It was traditional for a Daddy’s Girl to have her image rendered on canvas at the time of her debut into society. My parents were dead by then, and I was strong-willed enough to sidestep Aunt Loulane’s attempts to give me a debutante ball. The ball gown and portrait went hand-in-glove.
A long Persian carpet covered the hallway and muffled our footfalls as Sweetie and I made our way to Ricardo’s suite.
According to the floor plans of the architect, there were no secret passages in this part of the house, which had been designed for guests, not family members. Old man Gonzalez obviously hadn’t felt a need to spy on houseguests, only his daughter and son-in-law. No matter how I tried to explain that away, it was still creepy. What man would attempt to watch what was happening with his daughter and her new husband?
Ricardo’s door was open, but his rooms were empty. I hesitated, standing in the hallway, wondering if I should search his personal belongings. Sweetie took the decision in hand and entered the room.
Glancing left and right down the hallway, I didn’t see a sign of Ricardo or anyone else. I followed my hound straight to his suitcase on the floor. Sweetie nudged the bag, whining softly. Sweetie is an above-average dog, but she hasn’t had drug training. Yet that was the first thing I thought. Drugs would explain Ricardo’s Jekyll-Hyde behavior.
Before I had time for second thoughts, I opened the soft leather bag and began to move his clothes around. The only pills I found were health food vitamins, a blend with green tea extract for additional energy. I kept searching, and my efforts were rewarded with a slim journal. Sitting on the bed, I opened it. Pages were filled with the long, fluid scrawl of Ricardo’s handwriting. I wasn’t a big fan of private schools, but I had to admit that his penmanship was excellent.
I eased down onto his bed for a quick read. My theory on snooping is that if a person is going to do it, then do it one hundred percent. Don’t invade someone’s privacy and do a half-assed job of it.
The journal was a running account of the filming and what Ricardo had learned working under the tutelage of the cinematographer. The passages were filled with enthusiasm about different shots. If I’d wondered if Ricardo was serious about a career in film, I held the evidence.
I also saw a side of Ricardo he was loath to show-one where he worshipped his father. In comment after comment, he raved about Federico’s brilliance. I thought how much this journal would please Federico, but I also knew that I could never show it.
I was about to put it away when I noticed Estelle’s name. The entry was dated the day she supposedly went back to California.
My sister continues her crusade. I’d hoped that Daniel might talk some sense into her, but I guess not. She’s obsessed with the idea that Mother is still here, in this house. Sometimes I want to believe her, but Mother is gone. Her body stayed, but her spirit left. Perhaps that’s the greatest sadness of all.
An additional entry written this morning noted that he was “worried about Estelle.” It didn’t elaborate, and there was nothing else of interest in the small book.
I put the journal back and did a cursory exam of the rest of the room. Sweetie had fallen asleep with her nose in one of Ricardo’s shoes. I found a small amount of marijuana and lots of dirty clothes. Nothing that would cause the mood swings I’d seen Ricardo display. When I was ready to leave, I woke my hound.
Something was nagging at me. Federico had said that Ricardo had arranged for the security crew, and Daniel was mentioned in Ricardo’s diary as someone who had influence with Estelle. Perhaps it was time to have a little talk with the head of Promise Security Agency, Daniel Martinez.
I took a few moments to wander down the west wing hallway and open the doors to beautifully decorated-and unused-bedrooms. It was a huge place where Estelle could still be hiding.
I found a small study and stepped inside to admire some of the artwork. The vivid swirls of color in a contemporary oil were particularly fascinating. I couldn’t make out the name of the artist, but I made a mental note to ask Federico later. Just as I was turning away from the painting, I heard what sounded like a moan, the old haunted house version of a haunting. The noise was muffled and unclear, but it was definitely someone-or something-in distress.
It wasn’t an auditory hallucination. Sweetie spun, looking in all directions, a low whine coming from her. We both held perfectly still for a moment. The faint sound came again. Distant and indistinct, I couldn’t tell where it came from or even if it was human. It could have been a dove in a chimney or even someone out on the grounds.
The latter was easy enough to check, and I went to a window and forced it open. The sun had set completely, but the driveway was well lit. This wing gave a good view of the front slope of lawn, the border of trees, and the white shell lane that meandered to the main road. The grassy lawn was in darkness, and someone could be hiding behind a tree or shrub, but I was fairly certain the sound hadn’t come from outside.
Ricardo had said he’d heard something. A water pipe with a low-pitched complaint? An animal in the upper regions of the house?
Or someone deliberately messing with him-and me.
I closed the window with a bang and marched back toward the east wing and my room. Someone was playing me for a fool.
“If Ricardo is messing with us,” I said to Sweetie, “we’re going to find him.”
Sweetie gave a soft yodel of approval. She always backed my play. We’d almost made it to the staircase when Sweetie froze. I nearly tripped on her. It was as if she’d been turned into stone.
“Sweetie,” I said, nudging her with my knee. “Get a move on.”
She remained stock-still, her gaze riveted at the end of the hall. The hairs on the back of my neck did a little dance, and I slowly shifted my gaze to the end of the hallway.
A woman in a red dressing gown stood at the top of the staircase. Her dark hair was pulled softly back off her face, and she held something in her hands-a piece of material of some kind. She seemed to waver and shift in and out of focus.
“Help me.” The sound came to me not like speech, but like something underwater. The words were indistinct. I put out a hand as if I could touch the air and feel the words.
“Stop it,” she said. Her mouth didn’t move when she spoke, but I heard her.
“You’ll di-i-i-ie.” The last word was a wail, and her dark eyes seemed to glow with a red light.
Before I could react at all, Sweetie growled low in her throat and bounded toward the figure. In the three seconds it took for her to reach the place where the woman had stood, there was nothing there. Not a trace of her.
From above me I heard what sounded like the footsteps of a running child. My heart seemed to catch in my throat. The scream that wanted to escape couldn’t.
With Sweetie Pie at my heels, I ran down the stairs and out the front door into the warm embrace of the night.
Fifteen minutes later, I’d managed to calm myself and ventured back in the house as far as the kitchen. The smell of brewing coffee gave me some comfort, and I’d found some grilled chicken in the refrigerator for Sweetie.
I poured myself some strong black java and took several deep breaths, calming my body and trying to remember exactly what I’d seen and heard.
It was possible that we’d failed to discover all the secret passages. If that was the case, then the figure I’d seen could easily be a normal, flesh-and-blood human. A human who could move quickly, for sure. And I chose to believe that because the alternative was unacceptable. A ghost who made threats was more than I could handle.