Wishbones (33 page)

"Look at this," Tinkie said. She'd taken Jovan as her next prospect. Since she was living in the house when many of the incidents took place, Jovan was a logical suspect even though she'd been the victim of an attack.

I rolled my chair over beside Tinkie's computer to read the Web site. She pointed to the visitor counter at the bottom of the front page.

"Holy cow," I said. "This says one million eight hundred
and eighty-nine thousand visitors to this Web site since January." I couldn't believe it. Jovan had more Web site hits than Tom Cruise.

Tinkie was unimpressed. "She's part of the fashion world as well as movies, and she has devoted fans that follow her every move. These great pictures don't hurt, either. She photographs even better than she looks in person, which pretty much makes her a goddess." Tinkie moved around the Web site. "Says she was born in Stockholm to working-class parents, went to high school, was seen by a talent scout while playing sports, and the rest is history."

She scrolled down to a photograph of Jovan with a pretty middle-aged woman and a middle-aged man.

"So what did you want to show me?" Jovan was interesting, but I didn't have time for fashion gossip or celebrity schmoozing.

"Do you think she looks anything like those people?" Tinkie asked.

"Her parents?" I wondered what tangent Tinkie was off on now. "Not really, but so what. Genetics are strange things."

"Could she be adopted?"

I shrugged. "Possibly." Tinkie and Oscar were thinking of adoption, and Jovan might prove to be the poster child to help her bring Oscar around. I studied the picture closer. "That might explain her attempts to control Federico when he wants to rescue Estelle from her own bad conduct. Jovan may feel a little threatened when he shows unlimited love to his daughter--especially a daughter who's done everything to defy and ruin him. I mean, if she feels her father didn't want her."

"Aren't you little Miss Freud."

"If you're going to call me psychiatric names, I'd prefer to be Little Miss Jung. Freud and all the emphasis on penis envy sort of leaves me cold."

Tinkie laughed, and several patrons glanced at us--right,
the rude Americans were in the library. I mimed an apology and went back to my computer. "Take a look at this on Ricardo," I whispered.

She rolled over and we examined the Web site for the younger Marquez, which included photos of him with his heavy metal band in Venice, California, and several black-and-white photographs he'd taken, which were beautiful.

"He has a feel for light," I whispered. "He'll be a great cinematographer."

"And not a single word about Federico on the Web site," Tinkie pointed out. "You'd think he might mention his dad is one of the premier Hollywood directors."

"Which could mean he doesn't want to trade on the old man's name."

"Or it could mean he hates his father and wants to sabotage his film." Tinkie rubbed the lump on her forehead and I knew she was tired and getting cranky. Our time to solve this case was running out. We'd dropped the dogs off at the vet clinic. Chablis was due for a checkup and Sweetie was hanging with her.

"We're getting a lot of background on people, but nothing really useful," I told her. "I wonder why Federico hasn't called yet?" I'd turned my cell phone to vibrate, so I knew he hadn't. "And neither has Millie."

"It's like we've dropped into the black hole of Calcutta. No one is returning our calls." Tinkie's tone was huffy. In Zinnia, Tinkie's calls were never ignored. As the premier Daddy's Girl, by virtue of the fact that her father owned the bank and her husband was president of it, Tinkie was used to people sitting up and taking notice of her. It was a fact that had worked to the Delaney Detective Agency's advantage many times before.

We thanked the librarian for her help and made our way into the afternoon breeze. For all of the problems we'd had here, Petaluma was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever
been. The town was clean, filled with bright colors and hand-painted tiles decorating the walls of buildings and gardens. It had some feel of old New Orleans, but with a definite Latin twist. The cobbled streets were baked in the sun, old and worn and authentic. Looking at the vista of the town sloping down a gentle incline, I wondered if I'd ever come back. Maybe Graf and I would honeymoon here.

"You look pensive," Tinkie said.

"I was considering Petaluma for honeymoon potential."

She started toward the car. "That would be lovely," she said, and I could hear how she forced the happiness into the words.

"It was just a thought."

"Whatever makes you happy, Sarah Booth. That's what I want for you."

And she meant it. If she had her wish, I would go home to Zinnia. As much as she'd once deviled me about Coleman's lack of commitment, now she wanted to return to that time when I was at Dahlia House, Coleman was on the horizon, and our partnership was not impeded by the distance of a continent.

"Where to now?" I asked. We'd done pretty much all we could using the Web for a research tool. If Federico didn't call back soon, we'd be winging our way home to the States. Tinkie had booked a flight to New Orleans for 6:00
A.M
. the next morning. My flight to LAX left at 7:10
A.M
. We had early calls to meet the guidelines of the international flights.

"I don't want to go back to the mansion," Tinkie said.

"Me either." The memory of Estelle was too fresh. And there was the sense that Carlita was still there, waiting for another chance to talk to me.

"Maybe we can catch a flight out tonight."

Tinkie was ready to go, and I didn't blame her. "If you can get out, I'll stay and make sure Estelle is stable and improving
before I go." I touched my forehead. The swelling had gone down, but I still wasn't ready for the camera.

Tinkie longed to leave, but she shook her head. "I'm here until you go."

"We both believe the person behind the attacks is in Los Angeles. It's okay for you to go, Tinkie. Take Chablis and go home to Oscar. Talk to him about adopting. There are a lot of children who would love to have you for a mom."

She nodded her agreement. "I'll deal with my family issues when I get home. Right now, we need to think about a possible killer. It's true, we
believe
the attacker is in California. But until we have proof, I'm not willing to leave you here alone."

My cell phone rang and I snapped it open. Millie's voice came through loud and clear.

