A Second Chance at Murder (14 page)

T
he following morning, I pried open my red and swollen eyes and saw that Becca, even though she'd gotten in late, was already up and had left. The only evidence that she'd been in the room at all were a few new articles of clothing strewn across her bed. She'd obviously decided against wearing them.

We were supposed to meet outside the B&B to load onto the bus at eight
A.M.
One glance at the clock told me I was running late. After leaving Sergio, I returned to the B&B and had been grateful to find it deserted. I'd sat in the garden and cried my eyes out, until finally stumbling to bed.

I slipped into jeans and gently pulled a cotton top over my sunburned shoulders. Downstairs the smell of café con leche wafted through the dining hall along with the scent of freshly baked madeleines.

Dad and Cheryl were seated at a small table, huddled together and deep in conversation. A plate of warm buttery pastries sat untouched between them.

“Good morning,” I said, slipping into their booth and snagging a madeleine. I broke it in half and watched the steam escape before I realized that Dad and Cheryl had gone silent.

Both Dad and Cheryl glanced nervously at each other, seemingly uncomfortable at leaving their previous conversation behind.

What had I interrupted?

Dad patted my sunburned shoulder and I winced. “Morning, Peaches,” he said.

“What's going on?” I asked.

Cheryl waved a hand and picked up her coffee mug. “Nothing, Georgia. I was just boring your dad with schedule and logistics stuff.”

I frowned. Dad wasn't supposed to be privy to any of the logistics.

Cheryl seemed to realize this at the same time I did because she pursed her lips then shrugged.

“Is it top secret?” I asked.

Dad smiled. “Nothing between us is top secret, honey.”

I couldn't shake the feeling that I had interrupted something but clearly they weren't going to be straight with me. “Were you talking about me, or what?”

Cheryl grabbed a madeleine off the plate. “Guilty as charged. We heard you were crying in the garden last night and I'm wondering when you're going to get over him.”

“You heard I was crying in the garden from who? No one was here.”

“That's beside the point really, isn't it?” Cheryl said.

“Well, I'm over him. Okay? I needed to get it out of my system, but last night I realized that I didn't even know who he was really. Scott, Matthew, whatever.”

Dad frowned. “Matthew? What are you talking about?”

“Scott was Matthew Barrett. I suppose he has millions of dollars, hidden away somewhere—”

Cheryl nearly spit out her coffee. “Wait a minute! What are you talking about? The thriller writer? Scott's not Matthew Barrett, I know Matthew Barrett.”

“You know him?” I asked.

“Yeah. All of Hollywood knows him. I've been after him for a few years now to get the rights to produce some of his titles.”

“But Scott's mom told me Scott wrote
Spanish Moon
.”

“
Spanish Moon
? I love that book,” Dad said.

Cheryl shrugged. “Well, maybe he did, but if he wrote it, then he did it as a ghostwriter, and it's probably highly confidential. I can't see Matthew Barrett being very happy about that leaking out, so you probably shouldn't blab it around.”

“I'm not blabbing it around.”

Cheryl made a dismissive gesture with her hand and finished her coffee. “Let's go. We need to get on that bus.”

“Where are we going? Pamplona for the running of the bulls?” Dad joked, winking at me.

“It's not the right time. That's in July,” Cheryl said,
standing. “And I know you're joking, but I would have booked it if I could have.”

Dad stood and put his arm around Cheryl. “I know. That's why I'm glad it's only May.” They walked toward the exit.

So Scott wasn't Matthew Barrett. I felt relieved. Ghostwriting a book was common in the publishing industry. At least Scott didn't have some secret identity he hadn't told me about. I grabbed the last madeleine off the plate even though my stomach turned at the thought of another competition. I shoved the rest of the pastry in my mouth and got up. Was there a way I could convince Becca to let me stay back?

I left the bed-and-breakfast and walked down the narrow tile patio toward the front of the building. The air smelled fresh and clean and I longed to feel the same way.

Why did disaster follow me around?

