“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.
“Your mama never tell you about aspirin, Rick?” Gabriella gave a dry laugh.
“I don’t have any of my medications.” He perched on his stool. “All my stuff is in somebody else’s room. Somebody I was trying not to disturb.”
I could only roll my eyes.
Gabriella gave Rick a motherly pat.
“Toby usually has a few aspirins stashed in his desk for hangovers.” She started searching in the writing nook. “You want to get some champagne glasses, Camilla?”
I found no proper champagne flutes, but there were some saucer-shaped glasses that I supposed were what Gabriella and Toby used. I put two on the bar and grabbed the third as the cork exploded toward the ceiling with a loud “pop”. I rushed to catch the fountain that spurted from the bottle.
“Damn!” Rick jumped as the wine splashed on his shirt. The dishtowel fell from its perch on his shoulders.
I scrambled to pick up the ice and rolled it back in the towel.
“Rick, you’ve got to believe it wasn’t me in your room.” I handed him the towel. His pale yellow shirt was covered in damp, pink blotches. He pulled away, as if I intended to hurt him. Did he believe the stupid Post article after all?
“Listen, Captain, I’m not whatever the late night jokesters are saying. It’s just my ex-husband’s lies. The media can print any stupid thing, and there’s nothing I can do about it without a whole lot of money for lawyers. Which I haven’t got.”
Rick gave a grim smile and settled back on his stool.
“Yeah. I’ve been there. You know that so-called road rage video of me they played a million times on TV? They left out the part where I busted that dude for an illegal weapon. He’d been threatening an old farmer in a slow-poke truck for miles. He was the one with the goddam road rage. The department knows I was just doing my job, but because the tape got to the media before the truth did, I gotta live in a cage labeled “dangerous weirdo” my whole damned life.”
That helped. I got back on my bar stool, too.
“Oh, hell!” Gabriella gave a low moan from the writing nook. “It’s not here!” Her voice sounded close to tears.
Rick ran to her side.
“It’s only aspirin, Gaby. I’ll live.”
“Not the aspirin.” She continued her frantic search. “It’s gone—the folder with the Montgomery manuscript. It was supposed to be right here on top of the desk. Toby promised he’d have it ready tonight. He’s ghosting a memoir for Walker Montgomery. Walker came by last night in a tizzy, demanding to see the pages Toby had promised him. He’s coming back for them tomorrow. Damn, where did that old goat put it? You do not piss off Walker Montgomery.”
“Walker Montgomery, the anti-gun-control guy?” Ick. Walker Montgomery was one of those old-time TV tough guys who hadn’t mellowed with age. President and spokesperson of a national gun club.
Then I remembered: “He was here last night—the night I arrived? I saw some old TV star in the lobby. I couldn’t place him.”
“Probably him. He and Toby some big brouhaha just after the reception. He stomped out of here like he planned to kick the place down with his own little feet.” Gabriella tossed papers around, looking old and tired. “It could be still here, I guess—in any one of these folders, but they’re not labeled. I over-ordered our Golden West folders last year, so Toby uses them for everything… Shit. Luci Silverberg will be here tomorrow—finally. But if the deal’s off with Walker, she is going to have a conniption fit.”
At the mention of Luci’s name, Rick massaged his neck more intensely.
“Gaby, what do you say we have our toast and get a little shut-eye? It’s been a long day.”
Gabriella looked up from her rummaging. “What happened to your shirt?”
All Rick could do was point to the champagne sitting on the bar.
“Exploded on you?” Gabriella returned to the bar and studied the bottle. “I’m surprised. I never thought this vintage had that much pep.”
She sat on a stool next to me and picked up a glass, handing me another.
Rick lingered by the desk. He seemed fascinated by a grimy-looking Rolodex full of dog-eared address cards.
“Come on, Captain. It’s almost sunrise, for goodness sake. Camilla looks exhausted.” Gabriella petted my hand. “You don’t have to go back to those god-awful rooms. We only keep the fourteens for emergencies. You can both sleep up here. There’s plenty of room, if one of you doesn’t mind sleeping in Toby’s room. In fact…” Gabriella set down her glass again and disappeared down a hallway. “I’ll only be a minute.”
