Ghostwriters In The Sky

by Anne R. Allen

  He finally looked up at me and his glazed eyes came to life for a moment.

  “It’s like my stupid joke about how being married to you was so kinky—S/M, bestiality, necrophilia and all that. Of course they didn’t print the damned punchline—when I said how my wife would torture me by cuddling with the dog when I wanted sex, and when I did finally get her alone, it was like doing a dead person. Okay, the joke sucked, but that reporter bitch was trying to get me to admit to all kinds of crazy stuff—maybe she’d heard I’d been visiting Marva’s club—so I said it to shut her up. I didn’t think she’d take a few words out of context and print them.”

  So that’s what happened.

  My life had been ruined by a bad joke.

  Ronald Reagan was right: there might not be any easy answers, but sometimes there were simple answers: Jonathan didn’t hate me—he’d just said something stupid.

  He always was jealous of Barkley. Big old fuzzy face. I still missed him.

  Still, the words stung.

  “I was that bad in bed?”

  “Not as bad as that one.” Jonathan pointed at Marva with a rough laugh. “It was a joke, Camilla. A lousy goddam joke.” He glanced around the room like a guilty child and pulled a pint bottle of Jack Daniels from his pocket and downed a furtive slug.

  Marva shook her head and pointed at a surveillance camera above us.

  “You!” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, after staring at Marva, then me, and back at Marva again. “Are you two all right? There shouldn’t be two Manners Doctors.” She glared at Marva. “Your boobs are too big.”

  “Calm down, Mitzi,” said Marva. “Now don’t call 911 again, okay?”

  “I don’t like your kind.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey turned back to Jonathan. “Mr. Kahn, what are you doing with a pervert that looks like Dr. Manners?”

  Jonathan put away the bottle.

  “That, Mitzi, is a very long, complicated story.”

  “No it isn’t.” Marva rolled her eyes. “After Luci contacted Jonathan on Monday about “your upcoming book,” Jonathan hired me to get the photo back. So I did. End of story.”

  Monday. The day Gabriella phoned me. Toby and Luci must have put her up to it. They already had plans for me. Probably because of the Post article.

  “By ‘hired’ Marva means she blackmailed me,” Jonathan said.

  “Luci was the blackmailer. I just did some retrieval. For a finder’s fee.” Marva said. “Sorry, folks, I’ve got to go to the little girl’s room. I’m about to explode.”

  “Whatever,” Jonathan said. “But she asked a whole lot less than Luci did for your damned book.” He gave me a scowl before turning back to his machine.

  “There is no book! Luci never talked to me until the conference.” Jonathan’s rudeness was infuriating. “It was much worse for Rick. He actually wrote a book for Luci…”

  I stopped, remembering Alberto’s fear and panic. Rick was one of them. The Viboras. I had to face the fact that Rick might be the worst villain of all.

  Of course Jonathan wasn’t listening to a word.

  Mrs. Boggs Bailey stared at the lights on Marva’s machine.

  “If she’s not gonna finish this game, can I play it?” She pressed a button and the machine gave a boink.

  I left her playing Marva’s machine, hoping she’d be safe for a few minutes.

  Marva had those letters. She must be planning to use them to do a double-blackmail deal with Walker the way she had Jonathan—she’d stolen them back for a “finder’s fee.”

  But how had she known I had possession of them, when I didn’t even know what they were myself? I seriously doubted that Mrs. Boggs Bailey knew either. She’d simply found them in her chifforobe—a gift from “ghosts.”

  Meanwhile, Walker was probably trying to get them out of the clueless Donna. Whatever Donna’s flaws, she didn’t deserve to be hurt for Luci and Toby’s sins.

  Or Marva’s.

  Chapter 48—Horse Thief

  The bathroom was empty except for the tell-tale size twelve pumps under the door of one of the stalls. Of course if I was wrong about Walker Montgomery, and Rick wasn’t some enraged phone-stomping gangbanger-killer, that meant I was alone with a murderer.

  But I was the one who’d got Donna in this mess, so I had to get her out.

  “Where are those letters you took from me, Marva?” I said to the bathroom stall door, trying to sound calm. “Luci’s missing. Somebody ransacked her room looking for those letters. Now he’s got Donna, too…”

  “Whoa! Back up now! Luci Silverberg is missing? Are you sure?”

