“Like the mayor?” Sean asked.

  “No. He was at the start of the race. But maybe one of his men. You don’t know how many times he begged. And always my husband say no!”

  “Your husband didn’t want any matador fighting El Gordo in the ring at all?” Diana asked.

  She nodded. “The mayor told my husband that though all the six bulls in the running are usually killed in a bullfight, that day, El Gordo would be spared. That was the arrangement, partly because of El Gordo’s fame, but also because Pablo didn’t want any matador killed by that mad bull. But Pablo turned him down. Told him that it was too dangerous to have him in the running.” She shook her head bitterly. “But he ended up in it, anyway. Somehow. I suppose my husband changed his mind. And then De Leon didn’t listen. He was thick in the head. Estúpido.”

  “You think he opened the barricade himself?” Diana asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But all I know is that El Gordo didn’t get out on his own. So the police think that it was either Pablo or you.”

  “It’s not Diana,” Sean said, leaning against a crate. “She wasn’t even anywhere near that bull, I’m sure.”

  “Uh, well, actually . . .” Diana started, to which Sean snapped his head up.

  “You were?”

  She nodded. “I did see El Gordo.” Now, he looked impressed, like he wanted to know more, but she said to Mrs. Arroyo, “And I don’t think it could’ve been your husband. Sean and I both saw him, before the race. He was pretty adamant that the bull not be fought. Why would he do that if he wanted De Leon dead?”

  “Exactly,” she said, banging her open hand down on a crate. “That is what I try to tell them, but they don’t listen to me. My husband has always been a very responsible bull owner and has treated every one as humanely as possible. He knew only bad would come of having El Gordo in the running this year, and he was right.”

  Sean was still staring at Diana, trying to figure her out. “So, macushla, exactly when did you see that bull?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said to him with a wave of her hand.

  “Ah, don’t do that to me,” he warned her with a wagging finger. “I want to hear it!”

  “You two both ran with the bulls?” Mrs. Arroyo said, clearly impressed.

  “Oh, yes. But I really don’t want to talk too much about it. I’m still traumatized,” Diana sighed, ignoring Sean’s eyes, which were pleading for her to tell the story. “El Gordo stalked me, if you can believe it. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Did it? That’s El Gordo for you. Most bulls are dumb. They go after whatever provokes them. Not this bull. He gets one target in his sight and pursues it until the death. And he does not stop. You are very lucky. I have seen much worse.”

  Sean’s eyes volleyed between them. “How did you survive, macushla?” Sean asked, eyebrow raised.

  “Well, I, um . . . threw a matador’s cape over his head, and that allowed me the time to get away. Then Pablo arrived and subdued him.”

  Sean nodded, now extremely impressed. Then he frowned. “Where did you come by a matador’s cape?”

  “Oh, it was ...” She gritted her teeth. “It belonged to De Leon. The dead man. It was just lying on the ground, next to him.”

  Now he just stared at her. The silence stretched on for a long time, until Mrs. Arroyo broke it.

  “I just wanted to say that I don’t think either you or my husband are responsible. But I don’t know what to do. And I was hoping you’d have some ideas?”

  Diana nodded. “Thank you. Yes. I appreciate that. If you give me your number, I’ll be in touch if I hear anything.”

  Mrs. Arroyo reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here. Please. Whatever you hear. I’m a wreck.”

  “Of course.”

  They said goodbye to the woman, who left, her heels clicking on the steps outside. Even before the sound had faded, though, Sean turned to her. He eyed the rip in her shirt with newfound respect. “Lass, I think you need to start at the beginning and tell me just what you’ve been up to.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Diana rolled over in bed, cramming the pillow over her ears.

  Even so, the sound was like the loudest of foghorns, blown right into her ear. Evan had always been a bit of a snorer, but his snores had been rhythmic, almost comforting. The sound had lulled her off to sleep so often that when he was gone, she’d found she missed it.