I sipped wine, glad to be here with Rick. I had to admit I felt safer with a man who carried a gun. Especially if he didn’t suffer from uncontrolled rage after all. But I wished he’d understand that his encounter earlier in the evening hadn’t been with me. And that I hadn’t imagined that intruder in the Burberry coat.
Rick flipped through the Rolodex.
“I wouldn’t want Walker Montgomery as an enemy either.” He grinned at me over his shoulder. “Do you remember him on that old TV show? What was his name? Tom Colt—that P.I. who killed ten people every week and never got collared?”
“I remember he had a crazy car that turned into a boat.” Trivia games. After all that had happened tonight, we were playing trivia games.
“The amphibious red Mustang! Awesome. Especially on those Hawaiian beaches. Amazing—those beaches were always empty except for bad guys waiting to be shot.”
“Not Hawaii. Florida—Palm Beach. It was called Eye on the Beach.” Gabriella reemerged from the bedroom. “Before that, Walker starred in a cowboy show called The Brazos Kid—but you’re both too young to remember that one—here.” She held up a Ralph Lauren pullover tennis sweater.
Rick’s attention was still on the Rolodex. “Wow. You still keep in touch with all these folks, Gabriella? This reads like a Hollywood ‘Who’s Who’.”
“More like a ‘Burbank: Who’s Over’. Bunch of TV has-beens. All of ’em writing their memoirs. Except they can’t write, so they come to Toby.” Gaby tossed the sweater at Rick. “Why don’t you put this on? Never been worn. It was too big for Toby, so it might fit over those shoulders of yours.”
“Toby was ghosting for all these names?”
“Ninety percent gave up after the first interview. But Toby liked having all those celebrities in his personal file.” She came at Rick. “Oh, come on, Zukowski, don’t be so modest.” She started unbuttoning Rick’s shirt and pulled off one sleeve.
“Hey!” His voice was sharp. “Gabriella, for chrissake!” He pulled the shirtsleeve back on, but not before I saw a long, nasty scar that snaked up his left arm.
“Are you afraid Dr. Manners wouldn’t approve of a lady stripping the clothes off a wet policeman?” said Gabriella with her growly laugh. “Fine, be damp, if you like, but this is a nice sweater. Cost me a bundle. Toby never wore it.” She came back to the bar. “So are you going to help me drink this hooch or what?”
Rick headed toward us, rebuttoning his shirt. He smoothed his left arm with his right hand, as if tracing that scar.
It was a gesture I had seen before—recently,
It was exactly the way Ernesto Cervantes had traced his devil snake tattoo.
Gabriella raised her glass.
“To Toby Roarke,” said Gabriella. “One sweet man, when he wanted to be. And a fine poet. Pretty good ghostwriter, too.”
“To Toby’s ghost,” said Rick. “May he rest peacefully.” He winced as he raised his glass, grabbing the back of his neck again.
“Oh, damn! I fo
rgot your aspirin.” Gabriella set down her glass and was off to the writing nook again. “Now where did I put that…? Oh, shit. I hit the damned button.”
From the telephone answering machine, the ghostly voice of Toby Roarke said he wasn’t in right now and asked the caller to leave a message—then, after a beep, another man’s voice spoke, staccato with anger: the famous gravelly baritone of Walker Montgomery. After a jumble of shouts, one phrase came out, icy and clear—
“Toby Roarke, if you don’t have that stuff for me tonight, you are a dead man!”
Chapter 14—WILDE IN THE WEST
“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” a voice whispered.
I felt warm lips brush against my cheek.
I stiffened. “Rick?” I hadn’t had enough sleep. “What time is it?”
“It’s past noon, and you’ll hate yourself if you sleep through this beautiful day.”
The voice wasn’t Rick’s.
I opened my eyes to see Plantagenet, back-lit with the sunshine that streamed through the open window of the bedroom of Gabriella’s apartment.
“You’re out of jail!” I threw my arms around him. “Was it awful?”
