Wishbones

by Carolyn Haines

  “What did Federico do?”

  “He told Ricardo that if Estelle showed up here again, he would have her arrested. That really bent Ricardo. He stormed off.”

  “I think I’ll have a word with him.” Ricardo was standing in the shade of a tree drinking a bottle of water. He still looked hot and angry. And worried.

  Graf lifted my hand to his lips. “I’m due on the set and you’re up next. If you want to wait in your room . . .”

  I kissed him, lightly but with a serious promise of more. “I’m not the kind of actress who hides in her trailer waiting to be called.”

  “Behave, Sarah Booth, I need to concentrate on being Ned.”

  I watched him go back to his mark as Federico resumed his place and waved everyone back into position. Ricardo remained in his spot, sulkily smoking a cigarette. When I approached, he gave me a bored look.

  “Do you know something about Estelle?” I asked.

  “Why bother answering. No one believes me.”

  “If your sister is still in town, I’m worried that she’ll harm someone.”

  He exhaled cigarette smoke and stared at me as if he could assess my sincerity. “Daniel Martinez was looking for her last night while everyone was gone.”

  “The security guy?”

  “He has a crush on her. She stood him up for a date a few days ago, and he’s been going by her place, calling her cell phone, questioning her roommate.”

  “And?”

  “No one has seen her. The cell phone has gone dead.” Ricardo lit another cigarette, pretending to a nonchalance I saw through like smoked glass.

  “Have you talked to Estelle?”

  He shook his head. “Not for days. She was upset that Dad had her removed from the property.”

  “She’s been in some of the secret passages, harassing me and others.”

  One shoulder came up and dropped. “She’s angry, okay. But it isn’t like her to disappear.” He swallowed and finally looked at me. “I’m worried about her. Look, there’s someone in the house.” He dared me to interrupt him with a look. “Someone who doesn’t belong there. I heard something this morning . . .”

  I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. “We’ve searched the secret passageways. We’ve searched all the rooms except for those on the third floor, and we’re going there when the filming is over for today. If someone is hiding in the house, we’ll find them.”

  “I tried to follow the noises, but I couldn’t. No matter where I looked, there was no one.”

  “Ricardo, if you’re messing with me, don’t. Someone hurt my friend last night. It was serious.”

  Concern was quickly replaced with anger. “I knew you wouldn’t listen. No one does. Did you ever think that might be the reason Estelle is so mad? No one listens!” He crushed out his cigarette and stalked away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  By the end of the day’s shooting, light had fled the sky, leaving bruised mango colors on the horizon. I was exhausted, and even Graf looked fatigued. Federico, a shade of bilious green, disappeared into the suite of rooms he shared with Jovan, who’d been resting most of the afternoon.

  Tinkie was waiting for us in the kitchen with a pitcher of homemade lemonade and glasses filled with ice. It had been a long time since I’d tasted something that good. It was the perfect blend of tart and sweet, and it took me back to long-ago summer days when my mother would pack a hamper with sandwiches and lemonade and take me to one of the small amber creeks that fed the Tallahatchie River.

  These were times my mother earmarked just for us—girl time. And she would talk of her love of the land and my father and her dreams for me to be successful and happy at whatever I chose. Jitty had said my folks were proud of me. I so hoped she was correct.

  I put the past aside, and Tinkie, Graf, and I took our drinks outside to the patio where we were relatively sure no one could overhear us.

  Tinkie’s face was aglow. Not even the goose egg at her hairline could detract from her joy. “I spoke with the veterinarian, and he said I could get Chablis in a day or so.” Tinkie played with the swirl of lemon peel decorating her glass and a shadow fell over her features. “He said if we hadn’t acted so quickly, she would have died.”

  “But she’ll be good as new, right?” I asked. “No permanent side effects?” Chablis could not be crippled.

  Tinkie sighed. “He’s almost positive. But he’s cautious.”

  “Chablis is tough,” Graf said. “She’ll heal.”

