Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (12 page)

But the intruder was gone. Whoever—whatever—had been here was definitely gone. And so was something else: Rick’s novel.

Rick’s manuscript had disappeared. I’d left the gold folder with his pages inside on the coffee table. It wasn’t there. Rick’s Sominex novel—who on earth would steal that?

This was more than creepy.

I started to pick up my hurled pump, but stopped myself. The investigators would want everything left the way it was, pieces of cowboy-boot lamp and all.

 
The investigators. If I hadn’t just seen a supernatural apparition, I had seen a criminal—probably Ernesto’s killer—drive off in an orange Mustang. I needed to call the  Sheriff’s people right away. I reached for the phone on the desk.

But the signal was still busy—probably still jammed with calls from the media. Poor Alberto.

 
But no way was I going to stay alone in the cabin. The headless thing—whatever, whoever it was—could come back at any time. I needed a working phone. Now. As soon as I got back to work next week, The Manners Doctor would reverse her position on mobile phones. 

I peeked out the window again.

No headless persons of any kind.

But behind the barrier ribbon I saw Plant’s Ferrari—blood red in the amber light. The key to the Ferrari was still in my bag. The “barrier” was just a flimsy plastic ribbon. After I explained to the investigators that my life was in danger, they’d have to understand why I needed to cross it, wouldn’t they? Whatever had been in my cabin: ghost, paparazzo, murderer, book thief, or anti-grape crazy, I would be insane to stay here and battle it alone.

I grabbed a sweater and jeans, jammed my feet into my flats, and put on my watch. It was nearly one AM. I hoped something would still be happening up at the Hacienda. Maybe reporters were still hanging around. This was one time I’d be glad to see them.

Clutching my other Fendi pump for protection, I cracked open the door and listened to the night. Not a sound but the chirping of crickets, and the ribbitting of a lonely frog. I ran through the courtyard and ducked under the police barrier tape. When I unlocked the Ferrari, I was relieved to see the investigators had replaced the seats. I backed out of the courtyard and drove up the curvy road way faster than I should have.

When I got to the Hacienda, I was actually disappointed to see the parking lot half empty. I had hoped for the safety of a crowd. But the protesters seemed to have left. So had the reporters. Gabriella must have cleared them out.

With the pump for protection, I crossed the lot and entered the lobby. It was eerily unpopulated as well. Even Alberto had disappeared. The phone receiver lay on the desk, off its cradle. I put it to my ear, but couldn’t get a dial tone—just silence. For a moment, I thought I heard somebody breathing on the line.

I dropped the thing and stifled a scream.

I’d have to go to the Ponderosa Lounge. The late-night Cowboy Critique workshop might still be going. At this point, I’d welcome the sight of any other human, even Toby Roarke. I couldn’t imagine a dead lover would stop him from doing his duty as resident tyrant. One of the workshoppers might call the Sheriff for me.

I wondered how I would explain the shoe I was carrying and steeled myself for jokes as I pulled open the doors. But the Ponderosa Lounge was deserted and dark. Only a few half-empty water glasses on the table showed that a workshop had taken place. They glowed faintly red in the light of the “Exit” sign above the service door.

Maybe people were in the Longhorn Room—a few late-night drinkers. At least it wouldn’t be empty like this. I walked quickly down the hall.

But one of Alberto’s hand-lettered signs had been taped to the bar’s cowhide door, “BAR CLOSE 11 PM DUE TO STAFF SHORTAGE.”

 
Staff shortage. The waiter Miguel said he was legal, but obviously most of the workers here were not. They must be Mexicans working here without proper papers—who evaporated at the sight of law enforcement.

Pulling on the horseshoe-handle, I peeked inside. Maybe somebody was nursing a last drink. But the bar was as dim as the lounge, illuminated by another red Exit sign.

I didn’t notice the wall until I turned to go. Scrawled across the furry cowhide wainscoting I made out what looked like city-street graffiti—crude blood-red letters, and a familiar image: a snake with horns—and the face of a devil—just like Ernesto Cervantes’ tattoo.

