Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (9 page)

“
No. They were arguing about Toby. Smith calmed Ernesto down and the kid took off in that Ferrari. I went up to my room and edited for about a half hour, and when I came back down to join Gaby for a drink, Smith was gone. Nobody knows what he and the boy did after that.”

 “
I do. Plant walked down to his cabin, trying to decide if he was being ethical sleeping with a fan who obviously hero-worshiped him. Ernesto had time to get undressed and tune in an erotic movie on the television. He left the Ferrari unlocked, so he may have been in a hurry about it. But if you’re planning to be dead in a few minutes, I guess you don’t worry about car thieves.”

“
The car was unlocked when you went to drive it up the hill?”

“
Yes. That’s why I was especially careful to lock it when I got up to the parking lot. But I guess I left my scarf in there. It must have fallen off.”

I touched my hair where the scarf had been. It felt sticky with road dust. “I’ll die if I don’t get a shower. Now. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I was desperate for some time to collect my thoughts. 

Just as I managed to get Rick out the door, the phone on the desk rang. It was Gabriella.

“
Sorry to bother you hon, but I’m wondering if you’d mind giving your presentation tonight for the paying customers instead of this afternoon. I need somebody to fill Plantagenet’s slot.”

I tried to focus.

“
Plant’s slot? He’s still in jail? They really think he had something to do with Ernesto’s death? That’s so stupid. Don’t they know it was suicide?”

“
Nope. At least the Sheriff doesn’t think so. The studio’s sending up their lawyers, but it looks like they’re charging your old friend Plantagenet with first degree murder.”

All I could do was grunt my agreement.

First degree murder. Were these people all insane?

After a long shower, I managed to sleep a bit. Probably because I tried to read Rick’s snoozerific novel. He might have a big name New York agent, but
Blue Rage
by M. J. Zukowski was not going to make any best seller lists that I knew of. I wondered what this Luci Silverberg person saw in it that I didn’t.

The bedside clock said five fifteen when I woke up, feeling a little sick as the memory of the horrors of last night came back: the terrible image of Ernesto’s body. How could it have not been a suicide? There had to be another explanation for the gun stuff people kept talking about.

I turned on the television. Flipping through channels, I caught a clip of Plantagenet accepting his Academy Award last February. Then an awful one of him getting out of a black and white Sheriff’s car. I felt a familiar constriction in my neck. It felt like watching the weepy court-house step footage of my own divorce hearing they played over and over last fall.

The reporter’s voice confirmed Gaby’s dire pronouncement. “Oscar-winning writer Plantagenet Smith is being held for questioning in the death of his protégé, nineteen-year old Ernesto Cervantes, who was found shot to death in Mr. Smith’s bedroom at Gabriella Moore’s resort in Santa Ynez last night.” The screen showed a still shot of a tough-looking dark-haired Hispanic boy. “Mr. Smith, an openly homosexual writer, denies that the death was the result of a lovers’ quarrel.” 

The picture changed to a sunny sidewalk outside a Spanish-style public building, where Silas Ryder, looking large and rumpled, blinked nervously at the camera.

 “
Silas Ryder, the Central Coast businessman who employed the deceased at one of his bookstores, stated that Ernesto Cervantes had no relatives except an uncle in the state of Sinaloa in Mexico. Mr. Ryder said Cervantes was a promising writer and a popular student at Cuesta College in San Luis Obispo.

“
He was a good kid. A sweet kid.” Silas looked uncomfortable as he squinted at the camera. “He’d lost both his parents, and got involved with gangs before he was in his teens. But he’d put that all behind him. He was a good worker and had a talent for storytelling, but like so many writers, he could be self-destructive.”

The newsperson cut him off. Too much information for TV, of course. All anybody would hear was that Ernesto was “sweet.” They’d hear that as “gay” and dismiss the whole story as sordid—just as Plant predicted. The reporter didn’t even let Silas finish what he probably intended to say about Ernesto’s suicidal tendencies. They wanted a drama, and they’d cast Plantagenet as the bad guy: a gay celebrity for the media sharks to feed on.

Of course, if it really was murder, Plant was an obvious suspect. And that was an awfully big gun they found in the Ferrari. Plantagenet had been alone in the cabin with the body when I came in. Plus his suit had that blood on it.

No. I wasn’t going to let my mind go there.

I picked up the remote and was about to click off when I saw the face of D. Sorengaard, giving a harried look at the camera. The newscaster was saying, “…In other news: more protests today in Santa Ynez, as environmental activists chained themselves to the ancient oaks that are slated to be cut down for more vineyards…”

I turned it off. I’d think of some way to help Plant, but first I had to get myself together for my talk. I wasn’t going to be speaking to a small group of non-fiction writers as planned. Plant’s presentation had been advertised to the public, and tickets had been sold. People would be coming from as far away as Los Angeles to see an Oscar winner, and all they’d get was the Manners Doctor.

My stage fright built as I reviewed the notes for my speech. I paced the room, lecturing the faux mission furniture on the rigors of daily column writing and warning the autographed photos of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans about a life that’s always on deadline.

I dressed in my brown Chanel suit and strappy cobra skin sandals—the things I’d planned to wear for my talk when it was scheduled for the evening after the opening reception. Now I wasn’t sure about the sandals. There was a lot of walking to do around that crazy hotel. I had a pair of pumps that would be more comfortable. Fendi pumps. Conservative, but chic.

If Plantagenet were here, he would have helped me choose.

Plantagenet. Always kind. Always helpful. Not a killer. It couldn’t be true.

Something Mrs. Boggs Bailey said flashed in my memory—“they shot off their guns.” Guns, plural. Could there have been a gunfight? Maybe Ernesto had tried to shoot Plant—to rob him, maybe—and Plant was forced to shoot back. Anybody might do that if he/she happened to have a weapon handy. Which apparently Plantagenet did.

