“Ms. Randall will do nicely.” I didn’t like his condescending tone.
He pulled a plastic bag from the box and placed it on the table. It contained what looked like the scarf I’d been wearing earlier. I touched my hair. When had I taken it off?
“Have you seen this before, Ms. Randall?”
“Of course. It’s Hermes. One of the few I have left.” I’d been selling off some of my designer scarves at a resale shop in Queens. Along with most of my shoes and bags. Seeing my favorite scarf encased in an evidence bag made me feel a bit tragified.
“And these?” Detective Fiscalini produced two more plastic baggies. A smaller one contained the remains of a cell phone that looked as if it had been smashed with a large, blunt object. A larger plastic baggie contained a gun. A very big gun. He placed it next to the one containing my scarf.
“What an awful-looking thing. Did somebody hit that poor telephone with it?”
“Please answer my question. Have you seen either of these items before?”
I assured him I hadn’t.
“If you’ve touched them, Forensics will find your fingerprints. Would you like to rethink your answer?”
“I don’t recall that I’ve ever touched a handgun. Certainly not that one. And the Manners Doctor does not approve of mobile telephones.”
The phone looked like a cheap pre-pay throw-away and the gun bore no resemblance to the one Ernesto had used to kill himself.
“These items were inside Plantagenet Smith’s vehicle. Locked inside. Can you explain how they got there?”
He leaned over me, looking like an inquisitive gopher.
“I have no idea.” It’s not easy to be polite to a man who is so blatantly invading your space. “I do know the Ferrari was locked, because I locked it. It was unlocked when I got in, but I was careful to lock it when I got up to the Hacienda. I figured Ernesto had forgotten, because he was so stressed.”
“He was stressed? How do you know that? Did you know the deceased well?”
“I didn’t know him at all. I heard him read a story in the Cowboy Critique Workshop. A pretty good story, I thought. Of course, I could be wrong. I’m often wrong. Especially about men. And I certainly was wrong about the alarm clock…”
Sleep-deprivation was making my conversation less than coherent.
“But you do know Plantagenet Smith?”
“Of course. He and I are old friends. But we haven’t seen each other for about five years. Ever since he appeared on The Real Story and my husband confronted him with his ex-boyfriend. It was horrible. I’m sure you heard about it on the news.”
“Did you come to Santa Ynez to re-unite with Mr. Smith now your divorce is final?”
I shook my head. “I had no idea Plant was going to be at the conference. As I said, we’ve had no contact for five years.”
“No contact. And he suddenly appears at the same conference as you?” He peered into my eyes. “Isn’t it true you two were once engaged to be married?”
“Oh, my. That was nearly twenty years ago.” The man sounded as if he were interviewing me for Entertainment Tonight, not investigating a suicide. “That was before I married Jonathan—which is probably why Jonathan has never liked him. And, obviously, it was long before Plantagenet came out as gay. Even to himself. I think he was sort of experimenting with heterosexuality.”
The detective’s dark little eyes revealed nothing.
“Experimenting. Is that what you and Mr. Smith were doing in bed with Ernesto Cervantes’ body last night? A little experiment in necrophilia?”
I sighed. Okay, this guy had read the Post article. I shouldn’t be surprised. But I refused to play his game.
“Detective Fiscalini, I’m afraid my jet lag is playing mind tricks on me.” I gave him a Manners Doctor smile. “I thought I heard you accuse me of having sex with Plantagenet Smith? And a dead person?”
“You deny it?”
“Yes. I also deny being from the planet Zog.”
The Manners Doctor would not have approved of that last sentence. After all, Detective Fiscalini might actually be from the planet Zog.
“But you do admit that you drove Plantagenet Smith’s Ferrari from the scene of Mr. Cervantes’ murder to the Hacienda at 2 A.M. this morning?”
“I drove the Ferrari up the hill, locked it, and left it in the Hacienda parking lot. Which I told the officers who brought me here. But I don’t know about any murder. Ernesto Cervantes committed suicide. Anybody who saw his body would know that. And the boy had just been humiliated in front of half the people at the conference by Toby Roarke. Silas Ryder said he was fragile. Teenagers can’t always put experiences like that in perspective. They think the humiliation will go on forever. The Manners Doctor has often written about the importance of good manners when dealing with teenagers…”
“Silas Ryder? The owner of The Pierian Spring bookstores? What is your relationship with Silas Ryder?”
