything Alan Greene says is twaddle. You should stop up your ears. That’s what I do.”
Maybe it was the effects of my cold, but I found the attitude of both women equally surreal. We had no evidence Peter had left. His body could be rotting right there inside the factory, or lying in some drainage ditch nearby.  
“The bodies…” I said. “We heard on the radio that some bodies had been found here on Threadneedle Street, drowned?” 
Vera shook her head sadly. “Oh yes. Quite a few. A tragedy.”
I could barely get the words out. “Who…? Have they been identified?”
Vera looked teary. “Not all the cats have been claimed, but most of the dogs have. Liam and Davey were worried sick about Much. Finally they had the sense to ring me.” Her expression brightened. “And you’ll be happy to know our little ratter is back to health and running about my house trying to kill every dust bunny in sight.”
“We’re talking about people-bodies,” Rosalee said with a condescending snort. “On the radio they said some drunk got drowned at the Merry Miller…”
“Yes. Such an awful story,” Vera said. “But he didn’t drown. Electrocuted, poor chap—an old pensioner who came out of the pub, well into his cups, and tried to outrun the water in his electric scooter.” 
I tried to look suitably tragified, but I was desperate for more personal news.
“You mentioned Liam and Davey. They’re all right then?”
Vera brightened. “More than all right. Those two have been heroic. They saved the computers—or most of them. Me old adding machine, too. I don’t know what I’d do without it. They carried it all up an old ladder through the hole in the canteen ceiling and stored everything in the attic, where they didn’t get a drop on them. Neither did Liam and Davey. They stayed up there all night, until the water started draining.”
So. Liam and Davey had been in the factory during the flood, too. They must have come with the shipment from Hull as planned. They should have some idea if Peter got out safe. 
Rosalee broke into a sunny smile. “So everything’s okay? My book can come out like it’s supposed to…?”
 “Not precisely all right,” Vera said with a sniff. “The warehouse is a disaster. It’s a few feet lower than the rest of the building, so it became a stream bed. The water rushed through, taking everything. Our print inventory is gone—everything we had stored.”
Everything. I realized that meant I had no hope of salvaging any of my possessions. I had nothing left, and nowhere to go except back to Rosalee’s cottage. She was all that lay between myself and on-the-soggy-streets homelessness—not a comforting thought.
But Rosalee’s mind moved on one track only. 
“But what about publishing my book? I want to know how soon things will get back to normal.”
Vera gave a look of waning patience. 
“So do I, Miss Beebee.” She turned to me. “You’ll have to ask Davey and Liam about the state of things in the rest of the building. They’re at the Merry Miller now, helping Brenda with her clean-up in exchange for room and board. Alan Greene is nowhere to be found. Men like that are never around when there’s real work to be done, are they?” She gave a harrumph in Rosalee’s direction. “When the inspection’s done, Davey will examine the machines for damage. Meggy and a few of the others are coming in tomorrow. We don’t yet know what we can salvage, but if you two would like to help…” She gave another pointed look at Rosalee.
 “Let’s go to the pub,” I said to Rosalee, eager for any possible news of Peter. “There’s obviously nothing we can do here until the inspectors finish.”
 “Wait.” Vera stopped me as we started toward the Merry Miller. “There’s a parcel for you. The postman delivered it this morning.” 
I watched Vera run into the office. This was more than odd. I couldn’t imagine who might be sending a package to me at the Maidenette Building, since nobody knew I was here. I hadn’t even given the mailing address to Plant.




Chapter 61—Old Friends




Vera presented me with a package with a postmark from Newcastle-on-Tyne, and a return address I didn’t recognize. I ripped it open and could hardly believe what I saw: my computer case, wrapped in many layers of bubble wrap. 
I opened the zippered compartment on the side of the case and there it was: my contract, with Peter’s signature on it—and Henry’s too. Now I had proof. Not that it mattered much at this point. I surveyed the debris around me. It wasn’t likely that Sherwood could publish anybody’s book for some time.
I pulled out my beloved flamingo pink laptop, set it on the hood of the car and booted it up. My eyes stung when I saw the familiar Windows logo and then my own familiar screensaver—a picture of the Connecticut countryside where I grew up. 
Rosalee gave an annoyed snort. “Somebody sent you a computer? How come? I thought you were like, totally poor…”
Davey’s friend in Newcastle had come through. I didn’t know how I’d pay the invoice that was included, but I wasn’t going to think about that. 
In my grateful mood, I gave Rosalee a quick hug. “How can I be poor when I have such wonderful friends? Let’s go find our heroes so we can thank them. It sounds as if they saved the day for all of us.”
Liam and Davey were sitting in their old booth at the Merry Miller, eating heaping plates of grayish cauliflower cheese and mash. I showed them my rebuilt laptop and gushed gratitude. Davey seemed pleased that his friend had come through, and accepted a polite hug. He was even welcoming to Rosalee, as was Liam. Disaster seemed to bring out their social skills. 
But Brenda was another matter. She stormed over to the table and gave Rosalee a poisonous glare. 
“I can’t believe you dare show your face in here,” she said. “I thought you two would be sailing to America by now—taking Hollywood by storm.”
Rosalee plunked herself down next to Davey and gave Brenda a dismissive snort. 
“You’ve got me confused with somebody else, lady. I’m not going back home. Not ever, if I can help it. I want to be English. I can’t get health insurance back home: never in my whole life. I’ve got a pre-existing condition.”
Health insurance. So that was Rosalee’s game. No wonder she’d been so angry when she found out Colin had a wife. She wanted to marry an Englishman to qualify for the National Health Service. Maybe she’d been hoping to marry Alan after her Colin plans fell through. That might have been why she’d finally agreed to get cozy with him.
But Brenda was having none of it. “You’ve got a pre-existing set of brass bollocks, is what you’ve got. Alan told me all about you two, how you’re going to sail off to America and make millions, then your da will make him a Hollywood star. You’re welcome to him, ducks.”
Liam managed to soothe Brenda enough to point out that if any of that were true, Rosalee wouldn’t be here hoping to order some of her lovely cauliflower cheese, and that Alan had probably been telling another of his tall tales. 
“I don’t have a clue where Alan is,” Rosalee said, “And I don’t care. I’m so totally not into kink.”
Brenda gave her a skeptical look. 
“He’ll be in Nottingham with Henry,” Davey said. “Anything to avoid real work.”
Brenda looked unconvinced, but she agreed to bring lunch and a couple of beers. As she started to leave, she spoke to Rosalee over her shoulder.
“You tell him I’ve got his things, and they’re going to the resale shop if he don’t make things right with me.”
Rosalee huffed a bit, but I ignored her as Liam and Davey launched into their tale of saving the office computers from the rising torrent by hoisting them up to the loft above the canteen as the waters rose around them. The warehouse had already started to flood when they arrived from Hull, so they’d sent the lorry driver back with the unspecified “merchandise”—which I took to mean more designer knock-offs. But they hadn’t been able to save anything else inside, they told me in apologetic tones. They’d barely got out alive, Liam said, because Davey went looking for Much. 
It was a colorful story, but frustrating for me since they made no mention of Peter. Everybody had finished lunch by the time I could finally ask about him. 
Liam scraped at his plate, his eyes hooded. Davey took out his tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette. 
“Dunno where he’s got to,” Davey said. “We lost track of him during the flood.”
“Probably off sailing with Ratko,” said Liam. “They’ve bought a boat, you know. A yacht. Got it moored in Hull.”
I looked from Liam to Davey and back. “Peter and Ratko are off sailing somewhere? They’re safe then?” 
The men would not meet my gaze. They obviously knew a good deal more than they were telling. 




                Chapter 62—Drowned Rats




When we got back to the Maidenette Building, Vera ushered the four of us into the office, but she said the warehouse and factory area were still being checked by the electricity people. She set us all to work with mops, rags, and buckets, and by mid-afternoon, we’d got the worst of the muck out of the canteen, and the office looked like a place of business again. Davey and Liam started bringing the computers down from the attic. 
At about four o’clock, a big truck and a new team of men arrived in the parking lot. The truck had a large hose attached.
“Good job,” Davey said. “They’re going to pump out the dungeon. It’s filled to the brim and there’s no drainage. I sneaked into the factory yesterday to salvage some of my gear, and you wouldn’t believe the stink.”
“Probably full of drowned rats,” Liam said.
I shuddered. 
There was a shout from the men with the truck, as a couple of others ran out of the warehouse into the parking lot. 
“Two!” somebody shouted. “We got two of them.” 
Vera peeked out the window, looking grim, and Liam and Davey said nothing. I felt cold all over. 
“What the hell is going on?” said Rosalee, who had actually been uncharacteristically quiet and helpful during the afternoon. “You guys know something. What’s going on out there?
A white medical van pulled into the parking lot.

Two bodies, was all the paramedics would tell us. Two white males. One wearing an eye patch. And the other—I couldn’t bear it—a man with long, shaggy hair, dressed in a business suit. Rosalee and I stood with Vera, Liam and Davey in the parking lot—all of us motionless, barely breathing. We watched in terrible silence as the paramedics loaded the draped bodies into the van.
“Peter.” Vera said in a monotone as the van drove away. “It has to be. Peter and that awful old sailor. The one with the eye patch. Meggy said she’d seen him about on Friday, asking after Peter and Mr. Ratko.” She choked on her last words, and bit her hand to stifle sobs.
“Barnacle Bill?” My mind raced too fast to let my emotions erupt. “Barnacle Bill was here—on Friday afternoon?” That would have been when the crates had been packed into the warehouse—when I first went to Puddlethorpe with Rosalee and Colin. So my suspicions—and Gordon Trask’s—had been right. Peter and Barnacle Bill must have been in league all along: two old partners in crime—scheming together in that dungeon when the flood came. I could hardly bear it.
“Barnacle Bill.” Vera repeated. “Peter kept saying the name. I thought I was hearing wrong. That’s the title of an awful old music hall song.” She reached in a pocket for a handkerchief. “Maybe that’s who he meant, when he said “we”. I thought he meant himself and Mr. Ratko.” Her lip trembled. “How horrible—the two of them, trapped down there, whilst we were happily finishing up a nice piece of Stilton…” 
Davey and Liam stood immobile, their faces a stony gray. This was obviously not part of the plan they had been keeping secret. 
I could say nothing, as my heart constricted with a pain too raw for tears.




