Sarah shook her head. “Sounds good to me. I did some searching, and I came up with a few things we could do. The zoo, and there’s a railroad winery tour. Gray whales migrate in the winter off the coast, so a whale watching tour is supposed to be amazing right now. And maybe a spa day. What sounds good to you?”
I waved my hand in a distracted I don’t care motion. I couldn’t concentrate. It was three-thirty in the afternoon, and all I wanted to do was start my hunt for Greg. I realized that was unfair to Sarah. “What about this? Let’s go to the hotel, and I can drop you off. You relax. I’ll take your car, if you’ll let me, and go do my Greg things. Then, I’ll come back and get you around seven for dinner.”
Sarah shook her head. “No way. I’m coming with you. If you ever do actually find him, I need to be there.”
“Ok, fine, but I get to kill him.” I grinned.
We headed north on I-5 North to Greg’s Valentine’s Day hotel, the Grand Del Mar. I tipped my head back on the seat rest and looked up at the sky, blue and cloudless. Did Greg look at this exact same sky? Maybe mere miles from me?
I was unprepared for the lavish spread of the Grand Del Mar. A red adobe Spanish-style roof baked in the sun, and forty-foot palm trees lined the driveway, swaying in the gentle breeze. Elaborate stone fountains decorated the entryway. The luxury hotel was out of my league, out of our league. We’d stayed at a Hilton on our honeymoon.
A valet opened my car door. I felt self-conscious and out of place, as if I had come naked to the presidential inauguration.
Sarah gaped at the building. “What exactly are we doing here?” she stage-whispered.
“Honestly, I have no idea.” I touched the fifteen pictures of Greg in my purse and felt ridiculous. The Grand Del Mar was not a convention center hotel, and there would be no na?ve southern belle at the front desk. The concierge would be a skilled trade master. We walked inside where a tall, frosty woman greeted us.
I stepped up to the counter. “I’m not sure if you can help me. But can you tell me if this man has stayed here recently?” I fanned the pictures in front of her.
She barely looked at them. “Ma’am, our guests greatly value their privacy, and I cannot tell you if anyone has stayed here or is currently staying here.”
I nodded as if I agreed with her. “I realize that, but this is my husband, and I’m not sure if he is alive. Is there any way you can look at the pictures and tell me if you have seen him in the last six months?”
She glanced down at the pictures, then picked one up, looking at it thoughtfully, her birdlike features intent on the photo. “Truthfully, I don’t think so. He doesn’t look familiar, but again, we have hundreds of guests a month. I’m sorry.” She handed the photo back to me. She did genuinely look sorry.
I took a shot in the dark. “Can you tell me if a Greg Barnes has been registered here in the last six months?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. We cannot reveal the names of our guests.” She backed away from the counter to answer the phone. A dismissal. Over her shoulder, she said, “Feel free to look around. In public areas, of course.”
“Of course.” Sarah and I walked around the lavish lobby. I couldn’t believe Greg had stayed there. A room probably ran three or four hundred dollars a night. Greg, forever frugal, balked at a four-hundred-dollar car payment. Would he really spend so much on his mistress? If so, then he was two different people.
I scanned a row of pamphlets on a table in the corner. One caught my eye. Golf with the pros on a Tom Fazio designed course. I looked across the lobby, out the large bank of windows and doors, and into the generous gardens beyond. Green as far as I could see. Images flashed in my mind like tumblers clicking into place: a single white golf tee in the pocket of his work khakis, elaborate cursive, The Grand, as in Grand Del Mar.
Greg didn’t golf, at least not well, or often. At the time, I had dismissed the golf tee, thinking maybe someone had given it to him, or he had picked it up off the ground and meant to throw it away, the way someone might pick up a discarded wrapper, conscientious of littering. When was that? June, perhaps? I did remember that the day had been a hot one.
Absently, I walked out onto the patio overlooking the golf course. “He was definitely here. And I think he played golf here.”
Sarah trailed after me. “Greg didn’t golf,” she said automatically, with the confidence of someone who knew her friend’s husband well through the eyes of her friend.
I glanced at her. “Does this look like a place that lets a beginner whack around a ball for a few bucks a round?” She shook her head. “I think he did golf. I think Greg did a lot of things I didn’t know about.”
“This makes no sense,” she said.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Chapter 18