Ghostwriters In The Sky

by Anne R. Allen

He didn’t seem to be speeding, but we arrived at our destination in amazingly good time. I thanked him and gave him a couple of twenties, hoping that would be enough. He gave a sudden wide grin, jumped back in the taxi, and took off so fast I wondered if he might be dealing with some sort of bathroom emergency.

  I peered through the evening gloom, but saw no sign of Gabriella’s ranch—or the writers who should have been gathered for the opening reception dinner.

  I didn’t see any golden hills, fat cattle or vineyards, either. Nothing but the strained quiet of over-manicured suburbia.

  An icky sensation ran down my neck.

  I could feel someone watching me—lurking in a shadowy open garage across the street. I heard the snarl of a motorcycle engine and reached in my bag for the hairspray—a useful weapon in a pinch.

  I headed for the corner with purposeful stride—or as close an approximation of stride as I could achieve in my wobbly Manolos. Under the street lamp, I saw a sign that said, "Santa Ynez Ct."

  Oops. The driver must have thought I meant the Court, not the town. That’s why the trip from the airport had been so improbably short. I must still be in Santa Barbara.

  And I’d really over-tipped that driver.

  I told myself to think positive: be grateful to the airline for losing my luggage. This would be a whole lot worse if I were carrying all those suitcases. I’ve never learned to pack light.

  A motorcycle roared down the driveway from the ominous garage. I clutched the hair spray and re-arranged my face into a stiff smile.

  The rider pulled up beside me and lifted his face guard.

  “Doctor Manners? I thought I recognized you, darlin’.”

  He grinned, displaying a serious need for dental work.

  Apparently members of the Santa Barbara outlaw biker community read the New York Post.

  “It’s me.” The man took off the helmet. His look was something between cave person and aging rock star entering rehab. His eyebrows might have done damage in their own right. “From the Saloon. You’re a long way from Santa Ynez, sweet thing.”

  He knew where I was going. This was getting creepier by the minute. I didn’t see a camera, but he had to be a paparazzo. Gabriella probably put out some publicity about me for the conference and this guy had followed me from the airport.

  “I don’t frequent saloons.” I gave him a look that, while not exactly rude, was of a chilliness that could usually shrivel a Manhattan maître d’.

  He responded with a suggestive chortle. “Oooh, I love that talk. Come on darlin’.”

  I realized I was going to have to let him take his pictures. This wasn’t a case of being able to close the drapes. After fifteen years of marriage to a TV celebrity, I’d learned the best way to get rid of some paparazzi is to give them what they want.

  “Okay, you win.” I smoothed my hair and gave him a celebrity smile. “Get out your equipment.”

  “In the goddam street? Doc, you are into the kink!” With an animal grunt, he lunged in my direction. I jumped back, but he caught my wrist and jerked me toward his leather-clad chest. “I am up for some fun, darlin’, but I like a little privacy. I just got paid for an ’88 Norton I rebuilt for that old fart across the street.”

  The man’s breath needed to be reported to the EPA.

  “What say we hit the Saloon, then my place? I’ve been a bad, bad boy… ”

  Another pervert. I should have realized this would happen. The Post was online these days, like everything else. People all over the country could have seen that article.

  “You’re not a paparazzo, are you?” I scouted for the best way to run.

  The biker looked offended. “Paparazzos? Never heard of that bike club. I’m a Ghost Mountain Rider.” He pointed to the bike-riding skeleton logo on his jacket.

  I edged away, scanning the garden for a nice rock or weapon-sized garden gnome.

  A barking dog startled us both. A spandex-clad woman appeared in the doorway of the next house, talking on her cell phone while jogging in place. I ran to her, waving with relief. But her dog barked louder and the woman screamed at us.

  “Get out, you trash!”

  The dog was large, with dangerous-looking teeth—and no leash. It let out a menacing growl. The spandex woman shouted again.

  “I’ve called 911. I can’t believe it. Prostitution. Only two blocks from Montecito. Oprah lives here! Have some respect.”

  The dog growled again.

  “Here you go, Doc!” The biker offered me a silvery helmet and pointed at his studded-leather saddlebags. “Got an extra jacket. Put it on, and you can stow your bag back there.”

