A Fatality in Spain, page 8
“So he was upset,” Diana said pensively.
She pointed at her wrist. “He check his reloj, again and again, so I think he meet someone. The police say he go to la corrida de toros. The bulls running. But I don’t know why he would. The bulls were coming to him! He was to meet plenty of bulls here, that’s for sure!”
“Meet someone? Who would he meet?”
She shrugged. “He worry though. I do not trust the way he look. Like up to no good. His eyes went—” She made her dark eyes go from side to side. “Very sneaky. I do not think he go for good reason.”
Sean had been looking through a rack of t-shirts that said, Corre por tus vidas!—“Run for your lives!” “Interesting,” he said, looking up. “So you think maybe someone asked to meet him there?”
She shrugged again and turned to help another customer.
“Thank you,” Diana said, whirling to look at the bullring. “I have to imagine the bullfighters are under a lot of stress before a fight. That’s why he was so wound up when we saw him, and angry. Why would he just wander off from the ring?”
“That’s easy. He wanted to kill El Gordo.”
Diana shook her head. “I don’t buy that. You said that matadors are the rock stars of the bullfighting world. And rock stars aren’t stars, meaning they don’t perform, without an audience. Why would he have just skulked away to murder a bull in some back alley, where no one would have been able to see him do it?”
Sean tapped his chin. “That’s the thing. I don’t think he was thinking clearly. He was angry. If you ask me, I think he was obsessed with that bull. Kind of like Ahab and the whale. He had to kill it. And at that point, he didn’t care how, or who saw it happen.”
Diana’s nose wrinkled. She’d like to say she didn’t understand that kind of obsession, but an obsession with someone, someone she’d met decades ago, was what had gotten her in Europe to begin with.
“Maybe, but . . . I just wish . . .” She headed toward the bullring, not sure what she was hoping to do. The place was all closed off, empty. As she reached the main entrance to the ticket booth, she noticed an unassuming young man in a t-shirt and cargo pants, heading down the side alley. He had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. She watched him as he opened a side door to the arena and disappeared inside.
Sean followed her line of sight. “Now, lass . . .”
Before he could warn her, she took off for the door. Once she reached it, she looked both ways, to make sure no one would see her. Her eyes caught Sean’s. To her surprise, he didn’t look like he was against it. In fact, he looked more than a little amused.
It was the push she needed to open the door. After all, she’d written it in her itinerary: On this trip, you must do something that scares you at least once a day.
“You’re a right good chancer,” he murmured as she pulled it open and stepped inside, and he followed, close behind.
As the door closed, she looked around, finding nothing more than a narrow, nondescript hallway that seemed to curve around like the perimeter of the ring.
“What’re you hoping to accomplish here?”
She shrugged. “Actually, I’m not sure. But like I said, maybe one of them has an idea as to why De Leon was out at the running.”
“Don’t you think the police would’ve already asked the other matadors if they knew where he was going?”
“Yes, but it’s still worth a try. Maybe if I get in the mind of a matador, it’ll make sense. Right?”
“Uh . . shah, sure.” He sounded doubtful but motioned her on. “Lead the way, Love.”
She walked down the empty hallway for a few steps, until she heard the steady sound of constant exertion, as if someone was routinely jabbing at a punching bag. At the first door, she stopped to see two young boys, holding short swords. They were stabbing at a bale of hay with a bull’s head. An older man, likely their teacher, was watching them very carefully. He glanced up when Diana appeared, walked over to her, and slammed the door in her face.
“Well, that was friendly,” Sean said, motioning her forward. They walked a little bit farther, until they came to another door.
She pushed it open and stuck her head in, just in time to run up against a wall of hot, humid air and a sea of naked male flesh. She quickly pulled the door closed, but not before she caught a whiff of sweat mingling with baby powder. She gave Sean a tight smile. “Whoops. Locker room.”
He laughed heartily and motioned up front. “How about those doors?”
