N
ight had fallen and a sea breeze was picking up and I fought to keep my hair out of my eyes as I made my way toward my Prevost coach.
A dark figure stood outside my door and a jolt of fear flashed through my body. My senses were on high alert.
“Hey, there, Thorn,” Martinez said.
I breathed a sigh of relief. At least there wasn’t a stalker outside my bus. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“How about, ‘Hey! Nice to see you, Martinez’?”
“It’s always nice to see you,” I lied. “How’s the wife?”
Martinez smiled. “Ah, thanks for asking. Brandi’s fine. I’ll let her know you care.”
I wanted to snort, but figured Martinez wouldn’t appreciate that and right now I didn’t want to step on any more toes than I already had. Also, he was clutching a manila folder and I figured there might be some information in it I was itching for.
I jammed my key into the lock of the door and said, “Come on inside. I don’t really want anyone to see you here.”
He followed me inside and said, “Yeah, good idea.” He waved the folder around. “Besides, I have something for you.”
He didn’t wait for me to offer him a seat or a beverage; he just plopped down on the bench at my small table and placed the folder in front of him.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I can’t believe you’re still on this show,” he said.
I shrugged and sat across from him, reaching for the folder. “Do you have info for me or not?”
He laid a palm on top of the folder, keeping it in front of himself. “Oh, yeah, I have a full dossier.”
“On who?” I asked.
He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Tell me first why you’re still on the show. Paul loves you. He wants you back.”
This time I did snort, unable to contain myself any longer.
“He does,” Martinez said. “You two were good together—”
“No, we really weren’t. Now tell me what you’ve found. Is it about Aaron? Is it about Teresa Valens?”
Martinez was Paul’s right-hand man and he’d been doing the footwork while Paul had been in L.A.
“Teresa Valens was released on parole eighteen months ago,” Martinez said.
My blood rushed straight to my head, leaving me light-headed and a bit winded.
It’s true, then?
All this time, I’d suspected that was the case, but part of me was in denial. I supposed I hadn’t really thought it possible that she would be released.
“How come . . . how was it . . . I . . .” I pressed my hands to my temples and tried to form the right words. After a moment I asked, “Why wasn’t I notified about her release?”
Martinez shrugged his shoulders. “Lots of stuff was going on in the department eighteen months ago. Remember?”
It was true. We’d had a change of chief of police and I’d rocked the boat a little too hard by releasing departmental overtime expenses to the public. The chief hadn’t approved the release and it tarnished the reputation of the department. It had been a very stressful time, culminating in my Skelly hearing and then finally my termination.
My head was beginning to throb. “So do we know if Teresa Valens is going by the name Florencia these days?”
Martinez nodded. “Florencia Diaz.”
My head began to ache on a whole new level and I pounded a fist on the table. “Damn!”
“I know,” Martinez said. “I don’t think anyone really thought she’d come after you. After all, you weren’t the only arresting officer—”
“Well, she’s been in L.A. working as a makeup stylist for the last year and a half. Maybe she was trying to start fresh, but then our paths crossed again—”
Martinez grumbled. “Maybe you should get off the show . . .”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Just pick Paul and be done with it?”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the worst decision you made in your life.”
Something inside me snapped. “What?”
Martinez ran a finger around the edge of the folder but said nothing.
“Listen,” I said. “Can you find out if Teresa or Florencia, or whatever the heck her alias is now, was at S.F. General the night Aaron died? One of the other makeup ladies told me she’d gone to San Francisco to visit a sick mother in the hospital or something.”
“I’m on it,” Martinez said. “I’ve asked the sheriff’s department to give me an accounting of everyone who went in and out of that hospital room.”
“Have you checked SFO flights? Can we confirm that she was even in San Francisco?” I asked.
“I’m working on that now,” Martinez said. “I’ve requested copies of records from LAX but that takes time.”
“All right. Let me know what you dig up,” I said, eyeing the folder and wondering why he wasn’t offering it up.
When Martinez remained silent, I asked, “You’ll let me know what you find out, right?”
