Googling Old Boyfriends

By Anne R. Allen

The Camilla Randall Mysteries are a laugh-out-loud mashup of crime fiction, rom-com, and satire. Dorothy Parker meets Dorothy L. Sayers.

Perennially down-and-out socialite Camilla Randall--a.k.a. "The Manners Doctor"--is a magnet for murder, mayhem and Mr. Wrong, but she always solves the mystery in her quirky, but oh-so-polite way. Usually with more than a little help from her gay best friend, Plantagenet Smith.

In this stand-alone episode, Camilla befriends socialite Mickie McCormack, who's going through a painful divorce. Mickie has been Googling her old boyfriends in order to reconnect and "remember who she used to be."

Unfortunately every one of those boyfriends soon ends up dead.

Is the serial killer Camilla's old boyfriend Dr. Bob? Or one of Mickie's old boyfriends? And can Camilla's old boyfriend Captain Rick Zukowski of the L.A.P.D. protect her and her cat Buckingham from being fed to the sharks before she solves the mystery? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kotu Beach Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9788834138168

Book preview

editor, Impakter magazine. 

Chapter 1 — Truly, Madly, Guilty

CAPTAIN MAVERICK JESUS Zukowski of the L.A.P.D. was still gorgeous. And he wanted to have dinner with me. Tonight.

Which was a very bad idea.

He was up on the Central Coast investigating a case and going back to Los Angeles tomorrow. I hadn’t been able to figure out how to say no to dinner. He’d called me here at the bookstore at noon when I was dealing with a bunch of customers. I’d been too distracted to think of a plausible way to bow out politely.

My Morro Bay bookstore had been pretty busy for a Monday, and I hadn’t had much time to think about how I was going to handle seeing Captain Rick again.

But now, at five-fifteen, the store was empty. My cat Buckingham was sound asleep in one of the reading nook chairs, and business seemed done for the day.

I usually didn’t close until six, but I was tempted to shut down anyway and run back to my cottage to make myself a little more presentable for my dinner date. I’d dressed in a groggy rush this morning after driving my boyfriend Ronzo to the airport late last night.

No. Wait. This wasn’t going to be a date. Just dinner. I had a boyfriend. And Rick was married.

Besides, I couldn’t close the store. I might miss out on a sale and I needed every penny I could bring in. Until I got the money for my mother’s emeralds. Then I could hire some help. And get the fire damage repaired, finally. Maybe even hire a clerk.  Hey, I could hire a whole bunch of clerks and never have to work in the store again.

My sore feet would thank me.

It was finally sinking in. I was going to be financially solvent. For the first time in forever. The tacky box my mother had used to store paperclips had turned out to be a medieval treasure worth nearly a million dollars. And I’d only found out because a bunch of people tried to steal it from me. Right now the Pismo Beach police had it in their evidence locker, but when I got it back, this life of scrimping and living on the brink of disaster would be over.

But for the time being, I really did need to hang on until six in case some paying customers wandered in.

And there was one now. I could hear the bell on the door jingling.

Buckingham woke and jumped down from his chair. Back to work for both of us.

An elegant older woman swooped in, dressed head to toe in black Céline knitwear, with a precision cut snow-white bob. She looked to be in her late forties, except for her hands and neck, which gave away her age as more like sixty. She obviously had a good plastic surgeon.

You’re Camilla Randall, aren’t you? I’m Mickie McCormack. I knew your mother, Countess Braganza. We both belonged to the Westhampton Garden Club. I was sorry to hear of her passing.

A New York society matron. Not the sort of person who often wandered into my California fishing-town bookstore.

Thank you. I shook her hand. It’s so nice to meet one of Mother’s friends all the way out here.

I love those etiquette books you wrote when you had your Manners Doctor column. She tossed her hair and it fell back in place with perfect elegance. "Good Manners for Bad Times is a classic. I must have given it as a gift at least two dozen times. I hope they didn’t think I was being passive-aggressive. But so many people need to brush up on their etiquette, don’t they?"

