I opened my folder, took a deep breath, and froze. As I read the words on the page, I felt my whole life passing before me—
“Newsbabes: a chick lit novel by Lourdes Donna Inez Carillos.”
It wasn’t my folder. There was no speech inside. It had been mixed up with some other writer’s manuscript. I was going to have to wing it.
I made myself smile, cleared my throat and said, “The Manners Doctor likes to quote Lord Chesterton, who said that the people with the best manners are the ones who can make the largest number of people feel comfortable under the most uncomfortable of circumstances. So I’m going to make this short. We’ve all had a trying couple of days...”
Thank goodness for Lord Chesterton. I somehow stumbled through most of what I’d planned to say—almost glad Rick had run out on me. I decided to drop the final segment I’d planned—about how to write for the growing ethnic teen market—since there were not many non-whites or teens present, unless you counted Toby’s Donna Karan girl, who was now wearing lipstick precisely the color of Pepto Bismol. Her accent might come from Latin America, and she was probably still a teenager, but her blank mask of grief—or maybe fear—showed she didn’t hear a word.
Nobody did. The crowd grew more restless and noisy, as—inexplicably—more and more of them appeared—none of them Rick or Luci. But I could see people lining up along the back wall.
I closed and asked for any final questions.
“Yes, I have a question,” said a heart-stopping, familiar voice from the back of the room. “It’s for Gabriella Moore.”
My head roared. I could hardly bear to look. My ex-husband.
“Oh, look!” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, jumping up from her seat next to Gabriella. “It’s that Jonathan Kahn from the TV. And some folks with cameras! And all my squirrel friends!”
I couldn’t breathe. There he was: Jonathan. Impossibly handsome as ever, in full camera-ready make-up, with every silvering hair in place.
Obviously he was here to disrupt my presentation. Nothing seemed to be beneath him these days. Did Luci know he’d be here? Is that what the photo was about?
A furious Gabriella turned around in her front row seat as Jonathan walked up the aisle, with his crew and a rag-tag mob of protesters and newspeople trailing behind.
“Gabriella Moore?” he said into his microphone. “Why did you kill your lover, Toby Roarke?”
Chapter 16—OUTLAW COWGIRL
As the camera crew moved in on her, Gabriella let out such a string of curses that I feared several elderly memoirists might faint. I hung to the lectern for support myself, suffering from equal parts fury and embarrassment. How had I ever been married to Jonathan Kahn?
“You have to let the whole world trespass on my property?” Gabriella roared, looking at the crowd of reporters, protesters and looky-loos streaming in the doors. “Who opened the gates for you, Kahn? What the hell are you doing on my ranch?”
“I had telephone authorization from a Mrs. Bailey. She owns this property, does she not?”
“Kahn, you are one damned fool,” Gabriella said as Jonathan poked a microphone in her face. “No. I take that back. You’re two damned fools. First you’re a fool for saying that lying crap about Camilla, and then you’re a fool for wasting your time on some story a poor old crazy gal told you over the phone.” She pointed at Mrs. Boggs Bailey, who was dancing in front of the camera like a small child. “Meet my sister-in-law, Mitzi Boggs Bailey. Your news source.”
“I’m Mitzi Boggs Bailey, the poet.” The old woman looked up at Jonathan with a coy smile. “Are you all right?”
“Why sure, Mrs. Bailey, I’m just fine,” said Jonathan. He gave a signal to the cameraman to focus on Mrs. Boggs Bailey as he brandished the microphone. “Do you remember talking to me on the phone when I called last night?”
“I sure do. I told you about my play.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey beamed. “You stayed on the phone a long time. Much longer than old Obadiah does.”
“And who is Obadiah? Is he involved in these murders, Mrs. Bailey?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. He’s kind of shy.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey grabbed Jonathan’s mike hand and moved closer to the camera. “Now that Joaquin—I wouldn’t put anything past him. He murdered hundreds of folks, you know.”
Jonathan put on his Walter Cronkite, serious-news face.
“Joaquin? Is he the head of this gang—these Viboras who have been suspected of Toby Roarke’s murder?”
Mrs. Boggs Bailey let out a peal of laughter.
