“The Manners Doctor has no problem with tattoos!” I hated it when Plant got all politically correct. “In fact she’s written that a small one can be quite elegant. But Miguel’s tattoo is the same devil snake design as Ernesto’s—and the one on the wall over Toby’s body.”
Plant’s expression changed.
“It was the same as Ernesto’s gang tattoo? Are you sure?” His tone was businesslike. “You should tell the investigators.”
His phone rang. “That will be Silas. I’ve got to meet him downstairs. I’m hoping he’ll have some news about Gaby—and he ought to be able to help me figure out this Oscar Wilde mystery.”
Oscar Wilde. I’d almost forgotten. How did he fit in?
~
A few minutes after Plant left, I heard frantic knocking at the outside door of the apartment.
There was Donna, back in camera-ready make-up and Donna Karan evening wear. I searched her black-lined eyes, but saw no hint of nervousness that might indicate guilt. Of course, even if she’d stolen that gun, she could be ignorant of what it had been used for.
The only emotion she showed now was exasperation.
“You gotta help me with the old lady,” she said. “She says she’s got something to give you, and she won’t leave that room until she gets rid of it.” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “You gotta hurry, because I need to get her moved to her new cabin before dinner.”
I followed along the upper-level porch and down the stairs to the old wing. As I walked behind her, the evening breeze wafted with her perfume—a familiar scent:
Patchouli, with a hint of tuberose and apricot.
I sped up and sniffed again. Yes. There it was—the same scent I smelled on Rick last night.
The phantom woman who crawled in his bed could have been Donna.
“Do you happen to own a Burberry coat?” I asked with what I hoped was nonchalance. “A belted trench in the signature fawn, cream and red plaid?”
Donna looked at me with scorn.
“Do I look like I’d wear plaid?”
The phone in her bag played the Sex in the City theme.
No. She wasn’t anywhere near my height. Even with a wig, she couldn’t be my Burberry phantom. But I was going to keep an eye on her—and her cousin Miguel.
As she chatted to someone about workplace issues, she led me to a door with a plaque that said “Ronald Reagan Suite.”
She knocked on the door.
Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s gray head poked through a crack. She’d styled her hair in a perfect 1950s pageboy and wore a red, white and blue bandanna around her neck.
“Are you all right?” The old woman opened the door a little wider. She was dressed in an amazing rhinestone-studded denim cowgirl outfit, complete with fringed white cowboy boots. “I got myself all gussied up for dinner, but I thought you’d skedaddled somewhere…”
She opened the door to reveal a large, rustically-decorated room that was a mess of open drawers and tossed-about pillows.
“I can’t find my play. The ghosts took it.” She looked at me with an expression of something between recognition and disgust. “You look like that Dr. Manners. I suppose you’ve come for the rest of the junk the ghosts left in my chifforobe?”
She pulled me away from the door and lowered her voice.
“Filthy stuff, if you ask me. But I guess you didn’t. Neither did the ghosts.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mitzi” said Donna with a bored sigh. “So you can give the stuff to Dr. Manners here and then you and me can move you down to a cabin near Jonathan Kahn. So you wanna get a move-on? That Santiago guy has got a golf cart waiting. I don’t know how long he’ll wait. He doesn’t speak much English or Spanish. Just some Guatemalan Indian dialect.”
Mrs. Boggs Bailey looked confused for a moment.
“Now where did I put it? I don’t want those maids seeing that filth when they pack my things.” She bustled around the room. “I’m glad I won’t be around Ronald Reagan any more. He stares at me.”
She gestured to the end of the room where, above the stone fireplace hung a huge oil portrait of the late President, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, with an ax in his hand. A framed note beneath read: “There are no easy answers, but sometimes there are simple answers.” It was signed “For Gabriella—Ronald Reagan, 1964.”
I sincerely hoped there was a simple answer to all the questions swirling in my brain at the moment. Could someone actually have stolen the old woman’s play and substituted some sort of “filth”? Like maybe the Burberry woman? The old woman could have been hallucinating, of course, but for us both to hallucinate the same apparition seemed unlikely.