The white crew bus was parked in the alley, and Becca and Juan Jose were talking to each other. Montserrat stood near them with her arms folded across her chest. She seemed to watch me carefully, or maybe it just felt that way after what Sergio told me last night.

Becca smiled when she saw me approach. “Sorry to get you out of bed so early, Sleeping Beauty. Did you have breakfast? You're going need some energy for today.”

I shrugged. “Can I talk to you?”

Becca glanced from Juan Jose to Montserrat. “Of course.” She stepped away from them and moved down the alley a bit.

I filled Becca in on what Cheryl had said about Matthew Barrett. “So Scott didn't lie to me about that,” I said.

Becca sighed. “Come on, G. You can't still be hung up on him. Even if he didn't lie to you about that, he still took a hike. I know you don't want to face things. But he sent you an email breaking up with you and the police—”

“The police think I killed Annalise,” I said.

Becca frowned. “What?”

“That's why they're not letting us leave town, Becca.” I indicated Montserrat who stood at a discreet distance, watching us talk. “It's all because of me.”

“That's ridiculous,” Becca said. “Anyway, we all know Scott's the prime suspect—”

“He's not a murderer!”

“I know that. I didn't mean that. I only mean . . . you know . . .” She waved her hand, clearly not wanting to say it straight out.

“You mean he doesn't love me.”

Becca lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry, G.” She raised them to meet mine. “I just know you deserve better. You deserve someone to be by your side. Not abandon you. He's as bad as Paul.”

That stung. Paul, my former fiancé, had left me at the altar, alone in front of God, my family, and all of my friends.

“It's not the same,” I insisted. “What if something's happened to him? I . . .” I let my words trail off as a uniformed bus driver approached Becca.

The driver told Becca that we needed to board the bus in the next few minutes in order to miss commuter traffic. Becca nodded her understanding, then turned to wave over Juan Jose. “We need to gather everyone up. Can you help with that?”

He nodded. “We're all here except Miguel.”

“Miguel?” Becca asked.

Juan Jose shrugged. “He likes to sleep in.”

“Can you go get him?” Becca asked.

Juan Jose nodded, but I said, “I'll go. I want to grab some more aloe vera for my sunburn. I can swing by Miguel's room on the way.”

“Hurry up,” Becca said.

I checked the bar and breakfast area on my way in, still sulking over having to compete on the show today. But I knew Dad needed me now and ultimately Becca was right, technically speaking, Scott had broken up with me and I'd have to get over him.

The bar area was quiet except for the senora who ran the inn. She glanced up at me as I walked in. “I'm looking for Miguel,” I said.

She nodded. “I haven't seen him this morning, but last night he was up late at the fiestas.”

“Right. Thank you,” I said.

I took the back staircase up to the second level, where I knew the crew's rooms were. I actually didn't know which one was Miguel's, but figured it couldn't be that hard to find him. I called his name as I knocked on the first door on the right. No answer. I jiggled the door handle. Locked.

Moving on to the next door, I gave a sharp rap and called out, “Miguel, we have to get on the bus.”

He'd probably partied late into the night and was hungover, trying to rouse him would be akin to waking the dead. When I didn't get an answer from the second door, I tried the knob. Again locked.

I moved to the third, thinking I probably should have asked the senora which room was Miguel's.

At the third door, my patience was wearing thin. “Hey, Miguel. Time to rise and shine!” I twisted the knob and the door opened to reveal a small room with a single bed. Miguel was face down, dead asleep.

“Wakey, wakey,” I said, from the doorway.

I heard footsteps ascending the staircase and turned to see Becca coming down the hall. “What's taking so long?” she asked.

“He's totally out,” I said.

She frowned and peered into the room. “Miguel, our bus is getting ready to leave! Get up.”

He was motionless. A bad feeling snaked around my heart and my breath caught. Becca and I glanced at each other.

“Let me get Montserrat, she's downstairs,” Becca said.

