A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Have you had them all day?” Angela asked.

  “All week.”

  “You’ve had the hiccups all week?” Dolores looked at me as if I was nuts.

  I waved a hand, trying to dismiss the subject. “It’s just been a tough week.”

  “Drink some water with a pencil in your mouth,” said Theresa.

  I blinked at her. “What?”

  Theresa nodded firmly, then picked up her spoon and demonstrated. “Like a pirate biting his knife—so. Then get a glass of water and drink it.”

  I’d heard plenty of odd suggestions in the past few days, but this was odder than most.

  “Well ... it’s worth a try,” I said gamely. “Thank you.”

  “If that doesn’t work, you might want to see a doctor,” Angela suggested gently.

  “I have an appointment,” I said.

  An awkward silence followed. The Aragóns were embarrassed to be having tea with a defective human who couldn’t even rid herself of the hiccups.

  I took a deep breath and turned to Dolores. “Your hair is lovely, Mrs. Aragón. I think Tony mentioned you have a salon?”

  “I don’t own one. I work in one.”

  “Ah.”

  Defective and tactless. Would I never learn?

  “What are those?” demanded Theresa, a bony finger pointing at the strawberry puffs on the sweets plate. I removed the plate from the tea tray and offered it to her.

  “Meringues with strawberry cream. Try one.”

  I handed the sweets to Dolores once Theresa had claimed her share. She and Angela took one of each. My plate didn’t have room for sweets; I’d fallen behind. To be honest, I wasn’t very hungry.

  I made myself take a bite of scone. It tasted like sawdust. I knew that it was me, not the scone, that was the problem. I was sliding into a blue funk.

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t guarantee that things would go perfectly. Tony’s absence had really thrown me, more than it should have. I’d been counting on him to help me get acquainted with his family. Without him, I was awkward and embarrassed.

  Which was ridiculous. Since when did I depend on the presence of Tony Aragón for my own poise? I raised my head and sat straighter in my chair.

  “Tony’s older than you, right?” I said to Angela.

  “A few years older, yes.”

  I tried to remember whether Tony and I had talked about college. My impression was that he hadn’t gone—perhaps because there had been no money. Did he go straight into the police academy?

  “I was wondering why he chose to go into police work,” I said. “I don’t believe he’s mentioned the reason to me.”

  Angela looked at her mother, who was suddenly interested in her sweets. “Our father was a policeman,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “He was killed on duty.”

  My throat tightened. “I’m so sorry. Was it recent?”

  Angela shook her head. “Tony was seventeen. I was twelve.” Again, she looked at her mother. Following her gaze, I saw that Dolores was plainly still grieving.

  It had to have been ten years, or nearly so. My heart clenched with sympathetic pain. My father had been gone for two years. My mother six. It still hurt.

  “So he inspired Tony to follow in his career?” I said. “He must have been a ve—hic—very good father.”

  Dolores raised her head, looking at me with eyes every bit as fierce as Theresa’s. “He was a good man.”

  I felt I was digging myself deeper into a conversational pit. Soon I’d be able to pull the sides in after myself.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said softly.

  Dolores’s eyes flashed with passion, then she looked down at her plate once more. She picked up her teacup, which was empty.

  I reached for the pot and poured the last of the tea into Dolores’s cup. I was tempted to go fetch more myself, just for the sake of a moment alone, but it would be rude to abandon my guests, and I would have to pass the Jacksons. Not wise.

  Instead, I tipped the lid of the teapot and waited for Iz to come by and notice.

  “You going to eat your strawberry?” Theresa said to me.

  I shook my head, suppressed a hiccup, and offered her the sweets plate again. She took the strawberry puff, and her hand hovered over the petit four as she glanced at me. I nodded, and she cleared the plate.

  Well, at least one of us was having a good time.

  I tried to think of a safe topic to introduce, but all my usual polite inquiries had so far led to disaster. Probably I’d be better off keeping my mouth shut. There were times when even Miss Manners couldn’t help me.

  “Everything is good,” Theresa said, and licked a bit of cream from her fingers.

  “Thank you.” I assumed it was high praise. Grandmothers have no obligation to give polite compliments.

  “Do you cook everything yourself?” Angela asked, and I recognized an attempt to help.

  Grateful, I smiled, shaking my head. “No, we have a chef. Julio Delgado. He’s much more talented in the kitchen than I am.”

  Dolores looked up. “Anna Delgado’s father?”

  “Her brother.”

  Her eyebrows twitched upward, then she gave a nod and picked up her chocolate truffle. I remembered that Julio had said Tony once dated his sister. Since it was at Anna’s wedding that I’d discovered Julio, I had assumed that she hadn’t clicked with Tony, but she’d apparently at least met his family. Probably she’d been more comfortable with them than I was, so far.

