Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (14 page)

I told him about the woman.

“
Did she look like that?” He pointed ahead.

Now I could see an ornately framed mirror hanging at the end of the hallway.

“
A tall, elegant woman who wears her hair just like yours?” He gave a gentle laugh. “Camilla, you’ve been running after your own reflection. There’s a mirror at the end of most of these hallways.” There was no trace of his usual mocking tone. “You’ve had a shock. It’s understandable. I’d say it’s time to get some sleep.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe I was stressed. Or going crazy. But it was awfully strange that the woman in the mirror wore a Burberry coat. I did own a Burberry coat in that exact style, but it was back in my closet in New York.

Right now, I was wearing a baggy black sweater and jeans.

Rick walked me down the hall, away from the mirror, with its apparently supernatural powers. He seemed to think I needed wine. He carried a big bottle of Fess Parker Frontier Red, topped with the signature coonskin hat. He put an arm around me, but I pulled away.

I still didn’t know if I could trust somebody called Captain Road Rage.

“
Come on. It should help you relax and get to sleep. Alberto let me choose a bottle from the dining room in exchange for giving up my suite to Mitzi. I don’t know beans about wine, but Jamal is gonna love the frog-sized headgear.”

He seemed to be taking me to his room. Okay, I could either spend what was left of the night with ghosts, demon-possessed mirrors, or a presumably armed man with anger management issues. Who also liked little kids and cartoon frogs.

I sighed and went along.

He led me down the hall toward the 1950s wing where I had stayed the first night.

“
Mitzi was raising heck about staying in room thirteen, so I said I’d take it and let her have Ronald Reagan. I hope you’re not superstitious.”

 “
In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve seen a headless ghost, two dead bodies, and my oldest friend has been hauled off to jail. I’ve been suspected of prostitution, necrophilia—and from what I could gather from that detective’s questions—committing homicide by shoe. How much worse could my luck get? You want me to be afraid of a room number?”

“
Right. Thirteen is just a number.” Rick squeezed my shoulder as he slid his arm around me.

His arm felt good.

But the room wasn’t thirteen at all. It was fourteen A, my old digs—right under the stairs that led to Gabriella’s apartment—next to the ice machine. Probably the worst room in the hotel.

“ ‘
Fourteen A’ must be a hotel euphemism for thirteen.”

Rick ushered me inside. I sat on the quilt-covered double bed while he opened the wine and poured a healthy amount into two bathroom tumblers.

Wine and Ativan. Not a good combination. I’d forgotten about taking the pill earlier. I soon found myself babbling to Rick about my encounter with the headless ghost.

 “
Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?” He sat beside me on the bed—the room was too small for a chair. “Sometimes stress can trigger what they call ‘waking dreams’.”

He spoke in his infuriating, calm-down-now-ma’am policeman voice.

“
In my experience, supernatural beings without heads don’t usually get scared off by ladies’ footwear.” He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead like I was a five-year-old. “And it’s never a good idea to interfere with a crime scene, even after the investigators have left. After they get the lab results back, they may have to go back for more samples. That’s why it takes a couple days to release a scene.”

 
I didn’t want to be patronized.

“
So arrest me. But the phone didn’t work. And this place was deserted. Did the whole conference move down to the vineyard protest?”

“
I think most of the conference folks crashed early. Murder tends to make people unsociable. Besides, Alberto closed the bar right after dinner because he had no staff, and nobody wanted to hang out in the lobby—with all those reporters and protesters around. Only a few diehards stayed around for the Cowboy Workshop. About ten o’clock, Search and Rescue called Gaby to say they’d found Mitzi at the vineyard protest, but they were having trouble convincing her to come back. So the rest of us who were hanging around went to help Gaby bring her back—well, except Toby.” Rick gave a grim laugh. “He said he was tired, but apparently he had a heavy date with a longhorn steer.”

I looked away. The image was too raw.

“
Sorry,” he said, getting up to refill his glass. “That was insensitive. But Toby was acting sneaky. I’d been wondering if he had something going with that girl he sat with at dinner.” 

“
The Latina girl in Donna Karan? I thought so too.” I watched him pour wine. “Mrs. Boggs Bailey didn’t want to be rescued?”

 
Rick laughed. “Not hardly. It was all a party to her. That protest has become quite the media event. Even your ex was there.”

My body went rigid.

“
Jonathan Kahn is here? In Santa Ynez?”

 
It wasn’t fair—not after the two days I’d been through. Could that many hideous things happen at once? Had somebody repealed the law of averages?

 
I tried to form coherent words as Rick smiled down at me, oblivious to the fact my head felt about to explode.

“
Mitzi Boggs Bailey trying to save the squirrels is a national news story?” I said. Well, sort of sputtered.

Why hadn’t I seen this coming? We were only a couple of hours north of Los Angeles—now the home base of his show.

I had to pray Jonathan didn’t know I was here.

Or anything about my night at the Solvang Sheriff’s substation.

Or that I was a murder suspect.

I tried to will him from my brain. With any luck, he was on his way home by now.

I jumped when I heard a thump outside.

“
Do you think they’re out there—those Vigoras, or what ever they’re called?”

“
Viboras.” Rick spoke with perfect Spanish inflection. He jumped up and started to pace, nervously pulling at his sleeve. “It means snakes—vipers. But that part isn’t making sense to me. Of course Fiscalini doesn’t want to part with a lot of information to an L.A. cop, but it looks as if his guys have found the murder weapon: a cast iron frying pan.”

“
A frying pan—he was killed with a kitchen utensil?” This was hard to believe, with all that gore.

