“That sounds good. Yes, they’ll probably only want to stay half an hour or so. Could the tea be served in the dining parlor?”
I grimaced. That room was where Captain Dusenberry had been murdered in the 19th century, and where Sylvia Carruthers had been murdered last spring. Some of my guests called it the “murder room,” much to my dismay.
Perfectly understandable that Willow would want to finish her tour there. Captain Dusenberry was her grand finale, and the reason she was bringing groups of customers to my establishment. I gathered my manners about me and smiled, hoping it would reach my voice.
“Certainly, as long as there isn’t already a reservation for the room.”
“May I reserve it for the tour dates now?”
“Of course. What are they?”
She gave me a list of dates and times, and I entered them straight into our reservations calendar. Since the dining parlor was often empty, it gave me a warm feeling to book a dozen reservations, even if they were for light teas. Every customer in the tearoom was a potential sale in the gift shop on top of whatever refreshments they consumed, and hopefully they’d enjoy themselves enough to come back.
“And of course, Halloween,” Willow said. “I’d like to do two tours that day if I may: one in the early afternoon, one in the evening.”
“I can’t give you Halloween night,” I said. “There’s a private party in the room from six p.m. on.”
“What about late afternoon? Five?”
I thought about it. Kris had booked the room for a dinner with her Goth friends. They wouldn’t actually sit down until closer to eight, but she needed time to decorate the room, and the kitchen staff would be busy cooking the dinner.
“Four would be better,” I said.
“That’ll work, if we can do the earlier one at one o’clock.”
“Sure,” I said, typing in the reservations.
“Just one more question: we talked about having a Civil War reenactor for some of the tours.”
“Yes. I need to get a referral from Detective Aragón. I’ll get back to you on that. Which tours would you want him for? You’ll probably need to plan on an extra half hour...”
We nailed down the last few details, and Willow professed herself satisfied. “I’ll call you with the numbers of each group two days in advance,” she said. “Is that enough time?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between us, making me wish I could see her face. I took a sip of tea. It had gone cold.
“Anything else I can help you with?” I said.
“No, that should do it,” Willow said slowly. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Surprised, I hesitated, trying to figure out what she meant. “No,” I said. “Thanks.”
“If you change your mind, call. Any time. I keep my cell with me.”
“Um, thank you. I’ll be in touch about the reenactor.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Take care, Ellen.”
“You, too. Bye.”
I put the phone down and frowned at it. What would Willow be able to help me with? What made her think I needed help?
She’d never made any claims of psychic abilities in our conversations, but her belief that ghosts—or spirits, as she always called them—were real was obvious, and some of her comments had implied at least some kind of sensitivity to them. I looked around my office, as if I might spot a recalcitrant spirit hanging about the corners of the sloped ceiling.
Captain Dusenberry had been quiet lately. I wondered if that was about to change.
Footsteps coming up the stairs at that moment made me catch my breath, but it was Julio, of course. He’d removed his baker’s hat, setting his dark mop of curls loose.
“Done for the day?” I asked.
“Done with scones. I want to play around with the October savories after lunch. Should I make you something?”
“No, thanks. I have leftovers I need to use up.”
“OK. I’ll be back in about an hour, then.” He nodded, then stared to one side for a moment, hands shoved in his pockets. “You’ll be here?” he asked, looking up at me.
“Yes.”
“Good. See you.”
I watched him disappear down the stairs, then listened until he reached the ground floor and I heard the door open and shut. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Relief at being alone flooded me, surprising in its strength. I hadn’t realized how tense I was.
It must be from yesterday, I told myself.
My teapot was empty. I took it downstairs and put the kettle on. Rinsed the pot and infuser, spooned out fresh tea leaves. Wisteria White, this time; I needed the comfort.
While I waited for the kettle, I walked down the hall and looked into the parlors. Everything was tidy, ready for tomorrow. With the lights off and the alcoves empty, the tearoom seemed asleep, like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, waiting to be awakened. I stood in the middle of the main parlor and slowly turned around, looking at each alcove—Jonquil, Iris, Rose, and Lily—and trying to summon a happy memory for each.
Laughing and joking with Gina and Nat as we painted and decorated. Delight on the faces of customers as they entered for the first time. Birthday celebrations, bridal showers, one memorable young couple who had planned a special tea together, each intending to propose to the other.
Darker memories came to me, too: the bittersweet recollection of Vi’s voice filling this room with music, the peaceful but distressing demise of Maria Garcia—Julio and Rosa and Ramon’s grandmother—in the Lily alcove, the time I crossed the street to take scones to a neighbor and was nearly strangled for my effort.
The kettle raised a distant whine, and I shook myself. Dust, these memories. Nothing more. Nothing I could change.
I returned to the pantry and turned off the kettle, letting it rest for a minute because I was brewing a white tea. Technically, I should have stayed to watch the kettle and caught it before it boiled, but since I was just brewing tea for myself I forgave myself for the lapse.
As I poured hot water over the tea leaves, the scents of currant and rose wafted up from the pot. Leaving it steeping, I stole into the kitchen to see what was in the fridge, and found two wisteria petit fours left over from Saturday. Julio would just throw them out because the icing would be a little stiff by Tuesday. He always made the cakes fresh.
