Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (5 page)

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.

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?”

“
It was awful. Ernesto read an intense story, and Roarke laughed at him. Everybody did. I guess I did too, but I thought the rooster’s name was supposed to be funny, and Ernesto ran out…”

“
Creep!” Plant’s face went from gray to purple as he yanked on the stubborn zipper. “Smug, narcissistic old bastard!”  He screamed this last word loud enough to be heard at the top of the hill.

“
Don’t you think we should call the police or something?” It was horrible to think Ernesto might have committed suicide because of his humiliation in the workshop—and that my alarm clock comment might have added to his pain.

Plant finally looked at me. He seemed to see me for the first time.

“
Darling, I know Jonathan’s ridiculous stories must have devastated you, but have you taken to rending your raiment?”

He always could make me laugh. Even in the worst of circumstances. And this pretty much qualified as the worst. I gave him a half smile.

“
Long story. My luggage is taking in the sights of Dallas. Or Denver. Nobody’s quite sure, so I missed the limo and had to travel via motorcycle.”

He grabbed me in a bear hug. “Darling, it’s so good to see you!”

His arms felt safe and warm, in spite of the gruesome scene around us.

 “
You forgive me, then? For luring you into Jonathan’s clutches? I had no idea he’d invite your ex-boyfriend to tell the world you’re gay.”

 “
Of course I forgive you.” Plant gave me a sweet, familiar smile. “Jonathan Kahn is a muckraking sleazebag, and I was furious at the time, but the truth is that coming out was the best thing I ever did. I thought I could straddle some sort of Kinsey fence, but right after the fiasco on Jonathan’s show, I took a job with a theater in San Francisco, and met somebody…”

“
That’s fantastic! So you’re in a committed relationship now?” My eyes rested on Ernesto’s clothes. “Um, sort-of committed?”

“
It didn’t last forever, but he was the one who got me interested in the stories about Oscar Wilde’s San Francisco visit, and when I found out that Calamity Jane had been in town at the same time, I had to write about it and…well, you probably saw that Ferrari I’ve got parked out front.”

“
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 rushed to 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‘s 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.”