Wishbones

by Carolyn Haines

  She ignored my sarcasm and continued. “They both ended up in this trendy restaurant. From the account in the Canadian newspaper I found, Vincent walked over to Federico’s table and said something. Federico stood up and responded. Then Vincent said, ‘You righteous bastard, you ruined my life.’ That was a direct quote, and then Federico said, ‘Everything you lost, you lost by your own hand.’ And he sat down. Vincent then attacked him, turning him over in the chair and trying to stomp him.”

  The scene Millie was describing sounded like utter chaos, and also the behavior of teenagers rather than grown men, and they were fighting about a woman who’d been dead for a long time. What really troubled me was that Federico had lied. He’d told me he hadn’t seen Vincent Day in a long time.

  “So Vincent Day was arrested?”

  “That’s right. He had a list of charges against him, and Federico gave the police a damning statement about the encounter.”

  “How did you find all this out?” Millie had tactics and sources that I needed to learn. When it came to digging up dirt on celebrities, she was incredible.

  “There’s this photographer, or he would be called paparazzi now. Long ago, when I was young and pretty enough to think about going to Hollywood, I contacted him. He was hungry and shooting wannabe star portfolios. Funny thing, he’s from Elba, Alabama, so he was down-home folks.”

  “And you’ve stayed in touch with this guy all these years?” Millie was the kind of woman that men didn’t forget.

  “Not really in touch, but I knew how to find his e-mail. His name is Tor, or that’s his professional name. Like Cher. Speaking of which, Tor did an exquisite spread on her. He sent me some photos that she autographed to me.”

  I hated to halt her trip down her star-studded memory lane, but Tinkie was talking low and intensely to Daniel. It sounded like something was seriously wrong. I needed to know Vincent Day’s criminal history. What if he’d snatched Estelle to get even with Federico?

  “So you called Tor, and he told you about the Vincent-Federico ruckus in Canada?” I interjected.

  “Right. He was on the set of Vincent’s movie doing some still work. The whole crew was upset about the fight. They lost a couple of days’ work because Vincent was in jail. And Tor overheard Vincent say that he was going to get even with Federico one way or the other.”

  “What was the old charge about?”

  “Apparently Vincent has a terrible temper. He was charged with domestic abuse by his wife, Ivana Day, back in the eighties. He was booked, but she later dropped the charges. Tor said she looked bad. Black eye, swollen face, bruises, that kind of thing. He took photographs when she came out of the hospital emergency room, and yes, I did check the hospital records. It took some help from Coleman, but I found out that Mrs. Day was seen at a Los Angeles hospital.”

  I heard everything she said, but she had also invoked the name of Coleman. Tinkie was busy with her call and Graf was gone; I could ask the question that immediately sprang to my lips. But I didn’t.

  “Are you going to ask about Coleman?” Millie asked, saving me the bother of trying to decide if asking was a betrayal of Graf.

  “I was and then I wasn’t.”

  “Caught on the horns of a dilemma, huh?”

  “That would describe it.”

  “Coleman is okay. He’s lost a bunch of weight. In fact, he’s downright thin. Looks like a high school kid again. He’s living in the old Marston place.”

  I swallowed. He’d left his home and rented a place. That implied that he was no longer living with Connie.

  “And because you’re so concerned and asking and all, Connie is out of the hospital and in Jackson with her sister. Coleman didn’t say, but the brain tumor was apparently another invention.” Millie was going to tell me whether I wanted to hear it or not.

  “It doesn’t matter now.” I wasn’t being dramatic. I’d given Coleman plenty of chances to make this move and he hadn’t. He’d held back and withheld and postponed. Now that I was gone, he’d taken action. “Did it ever occur to you that Coleman may have used Connie as an excuse so he didn’t have to commit to me?”

  “In fact, it did, so I asked him that,” Millie said. “He was in for lunch the other day, and I just sat down and asked.”

  My mouth was terribly dry. “What did he say?” I couldn’t help myself. All of my good intentions not to play into this conversation had fled.

