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

College in San Luis Obispo.
    “ He was a good kid. A sweet kid.” Silas looked uncomfortable as he squinted at the camera. “He’d lost both his parents, and got involved with gangs before he was in his teens. But he’d put that all behind him. He was a good worker and had a talent for storytelling, but like so many writers, he could be self-destructive.”
    The newsperson cut him off. Too much information for TV, of course. All anybody would hear was that Ernesto was “sweet.” They’d hear that as “gay” and dismiss the whole story as sordid—just as Plant predicted. The reporter didn’t even let Silas finish what he probably intended to say about Ernesto’s suicidal tendencies. They wanted a drama, and they’d cast Plantagenet as the bad guy: a gay celebrity for the media sharks to feed on.
    Of course, if it really was murder, Plant was an obvious suspect. And that was an awfully big gun they found in the Ferrari. Plantagenet had been alone in the cabin with the body when I came in. Plus his suit had that blood on it.
    No. I wasn’t going to let my mind go there.
    I picked up the remote and was about to click off when I saw the face of D. Sorengaard, giving a harried look at the camera. The newscaster was saying, “…In other news: more protests today in Santa Ynez, as environmental activists chained themselves to the ancient oaks that are slated to be cut down for more vineyards…”
    I turned it off. I’d think of some way to help Plant, but first I had to get myself together for my talk. I wasn’t going to be speaking to a small group of non-fiction writers as planned. Plant’s presentation had been advertised to the public, and tickets had been sold. People would be coming from as far away as Los Angeles to see an Oscar winner, and all they’d get was the Manners Doctor.
     
    My stage fright built as I reviewed the notes for my speech. I paced the room, lecturing the faux mission furniture on the rigors of daily column writing and warning the autographed photos of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans about a life that’s always on deadline.
    I dressed in my brown Chanel suit and strappy cobra skin sandals—the things I’d planned to wear for my talk when it was scheduled for the evening after the opening reception. Now I wasn’t sure about the sandals. There was a lot of walking to do around that crazy hotel. I had a pair of pumps that would be more comfortable. Fendi pumps. Conservative, but chic.
    If Plantagenet were here, he would have helped me choose.
    Plantagenet. Always kind. Always helpful. Not a killer. It couldn’t be true.
    Something Mrs. Boggs Bailey said flashed in my memory—“they shot off their guns.” Guns, plural. Could there have been a gunfight? Maybe Ernesto had tried to shoot Plant—to rob him, maybe—and Plant was forced to shoot back. Anybody might do that if he/she happened to have a weapon handy. Which apparently Plantagenet did.
    Not like him, but maybe I didn’t know him anymore. It had been a long time. Rick was right that success changes people. Look at Jonathan.
    Was my taste in men so abysmal that I’d chosen a killer for my gay best friend?
    I had to get through dinner before my talk. I doubted I could eat much, but Gabriella made it clear she expected me to join the faculty in the dining room. I changed into the Fendi pumps and touched up my make-up again.
    I recognized the golf cart driver she sent to pick me up. He was the young man who had been furiously writing in his notebook at the front desk last night. He wore a nametag that said “Miguel”. His face, a dark teak-brown above his white long-sleeved shirt, looked nervous.
    He helped me into the cart with careful ceremony.
     “ Can I ask you something, Ms. Randall? I heard you were there—in Mr. Roarke’s workshop—when Ernie read that story. The guy who got shot—he read a story about a rooster. Do you remember?”
            “ El Despertador Looks at the Stars . Yes. I thought it was