Wishbones (35 page)

When Sheriff King answered, he was brusque but courteous. Tinkie gave him the information and then rang off. I called Graf. My heart began to thud when there was no answer. Graf always kept his cell phone with him.

"It's okay, Sarah Booth. I'm sure Graf is fine." Tinkie spoke the words with a valiant heart, but she couldn't hide the tremor in her voice. She was worried, too. A psychopathic killer was on the loose in Los Angeles, and she'd targeted Federico and the cast and crew of his film. Graf was one of the key players in the movie.

"We should have figured this out quicker," Tinkie said.

"The running shoes that Valdez found. Jovan had access to them. She planted them." As crazy as it was, it gave me hope. "Maybe she intended to frame Federico for murder rather than kill him. Maybe he's still alive."

"Maybe." Tinkie drove like a bat out of hell. She normally drove that way, but she upped it a notch on the narrow Petaluma road. We had our luggage and the dogs, and we were only minutes from the airport. A plane had to be there. It had to. We couldn't wait to get home.

I dialed Graf again. I had this horrible image of him, broken
and dead, at the bottom of a cliff. As hard as I tried to shake it, I couldn't.

We tried Federico again, no answer. Ricardo, no answer. Was it possible that Jovan had pulled a Jim Jones and given them all a lethal dose of poison-laced Kool-Aid?

When we pulled into the airport, I knew we were in trouble. The place had that desolate look of an empty train station. No one waited on a flight because there weren't any planes going out.

Since I was almost in tears, Tinkie negotiated with one of the sleepy airline employees. For the wad of cash Tinkie produced, the man would have built a plane for us if he'd had the ability. "Sorry, senoritas. There are no planes on the ground here. None will come in until tomorrow." He eyed the money reluctantly.

Tinkie walked to the window that gave a view of the airfield and pointed. "Then what is that?"

He followed her finger to the beautiful jet that seemed to perch, briefly, on the ground.

"That is a private jet, senoritas. We have no public transportation available."

"Who owns the jet?" I asked.

"It is an actress. Charlize Theron. She was here to do a benefit and she is leaving very soon."

I looked at Tinkie and she looked at me. We handed the dogs' leashes to the attendant and ran out the door and across the tarmac. Tinkie and I were getting into good physical shape despite ourselves with all this running to and fro.

We got to the gangplank just as they were about to push it away. "Wait!" I screamed, mounting the stairs even as they began to move.

The ground crew scrambled to stop it before I was injured, but they gave me a murderous look. I beat frantically on the door of the plane. "Please, open up," I said. "Please."

An incredibly beautiful woman peeped through the small window. She assessed me and finally opened the door.

"We need a ride to Los Angeles," I explained. "It's a matter of life and death." As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized what a cliche they were.

Charlize looked beyond me at Tinkie.

"Just the two of you?" she asked.

"And two dogs."

"You want to put dogs on my plane?" Her tone was cool.

"They have to come. We can't leave them. But we're trying to prevent the murder of Federico Marquez. And possibly Graf Milieu."

"Federico Marquez, the director? And Milieu is the new actor he's working with?"

I nodded. "It's a long story, but I swear, Federico's life is in danger and Graf may be missing."

"Are you the actress from Mississippi he hired for the film he's doing?"

Relief almost made me stutter. "Yes, yes, I am, and that's Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, my partner in a private detective agency."

A smile touched her lips. "I don't know anything about murder or PIs, but I have a dog and anyone who loves animals is good with me. Grab the dogs and come on."

The attendant had already brought Sweetie and Chablis out to the tarmac. Tinkie gave the attendant a wad of cash to forward our luggage and return the rental car, then she took the leashes, and as I waved her on board, she picked up Chablis and ran toward us.

While we prepared for takeoff, I called Graf. He still didn't answer so I left a message telling him I was headed back to Los Angeles. I also called Federico--to no avail--and Sheriff King's office, letting him know I would soon be back in town. Tinkie, with her phone, arranged to have a car ready and waiting for us.

For most of the flight, I compiled a list of things to do as soon as I got on the ground. My cell phone was worthless in the air, and I desperately needed to talk to Graf and know that he was safe. I hoped that Federico had reappeared, and that I could call Sheriff King and tell him what I'd learned and that he would rush out to arrest Jovan. But mostly I made a list of the places that Graf could be where he wouldn't have access to his cell phone.

There had to be a reason, other than the obvious, as to why he hadn't returned my calls. So I made a list of those reasons. I made a list of things to tell Jovan when she was finally arrested. Then I wrote down groceries to buy when Graf and I were safely together. Lists gave me comfort and a sense of accomplishment.

I remembered that Aunt Loulane once told me that negative thoughts could lead to a negative reality. With that in mind, I steadfastly refused to allow my mind to linger on why Graf hadn't answered his phone.

Tinkie and Charlize chatted, and I watched my partner with pride and a smidgen of envy. The Daddy's Girl rulebook had mostly been an easy target of my ridicule, but there was something to be said for a Nazi-like indoctrination into etiquette. Tinkie was amazingly poised and able to handle almost any social situation. She was versatile and flexible, and those were good things in the life we'd chosen to lead. She could talk with royalty or rabble. That was my partner.

We landed at LAX in the early morning hours. We thanked Charlize profusely and headed for the car rental counter. To my utter relief, I had a message from Graf. He'd obviously called while I was in the air.