  “He said he’d made some bad mistakes, and he didn’t know if he could ever correct them. But the one thing he’d learned was that opportunities of a lifetime didn’t come at moments of convenience, and that the next time something he wanted was put in front of him, he was going to take it, no matter the consequences.” She cleared her throat. “He said that’s what you’d done, and he admired you for it.”

  That last statement made me want to weep. Why couldn’t he say that he was a fool, that he’d let me and himself down, that he saw now what he hadn’t seen before. But it was his damn nobility in seeing how I’d done the best thing that made it impossible to allow myself to care for him in any way other than as a friend. Coleman would always put others ahead of himself—and therefore me. Love requires a certain degree of selfishness, and Coleman could never truly love me as I needed to be loved.

  “Coleman is a good man,” I told her. “He’s one of the best. I hope he does grab his next opportunity. And thanks for the information, Millie. That’s going to help a whole lot. Really good work.”

  “Any message for Coleman?” she asked.

  “No, none.” No point in prolonging the pain. “Tinkie and I should be heading out tomorrow. Chablis is fine. Healing as we speak.” I knew Oscar had told everyone that his “child” had been injured in the line of defending Tinkie. “I miss you, Millie, and I’m planning a trip to Zinnia as soon as we finish filming.”

  I hung up and looked over at Tinkie. She was still talking into the phone. “Daniel, I’m sure there’s more to this than meets the eye. When we find Estelle, I’ll speak on your behalf.” She nodded her head. “I promise. And thanks for calling.”

  She closed her phone and heaved a big sigh. “Daniel really cares for Estelle.”

  “And?”

  “And she dumped him.”

  “He heard from her?” I was surprised at how relieved I was that she was okay. The idea of Vincent Day holding her hostage to get at Federico had really concerned me.

  “He did. He got a text message from her and a photograph from her phone saying that she was in Maine at a friend’s house, and that she wouldn’t be back to Malibu or Petaluma for the next few months. She told him she cared for him, but that she couldn’t sustain a relationship right now. She’s considering therapy.”

  Maybe Estelle wasn’t as crazy as I thought. “I wish she’d contact her father.”

  “Daniel messaged her back and asked her to do that.”

  “What a helluva way to break off a relationship—through a text message. Like what? ‘We R 0-ver.’ That’s pretty cold.”

  “Estelle couldn’t confront him, not even on the phone. That’s sad, Sarah Booth. Have you ever broken up with someone long distance?”

  My romantic past was too sordid to even wade through. “Not interested in answering,” I said. “Now let’s search this house. Since Estelle is in Maine, I doubt we’ll find much of anything. But we can search and then pack up. Oscar will be glad to see you.”

  “You’re one hundred percent correct. I can almost taste one of his mint juleps.”

  Tinkie was making me homesick, but I had committed to finishing the movie. After that I could hop a flight home for some R and R with my buds.

  “If Estelle is in Maine, why don’t we cancel this exploration?”

  “You said two hours. There’s still time on the clock. If it isn’t Estelle, then it’s someone else. And that someone could turn up in Hollywood doing the same stuff there. Let’s end it here and now.”

  We continued the tedious process, moving things, tapping walls
, listening. It would’ve been a lot easier if Estoban Gonzalez had simply cooperated with us and told us where to look. Concern for his granddaughter should have been motivation enough. But now we knew Estelle was far away and safe, so whatever was happening in the house didn’t involve her at all.

  So who—or what—were we tracking? I needed a confab with Jitty, but she wouldn’t appear in front of Tinkie. And she probably wouldn’t tell me anything useful anyway. Jitty was a big believer that the best lessons were those learned the hard way.

  If she didn’t help me, though, the vessel to carry the prized Delaney heir might be injured. Now that was a threat I could use against her.

  “Tinkie, I have to go to the bathroom, and I’ll check on the dogs.”

  “Sure.” She was moving paintings.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Yeah.” She was so absorbed that she didn’t notice when I left.

  Sweetie and Chablis were fine in the kitchen, both snoozing. Now was my moment.

