Ghostwriters In The Sky

by Anne R. Allen

  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. Her dementia seems fairly advanced.”

  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.

  Chapter 17—Cranially-Challenged Ectoplasm

  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.
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  “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.

  But the intruder was gone. Whoever—whatever—had been here was definitely gone. And so was something else: Rick’s novel.

  Rick’s manuscript had disappeared. I’d left the gold folder with his pages inside on the coffee table. It wasn’t there. Rick’s Sominex novel—who on earth would steal that?

  This was more than creepy.

  I started to pick up my hurled pump, but stopped myself. The investigators would want everything left the way it was, pieces of cowboy-boot lamp and all.

  The investigators. If I hadn’t just seen a supernatural apparition, I had seen a criminal—probably Ernesto’s killer—drive off in an orange Mustang. I needed to call the Sheriff’s people right away. I reached for the phone on the desk.

  But the signal was still busy—probably still jammed with calls from the media. Poor Alberto.

  But no way was I going to stay alone in the cabin. The headless thing—whatever, whoever it was—could come back at any time. I needed a working phone. Now. As soon as I got back to work next week, The Manners Doctor would reverse her position on mobile phones.

  I peeked out the window again.

  No headless persons of any kind.

  But behind the barrier ribbon I saw Plant’s Ferrari—blood red in the amber light.

  The key to the Ferrari was still in my bag. The “barrier” was just a flimsy plastic ribbon. After I explained to the investigators that my life was in danger, they’d have to understand why I needed to cross it, wouldn’t they?

  Whatever had been in my cabin: ghost, paparazzo, murderer, book thief, or anti-grape crazy, I would be insane to stay here and battle it alone.

  Chapter 18—A Cowboy Cut Down in his Prime

  I grabbed a sweater and jeans, jammed my feet into my flats, and put on my watch. It was nearly one AM. I hoped something would still be happening up at the Hacienda. Maybe reporters were still hanging around. This was one time I’d be glad to see them.

  Clutching my other Fendi pump for protection, I cracked open the door and listened to the night. Not a sound but the chirping of crickets, and the ribbitting of a lonely frog. I ran through the courtyard and ducked under the police barrier tape. When I unlocked the Ferrari, I was relieved to see the investigators had replaced the seats. I backed out of the courtyard and drove up the curvy road way faster than I should have.

  When I got to the Hacienda, I was actually disappointed to see the parking lot half empty. I had hoped for the safety of a crowd. But the protesters seemed to have left. So had the reporters. Gabriella must have cleared them out.

  With the pump for protection, I crossed the lot and entered the lobby. It was eerily unpopulated as well. Even Alberto had disappeared. The phone receiver lay on the desk, off its cradle. I put it to my ear, but couldn’t get a dial tone—just silence. For a moment, I thought I heard somebody breathing on the line.

  I dropped the thing and stifled a scream.

  I’d have to go to the Ponderosa Lounge. The late-night Cowboy Critique workshop might still be going.

  At this point, I’d welcome the sight of any other human, even Toby Roarke. I couldn’t imagine a dead lover would stop him from doing his duty as resident tyrant. One of the workshoppers might call the Sheriff for me.

  I wondered how I would explain the shoe I was carrying and steeled myself for jokes as I pulled open the doors.

  But the Ponderosa Lounge was deserted and dark. Only a few half-empty water glasses on the table showed that a workshop had taken place. They glowed faintly red in the light of the “Exit” sign above the service door.

  Maybe people were in the Longhorn Room—a few late-night drinkers. At least it wouldn’t be empty like this. I walked quickly down the hall.

  But one of Alberto’s hand-lettered signs had been taped to the bar’s cowhide door, “BAR CLOSE 11 PM DUE TO STAFF SHORTAGE.”

  Staff shortage. The waiter Miguel said he was legal, but obviously most of the workers here were not. They must be Mexicans working here without proper papers, and of course they'd evaporated at the sight of law enforcement.

  Pulling on the horseshoe-handle, I peeked inside. Maybe somebody was nursing a last drink. But the bar was as dim as the lounge, illuminated by another red Exit sign.

