I sighed and went along.
He led me down the hall toward the 1950s wing where I had stayed the first night.
“Mitzi was raising heck about staying in room thirteen, so I said I’d take it and let her have Ronald Reagan. I hope you’re not superstitious.”
“In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve seen a headless ghost, two dead bodies, and my oldest friend has been hauled off to jail. I’ve been suspected of prostitution, necrophilia—and from what I could gather from that detective’s questions—committing homicide by shoe. How much worse could my luck get? You want me to be afraid of a room number?”
“Right. Thirteen is just a number.” Rick squeezed my shoulder as he slid his arm around me.
His arm felt good.
But the room wasn’t thirteen at all. It was fourteen A, my old digs—right under the stairs that led to Gabriella’s apartment—next to the ice machine. Probably the worst room in the hotel.
“ ‘Fourteen A’ must be a hotel euphemism for thirteen.”
Rick ushered me inside. I sat on the quilt-covered double bed while he opened the wine and poured a healthy amount into two bathroom tumblers.
Wine and Ativan. Not a good combination. I’d forgotten about taking the pill earlier. I soon found myself babbling to Rick about my encounter with the headless ghost.
“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?” He sat beside me on the bed—the room was too small for a chair. “Sometimes stress can trigger what they call ‘waking dreams’.”
He spoke in his infuriating, calm-down-now-ma’am policeman voice.
“In my experience, supernatural beings without heads don’t usually get scared off by ladies’ footwear.” He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead like I was a five-year-old. “And it’s never a good idea to interfere with a crime scene, even after the investigators have left. After they get the lab results back, they may have to go back for more samples. That’s why it takes a couple days to release a scene.”
I didn’t want to be patronized.
“So arrest me. But the phone didn’t work. And this place was deserted. Did the whole conference move down to the vineyard protest?”
“I think most of the conference folks crashed early. Murder tends to make people unsociable. Besides, Alberto closed the bar right after dinner because he had no staff, and nobody wanted to hang out in the lobby—with all those reporters and protesters around. Only a few diehards stayed around for the Cowboy Workshop. About ten o’clock, Search and Rescue called Gaby to say they’d found Mitzi at the vineyard protest, but they were having trouble convincing her to come back. So the rest of us who were hanging around went to help Gaby bring her back—well, except Toby.”
Rick gave a grim laugh.
“He said he was tired, but apparently he had a heavy date with a longhorn steer.”
I looked away. The image was too raw.
“Sorry,” he said, getting up to refill his glass. “That was insensitive. But Toby was acting sneaky. I’d been wondering if he had something going with that girl he sat with at dinner.”
“The Latina girl in Donna Karan? I thought so too.” I watched Rick pour wine. “Mrs. Boggs Bailey didn’t want to be rescued?”
Rick laughed. “Not hardly. It was all a party to her. That protest has become quite the media event. Even your ex was there.”
My body went rigid.
“Jonathan Kahn—my ex-husband—he's here? In Santa Ynez?”
I'd thought things couldn't get much worse. I'd been wrong.
Chapter 21—Vipers
I tried to form coherent words as Rick smiled down at me, oblivious to the fact my head felt about to explode.
“Mitzi Boggs Bailey trying to save the squirrels is a national news story?” I said. Well, sort of sputtered. “Jonathan Kahn is covering rural agriculture stories?”
Why hadn’t I seen this coming? We were only a couple of hours north of Los Angeles—now the home base of his show.
I had to pray Jonathan didn’t know I was here.
Or anything about my night at the Solvang Sheriff’s substation.
Or that I was a murder suspect.
I tried to will him from my brain. With any luck, he was on his way home by now.
I jumped when I heard a thump outside.
“Do you think they’re out there—those Vigoras, or what ever they’re called?”
“Viboras.” Rick spoke with perfect Spanish inflection. He jumped up and started to pace, nervously pulling at his sleeve. “It means snakes—vipers. But that part isn’t making sense to me. Of course Fiscalini doesn’t want to part with a lot of information to an L.A. cop, but it looks as if his guys have found the murder weapon: a cast iron frying pan.”
