Ghostwriters In The Sky Read online

  “It’s a lovely car.”

  Okay, I’d pretend this was a normal conversation. Plant was probably in shock.

  “Wilde in the West is brilliant: the script, the cast…Gwyneth has never done better work.”

  Plant picked up a key ring from the coffee table.

  “Oh, God, the Ferrari. I gave Ernesto these keys—so he could drive my Ferrari down from the Hacienda while I checked in with Gabriella.”

  He fell on the couch as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

  “Do you suppose he killed himself out of some kind of envy? Could this be about a goddam car? A talented kid with his life ahead of him?”

  I hugged him again and tried not to notice that his zipper was still entangled in a bit of shirttail.

  “Shouldn’t we pull ourselves together and call the police? Even when it’s a suicide, they have to—you know—do their police things.”

  “As soon as we do, it will be all over the media. Poor kid. It’s going to look so sordid. I don’t know if he had a family here, but that will be so awful for them…”

  Plant ran his fingers though his cropped hair, as if he still had the long-forelock preppy cut he wore in his younger days. His breath went ragged.

  “He didn’t want to sleep with me—not really. He wanted to actually be me: that bleached hair; his obsession with Oscar Wilde. I kept saying, ‘I’m too old for you sweetie.’ But then he told me about Roarke. Goddam closet queen. Old enough to be his grandfather—feeding off the boy’s youth and talent—like a damned vampire.”

  “Ernesto—and Toby Roarke? That John Wayne-wannabe is gay?” The sexual ambiguities of Plantagenet’s romantic life had always confused me. “Ernesto was involved with both of you?”

  Someone banged on the door.

  “Are you all right?” said a voice.

  Plant froze.

 

  Chapter 7—The Mask of Zorro

  After more loud door-knocking, Plant seemed to remember himself and rushed to open the door in that automatic way of people who didn’t grow up with servants.

  “Hello,” A familiar voice said. “I’m Mitzi Boggs Bailey, the poet. Are you all right? I heard somebody shouting over here. Did you see the ghosts?”

  “We’re fine, Mrs. Boggs Bailey.”

  I stuck my head out the cracked-open door. I thought she probably wouldn’t deal well with the recently deceased.

  “Everything’s fine. No ghosts. Sorry about the noise.”

  I tried to ease the door shut.

  “There are too! The ghosts—I saw them. Plain as day. Both of them.”

  Mrs. Boggs Bailey pushed the door wider and tried to come inside. She wore a remarkable pink nylon peignoir that looked as if it might have belonged to Doris Day circa 1963. She still clutched her gold folder.

  “Joaquin was here,” she said. “Mean old customer. And he had Old Obadiah with him. Joaquin says we have to be quiet or they’ll take Gabriella to the hoosegow.”

  Plant stepped up to try to close the door again.

  “Sorry we disturbed you.” he said. “And your nice ghosts. Sleep well.”

  “You’re not Jackie Collins.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey held her ground. “Jackie Collins was supposed to have this cabin. That’s why I’m in Roy Rogers. I wrote a cowboy play. A play that’s a poem. Its name is Under Deadwood.” She presented her folder to Plantagenet. “I wanted to show it to Jackie because it would make a great picture. She knows everybody who’s anybody.”

  “I’ll, um, be happy to read it later, but—”

  Mrs. Boggs Bailey continued to wave her manuscript as Plant hid his lower torso behind the door, hiding the still-resistant zipper. Finally he accepted the folder as the old woman went on.

  “I don’t want Roy Rogers now. I don’t like your kind. You make too much noise. You and the girl who looks like Dr. Manners and the boy who was dying in there. There’s a name for that—having sex with dead people. It isn’t nice.”

  Plant handed me the folder with a raised-eyebrow look of wonderment.

  “Uh, why don’t you take that up with Gabriella in the morning?”

  “I can’t. Gabriella’s in trouble. The Sheriff is going to take that old girl to the hoosegow. That’s what Joaquin told me. I heard you having sex. People with cars like that always make noise when they have sex.” She turned and pointed at the Ferrari. “My husband and I used to run a motel. I should know.”