  I looked from the dog to the biker. The dog had significantly more teeth.

  A police siren wailed. I tossed my tote in the saddlebag, shoved my arms into the huge jacket, slammed on the helmet, and launched myself onto the back of the Harley, trying not to think about the damage I was doing to my Dolce and Gabbana suit—or how much leg I was showing.

  “I can’t believe that woman took me for a streetwalker!” I tried for a casual laugh.

  “Yeah. What a bitch! Everybody knows you are one high class call girl.” The biker gave my thigh a startling slap. “Put your arms around me, darlin’ and hang on!”

  He wove through the congested traffic, as drivers raised middle fingers and one—I’ll swear—waved a gun. By the time we escaped the city and hit the dark mountain roads, I stopped worrying about what the man intended do to me and concentrated on worrying whether I was going to live long enough to find out.

  I couldn’t have said if we spent hours or days roaring up the twisting highway, zooming around hairpin curves, leaning into the wind and passing cars as if they were standing still. My legs went numb first, then my hands, and soon after, my lips. The endless roar drilled through my ears to my brain until all thinking was impossible. With my arms circling the biker’s thick body, the worn leather of his jacket was the only reality I could cling to.

  When we finally came to a stop, we seemed to have passed through a portal of time and space and landed in the Wild West, circa 1895. We’d parked in front of a building called the “Maverick Saloon.” Two horses were tied to the railing of a wooden sidewalk and several cowboys smoked hand-rolled cigarettes nearby. None of them took any notice of us. Perhaps dentally-challenged bikers accompanied by designer-clad etiquette columnists frequented the place on a regular basis.

  “Time for a brewski, darlin’.” My companion lifted me off the bike.

  I followed on rubbery legs, reasoning that wherever/whenever I’d landed, I’d be safer in public than alone with the man.

  As we entered, my dried-out eyeballs managed to focus on a newspaper stand next to the door. It displayed The Santa Ynez Valley Journal. The headline read, “Golden West Writers Conference celebrates its Thirteenth Year.” Underneath was a photograph Gabriella Moore in full cowperson regalia—a bit shrunken with age, but still very much the rancher-matriarch of her Big Mountain days.

  Santa Ynez. Here I was, after all. Miraculous. All I needed was a ride to Gabriella’s resort. Did the town have taxis? Or was one expected to rent a horse?

  “I’m going to have to take a rain check,” I said, choosing words I hoped wouldn’t offend my unorthodox chauffeur. “I’m supposed to be at the Rancho Montana Grande. You gave me such a fun ride, I nearly forgot!”

  I faked a grateful smile as I checked my watch: nearly nine PM. I’d missed my evening presentation. I hoped Gabriella would be sympathetic to airline delays. I didn’t want to antagonize one of the few people willing to employ me after the scandals of my divorce.

  The biker looked like a little boy who’d lost the ice cream from his cone.

  “Day-um. Can’t you cancel, darlin’? I’ll make it worth your while…”

  I managed to keep my smile in place.

  “Is there a public telephone nearby?”

  He laughed. “You still on that ‘the Manners Doctor doesn’t appro
ve of cell phones’ thing?” He started to pull a phone from a zippered pocket, then dropped it back. “Aw, hell. Hop on the hog. It’ll only take a minute to run you up there.”

  His expression darkened.

  “But I ain’t stickin’ around. That place scares the bejeezus out of me. It’s lousy with ghosts. Some ain’t even got no head.”

  Chapter 3—The Cowboy Way

  The Rancho Montana Grande looked as Wild West as the old Saloon. A few rustic cabins were clustered by the main entrance, and a winding dirt road led up to the “Hacienda”—a maze of interconnected buildings that gave equal representation to every stage of California architecture from homestead adobe to mid-century Palm Springs moderne.

  The place looked odd. But then, I probably did too, as I slid off the bike in my sweaty Dolce and Gabbana, with helmet-hair, and sand-blasted make-up, and even more precarious heels. After thanking my unlikely chauffeur, I tied my hair back with a scarf, shouldered my tote bag, and headed for the lobby—as if I normally traveled via outlaw-biker Harley.

  I did hope I wouldn’t encounter any ghosts.

