A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  My thoughts wandered off through other parts of the day, and ended up walking with Gina through nighttime Santa Fe. We walked around the Federal Building on the race track, then uphill toward Fort Marcy Park, where Zozobra was burned every year as part of Fiesta. One of my favorite memories from childhood: picnicking on a blanket in the park, waiting for it to get dark so the giant paper puppet could be burned. Old Man Gloom—burn him, and all your troubles with him. No more troubles for a year.

  The park was dark now, and empty. Zozobra stood alone on his platform, unmoving, silent. Resigned to his fate.

  I looked for the Fire Dancer but didn’t see him. He was the one who set Zozobra on fire. We needed to do that—to get rid of the gloom. I started up the steps toward the platform, but I didn’t know the dance, and I didn’t have any torches. I kept looking, searching for help, for the right tools.

  At the top of the steps a figure stood waiting for me, silhouetted against the ghostly white of Zozobra’s long robe. Not the Fire Dancer, because it didn’t have the tall headdress with the red feathers dancing at the ends of long wires like flames in the night.

  It was just a man. He raised his hand in a too-familiar gesture.

  It was Daniel Swazo, holding his folded knife for me to see.

  I nodded, trying to show him I understood. The knife was important, yes. I’d asked about it. There was meth on it.

  Swazo looked angry, and opened his mouth. Zozobra’s roar came out of it, and Swazo’s eyes lit up neon green and he shook his head from side to side, like Zozobra did when the Fire Dancer taunted him.

  Then he burst into flames.

  7

  I sat up with a muffled cry of alarm, then subsided into tears and hiccups. After a minute I turned on the light on my nightstand. I drank the water in my bedside glass. Stumbled out of bed and into my robe, turning lights on every time I got near a switch.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit. Was Swazo trying to communicate, or was it just my over-stressed mind trying to decompress?

  I needed a drink. The most convenient option was port, from a bottle I kept for an occasional late-night glass. I poured it generously and walked out into the hallway, taking a big swallow as I headed for the front window.

  The sheers were drawn over it, framed by the heavier drapes. I stood looking through them at the street lights and other lights outside—soft, glowing blobs.

  Why? Why was I dreaming about Swazo?

  I needed to talk to someone.

  My first thought was Loren Jackson. He’d said to call anytime, but I suspected yuck-o-clock in the morning was not what he’d meant.

  I didn’t want to bother Gina, or Nat. I decided to compose an email to Willow, which I wouldn’t really send. I just needed to sort through my thoughts.

  I turned on the overhead light in my office, a Tiffany-style stained-glass bowl that cast soft, jewel-toned light through the room. For good measure I turned on the standing lamp by my chaise longue as well. Then I sat at my desk and brought up my email software. Ignoring the waiting messages—work-related, mostly—I opened a new message, typed Willow’s name at the top, then spilled my worries onto the screen.

  You are the ghost expert. Maybe you can help me. I just had a nightmare. Daniel Swazo is haunting my dreams, and this time he pulled a Zozobra and went up in flames.

  This is the second time I’ve dreamed about Daniel Swazo. I’m wondering if these are messages from him, if he’s trying to tell me something. He keeps showing me his knife, a knife that he made, that was found in Nat’s driveway where he died. I asked Detective Aragón to check it and he said the knife had meth residue on it. I don’t think Swazo was doing meth, but I might be wrong.

  Or is he trying to warn me about meth? I don’t have anything to do with it.

  I paused, wondering if anyone I knew was involved with meth. A dreadful thought! I trusted everyone on my staff, but even good people can do terrible things if they have an addiction.

  The most obvious candidates for any dubious scenario were Kris and Ramon, the two with Goth connections. Not that Goth and meth were automatically related, but those two were the only members of my staff who had committed anything resembling crimes, that I knew of. Minor transgressions, granted. Ramon had trespassed (on my property) and Kris had talked back to the police and been arrested for it. Bottom line: they were both risk-takers. Either of them might get into trouble without intending to.