Then I saw Toby Roarke.

He lay in front of the fireplace—face down, surrounded by a pool of dark ooze. Pinning him down was a huge object, flat on one side. At first I thought some strangely-shaped table had been placed over his lower back. But when I got closer, I saw that somehow, horribly, one of the animal heads had fallen from the wall above. And under it lay the Cowboy himself, dead, impaled by the terrible horn of a Texas Longhorn steer.

I stared at the bloody body. For a moment, my brain didn’t comprehend that the screeching in my ears was the sound of my own screams.

Someone came through the door behind me. I clutched the shoe and prepared to defend myself.

 
With a click, the room flooded with light. Raising the pump, I turned to see one of the maids with her hand on the light switch. The girl’s screams rose above mine as the bright light made the scene all the more horrific.

“
Viboras!”
the girl screamed. “
Viboras! Madre de Dio
!”  She crossed herself as we stared at each other in horror.

I heard footsteps, as someone came running down the corridor outside.

It was Miguel—the waiter who’d written Ernesto’s rooster story. He had a concierge jacket thrown over his waiter uniform.

“
Don’t hit her!” Miguel said, grabbing my arm. “What has she done?”

The maid shook her head and said something in Spanish. She pointed at the wall. After a quick intake of breath, Miguel crossed himself too.

“
You have hit Mr. Roarke with this?” he said, roughly seizing my shoe. He closed the door behind him and put a comforting arm around the sobbing maid.

“
Of course not,” I said, trying to take the shoe back.

“
When did this happen?” Miguel wasn’t letting go of my shoe.

The door under the exit sign banged open. A voice shouted in the darkness, “Bar is closed! Please read the sign!”

Alberto the concierge, wearing neatly pressed pajamas and robe, marched toward us and gave Miguel a short, angry bark in Spanish. He turned to me.

“
I am surrounded by imbeciles. My staff is gone, running from
la Migra
. The police tear everything apart. Those dirty people with their signs—and the crazy reporters, always ringing the phone! It is no wonder my head is throbbing…”

 
Miguel did nothing but point at the horror by the fireplace.

Alberto’s words stopped. We hardly breathed as he walked toward Toby’s body.

Avoiding the spreading patch of blood, Alberto leaned over to study the steer head that impaled Toby so obscenely. Then he stood back to look at the crude blood-red painting on the wall. Finally he spoke—hissing something in a choked voice.

 “
Viboras.”

Alberto whispered something to Miguel. He took my shoe and handed it back to me, then gave a comforting pat to the maid’s shoulder. He sent Miguel and the maid out the staff door he had come in. Then he turned to me.

“
You found…this?” His voice cracked.

I nodded.

“
Did you see the Viboras? A gang?” He looked into my eyes, sharing my fear. “Any suspicious boys—Latinos?” 

“
No, but…” I wanted to tell him about my ghostly intruder and the orange Mustang, but Alberto’s eyes were opaque—full of as much horror as they could take. He guided me out of the room with automatic courtesy, his face a mask.

“
Come,” he said, opening the door. “We must call the Sheriff. I hope the telephone lines are free. Before I went to bed, I left the phone off the hook. All night, reporters kept ringing the phone as soon as I put it down. When I left, some television man was on the line, refusing to hang up, so I left him there.”

His voice rose to a cry as he opened the door to the hallway, and nearly collided with a pack of awakened writers. I squeezed out behind him, but was pinned against the furry door by the crowd.

“
Stop!” I grabbed the elbow of the Smallville smugster, whose curious hand reached for the door handle. “You do not want to go in there.”

“
Oh, right. God forbid you’d have to share story rights, Doctor.” 

“
Back to your rooms, please,” Alberto said to the gathering conferencers, his voice firm again. “It is not a problem for you. Go back to your rooms.”