He hesitated. “Let’s just say that when they talk about overcrowding in California jails, they aren’t just being whiny.” He smelled freshly showered.
“Oh, Plant, things have been so strange—so awful.
I hugged him, not wanting to let go. I didn’t know how I’d survived the last five years without him. “I’m so glad you’re free!”
“Free but never cheap.” He gave a little laugh as he looked around the room. “You seem to have landed in some pretty nice digs. Did your friend Captain Road Rage share the, ah, accommodations?”
“Of course not!” I sat up and tried to look as dignified as one can in an Oscar de la Renta charmeuse chemise. “That road rage stuff isn’t true—and I hardly know him.” I had to remind myself of that. I especially didn’t know what to make of that snaky scar I’d seen him try to cover up last night.
“That’s why his name was the first one that came to mind when a man woke you with a kiss?” Plant laughed. “I don’t blame you, darling. A cross between Jimmy Smits and Jimmy Stewart—what’s not to like? But I’m glad you’re not intensely involved, since Lucille Silverberg seems to be busy staking a claim.”
“Luci Silverberg has arrived? Good. Gaby will be so relieved. And she’s Rick’s agent, not his girlfriend. Not that I care.” I kissed Plantagenet’s cheek. “You and I have to spend some time together in New York, or San Francisco—soon. Somewhere safe. No more wild west for me.”
Plantagenet put on an expression of exaggerated hurt. I forgot his recent fame came from his revival of the Western film.
“Oh, but I adored your Oscar Wilde-West movie. Such a clever plot. Do you think Oscar Wilde really could have had an affair with Calamity Jane?”
Plant laughed. “Why not? They were both in California in the spring of 1882—both in their late 20’s. He was bisexual. She was a cross-dresser. Nobody can prove it didn’t happen.” He checked his watch. “Better get going, or I’ll be in trouble.”
Not good news. “The police don’t still suspect you, do they?”
“I meant with Gaby. I have no idea what the Sheriff’s people think. All I know is that at ten this morning, one of the deputies told me I was free to go, and there was Gabriella in her Cherokee, ready to give me a ride back here.”
He made a move toward the door.
“And, um, Toby? Did she say…?”
He nodded. “She told me the terrible news, and said the Sheriff seems to think Ernesto’s gang killed him—Ernesto, too. She said the gun they found in my car was stolen by a gang, who probably killed him for attempting some upward mobility. A terrible, terrible tragedy, but at least it seems to be over.”
It sounded so sensible when he said it that I felt stupid telling him what Rick said about gangs and frying pans.
“I’d better leave you to dress, darling,” Plant said. “Gabriella had all your things brought up from the cabin.” He pointed to my Vuitton bags, neatly stacked by the door. “She wants us down in the dining room ASAP. I think she wants to show me off. I don’t know if it’s to let people know I’m out of jail, or because she’s so desperate for some kind of celebrity to parade in front of the paying customers.”
“Why isn’t Gabriella parading the great Luci around?”
“Luci’s off in town having a private moment with your maverick police captain.”
“Maverick?” I laughed, although I felt a twinge of jealousy when he talked about Rick and his agent. “That’s his real name, you know—Maverick Jesus Zukowski.”
“Yes. I know. So does Luci. That’s why she’s taking him to the Maverick Saloon. She thinks it will make a great setting for a photo shoot.” He stood by the door and pointed to my luggage. “By the way, apparently Rick found a manuscript of yours mixed in with his things. Gaby said it’s on top of your laptop case.”
He left before I could tell him I was the only person in the place who did not have a manuscript to hawk.
My suitcases were indeed stacked by the doorway, a gold folder laid on top. Maybe the notes for my talk. Sweet of Rick to put them in a folder for me. I so much didn’t want to think he was some kind of gangster. Of course in East L.A. a kid might fall in with the wrong crowd. And he had removed the tattoo, if that’s what caused the scar at all.
I scrambled into my Chanel suit and cobra skin sandals and jammed the folder into my tote. So Rick was at the Maverick Saloon. I wondered if outlaw bikers would be included in the photo shoot.