                       Chapter 63—An Arrest




I drove back to Fairy Thimble Cottage with my computer on my lap, clinging to it like a life preserver. If Peter was dead, I was pretty much adrift here, and the computer was my only connection to my old life. I had to find some place with Wifi. I wasn’t going to wait until power was restored in the Sherwood offices.
I didn’t even want to see the Maidenette Building again. I couldn’t banish from my mind the terrible image of Peter and Barnacle Bill in that dungeon, with the water rushing down on them. What had they been doing down there? Maybe they’d been cleaning up Ratko’s horrible mess. And where was Ratko? He wouldn’t have left Peter to drown. Maybe he was dead, too—his body floating somewhere in the sewers of Swynsby, with the unidentified cats and dogs.
I wished I had been able to get Liam and Davey alone to ask them what they really knew—if they knew anything at all. It was possible they didn’t. They had been as shocked and upset by the discovery of the bodies as I and Vera. 
Poor Vera. Whatever happened now would be hard for her. Maybe her family would finally persuade her to quit the “Smutworks.” Maybe everybody would quit. Jobs were scarce in this part of England, but almost anything would be preferable to playing minion to Alan Greene. Even if we all stayed, it wasn’t likely Sherwood Ltd. would stay afloat long with a pathological liar at the helm. 
Rosalee seemed happily unaware of the disasters ahead for her publishers. She was entirely preoccupied with “that bitch at the pub.” 
“I’m never going into that place again,” she said as I took the exit for Puddlethorpe. “Nobody talks to me like that. She is so-o-o too old to be Alan’s girlfriend. She has to be like, over forty. What did she expect? And all that crap about him and me going off to make millions in Hollywood? With my dad? Dad’s doing three to five in Soledad for extortion. He can’t even get blackmail right. Such a loser. My mom had the world’s worst taste in men.”
Blackmail. Extortion. I had a brain flash. Maybe Alan Greene had used blackmail to get control of Sherwood. Gordon Trask talked as if he’d got rather chummy with Alan while staying at the Merry Miller, so he might well have got an earful of Trask’s stories about Peter’s criminal past. If Alan had carried the tale to Henry, and threatened to reveal his knowledge to Swynsby’s bankers and city fathers, that might provide a plausible explanation for Alan’s bizarre climb to power at the company. Nothing else did.
Maybe Peter’s death would liberate Henry—and Sherwood—from Alan Greene’s tyranny. Except… I had a flash memory of Henry in that awful rubber outfit. If Alan had pictures, Henry could be enslaved forever.
Plus, there was a warehouse full of counterfeit handbags to explain. Poor Henry.
But I couldn’t work up a lot of sympathy for him. 
In fact, I couldn’t work up much feeling at all. Maybe I was in shock, or denial—the first stage of grief. Somehow I couldn’t believe Peter was dead. None of the events of the last week seemed quite real. But maybe that was because of my head cold, which seemed to have built a wall of congestion between my brain and reality. 
“Let’s stop for coffee someplace,” Rosalee said as we drove through another picturesque village—this one with the oddly sartorial name of Old Somercote. “I’m totally beat from all that cleaning.”
I was happy to agree, especially since Rosalee was still generously picking up my restaurant tabs. I stopped at a quaint little café, envisioning scones and tea, but was surprised to find the inside sleek and modern, offering Starbuck-style espresso drinks and trendy sandwiches made with pancetta and goat cheese. At first I was disappointed to see global culture had invaded even a place called Old Somercote, but changed my mind when I realized that many of the patrons were tapping away on computers. 
Internet access, at last! I booted up my computer while Rosalee ordered us a couple of lattes and panini.
I was overjoyed to see three messages from Plant. The first, written in text-speak from a new phone, said his doctor had given him permission to drive back to San Francisco for the last week of rehearsals for his play. He’d had to promise to walk every day and not indulge in as much as a whiff of Grey Goose. Silas dictated he could have just one glass of red wine a day. And no red meat. Just as well, since he couldn’t afford any of his usual luxuries any more, he said. His co-payments for the hospital stay were astronomical.
But he still had a home, insurance, and money for wine, I thought, with a small amount of bitterness. And he’d been able to replace his stolen phone. He might be facing bankruptcy, but Plant didn’t have a clue what it was to be poor. 
But I was going to have to tell him—and tell him soon. It was time to grovel and ask to borrow money from Silas for a ticket home. 
A second message, dated a few days later, detailed Plant’s most recent tiff with Silas—mostly over diet and exercise, plus Silas’s endless business traveling, especially to the Berkeley store, where he apparently still had an ardent admirer in one of the clerks. Plant’s comments got testier as he went on. By the last paragraph he said he’d pretty much decided to end it. With his bad heart, he said, he needed a calm, sensible relationship with somebody who came home from work every night. 
I was in complete agreement, since my husband Jonathan’s long absences were one of the main reasons for our marriage’s collapse.
However, the third message, sent just today—obviously texted from Plant’s phone—changed everything:
“Silas arrested by idiot SFPD. Lance murder. Lance was screwing Silas’s #1 Berkeley fan. S**t.” 




             Chapter 64—Peanut Butter and Jelly




I stared at my screen, unable to type—barely able to breathe. Two intense feelings hit me simultaneously:
1) Sympathy for Plant, and the ordeal he must be going through. 
2) My growing fear that Silas might be guilty. 
If Silas’s Berkeley boy toy had been involved with Lance, he had a motive. Romantic jealousy combined with anger at Lance for stopping the sale of Felix’s store could add up to a motive. I was overwhelmed with worry for Plant. With his heart condition, this stress could kill him.
“Are you done?” said Rosalee, who had been monologuing about the general untrustworthiness of men. “I’m not going to sit here all day while you surf the damned Internet. I have a headache.”
I typed a quick sentence to Plant saying I was devastated by his news and had moved in with Roslaee and would write more soon. He didn’t need to hear the dreadful news about Peter. Not yet.
I had a headache, too, plus body aches and an increasingly sore throat. There was probably nothing more I could do right now. It had been a horrible day. I only wanted it to be over. The little attic room at Fairy Thimble Cottage would be a welcome refuge.
But sleep proved no escape. I had terrible dreams all night about swimming in the Trent with rats and mangled bodies and flotillas of muddy copies of Good Manners for Bad Times, while Peter called for help and Silas threatened us all with a chef’s knife.
I woke to pale dawn light, practically drowning in my own sweat. I threw off the stifling duvet. The trip to the loo downstairs took every bit of strength I had, and my throat felt as if I’d swallowed fire. I couldn’t face the prospect of climbing back up the stairs, or the horrors of another nightmare. 
I decided to sit down at Rosalee’s computer and, bathed in its soothing blue light, started to work on Fangs of Sherwood Forest. I hoped the detail-heavy editing would keep my mind off the grief of losing Peter, the grim news about Silas, and my fizzled career hopes. Besides, since I was living off Rosalee’s largesse, I had to earn my keep. 
I found editing easier without Rosalee’s endless chatter, and realized that now that I had my own laptop, I could copy the manuscript and work in my own quiet little room. But sometime in the middle of transferring the file, I must have fallen asleep. I woke with Rosalee standing over me holding a cup of steaming tea.
“You look awful,” Rosalee announced. She put a cool hand on my forehead. “You’re a sickie, baby girl. You were passed out on the keyboard when I woke up.” She handed me the cup. “This should help. It’s got honey, lemon, pennyroyal and elderberry. The elderberry makes you sweat. You should go upstairs and get under the covers and sweat it out. I’d take you to a doctor, but they’d just give you some antibiotic, which won’t help a virus, and those things create superbugs, anyway.”     
I didn’t look forward to more perspiring, but on the other hand, I knew I couldn’t afford to go to a doctor. British citizens got free health care in the UK, but as a foreigner, I’d have to show proof of insurance from home. Which had lapsed long since. 
The tea was soothing, and so, in a strange way, was Rosalee. She was almost motherly as she helped me back up the stairs. 
“Don’t work too long. Take a nap every couple of hours, okay, baby girl?” She tucked me into the narrow bed like a sick child. “I’ll bring breakfast and then I’m going out. I guess I have to learn how to drive on the wrong side of the road sometime. I’m going for groceries. And some DVDs. We totally need DVDs. We can watch them on my laptop. I don’t know how you can sit and read moldy old books night after night.”
This seemed an odd sentiment for a novelist, but then Rosalee was nothing if not odd. As the day wore on, I kept coming back to my “channeling” theory of the book’s authorship. Once the syntax was cleaned up and extraneous passages pared down, it wasn’t a bad read—sort of Twilight meets Robin of Sherwood. However—except for the endless recipes for herbal remedies—there didn’t seem to be much of Rosalee in it. 
The story got gayer and gayer as Marian disappeared for long passages. The scenes of Little John’s jealousy over Robin’s philandering made me think of Plant and Silas. I wondered if Silas could actually be guilty of murdering Lance. Perhaps he had the double-standard of the old-fashioned primary bread-winner: he could have his affairs, but Plant couldn’t. Plant did say he and Silas almost broke up about Lance once before. 
I had a scary thought: maybe Silas sent me away because he suspected I’d find out he’d poisoned Lance. 
I tried to stifle my disloyal thoughts with work on Rosalee’s book, but when I came to an orgy with Will Scarlett, Robin, and several inebriated bishops, I laughed out loud. Giggles overtook me and I laughed until I hiccupped. 
Rosalee, coming in from her shopping trip, called from downstairs to ask if anything was wrong. When I pulled myself together, I answered truthfully that things were improving. My cold had gone from incapacitating to merely annoying. Rosalee’s teas seemed to be working.
Along with a DVD of the second season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Rosalee had managed to acquire something called “peanut butter spread.” She made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that were enough like the real thing to give me a pang of nostalgia. Even though Rosalee was of such a different class and educational background, she provided a comfortable familiarity I could never feel with Brits.
“Don’t you miss home sometimes?” I asked Rosalee as I washed down the gooey sandwich with milky tea. I hadn’t eaten PB&J since childhood, but it soothed my sore throat. “Do you think you could live in England permanently?”
“I have to,” Rosalee said. “I have fibromyalgia, which I treat myself with herbs, but with that diagnosis on the books, I can’t get insurance—ever. So if I get cancer—my life is over. That’s what happened to my mom. The diner where she’d worked forever couldn’t afford to pay benefits any more, and she was too young for Medicare, so she didn’t go to the doctor. By the time she ended up in the emergency room, the cancer was everywhere. She had to sell her trailer and the car and died sleeping in her ex-boyfriend’s basement on an old cot. I don’t want to go like that.” 
I felt empathy as I watched Rosalee lick grape jelly from her fingers. She had suffered more than her share of tragedy.
“I had to find a safe place to live,” she went on. “Canada’s too cold, and it was like I’d sort of lived in England already with the RenFaire. I thought Colin was my ticket. He seemed like an okay old dude—a major dork, of course—but I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about competition for him. Stupid me.” 
It might have been my virus-frazzled brain, but I started to follow her loopy logic.
 Rosalee scooped a fingerful of the peanut butter from the jar and licked it. “I figured fat old Brenda wouldn’t be much competition either, so Alan was my back-up plan. I don’t have a clue what’s going on with that bitch—or him. Vera thinks Alan and Henry are hiding out until the police get finished investigating the dungeon. Like maybe they’re embarrassed to talk about all the kinky stuff that was down there.” She got up and washed her hands. “I don’t know how a lady like Vera can work for a bunch of porno guys, do you? She’s like some ’fifties housewife.”  
“You’ve talked to Vera? Today?” 
Rosalee was right: Vera did have a kind of honorable, maternal reliability that seemed to come from another time. 
Rosalee poured more tea. “Yeah. She’s way stressed. She was creeped out when they asked her to go in and identify the bodies.”
Peanut butter turned to lead in my stomach. “She identified…Peter? She’s sure?”
“Not really. Vera said the faces had been mostly eaten by rats. The other guy had an ID on him—some ex-con. Vera said his name was William Barnstable.”
I barely made it to the bathroom before my dinner came up. If one of the rat-eaten bodies was Barnacle Bill, I had to accept the other was very likely Peter. He’d as much as admitted he and Bill were doing some kind of business together. And Gordon Trask said they were long-time partners. Who else would have been with Bill in that dungeon? 
Peter was really, truly dead.




                  Chapter 65—Gay Best Friends



 
I woke from my nap to see Rosalee coming in the door with a cup of chamomile tea. “Not that it matters, with everything screwed up at Sherwood. But how is it going? It’s a good story, huh?”
“I’m enjoying it,” I said, glad I didn’t have to lie. “I like the way you’ve played with the idea of a gay Robin Hood—doing the Robin Hood/Maid Marian relationship as a gay man/straight woman thing. It makes sense. It’s always seemed odd to me that Marian’s called a “maid” if she’s in a sexual relationship with Robin—I mean, since ‘maid’ meant ‘virgin’ back then.” 
Rosalee set down the teacup with a rattle. 
“What did you say to me?” Her face distorted with anger. “Did you just call my book gay?”
I was way too weak to argue. 
“Didn’t you mean it that way? Sorry. My best friend is a gay man. Maybe I see a gay sensibility where it doesn’t exist.”
Rosalee screwed up her face and grasped the teacup in a white-knuckled grip, as if she were about to throw the contents in my face. But after staring into the cup for a moment, she let her face relax into a bittersweet smile. 
“Me too. My ex-husband was gay—or well, bi. I didn’t know when we got married; I thought he was being a gentleman.” She sat on the edge of the bed, in girl-talk mode. “But we stayed friends after we split—best friends—right up till when he died.” She bit a trembling lip. “He’s only been dead since March. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like he’s really gone…” 
I saw genuine grief in her eyes. 
“March? Your ex-husband—your best friend—just died? How awful.” The pain of losing Peter felt overwhelming, and I’d only known him a couple of months. Rosalee had lost a lifelong friend less than three months ago. Maybe her erratic behavior was part of her grieving process.
Rosalee’s eyes teared. 
“Yeah. He died of a heart attack. After he was gone, I didn’t feel like there was anything for me back home. That’s when I decided to move to England. I guess it was nuts, but Colin had been so nice to me…” She sniffled.
I handed her the tissue box. 
“I empathize. My gay best friend has been in the hospital recently. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him. He’s like a brother.”
Rosalee gave me a hug. 
“That was us—totally. In fact, he was better than a brother. My real brothers are lowlife scum.” She jumped up, the tragic moment over. “Talking about low-life scum, I’m going to go phone Alan again. He still won’t return my phone calls, the jerk.”
As I drifted off to sleep, I was grateful to have a better understanding of my countrywoman. No wonder Rosalee was so protective of the book. It was her bond with her dead husband—all she had left of a man she had loved and missed terribly.