“Joaquin isn’t the head of anything, silly. He doesn’t have one. Captain Harry Love cut it off. Put it in a jar of booze and took it to San Francisco. That’s why Joaquin’s so mad.”
“I don’t understand, Mrs. Bailey. Are you talking about—?"
“She’s talking about Joaquin Murrieta,” said Gabriella. “The 1850s bandit. Mrs. Boggs Bailey talks to ghosts, Mr. Kahn.” Gabriella’s voice got slower and more deliberate. “She suffers from dementia. I’m sorry you had to travel from New York for nothing, but there’s no story to report. The Sheriff has made no arrests at this time…”
Gabriella stopped mid-sentence as the crowd scattered and two uniformed Sheriff’s deputies, headed by Detective Fiscalini, filed into the room. Detective Fiscalini led them in a march down to the first row, where Jonathan and his entourage surrounded Gabriella and Mrs. Boggs Bailey. I felt almost relieved when I recognized one of them as D. Sorengaard, the nice deputy from the Solvang Sheriff’s substation.
“Please,” I said, rushing from the stage to Officer Sorengaard. “This is all just another one of Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s phone calls causing trouble. She’s been babbling nonsense to Jonathan, and as you know, she suffers from dementia. Please, you know Gabriella Moore didn’t kill anybody.”
The crowd pushed in as Detective Fiscalini stood in front of Gabriella, acting as if he’d never met her before, as he read her name from some document as “Gabriella Mora Boggs.” He proceeded to arrest her for the murders of “Ernesto Jaime Cervantes” and “Tobias Patrick Roarke.” Gabriella’s face had drained of color, but she said nothing as a uniformed deputy recited her rights in English and Spanish and clapped her in handcuffs.
The Ralph Lauren woman looked as if she might attack Detective Fiscalini with her bare, be-ringed hands.
“That’s ridiculous, officer. Don’t you know who this is? Mrs. Betsy Pike from Big Mountain! She’s an American icon.”
“This is a goof, right?” said one of the smugsters, pushing his way in. “How did Kahn know this was going to happen?”
“Kahn has informants all over. And I’ll bet he pays way more than a deputy sheriff makes in a month,” somebody else said.
The red-faced Brit asked loudly why the officers repeated everything in Spanish when this was an English-speaking country. He then began regaling the crowd with his theories about “Mexican toy boys.”
Meanwhile, Jonathan, with two cameramen behind him, intoned a running commentary into his microphone. At one point, a gallant Plantagenet tried to grab the mike and called Jonathan several names that were probably intended to spoil the tape for basic cable TV, but Jonathan didn’t miss a beat as he spoke into the microphone.
“Plantagenet Smith, I understand you’ve been implicated in the murder of your lover, Ernesto Cervantes. In fact, Miss Moore bailed you out of the county jail only a few hours ago. Tell me, did Miss Moore kill your lover, or did you?”
Plant pushed away the mike and lunged at the cameraman with a curse. One of the other crewmembers picked up a chair and gestured toward Plant as if he were taming a circus lion. The crowd pushed in closer.
“Oh, please,” Plant said. “Are we breaking chairs now? What, are you going for the Jerry Springer demographic, Kahn?”
D. Sorengaard stomped onto the stage.
“Okay, folks,” he said in a foghorn voice. “There’s nothing more to see here today. Time to go home. Everybody who is not registered at this hotel is trespassing. Return to your v
ehicles and vacate the property.”
Detective Fiscalini led Gabriella toward the exit as deputies started dispersing the crowd. But Jonathan held his ground, thrusting his mike in Plant’s face. The lighting and camera men closed in.
I hovered, staring at Jonathan. He was once an idealistic newsman. How had he become this shameless monster?
Up on the stage, D. Sorengaard contended with Mrs. Boggs Bailey, who was attempting to get him to join her in a kind of Shirley Temple soft-shoe dance. The cameraman shifted focus and aimed at the stage.
Gabriella laid a cuffed hand on Detective Fiscalini’s arm and turned to give me a pleading look.
I understood. I strode toward Jonathan and put the palm of my hand over the camera lens.
“That will be all. Jonathan,” I said. “You heard Officer Sorengaard. You’re not a guest at this hotel. The presentation is over. You’re trespassing. Please leave.”
