It didn’t budge.
I couldn’t feel a light switch on the wall. Maybe there was an old fashioned pull light. I reached ahead, waving my hands in the blackness, hoping to feel a chain or a string. But the dark was empty and getting scarier by the minute. I told myself to breathe, but the place smelled awful and stale. Maybe it wasn’t a passage at all. I took a step ahead, but with a clatter and a shot of pain, I felt something clamp onto my foot. I was caught in a trap. A damp trap.
And nobody knew where I was.
Except maybe the murderer.
A few minutes later, I heard footsteps outside the stuck door. I had no idea if I should call out for help, or if I’d be safer in hiding.
But the air was foul and my foot hurt.
Finally, I knocked tentatively on the door.
The door burst open. There stood Rick, stifling laughter.
“What are you doing in the broom closet, Camilla? When Luci said Alberto wanted to talk to you, I don’t think it was about volunteering for clean-up duty.”
“I’m, um, looking for Luci.” I wished he’d act more sympathetic. “I didn’t know where she went, so…”
“So you thought this was just the moment to run down here and stick your foot in a mop wringer?” Rick bent down to study the contraption clamped around my ankle. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
I tried to smile, but it did hurt: enough to make my eyes tear. I had stepped into an old-fashioned bucket designed to wring out a string mop. A number of mops, in various stages of decay, hung on hooks around me. I pretended to study them, trying not to let Rick see my childish tears.
Rick clicked something on the bucket, and the pressure on my ankle released.
“Thank goodness Plant saw you take off through the service exit. Nothing broken, I think.” He massaged my ankle. “Do you feel okay?”
“If feeling like a complete idiot is okay, yes, then I’m okay.” I didn’t even want to see what damage had been done to the Christian Louboutin cobraskin.
“Why did you take off like that? Was it something I said?” He stood and examined my face. “You’re crying. Crying doesn’t say okay to me. Do we need to get you to a doctor?”
“No. No! It’s Luci. I have to find her. She has some things…” How was I going to explain what Luci had, and how she came by them?
“I have a feeling Luci won’t be around this place much longer.” Rick’s dark eyes looked directly into mine, which made my knees feel as unsteady as my ankle.
“Luci’s leaving? What about your book? The advance, everything, you’re really going to let it go?”
Rick sighed. “There never was going to be a book—and that wasn’t an advance. What she paid me for was a lot of dirt about the celebrity busts we’ve kept quiet over the years. She was going to use the threat of publishing the book to blackmail the celebrities. She’s just a scammer. Somebody should have shot me with a clue gun. I can’t believe I fell for her crap.” He bent down on one knee and looked at my ankle again. “Can you walk on that?”
I nodded. Marva wasn’t so far off in comparing Luci to the Devil. “It’s not your fault you were taken in. Luci has a huge reputation.”
“Based on a few sales a very long time ago. Now, she’s just a crook. A lot of things didn’t smell right about this deal from the beginning, but it was Gaby who hooked us up, so I wanted to believe. Plus, I wanted something in my life to be going right.” He offered his arm for me to lean on. “I wasn’t a total doofus. I did ask my detectives to check her out. She’s had a lot of complaints against her, but nobody’s been able to prove anything. In fact, I still don’t have enough solid evidence to take to a prosecutor, and last time I checked, Gaby wouldn’t hear a word against her. I guess I got a little angry when I found out. But these murders have something to do with Luci. I can smell it.”
All I could smell was old mops, but as I leaned into the warmth of Rick’s body, I realized I was the one who’d been a doofus. If the recipient of those letters—“Joaquin Montoya”—was alive, Luci was about to ruin his life. And it was all my fault.
A voice came from the end of the hallway.
“Captain! I have been looking everywhere for you. I also need to speak with Miss Randall, but she is nowhere…”
The small, sturdy figure of Alberto rushed toward us.
“Miss Randall is here! I am relieved to find you. Captain, I must speak with you! I prefer to speak to you—not Detective Fiscalini. Miss Randall, you must hear me too. You will know how to speak with Miss Moore—to tell her about this.” He clutched a gold pocket folder to his chest.