I felt better the next morning, and barreled through several more chapters of Fangs of Sherwood Forest, wanting to cut mercilessly. It was a fun take on the Robin Hood myth, but scenes like the orgy with the bishops veered dangerously close to farce. 

At lunch—canned soup, because I could not face peanut butter again—I tentatively asked Rosalee about the cuts and braced for a burst of angry protectiveness.
But she gave me a blank look. 
“Oh, yeah. You can cut that. Cut all that. It was…well, that part was my ex-husband’s idea. Yeah. I guess I should have told you he did help with the book. A little.”
For someone who made such a habit of lying, Rosalee wasn’t terribly good at it. 
But I wasn’t going to press the point. 
“Why don’t I transfer what I’ve done to your computer and you can go through it and see if my cuts work for you, okay? I know you may find it hard to see so much of your husband’s work cut, but…” 
Now, inexplicably, Rosalee’s anger burst forth. 
“I told you, I don’t want to mess with that thing any more. I’m done with it!” She yanked away my half-finished bowl of soup. “Isn’t it enough that I’m waiting on you hand and foot?”
I realized I had indeed been letting Rosalee take on all the household chores as I convalesced. I rose to help clear the table. 
“I’m sorry. I appreciate all your help. I didn’t mean to pressure you…”
	Rosalee pushed me back into my chair with a forceful shove. 
“You did too. You’re trying to get me to say I didn’t write that book. You think Lance wrote it!”
I felt dizzy again, and the shove knocked the wind out of me. I wasn’t used to people who resorted to physical violence in literary discussions. But I was quite sure Rosalee had just called her gay ex-husband, “Lance.” 
Odd coincidence. Dead Lance from the San Francisco bookstore had written a novel, too—what had Plant called it? “A medieval vampire/werewolf saga—writteneth forsoothly.” Plant hadn’t mentioned a collaborator, however.    
“Your ex-husband—his name was Lance?” 




                  Chapter 66—Madri-Gal




Rosalee turned her back to me and ran water into the dish pan, saying nothing for several moments. My mind was madly trying to connect dots. How could Rosalee possibly fit into the drama going on back in San Francisco?
When Rosalee swung around again, her anger had dissipated. 
“My husband’s real name was Larry,” she said in a conversational tone. “He was from the San Joaquin Valley, like me. But he moved to San Francisco and got all Goth and gay.” 
Now I had no doubt. Rosalee had been married to the unfortunate coyote-gnawed bookstore clerk with the Goth tattoos. I tried to keep my face serene. She didn’t need to know I was the one who had found her ex-husband’s body. It might bring more emotional outbursts. And shoving. I would prefer to avoid further shoving. 
I retreated to platitudinous safety.
“That must have been difficult for you. But how nice he managed to keep working on his book, even with the temptations of big city life.”
“His book?” Rosalee’s voice crescendoed. “I told you—it’s not his book. It’s mine! I don’t appreciate your accusations.” She trembled with rage of a bizarre intensity. “It was all my idea—mine! I’m the one who figured out Marian was a vampire. Me! You know how? It’s in the old songs. I know all the songs—the Child ballads. You know what they are? They’re like the Bible of folk songs, and thirty-eight of them are about Robin Hood. We sang them at the RenFaire. The Madri-Gals. That was our group. An all-girl group. Lance couldn’t sing. He couldn’t carry a tune in a goddam bucket.” She clanked dishes with angry emphasis.
I took in this piece of extraneous information with a polite nod. I’d heard of the traditional Scottish Border ballads collected by Francis Child in the 19th century, but found it hard to picture Rosalee as a student of them.
 “You shut up,” Rosalee said. “I’ll prove it to you. Listen.”
I didn’t move a muscle as Rosalee stood by the sink and sang—in a rather pretty contralto—the same old ballad about the death of Robin Hood that Liam performed that night in Davey’s lair. There was a verse about Robin Hood feeling sick and going to a priory, where a woman “pierced his vein, and let out the blood, the thick, thick blood/and afterward, the thin.” 
Rosalee gave a triumphant smile. 
“You see? I was in the middle of singing that one afternoon when I had this like, total epiphany. ‘That lady’s a vampire!’ I said. I’d never even been that into Robin Hood before that. Mostly I figured he was kind of a RenFaire version of Green Arrow.”
I thought the verse sounded like the description of a medieval medical procedure, but I knew better than to say so. 
Rosalee went on, with increasing fervor.
“See, Robin was dying and he went to Maid Marian for help and she took his blood. Why would she do that, if she loved him? Well, I figured it out: that’s what vampires do to make you immortal. The other Madri-Gals thought I was nuts, but that night I told Lance and he got all excited and said one of Robin Hood’s nicknames was “Wolfshead”—so it was obvious—Robin Hood was totally a werewolf.” 
I continued my “I’m listening” head motions as Rosalee barreled on. 
“So right then, Lance and me decided we’d quit the Faire and become rich and famous writers. But since I’m bad at all that grammar stuff, I told him he should write down the words, but since it was my idea, we’d split the profits fifty-fifty.”
I credited it to my debutante training that I was able to hold my face in a polite smile while hearing such amazing nonsense. 
“I see. So you had the idea, and your ex-husband wrote down the actual words?” 
I felt sad for poor Lance—dealing with an ex-wife who had no idea of the soul-crunching labor involved with “just writing down the words” of a novel.   




       Chapter 67—Clueless Pills for Breakfast




My sarcastic remark had obviously gone sailing over Rosalee’s head.
She gave me a hug. “Finally, somebody gets it! Lance was just writing down the words, but it was all my idea—well, mostly. I would have helped, but after we quit the Faire, Lance said he couldn’t write in Buttonwillow. So he went to San Francisco and got a job in some gay porno store. I couldn’t get up to visit him that often, because my boss at Taco Hut would never give me two days off together.”
I thought of Rosalee galumphing through the Castro Street bookstore and felt compassion for Lance. That brought a memory flash. Plant had told me about Felix having to deal with Lance’s “high school girlfriend or whatever she is.” That had to be Rosalee.
She went on. “Then, if you can believe it, after I did all the work contacting Sherwood Publishing, and getting Alan Greene to accept it, we were just waiting for Mr. Sherwood to give the okay—and suddenly Lance got weird and acted like it was his book. He made an appointment to meet Mr. Sherwood—by himself—without even telling me until, like, a couple of hours before. I think Lance’s snotty Hollywood boyfriend must have made him do it.” 
My neck went prickly. 
“Lance—your ex-husband—had an appointment with Peter Sherwood?” Even through the woolly-brain of my cold, a glaring fact came through: Peter had lied about knowing Lance/Larry the bookstore clerk.  
“When did they meet—Lance and Peter?”
Rosalee sat down and leaned her elbows on the table. 
“They had the appointment at the bookstore in San Francisco on the day Lance died. The actual same day. Maybe the stress killed him. We knew Mr. Sherwood was coming to the City to talk to Lance’s boss, and Lance was supposed to tell me a few days before he got there so I could get off work, but he didn’t call till that morning and he acted like he didn’t want me to come.”
I nodded, encouraging her to go on. Pieces were falling into place.
 “Lance had been weird ever since he gave the manuscript to his Hollywood boyfriend. I think that snot must have wanted the story for himself. I hated that guy. He got Lance to start drinking some fancy-ass vodka. Did you ever hear of anything so stupid: forty dollars for a bottle of alcohol that has, like, no taste? For all I know, that stuff could have been what killed Lance. He never used to drink anything but beer.”
I tried not to react as Rosalee maligned Plantagenet. I didn’t need to add to the drama by disclosing that the hated “snot” was my best friend. Right now I needed to get the facts straight about Peter’s connection to Lance. 
It could prove Silas’s innocence. 
“Lance met Peter Sherwood in San Francisco on the day he died? You’re sure?”
“Yes! No…” Rosalee’s lip quivered. “I’m not sure of anything. I got somebody to cover my shift and drove up there as fast as I could, but…by the time I got to the apartment, Lance was dead! Only thirty-two years old and his heart just gave out…” She gave a piteous sniffle. “I was sure he had some kind of condition, but he couldn’t afford to go to a doctor. I gave him herbs, but who knows if he followed my directions…”
Fighting my dizziness, I stood and put a sisterly arm around Rosalee. I remembered Plant saying Lance’s hometown girlfriend “took clueless pills for breakfast”—a sad but accurate description. Rosalee had apparently never thought it suspicious that Lance “dropped dead” on the day he was to meet Peter. 
She didn’t even seem to know the police had ruled it a murder. 
Or that they’d arrested Silas. 
Just as well. The evening didn’t need any more dramatics.
“Whose idea was it to contact Sherwood Publishing in the first place? Did Lance and Peter know each other from…someplace else?” I tried to sound casual. In my heart, I wanted to mourn Peter, not prove he was a murderer. But I had to find out.
Rosalee went back to the dishes and handed me a towel. 
“No way! It was my idea. Like everything else. I met Colin, and Colin told me about Sherwood Ltd. He read about the company in the Swynsby Sentinel and told me how to submit the manuscript. But then I waited and waited and didn’t hear a damned thing. So I started surfing the Robin Hood sites, asking if anybody knew about Sherwood Publishing. Right away, I got an instant message from Alan Greene. It seemed like destiny—him being a Sherwood editor and everything—so we started sending each other, like, twenty emails a day. A lot of it was text sex, but we talked about Fangs of Sherwood, too.”
I tried not to think about text sex between those two illiterates. 
“So how did Lance contact Peter? Did he know he was going to be in town?”
“That was totally my idea, too. I was visiting the bookstore after Christmas, and I saw those porno books from Sherwood, Ltd., so I asked his boss, Felix, if he had a phone number so I could get them to hurry up and read the manuscript. Felix said Mr. Sherwood was coming to California, and he’d set up a meeting if he could.”
“So they made an appointment for Lance to talk to Peter about his book? Did Peter actually say he was interested?” I dried a plate, trying to figure out why Peter would have agreed to meet with an unpublished author of “unreadable dreck.” Maybe Felix had championed the book in an attempt to keep Lance from leaving. Peter had mentioned reading some “rubbish” Robin Hood books by American writers.
“You said it again! His book.” Rosalee slammed down her dishrag. “It’s not Lance’s book. It’s mine. Don’t you ever tell anybody anything different, do you hear me?” 
She yelled with such feral anger that she seemed about to sprout some of her Marian’s paranormal fangs. 
After setting down the plate, I managed to say something vaguely reassuring about undying silence and escaped to my room with mutterings about a nap. As I climbed the stairs, I realized that only one thread tied together what were otherwise a credulity-stretching set of coincidences surrounding the death of Lance McMerlin. 
That thread was the late Peter Sherwood. 







