No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries)

• Title Page
  
• Chapter 1—Mistress Nightshade
  
• Chapter 2—Everybody Loves a Lover
  
• Chapter 3—Property of Satan
  
• Chapter 4—Homeless
  
• Chapter 5—Doing Time in Munchkinland
  
• Chapter 6—Sweet Home
  
• Chapter 7— The Wicked Witch
  
• Chapter 8—Shredding Resumes
  
• Chapter 9—Life is but a Dream
  
• Chapter 10—Mr. X
  
• Chapter 11—Hollywood Starline Tour
  
• Chapter 12—Disasters Waiting to Happen
  
• Chapter 13—Burning Jacuzzis
  
• Chapter 14—Ronzo
  
• Chapter 15—Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
  
• Chapter 16—Cozy Little Treasure
  
• Chapter 17—Harry's Biggest Fan
  
• Chapter 18—Screw Rich People
  
• Chapter 19—Tornado
  
• Chapter 20—Enchanted New Jersey
  
• Chapter 21—Chocolate for Breakfast
  
• Chapter 22—Orphans in the Storm
  
• Chapter 23—Between Beverly Hills and Nowhere
  
• Chapter 24—One-Night Stand
  
• Chapter 25—The Wolf at the Door
  
• Chapter 26—Blue Notebook
  
• Chapter 27—The Yellow Brick Road
  
• Chapter 28—Mafioso
  
• Chapter 29—A Girl's Best Friend
  
• Chapter 30—The Soldier
  
• Chapter 31—The Happiest Town on Earth
  
• Chapter 32— Tasting Wine
  
• Chapter 33—The Devil in 2000-Thread Count Sheets
  
• Chapter 34—Police Presence
  
• Chapter 35—Slice of Heaven
  
• Chapter 36—Dishy Boyfriend
  
• Chapter 37—Menthol Magic
  
• Chapter 38—Not Exactly "Cheers"
  
• Chapter 39—Lucky and Bucky
  
• Chapter 40—New Jersey Lawyer
  
• Chapter 41—Ding Dong the Witch is Dead
  
• Chapter 42—The Walls of Jericho
  
• Chapter 43—Clean and Sober
  
• Chapter 44—The Royal Snail
  
• Chapter 45—Barbeque
  
• Chapter 46—The Price of a Handbag
  
• Chapter 47—And Your Little Dog Too
  
• Chapter 48—Morro Bay Drizzle
  
• Chapter 49—Marvin's Birkin
  
• Chapter 50—Gangster's Moll
  
• Chapter 51—Getting Clean
  
• Chapter 52—Par Avion
  
• Chapter 53—Marvin's Secret
  
• Chapter 54—Backless
  
• Chapter 55—Kinky Stuff
  
• Chapter 56—The Two-Night Stand
  
• Chapter 57—Size Thirteen Wide
  
• Chapter 58—The Secretarial Handbook
  
• Chapter 59—Being a Ghost
  
• Chapter 60—Cash Mob
  
• Chapter 61—Fakes
  
• Chapter 62—Mother Manners
  
• Chapter 63—Dea Ex Machina
  
• Chapter 64—Zo What?
  
• Chapter 65—In Transition
  
• Chapter 66—Mr. Skinner
  
• Chapter 67— An Old Friend
  
• Chapter 68—Marva
  
• Chapter 69— Strawberry Wine
  
• Chapter 70—Missing Persons
  
• Chapter 71—Zombie Jamboree
  
• Chapter 72—Into the Mist
  
• Chapter 73— The Fugitive
  
• Chapter 74—Dorothy-Free
  
• Chapter 75—Hobo Joe
  
• Chapter 76—Doria's Biggest Fan
  
• Chapter 77—Lucky and Co.
  
• Chapter 78—Rat Bastard
  
• Chapter 79—Narco-Subs
  
• Chapter 80—Dangerous Dudes
  
• Chapter 81—Cherchez la Femme
  
• Chapter 82—Doria's Corpse
  
• Chapter 83—A Nice Little Miracle
  
• Chapter 84—Gregg Shorthand
  
• Chapter 85—Invisible
  
• Chapter 86—Home
  
• Chapter 87—The Resurrection of #HarrytheShark
  
• Chapter 88—Bedtime for Bonzo
  

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

a Camilla Randall Mystery

by

Anne R. Allen

copyright Anne R. Allen 2012.

All rights reserved.

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

ISBN:
978-1-908961-06-8

Published by Mark Williams international Digital Publishing

When we think of the United States of America we tend to use superlatives.

Biggest, fastest, richest. Especially richest. It goes without saying that, in the land of plenty, with so many resources and so much land, there is wealth enough that no-one should go hungry, or be homeless.

My co-writer Mark Williams lives in West Africa, in one of the poorest countries on the planet. I live in the UK, variously the fourth or fifth richest country in the world, depending on which statistics you use. But the number one place for wealth and opportunity is always the United States of America. The USA is, unquestionably, the richest nation on Earth. Ever.

