Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (25 page)

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 Not only would my book not be published, but I’d be out on the street—all of us would.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probably intended to provide the “influx of cash” he’d promised for the company: robbing rich designers to give to poor unpublished authors.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.

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.

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.

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.