A Fatality in Spain, page 11
Perez’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s why the police keep poking around. I wondered.”
“What about his wife?” Sean put in. “You think she might have done something like this, for the insurance money?”
Perez laughed. “What insurance? No matador is insurable. Their lives are too dangerous. Believe me, Alfredo De Leon was worth much more to her alive, than dead.”
“Well, maybe she had a lover . . .” Sean said, a little less surely this time. He was really pushing the Carolina De Leon-as-murderer theory.
“Now, that’s true,” Perez said with a nod. “She was a lovely woman and probably had many male admirers. But the times I saw them together, I truly believed they were in love.”
That was news to Diana. Maybe she’d have to see them together, but Carolina only seemed to love herself, and De Leon, the only time she’d met him, seemed so angry. She couldn’t picture them as lovebirds.
“Well, thank you,” Diana said, standing. “I don’t want to take any more of your time.”
He nodded. “I hope you find out what happened to him. I can’t believe that someone would do this on purpose . . . even if De Leon wasn’t the nicest man on Earth, I’m sorry he’s dead.”
You’re sorry you won’t be collecting a paycheck from him, Diana thought as she bid him goodbye, and Sean opened the door for her to step outside. She waved to the receptionist and looked at Sean.
Sean winced. “I don’t like that look in your eyes,” he said with a sly smile. “I think it means there’s trouble brewing. Where do you want to go next?”
“Not far. And hopefully, there won’t be any trouble. But I think it’s time we talk to some of those activists.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time they left Juan Perez’s office, it was already mid-afternoon. The crowds outside had increased, and despite the absence of bullfights, people were streaming into the arena. Diana checked her watch and realized it was almost time for the De Leon memorial to begin. “Do you think we should go in?” she asked. “Just for a few minutes?”
Sean shrugged.
They were just near the entrance when Diana spotted the humorless Detective Carrera, standing at the front entrance, monitoring everyone as they walked inside. No doubt, he’d want to talk to her.
She turned away. “You know what? On second thought, let’s see if we can find the activists.”
The activists were now standing away from the entrance gates to the arena, behind barriers set out by police. There were more standing outside than when they’d entered Perez’s office, and they were chanting slogans in Spanish. Diana tried to speak with them, but they didn’t speak English, and seemed annoyed by her presence. Though Sean could speak Spanish, she wasn’t sure he was asking the right questions. Besides, she wasn’t sure the activists were taking him seriously, in that hat.
Finally, she said, “I think our best bet is to find that Rachel Hawkins. But I don’t see her here.”
Sean nodded and said to one of the activists, “Dónde está Rachel Hawkins?”
The man spoke quickly and pointed wildly in different directions.
Sean listened, frowning. “He said she went off to her hotel and she’s not expected back here.”
“Okay. Where’s her hotel?”
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t know. He says he thinks it’s somewhere along the festival route, but he’s not sure. Somewhere close by.”
Diana looked around and let out a long sigh. “That’s not really helpful! The festival is huge. There are blocks and blocks of hotels she could’ve gone back to.”
Sean nodded. “A bit like looking for a needle in a stack of needles, I’d say. What if we—”
“How about if we split up?” she asked suddenly. She knew what he was going to suggest—relaxing with another beer. And if she did that, she’d probably never get up again. She was already getting tired from her early afternoon beer, and she needed to get answers. Plus, it wasn’t like Sean was getting on her nerves—well, not that much—but she had a feeling he was just putzing around, wanting to relax. And she was far too Type A for that. She could make a lot more headway, striking out on her own.
He raised an eyebrow. “You think we should?”
She nodded and pointed down a street. “I’ll go that way. You go that way. Just text me if you get a hit for Rachel Hawkins. Okay?”
He pressed his lips together. “Love . . . are you unhappy with me?”
“Oh. No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Are you sure. Because—"
“No. No. Of course not,” she said emphatically.
He gazed at her doubtfully, took her hand, and then kissed her knuckles. “I will see you soon, then.”
“Thanks,” she said, and even before he’d turned around, she felt guilty.
No, he didn’t seem at all invested in the investigation the way she was. But he didn’t need to be. He was just being Sean. Relaxed, happy-go-lucky, completely content with letting the wind take him wherever it wished. And wasn’t that what she’d vowed to be, time and time again, during this trip?
Looking at herself now, so intent on getting to the bottom of this investigation, she realized she’d failed miserably. Yes, the police suspected her of the murder. But like Pablo Arroyo said, if she was innocent, eventually, the truth would come out. Maybe she needed to stop running from place to place to speak to suspects and witnesses like a chicken with its head cut off, and at least try to enjoy some of the festival.
As she walked down the alleyway, she had the distinct impression that by getting upset and short with Sean, she’d upset him. After all, who wanted to go on an adventure with someone as uptight as she was?
She stopped at the first hotel, but even as she entered, she knew it was the wrong place. With its golden chandeliers and lush carpeting, it seemed a little too fancy and upscale for the laid-back hippie woman like Rachel Hawkins. She already knew what would happen when she approached and asked at the front desk. Sure enough, there was no one by that name staying there.
