A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Oh,” Nat said in a reverent tone. “It’s lovely. He captured her smile perfectly.”

  “Yes,” I said, my throat tightening.

  Nat slid her arm around my waist and hugged. “What a wonderful tribute.”

  I nodded and brushed away a stray tear, then inhaled deeply. I was not going to lose it again, I told myself.

  I hiccuped, and swore under my breath.

  Nat squeezed me. “Why don’t you take the day off, dear? Go up to Ten Thousand Waves.”

  I imagined hiccuping my way through a massage. “Maybe tomorrow. I made an appointment to see that counselor this afternoon.”

  “Oh, good! I liked him. He’s a good listener.”

  “He ought to be. It’s his job.”

  I went back out to the gift shop, where I found Dee Gallagher, another of my servers, putting price labels on some whimsical, leaf-shaped tea strainers. Dee had a good eye for what little trinkets the customers might like, and I’d put her in charge of finding new items for the gift shop, subject to my approval and the constraints of our budget.

  “Morning, Ellen,” she said, smiling and brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

  “Good morning. You were right, those are charming.”

  “Thanks! They make some pumpkin-shaped ones, too. If these sell well, maybe we could order some of the pumpkins for next month.”

  “Mm.”

  I didn’t want to go overboard with the seasonal items. The gift shop was pretty full already, with tea and tea accessories and a few miscellaneous items. We didn’t have space to go wild with hats and gloves and china and a lot of the other things Dee had suggested. At some point, I might consider expanding, but not until the mortgage balance was a lot smaller.

  I crossed the hall to the main parlor and visited each of the parties there. The Bird Woman and four of her cronies had taken over the Rose alcove, and from their attire I gathered it was a meeting of the Red Hat Society. The Bird Woman wore a scarlet dress with a ruffled neckline so fluffy it reminded me of a Thanksgiving turkey. Her hat would have challenged Scarlett O’Hara.

  They were already tucking into their tea so I merely paused to smile and wish them a good morning, but despite having a full mouth the Bird Woman stopped me from escaping with a frantic wave. Her eyes were sparrow-bright beneath the brim of her hat.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Olafssen,” I said, giving her time to swallow.

  She took a large gulp of tea and sighed. “Heard you found another one!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Another deader.”

  I took a short, sharp breath, but managed to maintain my smile. Iz must have mentioned it, was all I could think. I picked up the teapot and poured the last of the tea into the Bird Woman’s cup.

  “I’m afraid the police don’t want me—hic—to discuss it.”

  “You’re turning into a regular corpse-magnet,” she said gleefully.

  “I’ll just get you a fresh pot.”

  It was all I could do to keep from running down the hall to the butler’s pantry. Iz was there, setting up a three-tiered food tray.

  Rose needs more tea,” I said, putting the pot on the counter. I didn’t wait for her to answer, but darted upstairs.

  Purse, phone, keys, shades, light jacket against the breeze that was stirring up the first fallen leaves. I looked in on Kris, who was typing intently.

  “Going out to lunch,” I said, “and then my appointment. Hic.”

  She nodded, still typing. I went downstairs, donned my shades, and slipped out the back door.

  A cool breeze greeted me, scented with a hint of autumn leaves. I paused to take a deep breath, and felt tension drain from my shoulders. I looked back at the house, feeling sad. I loved my tearoom. I shouldn’t need to escape it.

  I hiccuped.

  I got in the car and backed out of the driveway, rolling down the window in the hope of catching more of that lovely autumn smell. It wasn’t the tearoom that was the problem. It was everything else. I had multiple stressors.

  I drove to the soup place and ordered a big bowl of mushroom soup, and shamelessly gobbled the baguette slices that came with it. Fortunately, I didn’t have time to indulge in dessert as well.

  The Hospice Center was a small storefront in a smallish shopping center. Unpretentious. No frills. The woman at the front desk gave me a motherly smile when I came in and told her my name.

