Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (19 page)

D. Sorengaard stomped onto the stage.

“
Okay, folks,” he said in a foghorn voice. “There’s nothing more to see here today. Time to go home. Everybody who is not registered at this hotel is trespassing. Return to your vehicles and vacate the property.”

Detective Fiscalini led Gabriella toward the exit as deputies started dispersing the crowd. But Jonathan held his ground, thrusting his mike in Plant’s face. The lighting and camera men closed in.

I hovered, staring at Jonathan. He was once an idealistic newsman. How had he become this shameless monster?

Up on the stage, D. Sorengaard contended with Mrs. Boggs Bailey, who was attempting to get him to join her in a kind of Shirley Temple soft-shoe dance. The cameraman shifted focus and aimed at the stage.

Gabriella laid a cuffed hand on Detective Fiscalini’s arm and turned to give me a pleading look.

I understood. I strode toward Jonathan and put the palm of my hand over the camera lens.

“
That will be all. Jonathan,” I said. “You heard Officer Sorengaard. You’re not a guest at this hotel. The presentation is over. You’re trespassing. Please leave.”

Jonathan grabbed my hand and fixed me with his icy blue stare. A cameraman swiveled and moved in on me.

“
Camilla Randall,” Jonathan said. “I understand you found the body of Toby Roarke as well as that of Mr. Ernesto Cervantes?  People keep losing their lives wherever you go, Camilla. Can you explain that?”

Jonathan’s smile was as steely as his grip on my wrist. The microphone nearly touched my lips. I could smell his
Emporio Armani
—the scent that once made me melt with wanting him. But at this moment I felt nothing but disgust.

“
There has been a lot of loss here—a lot of tragedy,” I said finally, trying to present a composed look to the camera. “The world has lost a promising young writer. Gabriella Moore has lost her longtime companion. Mitzi Boggs Bailey has lost her mental faculties, and you, Jonathan Kahn, are about to lose whatever shreds of honor and integrity you have left. Can I explain it? No, I cannot.”

Jonathan let go of my hand, lowered his microphone and signaled the cameraman to stop. He covered his mouth and shut his eyes.

“
My God, Camilla!” Only when he dropped his hand did I see that he was laughing. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are when you turn on that Dr. Manners stuff? Babe, can we just talk—five minutes—off the record?”

“
No!  She can’t ‘just talk’ with you, Kahn,” said Plantagenet, pushing the formerly chair-wielding crewman aside with surprising force. “Nobody wants to talk to you on the record, off the record or—”

“
No, wait!” said Gabriella. “Mr. Kahn, this is some kind of foul-up, and it will be cleared up in a few minutes at the station, I’m sure,” She turned to Jonathan with surprising calm. “But please, for Mitzi’s sake, don’t air this. I’ll give you an exclusive when I get back. You have my word on it. Don’t air this footage, and when I get back from the Sheriff’s station, I talk to nobody but you. Is that a deal?”

“
Do you want to take my picture again, Mr. Kahn?” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, her voice loud and flat in the hushed room.

“
No,” said Jonathan, still transfixed by Gabriella’s serene stare. “I won’t be taking any more pictures today, Mrs. Bailey.” He handed his microphone to the chair-man. “If you can put up my crew while we film some background, we have a deal, Gaby.”

“
Good. Alberto will give you a couple of cabins. Camilla, can you take him to the desk? Tell Alberto to give Paladin to Mr. Kahn. And the crew can have the Cisco Kid. The workshops can be relocated to the Fiesta Hall.”

“
Come along, Miss Moore,” said Detective Fiscalini.

Gabriella turned and accompanied him with the dignity of a French aristocrat being led to the guillotine.

“
Kahn, how do you sleep?” said Plantagenet, still tense with rage.

“
Very well, thanks,” Jonathan said. “I eat right, exercise and make sure I get my minimum daily requirement of alcohol.” He turned and beamed a grin at me. “So where can a guy get a Jack Daniels around here?”