  This? This was cruel and unusual. Though he was on the other side of the room, Sean’s snores were enough to shake the walls. And there was no rhythm to them, whatsoever; occasionally, it was a raucous duck’s honk, then the buzz of a chainsaw, then the snort of a pig.

  When she’d got done telling him a bit of the story—that she’d had a run-in with El Gordo and had been the first to find the matador’s body—Sean had been full of questions. Of course. But she didn’t want to think about it. She asked if they could go to sleep and sort it all out in the morning. He’d been reluctant, wanted to go out and enjoy the beautiful night, but eventually, he’d agreed. She hadn’t had the energy to go out and explore Pamplona. She just wanted to sleep and forget.

  But now, she was wide awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to Sean’s snores, which drowned out the sound of the festival party going on in the streets below. She hadn’t been able to forget anything. Though she’d barely slept at all, the previous night and her eyes felt heavy with exhaustion, she didn’t think it possible that sleep would come. She never had much luck, sleeping in a strange bed.

  Next to a strange man.

  This was ridiculous. Gone were those fanciful ideas of romantically strolling through the Spanish calles, arm in arm, enjoying one another’s company. Things like that were just that-- fantasy. Flings didn’t really happen for people her age. Probably shouldn’t happen. She was too old for that kind of nonsense. Besides, hadn’t she already told herself that this kind of thinking only brought complication? Like she needed more of that.

  Suddenly, though, she found herself in a narrow street in tow, the only sound the clomping of her footsteps along the cobblestones. The festival, it seemed, was over—the street was littered with confetti and lost red neck-scarves and used plastic cups. The banners that hung from the buildings fluttered in the breeze.

  The next time Sean snored, however, there was something different about it. It was a very animal sound, and not that of a duck or a pig. “Sean, are you all—"

  When she felt a hot breath on the back of her arm, she froze. She knew exactly what kind of animal it was.

  Turning, she saw the bull. Somehow, it was bigger and angrier than ever, its eyes glowing red. Stamping the ground so that it shook, it let out another snort that seemed to echo around the buildings and began to charge her.

  She let out a scream and spun on her heel, trying to run. But no matter how much she propelled herself down the corridor, she didn’t move at all. It felt as though she was trying to trudge through molasses. And yet the bull, behind her, had no such trouble. He quickly came behind her, and she felt the point of the horn, about to dig into her fanny. She screamed.

  *

  Opening her eyes, Diana looked around, blinking in the light of day.

  It was morning. Somehow, though she didn’t quite remember when, or how, she’d managed to fall asleep.

  Rolling over, she turned toward Sean’s bed. It was unmade, empty.

  She sat up and looked toward the door. It was open. “Sean?” she called.

  No answer.

  She scrambled from her bed, grabbed her clothes for the day from her bag, and went to the bathroom. Quickly showing and changing, she stepped outside to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Sean was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, two paper cups of coffee in front of him. “Though you could use a cuppa,” he said, without lowering the newspaper.

  As she slid into the chair across from him, she noticed the headline on the front. El Matador Mata! She winced as she squinted at the photograph on the front page of El Gordo, tossing the puking pants-less guy up into the air. She pointed. “That’s my elbow, I think.”

  He lowered the paper and stared at it. “So you were there. Want to start where you left off, last night, Love?”

  She sipped the bitter liquid and nodded. She hadn’t said much last night, because she’d just been too tired. So they’d agreed to table the conversation until today. “I felt like that bull had it in for me. The second I dropped your hand, he was after me. He chased me into an alley, and when I came out, there was the matador. Dead.” She shuddered. “The bull was there, too. But luckily the owner came by and settled him down.”

  She thought he’d be horrified by the story. Just telling it, she felt a little sick. But instead, he grinned. “You’re not joking? That’s fabulous! You really have a story to tell those grandchildren, now, don’t you?”