He looked surprised. “Sure. Of course. You’ll be the first to know.”
Even as he said it, I could tell it was a lie.
Paul would be the first to know. Martinez was here for something altogether different. He was in it for Paul. For Paul to win. The money or me, I wasn’t sure.
God, what an awful feeling.
If Aaron was on the show for the money and Paul had taken his place, according to the rules, Paul would get the prize money.
Considering all the effort that Paul was putting into getting me back, could it be he was interested in the prize money?
My stomach churned and suddenly I didn’t feel good.
“What’s in the folder?” I asked.
Martinez covered the folder with his palm. “Thorn, I wanted you to be able to make an informed decision—”
“You did, Martinez? What’s it to you?”
His head bounced up and down quickly. “Well, I wanted you—”
I pushed his hand off the folder and grabbed at it. “Come on. You can’t snow me. You don’t care what kind of decision I make.”
He slammed his palm down on the folder again. “I do. Of course I do. We’re all rooting for you back at the station.”
“What a load of b.s. They don’t care about me at the station. They were happy I was fired.”
Not everyone. I knew that. I’d made friends on the force during the time I’d served, but many of them hadn’t shed a tear the day I left, and everyone who had been a friend of Paul’s had seemed to draw a silent battle line when we’d broken up.
“Let me see the folder,” I said.
He passed the folder to me and said, “I hope the information helps you, Thorn. I really do. I hope you make the right decision.” He leaned closer to me as he got up. “And you and I both know the right decision is to pick Paul.”
The Prevost door slammed behind Martinez and even though I was exhausted from the drive and filming, not to mention the emotional roller coaster of the day, I still got up and locked the door. It wouldn’t do to be caught reviewing contraband information by Becca or one of the techs, or by anyone else, for that matter.
I put on some water to boil and waited for my tea to steep before sitting down with the file. Playing a little game with myself about guessing what I’d find in it. I’d been hoping it would be information on Teresa/Florencia, but, judging from Martinez’s last comments . . . did he have information on the contestants? Could it be that I would actually know who was on the show for which motive?
The first pages were on Edward. He’d received excellent marks in medical school. Been recruited by the finest. Well regarded and well liked. Seemingly an outstanding citizen.
The only mark against him was his outstanding bills.
The dossier on Edward showed medical school bills of $250,000.
Exactly the amount of the prize money.
How convenient and easy it would be for him to win the prize and pay off his bills.
I sat with the information for a moment, sipping my tea.
I liked Edward. He seemed gentle and kind. But did I think we were a match in the long run? Probably not. He’d want a career in the city, and right now, living in the city was the last thing on my list. Not to mention, the pill popping. There was no future for me and a guy with a habit.
So if Edward was on the show for money, then the contest was really between Scott and Paul. Or better said, between Scott and Aaron.
The next pages in the dossier were on Aaron. He’d been a wealth management adviser, which, from what I gathered, was a fancy title for stockbroker. He also had a huge whopping bank account.
There’s wasn’t much information on his personal life, except that someone had filed suit against him. Well, if the guy had a lot of money, that wasn’t so unusual. Lots of vultures out there . . .
So had he come on the show for love?
Impatiently I flipped the pages; the next part was on Ty. Martinez must have put this together before he’d known that Ty was out of the competition. I already knew Ty had been on the show looking for money, so I scanned the pages on him quickly. He’d won a few rodeos and invested the prize money poorly. His balance sheet and credit were ruined. I made a mental note to tell Becca.
She was a big girl and able to look out for herself, but still I felt it was something that I should at least share with her. Although, maybe she already knew. Who knew how much the contestants had already confessed in front of the cameras or otherwise?
The next pages were on Scott. My breath caught. I wanted so badly to find something in here that might justify my growing feelings for him. He was funny and smart and made me think, always keeping me on my toes with his unexpected remarks.
There was a list of his books. All bestsellers.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
He probably isn’t on the show for money.
Except that the figures on the bank accounts were low. Had he also invested his money poorly like Ty? Lost it all?