I put the two orphans on a plate and set them on my tea tray along with the pot of Wisteria White. Climbing the stairs, I thought about what was in my own tiny fridge in my suite: chicken salad and some leftover marinara. I didn’t feel like cooking pasta.
Life is short; eat dessert first. Who was it who said that?
I took the advice and ate the petit fours with a cup of hot tea while I surfed around on the Internet. Kris, my office manager, was always trying to get me to post things on social media sites. She had set up accounts for the tearoom and given me the logins, but I just didn’t feel right tooting my own horn that way. I did check the pages now and then to see what Kris was posting on them.
Hints about special Halloween events in October were what she’d been posting, apparently, though I hadn’t wanted to announce any details before finalizing the tour dates with Willow. Like Gina, Kris wanted me to capitalize on the tearoom’s resident ghost as a marketing tool, though in Kris’s case I think it was more a personal fascination with Captain Dusenberry than an interest in promoting the tearoom. She and her friends couldn’t get enough of the dining parlor. They’d had dinners there twice, already, and for months had been making elaborate plans for Halloween night. Ramon was going to play the guitar, I knew.
They would have scorned a lecture from a Civil War reenactor, but they liked and respected Willow. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that they’d invited her to join their dinner party.
Before I could forget about the reenactor, I got out my cell to send Tony a text.
We need a Civil War reenactor for talks at the tearoom in October. Can you send a couple o
f phone numbers for me to try?
We’d talked about this possibility before, back when Tony had come dressed in a borrowed Civil War uniform to talk to Ramon and his friends (a somewhat less sophisticated group of Goths than Kris’s set) about Captain Dusenberry. They’d all loved it, as had Willow, who had also been there.
I set the phone down, hoping for a return text. Nothing for ten minutes, while I surfed some more.
He was busy, no doubt. He had two murders to deal with, after all. A text from me was probably low-priority.
I disliked being low-priority.
Seeking distraction, I crossed the hall to my suite, dug out the chicken salad and some lettuce, and arranged them nicely on a plate. Rather than eat at my desk, I fetched my phone and sat in my sitting area by the front window.
The September sun wasn’t yet shining in, but it would within the hour, and it was already warm upstairs. I opened the window a crack to let in some fresh air. A rustle of cottonwood leaves whispered in on the cool breeze. It made me want to run up into the mountains, where the aspens were starting to turn. Soon they would form the golden canopy under which I loved to walk every autumn, with the smell of dry leaves underfoot and the crisp, turquoise sky overhead.
Would Tony like to go on a picnic up there? Or would he think it too sentimental?
My pulse got a bit jittery at the thought. I really didn’t know him all that well.
My phone buzzed its text noise. I grabbed it.
Sure.
I had to shake off the thought that he was accepting a picnic invitation and remind myself he was answering my request about the reenactor. Wanting more than a single syllable, I texted back at once, on the first topic I could think of.
I’m free Sunday night for a movie.
After waiting five minutes for a response, I returned to my computer to surf up some movies. I had promised a while ago—rather an embarrassing while ago—to go with Tony, but life had kept interfering with our plans. His schedule was unpredictable, and mine didn’t mesh well with it. I was often too tired for much at the end of the work day, and lately a lot of my spare time had gone to planning Nat’s wedding.
I chose a movie—a British social comedy that looked more smart than slapstick—and sent Tony another text with the title. This time I got an answer within a minute.
Not Sunday. Dinner with family.
He’d mentioned that once; dinner with his mother and grandmother every Sunday. I should have remembered.
Thursday, then?
No immediate response. Disappointed, I went back to sifting through my messages.
I was on my third cup of tea and making a to-do list for the next day when I heard the back door open and close. It had to be Julio, but the salsa music didn’t start up right away. Wondering if he’d left the door unlocked when he’d gone to lunch, I headed downstairs, and almost ran into him at the foot of the staircase.
“I was just coming to get you,” he said. “Come see.”
He led me toward the front of the tearoom, through the gift shop and back to the most secluded alcove, Violet. It had originally been Marigold, but I’d never liked the brown wing chairs (now reposing by the front door as a makeshift waiting area), and after Vi’s death I had decided to rename it in her honor. We had changed the décor to varying shades of violet, with lace sheers between the window and the rich velvet curtains.
Julio stopped in the middle of the room and turned toward the fireplace. Hanging over the mantel, where I’d had a still-life of a bowl of marigolds, was a full-length portrait of Vi.
She was dressed in the lace and silk she’d worn when she sang in the main parlor. A background of dark purple draperies emphasized the brightness of her form. She held a small bouquet of violets in one hand, from which one bloom had fallen to the floor, a nice touch. Her smile shone out from the canvas, and her hair was a burnished crown, catching glints of almost otherworldly light. The tone of the painting was soft and glowing, reminding me of my favorite pre-Raphaelite artists.
“I finished it this weekend,” Julio said in a low voice.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and burst into tears.