  She smiled unsurely. That, she did. Not that she would be telling anyone, right now, since it’d also made her a suspect in a murder. “It’s not all that fabulous. They don’t seem to know why the matador was down there. He should’ve been in the bullring, where we last saw him, preparing for the fight. So you heard Mrs. Arroyo last night—she thinks that somehow, I might have something to do with it.”

  He folded the paper carefully and tilted his head. “How could you have? You were running for your life. Same as all of us. Do they think that you moved aside the barrier?”

  “I have no idea. But what I do know is that I don’t think I’m going to be allowed to leave here until they’ve stricken me off the suspect list. And right now, I think I’m at the top of it.”

  He shook his head. “How can that be? They must have a thousand people who witnessed it. It was a block away from the course!”

  “You would think. But I didn’t see anyone when I was there. They were all a block away. At the course. The first person I saw was Arroyo, and unfortunately, as his wife said, he’s also a suspect.”

  “It’s a pickle, for sure.” He clapped his hands. “You, a suspect. That’s utter rot.”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry, but the police told me I can’t leave the city until they have a better idea of who did this.”

  “They said that?”

  She nodded. “So I know, if you wanted to go, you could—”

  “Rubbish. Of course I’ll stay with you. That’s not a problem,” he said jovially. “There’s plenty to do around Pamplona, so let’s just make the best of it. So, what would you like to do today? Explore the festival? Get some local food? Maybe take in a bullfight?”

  She winced.

  “No bullfight? I have always wanted to see one in person.” He seemed disappointed.

  “You haven’t?” That surprised her. She had the feeling he had done everything.

  “No . . . but it’s all right, love. If you don’t want to go to the bullring, I understand. Especially after what happened to you. I should imagine you wouldn’t want to see another bull again.”

  “Well, I do think we should go to the bullring, but not for a fight.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I’ve seen enough bloody battles with bulls to last me a lifetime!” she said with a shudder. “Besides, De Leon was at the running for a reason. All signs point to that he shouldn’t have been there because he was preparing for his fight. Something led him to the course. And I think the best people to tell us where he was headed are the last people who talked to him. Which means . . . “

  “You want to talk to the other matadors who were at the ring with him.”

  “Right!”

  He pressed his lips together. “So you’re saying . . . you want to look into what happened to De Leon yourself.”

  She nodded. “Maybe they can tell us what he was thinking, where he was headed . . . then, if we know why he was on the course instead of in the ring, maybe the rest of it will make sense.”

  Sean let out a big sigh. “Don’t you think, lass, that you should let the police handle it? You saw them yesterday, at the ring. They were swarming that place! Chances are, they’ve already determined why De Leon was there, what he wanted, and what happened.”

  “Maybe. But it couldn’t hurt to talk to the other matadors, anyway.” She gave him her best pleading smile. “Look, I’ve seen the way police can operate.”

  “You have?”

  “Sure . . . I’m a big fan of CSI,” she fudged, not wanting to tell him about her bad luck. He’d vowed to stay with her, and she was happy to have his help. If he knew about the other murders she was involved in, he’d likely go running for the hills before she could say “bull.” “The police have a lot of cases on their hands, and they’re not as invested in the outcome as someone who’s been accused of the crime. Sometimes they miss things. And sometimes they come to the wrong conclusions. I just don’t think I’ll be able to enjoy sightseeing in Pamplona unless I’ve turned over these stones.”

  “All right, all right. Let’s go to the bullring. Maybe we buy a couple tickets while we’re there, though, to appease your old mate, Sean?”

  She smiled. “Oh, okay. If we have to. I guess so.”

  “Good.” He polished off his coffee. “And I’m also buying you a churro on the way.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Diana nibbled on her churro as she walked, and the bullring came into view. She had to admit, she hadn’t had an appetite when they set out from the room over the market, but now, as she devoured the thing, she found herself ravenous. This was no American theme park churro, like she was used to. It was absolutely delicious, crispy and sweet, with just the right doughiness. She polished off the pastry and licked the cinnamon sugar from her fingers.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked as they crossed a street, checking her watch. It was after nine in the morning, so the latest running should’ve already taken place, and the newest fight starting shortly. But though people were walking along the various stands, the ring itself looked like a ghost town.

