Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read online

  “I was offended by that talk about black cocks. You can’t say that in this day and age.”

  After a wave of titters, one of a group of smug twenty-somethings spoke.

  “I agree it’s unbelievable. A macho guy kills himself over a sick rooster?”

  Ernesto clenched his jaw. “El Despertador is a fighting cock…”

  “No talk-back!” commanded Roarke. “Not till everybody says their piece.” He gave his audience a conspiratorial grin. “I have to agree that nobody’s going to buy all this tragedy about—well, let’s face it—poultry. You can’t start with a highfalutin’ literary quote and end with the dying thoughts of a friggin’ chicken!”

  Titters exploded into guffaws.

  The Miss Manners fan interrupted.

  “I felt sorry for Desperado. And the boy who killed himself after he gambled away his mother’s savings.”

  “No!” Ernesto yelled. “Not Desperado. Despertador. It means—”

  Despertador. My Berlitz Spanish sent me a brain-flash.

  “Alarm clock!” I blurted out. “The rooster’s name is ‘Alarm Clock.’ It’s all a joke. It’s very funny…”

  “So, Mr. Cervantes, doesn’t that make you feel better?” Roarke gave a savage smile. “The former Mrs. Jonathan Kahn is amused by your—um—little cock.”

  The room went silent as Ernesto, his face taut with rage, bounded from the stage. The door closed behind him with an eloquent thud.

  Toby Roarke glared at me.

  “You tell the boy his story is a joke? You really are into that sadism stuff like they say, aren’t you?”

  I stuffed both shoes into my bag and ran after the boy. I must have been wrong about the alarm clock.

  “Ernesto!” I called down the corridor. “I’m so sorry!”

  A small, elderly woman grabbed my arm as I ran by.

  “You look like that Dr. Manners. Are you all right?” She eyed my stocking feet with confusion and then searched my face. “The ghosts are after you, aren’t they? Don’t think they don’t know about you. We don’t cotton to perverts around here.”

  So—even little old ladies had read that stupid article. This could be a very long four days.

  Chapter 4—COWBOY HEAVEN

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” the old woman’s hand was still firmly clamped to my arm. She continued to stare at my naked feet.

  I gave her a clueless smile. Pretending I knew nothing about the Post article was probably the best way to handle the whole mess. I regained custody of my arm and fished my traveling flats from my bag.

  “I’m fine—except for being insensitive, apparently. But the poor boy was dying in there. I only wanted to help.” I stepped into the flats. They felt comforting. I looked around for Ernesto, but he seemed to have escaped to the lobby.

  “The boy was dying in there?” The woman gave an anxious look at the door to the Ponderosa Lounge. “I’m Mitzi Boggs Bailey, the poet. If he’s not all right, I could call 911.” She pulled a phone from the pocket of her voluminous cardigan.

  I tried to make an escape. “I don’t think his situation is that dire. I just wanted to apologize. He may still be in the lobby. If I could catch him…”

  “Gabriella isn’t all right,” said the woman. “Jackie Collins canceled. Gaby hates it when celebrities cancel on her. Nobody did that when she was a famous TV star.”

  I gave her what I hoped was an understanding nod. The conference seemed to have an awfully tough time holding on to its celebrities.

  The old woman finally released my arm to reach into her large plastic tote bag.

  “I’m famous, too. For my poetry.” She pulled a conference folder from the bag. “But I don’t go to workshops any more. Not with that Toby around.”

  She did have the dreamy look of a poet. Had Roarke humiliated her too?

  A tall man with mocking dark eyes approached from the lobby.

  “Suffering from Cowboy fatigue, you two?”

  His nametag said, “Rick Zukowski/Mystery-Thriller.”

  “Mr. Roarke seems a little hard on the beginning writers.” I tried to hide my shredded skirt with my bag, wondering if I should try to explain my state of dishabille. “But of course he’s the expert. I’m just a non-fiction person.”

  Rick Zukowski/Mystery-Thriller had a delicious smile.

  “Don’t let that sleazebag intimidate you. God knows what Gabriella sees in him. I’ve heard he hasn’t published a thing in decades, except as a ghostwriter.” He laughed. “You ladies headed for the bar?”

