by Beth Ciotta
She readjusted the dark glasses she’d donned as part of her disguise and watched as Joe, who’d changed into an ebony suit and fresh white oxford, walked toward a fieldstone post. Today, instead of polar opposites, they looked like a team. Dipping into the suitcase she’d packed from home, she’d dressed in a tailored black suit and a white Dolce and Gabanna cotton crewneck T-shirt. Her hair was now jet black, compliments of a semi-permanent dye, and slicked back into sleek, low ponytail.
Sharp and sophisticated, they looked like a pair of high-end real estate agents … or trendy feds.
A minute later, the electronic gates swung open and Joe hopped back into the jeep.
“How did you do that?”
“Specialized training.”
“Like picking locks.” She cocked a brow. “They teach that kind of stuff at Quantico?”
He shifted gears and accelerated through the gates, up the paved drive that led to a large parking courtyard. “Let’s just say I’m a student of the world I chose.”
“More like a master, I’d say. Your hand-to-hand combat skills are top-notch and I’d venture you were holding back the couple of times we tussled.”
He shot her a sidelong glance, his lips curved in a soft smile. “You held your own.”
He probably thought she was rambling. But talking, about anything other than what they might find in that house, was the only thing keeping her from hurling. The closer they got to the southwestern structure, the tighter her stomach knotted. “You know what I like best about ‘Spy Girl’?”
He parked the jeep alongside the garage and chuckled. “The scenes where you get to kick ass?”
Her lips twitched. “How’d you know?”
“There’s an energy to your moves, a fierce expression on your face. An intensity that explodes through the television screen and grabs the viewer by the throat. Great execution, by the way.”
“Thanks. Although it’s not the fighting per se that gets me jazzed. It’s what I’m fighting. Evil. And who I’m fighting for. The innocent. I know it’s pretend, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something important. Something worthwhile.”
“I know the feeling.”
Then it hit her. “Wait a minute.” She blinked after him as he exited, rounded the jeep, and opened her door. “You’ve watched ‘Spy Girl’?”
He handed her out. “Once or twice.”
Her pulse quickened.
“Okay. That’s a lie. Every episode.”
“But …”
“I told you, Sofia. You’re in my blood. I also visit your fan sites regularly. I would have told you before, but we weren’t on the best of terms and I didn’t want you thinking I was some kind of perv.”
She stared up at him, heart in throat. “You continually surprise me.”
“You fascinate me.” He skimmed his lips over hers, then angled his head toward the rambling mansion. “Ready?”
She interlaced her fingers with his. “Let’s get this over with.”
He escorted her toward the front door, knocked. When no one answered, he whipped out his slim black case of tools. “I’ll have to deal with a security system once I get in. Just hang tight until I call you.”
She shook off a chill. Crazy. It had to be eighty degrees. “You’re sure no one’s home?”
“I called his main residence in Carmel. Mrs. Cavendish is on holiday in Paris. Mr. Cavendish, according to his assistant, is spending the weekend here. A quiet getaway. He gave the housekeeping staff a few days off.”
Sofia’s cheeks heated. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Stop saying that.” He worked the lock. “When I called here, I got an answering machine. No car in the drive. No answer when I knocked.”
The knob turned and he quickly disappeared inside.
Sofia concentrated on detaching emotionally. She turned inward and away from Sofia Chiquita Marino. Affected the mindset of a clear thinking, federal agent. She was certainly dressed for the part.
A few seconds later, Joe returned and ushered her inside. “The security system was already deactivated.” He paused in the foyer, scanned the high ceilings and spacious open air rooms. “Nice.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” She swiped a trembling hand over her clammy brow. “Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, jetted tubs, and a private tanning solarium. A billiard room, library, office, and, of course, the screening room.”
Joe took off his sunglasses and slid them in his jacket pocket. “Sounds like he gave you the grand tour.”
