Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read online

  Foreword by Saffina Desforges

  The writers’ conference is a mostly American phenomenon. It’s usually a combination of bucolic holiday and intensive writing courses, where aspiring writers can hone their craft, learn the ins and outs of the publishing business, and network with other writers at all stages of their careers. The conferences range from Vermont’s prestigious Bread Loaf Conference, founded by poet Robert Frost, to weekend workshops at regional community colleges.

  Ghostwriters in the Sky is set at one such conference—held at a picturesque former “dude ranch” in California’s idyllic wine-and-cattle country north of Los Angeles—an area that has long been a retreat for Hollywood celebrities, from President Ronald Reagan to pop star Michael Jackson.

  When New York etiquette columnist Camilla Randall is invited to teach at the Golden West Writers Conference in the Santa Ynez Mountains, she couldn’t be happier. She’s in the middle of a nasty divorce from TV celebrity Jonathan Kahn, who has not only left her destitute with his legal maneuverings, but recently accused her of kinky sexual practices in a New York tabloid.

  But Camilla’s western holiday turns out to be anything but a relaxing escape. The old ranch is reputed to be “lousy with ghosts” who appear to be stalking her. She reconnects with an old friend, screenwriter Plantagenet Smith, but the discovery of an inconvenient corpse in his bed mars their reunion.

  Plantagenet is arrested, and while trying to discover the real killer, Camilla stumbles onto a complex blackmail and forgery scheme. She’s aided by hot LAPD Captain Maverick Jesus Zukowski—until the captain himself gets cozy with the forgers. In order to clear her friend and stop the murderous “ghost,” Camilla must deal with her muckraking ex, a ruthless spokesmodel, bickering gay cowboys, and a cross-dressing dominatrix whose repertoire includes an impersonation of Camilla herself.

  Saffina Desforges, Best-selling author of Sugar & Spice and the Rose Red crime thriller series.

  GHOSTWRITERS IN THE SKY

  a novel by

  Anne R. Allen

  © Anne R. Allen, 2011. All rights reserved.

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

  Published by Mark Williams international Digital Publishing

  http://indiebooksunited.com

  Formatted by Elizabeth Ann West

  http://eawestwriting.com/ebook-formatting

  Chapter 1—GIRL OF THE GOLDEN WEST

  The subway car was so crowded I couldn’t tell which one of the sweaty men pressing against me was attached to the hand now creeping up my thigh. I should have known better than to wear a dress on a day I had to take the subway, but in the middle of a New York heat wave, I couldn’t face another day in a pants suit.

  I tried to lurch away from the large man in shirtsleeves who looked to be the most likely owner of the hand. One of his beefy paws clutched the pole just above me, but the other was invisible in the crush of bodies. Getting away from him meant I had to press closer to a besuited Wall Street type, who was engrossed in reading a newspaper over the shoulder of a woman in the seat nearest us.

  I managed to move a few inches, but the hand continued its relentless journey northward.

  Maybe it was the pimply kid in the Marilyn Manson tee shirt who had insinuated himself into the already overflowing car at Columbus Circle. He’d pressed in to join the three of us who had already staked claims on the center pole.

  I jabbed the boy in the ribs with an elbow. He grunted an obscenity.

  But the hand continued to creep.

  The man in the suit turned away from his reading and whispered in my ear.

  “Dr. Manners, I’ve been a bad, bad boy.”

  My throat closed. The guy wasn’t just grabbing an anonymous feel. This was personal. He knew I wrote the Manners Doctor column. Did he imagine my good manners would keep me from protecting myself?

  I reached behind me and slid my hand in between our pressed-together bodies. Grasping his wrist, I tried to pull his hand from between my legs. But he dug his fingers into my thigh and hung on.

  As the train mercifully jolted to a stop, I stepped back and brought my stiletto heel down on the pervert’s foot. As he yelped in pain, I pushed through the crowd and made it to the doors. A stop too soon, but I’d certainly rather walk up to West 69th Street, even in this sticky heat, than be molested for one more minute. How did millions of women ride the subway, day after day?