                  Chapter 68—Out of the Way




Thanks to Rosalee’s teas, I slept deeply and didn’t wake until nearly noon, when Rosalee appeared with more tea and news, her mood sunny again. She said she’d talked to Vera, who told her Henry would be in the office tomorrow. 
“She says she expects Alan will be back too, at least for a couple of days. I told her to let them know I’m almost finished with the rewrites. Can you download them to my flash drive? I guess I should read them after all. I’m sorry I yelled about it before. I guess I’m totally stressed from the flood and everything.”
I plugged the sparkly green drive into my computer. 
“It’s nearly finished. I’ve only got a couple of chapters to go.” I wasn’t pleased to hear that Alan was back in the picture. That made things fairly hopeless for my own book, even with my re-surfaced contract. “So what has Alan been doing? Besides avoiding clean-up work?”
“Nobody knows.” Rosalee shrugged. “I guess some of the stuff he told Brenda was true—about how he’s planning to go to the States to do some business deal. He left Henry a message last weekend saying he was planning to go over for a few months. He said he was going to make enough money to bail them out of their financial hole and hang onto the building. I’m so pissed off. He’s supposed to be promoting Fangs, not running all over the planet. I don’t even know who to call to get on the Richard and Judy Show. Henry’s pissed too, but he says my book will still launch next month, so everything should turn out okay, now Peter Sherwood is out of the way.”
Peter was “out of the way.” I could hardly stand it. 
“So it’s official?” I couldn’t keep the catch out of my voice. “That body—they’re sure it’s Peter?” 
Rosalee pocketed the flash drive. “Na. Vera says they’re being all bureaucratic about it. I guess things are complicated because those guys didn’t actually drown: no water in their lungs. Vera thinks maybe they got electrocuted like the old dude they found outside the Merry Miller.” 
Electrocution. Probably quicker than drowning. I hoped so. Also, it would explain how a couple of wily crooks like Peter and Barnacle Bill let themselves get trapped in that dungeon. There might have been live wires down there after Ratko’s destruction. Even a small amount of water on the floor could have been lethal.
Rosalee took off, talking in the breezy tone she used when she was lying about something. At this point I didn’t really care what. I gulped the tea—even more medicinal than usual—and tried to stifle my judgmental attitude. 
Rosalee was like her tea—with blasts of intense sweetness that couldn’t quite mask the bitterness underneath. 

By nightfall, I had almost finished the editing. However, my cold—or whatever it was—had not finished with me. I could barely lift my head. I felt nauseated, and everything in the room seemed to have little halos around it. Maybe it was some kind of flu. Or depression. I certainly had reasons for feeling down. Let’s see:
1)Peter was dead.
2)All hope of my book deal had evaporated.
3)Silas was in jail.
4)Plant had heart disease. 
5)I was unemployable and homeless,
6)and sick,
7)with no medical care,
8)no phone,
9)& no Internet.
I felt so separated from everything I’d ever known, I might as well have time-traveled to Robin Hood’s day. And as I remembered, the twelfth century hadn’t been a terribly cheerful time.
Rosalee came in around seven and offered to bring dinner upstairs, but I couldn’t face food. 
“I think I should see a doctor. This isn’t an ordinary cold.”
Rosalee shook her head sadly. 
“You can try to find somebody if you want, but I bet all you need is sleep.” She felt my forehead. “Yeah. Your fever’s gone. All you need is time to get your strength back. I’ve been selfish, making you work so hard.”
She pulled her flash drive from her pocket. 
“Can I get the file off your computer so I can read what you’ve got done?” She dangled the shiny green drive from its key chain, which did not help my queasiness. I was almost too dizzy to sit up.
But with Rosalee’s help I managed to download the last of my edits. I was glad to be nearly finished with the job. Sitting up for even a few minutes was exhausting. I wouldn’t get any more work done tonight.
Rosalee tucked me back into bed with a motherly cluck. 
“You’ll be fine in a couple of days, baby girl. I’ll bring you some more tea. It’s way better for you than a bunch of drugs. They don’t do any good anyway, most of them. I heard on Oprah that doctors prescribe sugar pills half the time. The body heals itself if you let it.”
She was probably right. I thought of all the times my nannies had rushed me to a doctor, only to be told that all I needed was “plenty of fluids and bed rest.”
After the tea, I fell into heavy sleep, but woke the next morning still feeling awful. Urgent need for the bathroom got me out of bed and down the stairs. I called for Rosalee, but got no answer. She wasn’t out in the garden either. 
And the car was gone. 
I was alone, feeling sicker by the minute. 




       Chapter 69—The Great God Peter Pan




I stumbled back to the kitchen. I saw an empty peanut butter jar in the trash, and decided Rosalee had gone for groceries. 
I had no appetite myself, so I went back upstairs and tried to focus my fuzzy mind on Rosalee’s novel. I did a last once-over of the whole manuscript.
Lance’s Sherwood saga wasn’t the standard rob-from-the-rich/give-to-the-poor Socialist mythmaking of modern Robin Hood tales. It was a fall-from-Eden story. His was a preposterous but idyllic Sherwood, populated by civilization’s outcasts, real and imaginary: vampires, werewolves—even an ugly unicorn with a broken horn—along with gays, pagans, witches, and other victims of oppression. Robin was a wild, bisexual forest beast. Not an ordinary Teutonic werewolf, but a Pan figure—the half-animal personification of unfettered male sexuality. 
I reflected on my own Robin Hood fantasies about Peter. There was definitely something wild and Pan-like about him, but more of a Peter Pan than the priapic satyr of classical myth. And I couldn’t imagine Peter Sherwood as gay, although he had seemed more attached to Jovan Ratko than to any Marian figure. I wondered what would become of Ratko now. He must be heading back to Croatia. A terrible time for him.
Lance’s Marian was more of a maternal figure than a lover. Like a mom looking in on play-date warriors, she brought news and goods from the normal world to Robin’s wild, magical one—just as the Maid Marian of tradition could move from the Norman aristocracy to the Saxon peasantry. And, as in Rosalee’s old ballad, Marian became Sherwood’s downfall: the poisonous Eve to Robin’s clueless Adam. 
It was a fascinating take on one of the central myths of Anglo-Saxon culture, if a depressing one.

By afternoon, I felt I’d done what I could for Lance’s opus—not that I’d transformed it into a masterpiece—but I’d made it less embarrassing than it had been. I felt sad for Lance—and what he might have created, had he lived long enough to acquire writing skills to match his imagination.
I went downstairs, but still couldn’t face food. My skin itched, and halos perched everywhere I looked. I sat on the couch with an Agatha Christie. I hoped the ultra-civilized, reason-triumphant world of Miss Marple would drive Lance’s dark images from my head. But I soon drifted into sleep and didn’t wake until Rosalee bounced in.
She beamed when I told her the edit was finished. 
“That’s perfect. I’ve been into the office, and Henry loves my changes.” She put down her purse—which looked like a new one. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told him the edits were mine. Well, they are, really, aren’t they? I’m paying for them.” She pulled two fifty pound notes from the bag. “Here’s some of what I owe you.”
I felt absurd elation when I held the big, wrinkled bills Less than two hundred dollars—but a fortune to me now. 
“How is everybody doing at Sherwood?” I asked Rosalee as she booted her laptop. “Have they cleaned up all the mud? Was anything salvageable?”
“Some, I guess.” She seemed distracted. “Davey’s working night and day trying to get the print machines working. They can’t fill orders because there’s no inventory—except for a bunch of books that Alan had stashed in his room at the Merry Miller.” She giggled. “Brenda had a hissy fit when she found them. And oh, yeah…” She gestured outside at the car. “She also found a suitcase full of ladies’ clothes in Alan’s room. She thought they were mine. Like I’d wear a size thirty-four B Wonderbra… I brought them home, in case they’re yours.”
My Wonderbra. Alan must have salvaged my luggage. How uncharacteristically helpful. Fueled by adrenaline, I rushed out to the car. There it was: my Louis Vuitton case. I dragged it back to the house and opened it on the parlor sofa. I think I squealed when I saw my favorite things: the Stella boots, Alexander McQueen dress, Burberry suit, and Versace undies. No jeans or comfy sweats, unfortunately, but clothes. Mine.
“This is amazing,” I gushed to Rosalee as I poured sweat from the exertion. “Tell Alan I don’t know how to thank him. It was so kind…”
“Kind? You think he stole your shit to be nice?” Rosalee snortled. “Like he stole the books to help Henry? He just lifted what he thought he could sell. He probably ripped off your things when you came out here to visit me and Colin. I think he may have promised them to that bitch with the maroon hair. The night he took me to the pub, that skank kept asking me where you got your clothes.” 
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.





                  Chapter 70—Three Murders 




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.





                 Chapter 71—Chamomile Tea




 “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?” 
“You’re going to hang out in some coffee shop—while you’re practically on your deathbed? You are so self-destructive. No wonder you lost all your money. It’s like you’ve got a death wish.” 
This stung. I hadn’t had much financial foresight. That was true. 
“I gotta go,” Rosalee said, reaching for her raincoat. “We’re out of peanut butter.”
The mention of peanut butter did unhappy things to my stomach. I sat down to fight the dizziness. But I couldn’t stand being left here with no hope of communicating with Plant. I had to get Rosalee to understand the importance of getting a message to him.
The only way to do that was to tell Rosalee everything I knew about Lance’s death. It was time. 




              Chapter 72—Storybook Barbies




I stopped Rosalee before she went out the kitchen door. 
“I have to tell you something…” I ignored her impatient looks and motioned her back to the table. 
I spilled out the whole story: about finding Lance’s body, and the coyote, and how weird Peter had been—and how I’d suspected him of being a rapist or murderer. I managed to keep Plant and Silas out of the story—knowing Rosalee’s dislike of Plant—saying only that I had “San Francisco friends” who needed to know Peter might be a suspect. 
Rosalee listened to every word with uncharacteristic silence. Her expression ran from interest, to contempt, to anger, and back again. 
“Well, at least you finally told me. You’re right. The police gotta hear this. You are so lucky. If you hadn’t been so quick with that shoe-throwing thing, Peter Sherwood would have killed you too. Look how many people he’s killed. Him and that Ratko.”
“So you see why I have to get somewhere with Internet access.” My eyes were playing tricks with the light again, and Rosalee’s frizzy locks had a golden halo around them. She looked like a large, petulant cherub.
The petulance changed to anxiety. 
“No! You can’t come with me. You can’t. I…” She took my hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I just had this feeling. This weird feeling…oh, you are so lucky I follow my hunches!”
“What is it?” I tried to focus. 
“I’m not going to Old Somercote. I have to go back to Swynsby. But I can’t take you because…” Rosalee bit her lip. “It’s those guys—the black guy and the weird one with the eyebrows. They said Peter was looking for you. So I…”
I felt unreasonable joy at this news. 
“Peter wants to see me?” I tried to push away the feelings of elation. If I was pleased to hear that a murderer wanted to see me, I was sick with something no medicine could cure.
Rosalee took both my hands and looked into my eyes.
 “Don’t worry. I said you were gone. Back to America. Peter Sherwood can’t hurt you now, baby girl.”
This was either the nastiest or kindest thing Rosalee had done yet.  
“You told Liam and Davey I went home?”
“Yeah. Vera and Henry and that know-it-all Professor, too. I’ll bet Peter Sherwood would have hired somebody to come out here and kill you if he found out you were still around. After all, you’re a witness to Lance’s murder.” 
Hearing Rosalee voice my own suspicions made the danger feel more real. 
She kept going. “Ooohh, that’s why he invited you here to England, Camilla—to kill you! No wonder he never talked about your so-called book deal after you got here. There never was a book deal. Like Alan said: ‘what year is this—nineteen forty-three?’ Nobody cares about manners any more. And who would notice you were gone, in that crazy place?”
My itchy skin prickled with embarrassment. What Rosalee said made terrible sense—at least the fake book deal part. After I contacted Peter with that first email, he probably feared I knew something, and decided to lure me over here. What better hook than a book deal? Everybody has a book idea knocking around. He probably would have accepted the storybook I wrote for my Barbies when I was nine.
 “You’re right. I was an idiot.” I could hardly bear to look at Rosalee, who might lack realism in career aspirations, but wasn’t as delusional as I had been. “I was so naïve to believe Peter—all that nonsense about how he loved my book.” 
I thought back to all the corny ways he had seduced me into trusting him. 
“I guess I just wanted to believe—the way I wanted to believe it was his kindness—not the absinthe—that was making my heart grow fonder.” 
Now Peter’s hoary joke took on sinister meaning.
“What?” Rosalee looked genuinely alarmed. “Absinthe? Did you say he gave you absinthe? That illegal green liquor?” 
I nodded.
“Oh my god. That’s what killed Alan. And that other guy. They found poison in that absinthe bottle. Rat poison. Oh, my god! When did you start to feel bad?”
I thought back. “The day of the flood.”
“The day after you drank absinthe with Peter Sherwood? Oh my god, you’ve been poisoned, baby girl!” 




