I turned on the TV and VCR and slipped in the video. The screen flickered, then bathed the room in blue light. There we all were, on the beach at Coronado. The big white hotel loomed like a circus tent in the background. I loved that beach, because the sand sparkled with little gold flakes. It always made me wonder if there was a sunken ship offshore filled with gold coins that were slowly eroding, their flakes washing in with each wave.
Mom and I were kneeling on the sand, hard at work on an elaborate sandcastle. You could tell that Dad, the master sculptor, had helped. Four towers rose from the corners of the walls around the castle. We had dug out a moat and used a flattened soda can for a drawbridge. A sand dragon crouched by the moat, ready to attack.
With her back already red from the sun, Mom turned and waved to the camera. “Hi, Gran! Sorry we couldn’t be there for your birthday. Instead of a birthday cake, we made you your very own castle.”
Now I waved at the camera. “Just for you, Gran!”
I pulled out a sparkler from our beach bag and stuck it in one of the towers. Mom lit it. While it sputtered with sparks, we all sang “Happy Birthday” to Gran. We sounded a little out of tune but extremely sincere.
The picture tilted. Mom must have taken over recording. Dad came on. Dad—alive, strong, his brown body specked with sand. He flexed his muscles, mugging for the camera.
“¡Feliz cumpleaños, Mamá! We’d be with you today to celebrate, but our old Jeep has been giving us trouble. We had it in the shop all week. Something’s wrong with the brakes, and we didn’t want to risk the long drive across the desert. But we’ll be there for Thanksgiving, count on it! Have a great day!” He blew her a kiss.
The video continued with scenes of dolphins leaping out of the water at Sea World, but I wasn’t watching anymore. My eyes filled with tears. I stopped the VCR and rewound the tape. I wanted to see Dad again. I needed to hear what he’d said.
“… giving us trouble. We had it in the shop all week. Something’s wrong with the brakes.”
It all came rushing back. When Dad got the Jeep back, he thought it was fixed. A week later we took off for our camping trip in the mountains. Like a movie in my head, I could see the road, me pointing at the deer darting up ahead. Dad’s foot pumping the brakes. His arms fighting to control the steering. The edge of the road disappearing from underneath us.
Tears of relief rolled down my cheeks. I knew now that the accident hadn’t been my fault. If the brakes hadn’t failed, Dad would have slowed down. He would have missed the deer, and we would have continued on our way. I let the tears come, feeling the pain wash away with each drop. The room swirled around me, filled with energy, love, and spirits.
For too long, I’d shoved the ache of missing him under a rock in my heart. Now, like the waves at Coronado Beach, all the little moments I’d wished Dad had been there came rolling over me. Maybe he’d been there all along. Like those times I came out of therapy sessions and showed off a new maneuver to Mom. Or when I’d finished reading a great book and wanted to tell someone about it. Or when I’d just wanted to let him know I was okay.
Wiping away my tears, I scanned the room, hoping I could make him appear. “You led me to that video, didn’t you?” I whispered, my lips trembling. “You wanted me to know what really happened.”
I rewound, pushed the play button, and watched it again.
He blew me a kiss.
Chapter 17
MY DREAMS THAT NIGHT WERE GREAT. I FLEW high over the world, my arms outstretched like a bird. I floated through billowy clouds, soaring above houses and trees. I woke up happy for the first time in ages. It dawned on me that I’d been carrying around a ton of guilt about the accident. It had squashed my confidence and my spirit, turning me into a shadow of the person I really was. No more. Today I was ready to take on the world.
DJ was already awake, sipping orange juice and reading the morning paper. She looked up when I came in and jabbed her finger at the front page of the Copper Valley News.
“Get a load of this!” She pointed to an article, reading it out loud.
“Copper Valley police report their first lead in a string of burglaries plaguing the city. Last night, the Border Patrol stopped a gray panel truck on I-19 for a routine check. The driver sped away, but lost control and rolled the vehicle two miles south of the city, according to police officer Bill Garcia. ‘When we arrived on the scene and searched the truck, we found several items matching the description of goods stolen in the recent burglaries,’ Garcia said.