  Life without money was turning out to be way harder than I’d ever imagined.

  I hoped my lawyer was going to make Jonathan’s lawyers to see reason soon. Jonathan was being so cruel about the divorce. I had no idea why. It’s not as if I was the one who had been filmed by a paparazzo while receiving the ministrations of a street hooker on Sunset Boulevard.

  I ran through the turnstile and was halfway up the escalator before it occurred to me I could simply have waited for a less crowded train. No point now. I’d have to swipe my MetroCard again, and these days I needed to pinch every penny.

  I walked out into a wall of hot air. This had to be the hottest May on record. If the rest of the summer was like this, I’d actually be glad I’d had to give up my midtown office. It felt like defeat to give up the keys to the landlord this afternoon, but maybe everything would turn out for the best.

  But it looked like I wasn’t going to get relief from harassment anytime soon. The heat seemed to bring out the creep in everybody. A taxi driver who was stopped at the light leered as he called out to me.

  “Hey, Dr. Manners, I’ve been bad. Wanna give me a spanking?”

  What was it with these people? Had they all turned into raving sado-masochists?

  I crossed Broadway as quick as my old Manolos would carry me. I’d bought them in the days when I could afford taxis. Now my feet screamed for a pair of Sketchers. The heel was in need of repair and I could feel it wobble as I tried to walk faster.

  Too late. A family of hefty tourists in cargo shorts seemed to have overheard the driver as they barreled out of Lincoln Center toward the Metro station.

  “It is her!” said the teenaged boy. “The Manners Doctor. She used to be married to that TV guy—you know, on The Real Story.” He aimed his camera phone at me.

  I put on my New York street face and stared straight ahead—pretending I saw nothing and heard nothing—as all mannerly New Yorkers do when sharing a crowded sidewalk. But the family kept coming at me, like a bunch of corn-fed storm troopers. I didn’t know whether to brazen it out or turn and run.

  “I heard she does weird sex stuff,” the teen girl said.

  “Shut up with that filth,” said the mom.

  “I’m sure it’s her. I saw her on Entertainment Tonight,” said the boy.

  “Not every fancy lady is an effing celebrity,” said the dad, staring at me as if I were something in a store window. “She doesn’t even look like Kahn’s wife. The Manners Doctor has shorter hair. And bigger hooters.”

  Right. I didn’t even look like me because I hadn’t been able to afford to go to the hairdresser for months. I’d probably lost weight too. The stress of the divorce had not been kind to my digestive tract.

  At least I didn’t run into any more perverts as I walked up Lincoln Square and made my sweaty way to my co-op building on 69th Street. But it wasn’t a fun walk. The humidity had to be at least 90%.

  Habib, the doorman, gave me a dark look when I arrived. I hadn’t tipped him for over a month. As he held the door for me, he gave a smirk. A smirk—from the ever-glowering Habib. Maybe the heat really had made everybody in the City turn into lunatic creeps.

  Then I saw the copy of today’s
Post on the table in the lobby.

  Damn. There was a picture of me above the fold. An awful thing showing me on Jonathan’s arm, looking slightly tipsy. Probably at the Emmys last year. The paper looked rumpled and discarded, so I didn’t feel bad about picking it up and giving it a read. I’d made Page Six way too many times since Jonathan’s scandal stirred up the media jackals, but I’d never been on page one. I couldn’t imagine what they’d dreamed up to say about Jonathan and me now.

  I shook the paper open I saw the headline: KAHN REVEALS TRUTH ABOUT KINKY DR. MANNERS.

  What fresh hell had Jonathan invented for me now?

  Clutching the paper, I ran to the elevator and slammed the button for the sixth floor, hoping nobody would rush in and try to share the car. I wanted to be alone when I read the toxic thing.

  I worked on calming my breathing to prepare myself.

  But there was no possible preparation for the horrible words swimming in front of me. Jonathan had apparently told the Post reporter that he wasn’t the only one with an edgy sex life. He accused me of being into Sado-Masochism. Me. And oh my god—necrophilia and bestiality. Dead people? Animals? Where was this coming from? If anything, our sex life had been too vanilla. That’s certainly what he whined about all the time. I’d always presumed that was why he’d been getting more interesting flavors from Los Angeles street hookers.