                    Chapter 73—Lady Bountiful




“I can’t believe that bastard poisoned you!” Rosalee, in protective mother mode, jumped up and got me a glass of water from the tap. “You’ve got to detox, baby girl.” She filled the tea kettle. “I’ll make you some tea that will get those toxins out.” She bustled around with her herbs.
I was still reeling from this new information. 
“Alan and Barnacle Bill—they were poisoned with that bottle of absinthe? The one on Peter’s desk? The police say so?” I could hardly bear to think about it. Peter had fed me poison. That night when I thought we were falling in love, I wasn’t playing Marian to his Robin Hood. I was playing pathetic, needy victim to a murderer. Knowing that was almost worse than the pain in my gut.
But Peter drank some absinthe himself—I was pretty sure. I tried to get my sick-addled brain to call up the memory of that night. Peter only had one glass. Maybe he’d put the poison in afterward. I remembered seeing the tin next to the bottle on the messy desk. He must have put it in after the ritual of mixing our first drinks—when I was relaxed and trusting after taking Much to the vet. After that, it would have been easy—that strong, cough-mediciney absinthe taste would have masked the poison.
I should have been suspicious when Peter only had the one drink. Thank goodness I’d only had two—it was probably why I was still alive. But Alan and Barnacle Bill finished the rest of the bottle together. And died instead of me.
My whole body began to shake as I realized what I had escaped.  
Rosalee went to her own bedroom for a quilt and put it around my shoulders. “I know. You had it bad for that Sherwood guy, didn’t you? But baby girl—hello? You knew the guy made his living with kinky-ass pornography. Fantasies about torturing women. You don’t have to be Dr. Phil….” 
Rosalee was right. I cringed at the realization of how I’d allowed myself to be manipulated. I’d been duped into thinking my writing was worth something. That I was worth something. I felt a wave of anguish. 
 “You’re gonna be okay,” Rosalee said, fussing with the quilt. “You’ve been fighting the poison this long, so you must have a good immune system. I’m sure the worst is over. With some detoxing herbs, you’ll be fine.” She put a steaming cup in front of me on the table. “But honey, it’s time for you to get the hell outta Dodge. Peter Sherwood is in jail, but Ratko is still out there. If that murderer finds out where you are, you are dog meat.” She shuddered.
I watched her bustle off to the parlor as I sipped the bitter tea and tried to come up with a plan. Rosalee was right. I needed to get out of England. Now.
 Rosalee bounced back in, with her raincoat and new faux Birkin bag. 
“I’ll go buy you the plane ticket now, okay? You can send me the money once you’ve got a job back home. There’s a travel agency in Swynsby that’s advertising great deals to New York. That’s where you live, right?”
I looked at Rosalee with amazement. 
“You’re going to lend me money for a ticket home? We’re talking hundreds of dollars. Do you have that much to spare?” 
Rosalee gave a benevolent smile. 
“Sure. But I’ll need your ID. You have to have a name on the ticket—you know, for Homeland Security or whatever.” 
I nodded toward my bag, sitting on a chair. I’d once been so protective of my purse, but there was nothing in it now but money Rosalee herself had provided.
“Don’t worry about me.” Rosalee said, sliding the license from my wallet. “I’ve still got plenty left from my advance, and when that runs out, I’ll have tons rolling in from my book. I’ll be fine.”
I looked up at Rosalee’s eager, clueless face. The poor woman had no idea that, even with the massive edits, her novel was unlikely to earn out its advance. 
 “Are you sure you’ll have enough to live on?” I said. “Generally, you don’t see royalties for eighteen months or more…” I stopped myself. It would be imprudent, as well as unkind, to tell the whole truth at this point.
Rosalee put a sisterly hand on my shoulder. 
“Don’t worry, baby girl. I’ve always got a back-up plan. I brought over a bunch of stuff I can sell—jewelry and electronics. I hate to let them go, but…”
I gave a sad laugh. “I’ve been there. I lived on my jewelry for months, but now it’s pretty much gone.” For some reason, my eyes teared at the thought of my lost watch, earrings and the rest. I had never felt such despair. It was as if my soul had been poisoned along with my body. 
Rosalee gave me a hug. “We’ve got a lot in common, you and me. More than I ever would have thought. Maybe you can help me figure out what the stuff is worth. I don’t want to get ripped off.” She ran to the bedroom and came back with a zippered jewelry case and dumped the contents on the table in front of me—a couple of rings, some jeweled brooches, a faux-diamond tennis bracelet, a pair of men’s cufflinks, a cell phone and an iPod, circa 2006. Nothing of much value. I picked up one of the brooches—a pretty Deco piece, but obviously costume—wondering what to say. “Are you sure you want to part with these? They must have sentimental value…” It was so sad, Rosalee trying to play Lady Bountiful, with so few resources of her own. 
 “Na. Those belonged to Lance’s mom. Such a bitch. But I’m sure they’re worth something. She kept that stuff locked up and never wore it except like, on Christmas. But after she died, Lance wanted me to have her things.” 
I studied the small, worthless treasures and felt profound sorrow for the late Mrs. McNerlin of Buttonwillow CA. My tears made little blurry halos around the sparkling faux jewels.  
Rosalee put on her coat. 
“I gotta get to Swynsby. Henry needs me to meet some publicity people. If you give me your friend’s e-mail address, I’ll send him a message for you.” She reached into her purse for a notebook. “You better give me the password for your email account, so he’ll know it’s from you and it won’t be eaten by a spam blocker.”
I was shocked from my hypnotic state. My password. A few days ago, such a request would have set alarms clanging in my head, but now I realized my identity wasn’t worth stealing.  
“Emilypost2—that’s my password.” My poisoned brain felt as if it were floating away from me.
Rosalee wrote with precise, childish handwriting. 
“So what’s your gay friend’s email address? Is there anything else you want me to tell him?” 
I recited the address.
Rosalee’s lips went thin. She took a quick breath. 
“Plantagenet Smith? Did you say your friend’s name is Plantagenet Smith?”




                    Chapter 74—Into the Woods




I braced myself for a dramatic reaction to my accidental revelation about Plantagenet. 
“Yes,” I told the silent Rosalee. “I’m afraid my friend is that ‘super-snotty screenwriter’ Lance used to date. He may have seemed snobby, but if you got to know him…” 
Now even my eyes itched. I rubbed them. It didn’t help much.
“No shit?” Rosalee gave me an odd look. “So Plantagenet Smith—he’s the one who had the heart attack? But you said he’s, like, okay now?”
I nodded. Sometimes I thought Rosalee paid no attention to what I said, but obviously she had listened to the story about Plant. 
“Yes. Thanks for asking. He’s better. But you’ll be happy to know his boyfriend won’t let him drink any ‘fancy-ass vodka’.” 
Rosalee gave a sarcastic laugh. 
“Oh, poor Mr. Hollywood. Anything else you want me to tell him?”
“Just say I’ll be home pretty soon and I’ll email him when I get back.” I tried to picture myself back in New York—where? In Valentina’s cousin’s garage? I’d be even poorer than before, now owing Rosalee for a transatlantic ticket. It wasn’t going to be a joyous homecoming.
Rosalee puttered in the kitchen for a few minutes and then returned to the parlor.
“I’ve left more tea for you on the stove,” she said, her sunny mood restored. “Tea and sleep. That’s what you need to detox. Lots of liquids. Make sure you drink it all, baby girl. You gotta get all that shit out of your system.”
After I heard the front door slam shut, I lay back on the sofa in the little parlor, hoping Rosalee’s tea would do its detoxifying magic soon. It better, since everybody who might have helped me negotiate the British healthcare system now believed I’d left the country, and/or wanted to kill me. 
At the moment, Rosalee, her tea—and her on again/off again generosity—was all I had. 
After some sporadic napping, I dragged myself back to the kitchen, but my limbs felt increasingly heavy and uncooperative. I looked at the teapot, but couldn’t face any more of the gray-green concoction. I sat down with a glass of water and took another look at Rosalee’s sparkly treasures. The cell phone looked too old to be worth anything. Plant had one like it and had been about to trade up for a new one. I tried to get a signal, but it was dead. But the iPod batteries still had power. I put in the earbuds. The music wasn’t bad. Show tunes mostly. They reminded me of Plant. That helped me hold onto hope. Maybe Plant and Silas would visit New York soon. 
I listened to Sondheim’s Into the Woods while I examined Rosalee’s jewelry. None of it would bring more than a few pounds—except the cufflinks, which, upon examination, turned out to be 18K gold, inlaid with what looked like real diamonds—channel-set to form the letter “R”. Quite chic. I wondered who Rosalee knew with that kind of money and taste. 
I drifted into sleep with my head on the table and woke to the crunch of driveway gravel. I lifted my head to greet Rosalee, but voices from outside stopped me. Men’s voices. I took one bud out of my ear. I knew those voices. There was no mistaking the Serbian vowels. 
Ratko. With someone else. Maybe several someones.
Barely breathing, I gathered Rosalee’s things and hid the case under my jacket. The least I could do was save my friend’s treasures from this gang of thieves.  
 Heavy knocks rattled the front door. 
“Duchess? Are you in there? Open up!” 
Peter’s voice.  
I ran to Rosalee’s bedroom in a frantic hunt for a place to hide. There was no closet—just a wardrobe too small to hold an adult. The bed was a high, Victorian four-poster with a ruffly bedskirt. I dropped to the floor and rolled underneath.
I could hear more banging. 
“We know who you’ve got in there, you cow,” somebody else shouted. “Do you want us to break the door?”
Somewhere, glass shattered. Peter barked. 
“You didn’t have to knock out the bloody window, Tom. You know what that will cost to repair?”
Peter and Ratko, the knife-wielding killer, and Tom Mowbray—famous for his violent outbursts and his ASBOs. The three of them must have come to kill me—to finish off what the poison hadn’t done. I could hear them inside the cottage now, clomping up the stairs to the bedroom. My bedroom.
 My stomach began to heave. No. I couldn’t be sick now. 
The pain came in waves. Voices faded in and out. I thought I heard them outside the bedroom door. Peter. Coming into the room. I heard his voice, just above me, calling my name. I thought I heard concern. Part of me wanted to roll out and jump into his arms and beg him to be the man I had believed him to be: A “courteous outlaw” like Robin Hood. Not a ruthless killer.
Somebody shouted. Peter’s footsteps faded. I listened for more voices, but heard nothing. Maybe I was dreaming. One of those weird lucid dreams like the one about the coyote. Peter was a trickster like the coyote. I couldn’t trust my senses when I was around him. I couldn’t trust anyone or anything.
Everything spun around me—and went dark. 