  As they neared it, Sean pointed out a sign. He read it in Spanish and translated. “They’re closed because of what happened to De Leon. No running for the rest of the festival. No bull fights either.” He tsked. “Ah, what a shame.”

  Even though she hated the cruelty to the animals, Diana had to admit, it was sad. Bullfighting was Pamplona’s claim to fame. Their bread and butter. People had probably booked for a year in advance to see these events. And now they were canceled? “No bull fights for the whole week?”

  “No, it says there will be events. Just nothing involving the bulls.” He snorted. “That saps all the fun right out of it. What good is the Running of the Bulls without bulls?”

  As much as she cringed at the thought of El Gordo’s breath on her skin, so close, she had to agree. It was kind of pointless to have the festival without its main attraction, like having Disney World without Mickey Mouse.

  “And it says here that there is a memorial for De Leon every day at noon, so people can mourn him.” He motioned to a small line of people waiting at the door. “That’s probably what the line is for.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.” She scanned the area for the police cars. “You’d think the police would still be here, asking questions.”

  Sean frowned. “Yes, that is rather shoddy policework. Or maybe they think they’ve gotten all the information they’re going to get from the place. And since there’s no one here to talk to . . . what do you say we go on down to the Plaza del Castillo, sit on a park bench, take in the sights? The Procession of Giants and Bigheads is about to start and will be going past there today.”

  “The what?”

  “Oh, it’s a sight. A king and queen roam through the crowd, accompanied by pipe and txistu players, in their elegant dress and towering heads dancing their way through the narrow streets. They have foam batons and might bop you on the head with one of them.”

  She stared at him, still thinking about De Leon’s death, trying to comprehend what Sean was saying. Big heads? What on Earth was he talking about? After being chased through the streets by a mad bull, the last thing she wanted was to be bopped on the head by anyone.

  “You’ll love it. Come on. I’ll buy you another churro?”

  He grabbed her arm, but she shook herself away. As much as her stomach was screaming out for another churro, she ignored the suggestion, heading instead for the nearest booth of the festival, which sold t-shirts and red scarves with bulls on them. The woman behind the counter, a slim woman in a low black dancer’s bun, was handing a purchase over to a festival attendee.

  Sean came up behind Diana and fingered the merchandise. “You fancy a bull shirt to replace your other one?”

  Diana waved him away as the woman turned her attention to her. “Hola,” she said, smiling and pointing at the booth? “Were you here, in this spot, selling t-shirts yesterday morning? Usted . . . aquí . . . ayer mañana?”

  She nodded. “Sí.”

  “Did you happen to see Alfredo De Leon? Usted . . .” She struggled to think of the word for “see,” and forgot about giving it the proper conjugation. “Ver . . .?”

  Thankfully, the woman seemed to understand. “Oh, sí. Yes I see De Leon. Poor man. He--” She sliced a finger violently across her neck and shook her head sadly.

  “Right, right. Did you see him yesterday, before he died?”

  She nodded. “Of course. He fight. With everyone. Bad mood.”

  “So you saw that? Was he always in a bad mood?”

  “No. He nice! Most times. But he angry, ayer. He want to fight El Gordo and the other man wouldn’t let him. So he get roja! And boom!” She gestured with her arms, miming a bomb exploding. “I stay away from him when he like that.”

  “I saw that, too,” Diana said. “And what happened afterwards? Did you see him go toward the running of the bulls?”

  “Oh, sí. First he go inside el rueda.” She pointed to the ring. “He come out, few minutes later, and go right past me. Usually he say hi but not this time.” She drew an imaginary line with her finger, along the path he walked, right in front of her. “Head down. Angry! I no talk to him when he like that!”

 

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