Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read Free

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.
     

Chapter 2—GHOST MOUNTAIN RIDER
     
    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