  I hiccuped, then took another swallow of port. Probably I was thinking too hard. I went back to my pretend email.

  I keep thinking Swazo is trying to tell me something. If it isn’t meth, then it’s something else about the knife, but what? I don’t understand.

  Back to that. What did it mean?

  Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe I was obsessing on knives because of Victor Solano’s murder at the Opera. Maybe I was just tired and stressed. I moved to close the email, but my hand did what it was used to and hit “send.”

  “Shit!”

  Belatedly I hit “cancel,” but the message had already gone out.

  I grabbed my port glass and started pacing.

  Great. Just great. Now Willow would think I was nuts. And I’d told her things about the investigation that she shouldn’t know. I’d violated Tony’s confidence. Damn, damn, damn.

  I’d just have to write another email to Willow telling her to ignore the first one. I drank the rest of my port and returned to my desk, intending to do that, but there was a new message.

  From Willow.

  I glanced at the time on the screen: 2:56. Willow was a night-owl, apparently.

  Gritting my teeth, I opened her message, already composing an apology.

  Ellen -

  I’m glad you wrote. I sensed a spirit near you the last time we met, and I don’t doubt that it was Daniel Swazo. It’s very likely that he is trying to communicate with you. Don’t let that worry you—I’m positive that he’s not a harmful spirit. He’s not going to hurt you or deliberately frighten you. As you deduced, he’s just trying to tell you something that he thinks is important.

  When a spirit has an urgent message like this, he or she cannot cross over properly, and remains stuck between planes. I’m happy to help in any way I can, so that Daniel can be at peace and you can relax.

  Can you tell me more about your dreams?

  - Willow

  Whoa. She sensed Swazo’s spirit near me?

  I swallowed, wishing I had more port. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath.

  I was kind of at a crossroads here. Either I bought into Willow’s—whatever it was, her view of the world—or I called it bull and stuck to what I could see and touch.

  Willow was nice but she’d always made me just a little uncomfortable. I’d never pinpointed the reason before, but now I realized it was because she, not I, was Captain Dusenberry’s number one fan. Heck, she’d come by the tearoom before it first opened to ask to see his study. She was utterly convinced that he was real, that he was present in this house, more than a hundred and fifty years after his death.

  And I, though I was increasingly convinced, still had my doubts. Self-doubt, more than anything else. Was I lying to myself? Was it wishful thinking to believe that I had an invisible roommate?

  Strains of violin music floated up from downstairs; the stereo that played music through the tearoom during business hours had come on. I stiffened, listening until I recognized the piece. Mozart. Of course.

  I sighed. Who was I to say that only the tangible was real?

  Biting my lip, I opened a reply to Willow’s email. I described both dreams to her, in as much detail as I could remember. Then I asked her not to mention the knife to anyone, as it was part of the Swazo murder investigation.

  I sent the message off, picked up my port glass, and carried it back to my suite. It took an effort to decide that more port would actually be a bad idea. Instead I poured myself a glass of water and went back to my desk.

  No answer yet from Willow. I leaned b
ack in my chair, thinking of Zozobra.

  I’d missed Fiesta this year. Too busy with the tearoom. Actually, I hadn’t been to Zozobra for several years. It was just too crowded lately, and the show had become more and more elaborate.

  I missed the simpler, more straightforward event I remembered from years ago. Just the Fire Dancer, and the little Glooms (Cub Scouts in sheets), and a few extra folks mostly there to keep everyone safe. And Zozobra’s loud, amplified moaning, and his marionette arms flailing as he wagged his head from side to side. That was all he could do: shake his head and flail his arms and yell, but it had always been exciting enough.

  Sometimes I felt like that was all I could do, too. Shake my head, flail, yell.

  And then, after Zozobra was finally ablaze, fireworks filled the air and everyone cheered. The fireworks continued, and finally the giant would collapse into a smoldering heap on the platform. More cheering, then the fireworks would end, and the stadium lights would come on, and everyone would drift away home or to the hundreds of parties going on all over town. Fiesta.