Alberto wasn’t his usual efficient self as he presented me with the paperwork to register Jonathan and his crew. The poor man kept apologizing for some imagined transgression he seemed to think was the cause of Gabriella’s arrest. I wasn’t happy with the position of authority I seemed to have inherited in Gabriella’s absence. I could only hope the arrest was a stupid mistake and she’d be back soon. Entertaining Jonathan and his people was not how I wanted to spend my evening. Why not Luci? Or Rick—wherever he was?

The lobby was filling up, and Alberto looked increasingly uncomfortable as we saw Miguel—the writer-waiter and sometime assistant concierge—hauling a load of luggage from the upper floor, at the head of a parade of guests. Everybody was going to try to check out at once.

“
Where is Santiago?” said Alberto. “I asked him to help carry bags. Miguel, I need you to help me here.”

Miguel put down the luggage. He muttered something under his breath in Spanish that contained the words “Santiago, Guatemala,” and “loco.”

“
Please wait your turn,” Alberto said to the crowd of guests trying to check out.

“
I don’t want Ronald Reagan any more,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “I want Roy Rogers back. Mr. Kahn’s going to be down at the cabins, so I want to be there. I need to show him my play. He can put it on TV, now that I’m famous. Mr. Kahn, did you know I was on TV? I stopped them from killing the squirrels.”

Jonathan nodded, his newsman’s smile beginning to crack. “And I’m sure the squirrels are deeply grateful, Mrs. Bailey.”

Mitzi pounded the desk in front of Alberto.

“
Ronald Reagan has too many ghosts. My play got stolen. Give me Roy Rogers!”

The frazzled Alberto shot a questioning look at me, as if I had some way of channeling Gabriella’s wishes.

“
Isn’t someone free to…spend some time with Mrs. Boggs Bailey?” I tried to be polite about the sudden elder-care duties. “Maybe one of the other faculty members?”

Alberto shook his head. “Lucille Silverberg has gone to the Saloon with Mr. Montgomery. Captain Zukowski as well, I believe. We cannot locate Vondra DeHaviland or Herbert Frye; the greeting card lady has gone back to Fresno, and many are not staying here. They have gone home for the day. Nothing is scheduled tonight but dinner and Mr. Smith at seven o’clock.” He gave a nod in Plantagenet’s direction while he handed keys to Jonathan and his crew. “Miguel will take you to the cabins in a golf cart.”

So Rick and Luci were out drinking with Walker Montgomery—having themselves a little party while chaos reigned at the Rancho. I could only pray that Luci wouldn’t show the awful photo to Rick. And that Rick wouldn’t believe the woman in the picture was me.

I turned to Miguel, as he hefted the luggage of Jonathan’s crew. “Is there someone who could watch Mrs. Boggs Bailey—maybe one of the maids? Someone who knows a little English? I’m sure there would be extra pay.”
            Miguel gave me a stiff smile. “I will try. Much of the staff is calling in sick. We don’t have enough legals…” he stopped himself, glancing at Jonathan and lowered his voice. “I can’t say anything more. Too many reporters.” 

The camera crew followed him, obviously eager for the refuge of the cabins, but Jonathan lingered. I tried to freeze him with my chilliest look, but he clapped a hand on Plant’s shoulder as if they were old friends.

“
How about that drink? Don’t tell me there’s no bar in this place?”

Plant gave me an apprehensive glance.

 “
Drinks are served in the Ponderosa Lounge only,” Alberto said with clipped efficiency. “The Longhorn Room is a crime scene. No one is allowed until the investigators get their laboratory results.”

“
You can buy me a whiskey sour, Mr. Kahn,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, taking Jonathan’s arm. “I love a silver fox.”

Jonathan’s hair was indeed more silver than brown now—but still thick and impeccably cut. And he was obviously still working with his personal trainer.

Plantagenet gave me an eye roll. As we followed the unlikely pair, he whispered, “I’ll call my lawyer and tell him his firm has another client. Gaby is the one we should be worrying about right now.”

The Ponderosa Lounge was already full by the time we arrived. All the conference-goers who had not yet checked out seemed to be there, still clutching manuscripts. They mobbed Jonathan as soon as we walked in the door.