Before I could answer, D. Sorengaard reappeared to summon Detective Fiscalini somewhere. Maybe back to the planet Zog.
Left alone with the windmill again, I began to empathize with Don Quixote’s vendetta against the things. I had no idea how the detective imagined I was involved in Ernesto Cervantes’ suicide—or why he used the word murder. I could only hope the nonsense wouldn’t make it into the press. I could picture the news leads—
“KINKY DR. MANNERS DETAINED IN GAY SUICIDE SHOCKER”
Or “KAHN’S KINKY EX INVESTIGATED IN NECROPHILIAC RING”
Maybe the windmill picture hypnotized me into some sort of sleep, because the next thing I knew, D. Sorengaard was shaking my shoulder.
“Okay, Dr. Manners. Time to go. You got some big shot waiting for you.”
I rubbed my ear where it had been resting on the table. D. Sorengaard gave me a rather sweet smile. Something about it was familiar, although I couldn’t think why.
“Move your tail, honey. They sent brass up here to take you back to L.A.”
“Brass?” I shocked myself back to reality with a sip of coffee—even more toxic at room temperature. “Did you say ‘back to Los Angeles’? I haven’t been there in years.”
“Whatever. A honcho from the L.A.P.D. says he wants you for questioning. He’s waiting in a car outside.”
“Someone from the Los Angeles Police Department wants to ask me questions?” I followed him into the outer office.
“Yup. L.A. wants you—and L.A. can have you. Me, I’ve got a suspicious death on my watch and a bunch of anti-grape-crazies about to invade.”
“Anti grape-crazies?” I envisioned a crusade against purple lunatics. What did he mean by “suspicious death”? He was as bad as Detective Fiscalini.
He sighed. “Yeah. Big anti-vineyard protest. Remember when the tree-huggers used to hate ranchers because cow-farts killed off the rain forest? Now they hate ’em for getting rid of the cows and planting grapes. No pleasing these people.”
“So where do I go?”
He pointed to the double doors that led outside.
“Out. If they want to pick you up, it has to be outside. Fiscalini says we can’t hold you.” He motioned to a deputy, who escorted me outside.
We walked along a concrete walk past a green lawn and out to the street. But I saw no sign of the L.A.P.D. In fact, I seemed to have been transported out of California completely—to a misty, fairytale world of thatched gingerbready cottages with windows full of teddy bears, gnomes, and wooden shoes. The breezes wafted with the aromas of baking pastry. Down the street was another windmill—a three-dimensional one—about two stories high. I watched the windmill’s paddles turn slowly in the gentle breeze.
A lone green Saturn was parked at the curb, the back door open. I got in, while the deputy went around to the driver’s window, where he exchanged a few monotone grunts of cop-speak with the man at the wheel.
As the deputy returned to the building, I had the creepy realization that the man in the driver’s seat wasn’t wearing a unif
orm. I kept my hand on the door handle.
He pushed a paper bag through the headrests. What he said sounded like, “Cheese or ollalieberry?” The bag smelled of fresh coffee and pastry. I let go and took the bag. Inside was a take-out coffee cup and two of the biggest Danish pastries I’d ever seen.
“I hope you like your cappuccino with chocolate sprinkles.” He turned to look at me. “It’s the only way they serve it in this town.”
It wasn’t a policeman. It was Rick Zukowski/Mystery-Thriller.
“Rick!” I said. “The deputy thought you were somebody else. We have to find the L.A.P.D. They’re going to question me—”
“They already have,” Rick said, still grinning. “The question was: cheese or ollalieberry?” He peeked into the bag. “You gotta decide, because I’m starving.”
“You’re from the L.A.P.D?”
“It’s a fact, ma’am.” He pulled an impressive badge from the pocket of his faded denim jacket. Captain. Not of the deep blue sea, but the thin blue line. That was where that air of authority came from. Was he going to arrest me? It was too humiliating.