“A frying pan—he was killed with a kitchen utensil?” This was hard to believe, with all that gore.
“Yes. From what I could see, Toby was probably bludgeoned to death somewhere in the service wing, then dragged to the Longhorn Room. Any self-respecting gangbanger would use a knife or a gun. And Miguel says the paint used for tagging the scene was stolen from the utility closet. Rust-oleum Equipment Red. Taggers would have brought their own paint.”
“Equipment red? So on the wall—that was…”
Rick gave a half smile. “Not blood. Just the work of a tagger who didn’t know how to use spray paint without leaving a bunch of drips. Another reason I don’t think it’s gangbangers.”
“Toby was bludgeoned to death? But the cow head…?”
“Looked to me as if it was done post mortem. That could be a gang thing, but I’ve never known them to stray this far from their turf, especially to kill a stranger. They usually kill over specific things—territory, drugs, girlfriends.” He gave a dry laugh. “I don’t suppose you’ve been romantically involved with any Latino dudes lately?”
I felt myself blush and looked away from his dark, Latino eyes.
“No. Tattooed gangsters aren’t exactly my type.”
I turned away. It was too late in a very difficult night to even think about romance.
I looked around the room and saw Rick’s things—his suitcase open on the dresser. Inside was what looked like a gun holster sticking from between athletic tee shirts and a pair of Nikes. This was his room and there was no place for me to stay except in his bed. Did he really expect me to sleep with him—tonight?
He was pacing again, rolling down his shirtsleeves, although the room was too warm, if anything.
He grabbed the wine and refilled his glass.
“Right. Your type is city boys in Italian suits. Like Kahn and the Oscar-winning screenwriter. Hey, is it true you two used to be an item? Smith goes both ways?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to have this conversation.
“Plantagenet is bisexual, yes, but that doesn’t mean we still have any kind of spark going. We’ve been friends for too long. He’s like a brother—which is why it’s absurd for that detective to think that I’d kill Ernesto out of jealousy—or whatever nonsense he thinks.”
Rick took a sip of wine. “I doubt he thinks that. In fact I’m pretty sure Fiscalini likes the Viboras for both murders. He thinks they made Ernesto an example of what happens when you try to leave the gang life, then killed Toby because he seduced Ernesto into a gay lifestyle.”
“Plant’s not a suspect anymore?”
“My money says he’ll be released in the morning. It’s a lot easier to convict a bunch of street kids than a Hollywood celebrity.”
Rick’s voice had a negative edge.
“You think Detective Fiscalini is wrong? ” I said. “It wasn’t a gang?”
Rick shook his head.
“I’m not saying the Viboras aren’t capable of vicious violence and homophobia, but I can’t fit them into any scenario that would reasonably result in that crime scene.”
“Killing people and 'reasonable' don’t go together in any scenario I can think of.” It all seemed more senseless by the minute. “If it’s not a
gang, who is it? You don’t think I did it? With my little Fendi pump?” I couldn’t stifle a large yawn.
Rick put down his glass.
“Hey, we’ve got to get some sleep. The Hacienda’s still full, so I told Fiscalini you’d be staying in my room.” He gave me another one of those nervous little smiles. “The Ronald Reagan suite, where I was staying, has a sitting room with a fold-out. When I let Mitzi take it, I didn’t realize there would be only one bed here. I’ll go see if I can find the maid who moved my stuff down here. Hotels usually have an extra room or two—someplace funky next to the kitchen, or under the stairs—someplace they only use for emergencies. But I don’t know…”
He looked around the cramped room.
“This might be it. But I’ll…um, see you in the morning.”
On another night I might have been disappointed. But I was so exhausted, I think I may have fallen asleep before he shut the door.
Chapter 22—A Woman Scorned
I woke to the metallic sound of a key in a lock.
