A Second Chance at Murder (4 page)

“Oh, my goodness,” Becca said, pressing a hand to her forehead. I knew what she must have been thinking, about the production schedules and the cost. Strange that it was the furthest thing from my mind.

I ran into my tent. They could have my passport because there was no way I was leaving Spain without Scott. I rummaged through my bag, immediately finding it. I dug through his gear. First through his duffel, then his sleeping bag, then finally through mine again.

Oh, God.

Where was Scott's passport? Why wasn't it in our tent? Did he have it with him? Who went for a midnight stroll in the woods and took his passport? For what? Just in case . . . of what? I battled the sinking pit in my stomach. Emerging from the tent, I handed my passport over to Montserrat. She took it from me, still engaged in conversation with Becca.

I grabbed Montserrat's arm. “Please, please keep looking for him.”

“We will keep looking for him, yes,” she said.

The unspoken implication hung between us; of course, they would keep looking for him.

He was now a suspect in a murder investigation.

A
nger, fear, and despair ripped through me. Scott was missing and the police now suspected him of murder. I sat dumbly on the picnic table bench, numb to the goings-on around me. I was vaguely aware of Becca negotiating something with Montserrat, but my brain was dulled and I couldn't follow the conversation.

Please, God, let Scott be all right.

Parker approached me. A hand protectively gripping his ribs as he lowered himself onto the bench next to me. “Any word on your boyfriend?”

My mouth went dry. I looked from Parker over to the cast and crew huddled nearby. “The police haven't found him yet . . .”

I could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on me, a combination of pity, worry, and something else. I glanced at Victoria, who seemed to be hiding a smirk. She had
a certain smugness about her that disturbed me. Was she glad that Scott hadn't returned?

“But they found something, right?” DeeCee asked. She gestured toward Montserrat.

Was it on me to tell the cast and crew about the woman?

As if in answer to my question, Sergio appeared on the trail hustling toward Montserrat. There was a quick exchange between them and then Becca nodded and turned toward Juan Jose.

“Can you please make arrangements for the cast to stay at the Jaca B&B, the one that the rest of the crew is in?”

Juan Jose frowned. “We're leaving camp? Why? What's happened?”

Becca bit her lip and turned to Sergio. He gave a firm shake of his head. He didn't want the news of the dead woman coming from us.

Fine.

Good.

It wasn't my business to tell anyway, right?

After all, the fact that Scott was missing could be totally unrelated to the fact that a dead woman was found.

The logical part of my mind served up the small detail that his wristwatch had been found at the scene of the crime and a sick feeling churned in my stomach.

There could be a lot of reasons for his watch to be there, I reasoned. First, we didn't even know if it indeed was his watch and if it was . . . well . . .

When had the woman died?

Perhaps Scott had taken a stroll and come across her. He tried to help her or resuscitate her or whatever and lost his watch in the process. He'd then run off to find help . . .

It could have happened like that.

“All of us?” Juan Jose said, interrupting my train of thought. “There are so many of us . . . and the Jaca B&B is so small.”

“We'll have to double up if needed.” Becca glanced at me. “Georgia can stay in my room.”

Juan Jose didn't look happy, but he nodded anyway. “I'll take care of it.”

She took a deep breath and clapped her hands to get everyone's attention. “Gang, it's unfortunate, but due to the turn of events we have to leave camp and head into town. We'll be staying at the Jaca B&B with the rest of the crew.”

DeeCee sprang forward, suddenly happy. “Oh, goodness!” She clasped Daisy's hand and asked, “Does that mean we get a bathroom?”

“With a shower and everything?” Daisy squealed.

Juan Jose frowned.

Becca said, “I don't mean to disappoint, ladies, but it's a small B&B. It only has a few floors and the rooms don't have their own lavatories. There's a shared bathroom on each floor.”

Daisy's face crumpled, and she squeezed DeeCee's hands for strength.

Watching them process the information that they'd have to share the restroom with the other ladies on the
cast and crew, as if they were being given a death sentence, made my heart plummet. What would that poor woman have given for the opportunity to spend a few nights in a B&B, regardless of the shared bathroom situation, instead of cold, alone, and dead on a trail in the Pyrenees.

Dead but not forgotten.

Anger burned behind my eyes and tears spilled down my face.

I'd see that she got justice.