“
I heard people screaming,” said Vondra DeHaviland, pulling a diaphanous pink negligée over an equally flimsy night dress. “What’s going on here? Where’s Gabriella? Where’s Toby?”

“
Not together, I’ll bet,” said Herb Frye the Sci-Fi guy, with a wink at Vondra.

Alberto gave a pleading look at the two workshop leaders.

“
Miss Moore is with the Sheriff’s search and rescue team, looking for her missing sister-in-law. Please take the guests back to their rooms.” He gestured at me to go down the hall to the lobby.

But I could hardly move through the increasingly unruly crowd.

“
It’s those tree people, isn’t it?” said the Miss Manners fan. “I saw them on the eleven o’clock news. They had an old woman tied to a tree. Dancing around like a bunch of devil worshipers, chanting about rapes. Or grapes. Something like that.”

“
I knew we shouldn’t have come. It’s conference number thirteen,” said one memoirist to another. “Didn’t I tell you it would be bad luck?”

“
Where are the police?” said the woman with beige hair.

Alberto looked as if he might pass out. “You must make them go to their rooms.” He left in the direction of the service wing.

I turned and faced the crowd, blocking the door.

“
Everyone needs to go back to their rooms. Now.”

The alpha smugster came at me with defiant eyes.

“
What’s in there, Doctor? What are you hiding? Got some S/M party going on? A little stomping? Some foot fetish action?” He came at me, reaching for my pump.

I shoved him back. “What part of ‘NOW’ don’t you understand?”

He lost his balance and fell backwards.

“
Herbert, help me. These people have no sense,” Vondra said as she stepped out of the way of the falling smugster.

There was no more smugness in the young man’s eyes as he picked himself up from the carpet and fled. He actually looked frightened of me. The rest of the writers followed. I heard whispers and the word “dominatrix” as they scurried away like so many shooed-away chickens. I have to admit to a small feeling of satisfaction.

But behind me the door pushed open, nearly knocking me over. Mitzi Boggs Bailey barreled through, followed by Miguel, his jacket still unbuttoned.

“
Dr. Manners isn’t all right,” the old woman said, pointing at me. “I’ve told her before that her kind is not welcome here.”

Mrs. Boggs Bailey was still clad in her Doris Day quilted peignoir, now much the worse for wear. Her wispy gray hair was tangled with oak leaves, and her face smudged with mud and soot.

“
I was on TV,” she told me. “To save the trees and the squirrels. We got tied up and they had cameras. Now I’m more famous than you, Miss phony Dr. Manners!”

“
I’m supposed to take Mrs. Boggs Bailey to her room,” said Miguel. “Reporters are keeping Miss Moore outside. But Mrs. Boggs Bailey doesn’t like the room…” He lowered his voice. “I have not told Miss Moore about…Mr. Roarke. Alberto said he will speak with her.” He gave a weary sigh. “Can you take Mrs. Boggs Bailey to the lobby? I will see if I can get another room.”

The lobby was deserted, and the phone was still off the hook, but I could see major activity in the parking lot outside. Gabriella, flanked by Silas and Rick and a number of young people in orange Search and Rescue shirts, spoke to a crowd of reporters.

Rick and Silas. Together. Helping Gaby. They looked chummy. I hoped that meant Rick had stopped suspecting Silas.

 
A few moments later, the front doors burst open and Gabriella stomped in, looking as if she’d been herding cattle over the mountain. Rick followed after doing some crowd control with a knot of reporters outside.

“
I don’t like her,” Mrs. Boggs Bailey said, pointing at me. “She’s bad news.”

“
You leave her alone, Mitzi,” said Gabriella. “Where the hell is that Miguel? Isn’t he supposed to be on the desk? And Toby? If he didn’t cut the workshop short tonight like I told him…”

“
Oh, Gabriella!”  What could I say?

“
What is it?” Rick ran to me. His eyes showed nothing but concern. If he knew about Toby, he was a remarkable actor. I wanted to cross him off my list of suspects. Somehow the froggy tissues seemed to trump the road rage.