I nodded and gave her a smile. A fan of my writing. I didn’t have many of them anymore.

And what can I do for you today? I gave her a professional smile. The woman had charm, but her intensity was a little disconcerting.

"I’m going through a divorce. After twenty years. I want a big, fun book full of laughs and revenge. I don’t suppose they write novels like The First Wives Club anymore?"

I directed her to Maria Semple and Lianne Moriarty in the women’s fiction section. She grabbed several paperbacks and proceeded to the reading nook, where she gave Buckingham a pat and sat down to browse.

Such a lovely cat, she said. I adore tuxedo cats. They’re so elegant. Buckingham curled up at her feet.

Oh dear. I hoped she wouldn’t stay past six. I didn’t want to make Rick wait.

I hoped I looked all right. I was wearing a simple green sweater and black slacks — nothing from of my designer wardrobe, which I was getting too fat for on my ramen-noodle diet. My hair could have done with a wash, too. I was letting it grow long and it tended to go stringy and lose its blonde sheen when it wasn’t freshly shampooed.

Why was I so nervous about seeing Rick? He’d broken up with me over five years ago. Via email. Brutal but effective. He’d met somebody named Delores. A fellow law enforcement officer. He was going to marry her.

I’d never heard from him again. It had taken me a while, but my heart had healed. I’d lost it to a few Mr. Wrongs since then, but now I had a wonderful lover, Ronzo, whom I adored.

Then last week Captain Rick had appeared here on the Central Coast, investigating a man I knew as Dr. Bob, and the mysterious death of Bob’s wife, TV actress Mia Foster. He’d interviewed Ronzo about Bob.

Ronzo told me Rick seemed kind of buttoned-up.

Maybe the passionate Latino side of Rick had faded with age. I hoped so, for both our sakes.

When I put Ronzo on the plane back to Newark last night, he’d promised to come back for my big fortieth birthday bash in ten days. He had a lot of stuff to do to straighten out his complicated personal life. I hoped he could do it before my birthday.

I did love Ronzo. Truly and madly.

Rick had never been the right man for me. I had no delusions about that. But I would have liked to know more about what was going on with him before I faced him across a dinner table.

While Mickie McCormack flipped through her stack of books, I went to the checkout desk and put Captain Maverick Jesus Zukowski into Google on the store computer.

With a name like that he was easy to find.

The first thing that came up was a picture of him getting a medal of valor from the L.A.P.D. two years ago for saving a child from a burning car. Always the hero.

The next image showed Rick playing basketball with a bunch of street kids from East L.A. He wore a tank top and cut-offs — which showed he was keeping himself in great shape.

Then I found a photo of the happy couple. Capt. Rick Zukowski and his wife Sgt. Delores Delgado, at a gala reception for the mayor last year. She wore hot pink. Everything about her was hot. She was one of those gorgeous Latina women who could carry off a skin-tight dress, big hair and huge earrings — and not look cheap.

Okay, ’fess up. Mickie McCormack startled me as she plunked a copy of Liane Moriarty’s Truly, Madly, Guilty on my counter.

If you’re that distracted by the Internet you’re either looking at porn or you’re Googling old boyfriends.

Mickie’s brown eyes twinkled at me from behind Ralph Lauren tortoise shell frames.

I felt my cheeks heat up.

Um, I’m guilty of the latter, I’m afraid. I’ve just run into an old boyfriend and he’s invited me to dinner, but...

The bell on the door jingled.

There he was. Captain Maverick Jesus Zukowski, six foot, three inches of tall, dark, and the-one-who-got-away.

Delores’s husband, I reminded myself.

Rick! You’re early. I don’t close until six...

It’s five forty-five, Mickie said. I’m on my way out the door. I’m sure your boss won’t fire you for closing a little early on a Monday. I’m the only one here. Her eyes kept twinkling.