  I heard a whirring sound from the road, and a light seemed to float toward us as a golf cart emerged from the dark.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Boggs Bailey called out.

  “What’s the problem, Mitzi?” I recognized Gabriella’s throaty voice. “Alberto said you phoned him with an emergency.”

  I stepped outside and shut the door behind me so Plant could deal with his zipper. Gabriella climbed out of the cart and strode toward us, the big silhouette of Silas Ryder looming behind her.

  “An emergency. Yes,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “I heard him shouting: that man who isn’t Jackie Collins. I wanted Jackie to read Under Deadwood.”

  “Mitzi, dear, you shouldn’t bother Mr. Smith at this hour.” Gabriella grasped Mrs. Boggs Bailey by the shoulders and turned her around, like some child’s mechanical toy. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to look at your lovely play after he’s had some rest. Tomorrow you can move back up to the Hacienda.” She winked at me over her shoulder. “Good night, dear. Our Mitzi can get a little confused.”

  “He had his fly open. They were having sex,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, as Gabriella steered her toward the cabin next door. “A ménage a trois: The girl who looks like Dr. Manners and the man who isn’t Jackie Collins and the boy who was dying in there. They made the most disgusting sounds, and shot off their guns. The ghosts carried him away. Obadiah and Joaquin. They were fighting mad—not that I blame them...”

  “Silas!” Plant called from behind the door as the big man began to follow Gabriella. “Silas, I’ve got to talk to you. Now!”

  Silas stifled laughter as he and I went back inside the cabin.

  “Poor old Mitzi is on a roll tonight with the ghost stories, isn’t she?”

  His expression changed when he saw Plant’s face.

  Plant pointed at the bedroom.

  Silas took a step, then froze.

  “Roarke,” he said in a choked voice. “God damn Toby Roarke.” He looked as if he might cry. “Ernie acted tough, but he was so damned fragile…”

  “We really have to call the police,” I said softly.

  Silas didn’t seem to hear.

  “I tried so many times to make him get rid of that damned gun. I told him he’d never put the gang life behind him until he let go completely.”

  “Why didn’t you make him get rid of it?” Plantagenet’s voice sounded harsh. “He worked for you—didn’t you have any leverage?”

  Poor Ernesto. A gay gangbanger. His life couldn’t have been easy. And he was somehow involved with Silas. Was Silas his lover too? With so many admirers, why hadn’t Ernesto turned to one of them before taking such a tragic step?

  “How does Roarke seduce these kids? Damn! I could kill that slimeball. Kill him!” Silas pounded the wall in fury.

  A crash came from the bedroom on the other side.

  Plant rushed into the room and emerged with a framed black and white photograph—its protective glass cracked. It showed Gabriella Moore with a man in a Zorro costume. Scrawled across it said, “To Gabriella from Guy Williams.”

  “Guy Williams!” Plant sounded dazed. “An autographed picture of Guy Williams! I was so in love with him when I was a kid. Did you know his real name was Armando Catalano? What a sad time—a Latino had to put on an Anglo mask to play a Latino hero.” He choked on tears that were not for Mr. Williams/Catalano.

  Silas took the picture and handed it to me, as if I had some secret feminine knowledge of how to deal with such things. I placed the picture atop some papers on the de
sk and eyed the phone. It was an ancient hotel phone with no dial. I supposed you had to pick it up and ask for an outside line, even to call 911. A cowboy telephone. A heavy thumping on the outside door made me jump. Were the police here already?

  But it was Mitzi Boggs Bailey again.

  “You look like that perverted Dr. Manners,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  I sighed. “Yes. I’m fine. It’s very late…”

  “I don’t want that man to have my play,” she said. “He’s not Jackie Collins.”

  Plant pointed to the papers on the desk.

  I lifted the broken photograph frame and unearthed the gold folder, handing it through the crack in the door.

  “Good night, Mrs. Boggs Bailey. Sleep well.” I closed the door and leaned against it with relief. Silas and Plant stood hugging each other like frightened children. “Is one of you going to call the police,” I said. “Or should I?”

