Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky by Anne R. Allen Page B
Authors: Anne R. Allen
Tags: humerous mystery
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They got a complaint about me? Who made the call? It wasn’t my ex-husband, was it?” Was Jonathan subjecting me to some new humiliation? After the Post article, I knew he was capable of anything.
Rick laughed. “Jeez, you two are having some battle, aren’t you? Not that I blame you for dumping him. Not many wives would stick around after a video of her husband getting a b. j. from a Sunset hooker made it onto You Tube. But I gotta have some sympathy for the guy. Those amateur paparazzi are a menace with their phones.”
“ If Jonathan didn’t make the call to the Sheriff’s people, who did?”
“ Mitzi Boggs Bailey. She called in a complaint against you and Smith and a dead guy who drove an orange Mustang. She said you three were having such noisy sex that she couldn’t sleep.” He chortled. “And I thought your reunion hadn’t gone that well...”
If I hadn’t had my hands full of coffee and pastry, I would have hit him.
“ That was pay-per-view! Plantagenet and I did not have sex, noisy or otherwise! Besides, it’s a Ferrari and it’s not orange; it’s burgundy. Anyway, I didn’t know sex was against the law in—” I looked around at the cutesy shops. “Garden Gnome Heaven or wherever we are.”
Rick laughed again. “Solvang. We’re in Solvang. A little bit o’ Denmark on the Central Coast of California.” He turned right and pointed at a sign that said ‘San Marcos Pass.’ “We’re on our way back to Gabriella’s Rancho. Sex is legal in both places, as long as you’re not scaring the horses or disturbing the peace. Especially the peace of someone related to Gabriella Moore—Mitzi’s her sister-in-law, you know.”
That explained a few things.
“ But blowing people’s heads off isn’t legal anywhere that I know of.”
His voice came at me like buckshot.
“ I hear the kid you and the famous screenwriter were having that threesome with got his head blown off last night. You want to tell me about that?”
My mouth went so dry I couldn’t swallow. Finally I managed to wash things down with a cappuccino that was more chocolate sprinkles and foam than coffee.
“ There was no threesome! And no sex. Except on some TV movie Ernesto was watching. Mrs. Boggs Bailey must have heard the soundtrack—and I don’t know—maybe she went over to complain about it and saw the body. But she says she saw ghosts too, so who knows?” I gulped more coffee. “But no—I don’t particularly want to talk about it. A boy committed suicide. It’s tragic. But please don’t pretend to be my friend when you only want to interrogate me.” Why had I flirted with this man? “Are you working for that Fiscalini person—is that why you’re here? Some good cop/bad cop thing?”
“ I’m here buying you breakfast and taking you back to the Rancho.” Rick turned and gave me a silly grin. “Do you know you have chocolate sprinkles on your nose?”
Chapter 7—MEANWHILE BACK AT THE RANCH
When Rick and I got back to the Rancho Grande, the parking lot was jammed with cars and vans with media logos. A knot tightened in my stomach. And I’d thought I could avoid all this horror by escaping New York.
Reporters accosted me as soon as I opened the car door, pressing around me as I tried to make my way to the Hacienda. They kept asking me questions like, “Are you romantically involved with Plantagenet Smith?” and “Are you and Plantagenet into necrophilia as well as S and M, Dr. Manners?”
Poor Plant was getting slimed by Jonathan’s Post interview along with me.
Rick escorted me through the crowd and into the lobby with practiced efficiency. I was glad to be in the company of a policeman, even such an infuriating one.
“ Thanks,” I said as I stopped at the desk for my room key. “This is all such nonsense. They must be starved for news around here.”
“ I’m sorry Ms. Randall,” said Alberto, the little concierge. “You are no longer in room fourteen A. That room is not
Rick laughed. “Jeez, you two are having some battle, aren’t you? Not that I blame you for dumping him. Not many wives would stick around after a video of her husband getting a b. j. from a Sunset hooker made it onto You Tube. But I gotta have some sympathy for the guy. Those amateur paparazzi are a menace with their phones.”
“ If Jonathan didn’t make the call to the Sheriff’s people, who did?”
“ Mitzi Boggs Bailey. She called in a complaint against you and Smith and a dead guy who drove an orange Mustang. She said you three were having such noisy sex that she couldn’t sleep.” He chortled. “And I thought your reunion hadn’t gone that well...”
If I hadn’t had my hands full of coffee and pastry, I would have hit him.
“ That was pay-per-view! Plantagenet and I did not have sex, noisy or otherwise! Besides, it’s a Ferrari and it’s not orange; it’s burgundy. Anyway, I didn’t know sex was against the law in—” I looked around at the cutesy shops. “Garden Gnome Heaven or wherever we are.”
Rick laughed again. “Solvang. We’re in Solvang. A little bit o’ Denmark on the Central Coast of California.” He turned right and pointed at a sign that said ‘San Marcos Pass.’ “We’re on our way back to Gabriella’s Rancho. Sex is legal in both places, as long as you’re not scaring the horses or disturbing the peace. Especially the peace of someone related to Gabriella Moore—Mitzi’s her sister-in-law, you know.”
That explained a few things.
“ But blowing people’s heads off isn’t legal anywhere that I know of.”
His voice came at me like buckshot.
“ I hear the kid you and the famous screenwriter were having that threesome with got his head blown off last night. You want to tell me about that?”
My mouth went so dry I couldn’t swallow. Finally I managed to wash things down with a cappuccino that was more chocolate sprinkles and foam than coffee.
“ There was no threesome! And no sex. Except on some TV movie Ernesto was watching. Mrs. Boggs Bailey must have heard the soundtrack—and I don’t know—maybe she went over to complain about it and saw the body. But she says she saw ghosts too, so who knows?” I gulped more coffee. “But no—I don’t particularly want to talk about it. A boy committed suicide. It’s tragic. But please don’t pretend to be my friend when you only want to interrogate me.” Why had I flirted with this man? “Are you working for that Fiscalini person—is that why you’re here? Some good cop/bad cop thing?”
“ I’m here buying you breakfast and taking you back to the Rancho.” Rick turned and gave me a silly grin. “Do you know you have chocolate sprinkles on your nose?”
Chapter 7—MEANWHILE BACK AT THE RANCH
When Rick and I got back to the Rancho Grande, the parking lot was jammed with cars and vans with media logos. A knot tightened in my stomach. And I’d thought I could avoid all this horror by escaping New York.
Reporters accosted me as soon as I opened the car door, pressing around me as I tried to make my way to the Hacienda. They kept asking me questions like, “Are you romantically involved with Plantagenet Smith?” and “Are you and Plantagenet into necrophilia as well as S and M, Dr. Manners?”
Poor Plant was getting slimed by Jonathan’s Post interview along with me.
Rick escorted me through the crowd and into the lobby with practiced efficiency. I was glad to be in the company of a policeman, even such an infuriating one.
“ Thanks,” I said as I stopped at the desk for my room key. “This is all such nonsense. They must be starved for news around here.”
“ I’m sorry Ms. Randall,” said Alberto, the little concierge. “You are no longer in room fourteen A. That room is not
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