And then he’d driven off in his red Mustang, which looked orange under those lights.
Mrs. Boggs Bailey said he’d worked on the Rancho when she was a girl. So he’d know all the passageways and tunnels. That’s probably how he’d “flown out the window” with Luci.
If he knew Luci had those letters, he had a motive to take her. Even kill her. He’d been stalking her all day, somebody said. And I’d seen him be pretty fierce with. He might have followed her up to her room after Plant’s presentation.
They would have given him a motive to kill Ernesto, too, if he knew Ernesto was the forger.
I’d heard him threaten Toby myself—in that phone message: “Toby Roarke, if you don’t have that stuff for me tonight, you are a dead man!”
That “stuff” wasn’t some ghostwritten memoir. It was the forged letters. Which had somehow traveled from Toby’s desk to Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s chifforobe, and then to me—and I’d stupidly given them to Luci in Donna’s folder.
Which meant Donna Carillos was off pitching her book to a murderer.
And it was my fault.
I needed to call the Sheriff’s department. And hope it wasn’t too late.
Mrs. Boggs Bailey pushed past the bouncer and made a bee-line for the cowboy with the lap. She seemed safe enough there. I needed to call Detective Fiscalini. Now.
I made my way back through the bar crowd and was relieved to spot an ancient pay phone in a dark corner near the entrance. But as I fought my way through the incoming patrons, I thought about the actual facts I had to substantiate my fears:
1) Luci Silverberg left the hotel without putting the cap on her nail polish.
2) Walker Montgomery used to be called “Joaquin,” owned a red Mustang, and used exaggerated language in a telephone message.
3) Alberto’s calligraphy pens went temporarily AWOL and came back again.
4) Ernesto Cervantes liked to copy old movie star’s autographs.
5) I’d seen some ersatz gay cowboy letters that had been stolen by an ersatz Manners Doctor.
They’d probably call the paramedics to pump me with Thorazine.
No. The person I needed to talk with was Rick. I’d let him try to get through to Detective Fiscalini.
Was that safe? I still felt pinpricks of fear on my neck when I thought about that stomped cell phone.
But if Walker was the killer, Rick wasn’t. Simple as that. I could not see those two in league with each other. There had to be another explanation for the stomped cell phones.
Okay, I’d call Rick at the Rancho.
I finally made it to the phone, but when I picked up the receiver, I realized I had no credit cards on me—not even a couple of quarters.
I tried to fight the panic that rose in my throat as I realized how helpless Donna had left me. I pretended to study the ceiling, where matchbooks and business cards were glued among the bills. It was so low that I could almost reach a bill and pull it down. Would they miss just a dollar?
“
Hello, Darlin!”
I cringed as a bear hug from behind nearly knocked me over. I could smell the familiar breath of a certain motorcycle rider.
“
You need change for that, darlin’?” the biker said, dropping several coins into the slot. “Long distance or local?”
I gave him as grateful a smile as I could muster as I heard a dial tone buzz.
The biker planted a kiss on the back of my neck.
“
Just calling the Rancho Grande,” I said as I dialed, trying to figure out how to dismiss him politely.
“
You ain’t calling that TV dude you’ve been hanging with, are you?” he said. “I hate that guy.” He scrutinized my body, stopping to stare at my breasts. “What—doesn’t Mr. Obnoxious TV star like big tits? I didn’t know those were falsies before, but I kinda like you without ’em. Looks better with your shape. I’ve always been more of a leg man.”
I gave him a tight smile and pulled my jacket across my chest as I listened to the phone ring at the other end of the line. At least the call seemed to be going through.
The biker’s words finally filtered into my brain—the TV star he was talking about had to be Jonathan.
“
The obnoxious TV star. Are you talking about Jonathan Kahn—the host of
The Real Story
?”
“
That’s the asshole.” The biker grinned. “I’m glad he got eighty-sixed. If I was you, I wouldn’t put up with his shit no matter how much he paid, but that’s just me. I’m gonna get another beer. You want something?”