“Copper Valley residents have been worried since thieves began taking valuable heirloom jewelry, antique silver sets, and artwork from local homes. Because only one or two items are taken each time, the thefts often go unnoticed for weeks.
“The panel truck driver, a young male, has not been identified, and is under guard at Copper Valley Care Center, where he has been hospitalized with minor injuries. Anyone with information about the thefts is urged to contact police.”
DJ shoved the paper toward me. “¡Vaya! I thought this was a place where nothing ever happened!”
I thought back on the morning DJ arrived and Zola was over at her house, cleaning up the water. I shook my head, totally amazed at my stupidity. “You know what? I bet I saw that panel truck, right in front of Zola’s house. I just assumed it was the maintenance people. But remember what a mess the house was later? No one ever came to clean up.”
DJ’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. You can’t jump to conclusions. There could be lots of gray panel trucks around here. It doesn’t mean the one in the wreck was the one you saw.”
“No, but it could be. Gran’s neighborhood isn’t so quiet, either. The other night somebody was making a racket outside at three in the morning. Voices, pounding noises, then tires squealing down the street.”
“If there’s a law against driving down a street in the middle of the night, then a whole lot of people are in trouble,” DJ said.
“Maybe Zola saw the burglar breaking in somewhere. Maybe he came back and grabbed her to shut her up.” I folded the paper and thought a moment. “You know what we should do?”
DJ looked at me warily. “What?”
“Talk to that guy in the hospital. Maybe he knows something about Zola.”
“You mean the panel truck driver?” She frowned and shook her head. “Uh-uh. No way.”
“Why not?”
“He’s got no reason to talk to us. And besides, I don’t think the police would be too happy about a couple of girls flouncing in for a nice bedside chat.”
“But they want the public’s help. It says so right there in the paper.”
She snorted. “They want people who can give information.”
I waved her off. “Whatever. We’ll say we’re his relatives. What have we got to lose? It’s worth a try, Deej.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I suppose I better say okay, or you’ll just plow ahead without me and get yourself in trouble again.”
I grinned at her. “I knew you’d see it my way!”
As we headed out the drive, the Tuckers were back at it, loading up their van for another swap meet. Frankly, I’d rather go to the mall and get brand new stuff than walk around in the hot sun looking at other people’s junk. Today the wind was kicking up, too, blowing dust and making a ride in a convertible no fun. DJ pulled over after a couple of blocks and put the top up. She checked the map against the address we had for the Copper Valley Care Center and found it was near the center of town, not far away.
Starting off again, she asked, “Do you have any idea what you’ll ask this guy?”
“Not yet. I’m thinking.”
She hushed up and drove on, glancing now and then in the rear-view mirror. Suddenly she turned right, away from the hospital. I grabbed for the dashboard as my whole body careened sideways.
“Hey, take it easy! Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I think someone’s following us.”<
br />
“Well, no sudden turns or stops, okay? I can’t brace myself with my legs, remember?”
She flashed me an apologetic look. “Gee. Sorry. I keep forgetting.”
I checked the rear-view mirror on my side. A white van trailed several yards behind us. Sunglasses and a baseball cap hid the driver’s face. “It looks a lot like the Tuckers’ van. But they should be going north to Tucson if they were swap-meeting again.”
“It reminds me of that guy who almost hit us yesterday on the way to see Matt’s land.” DJ turned right again, slower this time. Two more turns and we were back on the road to the hospital. The van stayed behind, even though a blue car was now between us. An icy sweat ran down my neck. I was starting to think DJ was right. But why would someone follow us?
When we pulled into the hospital parking lot, the white van sailed on by. A sign on the side read “Buckeye Hardware.” DJ glanced at me and shrugged. “Not the Tuckers after all. They don’t have a sign on their van.”
“Maybe Mr. Buckeye thought we were a couple of cute babes,” I said, hoping that was all there was to it.
