Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky
The writers’ conference is a mostly American phenomenon. It’s usually a combination of bucolic holiday and intensive writing courses, where aspiring writers can hone their craft, learn the ins and outs of the publishing business, and network with other writers at all stages of their careers. The conferences range from Vermont’s prestigious Bread Loaf Conference, founded by poet Robert Frost, to weekend workshops at regional community colleges.
Ghostwriters in the Sky
is set at one such conference—held at a picturesque former “dude ranch” in California’s idyllic wine-and-cattle country north of Los Angeles—an area that has long been a retreat for Hollywood celebrities, from President Ronald Reagan to pop star Michael Jackson.
When New York etiquette columnist Camilla Randall is invited to teach at the Golden West Writers Conference in the Santa Ynez Mountains, she couldn’t be happier. She’s in the middle of a nasty divorce from TV celebrity Jonathan Kahn, who has not only left her destitute with his legal maneuverings, but recently accused her of kinky sexual practices in a New York tabloid.
But Camilla’s western holiday turns out to be anything but a relaxing escape. The old ranch is reputed to be “lousy with ghosts” who appear to be stalking her. She reconnects with an old friend, screenwriter Plantagenet Smith, but the discovery of an inconvenient corpse in his bed mars their reunion.
Plantagenet is arrested, and while trying to discover the real killer, Camilla stumbles onto a complex blackmail and forgery scheme. She’s aided by hot LAPD Captain Maverick Jesus Zukowski—until the captain himself gets cozy with the forgers. In order to clear her friend and stop the murderous “ghost,” Camilla must deal with her muckraking ex, a ruthless spokesmodel, bickering gay cowboys, and a cross-dressing dominatrix whose repertoire includes an impersonation of Camilla herself.
Saffina Desforges, Best-selling author of
Sugar & Spice
and the
Rose Red
crime thriller series.
GHOSTWRITERS IN THE SKY
a novel by
Anne R. Allen
© Anne R. Allen, 2011. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published by Mark Williams international Digital Publishing
Formatted by Elizabeth Ann West
http://eawestwriting.com/ebook-formatting
The subway car was so crowded I couldn’t tell which one of the sweaty men pressing against me was attached to the hand now creeping up my thigh. I should have known better than to wear a dress on a day I had to take the subway, but in the middle of a New York heat wave, I couldn’t face another day in a pants suit.
I tried to lurch away from the large man in shirtsleeves who looked to be the most likely owner of the hand. One of his beefy paws clutched the pole just above me, but the other was invisible in the crush of bodies. Getting away from him meant I had to press closer to a besuited Wall Street type, who was engrossed in reading a newspaper over the shoulder of a woman in the seat nearest us.
I managed to move a few inches, but the hand continued its relentless journey northward.
Maybe it was the pimply kid in the Marilyn Manson tee shirt who had insinuated himself into the already overflowing car at Columbus Circle. He’d pressed in to join the three of us who had already staked claims on the center pole.
I jabbed the boy in the ribs with an elbow. He grunted an obscenity.
But the hand continued to creep.
The man in the suit turned away from his reading and whispered in my ear.
“
Dr. Manners, I’ve been a bad, bad boy.”
My throat closed. The guy wasn’t just grabbing an anonymous feel. This was personal. He knew I wrote the
Manners Doctor
column. Did he imagine my good manners would keep me from protecting myself?
I reached behind me and slid my hand in between our pressed-together bodies. Grasping his wrist, I tried to pull his hand from between my legs. But he dug his fingers into my thigh and hung on.
As the train mercifully jolted to a stop, I stepped back and brought my stiletto heel down on the pervert’s foot. As he yelped in pain, I pushed through the crowd and made it to the doors. A stop too soon, but I’d certainly rather walk up to West 69th Street, even in this sticky heat, than be molested for one more minute. How did millions of women ride the subway, day after day?
Life without money was turning out to be way harder than I’d ever imagined.
I hoped my lawyer was going to make Jonathan’s lawyers to see reason soon. Jonathan was being so cruel about the divorce. I had no idea why. It’s not as if I was the one who had been filmed by a paparazzo while receiving the ministrations of a street hooker on Sunset Boulevard.
I ran through the turnstile and was halfway up the escalator before it occurred to me I could simply have waited for a less crowded train. No point now. I’d have to swipe my MetroCard again, and these days I needed to pinch every penny.
I walked out into a wall of hot air. This had to be the hottest May on record. If the rest of the summer was like this, I’d actually be glad I’d had to give up my midtown office. It felt like defeat to give up the keys to the landlord this afternoon, but maybe everything would turn out for the best.
But it looked like I wasn’t going to get relief from harassment anytime soon. The heat seemed to bring out the creep in everybody. A taxi driver who was stopped at the light leered as he called out to me.
