Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (23 page)

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.

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.

“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?”