A Second Chance at Murder (12 page)

L
ight penetrated my eyelids and the hands that had held me under suddenly pulled me up only to dunk me back in the water. The action was repeated again, I realized it was Dad holding on to me. He was getting leverage to pull me into the raft. On the third time, he hoisted me up over the ridge and I flopped into the bottom of the raft, like a dead fish.

The crew navigated the raft over to an eddy where we lodged it against the sandbank and climbed out. My legs were shaking uncontrollably and I had to lean on Dad just to get to shore. Before I could collapse onto the beach, Dad embraced me.

“Georgia, are you all right?”

I hugged Dad while I caught my breath. “Got the wind knocked out of me. Thank goodness I had on the life vest.”

Miguel scratched his head. “I guess we should have gone left.”

Parker threw the oar he'd white-knuckled through the entire ordeal and broke it against a rock, spewing out a string of obscenities. “What the heck do you mean, I guess we should have gone left!”

Miguel jumped away from Parker.

A rush of compassion flooded me. Poor Miguel. How could he have known we'd get tossed out of the raft. He was just a hired cameraman. Then a horrible thought struck me. Miguel hadn't intentionally told us to go in the wrong direction, had he?

Miguel's face flushed red with anger and he let out his own string of obscenities, from what I gathered, but in Spanish. He finished with, “Next time, do not ask me anything!” and made a gesture with his hands as if zipping his lips.

Dad, the consummate peacemaker, clapped Miguel on the back. “It wasn't your fault. We don't know that the other path is any better. We could have done worse.”

Miguel looked momentarily pacified and said, “
¡Sí! ¡Sí!
That is true!” He flung his hand out toward Parker in a “take that” gesture.

Parker gave Miguel a dirty look but said nothing.

In the distance, we heard high-pitched screams. Floating down the river was another raft, this one carrying two beautiful girls, one with fire-red hair and the other with long blond hair. Both were wearing string bikinis sans life vests. They waved wildly when they saw us.

“Woo-hoo!” DeeCee screamed.

“Howdy!” Daisy yelled.

They looked like they were having the time of their lives, not a care in the world. DeeCee was reclining and had her feet up on the side of the raft.

Dad cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Get your life vests on!”

Their cameraman had the camera in one hand and an oar in the other, leisurely guiding the raft away from any boulders or whitewater. He seemed smitten with Double D, and I guess I didn't blame him. I only regretted not waiting for them and joining them on their raft instead.

Victoria stomped around the bank. “Well, now we know, for sure. We're last!”

“We're probably going to miss lunch now, too, and I'm starving,” Parker whined.

“Oh, shut up about food, will you?” Victoria said. She picked up a rock and smashed it against another one. The rocks cracked in her hand and she abruptly turned toward me. “It's all your fault! What? Do you want to lose?”

Dad held up a hand. “Now—”

But Victoria continued to scream. “I mean, it's totally obvious that you want us to lose when you jump out of the boat!”

Dad tsked at her. “How can you say that? Those were real rapids! Georgia didn't make those up!”

I lay back on the sand, shaded my eyes with my hand and tried to tune her out. My ankle throbbed from when
I'd slammed into the rock. It was the same ankle that I'd twisted the day before. If I wasn't careful, I'd end up leaving the show on a stretcher.

As Dad was scolding Victoria, I heard Parker say, “Come on Vicky. I really don't want to miss lunch.”

I sat up. Parker had pulled the raft to the edge of the eddy and suddenly he and Victoria jumped into the raft. Their cameraman struggled to climb onboard.

“Hey! Wait,” Dad screamed, lunging for the raft.

Victoria and Parker pushed away from the bank. Dad jumped into the river after them.

“Wait! What are you doing?” I yelled.

Victoria flashed me a dirty look, one that told me exactly what she thought of me and where I could go straight to.

“Hey!” Miguel shouted, as he realized what was going on. “Get back here!”

Dad and Miguel raced out into the icy water after them, but it was too late. With one bold stroke of their oars, the raft zipped into the current and was whisked away. Victoria laughed a shrill “in your face” laugh.

