No Place Like Home - A Camilla Randall Mystery (The Camilla Randall Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page A

and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
    "You need to wear it for three weeks. There are instructions for changing the bandages and cleaning the drains in there, too. You need to get to a doctor in one week to have the drains and stitches removed."
    She looked around again and squeezed two vials of pills into Doria's hand. "Your medications." Her whisper was barely audible. "Dr. Singh's instructions are on the bottles. You will need another Vicodin in two hours."
    Doria tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth wouldn't move. No part of her face would. It felt like a mask—cold and distant—not part of her body at all.
    Her brain tried to process what Mr. Sanchez had told her—
    Harry was dead.
    In a fire.
    For real.
    So maybe the Wicked Witch had been right: the house was gone, and their credit was in some sort of mess.
    Doria looked in her purse. Aside from her apparently useless credit cards, her wallet held two twenty dollar bills and four pennies.
    The nurse hovered like a bellboy waiting for a tip.
    It took a moment for Doria to realize the woman wanted her to get out of the wheelchair. She stood slowly, trying not to look as shaky as she felt.
    "Where do you want to go, Ms. Windsor?" Mr. Sanchez gave a cheery smile as the nurse disappeared with the chair.
    Doria smiled back. Or tried to. But the truth was—she honestly had no idea where to go.
    The plan had been for Harry to pick her up after a meeting with his bankers about the new boat company he was so excited about. He was then going to drive her up to the house in San Luis Obispo. She'd hardly seen the place since they bought it six months ago. She'd done all the plans for the redecorating in about a week, because she'd had to fly back to see to the magazine. Harry had stayed on, directing the contractors while he ran his company from his new home office. It was supposed to be their retirement dream house.
    Not much to go up there for now.
    No house.
    No Harry.
    "I have a car. I can take you." Mr. Sanchez set down the tote bag and case. "I will bring it around."
    Where Doria really wanted to go was back to New York, but she'd let the Manhattan apartment go. Harry said he was through with New York and never wanted to go back. All he cared about was vineyards and boats. But New York was her home. Maybe she should call the super and find out if the new tenants had moved in. With any luck, they might have delayed the move and it might be empty a few more weeks.
    She rummaged in her purse, feeling around for her phone. But then she remembered it hadn't been returned. She wondered if she should go back and fight for it. Probably not. She'd probably get the nice nurse in trouble. Besides, who knew if it would work? Maybe the Verizon bill hadn't been paid either. She couldn't imagine how all their credit could be tied up, but it seemed to be the case.
    She kept staring into her handbag. Her gold Chanel compact glinted in the sun, as if nothing had changed since she packed the bag two days ago.
    An ancient Chevrolet pulled up and Mr. Sanchez got out. He put the luggage in the battered trunk and gave Doria another of his generous smiles. He opened the passenger door as if he were ushering her into a limousine.
    "Going to Beverly Hills? I am going there. To pick up my wife from work."
    Doria knew lots of people in Beverly Hills, but none she could bear to visit right now. Certainly not in Mr. Sanchez's rattletrap car.
    Well, there was Betsy.
    Doria had descended on her old friend in worse states, back in their modeling days. Not that she particularly wanted a visit with Betsy right now.
    Since she'd split with that Mexican soap opera star, Betsy had been whiny and impossible on the phone. But she'd probably be home. She'd had a facelift only two weeks ago so she wouldn't dare go out in public.
    Mr. Sanchez sat with his keys in the ignition. "Beverly Hills?" he said again, using an overly cheerful voice, like somebody trying to coax a small child.
    "Yes. Betsy Baylor's