And the creak of old floorboards.
Pushing sleep-fog from my brain, I lay very still, trying to maintain the rhythm of my breath as I listened to the doorknob being jiggled.
I heard the key-in-the-lock sound again and jumped out of bed and flicked on the light. Somebody was trying to break into the room. And me without even a shoe for a weapon.
But maybe Rick had a gun in his suitcase. I was pretty sure I’d seen a holster in there…
Another noise. From somewhere down the walkway outside. Then a metallic bang and a crunch.
I felt around in the suitcase, and found a dark molded plastic case underneath his neatly folded jeans. It was the sort of case Jonathan’s overpriced tools came in. I opened the lid, and there it was. Not a shiny, cowboy gun. This was Darth Vader black and felt heavy and cold in my hand.
The floorboards creaked again right outside. I heard the thump of footsteps. Someone was out there. Maybe the someone who had committed two horrific murders.
I had to get out of this trap before they broke in. The ancient lock did not look as if it would hold against much. I clutched the gun and opened the door.
At the end of the porch, something moved in the shadows behind the ice machine.
“Hold it right there.” I raised the heavy gun with both hands.
“Where did you get that?” said a growly voice. I held the gun steady.
A figure emerged from the darkness.
Rick. Looking furious and scary.
“That’s my weapon, isn’t it?” His voice sounded thick from sleep. “You stole it?” He took a step toward me. “Talk about a woman scorned! Jeez…I know it sounds lame, but I really do have one hell of a headache. That’s why I’m getting ice. An ice pack on the back of the neck sometimes helps…Camilla, you gotta give me my gun.”
“Woman scorned?” Now I was furious, too. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not used to women creeping into my room at two A.M..” He gestured at the door behind him. It was numbered fourteen B. “Now give me the gun.”
“You’re staying in fourteen B?” He must have had some kind of waking dream.
“Okay, if you want to pretend you wandered into the wrong room, fine…” He massaged the back of his neck.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been asleep since you left. Somebody woke me up trying to get into my room. I haven’t left it until just now.”
“Fine. Whatever.” He leaned an arm on the icemaker. His body looked relaxed, but his eyes were fierce. But before I could as much as blink, he leaped toward me and with dance-like grace, twirled me around. In one quick move, he grabbed me from behind, yanking back both my arms in a painful grip.
“I’ll take that,” he said, as he pulled the gun from my fingers.
His grip was painful. Now his anger management issues had to surface?
“You could have asked. There is no need to be rude.”
He didn’t move. I knew there was no point in fighting him, so I stood quietly and waited for him to get over it.
That was when I smelled patchouli—layered with tuberose and apricot. Very girly. And very weird if this woman in his bed had been a dream.
“Is that her perfume? The woman who climbed in bed with you? Couldn’t you tell it wasn’t me from that scent?”
Rick released me and stood back, his gun pointed at me as if I were a criminal. He sniffed his shoulder.
“I don’t know. It’s a lady’s perfume. You wear perfume.”
“I wear Chanel. Chanel is light and classic. This is heavy. Retro-trendy. Not me at all.” A thought came to me— “This woman who came in your room—was she wearing a Burberry coat—you know the fawn and cream plaid with the red stripe?”
Rick lowered the gun a little.
“How should I know? It’s pitch dark in there. Maybe it was one of the damned ghosts.”
“It wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts don’t leave scents as far as I know. There has to be another explanation. In spite of that thing I saw without its head, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
An eerie creak came from the wall across from the ice machine.
We both froze as some ghostly force slid open a piece of the solid wall. If I’d had the breath to speak, I would have taken back those last words.
Chapter 23—Requiem for a Cowboy
Rick trained his gun on the ghostly wall, his body taut and threatening.
“There you are, you two.” Gabriella’s voice.
She stepped out of the shadows. “So you got together after all! I thought it was a shame when Miguel said you wanted separate rooms. You can put the gun away, Captain. I’m not a gangster.”