  Not that I believed in them.

  Much.

  Actually, I’ve always thought it was silly to be afraid of ectoplasmic apparitions. It wouldn’t make sense for a ghost to kill a live person. That would create another ghost to share the same space. Think of the housemate problems.

  When I entered the lobby, nobody stared, but a few whispered together while looking in my direction. A woman with a notebook approached.

  “Can I have your autograph?” She held out a pen. I reached for it, praying she wouldn’t make any S/M jokes. I wanted this nonsense to be over.

  But the woman walked past me without a glance, handing the pen to a tall, elderly man in a cowboy hat—an old movie star I recognized but couldn’t name. I watched the old cowboy star try to escape as the notebook woman gushed admiration while asserting her entitlement to his attention. His famous face showed a combination of impatience and trapped-animal terror.

  I gave my name to the little man who presided at the front desk. He handed me a gold-colored pocket folder, a room key and a faculty nametag that said “Camilla Randall, Nonfiction.”

  His smile was efficient and professional. I told him about my lost luggage and he assured me that everything would be taken care of. He wore a nametag that said “Alberto Gonzales, Concierge.”

  “You have missed the reception and evening classes,” Alberto said with hint of reproach. “But the critique workshop in the Ponderosa Lounge is still in session. You may join if you hurry. Your bags will be brought to your room when they arrive.”

  I hurried down the corridor, barely avoiding a collision with a waiter exiting the Ponderosa Lounge with a load of water pitchers. With a quick elbow, he caught the door and held it for me. His expression was stern, but he made a charming, childlike bow.

  Inside, fifty or so writers turned in their folding chairs to stare.

  “If it isn’t Miss Manners!” A big man boomed the greeting from a small stage. “She’s moseyed down to our Cowboy Critique workshop—a little late for the party.” He gave an unfunny laugh. “But it looks like she’s been having one of her own.”

  I looked down and felt my face flush when I saw my skirt had ripped halfway up the side. The grizzle-bearded speaker—costumed as something between Texas oil man and singing cowboy—touched the brim of his Stetson.

  “I’m Toby Roarke.”

  He motioned me to the stage.

  “Better introduce yourself, Mrs. Kahn—or whatever you call yourself now.”

  I ignored the dig, as well as the way Roarke grinned into my cleavage. Positioning myself behind the lectern, I hid what I could of my shredded skirt.

  “I’m using my maiden name again—Camilla Randall.” I beamed an exaggerated smile at Mr. Roarke. “I’ll be giving a workshop on writing the advice column. My nom de plume is the Manners Doctor. People do confuse me with Miss Manners, and I adore her, but she is about three decades older, so…”

  I hoped I was making sense. My body still vibrated from the Harley’s engine.

  Toby Roarke harrumphed and rocked back on his Tony Lama heels.

  “Any questions for Ms.…um, whatever, before we get back to our critiques?”

  Unfortunately, several hands waved. A pretty, over-made-up young woman in Donna Karan stood. “Can you get Jonathan Kahn to read my book?” Her speech had a Hispanic inflection. She waved a bulging gold folder. “It’s all, like, kinky sex in the news business. Since you’re into that scene…”

  I feared my smile muscles might cramp, but I managed to say, “I’m not in contact with Mr. Kahn.” So much for escaping the Post.

  A red-faced man rose to his feet and spoke with a plummy Oxbridge British accent.

  “Forget your ex, Miss Manners. I have a book that’s right up your street: “The Story of O and Zombies…”

  So the Post article had gone international.

  A grandmotherly woman interrupted.

  “Didn’t you hear her? She’s not Miss Manners. Miss Manners would never dress like that. Miss Manners is a lady.”

  Toby Roarke laid a heavy hand on my arm.

  “Honey, whatever you call yourself, I don’t think it’s ‘Cowboy.’ And this is called the Cowboy Critique Workshop. That Cowboy would be, um, me. You wanna take a seat and let me get on with business?”

  That would be the moment, of course, when my heel broke off—just as I stepped down from the podium. I removed the shoe and limped to a seat, clutching the shoe and severed heel. As a first post-divorce public appearance, this wasn’t going well.

  Roarke read from a list in a passive-aggressive whisper.