“You think I’m a murderer? And a necrophiliac dominatrix?”
Rick’s warm brown eyes stared at me through the headrests. I couldn’t tell if he was trying not to laugh or seriously trying to picture me in the role.
“Necrophilia? What—they get their complaints from late night comics?”
Late night comics. That’s probably why everybody knew about the Post article. Some comedian had got hold of it. Damn. That could only make things worse.
“Apparently. Is that what you’re going to arrest me for?”
“I’m not going to arrest you.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
I decided to take the Danish with the purple jam center. It was buttery and warm and the jam tart-sweet and wonderfully gooey.
“We’re eating Danish pastry. Just out of the oven.” He took the bag and pulled out the remaining Danish. He took a large bite before starting the engine.
“You got D. Sorengaard to release me by pretending the L.A.P.D. wanted me?” I leaned forward so I could see him better between the head rests. I was trying to process this new information about Rick. A policeman-writer. A sensitive warrior. Intriguing.
“I flashed my badge to speed things up, but they had nothing to hold you on. They hauled you in on an iffy complaint from a semi-intelligible cell phone call. Awful reception in these hills.” Rick munched cheese Danish while he drove us through the cutesy streets.
“They got a complaint about me? Who made the call? It wasn’t my ex-husband, was it?” Was Jonathan subjecting me to some new humiliation? After the Post article, I knew he was capable of anything.
Rick laughed. “Jeez, you two are having some battle, aren’t you? Not that I blame you for dumping him. Not many wives would stick around after a video of her husband getting a b. j. from a Sunset hooker made it onto You Tube. But I gotta have some sympathy for the guy. Those amateur paparazzi are a menace with their phones.”
“If Jonathan didn’t make the call to the Sheriff’s people, who did?”
“Mitzi Boggs Bailey. She called in a complaint against you and Smith and a dead guy who drove an orange Mustang. She said you three were having such noisy sex that she couldn’t sleep.” He chortled. “And I thought your reunion hadn’t gone that well...”
If I hadn’t had my hands full of coffee and pastry, I would have hit him.
“That was pay-per-view! Plantagenet and I did not have sex, noisy or otherwise! Besides, it’s a Ferrari and it’s not orange; it’s burgundy. Anyway, I didn’t know sex was against the law in—” I looked around at the cutesy shops. “Garden Gnome Heaven or wherever we are.”
Rick laughed again. “Solvang. We’re in Solvang. A little bit o’ Denmark on the Central Coast of California.” He turned right and pointed at a sign that said ‘San Marcos Pass.’ “We’re on our way back to Gabriella’s Rancho. Sex is legal in both places, as long as you’re not scaring the horses or disturbing the peace. Especially the peace of someone related to Gabriella Moore—Mitzi’s her sister-in-law, you know.”
That explained a few things.
“But blowing people’s heads off isn’t legal anywhere that I know of.”
His voice came at me like buckshot.
“I hear the kid you and the famous screenwriter were having that threesome with got his head blown off last night. You want to tell me about that?”
My mouth went so dry I couldn’t swallow. Finally I managed to wash things down with a cappuccino that was more chocolate sprinkles and foam than coffee.
“There was no threesome! And no sex. Except on some TV movie Ernesto was watching. Mrs. Boggs Bailey must have heard the soundtrack—and I don’t know—maybe she went over to complain about it and saw the body. But she says she saw ghosts too, so who knows?” I gulped more coffee. “But no—I don’t particularly want to talk about it. A boy committed suicide. It’s tragic. But please don’t pretend to be my friend when you only want to interrogate me.” Why had I flirted with this man? “Are you working for that Fiscalini person—is that why you’re here? Some good cop/bad cop thing?”
“I’m here buying you breakfast and taking you back to the Rancho.” Rick turned and gave me a silly grin. “Do you know you have chocolate sprinkles on your nose?”
Chapter 7—MEANWHILE BACK AT THE RANCH
When Rick and I got back to the Rancho Grande, the parking lot was jammed with cars and vans with media logos. A knot tightened in my stomach. And I’d thought I could avoid all this horror by escaping New York.
