“Who? Where’s the Platt Theater?” I was a little tired of Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s dramas. I finally decided to sit in a chair in the row behind Plantagenet.
“It’s where Oscar Wilde gave his lectures in San Francisco,” Plant said in a strange, flat voice. “In 1882.” Plant opened the book. His voice had gone to a whisper. “It’s a Smithers First Edition of The Ballad of Redding Gaol, written by C33!”
“Not C33,” said Mrs. Boggs Bailey. “It’s signed Obadiah Wilke. “See right there on the letter—and the book.” She grabbed the yellowing paper and showed it to me.
The signature did indeed look as if it said “Obadiah Wilke.”
But it could also have read “Oscar Wilde.”
Plant’s voice was still breathy. “C33 was Oscar Wilde’s inmate number when he was imprisoned in Reading Gaol. Smithers was afraid to even print Wilde’s name after the scandals—and he only published eight hundred copies. They sold out in three days.”
“Then for God’s sake be careful!” Gabriella barked at Mitzi and handed the letter back to Plant.
“What is it?” somebody said, as a crowd began to gather around.
Plant cleared his throat and read the flyleaf of the book.
“To my dear S. S. ‘We may all be in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
He then showed the handwriting on the letter. “Platt Theatre, April 1, 1882. My dear Sharpshooting Songbird—”.
He stopped, his voice overcome with emotion again.
“Dear God, they’re dated almost twenty years apart. Not only did they have some sort of friendship, but it went on for nearly twenty years!”
“Who?” A number of people chimed in as I said it.
“The Sharpshooting Songbird…” Plantagenet beamed. “Otherwise known as Miss Martha Jane Canary: Calamity Jane. They must have met just the way I imagined. Listen!” He began to read the letter:
“Although I am most grateful, Miss Canary, for your offer to “put a slug of lead between the eyes” of the Alta Californian’s cretinous reviewer, Mr. Ambrose Bierce…”
Plant turned to me. “Oh, darling, this is priceless. Just priceless. This proves my theory is true. They did know each other. This must have been what Ernesto texted me about when I was on my way up here. He said he had something to show me that proved I was a genius. I thought he meant my writing tips, but it was this! Oh, Gaby, listen...”
But Gabriella wasn’t listening. Her attention was on a commotion at the back of the room.
“Here she is!” someone said in hushed reverence.
Plant stopped reading and the crowd hushed as Rick Zukowski paraded down the aisle with a tiny, remarkable woman on his arm. Clad entirely in skin-tight New York literary black, the woman sported a Lulu Guinness flower pot bag, an expanse of cleavage, a large, elaborately frosted hairdo, cowboy boots, and huge, dark-rimmed glasses.
The effect was a cross between Dame Edna Everedge and Rocky the Flying Squirrel. The woman whispered something to Rick, grinned, and stood on her tooled-leather tiptoes to give his cheek a kiss—just as he had kissed mine in the Fiesta Hall just last night. Staking a claim.
So. He was her property now. Fine. I didn’t need to be involved with anybody who believed I climbed into men’s beds uninvited. Especially if he’d been affiliated with the Viboras. They said people never could really leave one of those gangs.
“So sorry we’re late, everybody.” Luci waved at the crowd. Her nails were acrylic talons, lacquered a blood-red that matched the petals on her bag.
Gabriella hurried to the lectern to introduce “the president of New York’s famous Silverberg Literary Agency—Lucille Silverberg!”
The crowd applauded wildly as Rick—casually elegant in a leather blazer I hadn’t seen before—escorted the diva to her place at the center of the stage. He avoided my eyes as he took a seat next to Gabriella behind Luci’s podium. I could hear his too-new leather jacket squeaking as he shifted in his folding chair.
Luci opened her mouth to speak, but her Lulu Guinness bag began to play the theme from Star Wars. She gave everyone a beneficent smile as she reached in and clicked off her phone and turned back to her notes.
“Finally!” the Englishman whispered, settling into the seat beside me on the aisle. “Finally they’re giving us something worthwhile.”