  “She disappeared from her room at the Hacienda and somebody tore it up looking for something. She had some of the letters, so I’m sure they were looking for the rest. Luci doesn’t have a car, and nobody saw her leave. Plus she took off without her bag—and she left the top off her nail polish. I think Walker might have done something to her—kidnapped her or even killed her. And now Donna’s gone off with Walker, trying to pitch him her book. Luci thought Donna had the letters, and maybe Walker does too…”

  Marva emerged from the stall, adjusting her pantyhose.

  “Slow down a minute. Did you say Luci left the top off her nail polish?”

  I nodded.

  “Doesn’t sound like she took off for a leisurely stroll. And who else is missing?”

  “Donna Carillos. She’s…”

  “Duncan Fowler’s arm candy. Or she used to be.” Marva rummaged in her bag for a lipstick. “Yeah. I know who Donna is. What does that little media whore have to do with the Joaquin letters? Luci never got hold of the letters. I still have them.” She pulled out the familiar gold pocket folder and opened it. “Yup. Right here.”

  “But some are missing.” I looked at the yellowed bits of paper. They really did look old. Ernesto had been a gifted forger. “I kind of hung on to a few. And they’ve been, uh, floating around. Now Donna is trying to pitch her novel to Walker Montgomery, and I’m afraid he may hurt her. He used to be called Joaquin, like the person in the gay letters, and if he thinks Donna’s got them…”

  Marva arched a carefully plucked eyebrow.

  “You know about Walker—that he’s the Joaquin in the letters?” She looked into my eyes as I nodded. “Okay. But why would he think Donna had the letters?”

  I sighed. “I put the letters in the folder with Donna’s novel by mistake.”

  “What—are you going for the nitwit of the year award or something?” Marva applied lip color from a Chanel Camélias lip palette identical to mine. “Didn’t you listen when I told you Luci was evil?”

  She blotted her lips and looked pensive for a moment.

  “Okay. We don’t have to go all drama queen about it. For one thing, Donna can’t be with Walker. He left for his house in Malibu a couple of hours ago. He’s flying to Australia tomorrow morning.”

  I shook my head. “I just saw him at the Maverick Saloon. He followed us from the Rancho—after he searched Luci’s room, while posing as a ghost. I’m pretty sure that had to be him. And Luci thought Donna had more letters, because Donna asked a hundred thousand dollars for them—well, she thought she was asking the money for her novel, but… well, it’s complicated.”

  “Whoa!” Marva turned and gave me a fierce stare. “Walker believes Donna has those letters? And she’s with him right now? She dropped her makeup in her bag and banged open the door. “Come on. We gotta find that girl.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me out, nearly colliding with a group of overfed ladies in sparkly sweat suits.

  “Damn!” Marva stopped dead.

  At the end of the aisle, Jonathan was being led away by uniformed guards. Two more guards had Mrs. Boggs Bailey.

  “What’s going on?” I said to a sweatsuit lady, trying to sound off-hand.

  “Probably drinking,” the woman said. “I saw that silver-haired guy with a flask.”

  “Somebody said they were horse thieves,” said another sweatsuit.

 
; A third lit up a Virginia Slim. “When I came in, the tribal police were looking for some drunk celebrity who stole a horse from over at the Maverick Saloon.”

  “Miss Manners,” said sweatshirt number one. “That’s who they’re looking for now. Miss Manners, drunk as a skunk,”

  Marva pulled me down another aisle and out of sight of Jonathan. “You stole a horse?” she hissed. “And expected to get away with it? In this town?”

  “I didn’t steal it. Mrs. Boggs Bailey did.”

  Now the uniformed men were marching Jonathan and the old woman toward the Casino entrance. Marva pulled me in the opposite direction.

  “I can’t leave,” I told her. “Mrs. Boggs Bailey is my responsibility. I’ve got to explain things to those tribal security people.”

  Marva tightened her grip on my arm.

  “No way. Jonathan and Mitzi may be uncomfortable for a bit, but they’ll live. But from what you tell me, Donna might not make it through the night. We need to stay out of jail so we can find her. Now. Come on.”

