She relaxed against him. “It’s all about the company. He’d enjoy a boat ride with Patricia.”
He pulled her closer. “I agree.”
They stopped by Juan Martinez’s office on the way home, and Libby was relieved to find his secretary, Sylvia, was a buxom woman of indeterminate age, no competition at all. Sylvia greeted Santos with an ecstatic squeal, then frowned apologetically as she handed him a folder with the latest fan mail.
They entered Juan’s outer office to read it. Libby saw the drawing before Santos could hide it. This time, the hostile artist had torn a jagged hole in the chest where Santos’s heart would be. The angular handwriting slid off the page. “What does he say this time?”
“Your time to die,” Santos translated for her. He checked the envelope. “This was mailed on Saturday, so he must have thought he’d succeed last night.”
“You’ll have to send it to Nuñez tomorrow.”
“I will, I told him I would last night.” He scanned the e-mails Sylvia had printed out and translated a few of the more humorous ones for Libby.”
“What happened to the woman who wants tighter pants?’
“She’s given up, apparently, or switched her affections to someone new. That’s the problem with being forced to take time off. Fans are a fickle lot and will forget me.”
“Not your true fans,” Sylvia swore. “They’ll love you forever.”
“Wait a minute, why were the police at your home last night?” Juan asked. “Did you have more trouble?”
Santos gave him a brief summary, and adoring him, Sylvia burst into tears and collapsed in the chair at her desk. “What if they can’t catch who’s doing these awful things?”
“They’ll catch them,” Juan insisted.
“Soon,” Santos added. “Is there anything more?”
Sylvia handed him another envelope. “This was in this morning’s mail. It’s a torn-up photo from one of tabloids. I didn’t know if you’d want me to put it together like a puzzle, or if you’d want to do it.”
“Do you have some glue?” Libby asked.
Sylvia handed her a clean sheet of paper and took a bottle of glue from her desk’s bottom drawer. “I’ve always loved puzzles, but not this one.”
Libby sorted the pieces quickly. “The scissor-cut edges face the outside.” She and Santos played with the pieces. He recognized it before she did, and, with a quick shuffle, the photo became clear.
“It’s from lunch yesterday,” he said. “Whoever sent this left the caption. Apparently I’m now dating a popular Swedish model.”
“The people from the ad agency knew my name, and you introduced the reporter at the restaurant, but while my last name is Swedish, no one would mistake me for a model, let alone a popular one.”
“That’s how you looked yesterday,” he reminded her. “This must have been in one of the evening editions and put in the mail last night. There’s no threat enclosed. So maybe it’s from someone who’d like to date me.”
Libby wondered if Ana had followed them and hidden in the restaurant’s decorative foliage to photograph them. The reporter might have taken it when he returned to his table. Anyone in the restaurant could have taken the picture, but the mention of Sweden bothered her. “Someone who heard my name sold this to a tabloid. That shortens the list of suspects.”
“I’ll send it to the detective with the drawing.”
Santos thanked Sylvia for saving the mail, and they were back on the way home in less than thirty minutes.
They came through the front door together. “Do you mind if I rest before dinner?” Libby asked.
“No, I’ll be in the den.” Santos leaned down to kiss her check.
Libby walked up the stairs slowly. She hadn’t liked seeing herself in a tabloid photo and felt sorry for Santos, who had to tolerate their tacky view of his life. She loved having a room with a balcony but was now afraid to step out on it. She moved to her bed and checked her phone. It would be midmorning in Minneapolis, and her father would be at work, so it was too early to call home.
She could call Maggie, though. The impulse struck before she’d thought of what to say, and Maggie answered before anything more than a warm hello came to mind. “How’s the honeymoon going? I’m sorry. That’s a silly question, isn’t it? Where are you, is it still a secret?”
“We’re fine, and we’re dancing with Gypsies in Granada. I love Spain more every day.”
Libby rubbed her hand over her forehead. “I need to get a map. Where is Granada?”