  I sat in one of three lime green plastic chairs in the waiting area, glanced at a side table of magazines, and took out my phone to shut it off. There was a text waiting; I hadn’t noticed when it came in. It was from Tony.

  Sorry 4 late answer. Working case. Thursday out. Sorry.

  Damn.

  Even more terse than usual, which probably meant he was working around the clock on this one. I sighed and turned off the phone.

  “Ellen?”

  The voice was soft and warm. Loren Jackson came toward me, a friendly smile on his face. He wore a button-down shirt and casual slacks, but somehow still contrived to look elegant, perhaps because of his ethereal coloring. Pale hair brushed his eyebrows, and fine lines crinkled beside his blue eyes as he smiled.

  “It’s good to see you.” The hand he offered was as warm as his voice. “Come on back.”

  I followed him down a narrow hallway. Expecting an office, I was surprised when we walked into a lounge with a comfy sofa and armchairs around a coffee table, a round cafe table that would seat four, and a kitchenette with a stovetop and coffee maker. The coffee actually smelled good.

  “Please make yourself comfortable. Would you like coffee? I hesitate to offer you tea, though we have some teabags.”

  “Coffee would be great, thanks.” I chose one of the overstuffed armchairs, and sank into it with a sigh.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Just cream.”

  Loren brought me a steaming mug and sat in another chair at right angles to mine. I caught a whiff of his cologne—something evergreenish—as he settled. “How are things at the tearoom?”

  “Oh, well ... not bad.”

  He sipped his coffee. I sipped mine. It wasn’t as good as Julio’s, but it was decent. A cut above the average office coffee.

  “Julio painted a wonderful portrait of Vi,” I said, wrapping my hands around the mug to let the heat soak into my fingers. “I got a little overwhelmed when I—hic—saw it. That’s why I called you. I’d been meaning to talk to you about her and just never found the time.”

  His gentle smile bloomed and he nodded. “Well, I’m glad you found the time now. Tell me about the portrait.”

  I described it to him, and then told him about the day Vi sang at the tearoom, and how the memory of it had made me cry when Julio brought in the painting. I got a little watery talking about it, but managed to keep it together. The coffee table had a box of tissue on it, fortunately. When I pulled one to tidy my face, he spoke.

  “How long have you had the hiccups?”

  “Since yesterday after—hic—noon. And yes, I’ve tried a number of remedies.”

  “What set them off?”

  I had to think about it. “I was crying over the portrait, and then Detective Walters came, and I guess I got a little stressed.”

  “Detective Walters?” Loren asked.

  So I told him about finding Daniel Swazo, and the investigation, and how Walters had come to the tearoom just when I was going to pieces over Vi. He listened attentively, a tiny frown creasing his brow.

  “Well, you’ve certainly had a lot to deal with,” he said when I ran down. “You know, hiccups can be triggered by stress.”

  “They can?”

  He nodded. “You might want to talk to your doctor about it, if they continue.”

  “Is there something that can be prescribed?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not a doctor. I do know that getting plenty of rest, and minimizing the stresses in your life, can help.”

  “Have you had other—hic—
clients with hiccups?”

  He nodded again, looking grave.

  “What’s the longest attack you’ve heard about?”

  “The longest I’ve seen first-hand was about two weeks.”

  Two weeks?”

  “I’ve heard of longer. But don’t worry about that. Focus on what you can control. Can others help you out at the tearoom? Take some of the burden off you?”

  “It’s not that the tearoom’s a burden. My staff is great, really. It’s just that everything’s sort of piling up at once.”

  “Mm. Can you get away for a couple of days? Go up to Ojo Caliente maybe?”

  “The spa? I’ve never been there. Isn’t it expensive?”

  “Doesn’t have to be. The day pass is reasonable, and gets you into all the public pools. If you’ve never been there I recommend it. They have a great restaurant, too.”

  I sipped my coffee, musing. I hadn’t had a vacation since the tearoom had opened. Well, since I’d bought the building, really. More than a year ago.

  Maybe a weekend...