I am the boss, I said. Also the sole employee. So I guess...

And I’m Rick Zukowski. Rick offered Mickie his hand. He had impeccable manners. I remembered he’d said his mother read my etiquette books.

Mickie gave him the once-over. You’re either a military man or in law enforcement, am I right?

Um, yes. Captain Zukowski is with the L.A.P.D., I said. He saved my life once.

I think it was the other way around. Rick still had that great smile.

I’ll be back, Mickie said. I read fast. Be good, you two.

Chapter 2 — Con Men

RICK INSISTED ON TAKING me to one of the poshest seafood restaurants in Morro Bay. I suggested we walk the few blocks from my store down to the Embarcadero instead of trying to find a parking place in the waterfront area. It tended to be crowded, even on a weekday in late October.

I let Buckingham out and locked up the store.

Rick and I stayed strictly in small talk territory for the first few minutes of our walk.

But after we’d covered the unseasonably warm weather and a bit of Morro Bay history, Rick turned to me with a concerned look.

Ronson Zolek told me you’ve been dating Robert Spitzer?

Wow. So that’s what this was about. Dr. Bob Spitzer, the con man. Who may or may not have killed his wife, Mia Foster. And who definitely tried to con me out of my mother’s emerald box.

This was far from a date. Captain Rick was still investigating his case. Okay, fine. At least I was going to get a good dinner out of it. Since I’d been on a shoestring budget for months that was still a plus.

I gave what I hoped was a lighthearted laugh as we started down the long staircase that led to the Embarcadero. I turned back to offer Rick a smile.

Oh my, no. I’m certainly not dating Dr. Bob. I met him at a dinner party a few weeks ago. He seemed nice enough until his stepdaughter let me know he’s a con man. No. It’s Ronson Zolek I’ve been seeing. Ronzo, people call him.

There. I established that. I was taken. Not looking to rekindle anything.

You’re dating the homeless guy who found Mia Foster’s emeralds?

Did he really call my boyfriend the homeless guy? This was rapidly going downhill.

Ronson Zolek is a former music blogger who had to go underground because he was getting death threats from some very scary people who didn’t like one of his reviews. I suppose my voice got a bit harsh. And yes. He did find an antique emerald necklace that had belonged to Mia Foster. They were in an old box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers in Beryl Foster’s pantry. Beryl is — was — Mia’s mom. The family had the necklace all along, but didn’t know it.

We’d reached the street and I looked out at the sun setting over the bay behind the restaurant. I’d rather be here with Ronzo. He loved that view.

Mr. Zolek seems to be something of a detective. Rick didn’t seem to notice the spectacular sky. His attention was all on me. But not in a romantic way. How do you know him?

Yes. Ronzo is a detective. He worked as an investigator for a law firm back in New Jersey. He was also a well-known music blogger. I met him last year when he came out to Morro Bay because somebody told him J. J. Tower was alive and well and living in a homeless camp here.

J. J. Tower? The rock star? I thought he was on a spaceship with Elvis. Rick was laughing, but I wasn’t.

I knew J. J. Tower’s secret, but it wasn’t mine to tell.

I also couldn’t tell Ronzo’s secret — that he’d used tarot cards to do his detective work on the emerald necklace. Rick seemed to have a low opinion of Ronzo already, and his just-the-facts-ma’am personality probably didn’t include an appreciation of the occult.

Do stay away from the guy who calls himself Dr. Bob. Rick gave me a dark look. He’s no doctor. His real name is Barney Krieger and he’s got a jacket as long as your arm. Everything from fraud to attempted murder. And he targets vulnerable women.

Do I look vulnerable to you? I tried to put on a tough-girl expression.

Rick laughed. Well, I thought you should know.

A hostess greeted us as we entered the restaurant, where the sunset painted the white tablecloths with a pinky-orange glow.

We had to go through all the polite rituals of being seated and choosing what to eat. I decided on the scallops and Rick ordered the lobster linguini.