Reporters accosted me as soon as I opened the car door, pressing around me as I tried to make my way to the Hacienda. They kept asking me questions like, “Are you romantically involved with Plantagenet Smith?” and “Are you and Plantagenet into necrophilia as well as S and M, Dr. Manners?”
Poor Plant was getting slimed by Jonathan’s Post interview along with me.
Rick escorted me through the crowd and into the lobby with practiced efficiency. I was glad to be in the company of a policeman, even such an infuriating one.
“Thanks,” I said as I stopped at the desk for my room key. “This is all such nonsense. They must be starved for news around here.”
“I’m sorry Ms. Randall,” said Alberto, the little concierge. “You are no longer in room fourteen A. That room is not available.” He was engrossed in lettering a sign that said, in elegant calligraphy, “GUESTS ONLY & NO REPORTERS.”
“My room is not available? Where is Gabriella?” Was I being given the boot because of Mitzi Boggs Bailey’s delusions?
“Miss Moore is out. She says you can have Roy Rogers. No extra charge.” Alberto put the final touches on his ampersand.
“I should hope not. I’m supposed to get free lodging,” I gave a grumpy sniff. “First my luggage disappears and now this.”
Alberto silently pointed with his Rapidograph pen. My set of ancient Vuitton suitcases and laptop case were carefully stacked behind the desk. I ran to them. It felt like being reunited with family.
Rick picked up my two largest bags.
“Roy Rogers is very nice. Sleeps six.” Said Alberto.
I gave him a cold look. “I don’t plan on doing any entertaining.”
“Don’t be upset about the room change,” Rick said. “The place is full. Gaby probably wants to get Mitzi away from the crime scene. The old girl has already screwed things up for the i-team with that call to the Sheriff about your…” He raised his eyebrows in feigned shock, “Zombie sex ménage a trois.”
“Screwed it up for the investigators? What about me? Look what that old woman’s delusions have…” I stopped. Rick’s mention of “zombie sex” had quieted the lobby to an eavesdropping hush. Now I knew the punchline of those late-night jokes.
Rick hurried me out to his car.
I apologized for my crankiness when we were safely in his Saturn. “You seem to have a lot of practice with c
rowds.”
“I was a rookie beat cop during the O.J. trial.” Rick started down the winding drive to the cabins. “I learned a lot about dealing with scandal-obsessed reporters. Since then, I’ve been assigned to dozens of celebrity cases. It’s absurd how the smallest thing can explode into a scandal once the media get hold of it.”
I just nodded.
The cabin area wasn’t as crowded as the Hacienda, and I couldn’t spot any lurking reporters, but all the cabin parking spaces were taken by what looked like the investigation team. Several determined-looking workers in Sheriff’s Department uniforms stood inside the yellow police tape barrier surrounding Zorro and its environs.
Rick had to park a few hundred yards up the hill, but didn’t complain as he grabbed my suitcases and started down the road. I had the laptop bag and make-up case as well as my tote, which made for an awkward load as I trudged after him. The warming sun beat down bright and hot.
“Too bad we had to shoot the horses, Dusty.” Rick put on a stagy cowboy drawl. “But at least we got all your bricks in these here saddlebags.”
“Sorry. I tend to overpack. I had no idea how people would dress out here in the Wild West—especially right down the road from the old Reagan Ranch. I didn’t want to look shabby if I was going to run into a bunch of Republican grande dames. They are the Manners Doctor’s fan base after all.”
Rick laughed. “My mother-in-law’s a Democrat, and she’s your biggest fan—swear to God. But everything I’ve heard about you is so different.”
Uh-oh. This was it. He was going to ask if anything in that article was true.
But he just grinned. “You seem real. You know, down-to-earth.”
“I am real. So is the Manners Doctor, in a way. Most people have an inner child. I have an inner great aunt.”
He had a delicious grin. He even carried my bags into the bedroom and lifted the biggest one onto the folding luggage rack.
“You’ve been so kind,” I said. “I don’t know how you managed to be there exactly when I needed you, but thanks. If I can do anything for you…”
Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Page 5