When she was out of hearing range, Donna leaned in and whispered. “You’re pretty tight with that L. A. cop, right?”
I had no idea how to describe my relationship with Rick at that moment, but I nodded anyway.
“I think I might have left something in his room last night. I really need it. It’s the only copy I have, and I’m dying to show it to Jonathan Kahn.”
She left something in Rick’s room. And she wore that perfume. Maybe she wasn’t Ms. Burberry, but she certainly seemed to be the failed seductress.
Now I could place that scent: Donna Karan’s Black Cashmere.
“And what did you leave in Rick’s bedroom?”
Donna looked embarrassed.
“It’s the first three chapters of my chick lit novel, Newsbabes. Can you ask him to return it? I kind of went in his room by mistake last night. I wasn’t hitting on him, I swear. I thought he was…somebody else. Somebody who promised to show the manuscript to that agent—Lucille Silverberg. I got so flustered when I realized I was in the wrong place that I left my folder.”
Newsbabes. So Donna was Lourdes Donna Inez Carillos, who must have left the folder when she crept into Rick’s room. The “someone else” had to be Toby.
He must have planned his assignations in the hotel’s lousiest room—thinking it was sure to be unoccupied.
So Donna thought Rick was Toby—that room had no windows, so not even moonlight would have illuminated the darkness. She’d probably arrived to exchange sex for a recommendation to the great Luci. That explained Donna’s revulsion at the sight of the sparkling wine bottle with the room number on it.
What a slug Toby had been.
Above us, Ronald Reagan’s portrait did indeed seem to be staring as he wielded his ominous ax.
Mrs. Boggs Bailey emerged from the bedroom with yet another gold-colored conference folder.
“Here,” she said, handing it to me. “Don’t think I’m not on to you.” She shoved the folder at me with tight-lipped disapproval.
“Santiago isn’t going to wait all day,” Donna said. “I had to flirt with him like crazy to get him to take us down to the cabins while he’s supposed to be helping Miguel. Come on. Jonathan Kahn is down there. I gotta see him before he leaves.”
As I made my way toward the dining room, I opened Mitzi’s ghostly folder and stopped dead. Stuffed into the pockets of the folder were at least a dozen handwritten letters, on different kinds of stationery, all yellowed with age, the ink faded to a pale purple. I couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Boggs Bailey thought they had to do with me. They were addressed to a man named Joaquin Montoya, at a Los Angeles address. I opened a fragile envelope and started to read the bold, masculine hand, but the words made my face flush.
It was a very explicit, homoerotic love letter.
But what was most shocking was the signature: “Will Sugarfoot Hutchins”—one of the old time TV stars whose picture graced the walls of the Hacienda’s main corridor downstairs. As I made my way back to the apartment, I pulled a few more letters out of their fragile envelopes. The missives all seemed to be in the same blush-making vein, each one signed by famous and semi-famous stars of the nineteen-fifties and ’sixties. This Joaquin was quite the gay caballero.
Another letter from “Ty Hardin” was full of cowboy meta
phors for some steamy sexual activity, and when I opened a third, I could barely breathe. Underneath all that homoerotica was the signature, “Ronald Reagan.” The handwriting looked identical to that on the note I’d seen framed on the mantle of Mitzi’s suite.
I tried to fit these into the other mysteries of the past three days, but it only hurt my head. Were they related to the Oscar Wilde book and Calamity Jane letter? Strange coincidences. But aside from the fact that they concerned gay men, these letters didn’t have much to do with the Oscar Wilde find that I could see—separated as they were by nearly a hundred years.
I had to show them to Plantagenet. Immediately. I hoped I could get him alone before dinner was served.
As I put back the letters, I felt something sliding around behind the envelopes in one of the folder’s pockets. A small photograph. I drew it out and my palms went clammy. There it was—another copy of Luci’s horror—showing Jonathan’s butt and the surgically-enhanced Manners Doctor in pearls.
~
At dinner, Plant was surrounded by fans, so I couldn’t sit anywhere near his table, much less get him alone for a conversation. I could almost feel heat coming from those steamy letters in my tote bag.
