Zoe was approaching the jardín. She wasn’t sure where she was going, her only plan having been to escape Warren’s house as quickly as possible. She’d taken time to find and put on her sneakers—damned if she was going to slip on these cobblestones again—but beyond that, nothing. She needed to get outside, to clear her head. . . .
“Whose cross is this, Guadalupe?”
“I would rather not tell you that.”
“Did it belong to Nicholas Denby?”
“Madre de Dios . . .”
“Did it?”
“No, señorita. No.”
“Is this his blood?”
“I will not listen to this.”
“Stop treating me like I broke into this house. I am staying here. I am living here. I have a right to know.”
Guadalupe took a deep breath. “The cross—it is mine.”
“What?”
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
“This blood . . .”
“Mine.”
Zoe stared at her. “Why?”
“It is my offering,” Guadalupe whispered. “I bleed into Señor Clark’s garden every day.”
At first, Zoe hadn’t believed her. She had thought it was some desperate attempt to avoid the topic of Nicholas Denby and to protect Warren’s privacy . . . until Guadalupe had shown Zoe her hands—all those scratches. “Señor Clark is a wonderful man,” Guadalupe had said, and Zoe noticed how so many of the cuts crisscrossed. She remembered the cross-shaped wound on Warren’s hand and what he had said, her first night in the house, when she’d admired his shockingly lush garden.
Actually, water has nothing to do with it.
Who was this man Zoe was sharing a bed with?
She’d let her mind get twisted by pretty words and great sex and an apartment key and more words and more sex and roses on her pillow and a vacation in paradise. . . . And the sad truth was, all she wanted now were still more words and roses and sex—anything to stop her from thinking of crosses and cuts, of housekeepers bleeding on lilac bushes.
Zoe spotted La Cruz. She felt drawn to it, but purposely crossed the street away from it. She sat on the church steps, put her head in her hands and tried to will herself back to the start of her vacation. She couldn’t.
There was only so much absolute weirdness she could ignore.
In the past four months, Zoe had asked herself, Why Warren Clark? He was so blond and so perfect and so very confident. Not Zoe’s type by a long shot, plus a terrible conflict of interest. Why had she fallen so hard for this soap star? It wasn’t his power or his mystery or his perfect timing, no matter how often she tried to tell herself those things. Deep down, she’d always known what it was.
Since Daryl Barclay, Zoe had tried to avoid reality, to turn away from the news, to stop asking questions. . . . And it had been hard—impossible, really, until she’d met Warren. Warren, who’d been on soaps so long, he’d become a leading man in real life—too intense to be true, astounding in bed, flesh and blood infused with romantic fiction. Zoe had never met any man so thoroughly druglike as Warren. And that was why she’d fallen. He could make her forget.
But forgetting the truth didn’t erase it. Daryl Barclay had lived and killed, and nothing could change that. Jordan Brink had been brutally murdered and so had someone named Grace, and Naomi was not delusional. There was a secret club in this town. Vanessa was a member and so was Guadalupe and probably Reiki Master Paul and Rafael, too. Warren was, definitely. The club had something to do with crosses and maguey spines and self-mutilation, and where was Warren right now? Where did he keep disappearing to?
She needed to know.
Zoe closed her eyes. In her mind, she saw the haunted green eyes of Patty Woods. Patty, who had appeared before Zoe and Naomi like a vengeful ghost to tell Naomi her aunt should be ashamed. Patty, who had spoken in private to Vanessa . . . about the secret club. About Grace. Zoe recalled how Naomi had gazed at the house across the street from Dr. Dave’s office. That’s Patty Woods’s house. She’s . . . she was Jordan’s aunt. And it hit Zoe that of all the houses in San Esteban besides Warren’s, Patty Woods’s was the only one she knew how to get to.
Her head spilling over with questions, Zoe stood up and headed for the corner. She crossed the street before Studio Rafael, and moved toward the tall, dark house with the dying plants on its roof.
Patty had said she was leaving town today, but it was only one p.m. Zoe hoped she was still around. . . .