Was there anybody here who didn’t have a manuscript to sell?
“Please.” Alberto spoke in a whisper, pressing the folder to his heart. “It is urgent. I can wait no longer.”
“I’d be glad to do whatever I can to help,” I smoothed my hair as I exited the broom closet as gracefully as I could. “But first I have to speak to Luci Silverberg.” I tottered on my left shoe as I shook water from my right one. My hose felt clammy on my wet foot.
“Miss Silverberg is not to be disturbed,” said Alberto, offering an arm for balance. “She has a headache and will see no one.”
“When did she tell you this?”
What was Luci up to now?
“A few minutes ago. No calls. No visitors. No exceptions. Come. We go this way.” Alberto’s fingers gripped my arm with urgency.
“I told you Luci wouldn’t be a problem any more, Camilla,” Rick said with a grim smile. “She’s probably locked herself away until her flight home. She’ll have a hard time explaining why I turned down her offer.”
He offered me his shoulder as I put my shoe back on.
Alberto led us down the hall and pushed on a wall panel that sprang open—another of the Rancho’s hidden doors. He stepped into darkness.
“Come,” was all he said.
Soon we were hurrying down the service corridor I recognized as the one where Miguel had led me to the secret Hole in the Wall room. But Alberto didn’t stop. He opened another panel a little further down the hallway that revealed a narrow staircase that looked freshly scrubbed and smelled of bleach.
“Servants’ stairway,” he said simply. “They are a little steep.” As he made his way up the narrow stairs, I realized Alberto was probably older than he looked. His dark hair was only flecked with gray, and he could have been anywhere between forty and seventy.
The stairs stopped at a corner landing where a cracked-open door showed a small balcony, festooned with yellow caution tape—and French doors that led to what looked like an office that must have been Gaby’s.
But Alberto led us down a smaller passageway and unlocked a simple wooden door that looked as if it might lead to a linen closet. When he switched on a light, I could see it was a studio apartment, complete with a small stove and refrigerator, a monastic bed, a table with two wooden chairs and chest of drawers. A framed picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe above the bed was the only decoration.
“Please, sit.” He waved at the chairs and put the folder he carried on the table. He opened the top drawer of the chest and pulled out several more of the gold folders.
“What a pleasant little studio apartment,” I said, to try to fill the tense silence. “And so private. You’d never guess it was here, tucked away in this little corner.”
“Yes.” Alberto gave a sad smile as he looked around the room. “My little home. I moved in here after the old housekeeper died. I have worked at the Rancho most of my life. I was only thirteen when Mr. Boggs gave me my first job, in the kitchen.” His face contorted and he looked as if he might burst into tears. “I was a little wet-back child. No papers. No English. Mr. Boggs and Miss Gabriella—they were so kind, so good to me, and this—this is how I have repaid them.”
He threw the folders on the table.
“What is this?” Rick opened one to reveal a neat stack of papers.
“Lies! Betrayals! My crimes.” Alberto waved at the papers as if he were
waving away fumes from raw sewage.
“And here—” He pointed at the folder he’d been clutching. “Here is ruin. Utter ruin. I should not have listened to Toby. I believed he would make the money back from the grapes. I thought it would save the Rancho. There was so much debt. But that was before…” He handed me one of the papers. “Read it.”
I gave Rick a look of apprehension after glancing at the document.
“What is this? Some sort of government report?”
“Yes. It is the report that came in last Friday. I showed it to Toby and told him he must tell Gabriella everything. She must be told there is no longer any hope. They are here. They will destroy us. No one can fight them. Miss Randall, you must help me tell Gabriella.”
He turned to Rick. “Captain, you must arrest me.”
“What?” I said. “Who is it you think you can’t fight?” I wondered if Alberto was talking gangs or ghosts, or whether he was talking sense at all.
“Sharpshooters,” Alberto said, hissing the word like a curse. “Sharpshooters. We have been sent sharpshooters. The Rancho is doomed.”