No matter who was responsible . . .

•   •   •

I
felt strange leaving camp. It was as if I were leaving Scott behind. We weren't allowed to take any of our personal belongings with us to the Jaca B&B, as the crime scene team had taken over the campsite. It felt incredibly invasive knowing they would be swabbing my gear, but somehow I found comfort in the fact that maybe if they looked at everything closely it could mean finding Scott sooner.

On the ride into town, DeeCee and Daisy continued to complain about the bathroom situation.

Cooper, acting as the voice of reason, said, “Staying in a B&B, even if it is small, is better than staying in a tent. And anyway, sharing the bathroom is better than an outhouse any day.”

Daisy batted her eyelashes at him and said in a tone as smooth as honey, “Oh, that's easy for you to say, you're used to sharing.”

Cooper eyed her suggestively. “Not used to sharing everything, doll.”

“Oh! You're so bad, Cooper.” DeeCee screeched. “She meant, as in sharing a locker room!”

I turned away from them and stared out at the rolling countryside. The hills were green and lush, and flocks of sheep could be seen in the distance. Soon, we pulled into the small town of Jaca, meandering around the cramped streets, until we turned off onto a narrow dirt road.

The B&B, a three-story white building, sat atop a hillside. There were potted plants in the balconies and I was charmed immediately, wishing that the circumstances of my visit were different.

Each team would share a room, and Becca and I would bunk together. Even though I didn't have Scott next to me, I felt grateful to have my best friend by my side.

The ladies team, DeeCee and Daisy, were given a room on the second floor, while the other teams were assigned to the third floor. Because Becca had already spent the night in our room, her belongings covered every surface in the tiny room.

“Sorry,” she said, as she pulled a flowered skirt off what was to be my bed.

I sank onto the twin-sized mattress and laid my head down, sighing, “No problem.”

Becca tapped my foot. “Don't get all depressed. We're going to find him. Everything is going to be all right.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

She made a disapproving sound but said nothing.

I covered my eyes with my hands and thought back to the woman. Who was she? Where had she come from? Had there been another group camping near us?

Becca touched my foot again. “Listen, G. I have to get organized here. Get clothes for the cast and stuff. Are you going to be okay if go downstairs?”

I lifted my hand off my eyes and looked at her. “Yeah. Go ahead and get your work done. I understand.”

She stared at me, studying me. “I don't want you to be alone.”

“Come on, Becca. I'm not going to freak out or anything.”

“Still. Why don't you go take a shower and then come downstairs?”

I shrugged, then sat up on the bed. “Okay. If it'll make you feel better.”

She walked me out of the room. “It will make
you
feel better. Clear your head, you know?”

The small communal bathrooms were at the end of the hall. I walked toward them and waved at Becca as she headed in the opposite direction toward the staircase. She was right, I supposed. Sulking in bed would do nothing to find Scott.

DeeCee and Daisy were already in the lavatory. The water was running in the shower, steam escaping out to the sitting room where Daisy was perched in front of the mirror, blow-drying her impossibly long, golden hair. She flicked off the dryer when she saw me.

“Any news on Scott?” she asked.

For some reason it bothered me that she'd said his name. It was silly, of course. I'd wanted her to refer to him as my boyfriend. How very possessive of me. Not to mention insecure. Would it have bothered me if she wasn't gorgeous?

I shook my head.

The water from the shower turned off, then DeeCee stepped out into the waiting area and dripped onto the rug. She had fire-red hair, was tall with long legs, a big bosom, and flat stomach. I tried not to stare at her perfect-ten body as she reached for a white towel that was neatly stacked on the counter.

Daisy turned to DeeCee. “No news.”

“I'm so sorry, hon. I know it's got to be awful for you.”

I nodded. “Thank you. Is the shower—”

“Yes!” Daisy said. “Absolutely. It's all yours. Are you going to the dining room later? You should eat. These kinds of situations take a toll and you have to fuel your body.”

Was she nervous I was on the verge of passing out? I felt like I was. Did it show?

I glanced at my reflection and startled myself. There were dark circles under my eyes and my hair was greasy and matted against my forehead from wearing the knit cap last night.

When the girls left the small bathroom, I disrobed and entered the narrow shower stall. The hot water pelted into my shoulders, working out some of the tension. God. Where was Scott?