They were double doors, with a window. Perfect, that meant there’d be no surprises. She crept up to them and peered through, where she could see the opening to the bullring. She thought it would be locked, but it eased open. “I hope there are no bulls running loose out here,” she said with a titter.
He laughed. “Fancy a chancer like you can handle it just fine, considering you faced up El Gordo and survived.”
“Don’t remind me,” she muttered, heading through the doors. The floor was sand, so her feet made no noise as she walked past the stands. When she reached the ring, she heard some men, speaking, their voices echoing in what had to have been a vast space.
She found the young man she’d seen outside the ring, before, standing there, with his cape, and another man, holding a mock bull’s head, on a wheel. They both looked up when she approached. The one with the mock bull began shouting at her, telling her that the ring was closed.
“I’m sorry. Hi, I’m Diana St. James. Are you a matador?” she called out to the young man, her voice echoing around the arena.
He reached over the head of the bull, which was kind of like a wheelbarrow, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a swig. “No, this is the bull dance class. It’s going to be a big trend in all the gyms in New York, one day, for sure,” he said, his voice heavily accented but full of attitude.
His friend snickered.
“Okay, that was rude,” she mumbled under her breath as she glanced at Sean. He shrugged back. She plastered a wide grin on her face. “I just have a few questions. Can I ask them? If you don’t mind?”
The young man rolled his eyes. Were all matadors total jerks? “Who are you? An American?” His eyes widened with excitement. “Wait. Are you a reporter?”
“No, I’m just—"
The excitement drained away and he shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t care. Americans flock to Pamplona for these weeks and thinks they own us, can go anywhere they please. Fine. But only a few minutes. I’ve got to practice.”
“You practice a lot?”
He glowered at her. “This isn’t as simple as it looks. It’s an art that takes years to master. We’re artists, but our art is a deadly one.”
“Oh, I didn’t think it was—"
“We practice three to four hours a day. But I have more time, now, after what happened,” he said, strutting over to a bench. He motioned for her to sit. She did, and Sean hovered nearby. “I’m sure you heard about it.”
She nodded. “Were you friends with Señor De Leon, Señor . . .”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you not know who I am?” He threw a hand against his chest. “I am Luis Castrovilla.”
Her smile faltered. She looked up at Sean, who was studying a hangnail on his thumb. He was only there to humor her, obviously—he thought the idea of coming in here and asking questions was pure folly. And maybe it was. She was completely out of her element. How could she understand the victim’s motivations if she understood nothing about bullfighting at all? “Are you famous?”
He snorted and looked up at his friend in indignation. “I’m only the greatest bullfighter in all of Pamplona, for three years running!”
“Oh,” Diana said, genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry. I’m not very familiar with bullfighting. You look so young.”
He gave an ambivalent shrug. “I’ve been fighting for eight years. Killed four-hundred bulls in my time, or more. I lost count.”
“So you were competitive with Alfredo De Leon, then? He was very good, too, right?”
He nodded and shook his head. “Yes. Oh, he was good. Very good. One of the best around. I learned all my greatest tricks from the old man. Then I became better than he ever was. But it is thanks to him.” His chin fell to his chest, and his voice cracked as he added, “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”
Emotions tumbled inside Diana’s head. She felt a little bad to have touched such an obviously sore spot in the man, because his shoulders heaved, and he seemed to be ready to sob. But other than that, this was better than anything she’d expected. A triumph, really. If anyone could get in the mind of a matador, it was this man, Luis Castrovilla. They were friends. Maybe he even knew where De Leon had been headed.
“So you saw him before he left the ring yesterday morning?”
He nodded. “Only briefly, but yes.”
“Was he agitated? Did he say anything to you?”
Castrovilla said, “Yes. He seemed upset about something. I asked him what was wrong, and he said he had a score to settle. And then he ran off. I thought it was strange, because he had the first fight of the day, so normally he’d be inside, preparing. And—” He looked over at his friend. “If only I’d stopped him, he’d be alive today.”