  How could I have loved this man? Maybe I really was a masochist.

  No. I never loved the man who gave that interview. I’d loved a Jonathan who was a kind, loving friend, and an honorable journalist. A Jonathan who hadn’t existed for a long time. I guess I was the only one who hadn’t realized the old Jonathan was gone.

  Somehow I managed to keep the tears from flowing until I got safely into my apartment. Then I let out a wail so loud it felt as if it came from somebody other than me—some wild animal that was trapped inside and screaming for its life. I was probably terrifying the doddery Grimsby sisters upstairs. But I couldn’t stop. I yelled and crumpled the copy of the Post in to a ball, threw it toward the trash, then yelled some more. I took off my Manolos and threw them hard against my closet door.

  Unfortunately, one hit my dresser and knocked half my collection of photographs on to the floor. I could hear the shatter of glass. I ran to assess the damage and saw what I’d done. I’d broken the protective glass and bent the frame on my favorite photograph. The one of me and Plantagenet Smith.

  It had been taken at some debutante party over twenty years ago. When Plant and I were impossibly young and beautiful. When I loved Plant with all my heart and soul, and he loved me, I think, in his way. Before I met Jonathan. Before I betrayed Plant by getting him to go on Jonathan’s damn TV show to be ambushed.

  I slid the photo from the frame. It didn’t seem damaged, thank goodness. It was irreplaceable. If Plant had ever kept a copy, he’d never share it with me. He’d refused to answer my letters and calls for the past five years. He hated me for what I’d done. And I couldn’t really blame him.

  Stifling new tears, I stomped into the kitchen and reached into the freezer for the Ben and Jerry’s. But there was no Chocolate Fudge Brownie left. Just an old half-eaten tub of Cinnamon Bun covered with icky crystals. I really didn’t like Cinnamon Bun.

  But it only took me about three seconds to inhale it.

  Then I called my lawyer. The voice mail at Barrowman, Hodges and Fine said Mr. Hodges was not available. The creep hadn’t been available for weeks now because I hadn’t paid his bill, but how could I when the checks never appeared? The divorce was final three months ago. I was supposed to be getting regular payments from Jonathan. But so far I had not seen a penny. I tried to leave a coherent message, but my tongue was twisted with rage and ice-cream freeze.

  I checked my own voice mail, expecting some frantic calls from friends who’d seen the article. I didn’t use a cell phone any more so they wouldn’t have been able to reach me if they’d read the paper this morning.

  I’d decided to stop carrying a phone when I left Jonathan. The media harassed me constantly, no matter how many times I changed numbers.

  So I had the Manners Doctor write a column about the evils of portable phones and swore off them forever. I really did hate the way they turned people into blabbering idiots incapable of carrying on an uninterrupted conversation. Well-bred people should not live in servitude to electronic devices.

  I liked my land line. Only a few people had the unlisted number. It might make me a dinosaur, but I got to choose when and if I wanted to have a phone conversation.

  But no. Nobody had called. Not even my mother.

  That was a blessing. Maybe I could keep it from her. Thank goodness she was off sailing the Mediterranean with her new boyfriend Count Whatsis. Pure Eurotrash, but he’d keep her occupied—at least until he figured out most of the family money was gone.

  I picked up the phone and dialed my realtor. She’d been a pretty good friend since I’d split from Jonathan. I met her when she helped me find this apartment.

  But she didn’t pick up. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything on her voice mail. My assistant didn’t pick up either. Just as well. She wasn’t happy that I’d shut the office. I guess I wouldn’t be either, if I had to give up a glamorous Manhattan job and telecommute from my parents’ house in Queens. I didn’t feel up to talking to any of my old friends in Long Island. I’d been kind of shunned by the social register crowd since the scandal of the divorce.

  Maybe it was for the best. I had no idea what to say to anybody. And I didn’t want to see people. Or for people to see me.