  “I want to go home.” Tinkie blinked back her tears. “I take Oscar for granted sometimes, but I realize how much I rely on him. He’s irascible and self-involved, but he’s also there when I need to lean on him, and I’ve got to say, I’m feeling like letting him play the big, strong he-man.”

  “That’s what the best relationships are about—you rely on each other,” Graf said softly. He reached across the table and picked up my hand. “I know you miss Oscar. As soon as Chablis can travel, we’ll get you a flight home.”

  “But that’s like abandoning Sarah Booth with this criminal stalking the film crew.” Tinkie put her hand over ours and squeezed. “I may be short, but I’m generally the one who saves Sarah Booth’s behind.”

  “True,” I easily agreed. “She’s arrived in the nick of time more than once. If it weren’t for Tinkie and Sweetie, I’d be dead. But on this case, which I might point out isn’t really a case since no one is paying us, I think the film is the target.”

  Tinkie swirled her drink. “I’m not in the film, but I was still hurt. If we could find Estelle, I’d feel a lot better.”

  And so would I, but Tinkie needed to go home as soon as she could. She didn’t need to hang around, worrying about a young woman who might or might not be in trouble.

  “I have some news,” Graf said. “Federico said something today about wrapping the filming here tomorrow. He’s ready to head back to L.A.”

  That was news to me, and I must have looked shocked.

  “He was planning on filming some of the other interior scenes around here, but he says he can do it as well on one of the studio lots. He wants to leave. This whole thing with Estelle so angry and Jovan getting injured—it’s taken a toll on him.” Graf drained his glass.

  The idea of going back to California should have excited me, but it didn’t. There were still questions unanswered about this house and what was going on. “I didn’t expect to leave so quickly.” The truth was, the sooner everyone was out of that house, the better. Still, I found myself reluctant to go.

  Graf stood up and stretched. “I want to visit Chablis.” He checked his watch. “The clinic is open late this evening. Tinkie, what about a trip to cheer the patient?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t stop me.” She jumped to her feet. They both turned to me.

  “You two go ahead. I want to talk to Ricardo again.”

  Graf put his hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure you want to stay here alone?”

  “I’m not alone. Federico and Jovan are here. The security guards are outside. I saw Daniel Martinez walking toward the gate not half an hour ago. I think Ricardo may open up to me if I’m alone.”

  “Good luck,” Tinkie said. “He’s like a split personality. All charming one minute, and then all surly and rude the next. At the best of times, he’s not the most forthcoming person I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s why I want to talk to him. He sounded genuinely upset earlier. He said no one ever listened to him or Estelle. I want to give it a try. If he’s got something to say, I want to hear it.”

  Graf came up behind me and pulled me against his chest. “Be careful. Take Sweetie with you wherever you go.”

  “That’s a promise.”

  Graf leaned around to kiss me, a warm kiss that was fiery and tender. “That’s my girl,” he said.

  “Give Chablis a kiss for me. When you get back, we’ll have some dinner.” As much as I wanted to see the little dustmop, I needed to talk to Ricardo. Alone. He was sulk
y, charming, angry, uninterested. His emotional range made me wonder about several things, including drug use.

  I walked Graf and Tinkie to the front door, then turned back to knock at Federico’s room. No one answered and I pounded louder. My heart rate did triple time as the possibilities of what could have happened zipped through my brain. I was about to put my shoulder to the door when Jovan opened it a crack.

  “Federico is asleep,” she said softly.

  “Sorry.” It looked as if I’d awakened her. “Are you feeling better?”

  “A little. I think we’ll all feel better once we’re back in the States.”

  I couldn’t argue that, so I excused myself and went to look for Ricardo. Sweetie padded along with me as I walked through the west wing of the mansion. Portraits hung on the wall, most of them bearing some family resemblance to the painting of Carlita in my room. There were oil paintings of my mother’s and my father’s family throughout Dahlia House, but I’d never had my portrait painted.