Chapter 22—SHARPSHOOTERS
As Rick studied Alberto’s folders, I tried to soothe the sad-eyed concierge, who had collapsed again in tears. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems,” I said. “I can’t believe anyone would send armed gunmen to collect a debt. Not with all these people here…”
Alberto looked as if I were speaking a foreign language. “What gunmen? There are no gunmen. I said sharpshooters. Glassy-winged sharpshooters.”
“Fairy gunfighters?” Now I was really confused.
Rick let out a belly laugh. “These are bugs. They lay their eggs in grapevines and carry Pierce’s disease. It rots the vines down to their roots. Wipes out whole vineyards. There’s no cure.”
“They sent them in the last shipment,” Alberto said. “Toby should not have ordered vines from the cheap supplier. Now we must destroy all our vines before the eggs hatch. It is ruin.” Alberto could barely get the words out. “The Rancho is lost. It is my fault. I signed the loan papers.” He held his hands out to Rick as if he expected him to keep handcuffs hidden somewhere about his person at all times. “Please. You are a policeman. You must arrest me. And Miss Randall, you must take the news to Miss Moore—that I have confessed. That it is my fault.”
Rick put a hand gently on Alberto’s shoulder.
“Bad investing isn’t a crime, Alberto, no matter how guilty you feel.”
“No, but forgery is! Don’t you see? Mitzi’s signature is on all these papers! I am a criminal! You must arrest me!”
I glanced at the contents of the folder.
“These are loan papers, aren’t they? Why would Mrs. Boggs Bailey sign Gabriella’s loan papers?”
Alberto sighed. “Mr. Boggs, in his will, left his sister half-interest in the Rancho Grande. Gabriella still had plenty of money coming in from television residuals—so he never thought she would have money worries. But he was afraid Mitzi’s no-good husband would die and leave her with nothing. And he was right. But it has been difficult. She never wants to sign anything—especially not in the last few years since she has become more ill.”
“You’re saying Mitzi didn’t sign this?” Rick was all business as he examined the signatures.
“No. She has never seen those papers. And Gabriella—she was not told either. Toby signed for her and I signed for Mitzi.” Alberto pointed to a wooden carousel that housed a collection of old pens. “I forged her signature. I have some training as a calligrapher, so Toby asked me…”
“Forgery’s a serious offence,” Rick said.
“I know.” Alberto collapsed into the chair. “This is why I must go to jail. Toby made me believe it was necessary. The money was to plant the new vineyards. This conference loses money every year. Gabriella signs people to speak—famous people like Jackie Collins. Then Toby cancels them because he cannot pay. Gabriella—she must have had temporary insanity. But the fault—it was mine. That is why she killed him—don’t you see?” Alberto covered his eyes.
Rick leaned back against the bureau.
“Alberto, calm down. You don’t really believe Gabriella killed Toby? Not over some loan papers—or canceling Jackie Collins?”
Alberto looked up, his hands shaking.
“But she did kill him. I found the blood. It was on the balcony outside her office—and down the servant’s stairs—all the way to the bar.”
“Gaby’s office is the one next door—above the kitchen?”
“Yes. You can reach it from a private stair from the utility yard, and also from the hall outside this room.”
“And those stairs we came up lead to the Longhorn Room?”
“Yes,” Alberto said. “The blood was not so much, but I saw the trail of drops. It is my job to notice…” He buried his face in his hands.
Rick’s face was unreadable. “You saw blood you believed was Toby’s and you removed it?”
Alberto looked up again, his lip quivering. “Yes. I cleaned it with bleach, so no one would see what she had done. But the ghosts know. They have been here. The ghosts, they have left me a message...” He stood and picked up a wooden carousel of old pens. “You see! They took the pens and now they are returned!” He thrust the carousel into Rick’s hands and started to pace. “It is not Gabriella’s fault. It is mine. I should have told her. Now, Miss Randall, you must tell her I am sorry. You can do it in a way that is kind. And Captain, you must take me to jail.”
“Are you sure?” I tried to make some sense of Alberto’s story. “About the blood? Maybe the stains were old. Or red wine or something.”
Rick nodded. “You’re mistaken, Alberto. I think Fiscalini’s dead wrong on this. Gaby didn’t do it.”
