I led the officer down the hall, which swiftly fell silent. At the dining parlor, the buzz-cut cop rapped sharply on the door.
“Officer Finch,” he said.
Tony opened the door and had a quick consultation with Finch. Kris was standing by the French doors, gazing out. I tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t notice me.
“You got a fingerprint reader?” Tony asked.
Finch fished a device smaller than a cell phone from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Tony, who looked at me. “I’m going to need a notepad or something.”
I nodded. “I’ll get you one.”
Officer Finch took up a stand outside the door when Tony closed it. I went through the side hall and pantry to the kitchen, passing Ramon near the side hall entrance.
“They wouldn’t let me stay,” he said.
“It’s OK.” I smiled briefly to reassure him.
The kitchen smelled of cider and spice. I turned off the burner under the cider and added some hot water to the thickening brew, then rummaged through Julio’s cupboard and found a legal pad. I ladled cider into five mugs and put them on a tray, tucked the pad under my arm, and returned to the hall.
Officer Finch shot a frowning look at me, but softened when he saw the mugs.
“This is hot cider. Coffee’s coming. I have the paper T—Detective Aragón wanted.”
Finch knocked on the door. Tony came to it and accepted a mug and the pad. Looking past him, I saw Kris standing by the fireplace. Her face was tear-streaked.
“Thanks,” Tony said, and started to pull the door shut.
“OK if I take some cider upstairs?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
He shut the door. I offered the tray to Finch, who took a mug and nodded thanks. I gave a mug to the Hispanic cop at the front door, then took the other two upstairs for Mick and Dee. They were by the front window, lit only by the moon and my two candles, a pretty scene, but the lights were on downstairs and I thought it best to turn on the chandelier.
Mick looked around at me. Dee, wrapped in my office throw, was no longer shivering but looked pretty glum. She took a mug with whispered thanks.
“The police are here,” I told them. “Detective Aragón is interviewing people. I’m afraid you’re going to be here a while. Can I get you anything?”
Dee shook her head, hands wrapped around the mug.
“I guess not,” Mick said. “Thanks.”
“I’ll check back.”
Returning to the kitchen, I fired up Julio’s coffee maker. While it started to drip, I put a splash of cider into a mug for myself and drank it, thinking of Gabriel.
Why? Why would he kill himself? I just couldn’t believe it.
And that was worse. If he hadn’t killed himself, who had killed him?
And why?
My phone goosed me: a text from Kris.
I’m leaving.
My heart sank. I texted back.
Where are you?
In my car. He wouldn’t let me back in. Doesn’t want me to talk to anyone.
Are you all right?
No.
Wait. Let me drive you home.
Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid. I want to know who did this.
Poor Kris. My heart ached for her.
Call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk.
OK.
I waited to see if she’d say more, then put the phone back in my pocket. A door banged shut; I went out to the hall and saw three cops at the front door, talking together.
The Goths looked sullen. A woman in a red-and-black striped corset turned to me.
“When can we get to the drinks?”
“Not for a while, I imagine.”
“Damn. Can’t drink, can’t smoke. What do we do?”
I saw her point. Heading back to the kitchen, I turned the mulled cider on again and dumped a fresh gallon of cider into the pot, then dug a jumbo bag of paper cups left over from a previous event out of storage and filled a half-dozen pitchers with ice water. I put the cups and one pitcher out on one of the low tables in the hall, where they were swooped upon by the Goths. The rest of the pitchers I distributed on the other tables.
The guests were now chattering, which was an improvement over sullen muttering. I collected an empty pitcher and went back to the kitchen. The coffee was done, so I poured it into a carafe and started another pot.
Poor Julio. I was raiding his stash again. I should just put his coffee on the tearoom’s grocery list and be done with it.
I took mugs of coffee to the cops, earning resentful stares from the Goths. Officer Finch gave me a nod in exchange for his mug, and I knocked on the dining parlor door. Tony answered, with Dale Whittier beside him, looking alarmed.
Tony grabbed the last coffee mug and took a deep swig. “Thanks. You can go,” he told Dale. “Don’t talk to anyone.”
“Wait—my coat,” Dale said.
“I’ll get it,” I said. “What does it look like?”
“It’s black.”
Impossible not to answer that with a stare.
“Black wool, knee-length, with a scarf tucked in one sleeve,” Dale added. “On a hook by the stairs.”
It took me a minute to find his coat amid the myriad black garments. Carrying it back to the dining parlor, I handed it to Dale. Officer Finch escorted him out the back door.
“Need anything else?” I asked Tony. “Food?”
“Maybe later.” He gave me a forlorn smile and consulted the guest list. “OK, send in Cherry Legrand,” he said to Finch.
“Cherie,” I corrected, earning glares from both of them.
“Whatever,” Tony said, and shut the door.
Biting back a response that was unworthy of a disciple of Miss Manners, I went into the main parlor, collected the tray of eggs from Lily, and set it on a table in the hall. Again, the Goths swooped.
I fetched the rest of the food from the chambers and put it where they could reach it. It was theirs, and they had nothing else to do except whip themselves into a state of discontent. Food might at least delay that.