  The thought of inviting Tony slid through my mind and my cheeks flushed hot. I buried my face in my coffee mug, embarrassed.

  Loren seemed not to notice. When I glanced up at him, he was looking at his phone. He met my gaze and flashed a smile.

  Sorry—I know it’s rude. I just thought I’d check to see if there was a special at Ojo. They run them now and then, and it can save you some money.”

  Thanks. I’ll think about that. It’s true that I’d enjoy a break.” I shot another glance at him. “Have you stayed there?”

  He nodded. “Not as often as I’d like, but yes. The quiet is amazing.”

  Quiet sounded really good. Not that my life was particularly noisy, but it was busy.

  If the tearoom were all I had to deal with, I’d have been fine. But add in murder investigations—multiple—and it was getting overwhelming.

  I swallowed the last of my coffee and set down my mug.

  More?” Loren offered.

  No thanks. Hic. Can I ask you a question?”

  Absolutely.”

  Do you ... talk about dreams much? Is that part of your work?”

  He smiled. “I talk about whatever you want. If you mean do I interpret dreams, only in a haphazard way. I’m not trained in it, though I’ve done some reading.”

  I had a dream ... well, a nightmare. I saw the man I found. Daniel Swazo. He was showing me a knife.”

  He was alive?”

  Yes. Well ... yes.”

  Did he look ... forgive me...”

  Like he did when I found him? No. He looked like he did at the flea market, only more intense. He stared at me and showed me the—hic—knife, like it was important somehow.”

  Was he threatening you?”

  No, the knife was folded shut.”

  Hm. Any idea what the knife could signify? He wasn’t stabbed, was he?”

  No.”

  Victor Solano was—and he was another murder victim that I hadn’t found. But that had been last summer, and except for selling his wares within a mile of the Opera, I didn’t think Swazo had any connection to Solano.

  I had a feeling the knife wasn’t important as a weapon, but beyond that I had no clue what Daniel Swazo had been trying to tell me.

  Can you tell me what the knife looked like?” Loren asked.

  Just a folding knife, like a pocket knife. The handle was decorated with colored stone, kind of in a mosaic. Swazo sold knives like that at the flea market.”

  So he was showing you his work.”

  Yeeaah ... but not like showing it off.”

  He hadn’t shown off the knives at his table. He’d let me look at them myself. Why, then, had he held the knife up in his fist in my dream? As if to say, This is important.

  But why?

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Had you seen the knife he was showing you before? At the flea market.”

  No.” I frowned trying to picture the knife again. Irregular stripes of turquoise, malachite, sugilite...

  I sat up straighter. “Yes I had seen it. In my aunt’s driveway.” I looked at Loren and the care in his blue eyes made me catch my breath.

  Detective Walters showed it to me, in an evidence bag. They found it in the driveway.”

  Where Swazo was,” Loren said.

  I nodded.

  So it was his own knife, not a piece he was selling.”

  I guess so.”

  Do you think he was coming to show it to you?”

  When he died? No.”

  Loren put his mug on the table and leaned back in his chair, hands resting on his knees. He tilted his head a little to one side. “It’s just an interesting coincidence.”

  I bit down on my annoyance. “Well, Detective Walters would agree with you, but it is a coincidence. He had no reason to follow us. It was hours after we’d seen him. That he came up Nat’s driveway was just ... bad luck.”

  Loren nodded, accepting my assessment. “I wonder why he would want to show you his knife.”

  Me too.” I glanced at my watch, and sighed. “I’d better get back. Thanks for your time.”

  You’re welcome. Come back any time.”

  I collected my purse and stood. “Do I pay the receptionist?”

  There’s no charge. Our grief counseling services are underwritten by a grant.”

  Oh! Well, then, may I make a donation? You did so much good for my staff.”

  He rose and picked up our coffee mugs, a smile quirking up one corner of his mouth. “If you like. I’ll get you a brochure.”

  I’d had brochures, once. He’d left a stack of them when he visited the tearoom. I hadn’t done more than glance at them.