                 Chapter 75—Fairy Thimbles




Under Rosalee’s bed, I woke to the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway outside and froze. Were the men still here? 
A light in the room switched on and I felt something thunk onto the mattress above me and heard someone scurry around the room, opening and shutting drawers.
I had no idea how much time had elapsed. Into the Woods was still playing on the iPod. I tried to turn down the sound on the control wheel, but it only got louder. My fingers didn’t seem to work. 
“Hey, what’s going on under there?” a voice said.
The dust ruffle lifted and Rosalee’s round face appeared. 
“Camilla! Jeez. What are you doing down there—stealing my stuff?”
I realized I still held the jewelry case clamped in my hand. I felt Rosalee grab my ankles and pull me toward the light. Everything was still spinning. I tried to give the jewelry case to Rosalee, but couldn’t lift my arms. They felt as if someone had attached weights to them. 
 “I can’t believe you’re still here.” Rosalee was dressed in a conservative blue suit—which didn’t quite work with her big pink and silver sneakers. “I thought you’d be long gone. The stupid cops let Peter Sherwood out of jail. I thought for sure he’d come looking for you. So who broke the window on the door? Colin is going to be so pissed.” 
“Peter came,” I hardly recognized my own raspy, weak voice. “I hid.”
Rosalee let out a bizarre laugh. 
“You hid? Jeez, you are some kind of a masochist. No wonder you like those pornographers. Did you really buy my story about the Jamaican drug dealers? Lance would never go to Jamaica. He totally hated reggae.”
I stared up at Rosalee—in her uniform-like navy blue suit, her wild hair surrounded by an aura of yellowish light—and thought again I must be dreaming. Or maybe hallucinating.
That’s it: I was still back in Plant’s apartment, driven mad by a surfeit of show tunes. The Sondheim in my ear was certainly crazy-making, but I couldn’t seem to lift my hand to take out the earbud. 
Rosalee laughed again. 
“Hey, I’m glad you’re still alive. You can tell me where your passport is. I can’t find it anywhere. Your driver’s license has expired.” She pulled the license from her pocket and dropped it on my chest.
Okay—I had to believe this was a dream.  Otherwise I would have to accept that Rosalee, not Peter, was the villain, and I’d been guilty of terminal stupidity. I called Plant’s name, hoping he’d come and wake me up.
Rosalee snorted. “Yeah. I sent Mr. Hollywood an email this morning, like you wanted. I said you left last week after the flood and you were back home in New York.” She gave another awful laugh. “I told him he should drink some of his fancy-ass vodka to celebrate that you’re home safe. Serve him right.”
Why was Rosalee interested in Plant’s drinking habits? 
“Where’s your damned passport?” she said again. “I’m so out of here. The Swynsby cops want to talk to me now they let Peter Sherwood go. Henry said they didn’t have enough evidence to hold him. Maybe they found my prints on the damned absinthe bottle. My bad. I should have wiped it down.” She looked down on me as if she were scolding a naughty child. “But you know, it would all have gone fine if your boyfriend had come back and drunk it like he was supposed to, instead of leaving it there for Alan to steal. Didn’t I tell you Peter Sherwood would wreck everything? You have the worst taste in men. Him and your Hollywood friend are always wrecking my plans.” 
Rosalee’s big, silvery shoes were only inches from my face. Big glowing alien space boots. A hallucination or a dream. Definitely. I called to Plant again.
“God, I hate that snot.” Rosalee loomed over me, huge and blue. “It’s his own fault, your guy Plantagenet. He wouldn’t give me the Fangs manuscript. I didn’t want him going around Hollywood telling people Lance wrote it.” She scrunched up her face as if she’d smelled something bad. “If only Lance hadn’t gone back on our deal: fifty/fifty. My idea/his words. But he got greedy and dug his own grave, the asshole.” 
I tried to make sense of this. Why did Rosalee keep talking about Plant? I tried to ask, but I sounded like a drunken frog. 
Rosalee grabbed a water bottle from her purse. 
“Here. Drink something. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” She stood at the dresser and applied some too-red lipstick and adjusted the collar of her suit. “Do you like my new outfit? I bought it at the Oxfam thrift shop in Swynsby. I needed something boring enough to pass myself off as the Manners Doctor.” She smoothed her hair. “The hardest part will be convincing the airline people I’m forty. But I figure I can say I’ve had a face lift. And a boob job. Passport pictures totally suck anyway. I’m booked out of Robin Hood airport tonight. Flying to Belfast and then New York.” She hefted her suitcase and carried it outside. 
I leaned against the bed and sipped the tepid water. Okay, Rosalee seemed to be going to New York, intending to pose as me. That much had come though the brain fog. She was going to have trouble finding my passport. I always kept it hidden in the lining of my make-up case—a precaution from traveling to odd parts of the world with Jonathan, before he stopped inviting me along. Rosalee’s search might buy some time. 
Time to do what, I wasn’t sure, since my muscles seemed to have gone on vacation with my brain. I still wasn’t sure any of this was happening. But the water made things seem a bit more real.
A few moments later, Rosalee returned. 
“No more games,” she said. “I’ve got the car packed and ready to go. Come on. Tell me where the passport is. It’s not like you’re going to need it. With all the foxglove tea I gave you this morning, you could croak any time now.”
Foxgove tea. Fairy Thimbles. Digitalis. The ingredient in that heart medicine.
It wasn’t Peter who had poisoned me.
Rosalee laughed. “I’ve been feeding it to you for days—in small amounts—because I wasn’t sure how long I’d need you alive. But when I realized everything was hitting the fan—I made you one big-ass pot. And like a good little girl, you drank it all up, didn’t you? It won’t be long now.”




               Chapter 76—Professional Liars




“Why kill me?” I managed to croak out the words as Rosalee loomed above me.
She snorted. “No way am I going to let you stay alive to tell people I didn’t write that book.” 
Okay—if this was real, Rosalee had poisoned me, and apparently Lance as well—over authorship of that sad book. An idiotic reason, but a reason nonetheless. But why had she poisoned the absinthe?
I seemed to have said the last bit out loud. 
“Why?” said Rosalee. “Because it was so easy. There was his booze bottle, and that can of strychnine right next to it. Duh. With Peter Sherwood out of the way, I wouldn’t have to give Alan another kinky screw, would I? Or I should say Willy Small. And he sure had one. That’s what they call a dick around here, you know that? A willy. No wonder he used a fake name.” Rosalee turned back to the mirror and worked on her hair, trying to slick it back into some sort of a chignon. Not a good look for her. 
But then I saw my way out: Rosalee’s cell phone, tucked into a pocket of the Birkin bag. If I could distract her for a bit, maybe I could reach in and grab the phone and call 911. Except it wasn’t 911 in this country. It was something else. 
“Sad name: Willy Small,” I managed to say, hoping to engage Rosalee in something like conversation. 
Now I remembered: 999. I had to get her phone.
“Whatever his name was, the guy turned out to be useless. Do you know my contract isn’t even valid? Henry told me this morning. It needs Peter’s signature, and obviously he won’t sign. Just as well. It looks like the company’s going belly-up. The bank’s going to foreclose on the building, and Peter Sherwood and his friend Ratko are sailing into the sunset, leaving Henry holding the bag. And I have to find another publisher. Luckily there’s a bunch in New York. Can you recommend anybody?” 
I thought of giving Rosalee my agent’s number but decided that would be unkind.
Rosalee loomed over me. 
“Okay, baby girl,” she said. “I need the passport. Now. And give me my jewelry, you little thief.” She squatted down to grab the jewelry case. I managed to get my heavy hand almost to Rosalee’s purse, but just then, Rosalee reached for the iPod. Our hands collided. 
 “Oh, keep it,” Rosalee said, standing abruptly. “It wasn’t worth stealing. Nothing but show tunes. Faggots have the worst taste in music.” She stuck the jewelry in her purse—on top of the phone. So much for the quick-grab plan.
But as Into the Woods soared in my ear, my fuzzy mind managed to make sense of what Rosalee had said: the iPod belonged to somebody she knew to be gay—the iPod that mysteriously played all of Plant’s favorite music. 
Rosalee had been the burglar in Plant’s apartment. 
Plant said the thief got into his old manuscripts—that must have been Rosalee, looking for the other copy of the Fangs manuscript. Then she must have stolen a few things to make it look like an ordinary burglary: the iPod and phone and—the cufflinks. Of course. The letter R was for Ryder. 
And—I didn’t like this new thought forming in my foggy brain: Plant’s email said the burglar “had some fun in the liquor cabinet”—Rosalee could have poisoned Plant’s Grey Goose when she broke in. The Grey Goose that Plant had three glasses of right before his heart attack—if it was a heart attack at all. 
The Grey Goose that Rosalee suggested he drink to celebrate my homecoming.
No. I might not be able to save my own life, but I had to save Plant. 
He might not have drunk the vodka yet. He’d been trying to be “good.” Adrenaline and anger gave me strength. I pulled myself up to sit on the bed, trying to make my addled brain form another plan as Rosalee put the finishing touches on her make-up.
I could see the keys to the Taurus on the dresser next to Rosalee’s purse. I could drive to a phone. I had to call Plant and tell him not to drink the poisoned vodka. 
As soon as I got Rosalee out of the room.
Like all polite people, I knew the value of a useful lie. This was the time for one.
“I hid it,” I whispered. “My passport. It’s in a book. Agatha Christie.” There were at least forty Agatha Christie titles up there. The search would buy some time.
Rosalee grabbed her bag and stomped up the stairs—leaving the keys still on the dresser. 
Yes! I grabbed the bedpost to pull myself to my feet, grabbed the keys, and stuffed them in my pocket. Using the walls to prop myself up, I made my way toward the back door. 
I had almost reached it when I heard Rosalee’s voice behind me. 
“Is this picture really you? You look like Gwyneth Paltrow. Totally. Hard to believe you were ever that young and pretty.” She waved my passport. “In a book, huh? Right. I checked your luggage again and noticed the lining of your make-up bag was torn. You’re such a liar. I should have known. That’s all good manners means—lying.” 
I gripped the door handle for balance. Maybe Rosalee was right. Maybe I was a professional liar. Like Peter Sherwood. I gave her a little smile, then pushed through the back door, lurching toward the Taurus. I’d find a phone—find anybody—to call Plant and tell him not to drink the Grey Goose. 
But my legs wouldn’t work right.  
“You idiot,” Rosalee said, right behind me. “You can’t drive. You can hardly walk.” She grabbed my arm in a steely grip and pulled the keys from my pocket. “Don’t you get it, baby girl? You’re already dead.” She stomped to the car and jumped in.
But she got into the wrong side. She’d obviously never adjusted to the British left-side driving thing.
That gave me just enough time to get the driver’s door open and clamber in. Rosalee straddled the shift, trying to vault over to the driver’s seat, her face inches from mine as she shoved me against the door. Her breath smelled of peanut butter.
My stomach lurched. I could taste the vomit in my mouth. And up it came, in awful gray-green chunks. All over Rosalee’s new navy blue suit. Her hand moved instinctively to wipe it off, and the keys slid from her grip.
I grabbed them and started the car.
Rosalee fell back into the passenger seat. 
“You bitch. This suit is dry-clean only.” She tore off her jacket and began wiping her skirt with it. 
I hit the accelerator. My vision wasn’t great with those halos everywhere, but I managed to steer onto the dirt road where I could see the sign ahead for Old Somercote. Only a few miles away. 
But Rosalee, still screaming about her suit, lunged across my lap, opening the driver’s door. With prodigious force, she leaned against my shoulder and pushed. I let up on the gas pedal and concentrated on grasping the steering wheel. But I couldn’t hang on. My muscles were too weak. I felt another painful shove and then…nothing but the cold dirt of the road.
I rolled into a ditch as I heard the Taurus speed away.