SIXTEEN
For a seventy-five-year-old man—for anyone, actually—Andrew Fennimore had an incredibly busy schedule. From the looks of the latest “Andrew’s Fans-and-More” newsletter, which Dana LeVine had e-mailed to Glen, Fennimore had appearances scheduled for every day this month. They were far-reaching, too—emceeing the Miss New York beauty pageant up in Albany, cutting the ribbon on a new strip mall in Fort Lee, signing copies of his self-help book, Think Yourself Younger!, at a Greenwich, Connecticut, Barnes & Noble. . . . Steve got exhausted just thinking about it.
Thank God today’s appearance was in Manhattan—a fan club “Meet and Eat” at a frilly, lunch-with-the-girlfriends-type restaurant called the Silver Teacup, on Fifty-fifth and Third, just a ten-minute walk from the Trumpet’s offices.
Seconds after reading the newsletter, Steve was out the door, in the elevator and racing up the street, weaving around pedestrians like a crazed reality show contestant, heart pounding. Yes, the Silver Teacup was close, but Fennimore’s fan club event had been a brunch; it had started three hours ago.
Steve got to the door sweaty and winded, his sports coat hanging on him, his shirt plastered to his back. Really, he had thought he was in better shape than this. He needed to start working out again, hit the rink at Chelsea Piers or something. . . . He took a few breaths, turned to the hostess. No need to get her attention. As it turned out, she was gaping at him already. “I’m, uh, here for the Fennimore brunch.”
“You are?” she said.
Steve followed her into the back room, where a long table was set up with pitchers of coffee, plates dotted with the sticky remains of a ham-and-egg breakfast, bread baskets now holding just a few neglected danishes, some disemboweled croissants. A couple dozen women in their sixties and seventies— some elegant in pastel suits, others dressed down in jeans or khaki pants and Day’s End T-shirts—chattered loudly, hoisting back Bloody Marys and mimosas like it was happy hour, a whole group of them clustered around Fennimore, who sat at the head of the table cracking jokes, signing T-shirts and copies of his book. Holding court. Other than Steve and a few put-upon waiters, the soap star was the only man in the room, and he seemed to have no problem with that.
Andrew Fennimore looked exactly the way you’d expect a business tycoon to look—if your only cultural reference was soap operas. He had the photogenic, chiseled features, the perfect shave, the shock of white hair, the red silk power tie. Even soused on Bloody Marys, which he obviously was, Fennimore had an air of dignity. A quality you’d call presidential—again, if your only reference was soap operas. Steve took few steps forward. “Mr. Fennimore?”
The actor looked up at him—a challenge of a glare in his gunmetal eyes. “Did Bobby send you?”
“Who’s Bobby?”
“Who’s Bobby?” snorted a large, silver-haired woman whose T-shirt read MRS. WELLINGTON HARDY in gold cursive letters. “He can’t be much of a fan!”
Fennimore said, “You’re not a lawyer?”
“Uh . . . no,” said Steve.
“Oh, thank God.” The actor’s face relaxed into a thousand-watt TV-star smile. “Sorry. I’m just experiencing a little palimony trauma right now.” He stood up and shook Steve’s hand. He was quite a bit shorter and slighter than Steve, but his grip made up for that—this guy could crush soup cans. “What can I do for you?”
Steve started to tell Fennimore that he was with the Trumpet and interested in an interview. But besides the fact that The Day’s End publicist now hated the Trumpet, as
Fennimore was bound to find out, Enid would never go for a story about some soap actor or his antiaging book. And Steve didn’t feel right getting an old man’s hopes up about something that was not going to happen. “It’s . . . personal,” he said. “I’ve got to see you alone.”
Fennimore frowned. The woman with the T-shirt said, “Andy, have you been a naughty boy again?” but he ignored her.
“Be right back, ladies,” he said, and the two men went in the other room and sat at the bar, Steve ordering a cup of coffee, Fennimore what was probably his eighth Bloody Mary of the morning. “You sure you’re not with Bobby?” he said.
Steve said, “Listen, I’m sorry to be so cryptic, but I need to find out some information fast. It’s about one of your costars.”