After the third hotel, she’d begun to get a little discouraged. Rachel Hawkins wasn’t like her. She likely wasn’t the type to have to reserve a place months ahead of time for fear of one’s only available accommodations be a park bench. In fact, someone like Rachel Hawkins probably preferred park benches. Who knew . . . maybe she was sleeping in some tent city on the outskirts of Pamplona’s border. In that case, maybe they’d never find her.
Scanning the area, she wondered where the nearest hostel was. That seemed more like Rachel Hawkins’s style.
Just as she approached the next hotel, which already looked like another no-go, from the fancy script sign outside, her phone rang. It was Bea, her youngest. She lifted the phone to her ear. “Bea! How are you?”
“Fine, Mom. But we’re wondering about you. We’ve all been talking, and no one has heard a peep from you since before you arrived in Barcelona. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. Everything’s just great,” she said, deciding to skip that hotel and go on to the next one. “You all worry about me too much.”
“I know, I know! But you’re our mom! So we worry about you. And how many times did you call me when I first arrived in Japan? Believe me, I was sick of you, too.”
Diana’s heart palpitated at the memory of seeing her youngest off at JFK to begin her new life, teaching in Japan. “But you were so young. Only twenty-two, heading out to live in a new country by yourself?”
“This isn’t much different,” Bea pointed out. “There are plenty of people who’d like to take advantage of a lone, middle-aged tourist.”
“Oh, you sound like Lily. She thought for sure I was going to meet a serial killer, or white slavers, of—”
“Lily’s just ridiculous. But it’s true. If you don’t call us regularly, how do we know that you’re okay and not lying dead in a ditch somewhere?”
Diana smiled. At least they all hadn’t decided to fly out to Spain to be there with her. That’s what had happened in Italy. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. Just very busy with all the, uh . . . sightseeing.”
“Are you having fun in Barcelona?”
“Oh. I’m not there. I’m in Pamplona. For the festival of St. Fermin.”
“You mean the Running of the Bulls? That doesn’t sound up your alley at all. How did you wind up there?”
“Well, it’s a funny story. I met an Irish gentleman who—”
“Mom! You met a man?”
“Yes, I did. A very nice one. And he invited me to come here for the festival. So that’s where I’ve been. And—”
“Mom. You vixen! Who is he? Are you falling in love?”
She laughed. Lily would’ve told her mother that she needed to run away, that he could be a serial killer, but Bea was a romantic. “No, Darling. It’s not that. He’s just a friend,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “How is the wedding planning going?”
Bea grumbled. “Ugh. I hate it. I hate planning events like this. I wish I was back with you, solving murders, like we did in Italy. That was so much fun.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“I think it was the highlight of my life. Really.”
Diana smiled. She’d never had as much fun solving a murder she was accused of than when she was with Bea, rushing all over Verona, intent on finding the murderer. Bea was as high-energy and Type A as she was. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her about this newest murder, but she knew Bea would probably try to come out and see her, in Spain. And with her wedding coming up, Bea had enough to worry about. “Well, I’ll be sure to text you and let you know where I am, more often. Okay?”
“Okay. Bye, Mommy. Have fun. Don’t cross any of those bulls.”
As she ended the call, Diana thought, Too late.
Then she realized she had a message from Sean. She looked at it, half-expecting to hear that he’d given up on the search and was now relaxing under an umbrella somewhere, with a cold cerveza.
Instead, she saw this message: Bingo. Meet me at 1201 C. de los Teobaldos.
Her jaw dropped. So he’d found Rachel Hawkins? And here, she thought she’d find him, later on, nursing another beer at some outdoor café, and enjoying the festival.
She plugged the address into her GPS, and broke into a run, following its directions.
Ten minutes later, she arrived at a run-down area of the city, where there was an old brick-façade building with a faded sign that said, Jesus y Maria Hostal.
She knew it. A hostel. This would definitely be more up Rachel Hawkins’ alley. The windows were covered by a dirty shade, but as she stepped inside, she saw Sean, deep in conversation with the female clerk. She giggled, clearly charmed.
He turned to her. “Macushla!” he shouted across the sparsely decorated lobby.
Scanning the area for Rachel Hawkins, Diana nearly stepped on several people sitting on the floor of the place as she made her way to Sean. There were people all over the place, carrying bags, unshaven, clothing unkempt, and the place smelled a little like body odor. It looked a bit like a refugee camp. But no Rachel.
“Hi, did you find anything?” she asked, gritting her teeth.
It only occurred to her when he made a face that she was doing it again. Being her normal, uptight, Type A personality. He said, “Relax and cool yourself down a bit, Lass, and I’ll explain everything.”
“Sorry,” Diana said with a sigh. “I really just want to figure out who did this. It stinks to be a suspect. I keep worrying they’ll track me down and arrest me in the middle of the night, and by then there’ll be nothing I can do to prove my innocence.”
“I understand,” he said, taking her hand and patting it.
“So . . . Rachel? You said you found her?”
He shook his head. “She’s not here.”