“There’s a guest house out back, beyond the pool. I ran past it when …” Her voice drifted off as she gravitated toward a painting on the wall. Arms and legs. A nose. An eye. Disjointed images. “Picasso,” she said softly. “This painting is by Picasso. I passed it when I came down to find Cavendish. I remember thinking it was an odd work. Then I heard voices. Coming from there.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “I thought the other guests, other actors had arrived. Maybe someone I knew. I was curious. I thought I would surprise them and …” Her fingertips tingled as she moved toward the Country French kitchen. Her heart raced. “In there.”
Joe pulled her back. “Let me look first.” He stepped in ahead of her, then called over his shoulder, “All clear.”
She entered, only to be slammed by an oppressive wave of chaotic visions. “I stepped around the corner and aimed just as the gun fired and … ” she glanced down at the orange ceramic tile. The white grouting. “Red seeping into orange and white.” She glanced down at her pants and envisioned the skirt she was wearing that night. “Blue splattered with red. Blood. Oh, God, Joe. There was so much blood.”
He moved in and touched her arm. “Sofia. Who was in this kitchen?”
“Cavendish and the two cowboys.”
“And you shot one of them?”
She shook her head. “No, no. The man wearing the brown cowboy hat, the shorter of the two, he shot Cavendish.” She gasped. “In the face. Oh, Jesus. The man with no face was Cavendish!” She lurched for the kitchen sink and vomited.
Joe turned on the cold water, splashed it on her face, and smoothed a damp towel over the back of her neck. “Easy, baby.”
She sucked in a deep breath, nudged him aside. “I’m okay. I’m sorry. I …” Head throbbing, she pushed off of the counter and whirled. “Where’s the blood? Where’s the body?”
Joe rammed both of his hands through his hair. “The cowboys must’ve cleaned the scene, disposed of the body, unless …”
“Unless what?” She caught a glimpse of skepticism in his eyes. “Unless it didn’t happen? Why would I make up something like that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not saying you did. I just think you’re still confused. First you said you aimed and shot, but then you said the cowboy fired at Cavendish.”
“He did.” She massaged her throbbing temples, strove for calm. Why was the evening still such a jumble? “I gasped, or screamed, or something. That’s when they saw me. I ran.” She pointed toward the den, started walking. “This way. Through here.” She wrenched open a sliding glass door and stepped outside, desperate for fresh air. Joe was right behind her.
“I ran across the lawn, toward the back wall.”
“Slow down. Take a breath.” He grasped her shoulders and pulled her back against his solid body.
She closed her eyes and leaned into him, absorbed his calm as she tried to relive the sequence of events. “Two men. Two guns. They caught up to me just past the pool. I reacted. I just reacted. A flurry of kicks and thrusts. I disarmed both of them.” Heel to bone. “Broke the tall one’s nose. Knocked him out. The short one, the killer, he dove for his gun, and I stomped on his hand.” Spike through flesh. She cringed and turned in Joe’s arms. “I drove the heel of my shoe into his hand. I can still hear him screaming.”
“Then what?”
“I was afraid he’d crawl to the gun and shoot me in the back, so I grabbed the weapon, and scaled the back wall.” Run, run, run! “Then I ran.”
&
nbsp; Joe led her across the lawn. He looked over the wall. “Pretty steep slope.”
“I remember falling, sliding. It was dark. When I reached the road below, I crossed over and headed toward that housing development.”
“And ended up taking refuge in that shed, where you blacked out.”
For the first time since they’d entered the house, tears stung her eyes. “You believe me?”
“Hold on.” He scaled the fence, worked his way down the slope toward a patch of prickly pear cactus.
She leaned over the chest-high wall. “What do see? What is it?”
He squatted down, then stood and held up a blue three-inch, spike-heeled pump. He smiled. “Evidence.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rainbow Ridge, Vermont
What do you think, Chou à la crème?” Jean-Pierre held up a vintage set of salt and pepper shakers for Afia’s inspection. “The vendor says they are handmade. Early 1900s. No chips or scratches.”
“Jake would love them.” Exhausted, Afia reached back and tightened her drooping ponytail. “He’d love any one of the several items you’ve already shown me. Honestly, Jean-Pierre. A gift isn’t necessary. You were upset last night. Jake understands.”