Fennimore took an enormous gulp of his drink, ice cubes clinking.
Steve continued. “My friend . . . my best friend, actually . . . she’s dating Warren Clark and he took her down to Mexico with him. I need to make sure she’s safe.”
Fennimore stared at him. Even as the words were leaving his mouth, Steve had realized how ridiculous he sounded. Obviously, this drunken soap actor felt the same. “Let me ask you something. Is your friend a grown-up?”
“Okay, I know I sound like a jackass, but you don’t have to patronize me.” Ask the old-timer. What a stupid idea.
Fennimore blinked several times, trying to focus on Steve’s face. “I’m not patronizing you,” he said. “The question wasn’t rhetorical. You said your friend is romantically involved with Warren Clark. Which leads me to ask . . .” He leaned closer. His voice dropped. “Is your friend . . . a grown-up?”
Steve’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“You understand me now.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes. She’s thirty years old.”
“Good,” Fennimore said. “Maybe he’s learned his lesson, then.” He started to get up.
“Wait,” said Steve. “Are you saying Warren Clark and Tiffany Baxter—”
“Sssh.” Fennimore sat back down and glared at Steve, the gray eyes turning to knife blades. When he spoke again, very quietly, some of the slur was gone from his voice. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He glanced around the room. “But I am the only one who knows other than The Day’s End brass and Tiffany’s parents and Tiffany herself, who trusted me enough to tell me. Confidentiality contracts have been signed. So if you say one word about this to anyone but your friend, if I see even so much as a blind item on Page Six, my lawyers will ream you so hard, you will have trouble walking for the rest of your poverty-stricken life.”
“Jesus. She’s just a kid.”
“Have you ever seen Tiffany up close? She’s fifteen going on twenty-five.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m not excusing what he did. It got him fired, for god-sakes. I’m just saying that Clark is not a pedophile, per se. And your friend is perfectly safe in Mexico with him. Good God, what do you think he’s going to do? Turn into a werewolf?”
Steve looked at him. “I have no idea.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve got to get back to the ladies.”
“Mr. Fennimore, can I show you something?” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out Jordan’s notebook.
Fennimore hesitated for a moment, then took it and opened it, his gaze moving over the pages.
“I’m going to be totally honest with you,” said Steve. “I am a reporter for the Trumpet.”
“Oh, Christ on a stick.”
“No, no, listen to me. I’m not here on business, I swear. . . . That notebook you’re holding; it’s for another story I’m working on. It belonged to Jordan Brink.”
Slowly, Fennimore’s gaze moved up to meet Steve’s face. “The . . . boy? In Mexico?”
“Yes,” said Steve.
Fennimore said nothing, just stood there. “I . . . I didn’t know that Tiffany knew Jordan Brink,” he said finally. “When it was in the papers, she never said anything—”
“I don’t believe she did know him,” said Steve.
“Then, why—”
“Jordan was killed in the same town where Warren Clark’s second home is. Warren Clark was there at the time of his murder.” He gave him a long look. “I think Warren connects Tiffany and Jordan. Jordan knew of her—I think because of her involvement with Warren.”
“What . . . what are these lists?”
“I have no idea.”
“Tiffany’s on here. He put her on the same list as he put himself.”
“Yes.”
“And also . . .”
“Also what?”
He glanced away, gave him back the notebook. “I’m . . . I’m not sure. It could be a different name. I need to check. Can I have your card?” His face looked about three shades whiter.
Steve pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to him. “Mr. Fennimore?”
“Andy.”
“Andy,” Steve said, “can you please talk to Tiffany for me? Can you mention those initials—SPLV—see if she knows what they mean?”
He gave Steve a nod, then a sad half smile. “I always told Tiffany she was looking for trouble,” he said. “I’d no idea she’d be so adept at finding it.”
Patty Woods’s house was mostly dark, but Zoe noticed a light on in one of the second-floor windows—a good sign she hadn’t left yet. She hadn’t shut off her electricity. Even if she was keeping it on so she could rent the place out, she would’ve at least turned off her lights before leaving town for good, right?