He put his face in his hands and shook his head in anguish.
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Diana said. “Do you know what he could have possibly meant when he said he had a score to settle?”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t really paying attention because I was preparing for my own fight, but he’d mentioned before that he had wanted to buy a bull, a big bull, the biggest one in ages. El Gordo. He was going to buy it, and kill it, and for once and for all claim his title as the best fighter of a generation. That’s what he wanted. But he was upset. Someone else had bought it out from under him. I’d never seen him so angry.”
“Pablo Arroyo?” Diana asked.
He nodded, surprised. “That’s right. The two have fought over the sale of different bulls for years now. They hate each other. So I thought the score Alfredo had to settle was with him. I thought they were going to have words. They’d fought before, in front of the ring, so I thought maybe he’d arranged to meet him somewhere, to talk to him.”
Diana paused, thinking. Only one possible solution came to her mind. “Do you think it’s possible Arroyo might’ve asked De Leon to meet him in that place, then lured El Gordo off the course so that the bull could attack him?”
Castrovilla nodded. “More than possible. That’s what I told the police yesterday. There’s no doubt in my mind that that is what happened to my dear friend.”
CHAPTER TEN
Since the bullfights for that week had been suspended, there was no chance of seeing a fight there. As they left the bullring, a walking vendor was coming by with a cart, selling churros. Diana couldn’t resist when Sean offered to get her a second one of the day.
She was scarfing it down as Sean said, “So, Love. What do you say we go for a stroll towards that plaza and do some sh—"
“Where do you think that we can find Pablo Arroyo?” she asked suddenly, looking around. “I mean, if he’s going around buying bulls for the fights, he’s got to be pretty well-established here . . .”
“Yes, but you spoke to his wife, right? She said he was being falsely accused.”
Diana gave him a sideways glance. “Don’t wives always say that?” she said though a mouth full of churro. She polished it off in record time, hardly tasting it, because now she was in such a rush to free her hands so she could get some answers. The second she popped the last bit into her mouth, she wiped the sugar from her hands and grabbed her phone. She quickly typed in Pablo Arroyo Pamplona and found a location. Plugging it into her GPS, she smiled.
“It’s within walking distance. I think this is a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“That we need to go talk to him!”
Sean stood still, even as she headed where the little GPS arrow was pointing her. “Perhaps, Lass, it isn’t a sign at all. If I have to buy you another churro to keep you here, I will . . .”
She stopped and turned back to him. “If I have another churro, I will be fastened to this spot because I’ll be too big to move.” She grabbed his arm. “Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”
His eyes lit up. “Now you are talking, macushla.”
“I’ll buy you two, if you take that ridiculous hat off,” she said hopefully.
He fastened it tighter onto his head. “I think I look good in it.” He posed like he was doing a photo shoot for a fashion magazine. “Besides I forgot sunscreen. It’s saving my poor Irish skin.”
That was true. His face was rather ruddy from the sun, his nose a bit like a stoplight. Still . . . that hat. “You look like a tourist,” she groused.
“We are tourists, remember?”
“But we don’t have to look like them!”
He shrugged. “Never minded looking like a tourist. Besides, with my fair complexion I doubt anyone would mistake me for a local.”
They walked together down the cobblestone street, past booths full of interesting wares. Of course, Sean seemed to have been bitten by the shopping bug, because he stopped, every once in a while, to look at something on the way. She had to keep prodding him along like he was a toddler in a toy aisle. When the place was in sight, he stopped and picked up a hat with bull horns. “What do you think? I think this suits me.”
She shook her head. “Not really. Can we . . .?”
He motioned to the woman behind the counter and handed her a few euros, then sauntered off, wearing it proudly upon his head. She hadn’t been lying. It was atrocious. Now, she was a little embarrassed to be seen with him. She picked up the pace, and this time, he stayed in lockstep with her.