Not like him, but maybe I didn’t know him anymore. It had been a long time. Rick was right that success changes people. Look at Jonathan.

Was my taste in men so abysmal that I’d chosen a killer for my gay best friend?

I had to get through dinner before my talk. I doubted I could eat much, but Gabriella made it clear she expected me to join the faculty in the dining room. I changed into the Fendi pumps and touched up my make-up again.

I recognized the golf cart driver she sent to pick me up. He was the young man who had been furiously writing in his notebook at the front desk last night. He wore a nametag that said “Miguel”. His face, a dark teak-brown above his white long-sleeved shirt, looked nervous.

He helped me into the cart with careful ceremony.

 “
Can I ask you something, Ms. Randall? I heard you were there—in Mr. Roarke’s workshop—when Ernie read that story. The guy who got shot—he read a story about a rooster. Do you remember?”
            “
El Despertador Looks at the Stars
. Yes. I thought it was very good. A little rough around the edges, but original and moving. Was he a friend of yours?” No wonder Miguel had that tense look. He was grieving.

“
Kind of. He helped me sometimes with spelling and stuff. And titles. I never can come up with titles. That’s why I gave him the story to look at. He put the fancy quotation on it and that ‘Looks at the Stars’ stuff. Me, I called it
The Desperate Alarm Clock
. He said that wasn’t literary enough.”

 “
You wrote that—the story about the rooster?”

Wow. Ernesto didn’t write the story.

I suppose there was some small relief in knowing I’d been right about the alarm clock, but it kind of wiped out the possibility of suicide. Writers might be a self-destructive lot, but they didn’t kill themselves over other writers’ rejections.

 “
Yeah. Ernie didn’t tell me he was going to read it in the Cowboy Workshop, but I guess he didn’t have time to write something of his own. He does that sometimes. I heard a bunch of obnoxious TV writers talking about it at lunch. They said you liked it.”

 “
Yes. I did. You’re quite a writer.”

And Ernesto had been quite a liar.

The Hacienda parking lot was packed with even more media vehicles. Now I understood why they’d been asking me all those questions about Plant—news of his arrest would have been out by the time I arrived this morning.

I didn’t know how I was going to get through the melée into the hotel, especially since the media crowd was augmented by a large, unkempt crowd carrying picket signs.

But an unfazed Miguel drove up onto the lawn and followed a footpath around to the back of the main building, where he parked behind a laundry van. He led me through a utility yard to a door marked “Employees Only.”

“
What’s going on out there?” I whispered as we entered a dark corridor.

“
A protest. To save the trees. Mr. Roarke cuts down oak trees to plant his grapes—then the owls, foxes, squirrels—they got no place to live. So the college kids and the old hippies—they carry signs. Plus there’s a bunch of TV guys who want to put everybody on the news. Oh, did you want to be on the TV news—for publicity?”  He stopped and gave me a polite, questioning look.

“
Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

Amazing to think some people might see this as a marketing opportunity.

“
Me neither. I’m legal, but I don’t need no questions.”

He led me past several offices, including one with a plaque on the door with a star that said “Miss Moore”—obviously a souvenir from her actress days. We then walked past the busy kitchen, where we were greeted by the bowing waiter who had held the door for me when I first arrived. He waved a soapy hand as he washed a stack of pots and pans. He said something in Spanish to Miguel, but Miguel rushed past.

“
Don’t mind Santiago,” he said. “The guy is a dork. From Guatemala. Don’t speak no English. His Spanish sucks, too.”

Behind a heavy wooden door and there was another hallway, where linoleum gave way to guest-territory carpeting. Miguel stopped at what looked like a solid panel in the wall and took out a set of keys. He inserted a key into a bit of carved scrollwork, and the whole panel started to move—a cleverly disguised door. I followed him inside to a small banquet room furnished with fabulous Art Deco antiques. Miguel laughed, giving me a smile over his shoulder.

“
Crazy, huh? They call this room the Hole in the Wall—after the hideout of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—every name in this place is from old western movies.

The room didn’t look so much like a gunslinger hideout as a 1920s speakeasy. It had polished mahogany wainscoting, red-flocked wallpaper and a spectacular art deco chandelier.

“
Miss Moore asked me to bring you this way because of the reporters.” Miguel said. He obviously saw me staring at the molded glass-and-bronze chandelier. “This part of the hotel was built during the Prohibition, when this was a dude ranch. I guess Hollywood bigshots came up to party all the time. This room is so secret it’s not even in the building plans. Miss Moore doesn’t even show it to most of the guests. You must be special.”

Noise of a key in a lock in a panel opposite suggested that somebody else was special, too. The panel slowly opened and Rick Zukowski stepped inside.

I made a startled noise.

“
I hoped you might be in here.” Rick laughed “Gaby sent me out to do a search and rescue. She was afraid you might have been ambushed by the hostiles out there.” He nodded at Miguel and said something in fluent Spanish.

Miguel gave a quick nod and let himself out the panel we came in.

“
Impressive, Mr. Zukowski,” I said. “You talk Spanish like a native.”

He gave me that cute grin.

“
I am a native. L.A. born and bred. My mom was born in Mexico. Zukowski was a salesman from Ohio, traveling through.” He studied my outfit. “You look fantastic. Wow. Really great.”

He kept staring and grinning. Nice to know I still had it.

“
Thank you.” I bestowed a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be a little less nervous knowing I look okay.”

He looked into my eyes for a moment, then gave me a kiss back—long and sweet. Amazing how much I’d wanted him to do that. His body felt strong and safe. I clung to him for just a moment too long, then felt embarrassed.