Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky (2 page)

Stifling new tears, I stomped into the kitchen and reached into the freezer for the Ben and Jerry’s. But there was no Chocolate Fudge Brownie left. Just an old half-eaten tub of Cinnamon Bun covered with icky crystals. I really didn’t like Cinnamon Bun.

But it only took me about three seconds to inhale it.

Then I called my lawyer. The voice mail at Barrowman, Hodges and Fine said Mr. Hodges was not available. The creep hadn’t been available for weeks now because I hadn’t paid his bill, but how could I when the checks never appeared? The divorce was final three months ago. I was supposed to be getting regular payments from Jonathan. But so far I had not seen a penny. I tried to leave a coherent message, but my tongue was twisted with rage and ice-cream freeze.

I checked my own voice mail, expecting some frantic calls from friends who’d seen the article. I didn’t use a cell phone any more so they wouldn’t have been able to reach me if they’d read the paper this morning.

I’d decided to stop carrying a phone when I left Jonathan. The media harassed me constantly, no matter how many times I changed numbers.

So I had the Manners Doctor write a column about the evils of portable phones and swore off them forever. I really did hate the way they turned people into blabbering idiots incapable of carrying on an uninterrupted conversation. Well-bred people should not live in servitude to electronic devices.

I liked my land line. Only a few people had the unlisted number. It might make me a dinosaur, but I got to choose when and if I wanted to have a phone conversation.

But no. Nobody had called. Not even my mother.

That was a blessing. Maybe I could keep it from her. Thank goodness she was off sailing the Mediterranean with her new boyfriend Count Whatsis. Pure Eurotrash, but he’d keep her occupied—at least until he figured out most of the family money was gone.

I picked up the phone and dialed my realtor. She’d been a pretty good friend since I’d split from Jonathan. I met her when she helped me find this apartment.

But she didn’t pick up. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything on her voice mail. My assistant didn’t pick up either. Just as well. She wasn’t happy that I’d shut the office. I guess I wouldn’t be either, if I had to give up a glamorous Manhattan job and telecommute from my parents’ house in Queens. I didn’t feel up to talking to any of my old friends in Long Island. I’d been kind of shunned by the social register crowd since the scandal of the divorce.

Maybe it was for the best. I had no idea what to say to anybody. And I didn’t want to see people. Or for people to see me.

Damn. I was going to have to stay in this apartment forever.

If I could afford it. I looked at the stack of unpaid bills by the phone. The co-op board had sent a second notice on last month’s maintenance fees. The co-op board. What were they going to do when they read the
Post
? People had been asked to vacate for much less.

I paced my two tiny rooms, banging open cupboard doors looking for something. I didn’t even know what. Probably chocolate. But I didn’t find anything chocolaty but two stale Powerbars.

However, I did discover the bottle of Glenfiddich Mother’s drunken stockbroker friend brought when I agreed to have dinner with him last month. He’d left almost half the bottle. If there was ever a time for scotch, this was it. I poured myself two fingers and added a little water and some ice. It stung on the way down, but I felt better once I finished it. I refilled the glass and skipped the water this time.

When I was on my third refill, the phone rang.

I checked caller ID. Not a number I recognized. It had a California area code.

Jonathan. Jonathan the Monster must be calling me from his fancy new digs in Malibu. Which he much preferred to that palace we used to rent in Southhampton, he’d said in his last semi-toxic missive. His lawyer must have given him the number.

The phone kept ringing. I certainly wasn’t going to pick up. I wondered if he’d leave a message. I took deep breaths, telling myself to be calm and ignore whatever sadistic nonsense he tried to pull.

Finally I heard a voice—deep and raspy—not at all like Jonathan’s mellifluous broadcaster’s tones. In fact, even though the voice was in a low register, it didn’t sound male. And something about it was familiar.

“
I hope you’re not out of town, Camilla dear.” An old lady’s voice. “Have I reached the right Camilla Randall? The Manners Doctor? Your mother gave me your number last month when we were fundraising for the Equine Rescue Ranch. I’m Gabriella Moore.”

Gabriella Moore, the actress. No wonder I recognized the voice. I’d loved her TV show when I was a child.
Big Mountain
—all about lovely horses and wayward cowboy sons. I had no idea she was still alive. I hadn’t heard anything about her in twenty-five years. Why would she be calling me?

I picked up.

“
Miss Moore! What a delightful surprise. I grew up with
Big
Mountain
. It was my absolutely favorite TV show when I was little.”

Gabriella gave her signature throaty laugh. “Don’t admit that to anybody, honey. It’s like sticking a sign on your forehead that says, ‘pushing forty.’ But I sure am glad you’re a fan. Maybe you’ll be willing to help me out? I have an emergency here.”

“
Where? In California?” No way was I going anywhere in the vicinity of Mr. Jonathan Kahn.

“
Yes. The Golden West Writers Conference. I run it here on my ranch in Santa Ynez. Festivities start on Thursday and I’ve just lost my only nonfiction workshop leader. Would you be interested in giving a little presentation about how to write a syndicated column? The pay’s not great, but I’m sure that wouldn’t matter to a Randall. It’s a chance to promote your column. And don’t you have a couple of books out?” 

My books were out all right. Out of print. But I wasn’t going to tell her that.

“
Santa Ynez? Isn’t that where the Reagans used to live? The Western White House and all that?” Maybe I should consider it. I’d stayed out of the spotlight as much as possible since the divorce, but my readership had been falling off. It was probably time for me to let people know I was still alive and kicking.