"I'll give you Tor's private number," she said when I told her what I needed. "Since you're a friend of mine, he'll tell you what he knows."

"Thanks, Millie."

"Sarah Booth, you should see the spread Cece did on you in the newspaper. She got some photographs from the filming. You're magnificent. Everyone in town is raving about it. Several men are desperate for you to come home."

"Several?"

"Harold Erkwell had the newspaper matted, framed, and hung in the cafe. He's so pleased for you. I had no idea he harbored such deep affection for you."

"Give Harold a kiss for me," I instructed her. "He's been a good friend."

"And what shall I give Coleman?" she asked.

I closed my eyes. Why was it that I had to keep making this break over and over again? "Give him my regards and tell him I'm happy and fine."

There was a pause. "I will."

"Thanks for Tor's number, and tell Cece I'm going to get
even with her when I get . . . home." No matter what, Zinnia would always be home.

I hung up and Tinkie suggested that we get the dogs and go back to the mansion to make the call to Tor. We still hadn't retrieved our things, but we weren't going to stay there overnight.

On the way to the vet's clinic, we stopped by the Petaluma police. One of the officers who'd come to the house, Sergeant Calla, told us they'd gathered a number of prints, but they were waiting for Estelle to regain consciousness. If she could identify her attacker, they would be all over it.

Sergeant Calla did have one interesting thing to report--aside from the prints Tinkie and I had made, there were two other sets. Estelle's and a stranger's. While the forensics team had collected a pretty good impression of a size nine and a half athletic shoe, they hadn't matched it with anything in their system. They were working with Sheriff King for some help in the States.

"We're more hopeful on the fingerprints recovered from the dust in the passage and closet," he said. "We take it seriously that Ms. Marquez was nearly killed. We'll find the perpetrator and he or she will be punished. Estelle's father is an important man."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Tinkie said, batting her eyelashes in a way that looked helpless and sexy. "We'll be in touch."

We picked up the dogs--Chablis's glowing recovery report going a long way to making Tinkie ecstatic--and headed for the Marquez place.

Night was falling. Another day had come to a close, and we both knew we had to leave Costa Rica. Despite Tinkie's generosity with her time, she had her own life to manage. So far, the filming of the movie had proceeded without me, but my scenes were coming up and quickly.

Which made me wonder again why Federico hadn't called me back.

I put in another call to Graf, who was delighted to hear from me but could shed no light on what was happening with the director.

"He's disappeared, Sarah Booth," he said. "Ricardo is trying to track him down. Jovan is frantic. I did call Sheriff King. He told me if this was a publicity stunt he'd put all of us in jail, but he is checking into it."

"Is there a chance this is a publicity stunt?" I had a terrible feeling. What if everything that had happened in Petaluma--the falls, the attacks, everything--was a way of getting buzz going for the movie? Maybe someone had seen Suzy Dutton's death and the resulting publicity as an opportunity to promote this film.

I'd assumed that being "cursed" was a bad thing, but what if it translated into box office interest?

And what about Estelle? She was severely injured. This wasn't a bump on the head or a tumble. She might lose her hands and feet. Surely Federico would have no part in harming his own daughter. Surely.

"Find Federico, Graf. Do whatever it takes, but find him. Get him to call me."

"I'll go back to the edit room."

"I love you," I told him before I hung up.

"You look awful," Tinkie said. "What is it?"

"What if all of this started out as a publicity stunt and then went too far?"

"I don't believe it," Tinkie said. "A dead daughter isn't going to translate into very good press."

"What if he didn't intend for her to die? Maybe he expected us to find her much sooner." But that was crazy. He hadn't given us a single clue.

"And what about the ghost?" Tinkie asked. "Did he manipulate that, too?"

"I don't know," I had to say. There were visual and special effects tricks available to Federico that I'd never heard of.

I was spared further Tinkie interrogation by the shrill ring of my cell phone. When I answered, it was Sergeant Calla.

"Could you and Mrs. Richmond come to the station?" he asked. "My men found a pair of shoes in the garden that match the print in the passageway. We'd like you to identify them if you can."

"We're on the way." I motioned for Tinkie to do a U-turn, and we headed back to town.

When we got there, Sergeant Calla met us in a small, sparsely furnished room. Another officer brought in a pair of beat-up athletic shoes. He put them on the desk in front of us. I felt Tinkie tense, but I kept a poker face.

"Do you recognize those shoes?" he asked.

I could hear Jitty in a corner of my mind, calling me a stool pigeon and worse, but I had to answer. "Those belong to Federico Marquez." I'd seen them numerous times. He wore them for walks on the beach with Jovan. "Where did you find them?"

"Hidden in the garden beside the house. They'd been buried beneath some mulch and leaves. Daniel Martinez was very upset over Estelle's attack, and as a special favor to him I brought in the tracking dogs. They found the shoes."

I didn't look at Tinkie. She really adored Federico, and I knew she was crushed. I wasn't feeling so great, either. Aside from the larger issue that Federico was a monster, I didn't think he could get a pass from jail to finish his movie. My bright and shining career was suddenly in shambles.

"Why would Senor Marquez want to harm his daughter?" Sergeant Calla asked.

"I don't know," I answered.

"I'm not certain he did this," Tinkie said. "Someone could have planted those shoes. He wore them on the beach and left them at the back door. Everyone and his brother had access to them."

"She has a good point," I said.

"We have calls in for Senor Marquez to contact us, but he hasn't done so." Calla looked at me as if I could explain it.

I shrugged. "I've been calling him most of the day. He's disappeared from the set. No one can find him." I realized after I said it how suspicious it made him look.

"We're afraid someone has harmed Federico," Tinkie said, taking the bull by the horns.