A Second Chance at Murder Page 14

  I felt grossly underdressed in jeans and sneakers, but the woman working the reception desk made no note of it. Her black hair was secured in a bun and she wore dark red lipstick.

  She smiled when she saw me. “Buenas noches, señorita.”

  “Sí, buenas noches,” I said, taxing my limited knowledge of Spanish. “I’m looking for someone. Can you tell me if a Señor Scott—”

  She made a sharp motion with her hand. “No, no, no,” she said. “Hotel guest lists are confidential.”

  My heart sunk. I didn’t have a plan B.

  What was I thinking?

  This was a world-class hotel, they weren’t about to give out a guest’s information to someone who walked in from the street, in sneakers no less!

  “Señor Matthew Barrett,” I said. “He wrote a book. Spanish Moon.”

  She shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t know it and could care less.

  “Please,” I begged. “My boyfriend’s gone missing and I thought . . . I think he could be here.” I pressed a hand to my heart hoping to appeal to hers.

  She smiled sadly, tilting her head to the side as she said, “Yes, many men who don’t want to be found are here. I’m sorry, señorita, I cannot help you, except to say that if your man is missing, forget him.” She flicked her hand as if dismissing me.

  “He’s not that kind of missing,” I said. Although I really didn’t know, but it seemed worth a shot. “He’s in danger kind of missing.”

  She leveled a gaze at me. “In danger? Then you should call the police.” With that she picked up a pen and began to look over her paperwork. Our conversation was over.

  I’d struck out, but you don’t get fired from San Francisco’s police department for following the rules. I’d stake the hotel out. I could wait with the best of them.

  “Is there a bar here?” I asked.

  The woman put down her pen and drummed her red lacquered nails on the desk. Her eyes were slits as she studied me, then when I thought she would kick me out she said, “Take the elevator to the top floor. You will have a lovely view of the fireworks.”

  I crossed over to the wrought-iron elevator and pressed the button. Humiliation swelled inside me. What was I doing here? What did I hope to find? Scott/Matthew in bed with some Spanish beauty?

  I’d felt certain that Sergio and Montserrat being here meant they had a lead on Scott, but perhaps they were only at the hotel because of the name.

  On the fifth floor, I stepped out of the elevator and into the bar. It was brightly lit and decorated with teal and yellow. There were groups of people at various tables. None of them Scott.

  The far wall of the bar was entirely made of glass. There was a breathtaking view of the Plaza de Toros which was illuminated in bright lights.

  I sat alone at one of the tables and had a good view of the door. If Scott was staying at this hotel, sooner or later he’d hit the bar. Wouldn’t he?

  I perused the tapas menu while I waited, carefully keeping an eye on the entrance. A familiar figure appeared in the doorway. My heart pounded out of my chest and I hid behind my menu. But by the sound of the approaching footsteps, I could tell he’d spotted me.

  Had he followed me to the hotel?

  “Do you like the view here better than at my little church?” Sergio asked.

  It wouldn’t do any good to confess to him my suspicions about Scott, so instead I gave him my best smile and said, “I heard they serve a mean sangría at the Spanish Moon.”

  “Not better than Señora Antonia’s at the Jaca B&B. Those are the best in town.”

  I shrugged. “I needed to get away from the cast and stuff.”

  He rested a hand on the back of a chair. I noted he wasn’t dressed in the traditional white garb of the fiestas. Instead he wore dark pants and a blue button-down shirt. He was working tonight. He asked, “May I sit down?”

  I glanced in a very obvious way toward the door of the bar. “Oh, I’m meeting my father here,” I lied.

  He frowned. “I saw your father back at the jousting tournament. He was with his lady friend, Cheryl.”

  “Right,” I said. “They’re going to meet me here later,” I lied.

  He studied me with his dark eyes. He knew I was lying. “It is not typical in Spain for a woman to go have a drink alone.” He pulled back the chair he held and seated himself at my table. “I can accompany you for a sangría.”

  “I don’t need a chaperone,” I protested.

  “It is not safe for women to drink alone,” he insisted. “Not during the fiestas, when everyone gets out of hand.”

  “Come on. I used to be a cop. I can take care of myself.”

  He smiled mischievously. “No, no. I insist. I’ll sit with you.”

  Now I’d have to make up conversation and try to figure out how I could get him off Scott’s tail. I imagined Scott walking into the bar. Did Sergio know what he looked like? He must. He had a record of his passport.

  “So, you’ve cleared Victoria and Parker to leave town, huh?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I can’t hold them. I don’t have the evidence.”

  “Are you going to release the rest of the cast?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t, no. Not yet.”

  A passing waiter came by and placed coasters in front of us as Sergio said, “Dos sangrías.” When the waiter retreated, Sergio asked. “You look very sad, Georgia. Did you find Scott here?”

  “No, did you?” I asked.

  He cocked his head to the side and studied me. “No, Monse and I were here earlier. He is not registered here.”

  “I know. I saw you two this afternoon. Dad and I caught a cab out in front and I saw you leaving.”

  Sergio fiddled with the coaster that was in front of him.

