Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (16 page)

Rick’s attention was still on the Rolodex. “Wow. You still keep in touch with all these folks, Gabriella? This reads like a Hollywood ‘Who’s Who’.”

“
More like a ‘Burbank: Who’s Over’. Bunch of TV has-beens. All of ’em writing their memoirs. Except they can’t write, so they come to Toby.” Gaby tossed the sweater at Rick. “Why don’t you put this on? Never been worn. It was too big for Toby, so it might fit over those shoulders of yours.”

“
Toby was ghosting for all these names?”

“
Ninety percent gave up after the first interview. But Toby liked having all those celebrities in his personal file.” She came at Rick. “Oh, come on, Zukowski, don’t be so modest.” She started unbuttoning Rick’s shirt and pulled off one sleeve.

“
Hey!” His voice was sharp. “Gabriella, for chrissake!” He pulled the shirtsleeve back on, but not before I saw a long, nasty scar that snaked up his left arm.

“
Are you afraid Dr. Manners wouldn’t approve of a lady stripping the clothes off a wet policeman?” said Gabriella with her growly laugh. “Fine, be damp, if you like, but this is a nice sweater. Cost me a bundle. Toby never wore it.” She came back to the bar. “So are you going to help me drink this hooch or what?”

Rick headed toward us, rebuttoning his shirt. He smoothed his left arm with his right hand, as if tracing that scar.

It was a gesture I had seen before—recently,

It was exactly the way Ernesto Cervantes had traced his devil snake tattoo.

Gabriella raised her glass.

“
To Toby Roarke,” said Gabriella. “One sweet man, when he wanted to be. And a fine poet. Pretty good ghostwriter, too.”

“
To Toby’s ghost,” said Rick. “May he rest peacefully.” He winced as he raised his glass, grabbing the back of his neck again.

“
Oh, damn! I forgot your aspirin.” Gabriella set down her glass and was off to the writing nook again. “Now where did I put that…? Oh, shit. I hit the damned button.”

From the telephone answering machine, the ghostly voice of Toby Roarke said he wasn’t in right now and asked the caller to leave a message—then, after a beep, another man’s voice spoke, staccato with anger: the famous gravelly baritone of Walker Montgomery. After a jumble of shouts, one phrase came out, icy and clear—

“
Toby Roarke, if you don’t have that stuff for me tonight, you are a dead man!”

“
Wake up, sleeping beauty,” a voice whispered.

I felt warm lips brush against my cheek.

I stiffened. “Rick?” I hadn’t had enough sleep. “What time is it?”

“
It’s past noon, and you’ll hate yourself if you sleep through this beautiful day.”

The voice wasn’t Rick’s.

I opened my eyes to see Plantagenet, back-lit with the sunshine that streamed through the open window of the bedroom of Gabriella’s apartment.

“
You’re out of jail!” I threw my arms around him. “Was it awful?”

He hesitated. “Let’s just say that when they talk about overcrowding in California jails, they aren’t just being whiny.” He smelled freshly showered.

“
Oh, Plant, things have been so strange—so awful.

I hugged him, not wanting to let go. I didn’t know how I’d survived the last five years without him. “I’m so glad you’re free!”

“
Free but never cheap.” He gave a little laugh as he looked around the room. “You seem to have landed in some pretty nice digs. Did your friend Captain Road Rage share the, ah, accommodations?”

“
Of course not!” I sat up and tried to look as dignified as one can in an Oscar de la Renta charmeuse chemise. “That road rage stuff isn’t true—and I hardly know him.” I had to remind myself of that. I especially didn’t know what to make of that snaky scar I’d seen him try to cover up last night.

“
That’s why his name was the first one that came to mind when a man woke you with a kiss?” Plant laughed. “I don’t blame you, darling. A cross between Jimmy Smits and Jimmy Stewart—what’s not to like? But I’m glad you’re not intensely involved, since Lucille Silverberg seems to be busy staking a claim.”

