Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky by Anne R. Allen

Mr. Smith now your divorce is final?”
    I shook my head. “I had no idea Plant was going to be at the conference. As I said, we’ve had no contact for five years.”
    “ No contact. And he suddenly appears at the same conference as you?” He peered into my eyes. “Isn’t it true you two were once engaged to be married?”
    “ Oh, my. That was nearly twenty years ago.” The man sounded as if he were interviewing me for Entertainment Tonight , not investigating a suicide. “That was before I married Jonathan—which is probably why Jonathan has never liked him. And, obviously, it was long before Plantagenet came out as gay. Even to himself. I think he was sort of experimenting with heterosexuality.”
    The detective’s dark little eyes revealed nothing.
     “ Experimenting. Is that what you and Mr. Smith were doing in bed with Ernesto Cervantes’ body last night? A little experiment in necrophilia?”
    I sighed. Okay, this guy had read the Post article. I shouldn’t be surprised. But I refused to play his game.
    “ Detective Fiscalini, I’m afraid my jet lag is playing mind tricks on me.” I gave him a Manners Doctor smile. “I thought I heard you accuse me of having sex with Plantagenet Smith? And a dead person?”
     “ You deny it?”
    “ Yes. I also deny being from the planet Zog.”
    The Manners Doctor would not have approved of that last sentence. After all, Detective Fiscalini might actually be from the planet Zog.
    “ But you do admit that you drove Plantagenet Smith’s Ferrari from the scene of Mr. Cervantes’ murder to the Hacienda at 2 A.M. this morning?”
    “ I drove the Ferrari up the hill, locked it, and left it in the Hacienda parking lot. Which I told the officers who brought me here. But I don’t know about any murder. Ernesto Cervantes committed suicide. Anybody who saw his body would know that. And the boy had just been humiliated in front of half the people at the conference by Toby Roarke. Silas Ryder said he was fragile. Teenagers can’t always put experiences like that in perspective. They think the humiliation will go on forever. The Manners Doctor has often written about the importance of good manners when dealing with teenagers…”
    “ Silas Ryder? The owner of The Pierian Spring bookstores?  What is your relationship with Silas Ryder?”
    Before I could answer, D. Sorengaard reappeared to summon Detective Fiscalini somewhere. Maybe back to the planet Zog.
      Left alone with the windmill again, I began to empathize with Don Quixote’s vendetta against the things. I had no idea how the detective imagined I was involved in Ernesto Cervantes’ suicide—or why he used the word murder. I could only hope the nonsense wouldn’t make it into the press. I could picture the news leads—
     “ KINKY DR. MANNERS DETAINED IN GAY SUICIDE SHOCKER” 
    Or “KAHN’S KINKY EX INVESTIGATED IN NECROPHILIAC RING”       
    Maybe the windmill picture hypnotized me into some sort of sleep, because the next thing I knew, D. Sorengaard was shaking my shoulder.
    “ Okay, Dr. Manners. Time to go. You got some big shot waiting for you.”
    I rubbed my ear where it had been resting on the table. D. Sorengaard gave me a rather sweet smile. Something about it was familiar, although I couldn’t think why.
    “ Move your tail, honey. They sent brass up here to take you back to L.A.”
    “ Brass?” I shocked myself back to reality with a sip of coffee—even more toxic at room temperature. “Did you say ‘back to Los Angeles’? I haven’t been there in years.”
    “ Whatever. A honcho from the L.A.P.D. says he wants you for questioning. He’s waiting in a car outside.”
     “ Someone from the Los Angeles Police Department wants to ask me questions?”  I followed him into the outer office.
    “ Yup. L.A. wants you—and L.A. can have you. Me, I’ve got a suspicious death on my watch and a bunch of anti-grape-crazies about to invade.”
    “ Anti grape-crazies?” I envisioned