  “How did you know I was here now?” I asked. “Did you follow me?”

  He shook his head. “No, I figured you think like I do. As soon I realized Matthew Barrett’s book title was the same as the hotel, I came to investigate.”

  The waiter approached with our sangrias and placed a glass in front of each of us. Sergio took a sip and asked. “If he left you, why are you looking for him?”

  I laughed bitterly.

  It was a good question. Why couldn’t I accept the fact that Scott had broken up with me?

  “There was something strange about that email.” I shrugged. “I can’t explain it. Gut feeling.”

  “Monse has a gut feeling, too.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah? What’s her gut feeling?”

  Running a hand through his hair, he lowered his eyes, giving me a glimpse of his dark thick eyelashes. “Annalise was with a man the night she was killed. Monse thinks maybe you came upon Scott and Annalise together. She thinks you lost your temper and killed the girl. Scared off Scott.”

  “What? That’s absurd!”

  The weight of what he was saying suddenly hit me. It was me. They weren’t letting the show move on from Jaca because of me!

  I slammed my fist into the table, nearly toppling over my sangría. “I’m your top suspect!” I shouted.

  Several people from a nearby table glanced in our direction but said nothing.

  Sergio remained calm in the face of my hysterics. He said, “She thinks you sent the email to yourself to fool us.”

  “I didn’t send the email! And anyway if I did, I would have sent the email to myself, not my father.”

  That was it.

  Why had Scott sent the note to Dad?

  My head began to throb and I found it hard to concentrate.

  “She thinks you are pretending to still be in love with him,” Sergio continued. “Because you think that will throw us off.”

  “She’s wrong!” I said.

  “I know.” He suddenly had a wistful expression on his face. �
��I know you aren’t pretending.”

  “What?”

  He took a sip of his sangría. “You still love him. It makes no sense.”

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. He was right. Scott had abandoned me, lied to me. Completely humiliated me. I didn’t even know who he really was.

  Scott or Matthew?

  And here I was camped out hoping to find him!

  What was wrong with me? I was pathetic.

  I stood to go, as if the hotel was on fire. I couldn’t wait to get out of here and get back to the B&B to be alone with my shame.

  Sergio stood with me. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  He came to stand next to me, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed the silken cloth to my face, wiping the tears I hadn’t even realized I was shedding. He cupped my head and pulled me into his shoulders. “Don’t cry, Georgia.”

  “I’m so stupid,” I sobbed.

  “No,” he said. “Scott is the stupid one. But don’t worry. People can’t stay hidden forever. I will find him. You can be sure of that.”

  Eighteen

  The following morning, I pried open my red and swollen eyes and saw that Becca, even though she’d gotten in late, was already up and had left. The only evidence that she’d been in the room at all were a few new articles of clothing strewn across her bed. She’d obviously decided against wearing them.

  We were supposed to meet outside the B&B to load onto the bus at eight A.M. One glance at the clock told me I was running late. After leaving Sergio, I returned to the B&B and had been grateful to find it deserted. I’d sat in the garden and cried my eyes out, until finally stumbling to bed.

  I slipped into jeans and gently pulled a cotton top over my sunburned shoulders. Downstairs the smell of café con leche wafted through the dining hall along with the scent of freshly baked madeleines.

  Dad and Cheryl were seated at a small table, huddled together and deep in conversation. A plate of warm buttery pastries sat untouched between them.

  “Good morning,” I said, slipping into their booth and snagging a madeleine. I broke it in half and watched the steam escape before I realized that Dad and Cheryl had gone silent.

  Both Dad and Cheryl glanced nervously at each other, seemingly uncomfortable at leaving their previous conversation behind.

  What had I interrupted?

  Dad patted my sunburned shoulder and I winced. “Morning, Peaches,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Cheryl waved a hand and picked up her coffee mug. “Nothing, Georgia. I was just boring your dad with schedule and logistics stuff.”

  I frowned. Dad wasn’t supposed to be privy to any of the logistics.

  Cheryl seemed to realize this at the same time I did because she pursed her lips then shrugged.

  “Is it top secret?” I asked.

  Dad smiled. “Nothing between us is top secret, honey.”

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had interrupted something but clearly they weren’t going to be straight with me. “Were you talking about me, or what?”

  Cheryl grabbed a madeleine off the plate. “Guilty as charged. We heard you were crying in the garden last night and I’m wondering when you’re going to get over him.”

  “You heard I was crying in the garden from who? No one was here.”

  “That’s beside the point really, isn’t it?” Cheryl said.

  “Well, I’m over him. Okay? I needed to get it out of my system, but last night I realized that I didn’t even know who he was really. Scott, Matthew, whatever.”

  Dad frowned. “Matthew? What are you talking about?”

  “Scott was Matthew Barrett. I suppose he has millions of dollars, hidden away somewhere—”

  Cheryl nearly spit out her coffee. “Wait a minute! What are you talking about? The thriller writer? Scott’s not Matthew Barrett, I know Matthew Barrett.”

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “Yeah. All of Hollywood knows him. I’ve been after him for a few years now to get the rights to produce some of his titles.”