Luci’s talk went over its allotted time. To hear her tell it, she had been responsible for the biggest book deals of the last decade, from the memoirs of a serial killer’s mistress to Johnny Rotten’s upcoming children’s book. She got more and more self-aggrandizing as she went on, finally introducing Rick as her latest discovery as he shifted and squeaked behind her. She announced that his thinly disguised memoir, Blue Rage, was going to “expose more scandals than the Washington madam’s date book” and asked him to speak a few words.
He gave a nervous laugh and said he needed to save all the words he had in him for the book. Obviously he hadn’t finished those last chapters.
I glanced at my watch, and saw it was nearly four—time for my own much re-scheduled talk. I couldn’t imagine that any conference-goers would leave Luci’s august presence to hear my little presentation, but it would be wrong not to be at my post at the announced time.
I tried to signal my departure to Plantagenet, but he still looked dazed as he fingered the Oscar Wilde treasures.
Onstage, Gabriella took control. Reaching for the microphone, she boomed: “Thank you, Ms. Silverberg. We’ve taken advantage of your kindness too long…”
I made my escape up the aisle. Unfortunately Christian Louboutin had not designed his shoes for stealthy exits. I was only halfway to the door when I heard Luci’s New York bark interrupt the toupee man’s whine.
“Dr. Manners—don’t go,” Luci shouted. “We must talk, dear. Please stay!”
I felt every eye in the room on me. I turned to face the great Luci.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this lady is a national treasure,” Luci announced. “Camilla Randall, otherwise known as the Manners Doctor, is soon to be one of the most successful writers in the business—if she listens to me.”
Now I knew the woman was not only narcissistic, but insane. All my instincts told me to run, but I was frozen there, like the proverbial deer, about to be crushed by an oncoming truck.
Chapter 26—An Eye on the Ranch
I teetered on my stilettos as Lucille Silverberg’s words echoed through the hushed room.
On the stage, Gabriella, ever the rescuer, fought Luci for the microphone.
“The Manners Doctor’s presentation on writing the syndicated column will begin in just a few minutes in the Belle Starr banquet room,” she said. “The question period is over. Thank you all so much.”
I rushed down the aisle as fast as my heels would carry me. Luckily, the crush of people mobbing Luci allowed me to escape. I’d almost made it to the Belle Starr room when somebody came up behind me.
Somebody who squeaked like new leather.
“Camilla, I gotta talk to you.” Rick panted for breath. “About Luci…”
I did not need this.
“Rick. I have a talk to give. I’ll be happy to discuss your friend Luci later, but not now, if you don’t mind.”
I opened the door to the banquet room, but I was too late. Luci was marching on us, her pack of manuscript-wielding admirers trailing behind.
“Camilla, dear—just a moment of your time before you start?”
I grabbed Rick’s leather-clad shoulder and pushed him toward Luci’s entourage.
“Captain Zukowski—how about some crowd control?” I slipped inside and tried to pull the door shut behind me.
But Luci pushed past Rick and into the room. She came at me in an overwhelming cloud of Lancôme Hypnôse, her hands waving in that way of women who spend too much of their paychecks on their manicurists.
“Camilla, you are looking so…oh, so brave, dear!” She squeezed my hand and squinched up her face as if she we
re about to cuddle an adorable puppy. “Chanel couture? Christian Louboutin sandals? No one would ever guess you’re destitute. That poor policeman out there thinks you’re way out of his financial league. You should clue him in. You do know he’s gaga for you?”
“Ms. Silverberg, perhaps we could chat another time? I have a talk in five minutes.”
“How does six figures sound to you, dear?” Luci kept smiling at me, ignoring the fact her Lulu Guinness bag was again playing its tinny Star Wars fanfare. “With ten grand up front. Right now. You could do with a few extra dollars, couldn’t you?”
She pulled out a phone and said, “Can you hold, sweetie?”
She turned back to me. “I’ll bet you’d like to pay the overdue fees on that dinky west-side co-op of yours.”
How did she know anything about my bills?
“Darling, I can’t talk now. I’m in an important meeting,” Luci said into the phone.
I was about to lose my temper.