“
Yup. Prettiest country on earth. Golden hills, fat cattle, and vineyards as far as the eye can see. Just north of Santa Barbara. This place was a dude ranch back in the 1920s. And hundreds of old westerns were filmed here, back in the day. Come on. How about a nice change of pace? And a paid vacation. All you have to do is talk about your column to a few wannabe writers. Marie Osmond had an emergency and cancelled on me so I’m really up the creek without a paddle, honey.”

I was being asked to stand in for a has-been TV celebrity who wrote little sewing books. Mother would have a fit.

But Santa Barbara was far enough from Los Angeles that I probably wouldn’t run into Jonathan. And going anywhere outside the circulation area of the
New York
Post
would be awfully nice.

“
Is it hot there?” I looked out my bay window at the sweaty, shirtsleeved crowd on the sidewalk. Odd to see so many people gathered in this residential neighborhood.

“
These hills can be toasty in the daytime, but it’s a dry heat, Gabriella said. “And the nights are cool.”

At first I thought the crowd down there must be tourists, since they all had cameras, but I realized what was happening when one of them aimed his camera at my window.

Not tourists. Paparazzi. Damn.

“
It’s a four-day conference, but you can stay longer if you like,” Gabriella said. “Free room and board.”

“
I’d love to.” I pulled the drapes shut.

Now I just had to figure out how to survive until Thursday with no Ben and Jerry’s. With any luck, by the time I got back, the
Post
article would be history, and some other celebrity would be in the media crosshairs.

The flight to California wasn’t too bad, considering how miserable traveling in coach was these days. But our take-off was delayed, and some mechanical drama during a layover at Dallas/Fort Worth kept us grounded for a couple of extra hours.

At least nobody in the airport seemed to recognize me. A few dogged paparazzi had followed my cab to Kennedy, and I was very ready for my fifteen Warhol minutes to be over. When we finally landed in Santa Barbara, I felt free for the first time since the story broke on Monday.

A little too free. I seemed to have been unencumbered of my luggage. At the baggage claim, I was told my suitcases had probably taken an alternate flight.

I tried to get the baggage clerk to show some interest in finding them—they were Louis Vuitton—but he looked at me with such blank boredom, I wondered if I’d ever see my things again. Thank goodness I had a few necessities in my carry-on.

I looked around the little Santa Barbara airport for anybody who looked like greeters for the conference, but saw no likely candidates. I didn’t really expect Gabriella’s people to wait so long. It was nearly seven. The opening reception would be going strong by now.

I flagged a taxi and told the driver the address in Santa Ynez. The unsmiling little man seemed to speak no English, but he nodded seemed to understand when I said “Santa Ynez.” He repeated the name of the town with lilting Spanish inflection.

He didn’t seem to be speeding, but we arrived at our destination in amazingly good time. I thanked him and gave him a couple of twenties, hoping that would be enough. He gave a sudden wide grin, jumped back in the taxi, and took off so fast I wondered if he might be dealing with some sort of bathroom emergency.  

I peered through the evening gloom, but saw no sign of Gabriella’s ranch—or the writers who should have been gathered for the opening reception dinner.

I didn’t see any golden hills, fat cattle or vineyards, either. Nothing but the strained quiet of over-manicured suburbia.

I felt a sudden icky sensation run down my neck.

I could feel someone watching me—lurking in a shadowy open garage across the street. I heard the snarl of a motorcycle engine and reached in my bag for the hairspray—a useful weapon in a pinch.

I headed for the corner with purposeful stride—or as close an approximation of stride as I could achieve in my wobbly Manolos. Under the street lamp, I saw a sign that said, "Santa Ynez Ct."

Oops. The driver thought I meant the Court, not the town. That’s why the trip from the airport had been so improbably short. I must still be in Santa Barbara.

And I’d really overtipped that driver.

I told myself to think positive: be grateful to the airline for losing my luggage. This would be a whole lot worse if I were carrying all those suitcases. I’ve never learned to pack light.

A motorcycle roared down the driveway from the ominous garage. I clutched the hair spray and re-arranged my face into a stiff smile.

The rider pulled up beside me and lifted his face guard.

“
Doctor Manners? I thought I recognized you, darlin’.”

He grinned, displaying a serious need for dental work.

Apparently members of the Santa Barbara outlaw biker community read the New York
Post
.

 “
It’s me.” The man took off the helmet. His look was something between cave person and aging rock star entering rehab. His eyebrows might have done damage in their own right. “From the Saloon. You’re a long way from Santa Ynez, sweet thing.”

 
He knew where I was going. This was getting creepier by the minute. I didn’t see a camera, but he had to be a paparazzo. Gabriella probably put out some publicity about me for the conference and this guy had followed me from the airport.

 “
I don’t frequent saloons.” I gave him a look that, while not exactly rude, was of a chilliness that could usually shrivel a Manhattan
maître d’
.

He responded with a suggestive chortle. “Oooh, I love that talk. Come on darlin’.”

I realized I was going to have to let him take his pictures. This wasn’t a case of being able to close the drapes. After fifteen years of marriage to a TV celebrity, I’d learned the best way to get rid of some paparazzi is to give them what they want.

“
Okay, you win.” I smoothed my hair and gave him a celebrity smile. “Get out your equipment.”

“
In the goddam street? Doc, you are into the kink!” With an animal grunt, he lunged in my direction. I jumped back, but he caught my wrist and jerked me toward his leather-clad chest. “I am up for some fun, darlin’, but I like a little privacy. I just got paid for an ’88 Norton I rebuilt for that old fart across the street.”

The man’s breath needed to be reported to the EPA.

“
What say we hit the Saloon, then my place? I’ve been a bad, bad boy… ”