I took two strides and reached the bed. Placing my hand in the middle of his back, I shook him. He felt rigid, lifeless. “Uh-oh.”

“What is it?” Becca squeaked. “Is he okay?”

“I don't think so.”

Because death seems to have a magnetic pull, Becca joined me in the room. “Is he . . .”

“Overdose, maybe,” I said, pointing to an empty bottle by the nightstand. Becca made a move to pick up the bottle. “No don't. We shouldn't touch anything. We need to call Sergio right away. Get Montserrat up here.”

Becca nodded. “Right. Right.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I can't believe it!”

“I know. What a waste. He was so nice to me and Dad. It's awful.”

“Do you think . . . do you think his death is related to the woman?” she asked.

I shrugged. “It's hard to say. They may be connected. But I don't know.”

The thought occurred to me that if the deaths were connected, then Scott was totally off the hook. He'd been nowhere near here last night. A modicum of relief breathed through my body.

“It could have been an accident,” Becca said. “He partied too hard and . . .”

I shrugged. “Yeah. It's possible.”

Becca and I turned to leave the room and an object in the nook behind the door, caught my attention.

My stomach sank, and the madeleines that I scarfed down for breakfast burned.

Becca saw the object and gasped.

In the corner of the room, a mobile phone was on the floor. An iPhone with a cover so familiar neither of us could feign ignorance.

She squeezed my arm. “Georgia! It's Scott's phone.”

We were frozen in place. Every fiber in my being
desperate to pick up the phone, to hide it, to erase whatever meaning the police would attach to it.

What was Scott's phone doing here?

Where was Scott? How was he connected to all this?

I swallowed the dread building in my throat. “I'm going to grab it,” I whispered.

“You can't,” Becca whispered back. “It's evidence, right? You said so yourself that we shouldn't touch anything—”

“I have to! The police are going to confiscate it. They won't tell me anything about where he is or why—”

“No. It's wrong!” Becca said.

I choked back my tears. “It's not wrong. Scott didn't kill Miguel! They're going to pin everything on him!”

“But it's illegal!” Becca insisted. “Tampering with evidence! We could—”

A pair of footsteps echoed down the hallway and a voice called out, “Becca?”

It was Montserrat. In moments she would be upon us. My window of opportunity narrowing.

Becca gripped my arm. “You can't interfere. You have to let justice take its course! You taught me that.”

Another voice called out, “Georgia?” It was Sergio.

“Not in a foreign country! What kind of justice system do they have here?” I didn't know and some part of me rejected everything I'd ever been trained to do, and I dove for the phone.

“No!” Becca said.

Sergio and Montserrat burst into the room, just as
my hand wrapped around the phone. Montserrat rushed to Miguel's bedside, but Sergio was upon me. “What's going on?” he asked.

My vision tunneled and I pushed him back away from me, adrenaline firing my limbs and body with unnatural strength. Sergio stood his ground, his eyes locked on mine.

“We found him like this,” Becca said.

Sergio looked over at Becca, who pointed to Miguel, giving me the necessary time to slip Scott's phone into my pocket.

“We were about to call you,” I said. There was no way Sergio could know the phone I'd just held wasn't mine, although he might question my strange reaction to him. But hey, people got strange around dead bodies, it didn't have to mean I was tampering with the scene.

Guilt gripped at my heart and I found myself trying to figure out a way to undo what I'd just done. Scott wasn't a killer. Why couldn't I let the police do their job?

Montserrat was already on a mobile, directing someone into action. Sergio paced the room and stopped short by the dresser. Becca was pale as she backed herself out of the room. She stood in the doorway looking ready to vomit. We watched Sergio, both of us seeing for the first time what he found so interesting on the dresser.

A blue American passport.

S
ergio slipped a pair of tweezers from his pocket and flipped the passport open. My lovely, sexy-as-hell ex-boyfriend's mug smiled up at him.

Sergio released the cover and turned to me, silent. He looked from me to Becca without saying a word.