 




                      Chapter 77—Dorcas




I lay on the side of the road staring at a green meadow full of wildflowers. A daffodil poked at my ear. The grass felt clammy, and the sky above was beginning to darken. 
Something smelled awful. 
Me. 
I seemed to have been sick again. My throat was raw and my limbs wouldn’t move. It was as if the body I inhabited wasn’t mine to control. I felt pain in my right hand and arm where I’d tried to break my fall. Luckily, the car had been coasting slowly when Rosalee shoved me out, so I didn’t seem to have broken anything. Not that it mattered. I was dying from all that poisonous tea. I closed my eyes, hoping it would come quickly. 
But my mind filled with the image of Plant—Plant reading my email and thinking I was home safe. Pouring himself a Grey Goose. Then he’d die too. So horrible. He probably never did have a bad heart—it was all from Rosalee’s poison. So many people dead—all over “a dreadful medieval vampire saga, writteneth forsoothly.” 
Something damp dropped on my face. Great. English rain. All I needed. I opened my eyes. It wasn’t rain. It was a slobbery dog. A dog with a familiar looking, terrier face. Much. It couldn’t be, could it?
I heard a voice calling—a woman’s voice. 
“Much,” she called. “Much!” 
How many little terriers named Much could there be?
The dog barked. The woman called again as she appeared in my line of vision: a plump, pretty young woman, who smiled and called to someone else. 
“Dad, she’s here. The dog found her!” I had seen the woman before. On the Swynsby river walk, pushing a pram. 
“Don’t try to move. Hang on,” the woman said. She turned and spoke to someone coming down the lane. “She’s here. Alive.” 
Alive. Yes. I was alive. I needed for Plant to be alive too. I needed to tell them.
“Grey Goose,” I said in my scratchy voice. “Plant. His Grey Goose…” 
“You’ve been sick, Miss Randall. Good job,” said a man’s voice. I looked up and saw the smiling pink face of Charlie Vicars. “You’ve chucked some of that poison out of your stomach.” He turned to the woman. “Thank goodness you thought to bring the dog, Dorcas. We never would have seen her down here.” 
So the woman’s name was Dorcas. Charlie Vicars’ daughter. She had a halo, much brighter than Rosalee’s. She was a beautiful, round, shiny angel. So was Charlie. 
“Are you seeing odd lights?” said Charlie. “Have a bit of an itchy rash? Muscles weak? Feeling down in the dumps—a bit confused?” 
My tongue felt too thick to make words, but I was so grateful. Charlie. He’d get the message to Plant. 
“Grey Goose,” I tried to say.
“Digitalis poisoning.” Charlie said. “I saw the tea on the stove of the cottage. Fairy Thimble leaves. Look a bit like comfrey. Can do dreadful things.”
 “So can falling in a bloody ditch,” said the woman. “Whether she took poison or not, we need to get her to hospital, Dad. Can you help me lift her?”
Charlie squatted down and lifted me in his arms. 
“Don’t worry, Miss Randall. We’ll get you sorted.” He spoke to Dorcas. “I’ve got her. You fetch the car.”
The car was familiar. So was the plush badger in the back seat. I clutched the toy as Much curled at my feet, and I slipped into unconsciousness.




                     Chapter 78—Grey Goose




Stomach pumping—“gastric lavage”—was not a fun experience. Neither was the impersonal prodding and poking and injecting with whatever drugs were supposed to counteract the effects of digitalis poisoning. But by evening, lying in my bed in Lincoln County hospital, I was feeling as if I might survive. 
But I couldn’t get anybody to understand that somebody had to contact Plant and tell him to stay away from the Grey Goose. I kept telling people—telling everybody I met—doctors, nurses, orderlies, but all they did was smile and nod and tell me I mustn’t try to speak or I’d damage my vocal chords permanently. 
Dorcas was kind, but she didn’t understand, either. She seemed to think I was emotionally attached to the stuffed badger, which she carried from room to room and left snuggled next to me as I slept. 
Not Dorcas, Dorie. 
“Dad’s the only one who calls me Dorcas. I’m a bit sensitive about me name. I didn’t like what that American lady had to say about it, not one bit. I was so pleased you stood up for it. But don’t talk now. The doctors forbid it.” 
Dorie sent Charlie off with Much and stayed by my bedside. Apparently Charlie had taken Much home when he was released from the vet. Vera hadn’t wanted to let him roam around the still-muddy factory. It was Vera who had called Charlie asking him to make another search for me after Peter thought he’d found the cottage empty. 
“Mr. Sherwood was driven to distraction when he heard you were out there in Puddlethorpe with that American cow,” Dorie said. “He suspected her of being a poisoner even before we found the pot of foxglove tea. He knew Alan had nicked his absinthe, and nobody else was in his office that day.”
I was grateful for every bit of information they dropped about Peter. He was apparently still a police suspect, and they didn’t want him to leave the country. I wished I could see him; hold him; tell him how much I regretted doubting him. 
Dorie promised she’d be back for tomorrow’s visiting hours. As she was leaving, she had a phone call from Charlie. He had news of Rosalee. “That awful woman was detained for traveling with your passport,” Dorie relayed. “Can you imagine she believed anybody would think you two looked alike?” 
As she started out the door again, and I tried one more time. 
“Tell Plant,” I whispered. “About the Grey Goose.”
“Oh, yes, we’ll sort your Grey Goose. Don’t worry. And don’t talk.”

The next morning, an array of Sherwood denizens paraded through my room at visiting time. All brought encouragement and friendly smiles. 
And geese. 
Charlie brought a stuffed Mother Goose—a gift from one of Dorie’s little ones—that had been worn to a balding grey. Meggy had found a bluish-gray plush gosling in the baby aisle at Tesco. Vera brought a tiny ceramic goose made into a refrigerator magnet, and later Liam and Davey arrived with a large yellow Easter duckling—closest thing they could find at the charity shop near the bus stop, they said.
I tried desperately to get them to understand about Plant, and I tried to ask them to give me pen and paper, but everyone kept jumping in to tell their news.
Just as visiting time was ending, in strutted Jemima Puddleduck—a huge toy bird dressed in a red calico frock and matching head scarf, carried on a pair of elegant legs, encased in Prada boots. 
“Hello. I’m Emily Weems,” said the owner of the boots, setting Jemima on the bed. “I hope Henry’s told you how much I adore your book, Good Manners for Bad Times.” She sat in a chair Liam had vacated for her. She was an aging, but still beautiful English blonde—with porcelain skin and wide blue eyes. “My copy of Wedding Rx from the Manners Doctor is completely dog-eared. I bought it in New York a decade ago.”
I was suddenly aware of how awful I must look. I tried to sit up in a more dignified position and make her understand about the dire danger to Plant, but a nurse came in to give me a shot and told me again not to speak.
Emily Weems kept up her tea-party chatter. 
“I have no idea why Henry let himself be talked into publishing that awful werewolf book before yours. Robin Hood as a werewolf—have you ever heard of anything so silly? Werewolves are so…Balkan. I blame Walt Disney. He made Robin Hood into a fox, and poor Robin’s been getting more beastly ever since. He’s English, Robin Hood. Civilized.” She gave me a broad smile. “Mr. Vicars tells me that you’re worried about the cost of your hospitalization, so please do know that Sherwood is handling all the paperwork. Everything taken care of. Henry would be here except he has a meeting with the flood insurance people today.”
“I hope he gets things sorted,” said Davey. “Or we’re not going to be able to publish anybody’s books.” 
Emily Weems dismissed this with a regal wave. 
“I’m sure he’ll handle everything satisfactorily. Once you’re out of hospital, you’re to come and stay with us until you’re able to fly home. I don’t know why Henry hasn’t had you to visit before.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “He hasn’t been himself lately. I think perhaps it’s piles. He has trouble with piles.”
I caught Davey in an eye-roll, and hid my smile in the furry body of Jemima Puddleduck. It explained so much to find that Henry was married to a woman who could explain away blackmail and murder—and all the trials of the past three months—with a case of hemorrhoids. 
I faded into drugged sleep, still unable to get anybody to understand about Plant and the vodka. I could only pray that he was continuing to abstain. 




                   Chapter 79—A Night Visitor




I woke—or it felt like waking—to see a giant Mother Goose coming at me from between the curtains that surrounded my bed. A doctor or orderly of some sort, dressed in green scrubs and mask, held the large plush toy. I heard a familiar laugh.
As he removed the mask, my visitor morphed into Peter Sherwood. If he wasn’t real, this was a nicer hallucination than any of the others I’d had recently.
“It’s not exactly gray,” Peter whispered, handing me the goose, “But after a few days at the Maidenette Building, I’m sure it will become sufficiently grimy.”
He kissed me. A lovely kiss. Sweet, with just enough heat to remind me why I’d missed him.
“Is it the right sort of goose? Charlie said you were desperate for one,” he said, putting the goose beside the others. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier, but the coppers might have nicked me. I’m a bit AWOL, you see, for their murder investigation. They asked me not to leave the country, but I must sail in the morning for Tobago.”
I suppose I looked devastated at this news.
“Don’t worry. I won’t be gone more than a few months. And I’ll come back with enough money to pull the company out of its financial muddle. And get your book published, too.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ve booked you a ticket back to San Francisco. I hope that will be all right. Plantagenet Smith will be there to meet you.”
Plant. He knew Plant. Of course. They’d met in Frankfurt last year. 
“Plant. Poison!” I said, as urgently as my weak voice would allow. 
But Peter only laughed. 
“Yes. Rosalee poisoned the vodka. Plant smelled a rat when he got that email, so he phoned us immediately. He told Vera that never, under any circumstances, would you refer to anything as ‘fancy-ass,’ so he took his bottle of vodka into the San Francisco police. They found Rosalee’s fingerprints—on record because she’d done time as a juvenile—and inside was enough digitalis to induce cardiac arrest.” Peter looked at his watch. “She’s being extradited, and Silas Ryder should be emerging from jail as we speak.”
I felt massive relief. But then Peter stood and I realized he was going to leave. Now. I reached for him.
He gave my forehead quick kiss. 
“I’ll see you as soon as I can. After I deliver the Marynia to the buyer, I’ll fly back here and get things sorted with the company. I’m hoping there will be enough cash to put in that flat above the canteen. So when you return, there should be a splendid place for you to stay. No more sleeping rough in warehouses. That was dreadful. I don’t know how things got so bollixed up…”
Was there really going to be a do-over? It seemed too much to hope. 
He went on. “I do hope you’ll give us morons another chance. As soon as I have proper digs, I’ll send plane fare. Charlie can reschedule your book tour and everything will get back on track.”
He leaned down and gave me such a magical kiss I wondered if he was a hallucination after all. 
“Are you, um…real?” I said. 
“Is any of us real? Are you real, Camilla Randall?” He kissed me again. “I hope so, because I’d hate to think I’d fallen in love with an apparition.”
It did feel like a solid, reality-based kiss. 
And he’d said the “L” word. 
I watched him disappear behind the curtain, equally impressed and appalled that he’d managed to sneak into the hospital undetected, and steal some poor doctor’s scrubs. But that’s what he was—like the real Robin Hood—a trickster and a thief. His expensive clothes. The Rolex—who knows, maybe the publishing business itself—probably all stolen. 
I clutched Mother Goose to my heart, hoping that at least some of what he’d told me was true.




                          Chapter 80—Advance




My stay with Henry and Emily and their children was lovely. Henry became a different person while at home with his family—relaxed and jovial. The day before I was to leave for San Francisco, he presented me with an envelope. Inside was a check for two thousand dollars. 
“Your advance,” he said. “Peter informed me the night of his departure that you’d never been paid. Shocking oversight.” 
“So he has, um, sailed to the Caribbean?” I still wasn’t entirely sure my romantic moments with Peter in the hospital had actually happened.
Henry gave an enigmatic shrug. 
But I happily accepted the check. It meant I’d be arriving home with enough money to survive until I found a job.