The Copper Valley Care Center wasn’t big like the hospitals in Tucson or San Diego. It was more like the clinic where I’d done my physical therapy. Gran had told me that all the serious medical cases, like heart surgery, were taken by ambulance or helicopter up to Tucson. She had hoped she’d never have to spend time in either place. As things turned out, her illness took her quietly in her own home.
The lobby was a cool relief from the dusty heat outside. It was done in soothing shades of blue and lavender, with desert murals painted on the walls. But the cozy decor couldn’t hide the antiseptic smell. I wrinkled my nose. It brought back bad memories.
We asked at the information desk about the guy who’d been in the accident. Without batting an eye, the clerk directed us to Room 215. So far, so good. I still had no idea how this was going to work. My heart boinged like a wire spring. We both kept glancing around, watching for anyone who might be spying on us or following us.
Outside the door of Room 215, an old guy sat in a tan uniform, reading a paperback novel. He looked more like hospital security than police.
DJ stopped a few doors short of the guard. “Now what, genius?”
I pushed toward the guard. “Come on. We came all this way to see if this guy was our long-lost cousin, didn’t we?”
The guard looked up as we approached.
“Excuse me,” I said, “can we speak to the man inside?”
He put his book down, stood up, and eyed us doubtfully. “That depends. What’s your interest?”
“We think he may be our cousin,” I explained.
“What’s your name?”
“Ramos. Crystal Ramos. This is my sister, Dolores.” DJ glared down at me for using her real name.
“Let me see if he’s awake. He’s been in and out.” The guard ducked inside and quickly came back out. “He’s awake, but good luck talking to him. He don’t speak English, only Spanish. I can’t understand a thing he says.”
I nudged DJ.
“That’s okay. I speak Spanish,” she said, picking up her cue.
The guard pushed open the door and followed us in. “Well, good luck, ladies.”
A single bed occupied the pale blue hospital room. There were no flowers and no get-well cards. A soccer game blinked silently from an overhead TV. The guy in the bed looked pretty banged up. A bandage covered his forehead and left eye. The area around his right eye was black and blue, and one leg was slightly suspended in a half cast.
“You got visitors, señor,” said the guard, leaning against the door, his arms folded.
The guy slowly turned his head our way. He was young, maybe in his twenties. A sly smile spread under his thin mustache, like he really was our cousin and was happy to see us.
I pushed my chair over to the head of the bed, so DJ could come in close. She fumbled with the edge of her T-shirt. “Hola, Umm … ¿Cómo está?”
Grinning, he reached out and grabbed DJ’s hand. “¡Hola chula! ¡Dame un beso!”
I bit my lip, trying not to giggle. He’d called DJ a “cutie,” and had asked for a kiss.
DJ pulled her hand away, but kept smiling, watching the guard’s reaction to all this. His face stayed blank, so she continued. “Por favor, ¿conoce a Zola?”
The guy’s smile faded, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Vieja metiche,” he sneered, as spit flew across the sheet.
DJ glanced over at me. I shrugged, not understanding what he’d said. She leaned forward, crooning sweetly like she was asking a child where it hurt. “Ay, pobrecito. ¿Dónde está Zola?”
Turning away, he closed his eyes. “No sé, no sé.”
“¿Dónde está Zola?” DJ demanded.
No answer.
“¿Cómo se llama usted?”
He pushed her away and muttered “¡No más!” It was clear that the interview was over.
As we started for the door, the guard stopped us. “Well, what’d he say? Is that your cousin?”
DJ shrugged. “He wasn’t making much sense.” She glanced back at the guy in the bed. “It’s hard to recognize him all bandaged up like that. Maybe we’d better come back another day.”
“You do that,” the guard said, a tinge of suspicion in his voice. His hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.
For once, I let DJ push my chair down the hallway, so we could get out of there faster. When we were out in the lobby again, I made her stop.
“What’d he say? I couldn’t get it all.”
“I asked if he knew Zola. You know what he called her?”
“What?”