Becca, for her part, had wiped the sick expression from her features and had her game face on.

I feared I looked as bad as I felt, guilt emanating from every pore of my being.

“
Sobredosis,”
Montserrat declared. “Overdose.” Her hands were on her hips and her eyes fixed on the empty pill bottle on the nightstand.

“Hmmm,” Sergio said, his eyes still on me.

“I think I should tell the bus driver we're not going to be leaving before the morning commute, right?” Becca asked.

Sergio nodded. “I'll want to speak with everyone again before you all leave the hotel for the day.” Becca nodded and turned, but before she could go, Sergio said, “One moment. Can you tell me why you think your friend's passport is here?”

Becca swallowed. “I have no idea.” She glanced at me. “G? Do you know what Scott's passport is doing here?”

“Perhaps he thought he was leaving you a love note?” Montserrat said.

“It's a setup,” I said, ignoring her snideness. “The killer must have planted it to point you in the wrong direction.”

“Or maybe Miguel took it,” Becca said. “American passports are valuable. Maybe he needed money. Maybe he had a contact he was going to sell the passport to.”

Sergio stroked his chin, ruminated over what she'd said. “Aha. That makes sense. But how would he have gotten it?”

I shrugged. “He stole it.”

Sergio nodded. “When? At the camp in the Pyrenees? Or perhaps last night when Scott came to Miguel's room?”

Pressure bumped up against my temples, threatening to explode inside my skull.

Becca cleared her throat. “At the camp, of course! Don't be ridiculous! Scott wasn't in Miguel's room last night. We haven't seen him since that night at the camp. And we all know Miguel was at the fiestas until late last night and stumbled back to the room. I'm sorry, we didn't know how grave it was. We could have saved his life.”

Sergio's attention was on Becca and for that I was grateful. The room seemed to lack the sufficient oxygen to keep me from passing out, either that or the culpability of lifting the phone was going to bring me to my knees. I wrestled with remorse and the burning desire to leave the room and search the phone for clues.

“Who was with Miguel at the fiestas?” Montserrat asked.

Becca shrugged. “Everyone, even you, Monse.”

“Not everyone,” Montserrat corrected. She glared directly at me. “Not Georgia.”

Oh, no.

Sergio looked from me to Montserrat. “She was with me.”

Resentment flashed through Montserrat's face, then she asked. “What time did you return to the B&B?” She kept her eyes on me when she added, “I assume you returned last night, but everyone knows about American woman, so maybe not.”

Crap. According to her, I was either a tramp or a murderer.

“I need to the use the restroom,” I lied, pushing my way past Becca and into the hallway.

Sergio grunted something as I left the room. I thought he might have been defending my honor, but that hardly mattered at the moment. Sirens sounded down the street, and I guessed that was the result of Montserrat's phone call.

Safely inside the restroom, I retreated into one of
the toilet stalls and pulled Scott's phone from my pocket. My chest constricted and I suddenly found myself sobbing.

Oh, Scott! What's going on with you?

Where are you? What are you doing?

I scrolled his recent call log. There was nothing more current then the call he'd made to the States, to his mother, when we'd arrived in Spain. I searched his text log, also nothing current, and then his email data. The last communication was the email to Dad.

I stared at the screen. Something was there that I wasn't seeing. What was it?

I realized that Dad's contact information was saved as only his initials, G.T. Dad and I had the same initials. I was saved as “Peaches,” which had always been Dad's nickname for me and Scott took to it immediately.

Scott would have never sent a good-bye email to me at Dad's address. It had to come from someone else. Whoever had stolen Scott's phone. I desperately wished I had access to a fingerprint kit. Sergio probably did, but it wasn't the sort of thing I could ask him without raising all sorts of red flags.

There was a loud commotion down the hall and I figured the crime scene team had arrived. If Scott had been in Miguel's room, they'd find evidence of him. Hair, prints, sloughed-off skin cells, something. I could rest assured that Sergio would let me know that at the very least. If Scott hadn't been here, the killer had likely stolen his phone and passport.