I wondered if I should tell him about my gangbanger-accomplice theory about Miguel. Probably not, under the circumstances.
“Plant says Gaby couldn’t be responsible for the spray painting,” I said. “Think what it’s going to cost to replace that wall covering. It’s fur, for goodness’s sake. And she could never lift that cow head.”
Rick gave me a surprised look and nodded.
Alberto just looked pained. “I know what blood looks like,” he said with a sniff. “Anger can make a person strong. Toby had been with Ernesto. Perhaps she was jealous. Toby was always with the students—boys, girls, he did not care. He would make a rendezvous in one of the empty rooms. He would write the room number on a bottle of champagne and tape a key on the bottle. I was furious he was always losing keys. Everybody knew he stole those keys.”
“That’s the problem with that scenario, Alberto. Everybody knew,” Rick said. “Even my mother-in-law. She told me how Gaby’s been putting up with Toby’s tomcatting for decades. Why would Gaby kill one kid Toby was hooking up with, when there were dozens?”
Urgent knocking startled us all.
Rick opened the door. I heard Miguel’s voice and froze. He knew about the secret staircase just as well as Gabriella did. He could have waited for Toby in the servant’s hallway, ambushed him at his front door, then dragged him down to the bar.
“She is gone.” Miguel’s voice was breathless. “Mrs. Boggs Bailey is gone. I am very angry with Donna. She left Mrs. Boggs Bailey at the cabins, while she came to the Hacienda to look for Ms. Silverberg.” He shifted from foot to foot as if he were still running. “Mr. Kahn and his people are gone, too. They called many times demanding room service from the bar, but we do not have the staff.”
“Don’t panic,” I said, as much to myself as anybody. “Jonathan’s probably out looking for excitement, and Mrs. Boggs Bailey might have insisted on tagging along. Isn’t there a casino around here where he could drink and gamble?”
Miguel shook his head. “No drinking is allowed at the Indian casino, except in the five-star restaurant. Perhaps the saloon in Santa Ynez. Miss Moore forbids Mrs. Boggs Bailey to go there.” He stopped for breath, then started back down the stairs. “I must go. Only Santiago is
at the desk…”
“You have left Santiago at the desk?” said Alberto, suddenly the efficient concierge again. “He speaks no English. Go! Go!” As he closed the door, he looked pleadingly at me. “Can you get Mrs. Boggs Bailey? If she is with Mr. Kahn, she will get into terrible trouble. She always finds trouble…”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a car.” I could not go searching the watering holes of the Santa Ynez Valley for my drunken ex-husband. I had to find Luci—and retrieve those letters. I’d worry about Miguel and his gang later. At least he was too busy at the moment to murder anybody else.
But Rick seemed all too eager to go on a hunt. “I’ll drive,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll find Mitzi.”
He folded the loan documents and put them in his pocket.
“But Alberto, Detective Fiscalini’s team is going to have to see these.” He took another look at the carousel of pens. “What were you saying about these? They went missing and then turned up again? You used them for the forgeries?”
“Yes,” said Alberto. “Obadiah started to take them a few months ago. One at a time. I was upset. I thought Ernesto had taken them. They were given to me by Wu Lin, who was housekeeper here when I was just a kitchen boy. He taught me the art of calligraphy, and I was passing it on to Ernesto. Toby asked me to teach him. Ernesto had just finished making new labels for the photographs in the gallery on the ground floor. He could copy every one of those autographs. He had a gift—not like Miguel. He has ten thumbs.”
“Ernesto…he copied those autographs?” This was very interesting. Ty Hardin, Will “Sugarfoot” Hutchins—the autographs on the pictures downstairs—they were also the signatures on the Joaquin letters. They had to be forgeries, too.
And it looked as if Ernesto was the resident forger.
Glancing at my watch I tried to think of a polite way to make my escape. I had to get those forged letters away from Luci, now.
Rick saw me looking at my watch. “Give me a minute, Camilla. I have an obligation to report this cover-up right away.” He turned back to Alberto. “You thought Ernesto took the pens, but now you say the perpetrator was a ghost?”
Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Page 17