  “Jitty! I need you.”

  I turned slowly, hoping for a shimmer or fade-in.

  Nothing.

  “Jitty, damn it! I’m the only person who can bear the Delaney heir. If you don’t help me, I’ll have myself sterilized.”

  “If you do that, people will talk.”

  Her voice was cultured, mature, and I spun around to find her standing in the door in a tight black dress, her hair suddenly blond and in a French twist. She made a beautiful Lana Turner, though I hadn’t realized she was so buxom.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow. I have to find out what’s going on here. There’s no guarantee this won’t start again in Hollywood.”

  She paced the kitchen, her voice coming New England cultured. “You’re not the only person with troubles, I have my own. Why don’t you dust somewhere else?”

  She wasn’t going to help me until I figured out what role she was playing. I flipped through the movie images in my mind. “Give me another clue.”

  “There’s an illegitimate daughter, a scandal, and fear of gossip in a small town.” She did a turn worthy of any runway model. “Hollywood is just a small town, Sarah Booth.” The Lana Turner voice was giving way to plain ole Jitty.

  “This isn’t helping me,” I said. “Is Carlita in this house, and is she here because she was murdered?”

  Jitty sighed. “She’s here, but it isn’t because she was murdered.”

  “Then why?”

  “Perhaps you should ask Daniel Martinez. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Isn’t that what makes movies so exciting?”

  I realized who she was. “Peyton Place,” I yelled at her fading image. “Peyton Place.”

  The last I heard was her chuckle.

  I thought Sweetie would rouse at the sound of my cursing, but she slept on, her body curled around Chablis. I ran down the driveway to the guard post. The two security men were there, but not Daniel.

  “Where is Mr. Martinez?” I asked.

  “He went into town. He’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” one of them answered.

  “Tell him when he gets back to come to the house as fast as he can,” I said. Reversing, I ran back to Tinkie, suddenly afraid that she’d been left alone.

  Tinkie didn’t even look up when I burst into the room, breathless and sweating. “It has to be the fireplace,” she said.

  “You’ve watched too many B movies,” I told her. “Be careful or Vincent Price will be standing behind the secret panel. What do Lana Turner and Peyton Place have to do with this situation?”

  She took time to roll her eyes at me. “I can’t say for sure, but in Peyton Place there’s a scandal involving the daughter’s legitimacy, and there are the layers of lies and deceit and also a fear of what others will think. There’s also a murder of a father by a daughter . . .” She stopped and stared at me. “But Estelle is in Maine.”

  “Maybe not,” I said.

  “Shit.” She leaned against the fireplace and the stone mantel behind her gave. To my amazement, the entire stone structure shifted to the left. The opening in front of us was dark, and a cool odor came to me, reminding me of marsh grass and some of the river brakes beside the Mississippi.

  Tinkie started in, and I grabbed her arm and held her.

  “What?” She had her flashlight on probing the depths of the dark hallway that were revealed.

  “I do believe in ghosts,” I said. “I do, I do, I do.”

  “You’re the one who’s always telling me that ghosts can’t hurt us. They’re noncorporeal.”

  “I think maybe I was misinformed,” I said, stepping into the darkness behind her. “Maybe we should wait for backup.”

  A low wail echoed down the cool passage. It was followed by the sound of dull thudding.

  “Help me.” The cry was weak, but we both heard it.

  Together we stepped into the darkness and the smell of rot and decay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The passageway was narrow, just large enough for us to go sideways. I would have taken the lead, but Tinkie was there and it was impossible to wedge past her.

  When the corridor took a ninety-degree turn, I figured we were moving between rooms, but in the darkness, I’d lost all sense of proportion and direction. I was about to speak when muffled sobbing came to me.

  Tinkie halted so abruptly I rear-ended her. I suppressed a moan as my sternum slammed into her bony head.

  “Ouch, Sarah Booth. That hurt. When we find the ghost, what do we do?” she asked.