  I began composing a question about Tony’s other sister, who was married and whom I hadn’t met, when a sudden blare of music filled the room. The usual quiet, classical music had been preempted by the Andrews Sisters cheerfully warbling “Six Jerks in a Jeep.”

  The Aragóns all looked at me. “Tony said you have a ghost that likes music,” Theresa said.

  True, but I didn’t think Captain Dusenberry was into swing.

  9

  All the conversations in the parlor had stopped, arrested by the sudden injection of saxophones and “Beep, beep!” in three-part harmony. I resisted gritting my teeth, and instead smiled at Theresa Aragón.

  “Someone must be playing a joke. Please excuse me for a moment.” I stood and went out to the hallway, where I encountered Iz, wide-eyed.

  “Iz, could you brew some more tea for our party in Jonquil? Thank you.”

  I stepped past her as she hurried into the main parlor. At the far end of the hall, a tell-tale figure of fluffy white and yellow was dancing. The Bird Woman’s party had spilled out of the dining parlor. Two of the others were doing the jitterbug.

  As I came up to them, the Bird Woman turned to me with a joyful grin, singing, “Six creeps in a jeep that leaks!”

  I stepped into the butler’s pantry, where the house stereo lived, and pushed the eject button. Dee, red-faced, came in from the kitchen and leaned close to murmur in my ear.

  “I’m sorry. I tried, but I couldn’t stop her.”

  “A police barricade wouldn’t stop her,” I whispered back. “It’s all right.”

  I placed the Andrews Sisters disc back in its case and returned the displaced Mozart to the carousel, then turned down the volume and set the music playing on random once more. Soothing strains of a Chopin nocturne emerged from the speakers, and I emerged from the pantry.

  “I’m sorry, ladies,” I said to the women in the hallway. “I’m afraid that music’s a bit too—hic—lively.”

  “Aw, shoot!” said the Bird Woman. “I just thought it was a perfect theme song for us. There’s six of us, and Peggy drove her Jeep!”

  “An admirable choice, I agree,” I said, handing her the disc. “Just not for the tearoom.”

  “If you had one of those tea dances it would work.”

  “We don’t really have room for dancing, I’m afraid.” I stepped out of Iz’s way as she ducked into the pantry with our empty teapot. Behind her I saw Dee, this time carrying a tray of pumpkin frit
ters.

  “Here’s Dee with a special treat for you,” I said. “It’s a preview from our October menu—no—hic—one else has tasted it yet.”

  A chorus of “Ooo”s was the response, and Dee sailed across the hall with the plate held high. The ladies followed her into the dining parlor like a flock of ducklings. I couldn’t resist closing the door behind them, though I managed not to slam it.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I headed back toward the main parlor and my guests. As I passed the Rose alcove, I noticed Loren watching me. I shot him an apologetic smile, then turned my attention to the Aragóns.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, resuming my seat. “Where were we?”

  “We were talking about your chef,” Angela said.

  “Oh, yes. I met Julio at his sister Anna’s wedding. He made the cake for it, and it was so good I asked who had—hic—had baked it. I was just starting to organize the tearoom at the time.”

  “Are you Catholic?” Theresa demanded.

  Splat. There it was, one of the Big Questions. I took a careful breath.

  “No, I was raised a Unitarian.”

  “Hmf.”

  Iz came in with a fresh pot of tea, and poured all around. She bent close as she filled my cup.

  “Julio says should he send some fritters?” she whispered.

  I nodded, then took a swallow of tea. If Theresa was going to grill me, I wanted to be fortified.

  But she did not grill me. Instead she mused silently on her own thoughts. Dolores, after giving her a sidelong glance, turned to me.

  “Is that a Pueblo girl waiting on us?”

  “Yes. Isabel Naranjo. She’s from Tesuque.”

  “She has nice manners.”

  “Thank you. She’s a very sweet girl.”

  All my servers had good manners. All my staff did, for that matter. I expected no less from my employees.

  “Do you really have a ghost?” Angela asked.

  “Well...”

  “Tony says it’s just old wiring,” said Theresa, picking up her second truffle.

  “Yes, I know that’s what—hic—he thinks.”

  “But you think different?” Angela said.

  I gave a helpless shrug. “Some of the things that have happened can’t be explained by wiring. The piano in the next alcove, for instance,” I said, gesturing toward Iris. “It’s played music when no one was near the keyboard.”

  “How do you know?” Dolores asked.

  “I was there.”

  “And did anyone else witness this?”

  She was channeling Tony, and not at his most congenial. I felt my blood pressure go up a notch.

  “Yes,” I said. “My—my friend, Violetta. Hic.” Vi was no longer available to testify, but that was beside the point.

  “Doesn’t it bother you, to be in a house with ghosts?” Angela asked.

  I opened my mouth, but closed it again. To say “no” would have felt insincere. Captain Dusenberry didn’t bother me, but Daniel Swazo was a different story. If he really was hanging around, as Willow seemed to think.