I tried not to focus on any bad thoughts and just simply visualized him appearing before me.

He would like the bed-and-breakfast. He would tease me about my worrying and simply say that he had gotten lost.

I finished with my shower, turned off the water and grabbed a towel. When I pulled back the shower curtain I was half expecting Scott to be standing there and when he wasn't I began to weep into the towel.

I quickly blow-dried my hair, grateful for the electricity. What a difference it made. My lips were dry and chapped from camping, so I put on a little lip gloss to try to revive them, not to mention that the color it brought into my face made me look less zombie-like.

I finished my minimal primping and then there was a rap at the bathroom door and Becca peeked in.

“Are you going down for dinner?” she asked.

“Yes. I'm starving,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “I'm going to shower and then head down myself. Sergio said he wants to ask me a few questions.”

I looked her in the eyes. “He's going to ask you about Scott, you know that. He's going to ask you about the watch.”

She nodded. “I know. I'll tell him what I said before. Lots of people have those sport watches. That's an absolute fact. But he's talking to Cooper right now and I don't know what about exactly.” She hesitated. “But if they ask to see the show's promo footage, Scott's wearing the watch in there.”

I cringed. “You're right.”

She gave me a ferocious hug, pulling my head into her shoulder. I hadn't realized until that moment that I was crying again.

“Everything is going to be all right,” she said. “I promise.”

T
he dining hall in the bed-and-breakfast was cheerfully decorated: a colorful mosaic covered the ceiling, yellow paint with teal trim on the walls, and a pendant chandelier. If I hadn't been so distraught, I actually might have enjoyed drinking some
sangr
í
a
at the bar with the rest of the cast and crew. As it was, I sat by myself at a booth and perused the menu.

My mouth watered as I read. The dinner special was rack of lamb. It came with homemade soup, salad, Basque beans, home-baked bread, french fries, and bread pudding! My stomach growled and I realized with a shock that except for the PowerBars I'd gnawed on, I hadn't eaten anything in over thirty-six hours. I could definitely put away a full seven-course Basque dinner.

Cooper, the NFL player, sauntered over to my table. He was African-American, his face undeniably striking,
despite a scar near his left temple. “What are you doing here sitting all alone, dollface?”

I looked up into his eyes. Victoria had mentioned Cooper roaming around camp—what did he know that he wasn't telling me? He placed the glass of whiskey he was holding onto the table and slid into the booth opposite me. Leaning in on his elbows he said, “The
sangría
is too sweet for me. You might like it though.”

I leaned across the table, mirroring his body language. “Cooper, did you hear anything strange last night?”

He squinted at me. “I did hear something. Just like I told you. Told the cop in there, too.” He motioned to a door on the opposite end of the dining room. “I heard howling and all sorts of noise. Catlike sounds. They probably got mountain lions up there.” He stared at me, presumably waiting for my reaction. When none came he added, “Anyway, I'm sure glad we're not out there.”

I traced the edge of the table with my fingertip and thought for a moment. Cooper had never said anything to me about hearing howling. He'd told me he hadn't seen anything, but that wasn't the same. We'd all heard howling that night.

Could it have been the woman's screams?

Did anyone know about the woman yet? I wondered what the heck Sergio was asking everyone. I decided to press Cooper a bit further.

“What all did the cop ask you?”

Cooper sipped his whiskey. “Said they're looking real hard for your boy. Asked me if I've ever been to Spain before. Asked me who I knew here.”

I rubbed at my temple suddenly wanting a glass of
sangría
. I needed something to squelch my nervousness. Instead I clapped my hands together and folded them into my lap. “And have you ever been here before?”

He shook his head. “No. Football was my life before I blew my leg out.” He grimaced. “Speaking of which, the ol' leg is barking at me right now. Funny how that happens. Don't bother me none, until I talk about it.” He pulled out a pill bottle from his pocket and popped a couple of tablets into his mouth. “I ain't never been outside of the U.S. except to go to Fiji. Went there for my honeymoon.”

“That's nice,” I said, feeling a pang in the center of my heart. As part of winning the previous game show, Scott and I had won a trip to an island of our choice. He'd wanted to go to Fiji; me, I was partial to Bora Bora. So we hadn't taken the trip yet, but had been enjoying trying to decide where we'd end up. We'd made a game out of persuading each other. Would we ever get a chance to go now?