I set down the tray of tartlets, thinking it ironic that I had been so worried that someone would poison the food. Now, in the full glare of artificial light, the Goths looked like ordinary people whose party had been disrupted.
Well, maybe not quite ordinary.
As I went into Rose, the clock tolled again—the half-hour—and I couldn’t help freezing. It was still dark in there; the black draperies blocked the chandelier. The red candle lanterns perpetuated the uncomfortable atmosphere, and the clock reminded me of Gabriel’s planned finale, which now would never take place.
Gabriel had dressed himself as Prospero, who was struck down by the Red Death. A shiver went through me.
The mantel clock subsided, quietly ticking its way toward the next tolling. I noticed that the door between Rose and the dining parlor was shut. Muffled voices came through it.
Straightening my shoulders, I picked up the tray of salmon mousse puffs, then turned my back on the black chamber and tried to shake off the gloom. Keep being the hostess, I decided.
It was a defensive approach, and it served me well. It permitted me to continue functioning and avoid thinking about the disaster. As long as I had guests to care for, I could make them my priority and postpone having to deal with the elephant.
I took coffee to the cops, made a pass through the hall collecting empty food trays and pitchers, then put out filled pitchers and tried to decide what to do about the cider. I ended up enlisting Ramon’s help to carry the pot out and set it on top of a trio of trivets on one of the low tables, with an industrial-sized ladle. The Goths descended on it as we stepped back, and Ramon looked at me.
“Can I pack up?”
“Sure. Yes. Do you need help?”
“Nah. Want me to disconnect the mic on the clock?”
“Yes, please!”
“OK if I change first? These sleeves...” He raised
his arms, demonstrating the awkwardness of the heavy sleeves of his tunic.
“Go ahead.”
Returning to the kitchen, I started another pot of coffee and took stock of the food. The Goths had gone through most of what Julio had made for them. A bowl of leftover salmon mousse was in the fridge. I put it on a tray with some crackers and set it out in the hall, then turned on the oven to preheat.
A commotion in the hall drew me back there. I heard the front door open as I reached the hallway, and saw the Hispanic officer waving some new arrivals in.
One of them looked familiar: slim and sandy-haired, with wire-framed glasses. An evidence tech; I remembered him from previous occasions.
“Hi,” he said, grinning. “We meet again.”
I gave him a rueful smile in return. A Latino woman came after him, carrying a large camera bag. They stood in the middle of the hall between the gift shop and the main parlor, looking around.
“Hey, Marcos, where’s Aragón?” asked the sandy-haired guy.
“He’s interviewing,” said the Hispanic cop at the door as he closed it behind a third tech, a short, stocky Asian guy carrying an equipment case.
“He say where he wanted us to start?”
Officer Marcos shrugged.
“You might start in here.” I said, stepping to the entrance of the main parlor.
“Interesting decorations,” the tech said, looking at the draperies.
“It’s intended to represent ‘The Masque of the Red Death.’”
His face lit up. “Oh, cool! That’s a great story! So where’s the black chamber?”
“Right ahead of you, on the right. I think you’ll want to begin there.”
“Yeah, definitely.” He led the other techs through the drapery passage and into Rose. “Is there a clock, too?”
“Just the mantel clock,” I said, gesturing toward it.
He stood in the center of the alcove, taking in the candle lanterns and the now-empty food stand.
“Awesome!” He set his case down on the floor and opened it.
“I’ll get out of your way,” I said. “Do you need anything.”
“Nah. Thanks!”
“Oh—I should tell you—Gabriel Rhodes was in this chamber most of the evening.”
The tech looked up at me and tilted his head to one side. “He was Prospero?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Was someone supposed to be the intruder?”
“One of my staff. She’s the one who found—” I lowered my voice. “—who found Gabriel.”
The tech gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “OK. Thanks. She still here?”
“Yes. Upstairs.”
“I’d like to talk to her before she goes.”
“I’ll tell her.”
The other two techs began taking out their equipment. I got out of their way, and went back to the kitchen to throw together some sandwiches. I gave one to Ramon when he came in the pantry to disconnect the mics from the stereo, and he flashed me a grateful grin.
Mick and Dee were still on the sofa upstairs. Mick had his earbuds in, but took them out when I set a plate of sandwiches on the table.
“I figured you were probably hungry,” I said.
Dee shook her head. “I don’t want to mess up the makeup.”
“Oh, honey—”
“No,” she said firmly. “We need to document it. I need to go down to Rose in the costume. Mick is going to take photos.”
I traded a glance with Mick, who was clearly prepared to humor his sister.
“It’s Gabriel’s last work,” Dee said. “We have to document it.”
Not quite the last, I thought, remembering his sun face paint, but I didn’t contradict her. She was right; Gabriel deserved that his intentions should be honored.
“There are technicians downstairs now,” I said. “It could be a while.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You want some soup?” I offered. “Or cider?”
She turned her head to look at me. The skull makeup made her look fragile, vulnerable.
“Could I have some tea? I can make it—”
Tea! I almost moaned aloud at the thought.
“No, I will. Back in a bit.”