Who among us was the most likely suspect now?

Downstairs, the cast and crew mulled around the bar gossiping about Miguel.

Juan Jose's eyes were glassy. “I have to call his folks. I don't know if the police . . . Did the police call them?”

Dad stood and grabbed Juan Jose's shoulder. “I'm sure they did, son, but if you are close to his parents, they'll certainly appreciate hearing it from you, too.”

Juan Jose took a deep breath. “Of course, of course. You are right. Please excuse me. I'll let Becca know that I need to pay them a visit now.”

Cheryl stood up. “Don't worry about Becca. I'll let her know. We'll be giving everyone the day off today at least. We'll see if we can get the bus for tomorrow.”

Juan Jose frowned, a deep crease lining his handsome face. “Will the police let us leave the hotel tomorrow?”

“We're going to try,” Cheryl said.

Juan Jose turned to leave and Cheryl sat back down. “Anyone hungry?” she asked.

“Food? How can we think about food!” I asked.

Dad looked chagrined. “I'm hungry.”

“I'm hungry, too,” Cheryl said unapologetically. “I'm going to look for the senora and see if she can serve us lunch.”

My stomach churned. Food was the last thing on my mind. “Eat then. I'm going out for some air.”

I left the dining room and entered the hallway on my way to the gardens. I wracked my brain to review the night before. How long had I been in the garden? When I'd arrived back at the B&B it had been quiet. When had Miguel returned?

Angry voices wafted down the passageway. I could make out Cooper and Todd arguing. On instinct, I froze, then pressed against the wall out of anyone's line of vision. I slowly inched toward the voices.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Cooper asked.

“Because I knew how you'd react,” Todd said.

“Man, you are an idiot. Just plain stupid! A stupid idiot,” Cooper said.

“I'm not a stupid idiot! Stop calling me that.”

“You're going to get caught!” Cooper said. “There ain't no two ways about it.”

From behind me the dining room doors swung open into the hallway and DeeCee said, “Georgia! How are you doing? I heard you found poor Miguel!”

Cooper and Todd rounded the corner. Todd's eyes blazing with fury. Cooper looked frustrated and tired.

“What are you doing? Eavesdropping on us?” Todd demanded.

Cooper put a hand on Todd's shoulder. “Chill out, man.”

“No! I won't chill out,” Parker said. “I want to know what the hell she's doing sneaking up on us?”

DeeCee looked alarmed. “I'm not sneaking up on you. I only just left the dining room!”

“Not you,” Todd said. He pointed a finger right at my face. “Her!”

I batted away his hand. “Don't point at me. I'm not eavesdropping. I only left the dining room a moment before DeeCee. But anyway, what are you hiding that you're so nervous we may have overheard?”

Todd turned beet red. “You're not going to trap me in with any of your ol' stupid cop tricks!”

Cooper feigned a laugh, only instead of his charming contagious laugh, this one was more of an “aw shucks, folks, nothing to see here” laugh. He patted Todd on the back, trying to steer him toward the dining room. “Let's see about some food.”

Todd shrugged him off. “Why do people keep dying around you, Georgia? Are we in danger? I heard you were the only one at the B&B when Miguel got back here.”

DeeCee gasped.

“Todd, stop it, now,” Cooper said. “You know Georgia didn't have anything to do with that girl's death or Miguel's, either, for that matter.”

“I don't know anything of the sort!” Todd protested.

“I thought Miguel overdosed,” DeeCee said. “He wasn't murdered? Was he?”

Cooper let a little hiss of air escape through his bright straight teeth. “Ain't that a crying shame?”

“We won't know anything for a while,” I said.

Daisy came into the hallway, she was smiling like usual, but upon seeing our row of serious expressions she became somber. “What's going on?” A hand fluttered to her ample chest. “Don't tell me . . . it's another . . .”

“No,” Cooper said. “Nothing. We were talking about when they might let us leave and what we thought the next challenge might be.”