A nervous sensation rumbled through my belly and I tried to focus on the following pages, more on his career. Then a credit and background check, all clean. There was something that caught my eye, though. In the marital status column, it read, “single.”
Not widowed, not divorced, not married, but single . . .
Where was the marriage license record?
I flipped through the biography section near the list of his books. It said, “Scott lives in northern California with his beagle, Benny.” No mention of his wife.
Suddenly I felt like a stone was sitting in my stomach. If I was reading this correctly Scott had never been married.
What was all the talk about his wife who died from cancer?
All a lie?
Why? Maybe his novels hadn’t been so successful after all. Maybe he’d made bad investments like Ty. But one thing was clear: If he’d made up a dead wife, then he certainly wasn’t on the show to find love.
I felt so distressed that I ran to the bathroom feeling as if I could vomit at any moment.
But that would’ve been a mercy not allowed for someone like me.
I only dry heaved into the toilet, making my throat hurt and my head pound.
I’d asked for this problem and now I had it. Feelings for a guy who was a complete and total liar. I remembered our date at the carnival when he first told me about her, how his eyes had teared up and his expression of complete sorrow.
Now I felt foolish. Scott, the only guy out of ten that I was actually developing real feelings for, was in it to win the money.
Of course he’d told me a complete fiction! He was a writer. A novelist—that was what he did for a living. How naive could I get?
My nausea disappeared, replaced by a feeling of rage. My body shook and it felt like my blood was boiling. He was a horror writer and had carried out the worst horror upon me. A complete lie about having been married to a cancer patient.
A complete lie about losing a beloved wife.
Is it all a joke to him?
I washed my face with cold water, yet the heat rising inside me seemed unquenchable.
I wanted to see him now. Demand answers from him, pound my fists into his chest, hurt him like he’d hurt me.
The worst part, of course, was that I’d believed him.
What a fool I’d been.
Tears exploded from my eyes and I wept into my hands feeling more alone than ever. Why was it that when I was finally feeling hopeful about finding love, something like this would have to come along and crush me?
Martinez’s words echoed in my head. “Paul still loves you.”
My hands shook when I thought of Scott, and anger coursed through my body, but now, in contrast, when I thought about Paul I felt nothing. No aching in my chest, no hope for reconciliation, not even a zing of attraction.
I was more sure than I’d ever been that Paul and I were done.
Of my three remaining bachelors, there was Edward, who was likely in it for the prize money. Scott, who I’d been on the verge of falling in love with but now suspected was a total liar. And my ex-fiancé, Paul, who’d replaced the guy most likely looking for a love connection. Certainly America would be laughing at me.
My date the next day was set with Edward and Scott. How would I get through it? And was I really supposed to pick my ex at the end of the show?
Cheryl would be having a field day with me in the editing room.
I suddenly felt a burning need to talk to her. I wanted to cancel the whole show. But I knew it would never fly. If they refused to cancel the show for two deaths, it seemed unlikely that my wanting to back out because someone had lied to me would be a good enough excuse.
I felt angry with myself. Of course Scott had lied to me—that was the whole premise of the show, to see who could fool the stupid girl and get away with it.
Well, I wasn’t a stupid girl. I would get to the bottom of this. I may not have found love, but I wouldn’t be duped.
And I would figure out who had killed Aaron and Pietro. I wasn’t buying the Pietro suicide thing. The two deaths were connected, of that I was sure.
I was done following the rules. I’d get my dad to smuggle me in a smartphone. After all, he couldn’t be fired like Becca. I glanced at my watch. It was only seven forty-five. Still early enough to pay him a visit.
I
pounded on the door of my father’s hotel room and whispered, “Dad.”
While the cast and producers were staying in luxury at La Playa Carmel, Dad and most of the crew were stuck at a budget hotel. I didn’t want to be seen or heard by anyone, but I was desperate to see Dad. I knocked again on the door and called out a bit louder, “Dad!”
There was a significant amount of shuffling around behind the door, while all sorts of thoughts crept through my mind.
What if he isn’t alone?