I gave her shoulder a squeeze, smiled sadly at Mick, who was eating a sandwich, and went downstairs.
I put the kettle on in the pantry on my way to the kitchen. Coffee was done and the oven was hot. I tossed three dozen frozen scones onto baking sheets and put them in, loaded up the coffee carafe, and started another pot. By that time the kettle had boiled. I set a pot of Irish Breakfast steeping and made a round with the coffee and sandwiches for the cops.
The crowd of Goths was noticeably thinner. They had eaten everything off the trays and were working their way through the last of the salmon mousse. I glanced at the cider pot, which was down to the dregs. Might have to ramp up the tea; Julio’s coffee wouldn’t last if I started giving it to the guests.
In the pantry, the Irish Breakfast was done. I poured a cup for myself, then put the pot and two more cups on a tray with sugar and milk and took it up to Dee and Mick. Dee thanked me with the first real smile I’d seen from her since Gabriel had painted her face.
Back downstairs to indulge in my own tea and check on the scones. My calves were getting tired from all the up and down.
Ramon was in the kitchen, dressed more normally in black T-shirt and jeans, eating his sandwich by the work table. His guitar case and sound gear stood against the wall by the break table.
“Hey, boss,” he said. “How you holding up?”
“Marginally,” I said, sitting at the break table with my tea. I closed my eyes to savor the first mouthful. Strong, black, with a hint of maltiness from the Assam, Irish Breakfast was the perfect choice for an after-midnight pick-me-up on what was probably going to be an all-nighter.
“Is it true what the guests are saying?” he asked, carrying his sandwich plate over to join me.
“What are they saying?”
“That Gabriel’s in trouble. Some of them think he’s in jail, some think he was in some kind of accident.”
I swallowed. “He’s not in jail.”
Ramon gave me a sharp look. “But he is in trouble.”
“I shouldn’t talk to you about it,” I said. “Detective Aragón will want to interview you, too.”
He looked disgruntled, but didn’t say anything. Instead he attacked his sandwich.
“Sorry it turned out to be such a mess,” I said.
He shrugged and swallowed a bite. “Not your fault.”
I sighed, wondering if Gabriel had paid him in advance for the music. If he hadn’t, I would pay Ramon myself, as well as Mick and Dee. Gabriel had put down a sizable deposit on the party, but I’d be lucky if it would cover the cost of the food, and I might not get any more. If so, I was looking at a substantial loss on this hellish night.
Unexpectedly, that thought brought tears to my eyes. It wasn’t about the bills; I was plenty used to living on the edge of financial disaster by now. It had something to do with all Gabriel’s effort going to waste.
The timer rang. It took me a second to remember what it was for: the scones.
I got up, brushing at my face, and took the tray out of the oven, leaving the heat on in case I’d need to bake another batch. While they cooled, I got out lemon curd and clotted cream, and set up three trays: one for the Goths, one for the cops, and a small one for Dee and Mick. I fed the Goths first, then took scones around to the cops.
Officer Marcos broke into a smile. “That’s what I’ve been smelling. Thanks!”
Officer Finch looked at the scones with suspicion. “Biscuits?”
The parlor door opened and a vampire slunk out, headed for the back door. “They’re scones,” Tony said from the parlor doorway. “Thanks, Ellen,” he added as he helped himself to one.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Mmph,” he said through a mouthful. He handed the list to Finch
, who looked at the remaining Goths and called, “Gwyneth Bancroft.”
She rose from a love seat where she’d been sitting with Roberto. He stood, too, and escorted her to the dining parlor like an attendant knight, her pale hand on his arm. They had both removed their masks, which made me glance at the others in the hall and realize that all the guests were unmasked. A tiny ping of sadness went through me at this further deconstruction of Gabriel’s planned moment.
Roberto looked at me as he returned to his seat. “Kris was looking for you after Gabriel disappeared,” he said. “Do you know what happened?”
Feeling a dozen pairs of eyes on me, I grabbed an empty pitcher. “Let me get you some more water,” I said, and escaped to the kitchen.
In a blatant act of cowardice, I sent Ramon out with the full pitcher. I ducked upstairs with the scones for Dee and Mick, taking my teacup with me, and hid with them while I drank another cup.
When I came down again, Roberto was gone and I heard muffled crying. Looking toward the dining parlor, I saw Finch with his arms crossed, staring at the back door. The crying was coming from outside, I realized. I went to the back door and opened it before Finch could react.
Gwyneth stood on the back portal, softly weeping. A frowning female cop stood with her.
“Hey!” Finch said behind me.
“Is there a problem?” I asked Gwyneth.
“They won’t let me back in, but Roberto’s my ride home,” she said.
I took her hands in mine. They were cold.
“She’s too lightly dressed to wait outside,” I said to the female cop. “May I take her in the kitchen?”
I indicated the kitchen door. The cop looked through the window.
“Who’s that in there?” she demanded.
“One of my staff. Ramon Garcia.”
“Has he talked to the detective?”
“Not yet.”
The cop opened the door and went in, shooting a glance around the room. Ramon looked up from washing his sandwich plate.
A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) Page 18