“Oh! Well in that case I have news. We're not leaving right away, but the next challenge is supposed to start this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” I asked.

She nodded. “That's what I came out to tell you. The producer, Cheryl, said we're starting right after lunch. So she wanted everyone to report to the dining room for instructions.”

Dread mixed with fear in my belly. Cheryl had just said we'd have the day off. How could they already have another challenge planned for us? Or maybe they'd been able to salvage the one from this morning. Either way, I was scared about whatever Becca and Cheryl had cooked up.

We all met in the dining room, where the large center table had already been set for lunch.

Dad was seated near where the buffet line would start. I knew his game, nothing would get in the way of his meals. He patted the chair next to him as I walked over.

“What do you know?” I asked. “Spill it.”

He glanced at the others clearly within earshot. “I don't know much, Peaches.”

I doubted that, but I supposed that he didn't want to say anything in front of everyone else.

The rest of the cast and crew followed me in, some from the hallway where we'd just had our heated conversation and others from the garden, where they'd taken the time to sit in sun and work on their tans.

Becca and Cheryl were in conversation with Kyle, who seemed to simultaneously be speaking with them and directing the senora of the house about our lunch.

The fragrances of garlic frying in olive oil overwhelmed me, and my mouth salivated before I even set eyes on the platters of food. Several waiters brought out trays of
jamón serrano
, roasted potatoes,
migas
, prawns in garlic sauce, and
morcilla
.

When she saw that most of us were seated, Becca cleared her throat and addressed us. “Folks, it has certainly been an unfortunate morning. While we didn't know Miguel for long, I know many of us had come to appreciate him a great deal and I know we're all going to miss him.”

There was general rumble of consensus throughout the group.

“But even Miguel knew that the show must go on,” Cheryl interrupted. “So, while it was a difficult decision, the line producer and I have decided that we'll go ahead and film the next challenge today and, God willing, the finale tomorrow.”

There was another rumble throughout the group, this one not as friendly. One of the cameramen shouted out, “Who will take Miguel's place? Do we even have another cameraman?”

Becca indicated Kyle. “We've had a volunteer,” she said.

Kyle pursed his lips, looking as sour as a blackberry out of season.

Volunteered, my foot!

More like Cheryl had given him an ultimatum.

I squeezed Dad's arm and whispered. “Seriously? Kyle is our cameraman now?”

Dad gave a curt nod. “Apparently, they're used to switching around a bit, what with a tight budget. Cheryl used to do makeup, did you know?”

I nodded. “Do you think we can convince Becca or Cheryl to assign Kyle to a different team?”

Dad quirked an eyebrow. “You want one of the locals, so you can get insider information like Miguel gave us?”

“It's not that. Kyle hates me.”

“No, he doesn't.”

“He does. He tried to kill me with stilettos on the last show.”

Dad snorted. “He was part of the hair and makeup crew, what did you expect?”

I snarled, but said nothing. I'd have to take up the cause with Becca on my own.

The buffet was officially open and we moved through the line, piling our plates high with ham, potatoes, and prawns.

Cooper was behind me in line and I was grateful for small mercies, because he seemed to be emptying the chafing dishes onto his plate. “Man! I love these
morcillas
!” he said.

Todd, who was behind Cooper, replied with. “I'd like to try one, too, if you'd leave any.”

“She'll bring out more. Just tell the senora,” Cooper said. Then he flagged her down and gave her a winning smile. “Beautiful lady! Bring more food for my friend. He's hungry!”

The woman practically purred at Cooper, “
Sí, sí
,” she said, scurrying back to the kitchen. Woman were
putty in his hands, it didn't matter if they were eighteen or eighty-one or right in between.

Up close, I noticed Cooper's eyes were bloodshot. “How late did you stay out partying, Coop?”

“Not late.” He laughed. “Two
A.M
. ain't late, is it? Heck, baby girl. This is a competition. I gotta stay sharp.” He gave me a lopsided smile.