I shook my head. So Jonathan had been in here. With Marva, of all people—and they’d been asked to leave the bar. What was Marva up to? Did she know about Walker Montgomery and his ghost impersonations? She had to know Walker was the Joaquin of those letters. So she must be some kind of blackmailer, in competition with Luci. Maybe she was blackmailing Jonathan, too. I held the phone to my ear, listening to it ring at the Hacienda. Why wasn’t anybody picking up?
“
Well if it isn’t the Manners Doctor!”
I turned just as a camera flashed. A reporter. I recognized him from the crowd that had surrounded me at the Rancho last night. He gave me a mean grin.
A photo of the Manners Doctor at the Maverick Saloon would probably be a marketable commodity, given my current position in the news cycle. I tried to hide my face, but he moved in for a closer shot.
A voice finally came on the phone. Miguel.
After I’d outlined our situation, he shouted over loud noise in the lobby.
“
Donna pretended her ankle was broken? Ambition can make her stupid.”
I thought I heard somebody screaming in the background. Miguel shouted in Spanish.
“
Can you put Rick Zukowski on the phone?” I blocked my face with my purse as the reporter moved in on me. The camera kept flashing. The reporter asked something about my “secret life as a hooker.” I tried to shoo him away.
“
Can’t you see the lady is making a phone call?” said a shrill voice. “You people make me barf. You’ve got real news going on here—hundreds of people protesting the destruction of our habitat—and what do you report? Some trash-TV guy’s ex-wife makes a phone call!” I recognized the Stomp out Grapes tee-shirt. He pushed the photographer aside and gave me a grin.
I’ve never been so happy to see blonde dreadlocks.
I strained to hear Miguel’s voice over the din.
“
I cannot leave the desk. Some guests are still waiting for their rides. I will tell Alberto you have found Mrs. Boggs Bailey.” He lowered his voice to a whisper I could barely hear. What he said sounded like, “Santiago has gone crazy. He wants to kill himself. He has a knife.”
Someone in the background in the lobby shouted again.
I heard Rick’s voice from far away.
Then Alberto’s.
Then…dead air.
I clung to the phone, clicking the cradle. I finally got a dial tone and hung up, confused and defeated. Santiago had chosen a really bad moment for a nervous breakdown.
Behind me, the crowd was turning ugly. The protester and the reporter were exchanging unpleasant words.
I heard a familiar voice.
“
Are you folks all right? Where are your manners?”
Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s small body pushed through the crowd toward the bar.
“
Let a lady sit, for goodness’ sake.” She swept a cowboy off his stool. “Barkeep, let’s have a whiskey sour.”
The pay phone rang. I rushed to pick up the receiver, hoping Miguel might have called back. But all I heard was someone shouting in Spanish. I was about to call for the bartender, until I realized I understood some of the words. They sounded like “Jonathan Kahn” and “television.” The voice could have been Santiago’s.
“
Hello?” I said. “You want Jonathan Kahn? He’s not here, but…”
Another voice came on—Alberto’s. Or what sounded like a robot impersonating Alberto. “Please put Jonathan Kahn on the phone,” he said. “A young man here wishes to speak to the media.”
“
It’s me, Alberto,” I told him. “Camilla. Jonathan’s not here. I don’t know where he is. I’m alone with Mrs. Boggs Bailey. And no car keys. Are you still having trouble getting taxis? I can tell you’ve got a crisis there, but things aren’t good here either. We really need a cab…”
I heard only silence. Then in the distance, I heard someone scream. I pressed the phone closer to my ear. I could just make out Alberto’s terrified voice whispering:
“
Captain Zukowski. He is in the gang—the Viboras!”
I stood in stunned silence as the phone went dead. Rick. One of the Viboras. I was right about that damned scar. What was happening at the Rancho? Were the Viboras there? Was Rick helping them?