Jonathan grabbed my hand and fixed me with his icy blue stare. A cameraman swiveled and moved in on me.
“Camilla Randall,” Jonathan said. “I understand you found the body of Toby Roarke as well as that of Mr. Ernesto Cervantes? People keep losing their lives wherever you go, Camilla. Can you explain that?”
Jonathan’s smile was as steely as his grip on my wrist. The microphone nearly touched my lips. I could smell his Emporio Armani—the scent that once made me melt with wanting him. But at this moment I felt nothing but disgust.
“There has been a lot of loss here—a lot of tragedy,” I said finally, trying to present a composed look to the camera. “The world has lost a promising young writer. Gabriella Moore has lost her longtime companion. Mitzi Boggs Bailey has lost her mental faculties, and you, Jonathan Kahn, are about to lose whatever shreds of honor and integrity you have left. Can I explain it? No, I cannot.”
Jonathan let go of my hand, lowered his microphone and signaled the cameraman to stop. He covered his mouth and shut his eyes.
“My God, Camilla!” Only when he dropped his hand did I see that he was laughing. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are when you turn on that Dr. Manners stuff? Babe, can we just talk—five minutes—off the record?”
“No! She can’t ‘just talk’ with you, Kahn,” said Plantagenet, pushing the formerly chair-wielding crewman aside with surprising force. “Nobody wants to talk to you on the record, off the record or—”
“No, wait!” said Gabriella. “Mr. Kahn, this is some kind of foul-up, and it will be cleared up in a few minutes at the station, I’m sure,” She turned to Jonathan with surprising calm. “But please, for Mitzi’s sake, don’t air this. I’ll give you an exclusive when I get back. You have my word on it. Don’t air this footage, and when I get back from the Sheriff’s station, I talk to nobody but you. Is that a deal?”
“Do you want to take my picture again, Mr. Kahn?” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, her voice loud and flat in the hushed room.
“No,” said Jonathan, still transfixed by Gabriella’s serene stare. “I won’t be taking any more pictures today, Mrs. Bailey.” He handed his microphone to the chair-man. “If you can put up my crew while we film some background, we have a deal, Gaby.”
“Good. Alberto will give you a couple of cabins. Camilla, can you take him to the desk? Tell Alberto to give Paladin to Mr. Kahn. And the crew can have the Cisco Kid. The workshops can be relocated to the Fiesta Hall.”
“Come along, Miss Moore,” said Detective Fiscalini.
Gabriella turned and accompanied him with the dignity of a French aristocrat being led to the guillotine.
“Kahn, how do you sleep?” said Plantagenet, still tense with rage.
“Very well, thanks,” Jonathan said. “I eat right, exercise and make sure I get my minimum daily requirement of alcohol.” He turned and beamed a grin at me. “So where can a guy get a Jack Daniels around here?”
Alberto wasn’t his usual efficient self as he presented me with the paperwork to register Jonathan and his crew. The poor man kept apologizing for some imagined transgression he seemed to think was the cause of Gabriella’s arrest. I wasn’t happy with the position of authority I seemed to have inherited in Gabriella’s absence. I could only hope the arrest was a stupid mistake and she’d be back soon. Entertaining Jonathan and his people was not how I wanted to spend my evening. Why not Luci? Or Rick—wherever he was?
The lobby was filling up, and Alberto looked increasingly uncomfortable as we saw Miguel—the writer-waiter and sometime assistant concierge—hauling a load of luggage from the upper floor, at the head of a parade of guests. Everybody was going to try to check out at once.
“Where is Santiago?” said Alberto. “I asked him to help carry bags. Miguel, I need you to help me here.”
Miguel put down the luggage. He muttered something under his breath in Spanish that contained the words “Santiago, Guatemala,” and “loco.”
“Please wait your turn,” Alberto said to the crowd of guests trying to check out.
“I don’t want Ronald Reagan any more,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “I want Roy Rogers back. Mr. Kahn’s going to be down at the cabins, so I want to be there. I need to show him my play. He can put it on TV, now that I’m famous. Mr. Kahn, did you know I was on TV? I stopped them from killing the squirrels.”
Jonathan nodded, his newsman’s smile beginning to crack. “And I’m sure the squirrels are deeply grateful, Mrs. Bailey.”
