“It’s a shrine,” Gina said at last, in a quiet voice.
“Part of the tradition,” I said. “It’s called an ofrenda. I didn’t plan it; it just sort of developed.”
“What do the customers think?”
“No one’s said anything. Of course, the skulls were only added yesterday.” And the lace, and the roses...
“I want to add something. Is that OK?”
“Of course.”
Gina put down her wine glass and reached up to the back of her neck, unfastening a chain that I hadn’t noticed. She drew it out of the neckline of her red business suit dress. Dangling from the chain was a tiny, gold cross.
“That looks valuable,” I said.
“Not terribly. It’s plate, not solid.” Gina slid the cross off of the chain, which she put into a pocket, and stood holding the cross in her palm and gazing at Vi’s portrait.
“I’ll always remember you fondly, sorella.”
She laid the cross beside the votive, then picked up her glass and raised it in a silent toast. I joined her in drinking to Vi.
“Who made the other skulls?” she asked after a moment.
I told her, one by one. She nodded, looking thoughtful.
“This is more serious than I thought.”
“Decorating sugar skulls?”
“Yes. I wish I had come, now.”
“There are some skulls and icing left, if you’d like to make a couple. They’re in the kitchen.”
“Not tonight. I have to get up early. Maybe tomorrow night?”
“Sure.”
We went back upstairs and finished the wine with dessert (dark chocolate mousse), after which Gina headed home. We promised to touch base about the skulls, though I suspected we’d both be too busy to get together.
That night I slept poorly, troubled by strange dreams full of symbols I couldn’t interpret. When I woke, I didn’t remember much: a hair-raising image of Gabriel drinking from Kris’s mysterious new skull paperweight, and a vague memory of running around trying to get rid of vampires, but instead of a cross all I had to wave at them was an ankh.
As I was going through my photos of the sugar skulls and mulling over these delightful recollections, Kris came in with the morning’s mail. “No boxes, hooray!” she said, handing me a short stack of business envelopes. “There’s a letter from New Mexico Magazine. Maybe they want to do a feature on us.”
I glanced at it, then set the mail aside. “Kris?”
She paused in the pass-through between our offices, looking back. “Yes?”
“Grab some tea and sit down. I want to talk.”
She blinked, then did as I asked, leaving her own larger stack of mail on her desk. Stirring a spoonful of sugar into her favorite black corset cup, she avoided my gaze.
“I’ve been thinking about the skull.”
That made her look up, with a chuckle. “Which one?”
“The one you got in the mail.”
“Oh. I took it home.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried that you got it at all. Remember the card with the skull and crossbones that someone left at the art show?”
She shrugged. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Things that don’t mean anything by themselves can mean something when they’re added together. Remember the black widow in your teacup at the planning meeting?”
She looked up at me, paying attention now. “It was just a joke.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it was a warning.”
I turned my flatscreen monitor so she could see the picture I’d taken of two sugar skulls, both Egyptian in style, one with three “X”s for a mouth. “I don’t know who made this,” I said. “Do you?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see it at the party.”
“Someone in your group has poison on their mind.”
“Or just death,” she said, a trifle defensively. “Most Goths think about death a lot.”
“I think this is more specific,” I said.
“This is part of our culture, Ellen. We talk about this stuff a lot. It doesn’t mean we’re homicidal.”
“It doesn’t mean you’re immune, either.”
She leaned back in the guest chair and crossed her arms. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t know who’s behind these little messages. It could be more than one person.”
“I’d like you to talk to Gabriel about it,” I said, “and I’d like you both to consider canceling your Halloween party.”
“We can’t do that! We’ve been planning it for months!”
“Kris—”
“People are making costumes. They’ve spent a lot of money. This is our biggest thing of the year!”
“But is it worth the risk? If someone is really making threats, and might carry them through?”
Kris set her jaw stubbornly. “I know what Gabriel will say. He’d never cancel.”
“Then do you mind if I consult the police?”
Her eyes flashed. “And have them crawling around during the party? No!”
“I just want to ask them to check that box that the skull came in for fingerprints. You did keep it?”
She was still. “Actually, no. I tossed it.”
“Well, maybe they could check the skull.”
“Gabriel and I have been messing with it. They probably wouldn’t find anyone else’s prints, at this point.”
I sighed. “I don’t suppose you still have the card from the art show.”
She shook her head. I didn’t ask about the black widow. I remembered seeing her throw it away.
“Look,” she said, “print that picture out, and I’ll ask around and find out who made that skull. OK?”
“All right.” I sent it to the printer, but I wasn’t satisfied. “Let me know who it was, please.”
She nodded, accepted the printed page, and retreated to her office with her teacup. I turned my monitor back around and looked at the skulls. One with “XXX” for a mouth. The other had an upside-down ankh on its forehead.
I glanced toward Kris’s office. Had she noticed that?
The week was nutty busy. Willow’s tours were scheduled every day, with extras on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The waiting list was a yard long. If we could have swung it, we would have crammed in a couple more, but we were stretched to our limits as it was.