“
Luci Silverberg has arrived? Good. Gaby will be so relieved. And she’s Rick’s agent, not his girlfriend. Not that I care.” I kissed Plantagenet’s cheek. “You and I have to spend some time together in New York, or San Francisco—soon. Somewhere safe. No more wild west for me.”

Plantagenet put on an expression of exaggerated hurt. I forgot his recent fame came from his revival of the Western film.

 “
Oh, but I adored your Oscar Wilde-West movie. Such a clever plot. Do you think Oscar Wilde really could have had an affair with Calamity Jane?”

Plant laughed. “Why not? They were both in California in the spring of 1882—both in their late 20’s. He was bisexual. She was a cross-dresser. Nobody can prove it didn’t happen.” He checked his watch. “Better get going, or I’ll be in trouble.”

Not good news. “The police don’t still suspect you, do they?”

“
I meant with Gaby. I have no idea what the Sheriff’s people think. All I know is that at ten this morning, one of the deputies told me I was free to go, and there was Gabriella in her Cherokee, ready to give me a ride back here.”

He made a move toward the door.

“
And, um, Toby? Did she say…?”

He nodded. “She told me the terrible news, and said the Sheriff seems to think Ernesto’s gang killed him—Ernesto, too. She said the gun they found in my car was stolen by a gang, who probably killed him for attempting some upward mobility. A terrible, terrible tragedy, but at least it seems to be over.”

It sounded so sensible when he said it that I felt stupid telling him what Rick said about gangs and frying pans.

“
I’d better leave you to dress, darling,” Plant said. “Gabriella had all your things brought up from the cabin.” He pointed to my Vuitton bags, neatly stacked by the door. “She wants us down in the dining room ASAP. I think she wants to show me off. I don’t know if it’s to let people know I’m out of jail, or because she’s so desperate for some kind of celebrity to parade in front of the paying customers.”

 “
Why isn’t Gabriella parading the great Luci around?”

“
Luci’s off in town having a private moment with your maverick police captain.”

 “
Maverick?” I laughed, although I felt a twinge of jealousy when he talked about Rick and his agent. “That’s his real name, you know—Maverick Jesus Zukowski.”

“
Yes. I know. So does Luci. That’s why she’s taking him to the Maverick Saloon. She thinks it will make a great setting for a photo shoot.” He stood by the door and pointed to my luggage. “By the way, apparently Rick found a manuscript of yours mixed in with his things. Gaby said it’s on top of your laptop case.”

He left before I could tell him I was the only person in the place who did not have a manuscript to hawk.

My suitcases were indeed stacked by the doorway, a gold folder laid on top. Maybe the notes for my talk. Sweet of Rick to put them in a folder for me. I so much didn’t want to think he was some kind of gangster. Of course in East L.A. a kid might fall in with the wrong crowd. And he had removed the tattoo, if that’s what caused the scar at all.

I scrambled into my Chanel suit and cobra skin sandals and jammed the folder into my tote. So Rick was at the Maverick Saloon. I wondered if outlaw bikers would be included in the photo shoot.

And more important—I wondered how attractive Luci was.

Detective Fiscalini had set up shop in the Frank and Jesse James suite on the ground floor and was questioning the conference-goers one by one. They were still parading in and out by the time we finished lunch. I wondered if that was routine or if Fiscalini wasn’t as sold on the gang theory as Plant seemed to think.

After lunch the red-faced Englishman accosted me.

“
I can’t believe this!” he said, clamping an angry hand on my forearm. “Those cretins are holding us hostage. We’ve been ordered not to leave. Any of us. As if this place weren’t stressful enough—besieged by the media, devoid of the promised celebrities, infested with murderous gangs.” He sighed with martyred pain. “And now the local constabulary insists on interviewing every single one of us about where we were when Toby died. Can’t you do something?”

I forced a polite smile as I tried to peel his hand from my arm. I wanted to tell him a lowly presenter had no more authority here than he did, but that might have made him angrier. I suppose he still hadn’t got any proper English tea.