And more important—I wondered how attractive Luci was.
Detective Fiscalini had set up shop in the Frank and Jesse James suite on the ground floor and was questioning the conference-goers one by one. They were still parading in and out by the time we finished lunch. I wondered if that was routine or if Fiscalini wasn’t as sold on the gang theory as Plant seemed to think.
After lunch the red-faced Englishman accosted me.
“I can’t believe this!” he said, clamping an angry hand on my forearm. “Those cretins are holding us hostage. We’ve been ordered not to leave. Any of us. As if this place weren’t stressful enough—besieged by the media, devoid of the promised celebrities, infested with murderous gangs.” He sighed with martyred pain. “And now the local constabulary insists on interviewing every single one of us about where we were when Toby died. Can’t you do something?”
I forced a polite smile as I tried to peel his hand from my arm. I wanted to tell him a lowly presenter had no more authority here than he did, but that might have made him angrier. I suppose he still hadn’t got any proper English tea.
“I’m afraid we all have to do what the Sheriff’s investigators want,” I said.
“I’m going to call my solicitor,” he said, taking a phone from his pocket. “And I suggest Miss Gabriella Moore should do the same. I saw those CSI people swarming around her apartment about an hour ago.” He pulled me closer and hissed in my ear. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the old girl did them in herself—Toby and his Mexican toy boy.”
Gaby’s apartment. I hadn’t thought about it, but of course they’d be going through Toby’s things for clues. And my things were strewn all over the bed. A Manners Doctor no-no.
By five to two, I finally escaped the Ponderosa Lounge, where the great Luci was scheduled for her two o’clock talk. But she hadn’t appeared.
Neither had Rick. I wondered if they were still partying at the Maverick Saloon.
Plant held Gabriella’s hand, saying reassuring things about how he could give his talk now instead of tonight if Luci was a no-show. Most of the crowd was already seated, and the buzz of conversation was uneasy.
I sat next to Plantagenet and Gabriella, keeping an eye on the back door for Rick. But it was Mitzi Boggs Bailey who burst through the door. She made a bee-line toward us.
“Are you all right?” she said to Plantagenet.
&
nbsp; “Why, yes,” Plant said, rising to give the old woman his seat. “It was an ordeal, but it’s over. I’m hoping the investigation will…”
“You sit down,” Mrs. Boggs Bailey said. “She’s the one who has to move.” She pointed at me. “I have to sit next to the play writer. I have something to show him.”
“Mitzi,” Gabriella said sharply. “You can talk to Plantagenet about your play later, but now is not the time.” She turned to me. “Hon, if you don’t mind, sometimes it’s better to humor her.”
“It’s not about my play.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey plopped herself down in my vacated chair.
I stood by, not quite sure where I should go.
“It’s a message,” the old woman said. “An important message.”
“From Luci?” said Gabriella. “Did you take a phone message from Luci? Saying she’d be late?”
“No, it’s not from anybody named Luci.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey leaned toward Plant. “It’s from Obadiah. He must have put it in my chifforobe last night. I thought it was my play, but when I opened the folder, I found this.” She reached into her gold folder and pulled out a thin, ancient book, wrapped in a couple of sheets of equally antique writing paper. She handed it to Plant. “You want to know how I knew it was for you? It said the-ater. Right there on the address. The Platt The-ater. San Francisco. You live in San Francisco. Don’t you, Mr. Smith?”
As Plant examined the contents of the folder, an amazing change came over his face. It went very white, but his mouth spread into an ever-widening grin.
“Dear, sweet God in heaven.”
His hand shook as he handled the fragile yellowed paper, covered with faded, spidery handwriting.
“Plant, what’s wrong? Do you need some water?” said Gabriella. “Mitzi, where did you get this stuff?”
“I got this from Old Obadiah,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “I told you. He put it in my chifforobe. The ghosts must have got into my room last night, because they left stuff, both of them. You don’t want to look at the junk from Joaquin. It’s filthy. But see?” She pointed to the bottom of the letter. “See where Obadiah signed this one?”
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