"Sarah Booth, I'm at the house in Malibu. Meet me there."

I frowned as I closed my phone.

"What is it?" Tinkie asked. We were headed toward the
Cadillac she'd rented. Tinkie had a certain standard in vehicles, and this merlot Caddy suited her well.

"Graf says to meet him at the Malibu house."

"And?"

"He didn't say a thing about Federico or the movie or anything. And he called at three in the morning. Graf normally isn't awake at that time of night."

"Maybe he's missing you," Tinkie said, but her frown told me that she, too, found this suspicious.

"Or maybe he called when he knew I'd be in the air and couldn't answer. Maybe he doesn't want to talk to me." The insecurities I'd worked so hard to bury were poking their hands out of the grave.

She got behind the wheel. "Which way?"

I was torn. The film crew was supposed to be on a sound stage at the studio lot. Even though the night was black, there were scenes of the script that called for darkness. It was possible the cast and crew were at work. But Graf was in Malibu. I didn't know which direction to head in first. "Hold on," I said.

I tried calling Graf, then Federico, both with negative results. I wasn't certain where to go. I called Sheriff King.

"Tell me you've found Federico," I said when he came on the line.

"I could, but it would be a lie, and I wouldn't want to lie to a little lady like you."

So now he was going to pull out his charm. I wanted to stomp his cowboy-booted toe. "Have you spoken to Graf?"

"I haven't, but I guess I don't have to tell you it's not light out. Dawn is still an hour away, Ms. Delaney. It might be best if you wait until daylight. I thought we'd meet at the set around eight o'clock. If Marquez hasn't shown up by then, we'll launch a full investigation." He yawned. "I don't care for you movie types, but I've never seen an acclaimed director deliberately screw up his own project."

"I'm going to find Graf," I told him.

"I don't envy Mr. Milieu," he said, but he was chuckling as he hung up the phone.

"Perfect. The sheriff wants to be a stand-up comedian," I told Tinkie.

She was already flying along the highway. Tinkie could talk her way out of a ticket in Mississippi, but I wasn't so certain the California state troopers would be as easy to hornswoggle. Then again, if she did that thing where her lip popped out of her mouth, she could probably talk her way out of a murder charge.

"Try calling Graf," she suggested.

"Brilliant." I placed the call as we sped through the night. His phone rang and rang and rang. Just as it had before I left Costa Rica. Finally it rang through to voice mail and I left another message.

"I'm on my way to Malibu, Graf. I . . . can't wait to see you." I glanced at Tinkie who kept her gaze on the road.

We were away from the city lights, headed into the hills and canyons that were so wild and beautiful. Soon we were on the road to the house Graf and I were borrowing. I'd driven the road plenty before now, but I'd never really realized how isolated everything was. We passed the fire station, all dark for the night. The firemen were inside sleeping, like normal people. We climbed higher, winding around and using switchbacks for some of the steeper inclines. This terrain was called "hills" but in the eyes of a Delta girl, they were mountains, and not the gentle green giants of the Smokies but a more barren, harsher cousin.

"You've got to get a place in town, Sarah Booth," Tinkie said. "This is too far out and the road is dangerous."

"It's only temporary. But it is beautiful."

She made a sharp curve, the tires giving a low squeal. "Beautiful and isolated. This road gives me the willies, and it
isn't even raining. I can imagine when the rains come and the mudslides start and--"

"Give it a rest. Your point is made."

We pulled into the parking area of Bobby Joe Taylor's house. My little T-bird rental was there, but no sign of Graf's vehicle.

"Shit," I said, opening the door to let Sweetie and Chablis out to take a whiz. After Tinkie's driving, I needed one myself.

I used my key to the front door and Tinkie and I entered. The house had a stale odor--one that I associated with a place left empty for a while. But Graf had supposedly come home the day before, and his intention was to stay in this house. Or so he'd led me to believe.

"Graf!" I called his name loudly. "Graf!"

There was no response.

We'd brought the dogs in with us--I couldn't take a repeat of the fire or coyote scenario. Tinkie and I split up. She took the interior and I checked the porch and balcony that ran along the exterior.

While I was checking out the back balcony, I heard Sweetie and Chablis "pack up." They began barking at someone or something, and my heart lifted with the hope of Graf. By the time I got to the front of the house, though, the dogs had quieted and there was no sign of Graf or anyone else.

When Tinkie and I rejoined in the kitchen, neither of us had found a sign that showed Graf had ever made it back to this house. His bags weren't here and the house looked exactly as we'd left it.

"Where could he be?" I asked, not even trying to hide my worry.

Tinkie knew I didn't want to hear the answer, so she wisely said, "Call the sheriff."

It was a good suggestion, and I did. King wasn't any
happier to be awakened again, but he did take me seriously. "Let's meet at the set," he said. "I'll bring some deputies. We need to find out what happened to Federico and Mr. Milieu from the moment they got off the plane."

"Thanks, Sheriff King."

"I'll meet you as quickly as you can get there. I'll see if I can find someone who can bring in the whole cast and crew."

Sweetie Pie and Chablis were exhausted. Although I didn't want to leave them alone in the house, I also didn't want to haul them back down the mountain and into town again, where they'd be forced to wait in the car or a dressing room while Tinkie and I investigated.

"Let's leave them in the house," Tinkie said.