“
Hey, Dr. Manners, I’ve been bad. Wanna give me a spanking?”
What was it with these people? Had they all turned into raving sado-masochists?
I crossed Broadway as quick as my old Manolos would carry me. I’d bought them in the days when I could afford taxis. Now my feet screamed for a pair of Sketchers. The heel was in need of repair and I could feel it wobble as I tried to walk faster.
Too late. A family of hefty tourists in cargo shorts seemed to have overheard the driver as they barreled out of Lincoln Center toward the Metro station.
“
It is her!” said the teenaged boy. “The Manners Doctor. She used to be married to that TV guy—you know, on
The Real Story
.” He aimed his camera phone at me.
I put on my New York street face and stared straight ahead—pretending I saw nothing and heard nothing—as all mannerly New Yorkers do when sharing a crowded sidewalk. But the family kept coming at me, like a bunch of corn-fed storm troopers. I didn’t know whether to brazen it out or turn and run.
“
I heard she does weird sex stuff,” the teen girl said.
“
Shut up with that filth,” said the mom.
“
I’m sure it’s her. I saw her on
Entertainment Tonight
,” said the boy.
“
Not every fancy lady is an effing celebrity,” said the dad, staring at me as if I were something in a store window. “She doesn’t even look like Kahn’s wife. The Manners Doctor has shorter hair. And bigger hooters.”
Right. I didn’t even look like me because I hadn’t been able to afford to go to the hairdresser for months. I’d probably lost weight too. The stress of the divorce had not been kind to my digestive tract.
At least I didn’t run into any more perverts as I walked up Lincoln Square and made my sweaty way to my co-op building on 69th Street. But it wasn’t a fun walk. The humidity had to be at least 90%.
Habib, the doorman, gave me a dark look when I arrived. I hadn’t tipped him for over a month. As he held the door for me, he gave a smirk. A smirk—from the ever-glowering Habib. Maybe the heat really had made everybody in the City turn into lunatic creeps.
Then I saw the copy of today’s
Post
on the table in the lobby.
Damn. There was a picture of me above the fold. An awful thing showing me on Jonathan’s arm, looking slightly tipsy. Probably at the Emmys last year. The paper looked rumpled and discarded, so I didn’t feel bad about picking it up and giving it a read. I’d made Page Six way too many times since Jonathan’s scandal stirred up the media jackals, but I’d never been on page one. I couldn’t imagine what they’d dreamed up to say about Jonathan and me now.
I shook the paper open I saw the headline: KAHN REVEALS TRUTH ABOUT KINKY DR. MANNERS.
What fresh hell had Jonathan invented for me now?
Clutching the paper, I ran to the elevator and slammed the button for the sixth floor, hoping nobody would rush in and try to share the car. I wanted to be alone when I read the toxic thing.
I worked on calming my breathing to prepare myself.
But there was no possible preparation for the horrible words swimming in front of me. Jonathan had apparently told the
Post
reporter that he wasn’t the only one with an edgy sex life. He accused me of being into Sado-Masochism. Me. And oh my god—necrophilia and bestiality. Dead people? Animals? Where was this coming from? If anything, our sex life had been too vanilla. That’s certainly what he whined about all the time. I’d always presumed that was why he’d been getting more interesting flavors from Los Angeles street hookers.
How could I have loved this man? Maybe I really was a masochist.
No. I never loved the man who gave that interview. I’d loved a Jonathan who was a kind, loving friend, and an honorable journalist. A Jonathan who hadn’t existed for a long time. I guess I was the only one who hadn’t realized the old Jonathan was gone.
Somehow I managed to keep the tears from flowing until I got safely into my apartment. Then I let out a wail so loud it felt as if it came from somebody other than me—some wild animal that was trapped inside and screaming for its life. I was probably terrifying the doddery Grimsby sisters upstairs. But I couldn’t stop. I yelled and crumpled the copy of the Post in to a ball, threw it toward the trash, then yelled some more. I took off my Manolos and threw them hard against my closet door.
Unfortunately, one hit my dresser and knocked half my collection of photographs on to the floor. I could hear the shatter of glass. I ran to assess the damage and saw what I’d done. I’d broken the protective glass and bent the frame on my favorite photograph. The one of me and Plantagenet Smith.
It had been taken at some debutante party over twenty years ago. When Plant and I were impossibly young and beautiful. When I loved Plant with all my heart and soul, and he loved me, I think, in his way. Before I met Jonathan. Before I betrayed Plant by getting him to go on Jonathan’s damn TV show to be ambushed.
I slid the photo from the frame. It didn’t seem damaged, thank goodness. It was irreplaceable. If Plant had ever kept a copy, he’d never share it with me. He’d refused to answer my letters and calls for the past five years. He hated me for what I’d done. And I couldn’t really blame him.