  “Toby’s not the ghost that writes,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “That’s Old Obadiah. You don’t want to tangle with the Rancho ghosts.” With a shudder, she turned and shuffled toward the lobby, clutching her gold folder to her chest like a shield.

  Rick Zukowski shrugged his impressive shoulders.

  “Lots of legends about this old ranch. The foundation dates back to the Californios. But the craziest parts are from Prohibition, when this was a dude ranch—party central for illegal boozing. There’s secret rooms and passages all over the place.” He pointed to a door covered with furry brown and white cowhide. “That’s the infamous Longhorn Room. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I probably shouldn’t…” I wished I had clothes to change into. I felt so vulnerable without my wardrobe. “I look like a ragamuffin. I ran into some trouble getting here…”

  “Car trouble?” Rick gave a sympathetic laugh. “Then you really need that drink.”

  I couldn’t help returning his scrumptious smile. Why did I have to look like a tornado survivor when I was finally meeting a man who wasn’t hand-picked by my mother?

  “Dr. Manners!” Mrs. Boggs Bailey called over her shoulder. “You pay attention if the ghosts write to you. They won’t put up with your shenanigans.”

  I wished I could explain to her—to everybody who had seen that awful article—that my entire thirty-eight years had been remarkably shenanigan-free.

  Rick opened the furry door. I followed. He had a brotherly/boy next door manner that made me feel safe. But the noisy, crowded room didn’t feel safe at all. With a scarred mahogany bar, spotted cowhide everywhere, and dead horned-animal heads on the walls, the place looked as if Jesse James might walk in and start shooting things at any moment.

  “Quite a spot, isn’t it?” Rick gave me that smile again.

  “Halfway between gruesome and cowboy heaven.” I tried to shake off the ghost-story creepiness. “What are those dead things on the wall—giant cows?”

  “Gabriella tells me they’re Texas Longhorns.” He waved at a little woman with a big, platinum hairdo. Same hairstyle she’d been wearing for forty years. Gabriella Moore was unmistakable. She sat at a table by the fireplace in conversation with a large, bearded man. “Have you met Gaby yet?”

  Gabriella beamed her famous smile. “Camilla!” she called. “Sorry about your airline hassles. We’ve rescheduled you for tomorrow. Captain, come on over!”

  Nobody turned to stare at me. I relaxed a little. Maybe not everybody had read the Post. I would so much like to be able to spend this four days with normal people who didn’t have preconceived notions about me. Like nice Captain Rick. What was he—a sea captain? Army, maybe. His bearing seemed slightly military as he introduced me to Gabriella and the man with her, whose name was Silas Ryder.

  Mr. Ryder was the owner of a local independent bookstore chain called “The Pierian Spring.” Bespectacled and attractive in a large, tweedy way, Mr. Ryder looked like a courtly bear as he stood and offered wine from the bottle he and Gabriella were sharing.

  “Some of Gabriella’s Pinot Noir? The grapes were grown right here on the Rancho.” As he filled two glasses for us, a phone in his pocket rang. He glanced at the number. I braced for a conversation-halting phone call, but he excused himself. “I’d better go take this,” he said, heading for the door. Good manners. I liked him.

  Rick gulped his wine, looking as if he’d probably rather have a beer.

&nb
sp; I took a sip. “Lovely,” I said. “Light, with a nice blackberry-coffee finish.”

  Gabriella dismissed my winespeak with a wave.

  “Oh, it’s Toby’s Pinot. I’m just an old cowgirl, but Toby says beef isn’t cost-effective anymore. He’s planting grapes all over the damned place. Excuse my French, Dr. Manners.”

  So Toby Roarke was Gabriella’s significant other. Maybe that explained the alpha male behavior. But I wondered what Gaby thought about his flirtations with students like the exotically lovely Donna Karan girl.

  “Dr. Manners?” Rick cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you the famous Manners Doctor who…?”

  I braced myself. But instead of telling me what a bad boy he’d been, Rick put on an old-lady falsetto. “The Manners Doctor urges you to arrive at a dinner party ten minutes late. The hostess needs time for a glass of wine before the guests descend’.” He laughed. “My mother-in-law is crazy about your column.”

