The dining hall in the bed-and-breakfast was cheerfully decorated: a colorful mosaic covered the ceiling, yellow paint with teal trim on the walls, and a pendant chandelier. If I hadn’t been so distraught, I actually might have enjoyed drinking some sangría at the bar with the rest of the cast and crew. As it was, I sat by myself at a booth and perused the menu.
My mouth watered as I read. The dinner special was rack of lamb. It came with homemade soup, salad, Basque beans, home-baked bread, french fries, and bread pudding! My stomach growled and I realized with a shock that except for the PowerBars I’d gnawed on, I hadn’t eaten anything in over thirty-six hours. I could definitely put away a full seven-course Basque dinner.
Cooper, the NFL player, sauntered over to my table. He was African-American, his face undeniably striking, despite a scar near his left temple. “What are you doing here sitting all alone, dollface?”
I looked up into his eyes. Victoria had mentioned Cooper roaming around camp—what did he know that he wasn’t telling me? He placed the glass of whiskey he was holding onto the table and slid into the booth opposite me. Leaning in on his elbows he said, “The sangría is too sweet for me. You might like it though.”
I leaned across the table, mirroring his body language. “Cooper, did you hear anything strange last night?”
He squinted at me. “I did hear something. Just like I told you. Told the cop in there, too.” He motioned to a door on the opposite end of the dining room. “I heard howling and all sorts of noise. Catlike sounds. They probably got mountain lions up there.” He stared at me, presumably waiting for my reaction. When none came he added, “Anyway, I’m sure glad we’re not out there.”
I traced the edge of the table with my fingertip and thought for a moment. Cooper had never said anything to me about hearing howling. He’d told me he hadn’t seen anything, but that wasn’t the same. We’d all heard howling that night.
Could it have been the woman’s screams?
Did anyone know about the woman yet? I wondered what the heck Sergio was asking everyone. I decided to press Cooper a bit further.
“What all did the cop ask you?”
Cooper sipped his whiskey. “Said they’re looking real hard for your boy. Asked me if I’ve ever been to Spain before. Asked me who I knew here.”
I rubbed at my temple suddenly wanting a glass of sangría. I needed something to squelch my nervousness. Instead I clapped my hands together and folded them into my lap. “And have you ever been here before?”
He shook his head. “No. Football was my life before I blew my leg out.” He grimaced. “Speaking of which, the ol’ leg is barking at me right now. Funny how that happens. Don’t bother me none, until I talk about it.” He pulled out a pill bottle from his pocket and popped a couple of tablets into his mouth. “I ain’t never been outside of the U.S. except to go to Fiji. Went there for my honeymoon.”
“That’s nice,” I said, feeling a pang in the center of my heart. As part of winning the previous game show, Scott and I had won a trip to an island of our choice. He’d wanted to go to Fiji; me, I was partial to Bora Bora. So we hadn’t taken the trip yet, but had been enjoying trying to decide where we’d end up. We’d made a game out of persuading each other. Would we ever get a chance to go now?
Oh, Lord, don’t think the worst, Georgia.
Focus on the present. On finding Scott. On finding out what happened to the dead woman.
“You okay?” Cooper asked. “You’re a little pale.” He fingered his whiskey glass. “Do you want something from the bar?”
I shook my head. “So you’ve never been to Spain before? Do you know anyone here?” I understood what the police might be thinking. We all had opportunity to kill the woman, but who had motive?
There were several local people on the crew. I had to get to them. Question them. My gut told me the woman was the link to finding Scott.
Cooper laughed, his large body shaking and jerking in a way that made his laughter contagious. “Girl, I don’t know anybody here in Spain, ’cept for you all. How about you? You been here before?”
The woman who ran the bed-and-breakfast walked up to our table. She was middle-aged and heavyset, wearing a yellow-and-blue apron and a smile that would warm anyone’s heart. “Do you want to eat dinner with your group?” she asked. “We serve family style.” She motioned to the large picnic table that the staff was setting up in the middle of the room, where our group was making their way to be seated.
I squared my shoulders. It was time to get information.
• • •
The rack of lamb was out of this world but the sangría gave me a light-headed feeling. I’d sat between Becca and Kyle, the makeup artist, who alternated between refilling my glass and pushing me to eat.
“Girl, if you don’t eat, your ribs are going to show,” Kyle said. I shrugged, but he insisted. “No amount of starvation is going to bring that sexy man of yours back any faster.”
Daisy, who sat on the other side of Kyle, squealed and grabbed his arms. “You are so cute when you talk all smart!”
Kyle thankfully became distracted with Daisy’s attention and turned to refill her glass instead. I pushed my plate away and then polished off my remaining sangría, attempting to drown my sorrow with bites of liquor-soaked fruit. Becca was absorbed in conversation with some of the crew. They were discussing something about the show’s timeline, which only gave me a headache.
I glanced at my watch and did a quick calculation for the time on the West Coast. It was midmorning. Now would be a good time to call Scott’s mother.
What would I say?
I poked Becca. “I have to call Scott’s mom.”
Becca’s eyes widened. “What are you going to tell her?”
“I’ll just tell her what I know.” I took a deep breath. “Scott’s missing and I’m going to find him.”
Becca’s hands wrapped around her napkin. “Do you think she’ll want to come here?”
I shook my head. “She agoraphobic. I don’t think even Scott missing will be enough to get her on a plane.”
“Get who on a plane?” Kyle interrupted. “Cheryl?”
“What? Cheryl? No, butt out, Kyle—”
Kyle raised a shoulder at Becca as if to deflect her animosity. “Geez, Miss Cat, no need to have a hissy fit. I just thought we needed some reinforcements.”