The one good thing about this was that I didn’t have time to be unhappy about how little of Tony I was seeing. We talked on the phone most evenings, but phone conversations had never been our strong suit. Too many long silences. We did better in person.
The night before Halloween, he called late. I was getting ready for bed, and would have let any other caller go to voicemail, but I spat out my toothpaste and snatched up my phone.
“Tony! Hi!”
“Hi, gorgeous. Want to go to dinner tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. We just wrapped up the case.”
“Oh, that’s great! Congratulations!”
“So I’m finally free for a real date. How about The Old House?”
“Oh, Tony, I can’t—not tomorrow. It’s Halloween.”
“And you’re planning to go trick-or-treating?”
“I’ve got a private party in the tearoom. What about the night after?”
Long silence. Dammit.
“Yeah, OK,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Seven?”
“Seven would be great. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry. We’ve got a plan.”
“Right. Yes.” I tried to banish insecurity.
“Can’t wait to see you, babe,” he said, in a voice that sent a zing to my loins.
“Me neither. Lo—looking forward to it!”
Dead air.
Had I really almost said, “Love you?”
Heart pounding, I put my phone aside and carefully applied fresh toothpaste to my brush.
10
Halloween started with the sme
ll of pan de muerto rising from the kitchen to haunt the upper story. I had been good all week and refrained from having any pan, especially because of the lasagna, but that morning the smell had my mouth watering before I got out of bed and I caved. As soon as I had tea brewing and was dressed for work, I went down to the kitchen to beg for bread.
Julio was just removing a batch from the oven. He saw me and grinned. “Give me a minute. I need to sugar them.”
“Can I help?”
“Yeah, put that next batch in.”
I carried two big sheets of pan to the oven while Julio plied the sugar shaker. Ramon arrived and Julio set him to making the “bone” decorations for yet another batch.
“Lots of pan today,” I said.
“We’ve got Kris’s party on top of two tours on top of a full house,” Julio said. “You know we’re booked solid today, right? Plus people will probably want to buy some to take home. We sold three dozen over the counter yesterday.”
I gave Julio a big smooch on the cheek. “You’re my hero.”
He glowered at me, but I caught him smiling. He slid two pieces of hot pan onto a plate and held it out to me. “Get out of here if you don’t want to be put to work making finger bones.”
“Julio?”
He looked up, and I licked my lips. “Could you make sure no one but you handles the food and drink for tonight?”
“They’re bringing their own booze,” he said.
“Well, I mean those vodka shots, especially. And all the food.”
He frowned. “You expecting trouble?”
I gave a helpless shrug. The truth was, I was still worried. Kris hadn’t said anything about the skull photos, and her mood through the week had been more bristly than normal. I knew she would dismiss my concerns if I brought them up again.
“It’s Halloween,” I said. “I just don’t want any pranks to ruin the party.”
“Sure,” he said, frowning thoughtfully.
“Thanks.”
I beat it upstairs and hid in my suite to gobble my bread and tea. By the time I came out, Kris was there. All black, today: a clingy knit dress and knee-high suede boots that were much better suited to the chilly, breezy weather than my dress. In honor of the day I had unearthed an orange chiffon number, vaguely Audrey-Hepburnish, that I’d worn as a bridesmaid a couple of years earlier, just before my father had died. Together, Kris and I looked like a page out of one of those magazines you see by the checkout at the grocery store.
“Happy Halloween,” I told her.
She gave me a wry smile. “Thanks.”
“Do you need to leave early?”
“Actually I’m going to stay. I brought my gown, and one for you.” She nodded toward a garment bag hanging on the door of the closet behind her desk. “I’ll be helping with the decorations before I change. Is there tea?”
I nodded. “I’ll get you a cup.”
From then on it was pretty much non-stop until we closed. We had discontinued regular reservations after three o’clock, and the last tour group would come in at four, so the house should be empty by six, which was when Gabriel planned to arrive.
Dee had wanted all the servers to wear calavera makeup for Halloween, but I’d said no. Her second choice was cat’s ears, which I permitted. Rosa and Iz went along, donning pairs of black, pointy ears that blended with their hair. Dee wore white ears, along with penciled-on whiskers which I chose to ignore. She offered me a pair of striped ears, but I declined. I was in Proprietress mode and didn’t think the cat ears were suitable. Besides, they clashed with my dress.
I was on my feet most of the day, and spent a lot of it in the gift shop. I happened to be there when Willow’s second group of the day—the last scheduled tour, hallelujah—arrived for their tea.
Several of the customers that day had come in costume, but nothing approached the glory that blew through the front door in Willow’s wake: the Bird Woman, in full Wicked Witch of the West regalia, including bright green skin. She had on red-and-white striped stockings, a pointed hat a good two feet tall, a black cape that threatened to drag the umbrella stand down the hall after her, and she carried a really quite excellent prop broom. As the door closed behind the group she spotted me standing in the doorway to the gift shop and uttered a shrill cackle that silenced every conversation in the tearoom.
“I’ll get you, my pretty! And your little dog, too!”
“What an amazing costume,” I said, gently herding the Bird Woman down the hall after the tour group. “Do come in, your tea is waiting. May I hang up your cape?”