  Chapter 49—Head for the Hills

  Clicking along at an impressive pace in her gigantic heels, Marva led me to the parking garage. When we got to level three, she stopped at a black rental Taurus.

  “Here.” She tossed me the keys. “You’d better drive. That ex of yours sure is generous with his Jack. I usually don’t drink. I used to have a little problem with the booze before I got on the right track, gender-wise. Used to steal whatever I could from the Longhorn Room after hours when I worked in the kitchen.”

  “You used to sneak down that back staircase?” I took the keys, but this new information didn’t make me terribly enthusiastic about getting in the car with her. “Those stairs. That’s how Toby’s body got to the Longhorn Room.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I realized how stupid I was to say them if Marva had killed Toby after all. She looked strong enough to move a body down the stairs. And certainly strong enough to overpower me.

  But she showed no reaction, so I decided to go on.

  “Toby was killed on the porch outside his apartment and all that gruesome gang stuff was added post mortem. Alberto said there was a trail of blood all the way down the hall.”

  Marva only laughed. “Poor Alberto. He must have gone bonkers when he found bloodstains all over his nice floor.”

  “He thought Gabriella must have killed Toby.”

  Marva snorted. “How dumb is that? You knew it wasn’t her, didn’t you?”

  I still gripped the keys. Should I say it?

  “Actually, I thought maybe it was you.”

  “And that’s why you’re standing there looking like you don’t know what car keys are for?” Marva laughed again. “Unlock the door, sweetie. I’m sure you’ve got trust issues after being married to Jonathan, but you gotta let them go right now. Otherwise that dimbulb little Valley Girl might get herself smoked, you know?”

  I got in.

  Marva slid in beside me, clutching her faux Fendi spybag.

  “Now you’ve got me paranoid,” she said, “Walker made such a big deal about how he had to drive to Malibu tonight. To pack for some big-deal trip to Australia. But I suppose he doesn’t want to leave with all these…loose ends hanging around.” She patted her bag. “My finder’s fee is only twenty thou. I’m not greedy. I just need money for my operation.”

  I drove out of the garage as I put the pieces together in my head. “But how was Walker supposed to pay you if he was on his way to Australia?”

  Marva didn’t answer except to say, “Turn right up there. Don’t get on the freeway.”

  I was tired of the cloak and dagger stuff, and the dark road ahead did not look inviting.

  “Where, exactly are we going? I don’t have a clue where Walker might have taken Donna. Why do you think he’d be somewhere in these mountains?”

  “Because his boyfriend, Duncan Fowler, lives in these mountains, that’s why. Duncan is the one who hired me. He was supposed to meet me at the Maverick Saloon earlier to buy the letters.” She stroked her bag like a favorite pet. “He didn’t want Walker to know, because Walker already paid Toby for them, and he’s furious. But Duncan didn’t show, so I figured he’d decided to let Walker deal with it. But after what you told me about Luci having some of the letters and trying to sell them… damn, he probably thought I was bluffing and Luci had them all along. Turn here.”

  “Duncan Fowler is Walker’s boyfriend?”

  Could she possibly be right? Walker Montgomery really was gay? I had to let that sit in my brain for a moment.

  “I thought you said those letters were forgeries—now you’re saying he’s gay after all?”

  The winding dirt road ahead looked as shadowy as Marva’s schemes.

  “That’s why the forgery scam was so sweet. Those three latched on to just enough truth to scare the piss out of people.”

  “Those three—you mean Luci, Toby and Ernesto? Gabriella—did she know?”

  “I doubt it. Luci did not like to share. That’s where she and I ran into trouble.”

  “You and Luci—you’d been, uh, doing business together for a while?” I didn’t know a tactful way to inquire if someone was part of a crime ring.

  “No way. I only met La Luci last week, when she was putting the screws on Jonathan. He contacted me about the photo, and I tried to negotiate with Luci and Toby to get it back—you know, for a finder’s fee. Toby actually offered me more—he wanted us to get a regular gig going with those photos. Ernesto was getting cocky—trying to branch out on his own with his literary forgeries—so Toby couldn’t count on him. But Luci nixed the deal with me. She didn’t want to cut anybody else in. Greedy bitch.”

