Her face was pale against her dark hair, and Libby took her arm to guide her into the den. “Yes. It’s amazing we can walk upright when our knees are so easily injured. I’m sorry you were worried. Well, of course, you’d be worried, but the surgery is a routine one and not dangerous.”
Rafael leaned against the arched doorway. “I would have had Manuel bring you to the hospital if Santos had been gravely injured. Do you think I’d lie to you?”
“No, never, but you might soften things a bit.”
He shrugged. “I might. Someone flashed a mirror to blind Santos. That’s the truth that’s difficult to accept. The arena was full of fans shouting his name, but someone wanted him dead and tried to use a bull as a weapon.”
Maggie sank onto the sofa. “Where was Ana Santillan?”
“She was a few rows above us,” Libby explained. “So she didn’t do it, unless she had an accomplice. How many women could be mad enough at Santos to hope he’d be gored?”
“I only know his reputation,” Rafael offered. “Ana was his last girlfriend, but there could have been a dozen others before her, maybe more.”
Libby schooled her features rather than look shocked. So, all she’d ever be was the American girl he’d dated one summer. She could see it all so clearly, and yet the possibility teased her senses in the most shameful way.
“We could search the tabloid archives,” Maggie suggested. “Maybe they’re online.”
Mrs. Lopez came to the doorway, and Rafael stepped aside. She was a petite woman, dressed in black, and wore her usual severe expression. “Should I assume there will be three for dinner?”
“Yes,” Libby answered. The housekeeper waited, clearly expecting someone with more authority to respond.
“Three, thank you,” Maggie said. She waited until the housekeeper had crossed the entryway headed for the kitchen before she whispered, “If we were going to live here, I’d provide her with a generous retirement bonus and send her on her way.”
“She belongs in a Gothic novel,” Libby added, thinking the whole house did. “Santos must have a very soft heart to keep her here.”
Maggie nodded. “He does, except when it comes to the women he dates. Now let’s see if we can find one who feels badly enough to want him dead.” She got up to open the laptop on the desk and pulled up the chair.
“There were a couple dozen people protesting at the arena,” Rafael interjected. “It’s more likely one of them wanted to cause a bloody tragedy to further their cause.”
“Their group should be online too,” Libby said. “We need some paper to list all the suspects.”
Maggie caught Rafael’s eye. “Have you received any threats?”
“No, but Santos might have. Let’s ask him tomorrow.”
“First we’ll have to ask how he’s feeling,” Maggie replied. “I don’t want him to believe we’re more concerned with solving the mirror mystery than we are with him.”
Libby pulled open a desk drawer to search for paper. “Remind me of that in the morning.”
“I will,” Rafael promised. “I’m going to get a beer from the kitchen. May I bring anything for you two?”
“Iced tea,” Maggie asked.
“Bring me a beer too,” Libby replied.
The early morning routine of the hospital woke Santos from a fitful sleep before dawn. His knee was wrapped to the size of a frozen turkey. His hip ached where the bull had brushed by him, but he wasn’t curious enough to turn on the light over the bed to check for bruises. Thoroughly miserable to be trapped on his back like an overturned turtle, his only distraction was the clatter out in the hall. Nurses walked with a quick step, while doctors strode by at a slower pace.
He’d been in and out of emergency rooms more times than he could count, but this was the first time he’d been stuck in a hospital bed. A nurse came in to check his vital signs, and he murmured an unenthusiastic greeting.
“Good morning,” she replied. “I’m sorry I woke you so often during the night. How are you feeling? Do you need something more for pain?”
She was cute, with short curly hair, and his mood improved, but only slightly. “No, it isn’t bad, but this ruins my plans to take up flamenco.”
She giggled. “Do you have a partner?”
“I hadn’t thought that far.”
“If I bring you paper, will you sign an autograph for my nephew? He has a poster of you in his bedroom.?