I clung to the receiver, wondering if I should call 911. I looked around for the biker. I’d have to beg more change.
But someone grabbed the phone from my hand—a pony-tailed man wearing a Ted Nugent tee shirt that said Guns Rock!
“
Tourist bitch,” he said, elbowing me out of his way as he dropped coins into the phone. The crowd shoved me toward the bar, nearly into the lap of Mrs. Boggs Bailey.
“
Are you all right? I could call 911,” she said, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out her rhinestone-studded phone case.
I had forgotten about her phone.
“
Mrs. Boggs Bailey, you’re a life-saver!” I grabbed it and wriggled through the crowd, trying to get a signal.
“
Oughta be a law against those things,” said a grizzled cowboy, peering over my shoulder. “Looky there. Rhinestones. ‘Mitzi’ it says. Is that you, Miss Wine Snot?”
“
Who are you calling a wine snot?” said a large woman with light-up, grape-cluster earrings.
Somebody by the pool table started chanting “Stomp out grapes.”
Then a pool player hit a wine taster with his cue. The woman with the earrings slapped a woman in a cowboy hat, who screamed at a chanting man in a tie-dyed tee-shirt.
Trying to make myself as small as possible, I tried to get back to Mrs. Boggs Bailey, but I bumped into Tie Dye, who said something that sent a couple of old cowboys into a frenzy of flying fists. I ducked to avoid the blow, but it landed on a passing tourist.
“
Hells Bells!” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey, grabbing me. “These guys are bad news. Let’s go!”
We pushed though the crowd, but the tourist was now lashing out at everyone, swinging his camera case as a weapon.
The case hit Ted Nugent, who was still chatting on the phone.
Ted Nugent retaliated by hitting Tie Dye.
The burly man emerged from the crowd and grabbed Tie Dye and Ted Nugent and shouted that all fighters were eighty-sixed.
The seething crowd, now being herded toward the door, blocked my escape route.
Just as I was about to despair, a familiar, ragged grin appeared, as my biker friend grabbed each of us by the wrist.
“
Come on, ladies. Let’s get you out of here!” He used his bulk to make a path and managed to pull us both to the exit.
When we finally got outside, I stood in the parking lot, panting for breath.
“
That was very kind,” I said to our rescuer. “I don’t know how to thank you.” I offered him my hand. He grabbed it and pulled me to him. He gave me a kiss, mercifully short.
“
Sorry, sweet thing, but I gotta run. Wish I had time for some fun.” He smacked my derriere.
“
Is that man all right?” Mrs. Boggs Bailey, watched the biker mount his Harley.
I shivered in the cold night air as I watched the big man take off on his bike.
“
Yes, he’s all right.”
“
Well, his breath isn’t.”
The Saturn was parked where I’d left it. I tried the doors, hoping Donna had left it unlocked.
“
Let’s get in the car,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “I’m freezing.”
“
We can’t. Donna went off with Walker Montgomery and took the car key.”
Mrs. Boggs Bailey eyed the eighty-sixed fighters, several of whom were now lighting up cigarettes outside the entrance.
“
We should call Jonathan Kahn. He said I should call him if any bad news guys started to bother me.”
“
You’ve got Jonathan’s cell number? Call him!” I handed over the phone.
I never thought I’d wish for Jonathan’s company again, but right now, my ex seemed to be the only person in this whole surreal place I could trust.
“
He put his number on my phone list,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “I didn’t go to the casino because Gaby gets real mad when I gamble.”
“
Jonathan went to the Indian Casino?”
“
He said I just have to push this button.” Mrs. Boggs Bailey pressed a key and put the phone to her ear. “I’m Mitzi Boggs Bailey. Are you all right?” she said loudly as she leaned on the Saturn. “There are bad news guys at the Maverick Saloon. And that Donna went off with Walker Montgomery and took the Manners Doctor’s car keys.”