I hoped Plant knew of some gay cowboy star named “Joaquin,” so we could return the letters.
Rick seemed to be surgically attached to Luci. They were sitting at the center of another knot of eager students, and Rick was still wearing that damned jacket. I saw him reach under the sleeve to scratch his forearm—the forearm with the snaky scar. Maybe he and Luci deserved each other. She had to be mixed up in this somehow, since that photo was in the folder with the letters.
I sat with some memoirists who all agreed that Gabriella Moore was a national treasure and couldn’t be guilty of anything, and they wouldn’t be surprised if it was ghosts.
Everybody knew the place was haunted.
One of the ladies was sure she’d seen the ghost of an old cowboy last night, floating outside her window.
Donna and Mitzi arrived just as I was finishing my dinner.
I promised Donna I’d run right up and get her manuscript back. The girl was an idiot, but it wasn’t her fault Toby died before he could deliver her a read from the great Luci. I’d feel terrible if I kept her from getting the opportunity to show it around. She was just an innocent bystander caught up in all this craziness.
At least mostly innocent. Of course, if her cousin Miguel was the murderer, maybe Donna had helped Miguel do it.
Or—the thought exploded in my brain—what if Gabriella killed Toby, then got Miguel and his gang to cover it up? A couple of tough young guys would have no trouble moving the body—and the steer head.
And Rick had that scar. If he’d once been a member of the gang, he might have helped them, too. And that’s why he’d been wandering around that night.
There was awful logic to the theory.
But I did not want to believe any of them was guilty. Not Rick, in spite of his thing with Luci. And not Gabriella. Or Miguel and Donna. They’d all have to be very good actors if they were part of some murderous conspiracy.
Besides, Plant was right. Gabriella would not have authorized vandalism of her cowhide walls. It was going to cost a fortune to re-cover them.
Chapter 33—Double Trouble
When I got back to Gabriella’s apartment, I was startled by a noise: something between a thump and a snap.
“Luci?” said a voice from inside. A voice I didn’t recognize.
Maybe the investigators were back.
“Officer?” I called down the hall.
No answer.
I opened the door and gasped.
There she was—the Burberry woman: blonde, about my height and figure—maybe a bit taller, with considerably bigger breasts—wearing a vintage prêt a porter Chanel suit in a color and style I happened to own myself.
On her wrist was what looked like the Paloma Picasso diamond hugs and kisses bracelet Jonathan had given me for our tenth anniversary. Over her shoulder was a huge Fendi-style spybag—a knock-off of the very one I carried until a few months ago.
This was a caricature of my own last year’s self—a Bizarro Camilla. Like a very bad dream. I grabbed the door jamb in an attempt to make contact with reality.
“Dr. Manners!” The woman’s voice had a deep, whisky-and-cigarette rasp. “I thought you’d be at dinner.” She laughed as if this were terribly funny. “Thank God it’s you. I was afraid you were Luci Silverberg. That woman is the devil, you know that? Satan in support hose. She’s over sixty. Did you know how much work she’s had done?”
She eyed my shoes.
“Are those real Louboutin sandals? I love the bronzy cobra skin. If only he made them in my size…” She stepped from behind the bed, displaying astonishingly large feet.
I kept a firm grip on my shoes and spoke in my most intimidating Manners Doctor tone.
“Who are you, Madam, and what are you doing in my room?”
“Oooh, I just love that: ‘Madam.’ That is so classy.”
The thief went back to ransacking my Vuitton suitcases, now open on the bed.
“That’s your appeal. You just ooze class. That’s why Dr. Manners is my trademark character. I used to do Martha Stewart, wearing the little apron, spanking them with a sweet little antique wooden bread paddle, but, well, Martha’s so over, isn’t she? After jail everything she does is boring. I do Sharon Stone—and Ann Coulter, of course, but once I started doing Dr. Manners, you wouldn’t believe how my client list grew. And with this new press you’re getting…”
She laughed again and went back to rummaging in my suitcases.
“How nice my humiliation has been good for somebody.”
My head reeled with the implications of having a real dominatrix impersonate me.
