“Riley!”
“You know I’m kidding, Vivvie. Now find me an address.”
The address for the offices of The Hollywood Scene pops up on my phone, and forty-five minutes later once we get through traffic, we are in Hollywood and looking for a parking place. We finally find one.
“How are we going to play this?” Riley asks.
I look at him. “I have no idea. I thought you would have the answers, Watson.”
“Not a one.”
“Great. Well, here’s to winging it,” I say as we walk through the glass doors of the tabloid’s offices.
A blonde girl who’s probably not too much older than Riley and me is behind the reception desk. She looks up from a computer screen. “Hello,” she says. “May I help you?”
“I sure hope so. See, my brother and I just took a road trip because we wanted to check out some of the colleges here in LA.” I am putting on what I hope sounds like a Midwestern accent because after doing a little research on Tracy Sanford, I learned she is from Chicago originally. “And, Nate here was like, we should stop in and see our second cousin Tracy. And, I really want to be a journalist, and I know she is one, but I couldn’t remember where she worked, so we called our mom, who told us, and here we are. Is Tracy Sanford here?”
The receptionist eyes us suspiciously. She is so not buying this.
“What did you say your names were?”
“Oh, tell Tracy that Martina and Nate are here.”
“I’ll see if she is available.” The receptionist picks up the phone and dials an extension.
Riley gives me this shocked look and mouths the names Martina and Nate.
I nod. “She’s a tabloid reporter,” I whispered to him. “She will figure this out pretty quick, I am sure, and she will be right . . . here.”
The woman who Riley and I saw online when we did our research materializes in front of us practically a minute after the receptionist calls and relates our lame story. Yep, it’s for real. Tracy Sanford the reporter is the same woman who appears in the video that Nate gave me. “Nate and Martina. Hi. So good to see you. Why don’t you come into my office?” she says.
“That would be so great,” I say.
Poor Riley looks like he might puke.
“Come on, Nate,” I say. “Let’s go check out our cousin’s office.”
“Great.”
We follow Tracy back behind some cubicles and down a hall and on into a small corner office. She shuts the door and immediately says, “Who the hell are you two, really? And what the hell do you want?”
“We want to know where Martina Lunes is.”
“I have no idea. Who are you? I am going to call the cops.”
“I wouldn’t do that. We know all about the thousand dollars you paid to Nate Deacon at Fairmont Academy and the notes you had him leave for Martina.”
“Nooo. I didn’t pay Nate that money, and I had nothing to do with writing the notes to Martina.”
“But you know the woman who did, don’t you?” Riley says.
“What are you two after?” she asks.
“We want to find Martina,” I say. “She’s our friend.”
“Don’t you think you should let the police do that?” she says.
“Funny thing is, I am pretty sure the police would want to hear about the fact that you came to our school and asked all sorts of questions about our friend, then had Nate write the notes and offer to pay him. I am sure they would love that,” I say.
“Fine. Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you what I know if you’ll just go away. So, this woman came to me about a year ago and said she had some information about Erika Martín and Rodrigo Lunes. She gave me all sorts of photos of them and told me details about the stalker situation—she was bringing me tabloid gold.”
“And she became your source,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Who is she? Why did you trust her?”
Tracy stares at us. “Look, I’m not writing for the Los Angeles Times. I don’t exactly do a background check on my sources.”
“So you just take the word of anyone who offers you revealing personal photos and a bunch of gossip?” I raise my voice. Riley shoots a look my way and I take a deep breath.
Tracy stares at me as if I am a lunatic. “Pretty much.”
“Our friend is missing,” I say. “I’m worried she’s in trouble. You should be, too.”
“Your friend is with some guy. Everyone says so,” Tracy Sanford replies.
“You’re wrong,” Riley says.
“Who is your source?” I ask.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because it will be your fault if something bad happens to Martina.”
She sighs. “God, you’re annoying. But fine, I’ll tell you. My source was the family’s nanny, once upon a time. Says her name is Felicity del Rey. I don’t know.”
“When did she work for them? Martina is seventeen—it had to have been a long time ago. Why would she still be holding a grudge? If I had to put money on it, I’d say your source is a liar. What was her deal with the notes and money?”
“I can’t believe I am telling you guys this.”
“You can tell us or I call the police,” I say. “Which will really eat up your whole afternoon.”
“Sit down,” she says and points to the two chairs opposite her desk. Riley and I follow the order. “Tabloid journalism is, how should I put this delicately . . .? Well, we don’t write award-winning journalism. We write stories that sell papers. And, sometimes that means the truth gets slightly exaggerated.”
“Slightly?” I say.
“This Felicity del Rey came to me and said she had some dirt on Erika Martín. I didn’t have to pay her a ton to spill the details. She seemed to know quite a bit about the family. A lot of her info did check out, so I took her word for it that she had been their nanny at one time. She continued to give me sporadic information over the past year, and she always had photos to back up her stories. Finally, recently, she told me that Martina was not her parents’ biological daughter, and that with a little help from me, she could get proof.”
“What kind of help did she want from you?” I have a sinking suspicion that I already know.