So when I first read Anne R. Allen’s delightful comedy-mystery
Sherwood Ltd.
(which is set mostly in England) I was bemused to find one of the characters had come to Britain not as a rich American visiting the ancestral home, but as a “health-tourist” seeking medical care beyond their means in the United States.

It was a much-needed reminder that, while the USA may have riches beyond imagination, the distribution of that wealth is as uneven as in countries far, far poorer and far less democratic.

In
No Place Like Home
author Anne R. Allen explores another dark side of American life. Homelessness.

Now we all know about homeless vagrants who choose to live on the fringes of society. Many are former servicemen and woman unable to adjust to life outside of the armed forces. Some choose that way of life, true. But for most it is not a choice.

Then too there are people — often entire families — who have lost their home, through no fault of their own, and suddenly find themselves reduced to living in shelters and eating from soup kitchens, reliant on hand-outs. Honest American folk who would not long ago be giving to charities to help the poor in faraway places are now reliant on charity in their own homeland.

It seems beyond comprehension, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, there should be homeless and hungry people anywhere in the world, let alone in the United States. Surely this is the stuff of fiction?

Sadly, while Anne R. Allen’s characters and storyline are fictional, homelessness and poverty in the United States is very, very real.

Enjoy reading
No Place Like Home
. Then, whatever country you are in, spare a thought for the reality behind the fiction. For the many people for whom there really is no place like home.

Saffina Desforges

International best-selling author of
Sugar & Spice
, the
Rose Red
crime thriller series and the YA Holocaust novel
Anca’s Story
.

Doria Windsor first heard her house was on fire from somebody called Mistress Nightshade. In a breathy, but suspiciously baritone voice, he/she phoned Doria at the hospital to say the fire department was on its way, but the great room already looked like a total loss, the garage was about to go with both Ferraris inside—and Doria owed a bundle for the shackles, harnesses and five leather floggers.

"Real leather. Not the cheap pleather stuff. Mistress Nightshade's Traveling Discipline Show uses only the best."

Doria politely informed the person that he/she had the wrong number.

"Isn't this Harry Sharkov's wife?"

Doria replied she was indeed Doria Windsor Sharkov, but she was in Los Angeles, about to be wheeled into the operating room, and she was sure if their house were on fire, Harry would have phoned.

"Kind of hard when you're a crispy critter," said Mistress Nightshade.

"Tell Harry this has stopped being funny." In three years of marriage, Doria had never learned to enjoy Harry's practical jokes. She was sixty years old, not sixteen, and had outgrown that sort of humor many decades ago.

"Hasn't that tranquilizer kicked in yet?" The nurse made a grab for Doria's phone.

Doria started to turn it off, but Mistress Nightshade spoke again. "This isn't a joke, sweetie."

Doria brushed the nurse away and pressed the phone to her cheek. "Tell Harry I can't deal with this right now. They've already given me a pill."

"He was in an upstairs bedroom with one of the slaves," Mistress Nightshade said. "That's where the fire started. My girl managed to jump from the back deck, but I don't know about Mr. Sharkov. I guess he thought he was safe in the Jacuzzi. I gotta go. Ten thousand should cover the damages. Replacement value, plus a little something so I don't feel the need to talk to the press—you know?"

Doria could hear people shouting in the background as Mistress Nightshade gave instructions for sending a check.

Fat chance.

Harry loved his scandals almost as much as the tabloids did. If he was actually cavorting with sex slaves in the Jacuzzi, he'd want the world to know he could still cavort at the age of sixty-eight.

The inventor of Viagra had a lot to answer for.

"Dr. Singh is waiting," the nurse said. "This is his last surgery of the week. If we make him late for his Friday happy hour, there will be hell to pay." She confiscated Doria's phone and clicked it off. "I'm sure Home magazine can survive a few hours without you."

"It's not about my magazine." Doria fought the drug haze. Didn't the nurse know she'd retired from the magazine last week? It had made all the networks. "No. This is somebody who wants me to think my house is on fire; my husband is about to be incinerated after frolicking with a sex slave—and I'm being blackmailed by a transvestite dominatrix."

The nurse's grim face exploded in a big laugh.

"Yup. The drugs are working, honey. Let's get you into surgery. In a couple of hours, you'll have the tummy of a teenager."

The landline phone rang from the back room just as I was locking up the bookstore for the day. Normally I'd let the answering machine pick up the call—especially after a hectic week like this. Morro Bay's tourist season was off to great start.

But there was a tiny chance the call might be from the mysterious Mr.
X
.

The hot guy with the badly-fitted suit and courtly manners had been in the store three times this week, buying local guidebooks and flirting like crazy. He'd mentioned something about going to a charity wine-tasting this weekend.

I sure would have loved to spend my Sunday off with somebody besides Plantagenet and Silas, who were madly planning their July wedding.