He opened the door, wearing slacks and a button-down shirt. Totally not my dad’s normal farmer attire of flannel shirts and suspenders.
“Hey, peaches,” he said.
“You’re looking mighty spiffy tonight, Dad,” I said.
He laughed. “I guess I got into the L.A. scene a little.”
I squinted at him. “Are you going out tonight?”
“I am, honey, but I’ve always got time for you. Come in.”
“Got a hot date, Dad?” I asked.
He smiled. “Yeah.”
“With who?” I was already dreading his answer.
“With the little lady that’s running the show, Cheryl. She’s a hoot.”
The now familiar pit in my stomach returned. “Oh, I’m glad you like her,” I said, trying to remove the sarcasm from my tone. “I haven’t really been getting along with her.”
Dad seemed surprised. “Really? She seems to like you very much. Why aren’t you getting along?”
“She’s very domineering,” I said.
Dad grinned. “Well, she has to run the show. Sometimes in order for people to listen you have to—”
“Don’t go there,” I said.
He laughed. “I’m just saying sometimes a man likes a woman who knows her own mind.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is it serious?”
I tried not to let my face show the trepidation I felt. Of course I wanted him to be happy. He had a right to it, more than most, but I couldn’t picture Cheryl in my life after the show. A vision of her passing me the cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving was enough to send goose bumps up my spine.
He waved a hand at me. “I like her, but we just met, peaches.”
While I was growing up, after my mom had passed, Dad hadn’t dated very much, and while I certainly didn’t want to stand in the way of his finding true happiness, I was relieved that he’d said it wasn’t anything serious.
“I need a favor, Daddy.”
Dad’s face showed concern and he immediately replied, “What is it, honey?”
I sat on the edge of his bed and pulled out the dossier that Martinez had brought to me. I handed it to Dad.
He took the folder from me and asked, “Should I pour us a bourbon?”
I nodded.
He crossed over to the small hotel fridge and pulled out two mini bottles of Jim Beam.
I grabbed his ice bucket. “I’ll get some ice.”
He took it from me. “No. I’ll go. It won’t be good if anyone spots you. You stay here.”
He returned quickly and I poured the bourbon while he opened the folder and peeked at the contents.
“What is this stuff on Teresa Valens?” he asked.
I brought Dad up to speed as best I could while medicating myself with bourbon.
He frowned when he came across Edward’s bills. “What’s this, Georgia?”
“The good doctor has medical school bills to the tune of $250,000,” I said.
“Isn’t that the same amount as the prize money?” Dad asked.
I nodded.
He took a sip of his drink. “Guess this means he’s on the show for money?”
“I guess so.”
He flipped over to Scott’s page. “What about the writer?”
“Doesn’t look like he has much money, either, but more importantly, he lied to me. Told me he’d been married and that his wife died of cancer.”
Dad frowned. “Why do you think that’s a lie?”
“The paperwork says he’s never been married.”
“Who put this together for you?” Dad asked.
“Martinez, Paul’s old partner.”
Dad frowned. “Oh. He’s got a solid motive.”
“What?”
“Can you trust this information?”
“Dad! Martinez isn’t going to lie to me.”
Dad’s face remained neutral. “He’s not? Didn’t he lie to you before about Paul?”
“What do you mean?”
“Martinez was the only one, besides Paul, who knew Paul wasn’t going to show up at the church. He stood there at the altar that day, playing us for fools.”
“He thinks I should pick Paul in the end,” I said.
Dad thumped a hand on the small hotel fridge. “No! Even if one of the others ends up with the prize money, so what? Better that than to pick Paul.”
I grumbled and sipped my bourbon. I agreed with Dad. “Right now, I’d rather give Edward an opportunity to pay off his school bills than pick Paul at the end.”
“And anyway,” Dad said, “just because the doctor needs the money doesn’t mean he came on the show to get it.”
“It seems pretty likely, though,” I argued.
The medical school bills plus a little pharmaceutical habit. That seemed enough for me not to select him in the end. Only I wouldn’t tell Dad about the pills—that would freak him out and bring on another lecture.