So I guess you’re eager to get home? I tried a safe subject. You’ve been away from Los Angeles for what — nearly a week? Delores must be really missing you.

Wrong thing to say. Rick’s smile disappeared.

Delores is in Houston. They offered her a big promotion. We’ve separated. He couldn’t quite meet my eyes.

Oh, I’m sorry. That’s sad. You looked so good together...

You saw me with Delores? When?

Oops. I’d put my foot in it now. I, um, looked you up.

Googled me? He gave me a weird smile.

Yes. I thought it would be nice to know something about what was going on with you, so....

There was no way to get out of this gracefully. Googling old boyfriends was as creepy as Mickie McCormack had implied.

It was for the best. Delores will be a great lieutenant.

I saw deep pain in those velvety brown eyes. Poor Rick.

Luckily the wine steward came with the chardonnay. Rick did the ritual tasting and we both watched in silence as our glasses were filled.

Time to change the subject.

So when did Dr. Bob — Barney Krieger — disappear? I hoped I sounded businesslike. I saw him the night they arrested Beryl Foster for trying to poison all those people. Bob took the necklace and drove away. He seemed to think it was his because of community property laws or something. Do you think he stole it?

He sure did. Since he was never legally married to Mia, he had no right to claim her property. The necklace belongs to Beryl Foster and her granddaughter Oona Grimaldi. Barney Krieger is a serial polygamist. Never bothered to officially divorce his previous marks. He’d just evaporate and leave them hanging. What did Krieger tell you about his relationship with Mia Foster?

Okay, so now we were safely back in police enquiry mode.

Bob never said much about Mia herself. He claimed they were married of course. And he said that her death had devastated him. He was writing a book about the whole ordeal. And he was very hurt that Beryl still thought he’d pushed Mia off that yacht. But the last time I saw him, he made it clear he was more interested in Mia’s emeralds than her memory. So you don’t know where he went?

He’s in the wind right now, but we’re tracing down leads.

And we’re here because I’m a lead? I probably shouldn’t have said that. Luckily our entrees arrived, so I could smile sweetly and not let my irritation show.

Rick nodded as the waiter served him his linguini.

Mr. Zolek Mentioned you’d dated Mr. Krieger, so I thought you might have some idea where he might have gone. Where did you meet him?

How could I possibly have been stupid enough to think Rick might still be interested in me? I stabbed a scallop.

My friends Plant and Silas introduced us. Bob was in Plant’s writing group. I kept my voice steady and tried to steer the subject away from my dating history. I think Plant wanted to fix us up to rescue Bob from another writer in the group, Kensie Weiner. One of those infantile, desperate women who throws herself at men. She had her sights set on Dr. Bob...Mr. Krieger.

Did this Weiner woman have money?

Plant said she was a spoiled Hollywood brat, but she didn’t seem to be all that wealthy. Her clothes are expensive, but they’re always two sizes too small. She has a condo down in Nipomo. And writes unpublishable romance novels.

Probably not worth Krieger’s time. Can you think of anything he said that might help us find him?

Okay, Rick was not going to be distracted by stories about Kensie Weiner.

So you believe Bob/Barney Krieger killed Mia Foster? Oh dear. What if I really had dated a murderer?

A lot of hack journalists claimed he’d killed her at the time. But their accusations were based on the fact Bob Spitzer was an Olympic swimmer. They thought it was suspicious that even though he made a big show of jumping off the boat to save her, he couldn’t get to her in time — only a few yards away. But the thing is — Krieger wasn’t an Olympian or even much of a swimmer. The real Bob Spitzer died of an overdose in 2010. He’d been licensed as a chiropractor, although he never practiced. Barney Krieger must have taken on his identity soon after his death. They looked a lot alike.

What a sad story.

Poor Bob. Maybe he’d really wanted to save his wife but he didn’t know how to swim.