“I tried to tell him,” Rudy said, bristling as a crush of shoppers closed in on them. It occurred to Afia that his patience was as tapped as her energy.
“Jean-Pierre! Over here!” They all turned to see Lulu waving at them from four rows over. She held up a ceramic knick-knack. “It’s perfect!”
The Frenchman set down the salt and pepper shakers, and Afia and Rudy groaned. After lunch and a bit of shopping, they’d piled back into the car and headed home, only to be waylaid by a flea market. Hordes of tourists and residents packed the outdoor fair on this sunny Sunday afternoon in search of bargain antiques. Normally, Afia would have been in heaven. She loved to shop, whether it be for designer clothes or vintage collectibles, it really didn’t matter. She’d even gotten a charge out of purchasing a home pregnancy test for Lulu when everyone else was perusing postcards on the other side of the drugstore. Shopping was shopping. But this afternoon her abdomen sporadically tightened like a fist and she had a low, dull backache. She must be overdoing it. She tugged on Rudy’s sleeve. “I really need to sit down.”
He looked down at her with concern. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Just tired.”
He tapped Jean-Pierre on the shoulder. “Afia needs to get off of her feet. Meet us back at the car.”
Jean-Pierre studied her, brow crinkled with worry.
She conjured a smile. “I’m fine.”
“I will examine whatever Lulu found and make up my mind post haste. We’ll join you in ten minutes, no more.” He kissed Afia, and then Rudy, and zipped off through the crowd.
“Seems like you two have worked things out,” Afia noted as Rudy ushered her through the masses.
“We’re on the mend.” He interlaced his fingers with hers, sighed. “I’ve been trying to get him alone all day. I want to make it legal, Afia. I want to propose, have a civil ceremony, a reception. Cake and champagne, the whole enchilada.” He paused. “You’re frowning. You don’t approve?”
She squeezed his big hand, relishing the contact. It soothed her soul to know that they were as close as ever. “Of course, I approve. I’m just not convinced the timing is right. He just lost a friend. He made light of it, but I could tell he’s upset. Plus, he just got here. Let him settle in, get his bearings. Don’t force the moment. When the time is right, you’ll feel it.”
He opened the front passenger door and helped her in. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I just feel like I’ve wasted so much time.”
“As a very enlightened man once said to me, everything happens for a reason.”
He leaned down and brushed a kiss across her forehead. “I love you, Afia.”
Her heart raced with joy. “I love you too, Rudy. And so does Jean-Pierre. You’re meant to be together. Remember that. And don’t worry about rushing things. You have all the time in the world.”
Phoenix, Arizona
Joe glanced at his watch as he stepped out of the Phoenix Field Office. He’d spent more time with Creed than he’d planned, but the SAC had been ripe with questions about Cavendish. Joe didn’t blame him. The only evidence to support Sofia’s story was the dried blood on the heel of her shoe. Hopefully, forensics would be able to match DNA and identify at least one of the movie producer’s alleged murderers. Creed had been hot to interview Sofia in person, but Joe had begged off until morning. There were still gaps in her memory. Given a little more time, he was certain he could help her remember what he suspected was a key element. Knowing Joe excelled in the interviewing process, Creed had reluctantly agreed.
Meanwhile, he’d touch base with the LAPD to request a detailed report on Dupris’ death, and instigate a proper investigation into a possible Interstate double homicide.
Joe gunned the Jeep down East Indianola, anxious to get back to Sofia. He hadn’t been crazy about leaving her alone at the motel, but she’d been shaken and exhausted. He reminded himself that she wasn’t defenseless. When threatened, she retaliated. He could almost envision her disarming those cowboys, and couldn’t help but smile. “That’s my girl.”
His cell phone rang. He noted the incoming number. Murphy. He slowed for a stop light and slipped on a headset. “I left a message for you over an hour ago, bro.”
“I just got it. Sorry. The reception in this area’s iffy. What’s up?”
Joe rattled off a succinct version of Sofia’s revelation as he navigated a patch of heavy traffic.
“No wonder she blocked it out,” Murphy said. “Seeing a man shot in the face? That’s rough.”
