Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read Online Free

supposed to be at the Rancho Montana Grande. You gave me such a fun ride, I nearly forgot!”
    I faked a grateful smile as I checked my watch: nearly nine PM. I’d missed my evening presentation. I hoped Gabriella would be sympathetic to airline delays. I didn’t want to antagonize one of the few people willing to employ me after the scandals of my divorce.
    The biker looked like a little boy who’d lost the ice cream from his cone.
    “ Day-um. Can’t you cancel, darlin’? I’ll make it worth your while…”
    I managed to keep my smile in place.
    “ Is there a public telephone nearby?”
    He laughed. “You still on that ‘the Manners Doctor doesn’t approve of cell phones’ thing?” He started to pull a phone from a zippered pocket, then dropped it back. “Aw, hell. Hop on the hog. It’ll only take a minute to run you up there.” His expression darkened. “But I ain’t stickin’ around. That place scares the bejeezus out of me. It’s lousy with ghosts.” He shivered. “Some ain’t even got no head.” 

Chapter 3—THE COWBOY WAY
     
    The Rancho Montana Grande looked as Wild West as the old Saloon. A few rustic cabins were clustered by the main entrance, and a winding dirt road led up to the “Hacienda”—a maze of interconnected buildings that gave equal representation to every stage of California architecture from homestead adobe to mid-century Palm Springs moderne .
    The place looked odd. But then, I probably did too, as I slid off the bike in my sweaty Dolce and Gabbana, with helmet-hair, and sand-blasted make-up, and even more precarious heels. After thanking my unlikely chauffeur, I tied my hair back with a scarf, shouldered my tote bag, and headed for the lobby—as if I normally traveled via outlaw-biker Harley.
    I did hope I wouldn’t encounter any ghosts.
    Not that I believed in them.
    Much.
    Actually, I’ve always thought it was silly to be afraid of ectoplasmic apparitions. It wouldn’t make sense for a ghost to kill a live person. That would create another ghost to share the same space. Think of the housemate problems.
    When I entered the lobby, nobody stared, but a few whispered together while looking in my direction. A woman with a notebook approached.
    “ Can I have your autograph?” She held out a pen. I reached for it, praying she wouldn’t make any S/M jokes. I wanted this nonsense to be over.
      But the woman walked past me without a glance, handing the pen to a tall, elderly man in a cowboy hat—an old movie star I recognized but couldn’t name. I watched the old cowboy star try to escape as the notebook woman gushed admiration while asserting her entitlement to his attention. His famous face showed a combination of impatience and trapped-animal terror.
    I gave my name to the little man who presided at the front desk. He handed me a gold-colored pocket folder, a room key and a faculty nametag that said “Camilla Randall/Nonfiction.”
    His smile was efficient and professional. I told him about my lost luggage and he assured me that everything would be taken care of. He wore a nametag that said “Alberto Gonzales, Concierge.”
    “ You have missed the reception and evening classes,” Alberto said with hint of reproach. “But the critique workshop in the Ponderosa Lounge is still in session. You may join if you hurry. Your bags will be brought to your room when they arrive.”
    I hurried down the corridor, barely avoiding a collision with a waiter exiting the Ponderosa Lounge with a load of water pitchers. With a quick elbow, he caught the door and held it for me. His expression was stern, but he made a charming, childlike bow.
    Inside, fifty or so writers turned in their folding chairs to stare.
    “ If it isn’t Miss Manners!” A big man boomed the greeting from a small stage. “She’s moseyed down to our Cowboy Critique workshop—a little late for the party.” He gave an unfunny laugh. “But it looks like she’s been having one of her own.” 
    I looked