Becca narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugged. “I called Cheryl this afternoon—”
“You called Cheryl?” Becca exclaimed. She looked as if she were about to strangle Kyle with the napkin she was clenching. I put a hand on hers, but she shrugged me off.
Kyle feigned innocence, but a smile played on his lips. “I thought we needed to tell the boss that one of our contestants had gone missing.” He turned to me. “Cheryl and your dad are catching a flight.”
I could feel anger coming off Becca in waves. Cheryl was the executive producer of the show. She’d put Becca in charge as the line producer, but now Becca’s role could be in jeopardy if we didn’t get back to the planned production schedule immediately.
Cheryl and my dad had started dating during the filming of Love or Money, and while I wasn’t always crazy about her, I knew that having my father close by would definitely add to my moral support.
“When are they getting here?” I asked.
I heard Becca grit her teeth and felt like a traitor.
“They’re already in the air,” Kyle said. “Their flight arrives tomorrow morning in Madrid. The bus will bring them into Jaca by afternoon.” He gave a self-satisfied little grin and then held up the pitcher of sangria. “More, anyone?”
Daisy perked up and held her glass out for Kyle. When he turned away from us Becca whispered, “He’s after my job, you know.”
“He is? I didn’t know that,” I said.
“Well, look at him, calling the boss in. Of course he’s after my job.”
“Don’t worry Becca. It’s no reflection on you that Scott’s gone missing,” I said.
She sighed. “It is a reflection on me if I let the whole show slide off the rails—”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s not your fault.” She picked at her bread pudding with a calculating look in her eye.
“Don’t hold up the show,” I said. “Just replace Scott and me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can,” I said, getting up before she could argue with me. I felt woozy, too much sangría and not enough sleep. I stumbled away from the table and staggered right into Sergio. He grabbed me before I careened back into the dinner table and knocked over a pitcher of sangría.
“Eh. I was coming to get you,” he said.
I suddenly felt sober. “Do you have news?”
He wrapped a hand on my elbow and put another on my lower back in the way that cops do, so you go with them lockstep without even having a moment for your brain to click in to protest.
He led me outside to the patio. There were potted red geraniums along the border of the patio and the evening breeze was filled with their sweet scent. Sergio dropped my elbow and pulled out a chair for me. He waited for me to sit, but instead I wandered toward the edge of the patio and looked up at the stars. Despite the breeze, the evening was warm and clear. For a fleeting moment I felt like I could fall in love with Spain, but the thought of the dead woman shocked me back to reality.
Sergio stood his ground by the chair and said, “I have questioned all the members of the game show.” He studied me a moment. “It’s a strange game, no?”
“What?”
“The show. You are all to run around Europe and what? Zip-line or scale the citadel?”
I laughed. “Scale the citadel? Is that what they told you?”
He shrugged. “I saw your, what do you call those commercials?”
I winced. He’d seen the promo. An image of Scott rappelling down the fake rock wall from the set of Love or Money popped into my mind. I knew Becca had planned to use some of the images from that show for the promos of Expedition Improbable. I knew without a doubt Scott was wearing his sports watch in those reels.
“Promos,” I muttered, gazing out into the garden trying to buy time.
Sergio abandoned the chair he’d been standing next to and stepped toward me. “Sí, the promo. Expedition Improbable.” He said the name of the show in a deep voice, much as I imagined they’d used in the promo reel, only with Sergio’s Spanish accent I had to smile. “What an adventure for you all. Crossing deserts, river rafting, hiking the snow-covered Pyrenees . . .”
He stopped there. We both knew what had happened in the Pyrenees.
After a moment, he said, “There’s a lot of competition for the prize money.”
I nodded. “Fierce competition.”
“Is that why you are on the show? For the money?”
“In part, yes. But mostly because Becca is my best friend and she asked me. The show Scott and I were on . . .” I suddenly felt embarrassed. Sergio was watching me intently and I knew I sounded foolish. I was about to declare my undying love for someone I’d met on a reality show.
“Go on,” Sergio said. “Tell me why Scott was on the show.”
“We were on another show and got a bit of a following . . . uh . . . fans?” I said. I paused to see if he understood me.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“So, my friend, Becca, convinced me to come on this show, because she thought we’d get good ratings. Do you know what ratings are?”
“TV ratings? Yes, many people told me about these ratings tonight.”
I laughed. “You talked to the crew.”
He folded his arms. “They are obsessed, is that how you say it? Obsessed with the ratings.”
“You got it. Yes. Ratings equal work. Lots of viewers, lots of pay.”
He ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Ratings are important to them. It’s as if they would do anything for these ratings . . . no?”
A chill crept up my spine. “The ratings are important, sure. But I’m not clear on what you’re trying to say.”
He leveled a gaze at me. “I looked at your background. You had said you used to be a police officer.”
I cringed. I hadn’t ever really been a cop, not the way he meant anyway. I’d been a public information officer, basically a glorified PR person for the San Francisco Police Department.
“Not exactly a cop,” I said. “Rubber-gun squad.”
He squinted at me. “What’s that?”
“I was a talking cop. I talked to the press, the media. I didn’t do investigations or homicide or anything.”
He smiled, tilting his head to the side and appraising me. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “You have the face of a camera cop,” he said.
I laughed. “Well, better than a radio face. Is that what they call it here?” I studied him for a moment. He was strikingly handsome in a chiseled sort of way and I cursed myself when I involuntarily glanced at his ring finger.
“Here they use you for what they want. Whatever is best for them. Sad to hear that in America it’s the same thing. I thought people had more of an opportunity there.”
Had I just misunderstood him or was he saying he thought I was more than a pretty face?
I decided to change the subject. “Do you know who the woman is? How she died?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, el médico forense will have to examine her.”
Emboldened, I blurted out, “I can help you with the investigation.”