  “But Scott’s mom told me Scott wrote Spanish Moon.”

  “Spanish Moon? I love that book,” Dad said.

  Cheryl shrugged. “Well, maybe he did, but if he wrote it, then he did it as a ghostwriter, and it’s probably highly confidential. I can’t see Matthew Barrett being very happy about that leaking out, so you probably shouldn’t blab it around.”

  “I’m not blabbing it around.”

  Cheryl made a dismissive gesture with her hand and finished her coffee. “Let’s go. We need to get on that bus.”

  “Where are we going? Pamplona for the running of the bulls?” Dad joked, winking at me.

  “It’s not the right time. That’s in July,” Cheryl said, standing. “And I know you’re joking, but I would have booked it if I could have.”

  Dad stood and put his arm around Cheryl. “I know. That’s why I’m glad it’s only May.” They walked toward the exit.

  So Scott wasn’t Matthew Barrett. I felt relieved. Ghostwriting a book was common in the publishing industry. At least Scott didn’t have some secret identity he hadn’t told me about. I grabbed the last madeleine off the plate even though my stomach turned at the thought of another competition. I shoved the rest of the pastry in my mouth and got up. Was there a way I could convince Becca to let me stay back?

  I left the bed-and-breakfast and walked down the narrow tile patio toward the front of the building. The air smelled fresh and clean and I longed to feel the same way.

  Why did disaster follow me around?

  The white crew bus was parked in the alley, and Becca and Juan Jose were talking to each other. Montserrat stood near them with her arms folded across her chest. She seemed to watch me carefully, or maybe it just felt that way after what Sergio told me last night.

  Becca smiled when she saw me approach. “Sorry to get you out of bed so early, Sleeping Beauty. Did you have breakfast? You’re going need some energy for today.”

  I shrugged. “Can I talk to you?”

  Becca glanced from Juan Jose to Montserrat. “Of course.” She stepped away from them and moved down the alley a bit.

  I filled Becca in on what Cheryl had said about Matthew Barrett. “So Scott didn’t lie to me about that,” I said.

  Becca sighed. “Come on, G. You can’t still be hung up on him. Even if he didn’t lie to you about that, he still took a hike. I know you don’t want to face things. But he sent you an email breaking up with you and the police—”

  “The police think I killed Annalise,” I said.

  Becca frowned. “What?”

  “That’s why they’re not letting us leave town, Becca.” I indicated Montserrat who stood at a discreet distance, watching us talk. “It’s all because of me.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Becca said. “Anyway, we all know Scott’s the prime suspect—”

  “He’s not a murderer!”

  “I know that. I didn’t mean that. I only mean . . . you know . . .” She waved her hand, clearly not wanting to say it straight out.

  “You mean he doesn’t love me.”

  Becca lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, G.” She raised them to meet mine. “I just know you deserve better. You deserve someone to be by your side. Not abandon you. He’s as bad as Paul.”

  That stung. Paul, my former fiancé, had left me at the altar, alone in front of God, my family, and all of my friends.

  “It’s not the same,” I insisted. “What if something’s happened to him? I . . .” I let my words trail off as a uniformed bus driver approached Becca.

  The driver told Becca that we needed to board the bus in the next few minutes in order to miss commuter traffic. Becca nodded her understanding, then turned to wave over Juan Jose. “W
e need to gather everyone up. Can you help with that?”

  He nodded. “We’re all here except Miguel.”

  “Miguel?” Becca asked.

  Juan Jose shrugged. “He likes to sleep in.”

  “Can you go get him?” Becca asked.

  Juan Jose nodded, but I said, “I’ll go. I want to grab some more aloe vera for my sunburn. I can swing by Miguel’s room on the way.”

  “Hurry up,” Becca said.

  I checked the bar and breakfast area on my way in, still sulking over having to compete on the show today. But I knew Dad needed me now and ultimately Becca was right, technically speaking, Scott had broken up with me and I’d have to get over him.

  The bar area was quiet except for the senora who ran the inn. She glanced up at me as I walked in. “I’m looking for Miguel,” I said.

  She nodded. “I haven’t seen him this morning, but last night he was up late at the fiestas.”

  “Right. Thank you,” I said.

  I took the back staircase up to the second level, where I knew the crew’s rooms were. I actually didn’t know which one was Miguel’s, but figured it couldn’t be that hard to find him. I called his name as I knocked on the first door on the right. No answer. I jiggled the door handle. Locked.

  Moving on to the next door, I gave a sharp rap and called out, “Miguel, we have to get on the bus.”

  He’d probably partied late into the night and was hungover, trying to rouse him would be akin to waking the dead. When I didn’t get an answer from the second door, I tried the knob. Again locked.

  I moved to the third, thinking I probably should have asked the senora which room was Miguel’s.

  At the third door, my patience was wearing thin. “Hey, Miguel. Time to rise and shine!” I twisted the knob and the door opened to reveal a small room with a single bed. Miguel was face down, dead asleep.

  “Wakey, wakey,” I said, from the doorway.

  I heard footsteps ascending the staircase and turned to see Becca coming down the hall. “What’s taking so long?” she asked.