Mitzi pounded the desk in front of Alberto.
“Ronald Reagan has too many ghosts. My play got stolen. Give me Roy Rogers!”
The frazzled Alberto shot a questioning look at me, as if I had some way of channeling Gabriella’s wishes.
“Isn’t someone free to…spend some time with Mrs. Boggs Bailey?” I tried to be polite about the sudden elder-care duties. “Maybe one of the other faculty members?”
Alberto shook his head. “Lucille Silverberg has gone to the Saloon with Mr. Montgomery. Captain Zukowski as well, I believe. We cannot locate Vondra DeHaviland or Herbert Frye; the greeting card lady has gone back to Fresno, and many are not staying here. They have gone home for the day. Nothing is scheduled tonight but dinner and Mr. Smith at seven o’clock.” He gave a nod in Plantagenet’s direction while he handed keys to Jonathan and his crew. “Miguel will take you to the cabins in a golf cart.”
So Rick and Luci were out drinking with Walker Montgomery—having themselves a little party while chaos reigned at the Rancho. I could only pray that Luci wouldn’t show the awful photo to Rick. And that Rick wouldn’t believe the woman in the picture was me.
I turned to Miguel, as he hefted the luggage of Jonathan’s crew. “Is there someone who could watch Mrs. Boggs Bailey—maybe one of the maids? Someone who knows a little English? I’m sure there would be extra pay.”
Miguel gave me a stiff smile. “I will try. Much of the staff is calling in sick. We don’t have enough legals…” he stopped himself, glancing at Jonathan and lowered his voice. “I can’t say anything more. Too many reporters.”
The camera crew followed him, obviously eager for the refuge of the cabins, but Jonathan lingered. I tried to freeze him with my chilliest look, but he clapped a hand on Plant’s shoulder as if they were old friends.
“How about that drink? Don’t tell me there’s no bar in this place?”
Plant gave me an apprehensive glance.
“Drinks are served in the Ponderosa Lounge only,” Alberto said with clipped efficiency. “The Longhorn Room is a crime scene. No one is allowed until the investigators get their laboratory results.”
“You can buy me a whiskey sour, Mr. Kahn,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, taking Jonathan’s arm. “I love a silver fox.”
Jonathan’s hair was indeed more silver than brown now—but still thick and impeccably cut. And he was obviously still working with his personal trainer.
Plantagenet gave me an eye roll. As we followed the unlikely pair, he whispered, “I’ll call my lawyer and tell him his firm has another client. Gaby is the one we should be worrying a
bout right now.”
The Ponderosa Lounge was already full by the time we arrived. All the conference-goers who had not yet checked out seemed to be there, still clutching manuscripts. They mobbed Jonathan as soon as we walked in the door.
“Mr. Kahn can’t talk,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “He and Gaby have a deal.”
In the far corner of the Lounge, on the table that had once held only water pitchers and paper cups, a makeshift bar had been set up. Jonathan pushed his way through the crowd with a few affable jokes and made his way to the bar-table as Mrs. Boggs Bailey trailed behind him.
Plant whispered in my ear. “Why don’t we go back to Gaby’s apartment? We can leave Jonathan with Mitzi and his other adoring fans.”
I grabbed Plant’s hand. “Quick, before they catch us.”
I pulled him toward the door, but it was too late. Jonathan materialized behind us.
“Out of Jack Daniels,” he said. “I’ll bet Toby Roarke kept a private stash. Mitzi tells me Gaby’s got a private bar upstairs?”
I sighed. Part of me almost felt sorry for Jonathan. Whatever evil plans Luci had for that photograph, they would probably be even worse for Jonathan than for me.
Plant smiled a little too wide and squeezed my hand.
“Yes,” he said. “We were just talking about going up there. I’m sure Gaby won’t mind.”
“Oh, she’ll mind all right,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “But she can’t stop us now. She shouldn’t have made the ghosts mad. The Sheriff took that old cowgirl to the hoosegow, just like Joaquin said he would.”
“Joaquin said Gaby would go to jail?” Plant looked into the old woman’s eyes, as if he hoped to find something rational there.
“Oh, yes. Him and Obadiah. They told me.”
“The ghosts talked to you about Gabriella—when?”
Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Page 13