Oh, Lord, don't think the worst, Georgia.

Focus on the present. On finding Scott. On finding out what happened to the dead woman.

“You okay?” Cooper asked. “You're a little pale.” He fingered his whiskey glass. “Do you want something from the bar?”

I shook my head. “So you've never been to Spain before? Do you know anyone here?” I understood what the police might be thinking. We all had opportunity to kill the woman, but who had motive?

There were several local people on the crew. I had to get to them. Question them. My gut told me the woman was the link to finding Scott.

Cooper laughed, his large body shaking and jerking in a way that made his laughter contagious. “Girl, I don't know anybody here in Spain, 'cept for you all. How about you? You been here before?”

The woman who ran the bed-and-breakfast walked up to our table. She was middle-aged and heavyset, wearing a yellow-and-blue apron and a smile that would warm anyone's heart. “Do you want to eat dinner with your group?” she asked. “We serve family style.” She motioned to the large picnic table that the staff was setting up in the middle of the room, where our group was making their way to be seated.

I squared my shoulders. It was time to get information.

•   •   •

T
he rack of lamb was out of this world but the
sangría
gave me a light-headed feeling. I'd sat between Becca and Kyle, the makeup artist, who alternated between refilling my glass and pushing me to eat.

“Girl, if you don't eat, your ribs are going to show,” Kyle said. I shrugged, but he insisted. “No amount of starvation is going to bring that sexy man of yours back any faster.”

Daisy, who sat on the other side of Kyle, squealed and grabbed his arms. “You are so cute when you talk all smart!”

Kyle thankfully became distracted with Daisy's attention and turned to refill her glass instead. I pushed my plate away and then polished off my remaining
sangría
, attempting to drown my sorrow with bites of liquor-soaked fruit. Becca was absorbed in conversation with some of the crew. They were discussing something about the show's timeline, which only gave me a headache.

I glanced at my watch and did a quick calculation for the time on the West Coast. It was midmorning. Now would be a good time to call Scott's mother.

What would I say?

I poked Becca. “I have to call Scott's mom.”

Becca's eyes widened. “What are you going to tell her?”

“I'll just tell her what I know.” I took a deep breath. “Scott's missing and I'm going to find him.”

Becca's hands wrapped around her napkin. “Do you think she'll want to come here?”

I shook my head. “She agoraphobic. I don't think even Scott missing will be enough to get her on a plane.”

“Get who on a plane?” Kyle interrupted. “Cheryl?”

“What? Cheryl? No, butt out, Kyle—”

Kyle raised a shoulder at Becca as if to deflect her animosity. “Geez, Miss Cat, no need to have a hissy fit. I just thought we needed some reinforcements.”

Becca narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged. “I called Cheryl this afternoon—”

“You called Cheryl?” Becca exclaimed. She looked as if she were about to strangle Kyle with the napkin she
was clenching. I put a hand on hers, but she shrugged me off.

Kyle feigned innocence, but a smile played on his lips. “I thought we needed to tell the boss that one of our contestants had gone missing.” He turned to me. “Cheryl and your dad are catching a flight.”

I could feel anger coming off Becca in waves. Cheryl was the executive producer of the show. She'd put Becca in charge as the line producer, but now Becca's role could be in jeopardy if we didn't get back to the planned production schedule immediately.

Cheryl and my dad had started dating during the filming of
Love or Money,
and while I wasn't always crazy about her, I knew that having my father close by would definitely add to my moral support.

“When are they getting here?” I asked.

I heard Becca grit her teeth and felt like a traitor.

“They're already in the air,” Kyle said. “Their flight arrives tomorrow morning in Madrid. The bus will bring them into Jaca by afternoon.” He gave a self-satisfied little grin and then held up the pitcher of sangria. “More, anyone?”

Daisy perked up and held her glass out for Kyle. When he turned away from us Becca whispered, “He's after my job, you know.”

“He is? I didn't know that,” I said.

“Well, look at him, calling the boss in. Of course he's after my job.”

“Don't worry Becca. It's no reflection on you that Scott's gone missing,” I said.

She sighed. “It is a reflection on me if I let the whole show slide off the rails—”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be stupid. It's not your fault.” She picked at her bread pudding with a calculating look in her eye.

“Don't hold up the show,” I said. “Just replace Scott and me.”

