Ghostwriters In The Sky

by Anne R. Allen

  “Luci is involved with those love letters, too?”

  “Of course. She and Toby were partners. Did you kill Toby, you sly thing?”

  “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  This was getting creepier by the minute.

  “Maybe because you didn’t want this photo all over the Internet? Blackmail is a powerful motive.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not even me in the picture.”

  “Of course not. It’s me.” She gave a big laugh. “But who cares? By the time the word got out it was fake, Dr. Manners would be history. It only takes a few days to gerbil somebody these days.”

  I didn’t know whether to be afraid of this person or laugh at her.

  “You attack people with gerbils?”

  She gave another throaty laugh.

  “You of all people should know that nobody cares if a story is true; they only care if it’s juicy. Like those old urban legends about the hottie of the hour having anatomically impossible sex with a gerbil. I’m sure certain Hollywood leading men would like to kill whoever started those gerbil-sex stories.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody. Or molest any rodents. Besides, Luci has a copy of that photo. I’d have to kill her, too, wouldn’t I?”

  “No. Because she doesn’t have it any more.” Marva reached into her faux Fendi bag and pulled out a familiar little Lulu Guinness rose basket purse. “I switched it for a knock-off this afternoon when she was at the Maverick Saloon with that hunky L.A. cop.”

  The Maverick Saloon. So Marva did business there. That explained why my biker-chauffeur friend talked to me about “the Saloon” when we met in Santa Barbara. And why he thought I wanted to go there. He must be one of Marva’s customers. Apparently a satisfied one.

  Marva dangled Luci’s stolen handbag from a sturdy finger. “It’s cute, but I could never carry such a dinky thing, could you?” She lifted the fabric rose lid and pulled a second copy of the photo from the bottom of the purse. “Only two copies were printed, and the picture was deleted, so you’re safe now, dear.”

  I did not feel the slightest bit safe.

  “The person in the picture with you—it’s really Jonathan?”

  “Of course.” Marva smiled. “The riding helmet was his idea. He says you ride English and hunt foxes and stuff? That is sooo old money. My riding is strictly Western. In fact I used to work cattle on this ranch when I was a boy. Working for Gaby was the best summer job in town.”

  I did not want to hear Marva reminisce while my head was about to explode. “Jonathan was in on this? He wanted a transvestite to…”

  “Transsexual, sweetie. There’s a difference.”

  “But Jonathan hired you to impersonate me and…”

  “Spank his naughty bottom? Yes, he did. But if it makes you feel any better, he didn’t like the fact that I’m trans.”

  “How could he accuse me, when he was the one who was getting kinky…?”

  “Oh, don’t get all judgmental on me. Remember what the Manners Doctor says, ‘There is no place for judgmental behavior in a civilized society. If you believe you are morally or spiritually superior to another being, the only way to prove it is to be kind’.”

  “Do you think allowing this photograph to be taken was a kind thing to do?”

  “No. But I don’t claim to be superior to anybody. Besides, I didn’t know about the pictures. Turns out my former boss hid cameras in the rooms. She called it ‘business insurance.’ But she made the mistake of shopping her memoirs to Luci. And Luci started approaching our clients—getting them to pay to keep the book off the market.”

  “Luci gets celebrities to pay her to keep her books from getting published?”

  Marva nodded.

  Things started to click into place. It sure explained Rick’s book. It was full of dirt on thinly disguised A-listers.

  And Luci wanted me to agree to a fake “memoir” so she could blackmail Jonathan.

  There was an authoritative knock on the front door. We both froze.

  “Cops,” Marva said. “Nobody else knocks like that. I’m outta here.” She rushed toward the hidden elevator. She must have done more than herd cattle around the place when she was a boy. She obviously knew its secrets.

  “I’ll send the elevator back up for you, sweetie.” Marva blew a kiss just before the red leatherette doors clicked shut. “I’m sure you’re better with cops than I am.”

  Chapter 34—Satan in Support Hose

  The knocking on the door to the apartment got louder as Marva vanished into the secret elevator.