4
Julio turned to me, concern tightening the classic Latin lines of his face. “I’m sorry, Boss. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I shook my head, wanting to say that I wasn’t upset, except that the deep sobs rising up in me prevented my speaking. It wasn’t just Vi; it was everything. The portrait had tipped me over the edge of a precipice, and all my pent-up grief and stress were spilling out.
“Why don’t you sit down a minute? I can bring you some tea.”
If I’d had any breath to spare, I’d have laughed at the picture of my coffee-aligned chef making tea. It was a kind thought, and I acknowledged it the only way I could, by taking his advice and sitting in one of the violet wing chairs.
He left, and I struggled to control my weeping. My inability to do so worried me. I rubbed at my eyes; no handkerchief at hand, and the nearest tissue was in the restroom. I took a long, shuddering breath, then hiccuped.
Really, that’s enough, I told myself.
Myself didn’t pay any attention. The tears flowed on, and while I managed to cry without moaning, I still couldn’t stop.
Voices sounded in the hallway. I thought an unladylike word, and tried to rub my face into order.
A delivery? I hoped Julio would get rid of whoever it was.
Footsteps striding closer. It was not my day.
“This isn’t a good time,” I heard Julio say from the gift shop.
“Won’t take but a minute,” drawled a familiar voice. “She back here?”
Desperate to control myself, I held my breath. Hiccuped again, which hurt.
Detective Walters came in, his tall form a looming presence in the cozy alcove. At least he had taken off his cowboy hat, which he held in one hand. Julio entered on his heels like an angry spaniel, and reached around him to hand me a box of tissue.
I drew breath to thank him, and hiccuped.
“Like I said, not a good time,” Julio said, moving to stand by my chair.
“Sorry to see you upset, ma’am,” said Walters, with no detectable sympathy. “Hope nothing bad’s happened.”
Mopping at my face with a handful of tissue, I shook my head. Julio just stared resentfully at Walters, which did nothing to ease the awkwardness.
I took a few deep breaths and finally managed to speak, in a rather soggy voice. “Nothing’s happened. Not lately, anyway.” Hiccup.
I pulled another tissue from the box, waved it in the direction of Julio’s painting, then blew my nose.
“That a friend of yours?” said Walters, gazing at the portrait.
“She used to work here,” Julio said, his voice cold. “She died a few months ago.”
“Julio painted her portrait—hic—and he just hung it up,” I said. “It brought back some memories.”
“Hm,” said Walters. “Well, I’m sorry to come at a bad time. Just thought you’d want to know the results of the autopsy on Mr. Swazo. He died from a ruptured kidney.”
“I looked up at him. “Kidney?” Hiccup.
The detective’s gaze was sharp and steady. Looking for me to betray something, I figured, but there was nothing to betray.
“Yeah,” he said, still watching me. “Must’ve happened during the beating.”
“What beating?” Julio said, looking alarmed. “What’s this about?”
Walters turned to him. “Your boss didn’t tell you that she found a body yesterday?”
Julio’s eyes widened as he turned to me. “Another one?”
“No, I didn’t tell him,” I said, annoyed at his response, though by now Walters must know of the other investigations I’d been involved in. “I’d like to forget about it, to be honest. Was there anything else you—hic—needed?”
I stood up, to encourage Walters to leave. Three of us standing in the alcove made rather a crowd, and both men edged back to giv
e me more room.
“No, ma’am. Just thought I’d let you know that it’s officially a murder investigation.”
“Well, I hope you find the k—hic—killer.”
I led them out, still clutching my box and a wad of sodden tissue. Without pausing I walked straight to the back entrance, thanked the detective for coming (not very sincerely), and shut the door behind him. Then hiccuped.
“Sorry, boss,” Julio said. “I meant to get rid of him, but when I opened the door he just came in.”
“It’s all right, Julio. Thanks for the—hic—tissue.”
“Let me get you a glass of water.”
I followed him into the kitchen, sat at the break table, and drank the water he brought me. Still sniffling and hiccuping, I thanked him for Vi’s portrait.
“It’s perfect,” I said. “You really have a gift. Why on earth did you—hic—choose cooking instead of painting?”
“Better shot at making a living,” he said with a shrug and a fleeting grimace.
“But less chance of becoming a star. You could, you know. You’re that talented. Hic.”
He got up and refilled the water glass, brought it back to me. “This time drink from the far edge. No,” he added as I turned the glass around in my hands. “You’ll have to stand up, and you’ll probably get wet. Put your mouth on the far edge of the glass, lean forward, and drink at least half of the water at once.”
I obeyed. Straightening, I wiped my chin. “Well, at least I’ll be hydrated.”
“What did that cop mean about another body?”
I sat down and told him about finding Swazo in Nat’s driveway. Julio listened, his frown deepening as I explained how I’d seen the victim at the flea market in the morning.
“That’s not good.”
“No, well. Worse for him than for me.”
“Why would he follow you to Nat’s house?”
“He didn’t follow us. It’s a coincidence. The road is right there.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Well, neither do—hic—I. Dammit.”
“Maybe you should take a nap.”
A Bodkin for the Bride Page 4
