“If the person who murdered Suzy Dutton is the same person who tried to kill Estelle and that’s the same person who’s been in the house, hurting you and me and Jovan, then it all goes back to the movie.”
“But why and who?”
That was the weak spot in my theory. “I don’t know. But whoever it is knew Suzy was going out to the Malibu house Graf and I leased. They also knew that Estelle was prone to disappearing acts-that no one would take it seriously until it was too late.”
Tinkie’s blue eyes widened and she did that little thing with her lip popping out of her mouth that drove men wild. “It’s someone on the inside.”
“Without a doubt. As much as I’d like to hang this on Estoban, I don’t think he’s guilty of it.”
“So now we begin to narrow our suspects. We need a cast and crew list.”
“Exactly.”
“Where do we begin?” she asked.
“In the stacks of the national gossip sheets. Let’s find a library.” It would be easier to call Millie, but we didn’t have time to wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
To our utter delight, the research librarian at Petaluma was a misplaced South Dakotan named Patsy Kringel. She was a demon of research and bilingual. By the time we’d warmed our chairs, she had us on the Web and surfing the thousands of sites and archives dealing with the movie cast and crew. The only stars we left out were me and Graf. Everyone else, we did at least rudimentary checks on, narrowing our focus mostly to Federico, Estelle, and Ricardo.
Our searches came up with little that Millie hadn’t already told us. The Marquez family had seen its share of sorrow and success. The story of Carlita’s “devastating illness and death” was reported almost everywhere, but not a single newspaper or tabloid had unearthed her anorexia. It was a kinder and gentler media back when she’d died.
“Look at this,” Tinkie said. She’d taken Jovan as her next prospect. Since she was living in the house when many of the incidents took place, Jovan was a logical suspect even though she’d been the victim of an attack.
I rolled my chair over beside Tinkie’s computer to read the Web site. She pointed to the visitor counter at the bottom of the front page.
“Holy cow,” I said. “This says one million eight hundred and eighty-nine thousand visitors to this Web site since January.” I couldn’t believe it. Jovan had more Web site hits than Tom Cruise.
Tinkie was unimpressed. “She’s part of the fashion world as well as movies, and she has devoted fans that follow her every move. These great pictures don’t hurt, either. She photographs even better than she looks in person, which pretty much makes her a goddess.” Tinkie moved around the Web site. “Says she was born in Stockholm to working-class parents, went to high school, was seen by a talent scout while playing sports, and the rest is history.”
She scrolled down to a photograph of Jovan with a pretty middle-aged woman and a middle-aged man.
“So what did you want to show me?” Jovan was interesting, but I didn’t have time for fashion gossip or celebrity schmoozing.
“Do you think she looks anything like those people?” Tinkie asked.
“Her parents?” I wondered what tangent Tinkie was off on now. “Not really, but so what. Genetics are strange things.”
“Could she be adopted?”
I shrugged. “Possibly.” Tinkie and Oscar were thinking of adoption, and Jovan might prove to be the poster child to help her bring Oscar around. I studied the picture closer. “That might explain her attempts to control Federico when he wants to rescue Estelle from her own bad conduct. Jovan may feel a little threatened when he shows unlimited love to his daughter-especially a daughter who’s done everything to defy and ruin him. I mean, if she feels her father didn’t want her.”
“Aren’t you little Miss Freud.”
“If you’re going to call me psychiatric names, I’d prefer to be Little Miss Jung. Freud and all the emphasis on penis envy sort of leaves me cold.”
Tinkie laughed, and several patrons glanced at us-right, the rude Americans were in the library. I mimed an apology and went back to my computer. “Take a look at this on Ricardo,” I whispered.
She rolled over and we examined the Web site for the younger Marquez, which included photos of him with his heavy metal band in Venice, California, and several black-and-white photographs he’d taken, which were beautiful.
“He has a feel for light,” I whispered. “He’ll be a great cinematographer.”
“And not a single word about Federico on the Web site,” Tinkie pointed out. “You’d think he might mention his dad is one of the premier Hollywood directors.”
“Which could mean he doesn’t want to trade on the old man’s name.”
“Or it could mean he hates his father and wants to sabotage his film.” Tinkie rubbed the lump on her forehead and I knew she was tired and getting cranky. Our time to solve this case was running out. We’d dropped the dogs off at the vet clinic. Chablis was due for a checkup and Sweetie was hanging with her.
“We’re getting a lot of background on people, but nothing really useful,” I told her. “I wonder why Federico hasn’t called yet?” I’d turned my cell phone to vibrate, so I knew he hadn’t. “And neither has Millie.”
“It’s like we’ve dropped into the black hole of Calcutta. No one is returning our calls.” Tinkie’s tone was huffy. In Zinnia, Tinkie’s calls were never ignored. As the premier Daddy’s Girl, by virtue of the fact that her father owned the bank and her husband was president of it, Tinkie was used to people sitting up and taking notice of her. It was a fact that had worked to the Delaney Detective Agency’s advantage many times before.
We thanked the librarian for her help and made our way into the afternoon breeze. For all of the problems we’d had here, Petaluma was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever been. The town was clean, filled with bright colors and hand-painted tiles decorating the walls of buildings and gardens. It had some feel of old New Orleans, but with a definite Latin twist. The cobbled streets were baked in the sun, old and worn and authentic. Looking at the vista of the town sloping down a gentle incline, I wondered if I’d ever come back. Maybe Graf and I would honeymoon here.
“You look pensive,” Tinkie said.
“I was considering Petaluma for honeymoon potential.”
She started toward the car. “That would be lovely,” she said, and I could hear how she forced the happiness into the words.
“It was just a thought.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Sarah Booth. That’s what I want for you.”
And she meant it. If she had her wish, I would go home to Zinnia. As much as she’d once deviled me about Coleman’s lack of commitment, now she wanted to return to that time when I was at Dahlia House, Coleman was on the horizon, and our partnership was not impeded by the distance of a continent.
“Where to now?” I asked. We’d done pretty much all we could using the Web for a research tool. If Federico didn’t call back soon, we’d be winging our way home to the States. Tinkie had booked a flight to New Orleans for 6:00 A.M. the next morning. My flight to LAX left at 7:10 A.M. We had early calls to meet the guidelines of the international flights.
“I don’t want to go back to the mansion,” Tinkie said.
“Me either.” The memory of Estelle was too fresh. And there was the sense that Carlita was still there, waiting for another chance to talk to me.
“Maybe we can catch a flight out tonight.”
Tinkie was ready to go, and I didn’t blame her. “If you can get out, I’ll stay and make sure Estelle is stable and improving before I go.” I touched my forehead. The swelling had gone down, but I still wasn’t ready for the camera.
Tinkie longed to leave, but she shook her head. “I’m here until you go.”