  “Camilla? Is that you in there?” Rick's voice. “Why did you leave the dining room so fast? We need to talk. Gaby…her arrest. You know she’s not guilty, right? ”

  I was so relieved it wasn't Detective Fiscalini, I opened the door and threw my arms around Rick before I remembered I was angry with him.

  I eyed the new leather jacket, and all my fury at Luci came pouring forth.

  “Do you know what Marva said about Luci? She said she’s the devil. Satan in support hose.”

  “Whoever Marva is, she’s probably right,” he said.

  I started to explain. “Marva is…”

  Did he just say I was right about Luci?

  Rick put a finger over my lips. “You can tell me later. Don’t you want to hear the keynote address by your friend the Oscar-winning screenwriter? I hoped you’d sit with me. I’m so sorry I missed your talk. Business with Luci.”

  “Right. Business,” I said. “That involved a new leather blazer…”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t worry about Luci. Come on.” He walked me toward the elevator. When he pushed the call button, the doors opened immediately. Marva had kept her word and sent it back up. He pulled me inside the tiny elevator and closed the door.

  “You and Luci have been awfully cozy—are you sure she’s just your agent.”

  “Luci is nothing to me. And she’s no longer my agent.” He was close enough that I could smell the leather of his jacket, and the warm scent of his Old Spice.

  “She isn’t? But your book…”

  “Is trash. It sucks. Learning to write takes years. At least I know that now, so maybe this conference wasn’t a total waste of my time. Gabriella and Toby set me up. At least Toby did. I don’t know if Gaby was in on the scam or not. I’m sure she didn’t kill anybody. But Toby and Luci were definitely pulling some sort of con. And Gaby defended them—even when I told her I suspected Luci was a fraud.”

  “Is that what you were fighting about—just before my talk?”

  “Yeah. I’m so sorry I missed it. But I had to follow up on my hunch about Luci.”

  He leaned over me and pressed the button for the ground floor.

  “So you and Luci aren’t…anymore?” I looked up at his velvety dark eyes. His face was only inches from mine.

  “Never were.”

  His mouth hovered over mine.

  “Never?”

  “Nope.”

  I could feel the elevator descending as he kissed me. I felt weightless—suspended in mid-air, mid-moment, mid-emotion. I didn’t know what to think. Or feel. Except that I wanted the kiss to last forever.

  ~

  When I reached the Ponderosa Lounge, Rick by my side, I was surprised to see the stage empty and the remaining conference-goers gathered in ominously muttering clumps.

  But a moment later, Plantagenet rushed down the aisle and leapt up to the stage.

  Silas followed at a more dignified pace.

  Conversation fell to an uneasy rumble as people moved to seat themselves in the rows of folding chairs.

  As we sat in the front row, I was intensely aware of Gabriella’s absence. The whole place seemed creepy and wrong: like a body without a head.

  I felt Rick’s arm slide around the back of my chair, and was grateful for the warmth and solidity of his body, although I wished I could stop thinking about that snaky scar on his
arm. And how easily he and Miguel had chatted together in Spanish.

  But I needed to trust him. Needed to be able to hang onto that lovely elevator moment for a few moments longer.

  At least I seemed to have been wrong about his feelings for Luci. When she arrived in the room and sauntered down the aisle, every muscle in Rick's body went taut.

  He was like a wary animal that sensed a predator had entered the scene.

  Chapter 35—We May All Be in the Gutter

  “There you are, dear!” Luci said to me, theatrically ignoring Rick. I tried not to be obvious about studying the flowerpot handbag. Marva may have told the truth. The satin petals of the roses looked a bit too orange.

  Luci plunked herself into the chair on my other side. “Camilla, dear, you need to talk to that funny little man at the front desk. Not the intense young man who’s always scribbling—the old Hobbity one: Alberto. He says he’s been looking for you everywhere.”

  I hoped Alberto was going to assign me a new room—a place to organize my thoughts after all this chaos.