“My husband—my ex-husband—is slow with his payments. It’s just a cash-flow problem. The lawyers have to hammer things out.”
“Do you honestly think Jonathan Kahn is going to pay you one cent of that settlement? You know his lawyers can keep on…”
I had heard enough.
“Madam, I have no idea what you want, but if you came in here to impress me with your bad manners, you may consider your mission accomplished. Now you may go.”
“Oh, sweetie—” Luci squinched her face again. “You’re so cute when you get that Dr. Manners thing going. I’m sorry. It’s just that I so much want to represent your book. Ten thousand dollars. Right now. Think about it.”
Luci’s game was getting more ridiculous by the minute. I knew agents didn’t pay writers up front. Publishers did. And it took months, even years to sell a book to a publisher.
“Ms. Silverberg, I am the one person at this conference who does not have a book to sell. If Captain Zukowski has told you otherwise, he was lying.”
“But we already have the pictures, dear. All you need to do is supply the text.” Luci took a small envelope from her flowerpot bag. “That is, unless you’d like someone else to write it…?” She pulled a photograph from the envelope.
My throat closed.
The picture was kinky porn—grainy and unfocused, but the subject matter was unmistakable—a naked woman spanking a man with a leather paddle. No. worse than naked. She wore nothing but a riding helmet, Chanel pearls and a pair of strappy sandals. The man showed naked buttocks above lowered khaki trousers.
The woman bore more than a passing resemblance to me, although she wore way too much make-up and her breasts were obviously surgically enhanced.
And there was no mistaking the spankee. It was Jonathan. I recognized the scar on his right buttock from when he took a bullet in Nicaragua in the ’eighties.
Phony as it was, this travesty could make all those lies about me look true—and destroy what little might be left of my professional life.
“That’s not me,” I said when I could make the words come out. “And why blackmail people with no money? That can’t be lucrative for you.”
“Who said anything about blackmail?” Luci waved her red talons. “I’m offering you money. And the chance for a little revenge. Who looks worse in that photo—you or your ex?” She gave a nasty smile. “Or, if you just wanted to supply the text, we might not need the picture…”
I had no idea what diabolical scheme the woman was proposing, but all I wanted to do was run. Jonathan’s stupid lies were terrorizing me wherever I went. Would I have to move to another country? Another galaxy?
I tried to show no emotion and reached into my bag for my make-up—hoping I could paint on a mask of cool indifference.
“Ms. Silverberg, I have a talk to give.” I opened my lipstick. “The Manners Doctor does not approve of women applying make-up in public, but you leave me no choice.”
Loud knocking startled me. The door flew open, but instead of the conferencers, I saw an image from my childhood—a tanned, grinning face I once knew well.
But now it looked over-laundered and wrung dry.
That must have been why I couldn’t quite recognize him that first night in the lobby. He extended a big, wrinkled hand.
“Walker Montgomery ma’am,” he said. “Gaby said you girls were having a confab in here. Sorry to interrupt.”
I sensed hostility in his bone-crushing handshake, but his trademark grin didn’t waver. He turned to Luci.
“You having trouble with that phone of yours? Had it surgically removed from your ear?” He pretended to search under Luci’s hair. “I’ve been calling you for hours, Lucille.”
Luci didn’t appear pleased to see the famous star.
“What the hell are you doing here, Walker?” She clutched her flowerpot bag as if she expected him to mug her.
“I’m trying to watch my manners in front of this beautiful young lady. I suggest you do the same.” He grabbed Luci’s elbow in what appeared to be a friendly gesture, but Luci looked as if she’d been pinioned by a wrestling hold. “Now Luce, would you be so kind as to give me a few minutes of your time?”
Star Wars called from Luci’s handbag. I could think of nothing but the horrible photograph inside.
Luci re-established her smile and pulled out the phone to look at the number.
“Let’s say a few, um, uninterrupted minutes of your time?” Mr. Montgomery grabbed the phone as Luci’s face turned the color of the satin roses on her bag.
He kept grinning.