Davey, Liam and Tom all came to see me off at the airport. I asked if they’d had word from Peter. Their faces went glum.
The news about the Marynia wasn’t good. The Croatian paperwork was dodgy and Peter didn’t have clear title. I wasn’t surprised. But they said he’d decided to make the trip anyway to sell it on the black market. 
The mention of illegal trade brought up the question that had been nagging me since the weekend of the flood. 
“Those crates in the warehouse—did they, um, belong to Peter?”
Tom gave an angry laugh. “Of course not. The knock-off scheme was Bill’s. He tried to enlist Peter as a co-conspirator, but Peter only agreed to retrieve the yacht to settle his debt. Bill found a more willing partner in the Baron, er, Small, Willy. ”
Davey snorted. “But it was the bloody rain that bollixed it for those two. They had the crates loaded into a hired lorry when the rain started, so they decided to wait an hour or two until it let up. Only it didn’t. So they seem to have gone looking for a bevvy.” 
Liam joined in. “That’s when we showed up with our load of Polish pottery from Hull. We figure they scurried down the rat hole so we wouldn’t see it was them using Peter’s warehouse to store illegal merchandise.”
“Which we didn’t,” Davey said. “More’s the pity for those two.”
I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Bill and Alan/Willy. I wondered what had happened to the “hired lorry” full of faux Birkin bags. 
But I had an idea. 
And I knew better than to ask.





          Chapter 81—Nothing but a Lubber Lost




Plant and Silas met me in San Francisco with warm hugs, roses, and a bottle of Dom Perignon. They announced they were taking me down to Silas’s beach house because “we all deserved a vacation.” 
On the ride down to Morro Bay, in a champagne-and-jet-lag haze, I longed to spill out the truth about the dire financial situation that had kept me in England. But compared to what Plant and Silas had just been through—a poison-induced heart attack and an accusation of murder—my problems seemed too minor to mention. 
Plant had received a stack of mail for me, which I went through as we drove through the Salinas Valley. There were several notes from Valentina, whose cousin had still not been paid. I would have to send off a check as soon as I deposited my advance. There were several more overdue bills, some dog-eared, much-forwarded notes of condolence on my mother’s death—and at the bottom of the stack—something in a business envelope, with an address written in odd, foreign-looking handwriting. It had a New York postmark.
 “Dearest Madam,” it said, in the spidery script. “I am having for you a load of furnishings, which you have asked to be reserved in storeroom. The Co-operative Board are not allowing such storage, so I have sent to house of my sister’s husband in Flatbush. You will please to fetch these soon. Sincerely, Habib Amir.”
I squealed so loud that Plant started to pull the car over to the shoulder. 
“My doorman,” I explained, urging him to drive on. “He didn’t steal my things. He’s been keeping them for me all this time. I can’t believe it. I have to send him some money and get a van and…” And what? I hadn’t wanted to think about it. What the hell was I going to do? Whether Sherwood published my book or not, it wasn’t going to produce any income for some time, if at all. What was left of my two thousand dollars would barely pay a month’s rent, much less move my furniture—or pay Habib for his extraordinary kindness. 
“Maybe you can find a moving company that can bundle your things with a partial load of another New Yorker moving out here,” Silas said. “Lots of easterners retire to the Central Coast.” 
I looked out at the rolling, golden hills where plump cattle grazed between lush vineyards and prosperous, Tuscan-style wineries. Ahead was a sign pointing west that said simply, “Beaches.” 
“It looks like paradise, but I’m not exactly in a position to retire.”
“I wasn’t suggesting it,” said Silas. He turned around and grinned. “This may be a little soon, but I wondered if you might need a job. The manager of my Morro Bay bookstore is leaving the area, so I’m desperate for somebody. There’s a little cottage in the back. Just a one-bedroom beach house, but you can walk to everything and there’s an ocean view…”
I couldn’t hear any more over my own shouts of joy. 
Everything in Morro Bay fell into place with such ease that I could hardly believe I’d been in abject misery just a few weeks before. After about a month of camping in my little cottage, my furniture arrived. Everything was intact, just as I’d packed it. I was putting the Limoges dishes away in the Chippendale cabinet when my new cell phone rang. 
It was Davey. “We’ve got your book in galleys,” he said. “I wanted to alert you that we’ll be sending the electronic version today and I’ll need to get any corrections as soon as possible. We want to go to press immediately. Peter’s come through with the cash to get us up and running again.”
I couldn’t believe luck could get this good. “So he sold the Marynia?”
Davey paused. “Not exactly. But he sold some, er, merchandise at a tidy profit.”
I blurted out what I’d suspected all along. “The designer knock-offs? He got hold of that truckload of Bill’s fake bags, didn’t he? He sold them in the Caribbean?”
Davey was silent for a moment. “Must go,” he said. “This is a dodgy connection. Watch for my email.”
I wandered around in a blissed-out fog for two days. When I finished my corrections and sent them off, I went to the liquor store next door and bought a bottle of local wine to celebrate. I sat down to email Plant the good news. A new message sat in my inbox from Davey. No header. No salutation either. I hoped my attachment had got through all right. 
But the message said nothing about my manuscript.
 “The Marynia has sunk off Jamaica,” it said. “No survivors. We’re all shattered. No idea what will happen now.” 
No survivors.
My wine sat in my mouth in a sour puddle.  I had to jump up and spit it into the sink, as the memory of an ancient ballad ran through my mind, along with the absurd memory of Peter singing in his off-key tenor about Robin Hood’s adventures as a sailor:
“If I should cast thee over-board/There were nothing but a lubber lost.”






               Chapter 82—Coyote Redux


Over the next seven months, I kept hoping to hear that the news of Peter’s death was yet another hoax by the master trickster. But finally I had to accept the truth: this time Peter really was gone. 
Davey sent links to the local newspaper reports of the wreck of the Marynia. Three men had been aboard: Peter, Jovan Ratko and a seaman they’d hired in Kingston. The bodies hadn’t been found, but they wouldn’t have been, in that deep water. 
His death seemed such a tragic, pointless loss. But nobody seemed to be grieving as acutely as I was. From what Davey wrote in his emails, it sounded as if Sherwood was doing perfectly well without Peter. Insurance on the Marynia had paid off the company’s debts and allowed for necessary repairs on the Maidenette Building. Henry had made Vera and Charlie full partners so he could concentrate on his writing—he was doing the final edit on his Mr. Darcy novel, Fitzwilliam, Aged Five—and the Professor now had two assistant editors for the Major Oak line. 
~
On the day in early December when the store got its first shipment of Good Manners for Bad Times from Swynsby-on-Trent, I decided it was time to let my fantasies of Peter’s resurrection go, and embrace my new life. The small carton from England arrived along with a big shipment of bestsellers, replenishing the store’s inventory for Christmas buying. I unpacked the rest of the shipment first. It included five copies of Gordon Trask’s Home is the Hunter, just out from Knopf, and two boxes with more copies of Fangs of Sherwood Forest—the number one paperback bestseller this week on the USA Today list. 
Sales of Fangs had taken off in my store as soon as it came out two weeks ago. I couldn’t tell if my customers were as intrigued by the idea of a gay werewolf Robin Hood as they were by reading the work of an alleged poisoner on trial for her life. But the book deal Rosalee had made soon after her arrest was proving to be a fantastic business move on the part of her new publishers—and her lawyers—who had rushed it into print almost as soon as the news of her arrest was out. Plant reported recently that Variety had announced a Fangs film deal in the works, with Robert Pattinson attached to the project.
But poor Rosalee was likely to spend the rest of her life in prison. 
At least she’d get access to health care.
Once I’d processed the other books from the new order, I opened the little box from Swynsby-on-Trent and took out a copy of Good Manners for Bad Times. Tom’s silver tray design—in embossed, metallic silver—was as elegant as I’d remembered. I caressed the thin volume, wondering if it had been worth all the pain. I unfolded the packing slip and found a letter in Vera’s neat handwriting.
The note was a couple of pages long. I decided to take it to lunch so I could read it in private. Anything from Sherwood tended to make me emotional, even now. I went to my favorite café—a little spot with outdoor tables overlooking the bay—and ordered the smoked albacore taco and tea with milk. I still drank my tea British style. I took the letter from my pocket and smoothed it open.
 “As you can imagine,” Vera wrote. “The big pre-publication order of Good Manners for Bad Times from Ryder’s Bookstores has our whole office celebrating. The Professor is sending review copies to all his old University friends, including people at the Times and the Guardian, so you should be getting some well-placed publicity.”
“We hope you can make your way here for the official launch in April. Brenda says she’ll have a nice room waiting for you, and wants you to know the Merry Miller no longer has karaoke. And we now have another incentive for you to come—a wedding! The Professor and Meggy will be married at Old St. Mary’s on May the first. That’s the day after her divorce will be final. We couldn’t be happier. We’re debating whether Much should do the honors as ring bearer.”
She went on to tell of her household news, and said that Charlie and his family were doing splendidly. Dorie was expecting again. 
“Davey, Liam and Tom send their love. I’m sure they’ve filled you in via e-mail about their goings-on. Liam is seeing a nice girl from the local chip shop, and Tom and Davey are the same as ever.”

Fog was moving in, and the December wind felt chilly through my light jacket, but I didn’t want to move. I loved Morro Bay in the winter, after the tourists left and it became a blue-collar fishing town again. This was a moment I wanted to savor: I was a published writer again. A new chapter in my life was beginning. 
A seagull perched on the chair opposite and eyed the remains of my taco. I tossed it a bit of tortilla as I looked out at the sea and wished it didn’t always make me think of Peter. I would have loved to share this moment with him. My eyes started to moisten, but I stopped myself. I’d shed enough tears for Peter Sherwood, or whoever he was. 
I had a good life here. My job paid very little, but the low rent Silas charged for the cottage allowed me to feel prosperous. He was a great boss, and seemed to be a good partner for Plant now they’d worked out some of their issues.
I needed to start looking for a little romance, too. Lots of nice-looking men in this surfer/fisherman town. I looked out at the fishing boat chugging away from the dock and saw a tall, lanky fisherman waving at me. I waved back. He threw off the hood of his sweatshirt—it would be a green one—revealing long, blond hair. He blew me a kiss.
I returned the kiss, telling myself that sudden thrill didn’t come from the man’s resemblance to Peter.
But back at the store, things weren’t so peaceful. 
“Where have you been?” said Dana, the Cuesta College student who came in on weekday mornings. “Some guy was here looking for you. He waited nearly an hour, but he said his boat was sailing and he had to go.”
I shrugged, determined not to lose my good mood.
 “Probably some local writer with a self-published novel. Half our customers seem to have them.” 
Dana gave change to the customer at the register. 
“No. This wasn’t store business. He said he got this address from your ex-husband.” 
She turned to the next person in line. It was busy for a weekday—a good omen for the holiday season.
I opened the second register to help another waiting customer. 
“He mentioned my ex-husband? Probably a reporter wanting a story about Jonathan—some ‘lo how the mighty have fallen’ piece.” 
 “He didn’t look like a reporter. He looked more like a fisherman—dressed in jeans and a hoodie.”
“A dark green hooded sweatshirt?” I thought of the man on the boat.
“Yeah. It might have been green. He was kind of a hottie—for an older guy. He said he met your ex in a waterfront bar in Bangkok.” 
So the man who had waved was one of Jonathan’s drinking buddies. Just as well I missed him.
 When the rush died down, Dana reached under the desk for something. 
“He left you this—that fisherman guy.” She handed me an envelope.
Inside was a greeting card—one of the cards by a Native American artist whose works we sold here in the store.  
It pictured a coyote, howling at the moon.
I opened the card with trembling fingers. The message inside was unsigned.
“Congratulations on your new book, Duchess,” it said. “Glad to hear the lads got it sorted. I hope you and I can toast your success the next time I’m in town.” 
My knees got rubbery. I clung to the register for balance.
“Jeez. I don’t think he paid for that card,” Dana said. “I never rang it up. Something about that guy made me kind of lose track.” 
“I suppose he imagined we’re rich, and since he’s obviously poor at the moment, he thought it was all right to steal from us.” I wished I could keep myself from grinning. 
Dana looked puzzled. “What is he, some kind of Robin Hood?”
I nodded. “Yes. Some kind of Robin Hood. I don’t know if he’s the good kind or the bad kind.” I put four dollars into the register to pay for the card. “But I’ll make sure he pays me when I see him again.” 




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