  Okay. I had to shut down the fantasies. The man had a mother-in-law. After what I’d been through with Jonathan, I wasn’t even going to smile at another woman’s significant other.

  Time for a change of subject. “I’ve heard people talking about these Rancho ghosts,” I said. “Do people really believe this place is haunted?”

  Gabriella gave an enigmatic smile.

  “Yeah. We got us some ghosts. Obadiah and Joaquin. Obadiah Wilke was a ’forty-niner killed on the Rancho by bandits looking for his gold. Used to be a schoolteacher before he came prospecting.”

  “Oh, so that’s why they say he’s a writer?” Rick’s voice had a tinge of sarcasm.

  Gaby laughed. “I guess. My husband Hank, rest his soul, said Obadiah left messages scrawled in his accounts book. He thought Obadiah was trying to tell him where he’d hid his poke.”

  I could feel the warmth of Rick’s body as we sat squished together at the tiny bar table. I hoped I didn’t smell of essence de biker: cigarettes, leather and toxic emissions. I needed to get myself into a shower.

  But Gaby kept on with her ghost story.

  “Anybody loses pens or paper around here, they figure old Obadiah took it. Alberto, my concierge, says a whole lot of pens have been disappearing lately—especially his calligraphic ones. And about fifty years worth of vintage stationery he’s been saving in the back room went missing a few weeks ago.”

  “I’ll keep my eye out for him—or them.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to see Joaquin.” Gabriella grabbed my hand. “Mean old customer. He’s the one killed Obadiah. Later they chopped his head off and showed it around every bar from here to San Francisco, pickled in a whisky jar. He wanders all over these hills looking for that head.”

  I couldn’t tell if Gabriella believed the nonsense she was spouting, or was just displaying her talent for dramatic presentation.

  Rick gave a skeptical grunt. “Joaquin Murrieta? Got a lot of haunting to do, that dude. Legends put him everywhere from Orange County to Yosemite.”

  Gabriella let go of my hand, but she still wasn’t smiling.

  “Take it from me: that is one ghost you do not want to mess with. He’ll give you nightmares.”

  I stood. “I’m afraid I’ll have to brave the supernatural dangers and find my room. It’s two in the morning, my time.”

  Gabriella stopped me again.

  “Does Alberto have you in one of those awful little rooms under my apartment? We wanted to put you in a suite, but there was a mix-up. Stay put for a minute. I’ll check and see if we’ve had any cancellations.”

  “I’m sure it will be just fine…”

  Gabriella pointed at my vacated chair with an authoritative finger as she took a phone from her vest pocket.

  “I’ve given Silas the John Wayne room, so he doesn’t have to drive all the way home tonight. He’s been trying to locate some more Jackie Collins titles, but we don’t need them now.”

  I sat, wishing I weren’t so aware of Rick’s eyes on my naked thigh.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Miss Collins’ cancellation. Is she ill?”

  “Beats me.” Gabriella pushed a button on the phone and put it to her ear. “Toby got a call from Jackie’s people just before his workshop started, so he didn’t have time to tell me. You’d be amazed how often these folks cancel at the last minute.” She clicked off the phone and gave a weary sigh. “Alberto must be away from the desk. But we’ve got a fantastic replacement for Jackie: Plantagenet Smith, the screenwriter, fresh from his Oscar win. Silas came to my rescue. He met Plant at a San Francisco book fair last year. We’ve never had an Oscar winner at the conference before.”

  My head roared. Plantagenet. Here.

  “Mr. Smith is… here?” I tried not to let my emotions show. It had been five years, but he wasn’t likely to have forgiven me.

  Rick looked unimpressed.

  “Is he the dude who wrote that crazy thing about Oscar Wilde and Calamity Jane?”

  Gabriella grinned. “I knew Westerns would make a comeback some day…oh, Plant wanted me to give you this.” She pulled a note from the pocket of her suede vest.

  My hand shook as I opened it.

  “My darling Camilla—Longing to see you. Tragic about you and Jonathan. See you ASAP. We can compare sagas of tabloid hell.”

  My eyes stung. Could he possibly have forgiven me?

  “Is he going to join us?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound shaky.