Diana’s spirits sank, and then confusion seeped in. She held up her phone. “But if she isn’t here, then why did you write me that—"
“She’s not here now. But she was here, earlier,” Sean said, pointing to the woman who was standing behind the messy clerk’s desk, smiling at them. “Juanita, here, does not speak English. But from what I gather, Rachel Hawkins stayed here for three nights. She got here before the festival began.”
“Where did she go? Is she coming back?”
“Turns out, she wasn’t very happy. She made a big stink about the whole festival and created a lot of commotion. Poor Juanita even had to call the police here, once, because Rachel Hawkins wouldn’t shut up about how everyone participating in the festival had blood on their hands. She was screaming at anyone and everyone who she could about how barbaric the event was,” Sean said with a shrug. “And eventually, this morning, she decided she’d had enough. She couldn’t stay in Pamplona for another minute. She packed up her things and left.”
“She just left?” Diana’s eyes widened. “That sounds a little suspicious, doesn’t it?”
“More than a little,” Sean agreed.
“Just great. We have to find her. Do you have any idea where she went?” she asked the clerk, forgetting that she couldn’t speak English.
The clerk simply smiled and nodded.
Sean said, “Diana, Love. I asked that. And she did say where she was going. But I’m afraid it’s not going to be easy to track her down.”
“Why not? Oh, don’t tell me she went back to America?”
“No. She’s still in the country. But Rachel Hawkins is a nomad. She doesn’t stay in one place for very long. And she said she was going on The Way.”
“The way where?”
“The Way,” Sean said, a little more forcefully. “The Way of St. James. The Camino de Santiago.”
Diana shook her head. “I’m sorry. What is that?”
“It’s a pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela, on the Northern coast of Spain. Thousands of people make the trek through Europe every year. It’s supposed to be a life-changing trip of reflection and spiritual awakening.”
“Santiago . . . You mean the Cathedral you were mentioning, before, with that incense burner?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s—”
“So why couldn’t we just follow her—”
“It’s very hard. There isn’t just one route. There are many. And so many different stops along the way that one might make, it would be very difficult to find her,” he explained. “Even so, Juanita here said she was cleaning her room and found this.”
He handed her a crumpled brochure which said, El Camino de Santiago. Someone had written in the margins of it and had circled a couple of the hotels and various points of interest along the way. “We can check these out, right? How far away are they?”
“They’re not in Pamplona, that’s for sure,” Sean said. “And didn’t you say that the police told you not to leave the area because you might be needed for questioning?”
She nodded. “Yes, but . . .”
“I could go for you,” Sean suggested. “If you really think it’s that important. I could take the trail and ask a few people as I—”
“No!” she said. She had a feeling if she did that, she’d never see him again. Or he’d find a great place to drink, forget what his purpose was and disappear on the trail, never to be found again. “I think I can go.”
Sean grinned. “There’s my good chancer. You’re going to go out on the lam, huh?”
“Shh!” she said, looking around, not that there was anyone nearby to hear them. “But yes. I mean, it’s very suspicious that that woman would just leave like that. She had a reason to want him dead, too, and she obviously has a bit of a temper. I think it’s the best lead we have. And the police are too busy dealing with all the other traffic from the festival. I think it’s our duty to check it out.”
He let out a long, raucous laugh. “All right, Love. If you say so, then let’s do it!”
She shook her head. “No. I think I should probably do it on my own.”
He tilted his head. “On your own? Are you looking for a religious experience, too?”
She wasn’t sure. Maybe because this was the Way of St. James, but she felt for sure it was the answer to what had happened to De Leon. And maybe, if she was lucky, it’d provide her with her own spiritual awakening, too, making her feel as though she’d found everything she came to Europe to achieve. That would be nice.
Whatever it was, she felt like she had to do it on her own.
“You can go back to the hotel, in case the police show up, and if they ask about me, you can tell them I’m around Pamplona somewhere, and will be back shortly. If they can’t find either of us for a long time, they could get suspicious. In fact, I’m worried they’re already suspicious since we haven’t been at the hotel since earlier this morning.”
“Likely, but you don’t know that trail. It can be rather—”
“I’ll be fine. If you just point me in the direction of it, I’ll find my way.”
“If you say so,” he said, but she couldn’t mistake the doubt in his voice.
They went outside, and he pointed her up the street. “Up that way is where the Pilgrim’s Way passes through Pamplona. It crosses the Arga River at the La Magdalena Gothic Bridge and passes the 1553 French Gate and Bastion del Redin. It then weaves its way in front of the Baroque façade of Pamplona’s City Hall, a favorite stopping-off point in the center of town, and the Church of San Cernin of Toulouse.” He handed her a map. “It’s all in here. You just keep following it. You’ll probably see other pilgrims on the trek. Look for the shell symbol if you get off-course.”
She nodded. It sounded easy. “Sure. I can do that.”
He shook her hand. “Good luck, macushla. May the wind be at your back, and may God be with you.”
“Thanks. I probably won’t be long,” she said. Though who knows? What if I’m so captivated by this trek that I can’t stop going . . . “I don’t want you getting in any trouble with the local police over me not being there!”
“Good thinking,” he said, holding up his phone. “I’ll text you if I see them.”
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