  I hiccuped. My email software pinged with a new message from Willow.

  Ellen -

  I believe you’re right that Daniel wants you to know something about the knife. Since it’s a piece of evidence, I’m assuming no way for us to look at it. Is there any other information about it?

  - Willow

  I wrote a quick answer, telling her about the knives I’d seen on Daniel Swazo’s table at the flea market, describing his knife in detail—which I could do with perfect confidence, its image having been burned into my brain by now—and promising to ask Tony if there was any more information. I doubted there would be, but I’d ask.

  I was yawning by now, so I added a thank-you to Willow for listening, then sent the message off and went back to bed.

  I woke to the sound of rain on the metal roof. A glance at my clock told me I had anticipated the alarm by a few minutes. I slid out of bed and put the kettle on, and managed to be presentable by the time the smell of baking scones had wafted up the stairwell.

  I pushed aside the sheers on the front window, and saw gray sky to the horizon and a slow, gentle rain falling. A soaking rain, not a cloudburst. If we were lucky, it would go on all day.

  Feeling a need for some solid human company, I went down to say hello to Julio. He had the salsa music on low and was dancing from sink to cutting board to work table. His chef’s pants and hat were out of a fabric covered in autumn leaves: red, orange, and yellow on a black background.

  “You must have a really big closet,” I remarked.

  He glanced up at me, flashing a grin. “Tell you a secret. Andre and I trade. We wear the same size, except he’s taller.”

  I glanced at his feet. The pants did bag there a bit, but not badly.

  “So you both have a double—hic—wardrobe. Sweet.”

  “Well, there are a few patterns he won’t wear. He doesn’t like the hibiscus flowers.”

  “Too girly?”

  Julio shrugged. “He’s not flashy.”

  I smiled. I wouldn’t have called Julio flashy, either—at least, not when I first met him. He definitely had a serious streak. It didn’t keep him from being willing to play, though, much to my occasional delight.

  “You need breakfast?” he asked.

  “I don’t know...are you making pumpkin fritters?”

  “Not today.”

  “Then I’ll fix myself something. Thanks, though.”

  I went to the butler’s pantry and made a pot of tea. Dee came in and smiled as she put on her apron.

  “Fires today?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s chilly.”

  When my tea was ready, I carried it upstairs. Kris wasn’t there yet, so I breakfasted in secret on cold pizza and tea before going to my desk.

  No new email, but Willow’s last message reminded me that I needed to ask Tony about the knife. I got my phone, intending to text him, then decided email would be better. He might think a text needed immediate attention, and I didn’t want my question to take him away from his case.

  To be honest, I was little embarrassed to be bothering him about the knife again. He’d already gone out of his way to check it for me. But I’d promised Willow I’d ask, so I opened an email.

  Tony -

  Was there anything else in the report about the knife? Anything at all? I’m having dreams about Daniel Swazo. Trying to make them stop.

  Thanks,

  - Ellen

  I sat staring at it before sending it off. Would he think I was stupid? Annoying? Crazy? Should I just erase it and start over?

  Not that again. Very deliberately, I hit “send.”

  If Tony thought I was a nut case, so be it. I lived in a haunted house. Very gently haunted, by a pretty nice ghost, all things considered. But still.

  I pulled up our reservations schedule to check how busy we’d be. Not very; late September was a slow time. Fiesta was over, as were the opera season and the big Markets. A lot of locals were off at the State Fair in Albuquerque. Most of the tourists had left, and things would be slower until December, when the skiing and holiday seasons would bring more visitors.

  That and the rain made for a quiet day. I had the meeting with Willow and the reenactor in the early afternoon, but that was about it. I set to work on clearing up the tasks I’d set aside for “later.”