  I hugged my tote bag, wondering what sense I could make of the letters inside—or of Marva. If anything about Marva did make sense. She did seem to dislike Luci. That was in her favor.

  “What have you got in there, notes for your memoir?” Luci said, her eyes wide and fake-girly hands waving. “Or do you want to write it as a roman à clef? I’d love to see whatever you’ve got.”

  I looked over at Rick for moral support, but he was chatting with somebody in the row behind, apparently avoiding any eye contact with Luci.

  I was going to have to do this by myself. “I am sorry, Ms. Silverberg. I thought I’d made myself clear. I am not writing a memoir, or a novel, or anything else. Just a weekly column.”

  I started to stuff the folder back in my tote when it came to me. Donna’s book. I could give it to Luci right now, which was what Donna wanted in the first place. I could relax in my new room instead of trying to find Donna and I would know I’d made one of Toby’s wrongs right.

  Something needed to go right for somebody this weekend.

  I turned to Luci with a smile. “A young woman named Donna Carillos has written a novel that I’m sure is much steamier than any narrative I could write, and I have it right here…”

  But I couldn’t continue with my little mission of mercy because the audience went suddenly quiet.

  Plant stepped to the lectern and began to speak on his chosen topic—“Prospecting for Stories: How to Mine History Books for Blockbuster Plots.”

  I was impressed. He talked about how he’d put together the stories of Calamity Jane and Oscar Wilde after discovering they’d been in San Francisco at the same time, and how he’d invented a whole new storyline for them both, using real historical details.

  He also made the writers who had stayed on feel like heroes. He said his own and Gabriella’s arrests were simply “routine police procedure,” and assured them he expected Gabriella to be released “any minute now.”

  “Camilla, dear,” Luci whispered in my ear. “Plantagenet is so gorgeous. I hope you’ll include a few chapters about your, um, romantic history with him.”

  I tried to silence her with raised eyebrow, but she was unstoppable.

  “And if you’ve got any stories about Jonathan with him—or other guys, I can get even more for your book.”

  “I am not writing any books!” I whispered back at her.

  “That’s fine, dear. I can get you a ghost.” Luci whispered back, leaning close to my ear. “A ghost who makes deadlines better than poor old Toby. All I want is a true story about life with Jonathan Kahn. It couldn’t have been easy for you, dear, with his, um, unusual tastes...” She eyed my sandals. “Ten thousand dollars will buy some very nice shoes.” She patted my knee. “And I’d hate to see you lose your little home…” She reached for my bag.

  Her hand collided with the buckle and broke off one of her talons. She looked at me with thinly disguised fury.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your manicure, but here…” I handed her Donna’s folder. “I believe this could be a real blockbuster.”

  This seemed to calm her for the moment. In fact, the manuscript must have begun pretty well, to judge from her sharp intake of breath after she opened the folder.

  But a moment later she was at it again. She leaned close to my ear and murmured.

  “My, my, my. You’re more of a businesswoman than I thought. Any more where this came from?”

  “Talk to Donna Carillos.” I kept my eyes on the stage.

  Plant enchanted the audience with the story of Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s literary discovery in the chifforobe of the Ronald Reagan suite. Storyteller that he was, he entertained them with tales of the Rancho ghosts and suggested the book and letters might have been lying around the Hacienda for a hundred years—resurfacing with some sort of “supernatural” aid at Gabriella’s time of need.

  At his mention of the ghosts, there arose an “Oh, pu-leeze” from the back row. I turned and saw the alpha smugster lounging on his chair like a high school bad-boy, flanked by his cohorts. He smirked at me and rolled his eyes.

  As I tried to avoid acknowledging his rudeness, I caught sight of a tall figure behind him, leaning by the back doors: Walker Montgomery, glowering at us all.

  I turned back as Plant introduced Silas, who read a passage from the note that seemed to have been written to Calamity Jane by Oscar Wilde after their first meeting in San Francisco in March of 1882—

  “Please accept my thanks for your rescue of my poor person as the admiring hordes knocked me from the sidewalk in the Chinese District yesterday. You are right, I suppose, in saying that in this city, everyone ends up in the gutter sooner or later. However, though we may all be in the gutter, Miss Canary, some of us are looking at the stars.”