“
Yes. From what I could see, Toby was probably bludgeoned to death somewhere in the service wing, then dragged to the Longhorn Room. Any self-respecting gangbanger would use a knife or a gun. And Miguel says the paint used for tagging the scene was stolen from the utility closet. Rust-oleum Equipment Red. Taggers would have brought their own paint.”

“
Equipment red? So on the wall—that was…”

Rick gave a half smile. “Not blood. Just the work of a tagger who didn’t know how to use spray paint without leaving a bunch of drips. Another reason I don’t think it’s gangbangers.”

“
Toby was bludgeoned to death? But the cow head…?”  

“
Looked to me as if it was done post mortem. That could be a gang thing, but I’ve never known them to stray this far from their turf, especially to kill a stranger. They usually kill over specific things—territory, drugs, girlfriends.” He gave a dry laugh. “I don’t suppose you’ve been romantically involved with any Latino dudes lately?”

I felt myself blush and looked away from his dark, Latino eyes.

“
No. Tattooed gangsters aren’t exactly my type.”

I turned away. It was too late in a very difficult night to even think about romance.

I looked around the room and saw Rick’s things—his suitcase open on the dresser. Inside was what looked like a gun holster sticking from between athletic tee shirts and a pair of Nikes. This was his room and there was no place for me to stay except in his bed. Did he really expect me to sleep with him—tonight?

He was pacing again, rolling down his shirtsleeves, although the room was too warm, if anything.

He grabbed the wine and refilled his glass.

“
Right. Your type is city boys in Italian suits. Like Kahn and the Oscar-winning screenwriter. Hey, is it true you two used to be an item? Smith goes both ways?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to have this conversation.

“
Plantagenet is bisexual, yes, but that doesn’t mean we still have any kind of spark going. We’ve been friends for too long. He’s like a brother—which is why it’s absurd for that detective to think that I’d kill Ernesto out of jealousy—or whatever nonsense he thinks.”

Rick took a sip of wine. “I doubt he thinks that. In fact I’m pretty sure Fiscalini likes the Viboras for both murders. He thinks they made Ernesto an example of what happens when you try to leave the gang life, then killed Toby because he seduced Ernesto into a gay lifestyle.”

“
Plant’s not a suspect any more?” 

“
My money says he’ll be released in the morning. It’s a lot easier to convict a bunch of street kids than a Hollywood celebrity.” Rick’s voice had a negative edge.

 “
You think Detective Fiscalini is wrong? It wasn’t a gang?”

Rick shook his head. “I’m not saying the Viboras aren’t capable of vicious violence and homophobia, but I can’t fit them into any scenario that would reasonably result in that crime scene.”

“
Killing people and “reasonable” don’t go together in any scenario I can think of.”  It all seemed more senseless by the minute. “If it’s not a gang, who is it? You don’t think I did it? With my little Fendi pump?” I couldn’t stifle a large yawn.

Rick put down his glass. “Hey, we’ve got to get some sleep. The Hacienda’s still full, so I told Fiscalini you’d be staying in my room.” He gave me another one of those nervous little smiles. “The Ronald Reagan suite, where I was staying, has a sitting room with a fold-out. When I let Mitzi take it, I didn’t realize there would be only one bed here. I’ll go see if I can find the maid who moved my stuff down here. Hotels usually have an extra room or two—someplace funky next to the kitchen, or under the stairs—someplace they only use for emergencies. But I don’t know…” He looked around the cramped room. “This might be it. But I’ll…um, see you in the morning.”

I think I may have fallen asleep before he shut the door.

I woke to the metallic sound of a key in a lock.

And the creak of old floorboards.

Pushing sleep-fog from my brain, I lay very still, trying to maintain the rhythm of my breath as I listened to the doorknob being jiggled.

I heard the key-in-the-lock sound again and jumped out of bed and flicked on the light. Somebody was trying to break into the room. And me without even a shoe for a weapon.

But maybe Rick had a gun in his suitcase. I was pretty sure I’d seen a holster in there…

Another noise. From somewhere down the walkway outside. Then a metallic bang and a crunch.

I felt around in the suitcase, and found a dark molded plastic case underneath his neatly folded jeans. It was the sort of case Jonathan’s overpriced tools came in. I opened the lid, and there it was. Not a shiny, cowboy gun. This was Darth Vader black and felt heavy and cold in my hand.

The floorboards creaked again right outside. I heard the thump of footsteps. Someone was out there. Maybe the someone who had committed two horrific murders.

I had to get out of this trap before they broke in. The ancient lock did not look as if it would hold against much. I clutched the gun and opened the door.

At the end of the porch, something moved in the shadows behind the ice machine.

“
Hold it right there.” I raised the heavy gun with both hands.

“
Where did you get that?” said a growly voice. I held the gun steady.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

Rick, his face furious and scary.

“
That’s my weapon, isn’t it?” he said. His voice sounded thick from sleep. “You stole it?” He took a step toward me. “Talk about a woman scorned! Jeez…I know it sounds lame, but I really do have one hell of a headache. That’s why I’m getting ice. An ice pack on the back of the neck sometimes helps…Camilla, you gotta give me my gun.”

“
Woman scorned?” Now I was furious, too. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

 “
I’m sorry, but I’m not used to women creeping into my room at two A.M..” He gestured at the door behind him. It was numbered fourteen B. “Now give me the gun.”

“
You’re staying in fourteen B?” He must have had some kind of waking dream.

“
Okay, if you want to pretend you wandered into the wrong room, fine…”  He massaged the back of his neck.