  “Not the police, the Sheriff,” Silas said. “Santa Ynez is under the jurisdiction of the Santa Barbara Sheriff-Coroner. Solvang has the nearest substation, but they may have to send somebody down from Santa Maria. He picked up the desk phone and asked for an outside line.

  “I bumped into Ernesto in the lobby—literally.” Plant collapsed on the couch again. “He was tearing down the stairs like a lunatic, waving one of those gold folders everybody’s got, babbling about how he was going to get back at Toby for something. I told him to go to my cabin and cool down. I let him drive the Ferrari while I registered at the desk, then I walked…”

  He picked up the keys again.

  “As if two minutes driving somebody else’s car was going to make anything okay.”

  Silas put down the phone. “Somebody will be here soon.”

  Plant turned to me.

  “You should get back up to the Hacienda before the Sheriff’s people arrive. After all your nasty publicity, I’m sure you don’t want to be involved in something like this…”

  He tossed me the keys.

  “Here. Drive the Ferrari. It’s too late to be out there walking by yourself. At least the damned car can do somebody some good.”

  I accepted the keys. He was right about the bad publicity, of course. And I knew better than to argue with Plant when he was in big-brother mode.

  Chapter 8—The Captain

  Outside, the night was deathly still. Everything looked eerie in the amber glow of the security lights.

  Across the courtyard, a sliver of light appeared between dark curtains. I could see Mitzi Boggs Bailey peeking through. Probably looking for more supernatural apparitions.

  I grabbed the car door handle and was surprised it opened without the key. Ernesto must have been in such a hurry to self-destruct that he hadn’t bothered to lock it. I slid into the leather seat and grabbed the wheel, with its signature prancing horse in the center. The 360 Spider convertible smelled like luxury—like success. Maybe it had driven Ernesto to suicidal envy. I felt pretty envious myself. Even when Jonathan came through with my money, there would be no Italian sports cars in my immediate future.

  I was at the hotel parking lot within a minute or two, grateful I hadn’t needed to make that spooky walk again. I made sure the car was securely locked. No matter how Plantagenet felt now, I knew how precious this car must be to a self-invented man who grew up in a New Jersey slum as a nobody named “John Smith.”

  Inside, the lobby was empty now, except for a young Hispanic man behind the desk, fiercely scribbling in a notebook. He said he knew nothing about my luggage.

  I wasn’t looking forward to a night without my things, but I set off through the maze of corridors and covered walkways toward my room. I found myself walking down a long, narrow corridor decorated with framed black and white photos of actors in cowboy hats. After I’d passed dozens of autographed pictures of long-ago stars with names like Ty Hardin and Will “Sugarfoot” Hutchins, I realized I was lost.

  A sudden shout made me jump.

  “Hey Doc!” said Rick Zukowski. “How was the reunion with the Oscar-winner?”

  “Fine,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about Ernesto’s suicide with some military man who would see the situation in terms of black and white.

  “Did the Oscar-winner blow you off? Success can change people.”

  “No. Plant was lovely. I just can’t seem to find room fourteen.”

  Rick pointed at a door that led to a covered walkway which joined the central building to a newer wing. He put a warm hand on my back to guide me. I tried to ignore the tingles I felt from his touch. I did not want to feel like that about any other woman’s husband. Not after what I’d been through.

  “So, Captain, is your wife a fan of my column, as well as your mother-in-law?”

  “My wife is—not alive.”

  “I’m—so sorry!” There was no right thing to say.

  “Car accident. A moron driving an SUV and texting flattened her Hyundai like it was a Coke can. But, hey, that was over a year ago. I’ve healed up some. I still hate texting, though. In fact, I never carry a phone unless I’m on duty.”

  “I’m with you there. I don’t even own a cell phone. The Manners Doctor says they encourage narcissism, intrude on polite conversation, and destroy the privacy necessary to a civilized society.”

  We’d nearly reached my room.

  “Do come to my talk tomorrow.” I dismissed him with a cool smile. Even if he was available, all I wanted now was sleep.