Dad and Miguel were too angry to stop running.

“Let them go, guys! We can't afford to challenge the current without a raft.”

Dad and Miguel stopped short of the section where the river would carry them out. We watched the raft bob up and down with the current as Parker and Victoria sped away.

A feeling of desperation overwhelmed me. I only
wanted to lie on the beach and feel the sun warm me, but instead I was tortured by my fractured thoughts. What was Victoria so angry about? This was only a game. Why did she have such animosity toward me? The image of her smashing the rocks in her hands swirled around in my brain. Could that have been how she'd killed Annalise? By bashing her on the head with a large rock?

Dad returned to the shore, his face flushed with anger. “What nerve! I can't believe they left us stranded!”

Miguel let out a string of rapid-fire Spanish. I know Dad didn't understand the words, but he heartily agreed with the sentiment of frustration.

I stood and limped toward them. “What do we do now? Do you think Cheryl and Becca will send us another raft? Or what? Are we out of the competition?”

“We're not out!” Dad said. “Anything can happen. They can take a wrong fork, get completely lost.” He held up a finger as if inspiration had suddenly struck him. “Remember! Expect the unexpected!”

I sat back down on the beach and propped my swollen ankle up on a nearby rock. “In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy the sun. How's your hangover, Dad?”

Dad ignored me. “Do you have a phone on you, Miguel?”

He sighed. “Yes, but the cell service is bad in the mountains.” He trudged out of the water and over to a mound of grass. He put the camera down and pulled a mobile from an interior pocket under his life vest.

He double-checked the display and grunted.

“Is that waterproof?” Dad asked, looking over Miguel's shoulder.

“The case is waterproof, yes,” he said, “but look, no coverage.” He handed the phone to Dad, who handed it directly back.

“How do we get out of here? Is there a trail we can hike?” Dad asked. He looked over at me, a concerned expression on his face.

“There is a back-roads trail.” Miguel sighed. “It's very long though.”

“Can we make it to the finish?” Dad asked. “I mean, do we have a chance of staying in this thing? Or is it over?”

“I'm sure it's over,” I said. I clapped Dad on the back. “Don't worry, it's okay.”

He hugged me. “I'm sorry, Peaches.”

“Oh, Dad, it's not your fault.”

He pressed his hands against my shoulders and gently pushed me away from him, so he could study my face. “Maybe there's still a chance.”

I shrugged. “We did our best. I . . .”

“There is a trail ahead,” Miguel said, indicating a break in the foliage off to the right. “But there is also a road down this way . . .” He pointed to the left in the direction we'd come on the raft. “What if we find a ride?”

Dad and I glanced at each other. “Is there a rule that we have to arrive at the finish line by raft?”

“I don't think so,” I said.

We rushed toward Miguel, who was hoisting the camera on his shoulder. “Let's go.”

•   •   •

T
he trail to the road was covered with blackberry bushes and poison oak. It was a good thing that Dad was a walking
Farmer's Almanac
, because he identified every single plant along the way, guiding us away from all the dangers.

As we hiked along with Miguel, horrible thoughts about him plagued me. How smart was it to hike out into the wilderness with him? He couldn't have been sweeter to Dad or me, but what did we really know about him? He was likely a Basque separatist.

He could be planning to lead us deep in the woods right now and kill us.

And yet, he'd helped Dad and me out of a jam twice.

“Miguel, did you know Annalise?” I asked finally.

He frowned and pointed to the camera. Cheryl probably wouldn't like us discussing anything about the murder, but I couldn't help myself.

I waved a hand around nonchalantly. “Don't worry, they'll edit it out.”

Even still, Miguel whipped the camera off his shoulder and turned it off. “We shouldn't discuss it. Don't talk about her,” he whispered urgently.

“Why?” I asked.

Dad was marching in front of us and he suddenly turned around. “What's going on?”

Miguel shrugged. “No good can come from it.”

“So you did know her,” I pressed. “How well did you know her? Are you part of ETA, too? I know you went to the meeting last night.”

He shook his head. “I'm not part of ETA, don't be crazy. I'm Aragonese!”