  It was traditional for a Daddy’s Girl to have her image rendered on canvas at the time of her debut into society. My parents were dead by then, and I was strong-willed enough to sidestep Aunt Loulane’s attempts to give me a debutante ball. The ball gown and portrait went hand-in-glove.

  A long Persian carpet covered the hallway and muffled our footfalls as Sweetie and I made our way to Ricardo’s suite.

  According to the floor plans of the architect, there were no secret passages in this part of the house, which had been designed for guests, not family members. Old man Gonzalez obviously hadn’t felt a need to spy on houseguests, only his daughter and son-in-law. No matter how I tried to explain that away, it was still creepy. What man would attempt to watch what was happening with his daughter and her new husband?

  Ricardo’s door was open, but his rooms were empty. I hesitated, standing in the hallway, wondering if I should search his personal belongings. Sweetie took the decision in hand and entered the room.

  Glancing left and right down the hallway, I didn’t see a sign of Ricardo or anyone else. I followed my hound straight to his suitcase on the floor. Sweetie nudged the bag, whining softly. Sweetie is an above-average dog, but she hasn’t had drug training. Yet that was the first thing I thought. Drugs would explain Ricardo’s Jekyll-Hyde behavior.

  Before I had time for second thoughts, I opened the soft leather bag and began to move his clothes around. The only pills I found were health food vitamins, a blend with green tea extract for additional energy. I kept searching, and my efforts were rewarded with a slim journal. Sitting on the bed, I opened it. Pages were filled with the long, fluid scrawl of Ricardo’s handwriting. I wasn’t a big fan of private schools, but I had to admit that his penmanship was excellent.

  I eased down onto his bed for a quick read. My theory on snooping is that if a person is going to do it, then do it one hundred percent. Don’t invade someone’s privacy and do a half-assed job of it.

  The journal was a running account of the filming and what Ricardo had learned working under the tutelage of the cinematographer. The passages were filled with enthusiasm about different shots. If I’d wondered if Ricardo was serious about a career in film, I held the evidence.

  I also saw a side of Ricardo he was loath to show—one where he worshipped his father. In comment after comment, he raved about Federico’s brilliance. I thought how much this journal would please Federico, but I also knew that I could never show it.

  I was about to put it away when I noticed Estelle’s name. The entry was dated the day she supposedly went back to California.

  My sister continues her crusade. I’d hoped that Daniel might talk some sense into her, but I guess not. She’s obsessed with the idea that Mother is still here, in this house. Sometimes I want to believe her, but Mother is gone. Her body stayed, but her spirit left. Perhaps that’s the greatest sadness of all.

  An additional entry written this morning noted that he was “worried about Estelle.” It didn’t elaborate, and there was nothing else of interest in the small book.

  I put the journal back and did a cursory exam of the rest of the room. Sweetie had fallen asleep with her nose in one of Ricardo’s shoes. I found a small amount of marijuana and lots of dirty clothes. Nothing that would cause the mood swings I’d seen Ricardo display. When I was ready to leave, I woke my hound.

  Something was nagging at me. Federico had said that Ricardo had arranged for the security crew, and Daniel was mentioned in Ricardo’s diary as someone who had influence with Estelle. Perhaps it was time to have a little talk with the head of Promise Security Agency, Daniel Martinez.

  I took a few moments to wander down the west wing hallway and open the doors to beautifully decorated—and unused—bedrooms. It was a huge place where Estelle could still be hiding.

  I found a small study and stepped inside to admire some of the artwork. The vivid swirls of color in a contemporary oil were particularly fascinating. I couldn’t make out the name of the artist, but I made a mental note to ask Federico later. Just as I was turning away from the painting, I heard what sounded like a moan, the old haunted house version of a haunting. The noise was muffled and unclear, but it was definitely someone—or something—in distress.

  It wasn’t an auditory hallucination. Sweetie spun, looking in all directions, a low whine coming from her. We both held perfectly still for a moment. The faint sound came again. Distant and indistinct, I couldn’t tell where it came from or even if it was human. It could have been a dove in a chimney or even someone out on the grounds.