Rick didn’t look sympathetic. So I tried to think of something else to say.

Dr. Bob certainly was good at his con game, I said after a minute. He was always telling stories about the 1988 Seoul Olympics.

Always? I thought you’d just met him.

I only met him a couple of weeks ago. But I ran into him several times. I did not like Rick’s tone. So why are you interested in Dr. Bob — Mr. Krieger — now? I tried to keep my composure. Is it just to get the emerald necklace back?

I finished my wine and wondered if Rick would be polite enough to refill my glass, or if I’d have to do it myself.

The necklace isn’t my concern, although it would be an excuse to collar him. The reason I’m here is that we’ve recently reopened a cold case from seven years ago. An actress named Amy Brighton fell off a yacht off Santa Monica and drowned under suspicious circumstances.  Her date that evening was one Barney Krieger.

He did pour me some more wine. It was a very nice chardonnay.

Oh, my goodness. So Beryl Foster was right? This guy had a habit of pushing women off yachts?

Rick nodded as he finished a bite of linguini.

There are a lot of similarities between the cases. Amy’s collection of valuable jewelry was never found. Until last month. It showed up on a site on the Dark Web along with some things that belonged to Mia Foster. From the same seller. So you can imagine we’ve got some questions for Mr. Krieger.

That explained some things. Bob/Barney’s awful stepdaughter Oona Grimaldi had told me he often conned rich women out of their jewelry. I wondered if Oona knew he may have killed some of them for it. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered her. She was a nasty little piece of work herself. She’d recently been arrested for selling illegal steroids from her grandmother’s house.

Bob rents a condo in Avila Beach. Have you looked there for clues? I tried to be helpful. Not that he had much that looked very personal. It was as if he was perching there — not really inhabiting the apartment. His bedroom hardly looked slept in.

The last orange clouds were fading outside and the candle that flickered between us reflected in Rick’s dark eyes.

That place is a vacation rental. He paid by the week. He appears to have moved out the night Beryl Foster and Oona Grimaldi were arrested. Rick’s gaze met mine. You saw his bedroom? I thought you said you never dated him.

I studied his face for sign he was flirting. But this wasn’t banter. It was serious policeman stuff. I felt blood rush to my face.

He was babysitting for my cat!

Rick nodded, but said nothing. I felt like an idiot, but I wanted to defend myself.

Bob genuinely seemed to like Buckingham. That’s my cat. Ronzo’s cat actually. It’s a long story. Anyway, Bob wasn’t interested in me in the least. He only wanted an antique box my mother left me.

Rick went back to his linguini.

I filled the silence, trying to keep things light.

Do you know that Mia’s emeralds were part of the Portuguese crown jewels — what they call the Braganza emeralds? I own some of those emeralds myself — they’re set in that box Bob was after. A reliquary box from the sixteenth century. It was a gift to my mother from her husband, Count Juan Carlos, who claimed to be a Braganza. The police have it now as evidence in Beryl’s attempted murder case, but when they return it, I’m going to have quite a nice nest egg.

Wrong tone. I sounded defensive and I was lecturing him like a schoolmarm. But I didn’t want Rick to think I was desperately dating homeless people and criminals.

Yeah. About that box... Rick sipped his wine.

I gulped mine. I really needed good news about my emeralds, but Rick’s tone did not bode well.

The box, I said finally. Are you going to tell me the police are going to keep it forever as evidence in Beryl Foster’s trial or something?

Rick shook his head.

The guys in Pismo told me you can pick the box up tomorrow.

Thank goodness! I’ve been really strapped for cash. I had a fire in the store last summer and the insurance money hasn’t come through yet, so selling that box will....

I did not like the way Rick was looking at me. I sort of tried to hide behind my bangs. They were getting too long. Thank goodness I’d be getting the box soon. When I sold it I’d treat myself to a whole new ’do.

"Camilla, I don’t think you should count on getting any money for the box. They showed