“If you won’t take a call as important as mine, I’m sure you don’t need to take that one.” With some difficulty, he found the off button and silenced the phone. “I read in the Manners Doctor column that the mobile phone is the abomination of our current era. I agree. No machine should take precedence over real human contact.”
I wondered if he counted his precious guns in the category of “machines” but did not want to risk angering a man so famous for his gun collection. Besides, he had what looked like a recent scar over his left eye that suggested he might also engage in hand-to-hand combat.
“Come on, Lucille. We have some unfinished business to discuss.” Walker’s big arm encircled Luci’s shoulders in a way that was at the same time casual and menacing. “And this young lady has a presentation to give. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Manners.”
He escorted Luci out into the melee of her waiting fans.
“Luci! Ms. Silverberg, would you read my manuscript? Please, Luci…” I recognized the voices of several smugsters.
I expected them all to follow her, Pied-Piper-like, but a rush of writers pushed into the little banquet room, scrambling for seats. Rick came toward me, his face dark with emotion, but before he could speak, Gabriella, just behind, grabbed his elbow.
“No way can everybody fit in this room,” Gabriella said. “Captain, run and tell Miguel to keep the Ponderosa set up. I’ll round ’em up and head ’em back over there. Camilla, did you get that?”
I did, but just barely. My mind was still reeling. I couldn’t figure out what Luci wanted from me. It was more than bizarre that she offered to give me money instead of extort it. Was she mixed up with the murders somehow, or was the place simply a magnet for dangerous lunatics?”
“Dr. Manners? Head ’em up; move ’em out?” said Gabriella.
All I could do was nod.
Rick took my arm. “Please tell me you didn’t sign anything Luci gave you?”
I shook him off. “Of course not. As you ought to know, I don’t have a book to sell. I wish you’d tell your precious agent that.”
“Go!” Gabriella said to Rick. “Before we get stampeded.”
Chapter 27—Newsbabes
I finally managed to get myself back to the Ponderosa Lounge, as did most of the writers.
Plantagenet hadn’t moved from his seat and was still studying the contents of Mrs. Boggs Bailey’s Oscar Wi
lde find, cell phone to his ear. Mrs. Boggs Bailey sat at the end of the row watching him like a proud mother.
“Are you all right?” she said when she saw me approach. “Why did you come back? He can’t let you read Obadiah’s letter, because he has to take it to Silas.”
Plant clicked off his phone and put it in his pocket.
“I’m not going anywhere, darling. I caught Silas at one of his stores nearby. He’s on his way back here.”
I guess my relief showed. He stood and kissed my forehead.
“Don’t look so forlorn. I wouldn’t miss your talk for the world. But I’m eager to get somebody to look at this stuff to find out if it’s the real McCoy. I think this must have been what Ernesto was talking about on the night he died. He kept saying he had something spectacular to show me. Silas has a first edition Redding Gaol himself, locked up in his safe, so he can authenticate it pretty easily. I hope he can do the letter too. It’s the real prize—it would prove my imaginary friendship between Oscar and Jane really happened.”
I felt the flutter of stage fright as I looked up at the podium.
“I think I’d better get up there and say something to these people.”
Plant looked behind him. “Looks like you’ve got a full house. Except for Ms. Silverberg.”
I looked at the crowd. He was right. No Luci. She must still be in the clutches of Walker Montgomery.
Plant grabbed my arm and pointed in the direction of the stage.
“Uh-oh. It looks like Captain Road Rage may be living up to his reputation.”
Gabriella and Rick stood in front of the stage engaged in what looked like a heated argument. Without giving me a glance, Rick stalked out of the room. Plant was right about his obvious anger. It was just as well Rick preferred Luci to me. The two of them could have lovely rages together.
Gabriella had mounted the stage. She took the microphone and gestured to me. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thanks for your patience. Without further ado, here is Camilla Randall to tell you about the column she writes under the famous nom de plume, the Manners Doctor.”
I climbed to the stage, clutching my folder, and looked out at the sea of faces, most of whom were probably in the audience only because of Luci Silverberg’s delusional remarks. All they were going to get was some information about how to write a syndicated advice column from a columnist whose own syndicate was likely to drop her, after all this hideous publicity.