“A meddling old lady! A busybody.”
I laughed. “Maybe he was calling you that!”
“I don’t think so. Notice how he stopped flirting when I brought up her name? When I asked where she was, he said he didn’t know. He also wouldn’t tell me his name. But I think we got what we came for. A connection.”
As soon as we left the parking lot, a white van pulled out and started tailing us again. I glanced in the side mirror. It sure looked like the same one, but since every other vehicle in southern Arizona was white, it could have been anyone. Still, it made me nervous. Arizona cars have no front license plates, so unless the guy passed us we couldn’t get the number. Two blocks from the street that led into our neighborhood, the van turned off.
Chapter 18
A KID ON A RED-AND-SILVER BICYCLE WAS making lazy loops on our street. DJ was about to honk at him, but she hesitated. “Is that Matt?”
“Looks like him.”
She slowed down and eased the car alongside him. “Hi! That the bike from the pawn shop?”
He beamed at us, circled around the car, and stopped. Pulling off his helmet, he said, “Like it? Dad bought it for me this morning. What are you two doing?”
I pushed my palms down on the seat and boosted myself up, so I could see the bike. “Not much. We’ve just been visiting a burglar.”
Matt’s eyes widened. “A burglar? You went to a jail?”
“He’s in the care center, actually,” said DJ. “We found out he knows Zola.”
Matt let out a low whistle. “She was hanging around with thieves?”
“No, dummy. We think she saw something suspicious, maybe even the burglar himself. We think there’s a connection between the robberies around here and Zola’s disappearance.”
“It’s like a puzzle,” I explained. “Each piece tells us something. Zola’s photos told us she was interested in patios. The fact that she left her overnight case behind says she’s not really off on a trip. Someone ransacked our house yesterday. And the burglar knew who she was.”
“Wow, really?” He jerked his thumb toward Gran’s house. “I saw the cops come yesterday. I wanted to see what was going on, but Dad wouldn’t let me.”
I turned to DJ. “You know, we should talk to Zola’s friend Milton again. He said he’d been asking around about Zola. Mayb
e he’s learned something new.”
“Hey, I know him,” said Matt, giving his helmet a tap. “The old guy with orange hair? He’s in my lapidary class.”
I nodded. “That’s him.”
“Any idea where we can find him?” asked DJ.
Matt stared at the ground, thinking. “What’s today? Thursday? I bet he’s at the craft fair at the social center.”
DJ started the car. “Worth a try. See you!”
The parking lot at the West Hills Center was jammed with cars, even down the side streets. A huge sign by the entrance announced CRAFT FAIR TODAY, 9 TO 5. DJ dropped me off and went to hunt for a parking place. While I waited for her, I wheeled past the displays lining the sidewalks. Knitted shawls, glazed pottery, jewelry, wooden birdhouses, and handwoven place mats and rugs covered the tables. It wasn’t junk, either. I found myself eyeing things that might make a good present for Mom when she got back.
Dozens of customers clustered around each table, some buying, others just chatting. I scanned the crowd. Sure enough, over by the fountain, I spotted a fuzzy head of orange hair. DJ trotted over to join me.
Milton looked surprised to see me there. “How-deedo!” He held out his hand to DJ. “Don’t think we’ve met.”
“This is my cousin, DJ,” I said hurriedly.
“Got some nice baubles here for you,” Milton said.
I glanced at the jewelry spread out on his table. A silver butterfly pin caught my eye. The wings were set with dark polished stones. They shimmered with the iridescent colors of real butterfly wings.
“What kind of stone is this?” I asked.
“Spectrolite. Comes all the way from Finland. Don’t look like much till it’s polished up. You like it?”
“It’s nice,” I said, putting the pin back down next to a pair of amethyst earrings. “But actually, we came to ask you a couple of questions.”
“About Zola,” added DJ.
Milton’s brow wrinkled as he pulled out a soft cloth and started polishing a silver bracelet with coral inlay. “I’m still worried about her. Any news yet?”
Finding Zola Page 7