“What?” I asked.

“I'm from Jaca. We are Aragonese, here. Not Basque. ETA is Basque. There is no one here in Jaca friendly with ETA. They put a bomb near our Plaza de Toros last summer and killed three people.” His face was angry now and I regretted causing him distress.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “
Señora
Antonia at the B&B told me Annalise was ETA and I saw you go to that meeting—”

“It wasn't an ETA meeting,” he said. “We are anti-ETA. You didn't stay for the end of the meeting.”

“No,” I admitted.

“That building had been taken over by ETA last summer. When they planned the Plaza de Toros bombing. We found it last week and took it back. Last night we burned their banner.”

Miguel put the camera back on his shoulder and turned it on, indicating that our conversation was over.

The trail we were on had high grass and it scratched my legs. My ankle felt numb and I ached to be at the finish line.

I mulled over what Miguel had said. So he and the others at the meeting were anti-ETA. Actually in terms of a motive for murder, it didn't matter. Someone against the ETA could be just as likely to kill Annalise as someone who was in support of ETA. In fact, a case could
be made that someone who was anti-ETA might have a stronger motive.

As I hiked behind Dad I noted his tan shoulders were getting red. If Dad was getting burned, what about me? My skin was fairer than Snow White's. I touched my shoulder and already felt the sting of the burn.

“Isn't there any shade around here?” I complained.

“Look,” Dad said, pointing up ahead.

The trail cleared into an orange grove and at the end of the grove was a small white cottage. I don't think I've ever been so happy to see a cottage in my life!

Miguel plucked an orange off a tree and broke it open, it was bright red on the inside. He handed half to me and half to Dad. “
Sanguinello
, ‘blood orange.' The best of Spain.”

The orange was the sweetest fruit I'd tasted in my life.

Dad said, “Forget almonds. I should grow these.”

We approached the cottage and noticed several goats and chickens in the backyard. Miguel called out and a tiny woman wearing an apron emerged. She greeted Miguel warmly and then turned to us and fired away in Spanish. Her face friendly and animated as she spoke.

Dad peppered her with a slew of questions. Which Miguel kindly translated. The woman wanted to feed us, insisting we eat some chorizo sandwiches she'd recently made. Her husband joined us on the porch and seemed only too eager to talk to Dad through Miguel about current farming practices in Spain.

“We have to go,” I said to Dad.

Miguel explained that we were in a race and needed a ride, but Dad waved an impatient hand at us and continued chatting with the farmer, Augustine.

The woman, Josefa, tsked over my red shoulders and retreated into the cottage. She returned with Nivea and slathered some on. Part of me wanted to move in with Josefa and Augustine. I could live here, eat oranges and chorizo all summer long. But I knew we had to get going.

Miguel seemed to echo my sentiments, because he said in a loud voice, “
¡Bueno!
” and clapped his hands authoritatively.

Augustine sprang to his feet and disappeared into the cottage. He returned, jiggling a pair of keys in his hands and gestured to the beat-up pickup at the end of the lane. He laughed heartily and motioned for us to follow him.

Miguel filmed us jumping into the back of the pickup. When he got a shot he was happy with, he climbed into the front with Augustine.

“Do you think we have a chance?” Dad asked.

I shrugged. “I don't know. We probably should have passed on those chorizo sandwiches if we really wanted to stay in the race.”

Dad looked horrified. “Pass on the sandwiches? Those were the highlight of my trip!”

I laughed. “I know.” After a moment, I asked, “What do you make of Victoria? She has a fierce side to her, doesn't she?”

Dad nodded.

“Did you see her bang those rocks together?” I asked.

“She's an angry young girl,” Dad said. “And didn't you say the victim had a head wound?”

“Yeah, it's disturbing. The night Scott disappeared, Victoria was out roaming around. Parker was looking for her for a while.”

“I can't believe they left us like that,” Dad said. “Do you think they preplanned it?”

The hair on the back of my neck stood to attention. Could she be hoping we'd not make it back?

“How could they have planned it, though? They didn't know I would fall out of the raft.”