They reached the brick row home with sky-blue plantation shutters on the outskirts of the festival, and she rang the doorbell. At first, she expected that he wouldn’t be there, considering it was mid-day, and even without the bull running, the most exciting festival of the year was still going on. So she was surprised when a few moments later, the door swung open. Arroyo’s blank stare morphed to one of recognition. “Senora St. James,” he said. “You have recovered from your adventure yesterday?”
She shrugged. “Have you?”
He hitched one shoulder. “Eh. El Gordo was very excited by the whole ordeal. It took quite a lot to calm him down afterwards.”
She hadn’t really thought about her old nemesis, the giant bull, except for in her nightmares. But that bull was a devil. In the United States, it would have been put to death for killing a person. Clearly, they had different rules here. “Where is he?”
“He’s at the corral, where I keep all my bulls. I have over a hundred of them, you know,” he said proudly. “What can I do for you?”
“Well—”
“Wait! Come in, come in! I was just about to make myself some lunch.” He motioned them into the narrow home. The first thing Diana laid eyes on was a picture of a matador, cape extended, fighting a bull. That wasn’t so unusual, she thought, until she stepped farther into the narrow hallway and saw a bull sculpture, almost as big as she was.
“Oh, you . . .” she was about to remark upon the bull when she noticed another one, staring at her from the living room. It was a large photograph of the Running of the Bulls. Her eyes shifted to the sofa, where there was a pillow with a photo of a bull on it. Actually, from everywhere, bull horns poked out, and bull eyes stared at her. There had to be thousands of them. “You have quite a collection.”
Sean whispered under his breath, “He has quite a madness, is more like it.”
Diana elbowed him and followed him to the kitchen, where she could smell something good cooking. “Arroz con pollo,” Pablo Arroyo said proudly, shoving both hands into oven mitts adorned with little cartoon images of—of course—bulls. “Would you like some?”
The churros had tasted amazing going down, but now the second one sat like a lead weight in Diana’s gut. She shook her head. Sean said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
He filled up a plate for Sean just as Diana realized they’d never been introduced. “Oh, Mr. Arroyo. This is Sean. He’s a friend of mine.”
The two men shook hands. “Please. Call me Pablo,” he said as they sat down together at the table. Diana sat between them as they began to dig into their heaping platefuls of chicken and rice. “So what brings you to my home? No doubt you’ve been questioned by the police again, eh?”
“Have they questioned you again?” Diana asked.
He nodded. “They just left my place ten minutes ago.” He shook his head. “It is not looking good.”
Diana wondered if the police would’ve been interviewing her, had she been at the address she’d given them. Perhaps the police were looking for her, now. “What do you—"
“This is delicious!” Sean said, mouth full. “Really wonderful stuff. You wouldn’t have any. . .”
Diana looked over at Sean. He’d already polished off half of his plate and was holding an imaginary bottle in front of his lips, miming tossing it back.
“Ah!” Pablo went to the refrigerator and brought out a couple of cervezas. He handed one to Sean, who used his own bottle opener to get the cap and took a swig.
“Mmm.”
“Love your hat!” Pablo said.
Sean grinned and gave Diana a smug look. “I know. Right fine hat, I said.”
Glaring at him, Diana said, “So back to De Leon’s death . . . What did you mean when you said it’s not looking good? Did the police say something to you?”
Pablo chuckled. “My wife said she went to see you. So you know. You know that we’re their prime suspects. Just because you and I are on the side of the bull that killed Alfredo.”
Diana wouldn’t go that far. El Gordo had had it in for her, chasing her around downtown Pamplona, ripping her shirt, nearly putting a horn in her fanny. Sure, she’d have liked to be on his side, but that wasn’t even close to the truth. The bull had a death wish for her. “Did they ask you where you were at the time Alfredo was gored?”
_preview.jpg)