Dad swirled the bourbon in his glass. “And just because Scott may have lied about being married doesn’t mean he isn’t looking for love.”
I buried my head in my hands. “Are you helping, Dad?”
He laughed. “Well, honey, I’m considering all the angles. You know, you can’t hurry the crop.”
“I don’t need pithy quotes from
The Farmers’ Almanac
right now, Dad.”
He chuckled. “Everyone needs pithy quotes at all times.”
“What I need is an Internet connection, that’s what I need. I’ll do my own research. You have your phone on you?” I asked.
Dad handed me his cell phone. I looked at it and laughed. “A flip phone? Really, Dad? I need Internet access!”
He shrugged. “I haven’t needed to upgrade. They keep asking, believe me, but what the heck do I need Internet access on the farm for?”
“E-mail, texts—”
“I can text!” he said defensively.
I waved my hand around. “Never mind, I know that. I know I’m not going to convert you into High-Tech Man right now. Your Luddite ways are safe for the moment. Does the hotel have a business center?”
Dad laughed. “Are you seriously calling this place a hotel? It’s at best a motel and, no, of course it doesn’t have a business center.”
I looked around the room. There were Internet cables on the desk to connect a laptop, but I didn’t have a smartphone, much less a laptop. I rubbed my temples and moaned, willing my mind to connect the dots somehow.
“I can’t believe I’m so trapped like this,” I said.
Dad patted my back. “Come on, peaches. We’re never trapped. We can think of something.”
“The library?” I asked hopefully.
He nodded. “Sure, where’s that?”
The idea hit me then, that not only were we stranded without a car, we didn’t have access to Google or MapQuest to look up where the library was.
“How am I supposed to know? We don’t even have—”
Dad opened the desk drawer and pulled out a brochure on Carmel. “Peaches, we do it old-school. What’s the matter with you? Internet access doesn’t replace your brain, does it?”
“Right. You’re right,” I said, suddenly cheered up. I was with Dad—he could pretty much figure out any town.
We rifled through the Carmel brochure; there was a map of the downtown area in the centerfold. Dad opened the map across the small desk and traced a finger along the yellow row of restaurants, cafés, and tourist attractions. He immediately found the main street of Carmel-by-the-Sea.
“Let’s see,” Dad said. “These old towns all have the main library near the courthouse . . .”
Bingo.
Next to the courthouse was a building labeled
LIBRARY
. A small code beside it said A6, corresponding to a legend on the other side of the map. We flipped it over; the hours for the library were listed: daily, ten
A.M.
to six
P.M.
I glanced at my watch. It was just past eight
P.M.
“Argh!” I screamed and flopped onto the bed.
He watched me with amusement. “Are you going to have a temper tantrum now, peaches?”
“Isn’t it just my luck that the library would be closed right now?”
He shrugged, one shoulder going higher than the other. “We need a plan B. That’s all.”
I sat up. “What’s our plan B?” His phone rang in my hand and I glanced down at the caller ID. “Ick. Broom-Hilda.”
Dad pulled the phone away from me; he wiggled his eyebrows and smiled as if to say, Watch this.
“Yel-low?”
I snickered into a pillow.
“Well, sure, Cheryl. I’m free right now.”
Alarm coursed through me. “Dad! You can’t leave me! We need a plan B!”
“Ten minutes? Okay, yeah, sure. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Plan B!” I hissed.
He winked at me and ignored my frustration. “Sure thing, see you in a few.” He hung up and looked at me. “How’d I do?”
“How did you do with what? You’re abandoning me!”
“No, no. Don’t look at it like that. See it as an opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?” I asked.
“Maybe you can borrow her phone, with the Internet access and all that stuff that you need.”
“Please! It’s against the rules for me to use the Internet. I’m not supposed to research these guys! She’s never going to lend me her phone.”
“I didn’t say she’d have to know about it.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “And just how am I supposed to borrow her phone without her knowing about it?”
He sipped his bourbon, then waved a hand in defeat. “I don’t know, peaches. You’re the one with all the bright ideas.”