  I didn’t notice the wall until I turned to go. Scrawled across the furry cowhide wainscoting I made out what looked like city-street graffiti—crude blood-red letters, and a familiar image: a snake with horns—and the face of a devil—just like Ernesto Cervantes’ tattoo.

  Then I saw Toby Roarke.

  He lay in front of the fireplace—face down, surrounded by a pool of dark ooze. Pinning him down was a huge object, flat on one side. At first I thought some strangely-shaped table had been placed over his lower back. But when I got closer, I saw that somehow, horribly, one of the animal heads had fallen from the wall above.

  And under it lay the Cowboy himself, dead, impaled by the terrible horn of a Texas Longhorn steer.

  I stared at the bloody body. For a moment, my brain didn’t comprehend that the screeching in my ears was the sound of my own screams.

  Someone came through the door behind me. I clutched the shoe and prepared to defend myself.

  With a click, the room flooded with light. Raising the pump, I turned to see one of the maids with her hand on the light switch. The girl’s screams rose above mine as the bright light made the scene all the more horrific.

  “Viboras!” the girl screamed. “Viboras! Madre de Dio!” She crossed herself as we stared at each other in horror.

  I heard footsteps, as someone came running down the corridor outside.

  It was Miguel—the waiter who’d written Ernesto’s rooster story. He had a concierge jacket thrown over his waiter uniform.

  “Don’t hit her!” Miguel said, grabbing my arm. “What has she done?”

  The maid shook her head and said something in Spanish. She pointed at the wall. After a quick intake of breath, Miguel crossed himself too.

  “You have hit Mr. Roarke with this?” he said, roughly seizing my shoe. He closed the door behind him and put a comforting arm around the sobbing maid.

  “Of course not,” I said, trying to take the shoe back.

  “When did this happen?” Miguel wasn’t letting go of my shoe.

  The door under the exit sign banged open. A voice shouted in the darkness.

  “Bar is closed! Please read the sign!”

  Alberto the concierge, wearing neatly pressed pajamas and robe, marched toward us and gave Miguel a short, angry bark in Spanish. He turned to me.

  “I am surrounded by imbeciles. My staff is gone, running from la Migra. The police tear everything apart. Those dirty people with their signs—and the crazy reporters, always ringing
the phone! It is no wonder my head is full of hammers…”

  Miguel did nothing but point at the horror by the fireplace.

  Alberto’s words stopped. We hardly breathed as he walked toward Toby’s body.

  Avoiding the spreading patch of blood, Alberto leaned over to study the steer head that impaled Toby so obscenely. Then he stood back to look at the crude blood-red painting on the wall. Finally he spoke—hissing something in a choked voice.

  “Viboras.”

  Alberto whispered something to Miguel. He took my shoe and handed it back to me, then gave a comforting pat to the maid’s shoulder. He sent Miguel and the maid out the staff door he had come in. Then he turned to me.

  “You found…this?” His voice cracked.

  I nodded.

  “Did you see the Viboras? A gang?” He looked into my eyes, sharing my fear. “Any suspicious boys—Latinos?”

  “No, but…” I wanted to tell him about my ghostly intruder and the orange Mustang, but Alberto’s eyes were opaque—full of as much horror as they could take. He guided me out of the room with automatic courtesy, his face a mask.

  “Come,” he said, opening the door. “We must call the Sheriff. I hope the telephone lines are free. Before I went to bed, I left the phone off the hook. All night, reporters kept ringing the phone as soon as I put it down. When I left, some television man was on the line, refusing to hang up, so I left him there.”

  His voice rose to a cry as he opened the door to the hallway, and nearly collided with a pack of awakened writers. I squeezed out behind him, but was pinned against the furry door by the crowd.

  “Stop!” I grabbed the elbow of the Vampire Diaries smugster, whose curious hand reached for the door handle. “You do not want to go in there.”

  “Oh, right. God forbid you’d have to share story rights, Doctor.”

  “Back to your rooms, please,” Alberto said to the gathering conferencers, his voice firm again. “It is not a problem for you. Go back to your rooms.”

  “I heard people screaming,” said Vondra DeHaviland, pulling a diaphanous pink negligée over an equally flimsy night dress. “What’s going on here? Where’s Gabriella? Where’s Toby?”