“You haven’t answered my question. What are you doing in my bedroom?”
She smoothed out my ravaged Dolce and Gabbana suit.
“I didn’t know it was yours at first. Honestly. I came up here looking for some, um, property that Toby should have returned to me. When I was poking around, what should I find but all your gorgeous things! Couldn’t resist a peek. Do you realize how much this means to a Dr. Manners impersonator? Mostly I base my wardrobe on magazine photos, but here—well, it’s a treasure trove!” She picked up my Oscar de la Renta charmeuse chemise
I grabbed it and tossed it in the bag.
“You were going to steal my clothes?”
“Steal? Oh no, sweetie. I do not steal. Besides, they wouldn’t fit me, would they? You’re a little curvier around the hips than me and, well, my girls here—” She looked down at her gravity-defying breasts. “When I had them put in, I told the doc to just fill ’em up—give me a D cup. I wouldn’t have if I’d realize how much harder it would be to fit into designer clothes. But it’s not like I’d ever had breasts before.”
“You’re a transsexual?” That would explain the husky voice and thickish neck.
“Pre-op. I’m saving. That’s why I do this.” She opened my make-up case.
“This? Sneaking around people’s apartments and not stealing things? Does that pay well?”
“Oh, sweetie, don’t be hostile. I admire you so much. No—I only go where I’m invited. And you’d be amazed how many places that is. I work for a celebrity impersonator escort agency.” She studied my tube of Lancôme Vintage Rose lipstick.
“You’re a prostitute who pretends to be somebody famous? Like in the film L.A. Confidential?”
I could see Donna’s manuscript folder lying on the dresser behind the intruder. I’d retrieve it, then go tell the investigators they had a new suspect. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my face calm.
“Right. Like L.A. Confidential. If you paid attention in that film, sweetie, you know that pretty much everybody in L.A. is a whore. But I don’t sleep with my clients. I discipline them.”
She dropped the lipstick back in my case.
> “You’re one of those people with the leather corsets and whips?”
She sighed, as if this conversation were too boring for words.
“Leather is so vanilla these days. That’s all gone mainstream, hasn’t it? So for us professionals, the secret is to come up with something fresh, like…”
“Like impersonating me?” I walked to the dresser, grabbed Donna’s folder and slipped it into my tote bag. “Please leave. Now.”
She eyed my tote bag. “You don’t carry that fabulous Fendi spybag any more?”
“No.” I was not going to admit I’d had to sell it.
“Too bad. I love mine, even though it’s not the real McCoy. It’s roomy enough for all my make-up and…well, you know, props.”
I did not know about her “props.” Nor did I want to. I wanted this creature to disappear from the galaxy.
But now he/she smiled broadly and grabbed my hand, uttering one incomprehensible word that sounded like “Marva.”
“Marva?” I awkwardly shook the hand. It didn’t let go.
“Used to be Marvin.” With a sudden move he/she slipped my tote bag from my wrist as if it were the most normal action in the world. “Shows what sort of a childhood I had. What kind of parents name a kid Marvin?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” I reached to retrieve my tote. “Give me that!”
Marva only smiled wider as she pulled out both gold pocket folders—Donna’s and the one with the steamy letters and horrible photograph.
“Now what’s this? Two folders, and they look just alike! Think of the confusion that could cause!” He/she tossed one folder back to me. “I’ve already seen this. Do you think a book about pundits in love will sell?”
I took Donna’s folder and cringed as Marva opened the other.
“Oh, my, my.” Marva flipped through the steamy letters. “These are good. No wonder Toby didn’t want me to see them.”
The time for manners was over. I lunged, reaching for the open folder. Marva’s grip was firm, but I did get my hand in one of the pockets to grasp a couple of the envelopes, but the awful photo slid out with them and onto the floor. As she bent over to pick it up, I stuffed the few letters I’d grabbed into my tote. At least I’d have proof they existed.
“Here it is.” She stood and studied the awful photograph of Jonathan with cool detachment. “So how did you get this stuff out of Toby? I’ve ransacked the place looking for this folder. Even Luci has never seen these letters—not that I know of.”
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