“
I’m afraid we all have to do what the Sheriff’s investigators want,” I said.

“
I’m going to call my solicitor,” he said, taking a phone from his pocket. “And I suggest Miss Gabriella Moore should do the same. I saw those CSI people swarming around her apartment about an hour ago.” He pulled me closer and hissed in my ear. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the old girl did them in herself—Toby and his Mexican toy boy.”

Gaby’s apartment. I hadn’t thought about it, but of course they’d be going through Toby’s things for clues. And my things were strewn all over the bed. A Manners Doctor no-no.

By five to two, I finally escaped the Ponderosa Lounge, where the great Luci was scheduled for her two o’clock talk. But she hadn’t appeared.

Neither had Rick. I wondered if they were still partying at the Maverick Saloon.

Plant held Gabriella’s hand, saying reassuring things about how he could give his talk now instead of tonight if Luci was a no-show. Most of the crowd was already seated, and the buzz of conversation was uneasy.

I sat next to Plantagenet and Gabriella, keeping an eye on the back door for Rick. But it was Mitzi Boggs Bailey who burst through the door. She made a bee-line toward us.

“
Are you all right?” she said to Plantagenet.

“
Why, yes,” Plant said, rising to give the old woman his seat. “It was an ordeal, but it’s over. I’m hoping the investigation will…”

“
You sit down,” Mrs. Boggs Bailey said. “She’s the one who has to move.” She pointed at me. “I have to sit next to the play writer. I have something to show him.”

“
Mitzi,” Gabriella said sharply. “You can talk to Plantagenet about your play later, but now is not the time.” She turned to me. “Hon, if you don’t mind, sometimes it’s better to humor her.”
            “It’s not about my play.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey plopped herself down in my vacated chair.

I stood by, not quite sure where I should go.

“
It’s a message,” the old woman said. “An important message.”

“
From Luci?” said Gabriella. “Did you take a phone message from Luci?  Saying she’d be late?”

“
No, it’s not from anybody named Luci.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey leaned toward Plant. “It’s from Obadiah. He must have put it in my chifforobe last night. I thought it was my play, but when I opened the folder, I found this.” She reached into her gold folder and pulled out a thin, ancient book, wrapped in a couple of sheets of equally antique writing paper. She handed it to Plant. “You want to know how I knew it was for you? It said the-ater. Right there on the address. The Platt The-ater. San Francisco. You live in San Francisco. Don’t you, Mr. Smith?”

As Plant examined the contents of the folder, an amazing change came over his face. It went very white, but his mouth spread into an ever-widening grin.

“
Dear, sweet God in heaven.”

His hand shook as he handled the fragile yellowed paper, covered with faded, spidery handwriting.

“
Plant, what’s wrong? Do you need some water?” said Gabriella. “Mitzi, where did you get this stuff?”

“
I got this from Old Obadiah,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “I told you. He put it in my chifforobe. The ghosts must have got into my room last night, because they left stuff, both of them. You don’t want to look at the junk from Joaquin. It’s filthy. But see?” She pointed to the bottom of the letter. “See where Obadiah signed this one?”

“
The return address is the Platt all right,” Plant said, giving a nod as he continued his zombified stare at the document. “That’s where he gave his talks.”

“
Who? Where’s the Platt Theater?” I was a little tired of Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s dramas. I finally decided to sit in a chair in the row behind Plantagenet.

 “
It’s where Oscar Wilde gave his lectures in San Francisco,” Plant said in a strange, flat voice. “In 1882.” Plant opened the book. His voice had gone to a whisper. “It’s a Smithers First Edition of
The Ballad of Redding Gaol
, written by C33!”

“
Not C33,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “It’s signed Obadiah Wilke. “See right there on the letter—and the book.” She grabbed the yellowing paper and showed it to me.

The signature did indeed look as if it said “Obadiah Wilke.”