  Damn. I was going to have to stay in this apartment forever.

  If I could afford it. I looked at the stack of unpaid bills by the phone. The co-op board had sent a second notice on last month’s maintenance fees. The co-op board. What were they going to do when they read the Post? People had been asked to vacate for much less.

  I paced my two tiny rooms, banging open cupboard doors looking for something. I didn’t even know what. Probably chocolate. But I didn’t find anything chocolaty but two stale Powerbars.

  However, I did discover the bottle of Glenfiddich Mother’s drunken stockbroker friend brought when I agreed to have dinner with him last month. He’d left almost half the bottle. If there was ever a time for scotch, this was it. I poured myself two fingers and added a little water and some ice. It stung on the way down, but I felt better once I finished it. I refilled the glass and skipped the water this time.

  When I was on my third refill, the phone rang.

  I checked caller ID. Not a number I recognized. It had a California area code.

  Jonathan. Jonathan the Monster must be calling me from his fancy new digs in Malibu. Which he much preferred to that palace we used to rent in Southhampton, he’d said in his last semi-toxic missive. His lawyer must have given him the number.

  The phone kept ringing. I certainly wasn’t going to pick up. I wondered if he’d leave a message. I took deep breaths, telling myself to be calm and ignore whatever sadistic nonsense he tried to pull.

  Finally I heard a voice—deep and raspy—not at all like Jonathan’s mellifluous broadcaster’s tones. In fact, even though the voice was in a low register, it didn’t sound male. And something about it was familiar.

  “I hope you’re not out of town, Camilla dear.” An old lady’s voice. “Have I reached the right Camilla Randall? The Manners Doctor? Your mother gave me your number last month when we were fundraising for the Equine Rescue Ranch. I’m Gabriella Moore.”

  Gabriella Moore, the actress. No wonder I recognized the voice. I’d loved her TV show when I was a child. Big Mountain—all about lovely horses and wayward cowboy sons. I had no idea she was still alive. I hadn’t heard anything about her in twenty-five years. Why would she be calling me?

  I picked up.

  “Miss Moore! What a delightful surprise. I grew up with Big Mountain. It was my absolutely favorite TV show when I was little.”

  Gabriella gave
her signature throaty laugh. “Don’t admit that to anybody, honey. It’s like sticking a sign on your forehead that says, ‘pushing forty.’ But I sure am glad you’re a fan. Maybe you’ll be willing to help me out? I have an emergency here.”

  “Where? In California?” No way was I going anywhere in the vicinity of Mr. Jonathan Kahn.

  “Yes. The Golden West Writers Conference. I run it here on my ranch in Santa Ynez. Festivities start on Thursday and I’ve just lost my only nonfiction workshop leader. Would you be interested in giving a little presentation about how to write a syndicated column? The pay’s not great, but I’m sure that wouldn’t matter to a Randall. It’s a chance to promote your column. And don’t you have a couple of books out?”

  My books were out all right. Out of print. But I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “Santa Ynez? Isn’t that where the Reagans used to live? The Western White House and all that?” Maybe I should consider it. I’d stayed out of the spotlight as much as possible since the divorce, but my readership had been falling off. It was probably time for me to let people know I was still alive and kicking.

  “Yup. Prettiest country on earth. Golden hills, fat cattle, and vineyards as far as the eye can see. Just north of Santa Barbara. This place was a dude ranch back in the 1920s. And hundreds of old westerns were filmed here, back in the day. Come on. How about a nice change of pace? And a paid vacation. All you have to do is talk about your column to a few wannabe writers. Marie Osmond had an emergency and cancelled on me so I’m really up the creek without a paddle, honey.”

  I was being asked to stand in for a has-been TV celebrity who wrote little sewing books. Mother would have a fit.

  But Santa Barbara was far enough from Los Angeles that I probably wouldn’t run into Jonathan. And going anywhere outside the circulation area of the New York Post would be awfully nice.

  “Is it hot there?” I looked out my bay window at the sweaty, shirtsleeved crowd on the sidewalk. Odd to see so many people gathered in this residential neighborhood.