  “You should be glad you didn’t join their little crime family,” I said, trying to fight my revulsion at this confession. “It’s been a bit hazardous to their health. They all get dead.”

  “Yeah. Which sure points a finger at everybody’s favorite gun industry spokesmodel as the murderer, doesn’t it? He was their number one mark. Turn here.”

  I shivered in the cold night air, thinking the facts could equally well point to Marva herself—especially the frying pan murder

  “Why wouldn’t a gun person like Walker shoot Toby like the others?” I blurted out. “And why all the gang stuff? None of that sounds like Walker Montgomery to me, but maybe you know something I don’t know…”

  I stopped myself before I got in bigger trouble. At least I hadn’t told Marva about Rick, or his gang friends who might be at the Hacienda. I did not need to tell her how friendless I was at the moment.

  “Who knows? Walker’s a loose cannon. He threatened to kill Toby if he didn’t turn over the letters. Then he threatened Luci, after the letters disappeared the night Ernesto died.”

  “What did happen to those letters that night?” I kept my eyes on the road.

  “I have a feeling Ernesto took them from Toby out of revenge. Maybe he was going to blow the whistle on the whole deal. Confess to Plant Smith or something. He and Toby had a big fight that night. The kid had his own scam going—trying to sell Plantagenet Smith some forgery he was doing on his own—and Toby went ballistic when he found out—and confiscated all Ernie’s stuff. That night, the folder with all the blackmail evidence—Ernie’s forgery, the Joaquin letters, plus that photo of me—disappeared from Toby’s desk. Toby was pretty sure Ernesto stole it. He called me to warn me the kid might have the copy of my photo with Jonathan. I was pretty annoyed. But not as annoyed as Walker. He’d already paid Toby his blackmail money, so technically, the letters belong to Walker.”

  I peered through the dark as my brain sorted through this. Maybe Ernesto did steal the letters, but that didn’t explain how they got to Mrs. Boggs Bailey—or how the Viboras figured in.

  Marva fished in her bag for something.

  “Slow down and take a hard right.”

  After I made the treacherous turn onto what was clearly marked a “privat
e drive,” I glanced over to see that Marva was efficiently inserting a clip into a small, rather elegant silver and onyx pistol.

  I clutched the wheel and tried to keep my voice calm.

  “Please, let’s not shoot anybody. They may not know we’re on to them. Can’t we just talk Donna into coming back with us? I can say we’ve set up an interview with Jonathan for her. I don’t think she even knows about the letters. Walker Montgomery sort of seems to like me, so…”

  Marva clicked something on the gun.

  “Don’t be taken in by his aw-shucks act. He can be a vindictive bitch. Of course, he’s always had it in for me because of my relationship with Duncan.”

  “You’re involved with Duncan Fowler?”

  This was getting more and more surreal. I was not relishing the idea of engaging in a shoot-out with Mr. Heavily-Armed Testosterone and Mr. Right-Wing Pundit, whether they were gay or not.

  “Was,” Marva said. “Long time ago. When I was…somebody else. But I know my way around his place. My parents had a little ranch just over the next hill. Sold out to a big winery a few years back.” She pointed ahead. “Drive all the way past the stables and park just this side of the helicopter pad.”

  I negotiated the winding drive through the oaks up to the sprawling, mission-style ranch house on the hilltop. I heard a horse whinny into the night. It sounded spooked. I could sympathize. As I rounded a curve, I saw the helicopter, silhouetted in the moonlight, perched like some monster insect in a clearing a few hundred yards ahead.

  “Park here,” Marva said. “They can’t see us with that big old chopper in the way. Then you need to change out of those clothes. We have to be absolutely quiet once we get in the house. I’ve got a couple of pairs of flats and some jackets in the trunk. You can’t do this in couture and heels, sweetie.”

  Chapter 50—NewsFowl

  A few minutes later, wearing a gray hoodie and shoes that looked like they used to belong to somebody named Bozo, I followed Marva as she glided, cat-like, toward Duncan Fowler’s ranch house, clad in a black satin trench coat, Gucci scarf and jeweled satin ballerinas. Trying desperately not to trip over the borrowed size twelve Adidas, I plodded behind, past the helicopter pad and onto to a path that led past the stables to a driveway that ran along the side of the house.