Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Read Free

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