“She asked me to find a kid at Martina’s school who knew her. She told me to tell the kid that I’d pay him or her to drop Martina a note or two. I didn’t ask what the notes would say. I just did as Felicity suggested because her stories had already sold a lot of magazines.”
I shake my head. “You do realize that those stories are probably the reason that Martina Lunes is missing,” I say.
“I am just a writer,” she says. “That’s all.”
“No. You have no soul. You’re not a real writer.” I really want to punch this lady. “Where does this Felicity live?”
Riley places a hand on my arm.
“I don’t know. I didn’t get that close to her,” Tracy says.
“You must know how to reach her,” Riley says. “Don’t bullshit us.”
She sighs and leans back in her chair. “There is a number that she gave me. It always goes straight to a recording. I leave a message and, within a day or two, she calls me back. Usually, though, she is the one who reaches out first with new information. I’ve only called her a few times to make sure I have my facts straight.”
I laugh at this. “Facts,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Please.”
I know that I need to get myself in check here, but this woman is on my last nerve. “Here’s what you’re going to do: call her and set up a meeting.”
“I don’t think so,” she says.
I stand. Riley looks up at me. “Come on. We’re out of here. I am sure that the detectives who interviewed me for over an hour about Martina’s disappearance would love to hear about this. Especially the way
you bribed an underage student to place threatening notes in another student’s locker. I am sure there is criminal intent in that.”
“Who are you?” she asks again. “I still don’t get why you care so much.”
“I am Martina’s friend and roommate, and that’s all you need to know. Now, I will ask you one more time—call Felicity del Rey. Tell her on the voice mail that you want to meet her tomorrow afternoon at Vick’s Café in Malibu at 3:00 p.m. Do your best to sound convincing. If she isn’t there tomorrow, we are going to the cops.”
We walk out of The Hollywood Scene offices. I don’t turn back to see Tracy Sanford’s expression, but I am hopeful that I made an impression on her.
“What do you think?” I ask once we are outside.
“I think you are one scary chick when you want to be. You’re a badass, Vivvie.”
“No. I’m not. I’m just scared for Martina, and fear brings out the mean side in me.”
He laughs. “I wouldn’t call that mean. That was pure badass.”
CHAPTER thirty-two
Riley and I stop at Beverly Center, where I buy Tristan a gift and get back to school just after dinner. It’s not much, because my mom isn’t able to give me a ton of spending money at school. It’s just a box of chocolates. But everyone likes chocolate.
I’m happy to say, while curled up on Tristan and Riley’s couch, popping a raspberry chocolate truffle into my mouth, that he seems happy with the candy.
“You didn’t need to get me anything,” he says.
I sit up and cross my legs. “I wanted to. You know I have some things I need to work on within myself, and the big one is the trust thing. I haven’t ever gotten over my dad leaving us.” I’m thinking that maybe if I open up more to Tristan about my family that he might feel more comfortable talking to me.
“I’m sure you haven’t,” he says and takes my hands. “Do you ever talk to him?”
“No, but what is really hard is that I do see his picture sometimes in the equestrian magazines. He’s well known on the East Coast as a trainer. That part is tough.”
“At least he’s back east and not teaching here.”
“That’s true. But I do have a fear that one day I will see him at an event, and if I do, I will have to figure out how to deal with it.”
“And you will deal with it. And I will be right there with you,” Tristan replies.
“Thank you.” I kiss him lightly, but he returns it more intensely. I know that we could get carried away here, but I also know that Riley could walk in any minute.
A moment later, I pull away, laughing a little. “I’m embarrassed to admit this but I’m worried that Riley will bust us,” I say, shaking my head.
Tristan laughs, too. “I hear you,” he says. “Roommates are a buzz kill. I guess I’ll have more chocolate instead.” He reaches for the candy box.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” I say. “Have you noticed Joel acting weird at all?”
I change the subject because I’m realizing that Tristan is not just going to immediately open up to me. Whatever his secret is, he seems to be pretty terrified of sharing it. All I know so far is that I think his father is abusive—then there’s the thing he mentioned about his dad doing something illegal. I’m going to take baby steps. I figure talking about other things is a good way to go for now.
Tristan taps me on the side of my head with his finger. “You are a funny girl. Always curious, always worried about others. No. I haven’t noticed, but I kind of think that Joel always acts a little weird.”
“You do? Why?”
“I don’t know. He acts like a guy who has something to hide.”
“Yeah. He’s hiding the truth of who he really is so he can protect Riley. I don’t think that’s strange. I think it’s a good thing.”
“Can we go back to making out?” he asks. “I don’t want to argue, and I don’t want to talk about Joel and Riley.”
I smile at him. “Okay. This time, I will let you get your way.”
Just as he leans in to kiss me again, Riley comes walking through the door. “Hey. What are you guys up to?” he asks.
“Just hanging out,” I reply, probably a little too quickly and in a high-pitched tone.
“Sure. Whatever. I already figured you guys are swapping spit.”
“Riley!” we both exclaim at the same time.
“Anyway, check this out,” Riley says. “I just spotted Joel and Emily down by the horses, and they were holding hands, and it looked cozy.”
“What? But he’s . . .” Tristan says.