  “Ernesto Cervantes. You’re up to read.” The room hushed, but no one stood. “Where is the lovely Ernesto?” Roarke hooked his thumbs into his tooled leather belt. “Does our peroxide bombshell have another date with Miss Clairol? I’ll have to let somebody have his reading slot...”

  As writers thrust up hands like eager schoolchildren, a bleached-blonde, dark-skinned young man rushed in.

  “If you’re fixin’ to read us your deathless prose, you better get to it, boy.”

  The teenager’s muscled chest heaved under his “Sin City” T-shirt as he made an effortless leap up to the stage. He gave the crowd an endearing grin.

  I wanted to run up and save him from whatever the Cowboy had in store. In spite of a crude, tough-guy tattoo on his forearm, he looked like a vulnerable child.

  “This story is called El Despertador Looks at the Stars.” He looked a little nervous as he started to read. “First there is a quote—‘we may all be in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars’—Oscar Wilde said that.”

  “No, he didn’t!” Toby jumped down from the stage, spurs jingling. Swaggering down the aisle, he let his hand brush the exposed shoulder of the pretty Donna Karan girl. “Wilde said, ‘We are all in the gutter, not ‘may all be.’ Lady Windemere’s Fan, Act III.”

  Ernesto flipped through his conference folder, looking confused, then angry.

  Toby grinned. “If you’re not ready, Ernie…”

  The young man shot him an ocular dagger before continuing with a wild, surreal story about the cock-fighting subculture among local farm workers. His grammar wasn’t perfect, but I found the story gripping.

  I wanted to applaud. But the room went silent as critiquers scribbled notes.

  Roarke strolled back to the lectern.

  “Any comments for Mr. Cervantes?”

  A fiftiesh woman in Ralph Lauren denim began.

  “First, it was totally unbelievable. Nobody would bet money on chickens fighting each other. Make them polo ponies or racehorses or something. Plus the violence was offensive.”

  Another woman, whose beige hair exactly matched her raw silk overalls, agreed.

  “I was offended by that talk about black cocks. You can’t say that in this day and age.”


  After a wave of titters, one of a group of smug twenty-somethings spoke.

  “I agree it’s unbelievable. A macho guy kills himself over a sick rooster?”

  Ernesto clenched his jaw. “El Despertador is a fighting cock…”

  “No talk-back!” commanded Roarke. “Not till everybody says their piece.” He gave his audience a conspiratorial grin. “I have to agree that nobody’s going to buy all this tragedy about—well, let’s face it—poultry. You can’t start with a highfalutin’ literary quote and end with the dying thoughts of a friggin’ chicken!”

  Titters exploded into guffaws.

  The Miss Manners fan interrupted.

  “I felt sorry for Desperado. And the boy who killed himself after he gambled away his mother’s savings.”

  “No!” Ernesto yelled. “Not Desperado. Despertador. It means—”

  Despertador. My Berlitz Spanish sent me a brain-flash.

  “Alarm clock!” I blurted out. “The rooster’s name is ‘Alarm Clock.’ It’s all a joke. It’s very funny…”

  “So, Mr. Cervantes, doesn’t that make you feel better?” Roarke gave a savage smile. “The former Mrs. Jonathan Kahn is amused by your—um—little cock.”

  The room went silent as Ernesto, his face taut with rage, bounded from the stage. The door closed behind him with an eloquent thud.

  Toby Roarke glared at me.

  “You tell the boy his story is a joke? You really are into that sadism stuff like they say, aren’t you?”

  I stuffed both shoes into my bag and ran after the boy. I must have been wrong about the alarm clock.

  “Ernesto!” I called down the corridor. “I’m so sorry!”

  A small, elderly woman grabbed my arm as I ran by.

  “You look like that Dr. Manners. Are you all right?” She eyed my stocking feet with confusion and then searched my face. “The ghosts are after you, aren’t they? Don’t think they don’t know about you. We don’t cotton to perverts around here.”

  So—even little old ladies had read that stupid article.

  This could be a very long four days.

  Chapter 4—Cowboy Heaven

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” The old woman’s hand was still firmly clamped to my arm. She continued to stare at my naked feet.