Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (11 page)

The room went quiet and reporters crowded in. Now I was going to have to elaborate.

“
It didn’t look like a murder. It looked like suicide. And after the way he was treated…”

I caught sight of Gabriella, pushing through the crowd toward me. She’d been through so much, with her sister-in-law missing, her conference in shambles, and who-knows-what happening in her vineyards. I certainly didn’t need to add to it by saying angry things about Toby.

“
I have to go,” I said, trying to protect my nose from further microphone assault. “I have nothing more to say at this time. Come hear my presentation tonight. In the Ponderosa Lounge at seven-thirty. I don’t know what time the doors will open.” I looked questioningly at Gabriella.

“
All public talks have been canceled!”  Gabriella’s voice sounded as big and loud as it had herding cattle on
Big
Mountain
. Some of the microphones rushed toward her. “Ms. Randall’s talk tonight has been rescheduled for a later date. For enrolled attendees only. Full refunds will be mailed to all single-event ticket holders. I repeat: all public events have been canceled until further notice.”

Finally, enough reporters migrated toward Gabriella that I was able to push my way back toward the dining room.

“
Hey Doc, what were you going to say?” It was the dreadlocked man with the “Stomp out Grapes” T-shirt. “You said the dead kid was mistreated. Care to elaborate on that?”

I tried to escape. “No I don’t. I…misspoke.”

He gripped my elbow.

“
Cut the crap, Doctor. I think you know what a fascist that guy really is. You know how old those oak trees were that he cut down? Four, maybe five hundred years old. And you know what happens when they plow deep enough to plant vineyards? Everything dies—owls, foxes, squirrels. He’s murdering them. Like he murdered this gay dude.”

“
Your police escort is here, Ms. Randall,” said a Joe-Friday voice. A strong hand grabbed my other elbow.

I turned and saw that cute grin. Captain Road Rage’s grin. I stiffened.

“
Oh, man, the pigs are here?” Grapes said.

“
Oink,” said Rick, pulling out his badge.

The blond dreadlocks disappeared into the crowd.

 “
Alberto has a golf cart for you out back, but not enough staff to drive it,” Rick said. “Most of his employees are illegals, so they evaporate when law enforcement shows up. Okay if I play chauffeur?”

I nodded, although I avoided meeting his eyes, not sure if I wanted him to know I’d found out he was the road rage cop. Maybe he’d flipped out because of his wife’s death. He did say she was killed by a cell phone-using driver. I so hoped he wasn’t the racist the alpha smugster implied. People who hate are so dangerous to everybody.

Rick led me to the Hole in the Wall shortcut. I had a moment of panic as he led me into the room—realizing I really didn’t know a thing about this man. I was alone with Captain Road Rage in a secret, hidden room.

But he led me quickly through the staff quarters and out to the golf cart.

He seemed to sense my fear, but not the reason. He gave my shoulder a pat.

“
Gaby said you were stressing,” He let down the vinyl windscreen to keep the photographers from getting a clear shot, although a few trailed behind once they spotted us. “Are you upset that Gaby and Toby rescheduled your talk again? The decision wasn’t just theirs. The Sheriff’s department wants to keep the public away as much as possible, with the investigation going on. Not to mention the complications provided by the protesters. Those folks might have heckled you off the stage. You don’t need ‘squirrel murderer’ and ‘tree assassin’ added to the bogus accusations against you.”

I hoped the accusations against him were bogus, too.

“
Did Toby really cut down five-hundred-year-old oak trees? Those trees would have been here when this was Indian land: no cowboys—not even
rancheros
. When you think that only a hundred and fifty years ago banditos were roaming these hills…”

“
And some of them still do,” Rick said with a chuckle. “And one’s got no head.” He started whistling the theme from
The X-Files
.

“
They were very real to Mrs. Boggs Bailey.” I was not in the mood for jokes.

“
Sorry,” he said in a more serious tone. “But I doubt her disappearance has anything to do with ghosts—not that she isn’t in danger. If she witnessed the murder, she could be a target.”

A thought came to me. “She did keep calling Ernesto the dead boy. I thought she’d misinterpreted what I said about him ‘dying’ in the critique workshop, but maybe not. Maybe she did see him. She could have walked into the cabin and seen his body, or maybe she even witnessed his death.”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Mitzi isn’t coherent a lot of the time.”

By the time he pulled the cart in front of Roy Rogers, the photographers seemed to have given up. Zorro was still surrounded by the Sheriff’s yellow barriers and the investigators’ van sat in the lot next to the Ferrari. On the front gate was one of Alberto’s elegant signs that said—

“
PUBLIC EVENTS CANCELED. TICKET HOLDERS TO PLEASE CALL FOR REFUND.”

At the door to my cabin, I reached for the key in my bag, but pulled out the wrong key—the one to Plant’s car. He’d given it to me less than twenty-four hours ago. How could things have gone so wrong since then?

 “
Damn!” I tossed the key back, rummaging furiously for the door key, which seemed to have evaporated.

“
Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Rick said, his hand light and warm on my shoulder.

His comforting touch made me feel like a kid in need of a good cry. But I was not going to let it happen. Certainly not in front of Captain Road Rage.

 
Rick reached in his pocket and pulled a pack of tissues that had a picture of Kermit the frog on it. He handed me one.

“
Kermit?” I said.

“
Yeah, I’ve got a Little Brother, Jamal—you know, with the Big Brother program?  Jamal’s got allergies like you wouldn’t believe. And he’s crazy for frogs.”

Finally I found the cabin key. I opened the door and accepted the tissue. 

“
Things will look better tomorrow.” Rick looked down at me the way he must look at the snotty-nosed frog-lover. “Now, don’t stay up all night reading that brilliant blockbuster novel.” He laughed as he pointed to his manuscript, which I’d left scattered over the couch.