  “I invited him, but he said somebody tailgated him over the pass, and all he wanted was a shower.” Gabriella rolled her eyes as if this indicated serious wimpiness on Plant’s part. “We put him down in the Zorro cabin—the one with the fountain out front.”

  I jumped up.

  “But it’s about a ten minute walk, hon,” Gabriella called as I made for the door. “Ask at the desk for someone to take you down in a golf cart.”

  I’d wanted to patch things up with Plantagenet for so long, but when I was still with Jonathan, I was afraid Plant would tell me to leave him—and when I finally did it, I felt too needy to be good company.

  As I approached the front desk, Alberto—engrossed in a pile of legal-looking documents—waved me away.

  “I have spoken with the airport. Your luggage will be here by morning. I can do nothing more tonight.” He dismissed me before I could thank him.

  A walk down the hill might get the knots out of my body from the crazy motorcycle ride. The haunted-ranch stories made walking alone a little creepy, but anyone who could be frightened by a headless ghost had never been stalked by a paparazzo.

  The wind had a chilly bite, but the exercise was warming. I began to relax, breathing the tang of fruit in the clean night air as I walked the dirt road between the regimented stakes of grapevines. Zorro was easy to spot—the flashiest of six Spanish-style cabins nestled in an oak grove at the entrance to the Rancho. A three-tiered fountain dominated the courtyard in front. Lights glowed from inside. A brand new Ferrari nestled in the space beside it. Plant did love his cars: this must have been his Oscar-win celebration buy.

  I knocked on the door, but heard only the splash of the fountain. The other cabins were quiet and dark. I was about to knock again when I checked my watch. Nearly midnight. Any sensible person would be asleep. I turned to make a polite escape.

  But with a creak, the door opened and I saw a death-pale Plantagenet, wearing nothing but silk boxers.

  “Camilla? Oh, dear God!”

  His look made me want to run all the way back to Manhattan. I wished he would be angry—scream at me—do something besides give me that horrible blank stare.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Please believe me: I had no idea of what Jonathan would do to you on his show. He told me he wanted to talk about your Tony award, not your sex life.”

  “Ancient history, darling.” Plant made a gesture as if he were waving away a bug. “It was my own fault for putting off coming out for so long.” He peered out, as if he thought we might be watched, then grabbed my arm, pulling me forcefully into
the cabin.

  “I really am sorry.” I said again. I didn’t know why he was being so rough.

  “Darling, it’s nothing compared with what Jonathan has done to you. You must be going through a hideous time since that awful story came out.”

  We were in a small sitting room, where an erotic gay film showed on the muted television. The couch and chair were strewn with clothes. The Ermengildo Zegna jacket looked as if it might belong to Plant, but the Nikes and “Sin City” T-shirt did not.

  Ernesto.

  I’d interrupted Plant in bed with Ernesto Cervantes. This was more than awkward. I glanced at the closed door that must lead to the bedroom.

  “Plant—I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s the middle of the night…”

  He still had a grip on my arm.

  “Please stay. I found him like this. There’s blood…”

  Now I saw the Zegna suit was smeared with red.

  Plant opened the door to the bedroom.

  I froze.

  Ernesto Cervantes lay face down on the red-spattered sheets of Plantagenet’s bed. A small gun glinted in his hand next to what was left of his blonde, damp head. Under the sheets, he appeared to be naked.

  And quite dead.

  Chapter 5—THE MASK OF ZORRO

  Plantagenet’s hands shook as he grabbed a pair of khakis from the suitcase that lay open on the floor, his face as pale as his cropped, silvering blonde hair.

  “What…happened?” I tried not to look at all the blood.

  “Roarke.” Plantagenet croaked the name like a curse. “The Cowboy. He did this. Evil old toad.”

  “What do you mean? Toby Roarke is rude and unpleasant, but he couldn’t have done this. His workshop is still going strong—at least it was an hour ago.” The scene felt surreal. The film on the television didn’t help. “Do you mind if I turn that off?”

  Plant flushed as he pulled on his trousers and struggled with the zipper.

  “Do. Yes. It was on when I got down here—with the volume way up. I could hear the grunts and groans from halfway up the hill. I guess I hit the mute instead of the off button trying to shut it up.” He picked up the remote and the TV clicked off. “You were there? At the Cowboy Critique workshop?”