  I recognized that line. It was the “high falutin’” quote from Ernesto’s title for Miguel’s story. The exact quote: “We may all be in the gutter” —the words Ernesto had originally read. It didn’t say “we are all” as Toby had insisted was the correct quote. Could Toby have been wrong? He had been so arrogant in his certainty—even to the fact that the line came from the third act of Lady Windemere’s Fan. Was it possible that Ernesto did not get his quote from Lady Windemere’s Fan, but from this letter?

  This could mean Ernesto had seen the letter. Maybe even got killed for it

  “If it’s authentic, this material could fetch as much as fifty thousand dollars,” Silas said. “Maybe more.”

  The audience made suitable “Antiques Roadshow” sounds as they moved toward the stage to get a closer look.

  Plant opened up questions to the floor.

  The Englishman called out, “Where did this tomfoolery really come from? Don’t give us any more hogwash about ghosts.” His cell phone rang in his pocket. He flipped it open. “No. I’m not doing anything…”

  “Well then—thanks so much…” Plant said, trying to wind things up as the Brit babbled on, apparently convinced that, since he wasn’t paying attention to us, we couldn’t hear him.

  There was a reason the Manners Doctor did not like cell phones.

  “Dude!” The head smugster lolled back in his chair. “You don’t honestly believe Oscar would have screwed a dog like Calamity Jane, do you? Martha Jane Canary was pure Gainsburger. Even Bill Hickok had to get liquored up to do her.”

  “Have you ever seen a picture of the real James Butler Hickok?” said Plant, with a “can we dish” smile. “Talk about the kennel club. Reality is always such a disappointment. But to answer both questions—who cares? I don’t know if this is tomfoolery or not. I’m not claiming the existence of ghosts, or that Calamity Jane looked like Gwyneth Paltrow—and certainly not the authenticity of this material. That’s not the point. The point is selling fiction. Which is almost impossible without buzz. And let’s face it, controversy creates buzz. These things, forgeries or not, are cool for me, since they surfaced the week before my
film comes out in DVD. So everybody, go out and buy yourself one.”

  He waved the DVD like a flag of surrender.

  It was time to wrap things up. Without Gaby, the audience wasn’t picking up on its cues. Hands waved. People shouted clueless questions.

  I stood and clapped loudly. But before Plant and Silas could descend from the stage, the Englishman and most of the smugsters got them cornered. The volume of the Brit’s aristocratic speech escalated as the smugsters’ California slang rose even higher.

  “Looks like Plant could use a little help,” Rick said, taking off in their direction.

  I turned to pick up my tote bag, expecting another barrage of nonsense from Luci. But the chair next to me was empty.

  Luci was gone.

  Fine. She wouldn’t be missed.

  I wondered how soon she’d discover her flowerpot bag was bogus—and the photo was gone. I had to be grateful to Marva for that. Major crisis averted.

  Although I still didn’t have a clue about how those strange letters related to Marva—or Luci or Toby. I wondered if Marva had figured out I’d salvaged a few. As soon as Plant was free of his fans, I’d get him to look at them. I wondered which letters I’d managed to save. I opened my bag.

  But it was empty. The letters were gone.

  Chapter 36—A Damp Trap

  I searched my tote bag three times before I had to admit to myself that I must have shoved the gay cowboy letters into Donna’s folder after my tug of war with Marva.

  And that meant I had delivered them into the hands of Luci Silverberg—the devil herself. Luci was probably already off drafting her extortion letter.

  I had to find her before she did any damage with them. I hated to think what I’d just let loose.

  I found a service door along a side wall—the most likely way to make an exit from the Ponderosa Lounge without being noticed. The door opened on a narrow passageway, lit only by a bare bulb. It probably led to the kitchen. I thought I heard Luci’s mincing footsteps ahead. I hoped those stiff new cowboy boots would slow her down.