“Yeah.” He hated that she’d witnessed an atrocity that would probably haunt her for life. But even as he ached for her, his heart swelled with admiration. A weaker person might have lacked the courage and wherewithal to get out of that situation alive. Sofia didn’t just flee, she fought. She had the instincts of a warrior.
“Any further signs that those cowboys are tracking her?”
“No.” Joe rolled back tense shoulders. “If it weren’t for that bloody shoe and Sofia’s conviction, I’d have to wonder if they weren’t a figment of her imagination. I know Creed’s wondering. We’ve got an honest to God mystery on our hands, Murph.”
“Got one of those here ourselves.”
Steering one handed, Joe shifted and accelerated onto the highway while Murphy explained how he and Jake had spent the afternoon inspecting the bed and breakfast property.
“Someone tampered with this place. The wiring. The plumbing. There’s a storm door on the back side of the house, a passageway leading down to the basement. No lock. They might be getting in that way. Last night they mangled a gutter while vandalizing the satellite dish.”
“They who?”
“I have no idea. But someone’s messing with Gallow’s head. He thinks Hollyberry Inn’s haunted.”
Joe grunted. “It has to be someone with a personal grudge. Maybe the neighbors aren’t thrilled about having a gay B&B owner in their backyard.”
Murphy chuckled. “Most of his neighbors are gay.”
“Hmm. Okay. Business grudge, maybe? Someone trying to run off the competition?”
“Maybe. The thought did cross my mind. Jake and I are heading over to a tavern down the road to pick up some wine for dinner. We’ll ask around. See what we can find out.”
“What’s Gallow got to say about the rigged wiring?”
“He doesn’t know yet. He took Legrand and the women into town to do some shopping. They should be back shortly.”
“Does Lulu know anything about the mess her sister’s in?”
Murphy cleared his throat. “No. I was holding out until we knew more.”
“Creed issued an APB on Cavendish. It’s only a matter of time before this case busts wide open and leaks to the press.”
“I’ll have a
talk with Lulu tonight. Bernard Cavendish. Christ. I hope Sofia’s prepared.”
“A scandal. I know.” Exactly what she didn’t want. She was in for a rough few weeks. Maybe months. Depending on how this all affected her work. “Listen, Murph, that job you mentioned, is it still open?”
“Absolutely. You want it?”
“Thinking about it. Just so you know, I might be relocating to LA.”
“Huh.”
Joe raised a brow. “You’re smiling, aren’t you?”
“Hell, yeah. Welcome back to the living, bro.”
“This is crazy.” Rudy checked his watch. “It’s been twenty minutes. JP said ten minutes, no more.”
Afia shifted in her seat, wiped beads of sweat from her pert, little nose. “Maybe the checkout line is long.”
“There is no checkout line. You pay the individual vendor.”
She shifted again, rubbed her stomach.
Rudy angled his head. “Are you sure you feel okay?”
“I’m fine. Just uncomfortable. You’d be uncomfortable, too, if you had someone inside of you squirming and kicking.”
Images from the movie Alien flashed through his mind. He shuddered. “I can’t imagine.”
She rolled her eyes. “Men.”
“Speaking of, if I don’t get you home soon, Jake’s going to call, again. He’s already checked in twice.” He opened his car door. “I’m going to go find JP and Lulu.”
“I’ll come with you. Maybe if I stretch …” She shoved open her door, winced.
Rudy blanched. “What’s wrong?’
“Nothing. Just a cramp. Will you stop? You’re as bad as Jake.”
“No one’s as bad as Jake,” he mumbled as he circled the car and helped Afia to her feet. He took it slow and they moved back into to the main hub of activity.
“I don’t see them,” she said, sounding worried.
Neither did Rudy. Concern twisted his gut when he noticed an excited cluster of people hovering near the table where he’d last seen Jean-Pierre. Someone shouted for a doctor. He put his arm around Afia and practically carried her toward the ruckus. He elbowed his way in, swearing when he saw Jean-Pierre sitting on the ground, pale as a sheet, face covered with sweat. “What happened?”