  He took one from a display on the counter and handed it to me. “I’m glad you came.”

  Thanks. Me too. Hic.”

  I hope those go away. Do try to get some rest.”

  I nodded. “Thanks for the idea about Ojo. Maybe I’ll go up for a weekend.”

  The rooms cost more on weekends, unfortunately.”

  Perils of a day job,” I said, trying for a light tone.

  He smiled, but there was a hint of concern on his face. Nice of him to care.

  Feeling self-conscious, I headed toward the lobby. Loren followed me down the hall and opened the front door.

  It was good to see you,” he said.

  I turned and was startled anew at the intense blue of his eyes. His gaze was also intense; he seemed about to say something, then instead smiled and offered a hand.

  Take care, Ellen.”

  I shook hands. Warm touch, and again a whisper of evergreen and spice.

  Thanks. You, too.”

  As I drove to the tearoom, I thought back over our conversation. Something was niggling at me about Daniel Swazo’s knife. I hadn’t connected the knife in the dream to the knife in the evidence bag before. Assuming it was my subconscious and not actually Swazo’s ghost that was trying to tell me something, what did it mean?

  I reached no conclusions by the time I pulled into my parking space behind the house. For a minute I sat looking through the windshield at the French doors of the dining parlor and the sheers beyond them. I felt reluctant to go in, and that bothered me.

  I hiccuped. Swearing softly, I picked up my purse and went inside.

  There you are!” said Nat, coming down the hall toward me. “Dee was looking for you.”

  Is she in the gift shop?”

  No, I’ve been watching it until just now. I was going to take a quick break.” She nodded in the direction of the restroom.

  I’ll go watch until you’re—hic—back.”

  A couple of customers were browsing in the gift shop. I put my purse under the counter and stayed by the register, hoping that the Bird Woman wouldn’t come in. She must surely have left by now, I told myself.

  I was ringing up a sale of some packaged tea and one of Dee’s leaf tea-strainers when Nat came
back. She stepped in beside me as the customer departed.

  Dee’s in the pantry. She asked me to send you back.”

  OK. Thanks.”

  I grabbed my purse as Nat smiled at another customer coming up to the counter. The sound of guests conversing in the main parlor followed me down the hall and into the little side hallway that led to the restrooms, the butler’s pantry, and the kitchen. I stepped into the pantry, but no one was there. Intending to check the kitchen, I turned.

  Hah!”

  A looming figure jumped toward me from the doorway. I flinched back and gave a little shriek, then recovered.

  Mick Gallagher, what on earth do you think you’re doing?!”

  My dish washer transformed from a monster into a puppy dog, one wisp of blonde hair escaped from his pony tail and hanging beside his face, brown eyes wide and looking slightly hurt. “Just trying to help with your hiccups,” he said.

  Dee stepped into the doorway beside her brother. “It was my idea. Did it work?”

  I closed my eyes and drew a breath. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m fine, really. Hic.”

  Aww,” said Mick.

  Please don’t try again.”

  They yielded to me as I went out and into the kitchen. Julio glanced up at me from his work table and grinned.

  “Don’t start,” I said.

  “I told them it was a bad idea.”

  “Everything all right here? I’m going upstairs.”

  “I’m good. Need a couple of grocery items, but it’s not urgent. I put a note on your desk.”

  I breezed past the pantry, where Mick and Dee were talking in low tones, and hurried upstairs. First stop was my suite, to drop off my purse and put the kettle on for tea, because I was not going back down to the pantry. While I waited for it to boil I checked my phone, then stepped across to Kris’s office.

  “How was your appointment?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “Great. Very helpful. Hic.”

  She gazed steadily at me, as if deciding how to handle me. “Want your messages?” she said at last.

  I stepped forward to accept them, then went into my office to drop them on my desk and collect the tea tray, which I carried back to my suite. Brewing tea was a soothing task, and the aroma of Darjeeling made me relax a little.

  I was almost out of loose tea, though. I’d have to raid the pantry ... after the staff had gone home.