  The latter was easy enough to check, and I went to a window and forced it open. The sun had set completely, but the driveway was well lit. This wing gave a good view of the front slope of lawn, the border of trees, and the white shell lane that meandered to the main road. The grassy lawn was in darkness, and someone could be hiding behind a tree or shrub, but I was fairly certain the sound hadn’t come from outside.

  Ricardo had said he’d heard something. A water pipe with a low-pitched complaint? An animal in the upper regions of the house?

  Or someone deliberately messing with him—and me.

  I closed the window with a bang and marched back toward the east wing and my room. Someone was playing me for a fool.

  “If Ricardo is messing with us,” I said to Sweetie, “we’re going to find him.”

  Sweetie gave a soft yodel of approval. She always backed my play. We’d almost made it to the staircase when Sweetie froze. I nearly tripped on her. It was as if she’d been turned into stone.

  “Sweetie,” I said, nudging her with my knee. “Get a move on.”

  She remained stock-still, her gaze riveted at the end of the hall. The hairs on the back of my neck did a little dance, and I slowly shifted my gaze to the end of the hallway.

  A woman in a red dressing gown stood at the top of the staircase. Her dark hair was pulled softly back off her face, and she held something in her hands—a piece of material of some kind. She seemed to waver and shift in and out of focus.

  “Help me.” The sound came to me not like speech, but like something underwater. The words were indistinct. I put out a hand as if I could touch the air and feel the words.

  “Stop it,” she said. Her mouth didn’t move when she spoke, but I heard her.

  “You’ll di-i-i-ie.” The last word was a wail, and her dark eyes seemed to glow with a red light.

  Before I could react at all, Sweetie growled low in her throat and bounded toward the figure. In the three seconds it took for her to reach the place where the woman had stood, there was nothing there. Not a trace of her.

  From above me I heard what sounded like the footsteps of a running child. My heart seemed to catch in my throat. The scream that wanted to escape couldn’t.

  With Sweetie Pie at my heels, I ran down the stairs and out the front door into the warm embrace of the night.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d managed to calm myself and ventured back in the house as far as the kitchen. The s
mell of brewing coffee gave me some comfort, and I’d found some grilled chicken in the refrigerator for Sweetie.

  I poured myself some strong black java and took several deep breaths, calming my body and trying to remember exactly what I’d seen and heard.

  It was possible that we’d failed to discover all the secret passages. If that was the case, then the figure I’d seen could easily be a normal, flesh-and-blood human. A human who could move quickly, for sure. And I chose to believe that because the alternative was unacceptable. A ghost who made threats was more than I could handle.

  “Jitty,” I called my ancestral haint. “Jitty, I need you.”

  Outside, a tree limb brushed against the window and I bolted out of my seat. When I picked up the chair I’d knocked over and looked around the room, my heart lurched again. A woman in a dark dress, white apron tied at the waist, stood in the doorway.

  “That’s not the way Mrs. DeWinter does it,” she said in a severe tone that matched her hair pulled tight in a bun at the back of her neck.

  By the time I recognized Jitty, I thought I was in the first stages of a heart attack. “If you weren’t already dead, I’d be tempted to kill you.”

  “You’re a poor imitation of Rebecca,” she said, walking around me and examining me as if I were a hunk of rancid beef. “So callow. So young and desperate to please.”

  “Damn it, that’s not funny.” I was steamed. “And those aren’t even the lines from the movie. You’re just making that up.”

  Jitty laughed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

  It was pointless to get angry with her. She was having a blast playing Mrs. Danvers from the movie based on Daphne du Maurier’s book, Rebecca. “I would have thought you’d want the role of the ingenue. Joan Fontaine was quite pretty in the film. Mrs. Danvers was old and mean.”

  “Mrs. Danvers had all the best moments in the film. She was really creepy. But I have to say, it would be nice to kiss Sir Laurence Olivier. Maybe I’ll put that on my to-do list.”