  Just before noon I went downstairs for another pot of tea, and found Iz polishing spoons in the pantry. She looked up and smiled as I put on the kettle. I hiccuped.

  “Iz, may I ask your opinion? Do you think Daniel Swazo might have been a drug addict?”

  “Daniel? No. He was a good person. He didn’t mess with that stuff.”

  “You think maybe someone he knew did?”

  She sniffed and went back to rubbing a spoon. “His brother isn’t so good. Makes their mom crazy.”

  “His brother?”

  “Older brother. Tomas.”

  “He’s—hic—into drugs?”

  “I don’t know about that. He just gets into trouble, you know?”

  “I see.”

  The kettle boiled, and I set my tea to steeping. “Did Daniel have any enemies, that you know of?”

  Iz shook her head firmly. “Daniel was a good guy.”

  I thought about that. Maybe no one had wanted to kill Daniel, but someone had certainly beaten him severely.

  Becoming aware that my gaze was resting on a canister of oolong, I remembered that I needed leaf tea upstairs. I took out a plastic bag and took down the Darjeeling.

  “But was anybody on his case?” I asked gently as I scooped tea leaves into the bag. “You know, even g—hic—good guys get bullied sometimes.”

  Iz tilted her head, thinking, then shook it. “Nobody I know about.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  She nodded and picked up another spoon. I checked the timer, then went to make a quick pass through the tearoom.

  Three parties, all quietly enjoying tea in the main parlor. Nat was in the gift shop, puttering with the bags and wrappings. She brightened as I came in. “Hello, dear! Are you feeling any better?”

  “Some. Had a dr—hic—dream about Swazo last night.”

  “Another one?”

  “This time he turned into Zozobra.”

  Nat put her arm around my shoulders. “Honey, you need to go up to 10 K Waves. Why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

  “It’s raining.”

  “So get a massage. Sit in the sauna.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Usually a reservation was necessary for a massage at Ten Thousand Waves, but on a slow day like today, they might have openings. I wasn’t quite in the mood, though. Imagining myself hiccuping my way through a massage wasn’t a tranquil thought.

  Lounging on my chaise with a book was a much more appealing image. I promised myself an hour at the end of the afternoon.

  Meanwhile, I should try to make myself useful
. I collected my tea—both brewed and leaf—and went back upstairs. Took the leaf tea across to my suite, poked my head into Kris’s office and saw that she was on the phone, and went to my desk where I sent her a message offering to take the bank deposit after my meeting.

  A walk in the rain would do me good, and the bank was just under a mile away. I had a nice, big umbrella and a warm wool coat.

  My cell phone rang. I grabbed it, hoping the call was from Tony, but the caller ID showed ‘Hospice Center’.

  Swallowing disappointment, I answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ellen, it’s Loren.” His voice was warm, and made me think of sitting on the comfortable couch at the Hospice Center. “Just thought I’d follow up on our conversation. Have you been sleeping better?”

  “Oh, well—hic—sort of.”

  “Still hiccuping? Have you called your doctor?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Might be good to make an appointment.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  There was a pause. I knew he meant well, and I appreciated his kindness, but I couldn’t find anything to say.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “Would you like to talk again? My schedule’s pretty free tomorrow.”

  “Next week would be better. Fridays are pretty busy here.”

  Not that it looked like this Friday would be. I closed the reservation screen on my computer.

  “How about Tuesday again?” Loren said. “Or Monday—you’re closed that day, right?”

  “Right. Yes. Monday would be good.”

  “How about eleven o’clock?”

  I checked my calendar. Wide open on Monday.

  “That’s fine,” I said, making a note.

  “Great. See you then. Have a good weekend, Ellen.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  I hung up, and set the phone aside, frowning. Why had I been so uncomfortable? Loren was nice. Our talk had done me good.

  For lunch, I had leftover salad, and tarnished this virtuous act with one piece of garlic bread on the side. By then, it was time to meet Willow and the reenactor. I tidied my suite and myself, then went downstairs.