I nodded and blew my nose on a little green Kermit.

 
He brushed my lips with a kiss—just a quick one, but it was enough to leave a tingle.

“
I’ve got a lot of writing to do tonight. Still got five chapters to go, and Luci is going to expect the full manuscript when she gets here tomorrow.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I’d sure rather spend some time with you.”

But I was glad he left so quickly. I needed to figure out how I felt about Captain Road Rage—without his body so near. I didn’t do well when I let my hormones do the thinking. I picked up his manuscript and sat at the desk, wondering if it held any clues to who the real Rick was: “Captain Road Rage” or the guy with a “Little Brother” named Jamal? 

 
I looked at the dial-less phone, wondering if there was a way for me to contact Plantagenet. Maybe I could call Silas. I picked up the phone. Alberto probably had a number for him.

There was a busy signal. The switchboard must be jammed. I’d try again later.

But what if Rick was right in suspecting Silas? He had disappeared from the bar just about the time of the murder. He left because he had to answer a phone call—I’d thought he was so polite, but maybe he was just being a very clever killer.

Setting down the receiver of the useless phone, I wondered if it was time for the Manners Doctor to relent about cell phones. Most people wouldn’t be inconvenienced by the quaint lack of technology in the Rancho’s phone system because they carried their own. Too bad they only made me furious.

 
With an awful chill, I flashed on the smashed phone Detective Fiscalini showed me. Obviously somebody besides me was furious at telephones. It looked as if it had been attacked with a hammer. Or stomped on.

The smugsters said that Captain Road Rage had stomped on his victim’s iPhone.

Could Rick have attacked Ernesto—for texting and driving? Maybe something about Ernesto’s driving triggered some uncontrolled rage response in Rick. His wife had only died a year ago. He must have a lot of unhealed grief.

And Rick hadn’t accounted for the half hour between when he saw Plant and Ernesto in the lobby and when he met me outside the Ponderosa Lounge.

I wiped the memory of tingle from my lips. Rick Zukowski could be a psycho killer.

And I might get the prize for the world’s worst taste in men.

I read the rest of Rick’s novel, trying to find clues to his Captain Road Rage alter ego. I don’t know what I expected—somebody killed for distracted driving, maybe. Righteous rage. But his Captain Iggy Sanchez was such an upright, uptight, perfect-citizen type—except for his weakness for Scandinavian pastry—that even his mother-in-law would probably be bored. I managed to slog through police report prose describing celebrity bust after celebrity bust—mostly because I recognized the thinly disguised A-listers and their whispered-about proclivities. But when the manuscript ended in the middle of chapter twenty-four, I didn’t have any further insight into Rick’s capacity for murderous rage. I also couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to interest the great Lucille Silverberg with such a snooze of a book.

 
I felt trapped in the little cabin, and could have used a walk. I stepped outside for a moment, but every shadow in the deserted place made me jump. Even the investigators’ van was gone, although they’d left up their yellow tape barrier. I wondered if they planned to do any more investigating. If Plant wasn’t a murderer, then someone dangerous was out there in the dark.

Captain Road Rage?

Silas Ryder?

A headless ghost?

Nothing made sense. I went back inside, did some yoga, took a long bath, then popped one of the Ativans I’d brought for the plane. I finally fell into drifty sleep.

But I woke to odd sounds: footsteps, then a rustle. From out in the sitting room.

My body went cold. Somebody was out there.

In the dark, I could make out something in the outer room. Someone outlined by the yellow parking lot light that bled around the curtains at the front window—a figure in the doorway, very tall, wearing a long coat or cape.

But it had no head.

The ghost. Joaquin. Real cranially-challenged ectoplasm. Here. In my bedroom.

I lay still, my heart pounding, and listened for the sounds again. Nothing. Maybe the headless figure was just a trick of shadow.

No. I was aware of something else—not exactly through sound or sight—but I could feel it: breathing.

Ghosts didn’t breathe, did they? Certainly not headless ones. How could it be a ghost? I didn’t believe in ghosts, headless or otherwise—did I?

No. What I did believe in was the insanity of the celebrity-crazed media. Clarity came to my drugged brain. Had I locked the door? If someone was in my cabin, it had to be some sneaky creep with a camera.

Now I was just plain mad. I wasn’t going to let some paparazzo terrorize me. I made a quick roll to the edge of the bed and slid from under the bunched-up covers onto the floor. I fell on something hard: the Cuban heel of one of the Fendi pumps I’d been wearing earlier. I pulled it from under my butt and hung onto it. It might make a threatening-looking weapon.

“
Go ahead, roll your damned camera, you media slime!” I shouted. Let the Bozo get a nice shot of an unmade bed.

But there was no camera—just a gasp and another floorboard creaking.

I hurled the shoe in the direction of the creak.

I heard a shattering crash, then a squawk and a yelp. Something crouching in the shadows suddenly stood tall and menacing by the door. With a quick flash of yellow light, the door opened and slammed shut.

After a few moments, I could hear nothing but the pounding in my own chest. Quieting my heartbeat with steady breaths, I grabbed the other pump and felt the satisfying weight of the stacked leather heel. I crept around the bed and peered out.

 
I peeked through the curtains, half expecting to see some Sleepy Hollow horseman taking off down the road. Instead I saw a vintage sports car speeding toward the gate. It was too dark to read the license plate. But the color could have been orange.

Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s orange Mustang.

I stood by the window, shivering in my Oscar de la Renta charmeuse chemise, still holding my shoe. I ran back to the bedroom and flicked on the light. I could see my shoe had knocked over a ceramic lamp shaped like a cowboy boot. It lay in shards all over the braided rug.