Riley shrugs. “I don’t know what to think, but yeah, it kind of struck me as odd, too.”
“Maybe it was a ‘just friends’ moment,” I say.
“Or maybe he isn’t gay,” Tristan says.
Riley frowns. “It isn’t like that, T. You know the saying that leopards don’t change their spots? We don’t just wake up one day and decide we are gay, and then the next decide that we aren’t.”
“I’m sorry, man. No offense,” Tristan replies.
I sit back on the couch thinking this all over. I have another theory but am not voicing it until I have the chance to confront Joel about it first. My guess is that he’s using an innocent Emily to gain Riley’s goodwill, and that is just plain wrong.
I stand. “I think I’m going to go and see my horse.”
“Vivvie . . .” Tristan replies in a warning tone.
“What? I just want to go and say good night to Harmony. You can join me.”
“I’ve got homework to finish, and you are not a good liar. You may want to say good night to Harmony, but I think we know you have ulterior motives named Joel and Emily.”
I shrug. “I’m curious, is all. I’m off. See you tomorrow.” I kiss him on the cheek and wave good-bye to Riley.
I’m at the barn in five minutes but I don’t see Emily or Joel. I’m annoyed because I must have just missed them. So, instead, I go inside the barn to give Harmony a kiss good night on the nose. It’s our routine. She does this thing where I kiss her nose and then she pushes her nose in my face again as if to say that she wants another one. We play this game for a couple of minutes and I laugh. I throw my arms around her neck. “I love you,” I say.
I feel the love back for me, but as I hug her I immediately sense her communicating a wave of fear, and once again she starts showing me images that don’t make sense to me. She shows me a needle, and a hand, and the neck of a chestnut horse I don’t recognize. I see the needle go into the horse’s neck. Then I get a glimpse of the horse’s face. It’s Melody! I’m amazed at how clear the image is since so much of what I’ve been getting over the past months is vague clouds of color.
“I see,” I say. “So you and your friend have been having some more girl talk. Anything else?”
She reaches out with her nose again, but I get no more communication. I give her one last kiss.
Before leaving, a rush of curiosity sends me to Melody’s stall to see if she might talk to me, too.
I start by stroking her neck. “You and Harmony have been having some serious talks, haven’t you?” Then I deliberately place my hand on the area on her neck where a vet would put a needle. I decide to go easy on her because I don’t know this horse like I know my own horses, and I already suspect that she has been traumatized. I start the communication by showing her images of Harmony. Then, I put Joel’s image out there and say, “Joel loves you very much. He would never hurt you. But I think that someone did.” That’s when I picture the needle, and I feel her immediately tense. She gives me back the color blue. The blue quickly fades to gray. Why do the horses keep reverting to colors?
Then, the gray diminishes, and I see a distinctive-looking watch on a man’s hand. Melody switches the imagery. I feel like I’m watching a movie pieced together from rapid
clips that are hard to understand. They are scenes without sound. She shows me the dead pony again, and then herself and the little girl on the ground.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “You were drugged, too.” I think that is what she wants to convey. I need to find a way to get across to her that Joel wouldn’t do this to her. Again, I try through my imagery and communication to show her Joel and his love for her. But she doesn’t relax, and I keep getting the same images over and over like they’re on a loop for her.
It hits me that Joel might be the only one who can heal her. This poses a serious question and a problem for me. The question is, should I take a chance and tell Joel my secret and risk him thinking that I am crazy insane? Not to mention risk that he might expose me to everyone? For some reason, I think I can trust Joel. I see the lengths that he has gone to to keep Riley’s secret—although if he really is leading Emily on, I think he’s going in a bad direction. But still, his horse needs some healing. Melody is hurting, that much is obvious. Questions run through my head. Can I somehow heal her without telling Joel? Or, is it possible for me to teach him how to heal her? It all comes down to whether sharing my so-called gift is a smart thing to do.
The truth is, though, I don’t know what is smart at this point. After saying good-bye to the horses, I head back to my room and dive in to the boatload of homework that’s waiting for me. Once I’m finished, I climb into bed, send Tristan a good-night text, and then turn off my light. But soon enough, I find that I can’t fall asleep. I toss and turn in bed. After a half hour of trying to sleep without luck, I get up and turn on the computer. Something about Tracy Sanford’s story is bugging me big-time.
I go to my standby Google search engine and type in Felicity del Rey plus nanny. I get nothing. Then I type in Martina Lunes plus nanny, and I do get one little item. It’s a small piece from Today’s Star magazine, which I don’t think is even printed any longer. However, here it is on the eternal Internet. It’s a page on celebrity “tiny tots.” It’s from fifteen years ago, so Martina would have been two years old. It shows a photo of Martina as a toddler at the beach in Malibu with a caption, “Little Lunes starlet hits the beach with nanny Isabella Garcia.” The picture shows a woman who seems to be in her twenties, short dark hair, a little frumpy, but a big grin on her face as she builds a sand castle with Martina, who is adorably chubby and all smiles.
Dark Harmony: A Vivienne Taylor Horse Lover's Mystery (Fairmont Riding Academy Book 2) Page 15