She agreed to this, for which I breathed silent thanks as I hung it on one of the hooks in the hall. This was her fourth—no, fifth?—time taking the tour. Multiple visits to the tearoom in a month were not unusual for the Bird Woman, but this had to reflect her continued interest in Mr. Quentin. In a state of mild trepidation, I went upstairs to alert him.
“They’re here,” I said. “Last time.”
He consulted his watch, then nodded and smiled. “It has been a pleasure,” he said.
After making sure he had everything he needed, I went back to the kitchen, where Julio was switching over to preparing food for Gabriel’s party. Ramon had gone home to change and collect his guitar. Mick was at his station, keeping the china at bay. With everything there under control, I returned to the gift shop, where I oversaw the cash register while the servers tended to the last few customers of the day.
“I love your tribute to Miss Benning,” said an older woman who had been sitting in Violet with a couple of friends, as she paid for her tea and a half-dozen pan to go.
“Oh—thank you,” I said.
“Such a lovely voice. Such a tragic loss.”
“Yes.”
Two other groups departed, leaving only the tour group remaining. I turned the front door sign around to “Closed” and locked it, then went upstairs. Mr. Quentin was just picking up his rifle, and gave me a precise nod as he squared his shoulders and headed down to the dining parlor.
I stepped into Kris’s office. “All clear except for Willow’s group. I’ve locked up.”
She nodded. “I’ll do the receipts. Gabriel should be here in half an hour. Are you going to change now?”
I glanced at my orange chiffon, feeling slightly reluctant to put on the quasi-medieval, floor-length black gown that Kris had brought for me to wear during the party. It was chilly, though, and the velvet would be much warmer.
“Might as well,” I said.
“I’ll lace it up for you,” Kris said, following me across to my suite, where the gown was hanging in my closet, silently arguing with my collection of Victorian styles.
Actually, I thought as I moved it from the closet to one of the posts of my canopy bed, it fit more with my bedroom décor than the Victorian dresses. My suite was more Renaissance; the Victoriana lived downstairs in the tearoom.
“Underdress first,” Kris said, reaching beneath the black velvet to extract a swath of shimmering gold. The fabric was light and silky but opaque, a dark gold with an almost-metallic sheen. She gathered it up while I took off my chiffon. I stepped out of my shoes, and Kris slipped the underdress over my head. It slid coolly over my arms and shoulders, falling to brush my ankles. The sleeves were long and close-fitting, with points that came down past my wrists.
“Now the gown. You might want to put the slippers on first.”
I stowed my work pumps in the closet and took out the black velvet slippers, embellished with a pair of gold Celtic knotwork pins, that Kris had helped me find for the occasion. The gown was hers, but we didn’t wear the same size shoes, so I had sprung for the slippers and Kris had provided the pins from her jewelry collection.
Properly shod, I held out my arms and Kris slid the sleeves onto them. The velvet was rich and warm. I stood still while Kris tightened the lacing in the back, which started at the waist and went up to the neck.
“Not too tight,” I said.
“No, but if it’s loose
you’ll be uncomfortable.”
“How do you manage to get in and out of this by yourself?”
“I’m not usually by myself,” Kris said, and left the rest to my imagination.
After a few minutes of tugging and tucking, she pronounced me dressed, except for the hair. I took down the Gibson-girl style and brushed it out, then Kris tied a gold ribbon that matched the underdress around my forehead. A small, jeweled pin sat centered over my brow. My phone fit into a clever pocket in one of the sleeves that Kris showed me.
“Oh, and the kirtle.” She produced a length of gorgeous brocaded trim, gleaming with gold thread in a knotwork design, and tied it low around my hips, with the ends dangling in front.
“Perfect,” Kris declared, and stood me in front of my full-length mirror.
A fairy-tale lady gazed back at me: not a princess, but a woman of warmth and mystery. The simple hairstyle made my eyes look big. Instinctively, I raised my chin and straightened my shoulders.
“Do you need help getting into yours?” I asked.
“Not yet. I’m going to help decorate first.”
We left my suite just as Mr. Quentin was collecting his belongings. He paused to admire my attire as Kris ducked back into her office to collect her decorations.
“We are stepping even farther back in time, I see,” he said.
“It’s for a private party,” I said.
“You look very fine.”
“Thanks. How did the talk go?”
“Pretty well. That witch was a little unnerving. She looked familiar. Not like Margaret Hamilton, but like I’ve seen her before.”
“You have,” I said. “She’s a regular customer, and she took the tour more than once.”
“Ah. That accounts for it.”
Briefly, I struggled with myself. The Bird Woman would have wanted me to remind him of her phone number, but with the memory of her witch costume uppermost in his mind, it might not be the best timing. Before I could resolve the question, Mr. Quentin made it moot by departing.
Kris emerged with a shoulder bag and a small rolling suitcase, and we went downstairs. She headed into the main parlor and I paused in the hall, waiting for Willow who was herding her stragglers out of the dining parlor. Rosa stood at the front door, seeing the tour party out and listening to the Bird Woman, who had buttonholed her.
A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) Page 12