She shook her head. “I can't do that.”

“Yes, you can,” I said, getting up before she could argue with me. I felt woozy, too much
sangría
and not enough sleep. I stumbled away from the table and staggered right into Sergio. He grabbed me before I careened back into the dinner table and knocked over a pitcher of
sangría
.

“Eh. I was coming to get you,” he said.

I suddenly felt sober. “Do you have news?”

He wrapped a hand on my elbow and put another on my lower back in the way that cops do, so you go with them lockstep without even having a moment for your brain to click in to protest.

He led me outside to the patio. There were potted red geraniums along the border of the patio and the evening breeze was filled with their sweet scent. Sergio dropped my elbow and pulled out a chair for me. He waited for me to sit, but instead I wandered toward the edge of the patio and looked up at the stars. Despite the breeze, the evening was warm and clear. For a fleeting moment I felt like I could fall in love with Spain, but the thought of the dead woman shocked me back to reality.

Sergio stood his ground by the chair and said, “I have
questioned all the members of the game show.” He studied me a moment. “It's a strange game, no?”

“What?”

“The show. You are all to run around Europe and what? Zip-line or scale the citadel?”

I laughed. “Scale the citadel? Is that what they told you?”

He shrugged. “I saw your, what do you call those commercials?”

I winced. He'd seen the promo. An image of Scott rappelling down the fake rock wall from the set of
Love or Money
popped into my mind. I knew Becca had planned to use some of the images from that show for the promos of
Expedition Improbable.
I knew without a doubt Scott was wearing his sports watch in those reels.

“Promos,” I muttered, gazing out into the garden trying to buy time.

Sergio abandoned the chair he'd been standing next to and stepped toward me. “
Sí
, the promo.
Expedition Improbable
.” He said the name of the show in a deep voice, much as I imagined they'd used in the promo reel, only with Sergio's Spanish accent I had to smile. “What an adventure for you all. Crossing deserts, river rafting, hiking the snow-covered Pyrenees . . .”

He stopped there. We both knew what had happened in the Pyrenees.

After a moment, he said, “There's a lot of competition for the prize money.”

I nodded. “Fierce competition.”

“Is that why you are on the show? For the money?”

“In part, yes. But mostly because Becca is my best friend and she asked me. The show Scott and I were on . . .” I suddenly felt embarrassed. Sergio was watching me intently and I knew I sounded foolish. I was about to declare my undying love for someone I'd met on a reality show.

“Go on,” Sergio said. “Tell me why Scott was on the show.”

“We were on another show and got a bit of a following . . . uh . . . fans?” I said. I paused to see if he understood me.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“So, my friend, Becca, convinced me to come on this show, because she thought we'd get good ratings. Do you know what ratings are?”

“TV ratings? Yes, many people told me about these ratings tonight.”

I laughed. “You talked to the crew.”

He folded his arms. “They are obsessed, is that how you say it? Obsessed with the ratings.”

“You got it. Yes. Ratings equal work. Lots of viewers, lots of pay.”

He ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Ratings are important to them. It's as if they would do
anything
for these ratings . . . no?”

A chill crept up my spine. “The ratings are important, sure. But I'm not clear on what you're trying to say.”

He leveled a gaze at me. “I looked at your background. You had said you used to be a police officer.”

I cringed. I hadn't ever really been a cop, not the way he meant anyway. I'd been a public information officer,
basically a glorified PR person for the San Francisco Police Department.

“Not exactly a cop,” I said. “Rubber-gun squad.”

He squinted at me. “What's that?”

“I was a talking cop. I talked to the press, the media. I didn't do investigations or homicide or anything.”

He smiled, tilting his head to the side and appraising me. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “You have the face of a camera cop,” he said.

I laughed. “Well, better than a radio face. Is that what they call it here?” I studied him for a moment. He was strikingly handsome in a chiseled sort of way and I cursed myself when I involuntarily glanced at his ring finger.

“Here they use you for what they want. Whatever is best for them. Sad to hear that in America it's the same thing. I thought people had more of an opportunity there.”

Had I just misunderstood him or was he saying he thought I was more than a pretty face?

I decided to change the subject. “Do you know who the woman is? How she died?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No,
el médico forense
will have to examine her.”

Emboldened, I blurted out, “I can help you with the investigation.”