“I didn’t know you had an elevator there,” Rick said.
I studied his shadowed face as he put his gun in his jacket pocket. The set of his jaw showed anger: Captain Road Rage.
“They used this for loading booze back during Prohibition,” Gabriella said. “This wing was the barn then. We rebuilt the lift for Hank’s wheelchair, in his last days. Toby insisted we keep it working. Most of the time, I prefer the stairs. But tonight, I guess I’m just weary. Fiscalini’s making such a mess of my office. I don’t know why. Toby hardly ever set foot in the service wing.”
She headed for the ice machine and slid open the metal door.
“Speaking of Toby, I have a favor to ask of you two.”
She seemed to be fishing around in the ice for something.
“You want to reach in there, Rick? Your arms are longer than mine. I think I felt it—a bottle of champagne. Well, sparking wine anyway. Blanc de Noir. From our first Pinot harvest. I’ve got some more in the cellar, but it’s not chilled.”
As if this were a routine request at three-thirty in the morning, Rick knelt in front of the ice machine and reached inside.
I glanced into the shadows. Was the phantom woman still here, hiding?
Rick’s arm went deeper into the ice machine.
“The old goat used to stash a bottle or two in here when he had a rendezvous with one of his students,” Gabriella said. “I think he used it as a signal—‘bottle in the ice machine, coast is clear’—something like that. I have a feeling he was planning a little tryst tonight, poor bastard.”
“Is this it?” Rick pulled out a foil-topped bottle and handed it to Gabriella.
She cradled it like a child. I wondered if she was going to cry.
“Well, come on.” She started toward the elevator. “It’s not the greatest champagne in the world, but it won’t kill you.” She held the doors open and gave us a stoic smile. “Please come up. It’s a promise I made to Toby. “
“I don’t think so…” Rick rubbed his chilled hands together.
But Gabriella went on. “He was sure I’d outlive him, even though I’m twelve years older. He made me promise that the night he died I’d drink a toast to him with a bottle of our Blanc de
Noir.”
Rick started to speak again as he looked helplessly at his watch.
But I knew better than to argue with Gabriella Moore.
~
Her private apartment upstairs merged the Western theme with mid-century Rat-Pack luxe. Directly across from the elevator was a bar padded in red leatherette, with six matching stools. The bar was backed by sleek mirrored shelves and lit with a wrought iron chandelier.
I could almost smell the Lucky Strikes and gin.
A wall of books and a mahogany desk made a cozy nook in the opposite corner. While the large part of the room was clean and orderly, the writing nook was a mess of piled papers, books and dozens of those gold-colored folders. On the corner of the desk, a big old wood-grained answering machine flashed an urgent red light.
“Sit! Sit!” Gabriella waved us toward the bar stools.
She handed the champagne bottle to Rick.
“Why don’t you do the honors, Captain? Glasses are behind you. Look at that phone machine, flashing away. That’s an unlisted, private line—but every session, some kid trying to get on the reading list always manages to get hold of it. No matter how many times Toby says, ‘You gotta be there to sign up at the end of the workshop or no reading’…”
She stopped herself.
“Said. He said. Used to say….” Her eyes moistened as she turned away and took a quick breath. “Open the damned champagne, Rick.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rick sounded less than enthusiastic. He rubbed his neck before picking up the bottle.
“What’s the matter? Head hurt?” said Gabriella.
“Yeah,” Rick said. “You mind if I make an ice pack with some of those cubes? I’ve got a heck of a headache, even if some people don’t believe me.” He directed the last remark at me.
“I never said I didn’t believe you!” This was getting annoying. A murderer was out there, lurking—and he was feeling sorry for himself because some woman came on to him in the dark. I kept wondering if he’d met the Burberry woman. I knew she couldn’t be a hallucination.
But he just ignored me as he opened the small fridge, emptied a tray of ice into a dishtowel, rolled up the towel and draped it around his neck.
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