Zoe pressed the doorbell and waited. No answer. She hit it again, and was about to try the door when something knocked into her back . . . a tackle of paws and untrimmed nails. She nearly fell to the pavement again, but caught herself this time, whirling around to the yellow fur, the tongue in the face.
“Adele! Stop that!” Robin shouted from the end of the street.
Zoe put her arms around Adele, scratched her behind the ears, her mood lifting. “Well, hello there, you crazy dog.”
Robin came running up, her cheeks pink, panting harder than the dog. “Adele, down!” She was wearing a long-sleeved black cocktail dress that seemed inappropriate in this weather, patent leather boots on the cobblestones. It was impressive how quickly she could get around in that outfit. “Hey, Zoe, sorry about that.”
“No need to apologize,” Zoe said. “I love Adele.”
Robin smiled. “Looks like the feeling’s mutual. My dog is an excellent judge of character, you know.” She winked. “She’s crazy about Warren, too.”
Zoe cringed a little. “Speaking of Warren,” she said, “you haven’t seen him, have you?”
“No . . .” Robin glanced at the Woods house and lowered her voice. “You sure won’t find him in there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Now she knows what it’s like to have a visitor disappear. “They don’t get along, do they?” said Zoe. “Warren and Patty.”
Robin’s eyes widened. Her gaze moved up and to the left. She’s going to lie. “Oh no,” she said. “I just meant you wouldn’t find him in there because Patty’s left town. Warren and Patty get along great.” Robin visibly gulped. Zoe thought, She’s almost as bad a liar as Steve.
“She’s gone already? Really?”
“Well, that’s what Dave told me.” Robin cleared her throat. “Hey, I almost forgot. How was Las Aguas?”
“You knew about that?”
“Knew about it?” She grinned. “Who do you think set up the candles and the picnic?”
“That was you?”
She nodded. “Warren told me he wanted to surprise you, and I kind of . . . took it from there.”
“It was amazing.”
A smile overcame Robin’s face. “Oh, good!” she said. “Listen, I was going to grab some lunch. You feel like joining me?” Next to her, Adele was sitting at attention, tongue lolling out of her mouth, fluffy tail thumping on the pavement. Both of them, so eager to please . . .
Zoe thought: Ro
bin has known Warren for ten years. He confides in her, and loyal though she is, Robin can’t lie to save her soul. Patty might have left town, but as far as reliable Warren Clark sources went, Robin was probably better.
Zoe scratched Adele behind the ear, met Robin’s smile with her own. “I’d love to go to lunch with you,” she said. “My treat.”
Robin’s idea of going out for lunch was buying a couple of bollilo sandwiches at one of the stands on the jardín (she refused to let Zoe pay) and then taking them back to her desk at Dr. Dave’s. “Sorry,” she said as they sat down, “but Dave was gone all morning, so I had to turn people away and reschedule. This afternoon is going to be a major pain. . . .”
Zoe looked at her. “Where was he?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Huh?”
Zoe gave her a long look, then started to unwrap her ham-and-avocado sandwich. “Warren was gone when I woke up,” Zoe said. “I have no idea where he is, either.” She took a bite. “Ever since I’ve gotten here, I’ve been waking up alone.”
Robin let out a nervous tic of a laugh. “Knowing Warren,” she said, “I’ll bet he was out buying you presents.” She blinked a few times. Zoe could tell Robin was uncomfortable, but she wasn’t sure whether it was because of what she was saying about Warren, or because of the intent way that Zoe was observing her face. Best to back off a little bit. She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly, letting her gaze wander from Robin to the begging Adele and then across the room to the painting of the maguey spine. “Dr. Dave painted that, huh?” she asked.
“I hate it.”
Zoe looked at her. She had said it so nonchalantly, while plucking a piece of ham out of her sandwich and feeding it to the dog. But when Robin glanced up and met her gaze, Zoe sensed something in her eyes—a hint of fear. “Why?”
Robin said, “I don’t know. . . . I feel like . . . maybe . . . some things shouldn’t be painted.”
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