  Run wasn’t an option because in the narrow confines we had to move like crabs. “Ask her how we can help?” I’d read somewhere long ago that a human could, sometimes, assist a ghost in moving on to the next plane. I’d never actually asked Jitty if this would work, and I’d certainly never tried this tactic on her because—I’d come to admit—I wanted her in Dahlia House. Even though she was an unmitigated pain in the ass, she was part of my heritage, part of Dahlia House, and part of my family. Somehow I had invited her to live with me, and that’s right where I wanted her.

  Tinkie swung her light beam in front of us. “What if the ghost says that what she needs is to kill us? I mean, not all ghosts want to ‘go to the light,’ you know. It only stands to reason that some are going to the dark side. And then there are those who want to hang out here and screw with people.”

  Tinkie’s logic was sometimes illogical but always intriguing. “We want to help her, why would she want to harm us?”

  “Because she’s an evil entity that’s already lured you to a near death by drowning, and she pushed Jovan down the stairs and—”

  “We don’t know any of those things involved the ghost.” I hung hard to fact. Ghosts were real, but not all of them were vengeful spirits. Besides, if Tinkie panicked, even as small as she was, she might stampede over me and finish me off before the ghost got a chance. “Maybe it’s not an entity at all. Perhaps it’s someone dressed as the ghost.” The idea was exciting. “Someone who wants to blame a supernatural being. Think of all the things you could get away with if you had a ghost to blame.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  I didn’t have time to answer. I glanced over Tinkie’s head, and standing in the flashlight beam was a translucent figure dressed in a flowing red dressing gown. The woman was beautiful, though terribly sad. She was closer than I’d ever seen her, and in the unforgiving illumination of the flashlight, I could see the sharp bones of her face. Her eyes were large and burned with an inner fire.

  “Tinkie,” I whispered. “Ghost.” The word seemed to tear my throat as it exited.

  Tinkie stepped forward and turned her shoulders so she could look. I heard the sound of a loud whump, and she fell backward against me. I caught her as she slid to the floor.

  “Tinkie!” She was out cold, and when I shone my light, I saw the support trestle she’d struck with her forehead. I eased her to the floor as best I could, all the while fighting the horrible sensation that the entity was on the move—toward m
e.

  When I finally picked up a flashlight and shone it down the passage, the woman in red was only twenty feet away.

  The apparition, for it was most definitely something from beyond our world, lifted a hand that held a white cloth. She put it to her mouth and coughed, a racking sound that ended in a choking noise. When she finished, she lowered the cloth toward me in a pleading fashion. “Help.”

  The word seemed to waver in the air, moving like an echo rather than speech.

  Whatever this ghoul was, she bore no resemblance to my lovely Dahlia House haint. Jitty was sexy and beautiful, voluptuous and groomed to perfection. If this was Carlita Marquez in her last days, I could only say that Federico was right to keep the children away from her. No child should have to see a parent dying in such a manner. Carlita was a skeleton barely covered by skin, her suffering etched into every plane and angle. The beautiful woman in the portrait hanging in my bedroom had evaporated, leaving only the dregs of who she’d once been.

  Tinkie moaned softly. She was coming around. Her full weight was pressed against my shins and I had to brace myself to stand steady. Even if I could get away, I couldn’t take Tinkie. We were jammed like sardines in the secret hallway.

  “What do you want?” I asked. My voice quavered, and I wished with all my might that Jitty would appear to intervene for me. I could handle a family member’s ghost, but not this pathetic creature that looked to be in agony. Even though she hadn’t spoken again, I could feel her pain like waves rolling over me.

  “Help,” she said in that strange voice that was like air molecules colliding together and moving to me.

  “How?” I dreaded her answer.

  “Help me,” she said again. She seemed to move closer, but she wasn’t walking.

  Tinkie moaned and shifted. “Tinkie, wake up.” I needed her to see this. “Tinkie, wake up.”

  “Help me,” the ghost said again. “Too late.”

  I had her pinned in the beam of the flashlight, and I could tell she was starting to fade.

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “Save . . .” But she didn’t finish. Just as Tinkie sat up, the figure disappeared.