A moment of silence passed between us.
I cleared my throat. “What restaurant are you going to?”
“Place called the Vaca Loca on San Carlos Street.”
“How far is that from here?” I asked.
He glanced down at the map. “About three blocks.”
“Am I supposed to follow you guys there and steal her phone?”
He thought for a moment, scratching his chin. “Hm, okay, let’s go down to the lobby and see if there is somewhere we can do a handoff.” He moved toward the door.
“A handoff? Are you going to steal the phone from her?”
He stopped and glanced in the mirror on the back side of the door. He smoothed down the right side of his hair. “I’m going to try.”
“My dad, the pickpocket. I’m so proud.”
He smiled. “Please don’t judge me.”
I pulled open the door to the room. “Stop checking yourself out in the mirror; you look fine.”
“Fine?”
“All right. Handsome, smashing. She’s lucky to be in your company.”
We laughed as he closed the door behind us. We walked down the red-carpeted corridor toward the elevators. He handed me a key card for his room. “Here, they gave me two cards when I checked in. You have to leave the phone on the desk when you’re done with it. Be out of the room by ten.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you going back to your room after dinner?”
He pushed the button for the elevator. “I might be able to entice her into a nightcap, but either way I guarantee she will be interested in getting her phone back.”
The elevator doors opened. There were two businessmen in suits with severe expressions. We stepped into the elevator and the doors whooshed closed. We fell into the awkward silence of elevator rides and listened only to the pings of the floor numbers lighting up as we descended.
When the elevator doors opened, Dad and I stepped out together, followed by the businessmen. We let them pass us in silence. As soon as we were alone, we surveyed the lobby. There was a huge potted plant near the elevator doors, the front desk, and two benches on either wall.
“You can always hide behind the potted palm tree,” Dad joked.
“I don’t do a good impersonation of Lucy Ricardo.”
Dad snickered. “You do it better than you think.”
I whacked his arm. “Will you be serious? I need to figure things out.”
He looked appropriately chastened. “Right. Serious biz. Show biz.”
“Not the show biz. I don’t care about that.”
Dad leveled a look at me.
“Okay, okay. I care about that.” I wanted to research Scott a bit more but I had bigger fish to fry. “I have to figure out where Teresa was on the night Aaron died.”
The clerk working the front desk asked, “Can I help you folks?”
Dad suddenly turned to me. “Georgia, go upstairs to the room. I’ll send the phone up to you.”
“What? How are you going to do that?”
Dad’s face warned me off. I nodded and turned toward the elevator. My finger pressed the button as I heard Cheryl screech, “Howdy, Gordon!”
Ack! I was almost caught by the dragon lady!
I stiffened and repeatedly pressed the elevator button.
“Well, hello, little lady,” I heard Dad say.
There was the sound of kissy-kissy smooching noises and I was dying to turn around and look at them, but I simply dug my finger into the button instead. I tried to make myself a bit smaller and, yes, was tempted indeed to duck behind the potted palm.
“Now, now, none of that,” I heard Dad say.
“Sorry, Gordon, I was only checking to see if . . . oh, wait, what are you doing?” Cheryl squealed.
“Can you live without your phone for a few hours?” Dad asked.
Cheryl giggled. “Of course I can. I just—”
“Good!” Dad said.
There was a moment of silence, then I heard Dad say, “Can you please put this in room 312 for safekeeping?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The elevator dinged and the doors mercifully slid open. Thankfully, I slipped in as I heard Cheryl protesting. “Now, Gordon, don’t be silly. I won’t check it during—”
“No, no, no,” I heard Dad say. “Now, let’s hit the road. Got to make hay while the sun shines, or at least I gotta put in my order before they close the kitchen.”
I pressed myself against the side of the elevator, out of view, and strained to listen as I held the Open Door button.
All I could hear was Cheryl giggling and then more kissing noises. I released the button to close the door and pressed the button for the third floor. If Dad was as much of a Casanova as he thought, the clerk should be arriving on the next elevator with the phone in hand.