  I fell onto the bed, still in my suit, and drifted into a bizarre dream that involved Zorro—riding with me on the back of a Harley. I accidentally pulled off his mask. His face and head were a mess of blood. Something pounded in my head and wouldn’t stop. I forced my eyes open, but the noise grew louder—sounding like fierce knocking on my door.

  Someone was indeed knocking on my door.

  “Camilla Randall?” A commanding voice forced me back to consciousness. “Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department.”

  I stumbled to the door. Outside stood two uniformed officers. So much for Plant’s hopes of keeping me out of the investigation.

  “Are you Camilla Randall Kahn, also known as Dr. Manners?”

  I nodded.

  “Would you like to come with us, Miss Randall?”

  “Not really. I’m awfully jet lagged. And my luggage still hasn’t arrived.” I looked down at my disastrous suit. “Could we put this off until tomorrow?”

  “No, we couldn’t, Miss Randall.” He peered into the tiny room as if he expected to see a pile of corpses inside. “Are you going to come peacefully?”

  Chapter 9—In the Jailhouse Now

  A painting of a red windmill hung on the wall of the tiny room where I sat in the Sheriff’s substation. I had no idea what a windmill was doing out here in cowboy territory. All I knew was that if I stared at it long enough, the blades started to spin. I’d been staring quite a while now, since I had nothing else to do but drink nasty coffee and wonder if what was left of my skirt would hold together.

  When I was first brought into this place—some sort of deputy Sheriff’s office—I’d been questioned by the portly officer in charge, whose nametag identified him as D. Sorengaard. His questions were remarkably clueless. He didn’t seem at all interested in the suicide and kept asking me how long I’d been drinking in the Longhorn Room and whether I’d taken any “clients” to my room. I tried to be polite, since he seemed good natured enough, and explained the “Doctor” name I used was purely metaphorical. I told him I was just a newspaper columnist and had no clients of any kind.

  When he finished, I thought I’d be allowed to go back to the hotel, but I’d been kept in this tiny room for hours. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the suicide scene before the police arrived, but this seemed harsh treatment for such a minor offence.

  Finally, the door opened again and a man in plain clothes appeared. He had large, rodent-like teeth and a bad comb-over. He introduced himself as Detective Fiscalini.
He plunked a cardboard file box on the table and sat next to me as if he planned to stay a while. I couldn’t stifle a yawn.

  “Would you prefer I call you Camilla Randall, Mrs. Kahn, or Dr. Manners?” he said, bringing his chair closer to me than I thought polite.

  “Ms. Randall will do nicely.” I didn’t like his condescending tone.

  He pulled a plastic bag from the box and placed it on the table. It contained what looked like the scarf I’d been wearing earlier. I touched my hair. When had I taken it off?

  “Have you seen this before, Ms. Randall?”

  “Of course. It’s Hermes. One of the few I have left.” I’d been selling off some of my designer scarves at a resale shop in Queens. Along with most of my shoes and bags. Seeing my favorite scarf encased in an evidence bag made me feel a bit tragified.

  “And these?” Detective Fiscalini produced two more plastic baggies. A smaller one contained the remains of a cell phone that looked as if it had been smashed with a large, blunt object. A larger plastic baggie contained a gun. A very big gun. He placed it next to the one containing my scarf.

  “What an awful-looking thing. Did somebody hit that poor telephone with it?”

  “Please answer my question. Have you seen either of these items before?”

  I assured him I hadn’t.

  “If you’ve touched them, Forensics will find your fingerprints. Would you like to rethink your answer?”

  “I don’t recall that I’ve ever touched a handgun. Certainly not that one. And the Manners Doctor does not approve of mobile telephones.”

  The phone looked like a cheap pre-pay throw-away and the gun bore no resemblance to the one Ernesto had used to kill himself.

  “These items were inside Plantagenet Smith’s vehicle. Locked inside. Can you explain how they got there?”

  He leaned over me, looking like an inquisitive gopher.

  “I have no idea.” It’s not easy to be polite to a man who is so blatantly invading your space. “I do know the Ferrari was locked, because I locked it. It was unlocked when I got in, but I was careful to lock it when I got up to the Hacienda. I figured Ernesto had forgotten, because he was so stressed.”