“
Mr. Kahn can’t talk,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “He and Gaby have a deal.”

In the far corner of the Lounge, on the table that had once held only water pitchers and paper cups, a makeshift bar had been set up. Jonathan pushed his way through the crowd with a few affable jokes and made his way to the bar-table as Mrs. Boggs Bailey trailed behind him.

Plant whispered in my ear. “Why don’t we go back to Gaby’s apartment?  We can leave Jonathan with Mitzi and his other adoring fans.”

I grabbed Plant’s hand. “Quick, before they catch us.”

I pulled him toward the door, but it was too late. Jonathan materialized behind us.

“
Out of Jack Daniels,” he said. “I’ll bet Toby Roarke kept a private stash. Mitzi tells me Gaby’s got a private bar upstairs?”

I sighed. Part of me almost felt sorry for Jonathan. Whatever evil plans Luci had for that photograph, they would probably be even worse for Jonathan than for me.

Plant smiled a little too wide and squeezed my hand.

“
Yes,” he said. “We were just talking about going up there. I’m sure Gaby won’t mind.”

“
Oh, she’ll mind all right,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “But she can’t stop us now. She shouldn’t have made the ghosts mad. The Sheriff took that old cowgirl to the hoosegow, just like Joaquin said he would.”

“
Joaquin said Gaby would go to jail?” Plant looked into the old woman’s eyes, as if he hoped to find something rational there.

“
Oh, yes. Him and Obadiah. They told me.”

“
The ghosts talked to you about Gabriella—when?”

“
On the night that boy died.”

Mrs. Boggs Bailey basked in Jonathan’s attentions, obviously unable to comprehend the seriousness of Gabriella’s troubles. Saying she was too tired to climb the stairs, the old woman triumphantly located a key to the secret elevator, stashed in a magnetic box stuck to the underside of the ice machine.

“
This place is better than that Winchester Mystery House in San Jose,” Jonathan said. “I wonder if Gaby would let me tape a whole show here?” 

“
This ranch is in pictures all the time,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “Back when I was a girl, this was the elevator they used for equipment like those great big lights. We used to catch heck for playing on it.”

“
Really?”  Jonathan said. “Gaby and Toby built their house on a movie set?”

I felt tense standing so close to Jonathan in the tiny elevator. His scent and warmth were so familiar—but he’d become a dangerous stranger. I stood as close as I could to Plant and was relieved when the red leatherette doors opened into Gabriella’s apartment.

Mrs. Boggs Bailey laughed and rushed to climb up on a bar stool.

“
Not Gabriella and Toby, stupid. I told you before: this is my place. Me and my brother Hank. He bought this ranch after the Prohibition. He was a kid himself, but nobody wanted an old speakeasy, so he got it cheap. He rented it to the movie people. We had all the big stars here—Hoot Gibson, Buck Jones, Jonny Mack Brown. You ever see Buck in
Hello Trouble
? That was one of my favorites.”

I looked around the apartment, and thought it looked a little messier than it had last night, although the investigators had been pretty neat, if they’d been there. Toby’s desk looked sorted through. The Rolodex seemed to be missing. I couldn’t tell what else.

Maybe they’d found evidence here that pointed at Gaby as the murderer.

Maybe she was actually guilty. It was possible.

I felt guilty sitting at Gabriella and Toby’s bar with Toby dead and Gaby in jail. I wished Rick was here, even if he was an ex-gangster who was involved with another woman. His presence made me feel safer. I wondered if he even knew about Gabriella’s arrest yet. I sure would like to know what he and Gabriella had been arguing about.

I wondered if she could possibly be guilty. As I looked at Jonathan, pumping Mrs. Boggs Bailey for dirt about Gaby while he pretended to be entranced by the ghost stories, I could imagine being angry enough to bonk a spouse on the head with a frying pan, if I happened to have one handy. And Gaby had that office in the service wing—right near the kitchen. Didn’t Rick say that’s where Toby had been killed?

Jonathan poured himself a large whiskey from the array of bottles behind the bar.