  Speaking of hanging around, there were other spirits who might be haunting the tearoom. Sylvia Carruthers and Maria Garcia had both died in the house. And there was Vi, who had worked here for several months before joining the Opera.

  I suddenly felt the need to clear the air.

  The Aragóns were watching me, waiting. “I’ve gotten used to it,” I said. It sounded feeble even to me.

  To my relief, Iz returned at that moment with a plate of pumpkin fritters and another of meringue pots de crème. Meringues again, but from the gleam of anticipation in Theresa’s eye, I figured that wouldn’t be a problem.

  I passed the fritters around first. My guests appeared to enjoy them. Theresa took two right from the start, which I considered a tribute to Julio’s talent.

  I put a fritter on my plate and nibbled it. It tasted good, which was a comfort. I wished for the hundredth time that Tony had been able to join us.

  The matter of the ghosts bothered me. I wondered if Willow did exorcisms, or knew someone who would. That was a Catholic thing, though. And Willow would probably object to anything that might encourage spirits to leave the tearoom.

  Maybe just a cleansing—something involving sage smudge, perhaps. Iz had once suggested a sing. I’d have to ask her about it.

  I wrenched my thoughts back to my guests. My Miss Manners angel prompted me to say something, ask a question. I reviewed possible topics: Angela’s school (done), Dolores’s work (done), Tony (done), Theresa. I knew little about her except that she might have lost her house. Not a good memory to raise.

  “Your garden is beautiful,” Theresa said, gazing out of the window.

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you plant it yourself?”

  “The roses and the flower beds, yes. The wisterias were here. So were the lilacs—hic—on the north side of the house.”

  “Those are lilacs, those tall bushes?” Angela asked.

  “Yes. If you come back in May or June, they’ll be blooming.”

  “I love lilacs.”

  “Do you like to garden?”

  Angela gave me a frightened glance, then picked up her teacup. Dolores reached for another fritter.

  “We live in apartments,” she said, “so we don’t get to garden.”

  Oh. Oops. Again.

  “When I was younger, yes, I liked to spend time in the yard,” Dolores added. She and Theresa exchanged a long glance.

  “Well, you’re welcome to spend time in mine,” I said. “Please feel free to visit.”

  Dolores gave me a thoughtful look. “Thank you.”

  I picked up the plate of pots de crème. “These are a new item, if you have room for one more sweet. They may be—hic—a little fragile, so be careful.”

  The Aragóns each took one. Dolores and Angela watched me and picked up their spoons when I raised mine. Theresa simply popped the whole meringue into her mouth. The crunch as she bit down on it filled the silence.

  I scooped out a bit of chocolate crème with my spoon. It was bittersweet and melted on the tongue.

  “Those are good,” said Theresa when she was able to speak again.

  I offered her the plate. She took two more.

  “Mama!” Dolores protested.

  “It’s all right,” I said, hoping Theresa wasn’t diabetic.

  Dolores said something pithy in Spanish. Theresa ignored it, consuming a second meringue with enthusiastic crunching.

  “They are very good,” said Angela, scooping out the last of the chocolate from her cup.

  “Careful,” I said. “It might break.”

  She smiled as she put down her empty spoon, then shot me a mischievous glance and bit the cup. It held together, probably because of the custard. I breathed relief.

  “Your Julio invented these?” Dolores asked.

  “Yes. He’s very creative.”

  “You better give him a raise, or someone will steal him from you.”

  Julio already made more than anyone else on the staff besides Kris and me, and his salary was not that much less than mine.

  “Good advice,” I said.

  Crunch. Theresa had dealt with her third meringue pot. As she chewed it, she eyed the ones left on the plate.

  Dolores looked from her to me. “This has been very nice. Thank you, Miss Rosings.”

  “Ellen, please. Call me Ellen.”

  She gave a regal nod. “Thank you, Ellen. But now I think it’s time for us to go.”

  Angela hastily finished her tea and put down the cup, then stood and went to retrieve Theresa’s walker, which was folded up and tucked against the wall.

  “Did Tony arrange for payment?” Dolores asked, just a trifle stiffly.

  “It’s all taken care of,” I said. Tony still had the gift card, but it didn’t matter. I’d tell him to use it to bring them back, if they wanted to come.

  Angela, holding the walker steady while Theresa used it to
pull herself to her feet, glanced at me. “It was wonderful. Thank you for inviting us.”

  “Thank you for com—hic—coming.” I couldn’t think of anything more clever to say.

  I accompanied them slowly out to the hall. Theresa made a bee-line for the gift shop, and Dolores followed her with a resigned expression. Angela hung back for a moment and turned to me.

  “I’m glad I got to meet you,” she said shyly. “Tony’s told us so much about you.”

  “Really?” I was surprised. Tony wasn’t very talkative, from what I’d seen.

  Her shy smile widened. “Oh, yes. He had to explain everything he knew about you before Mama would lend him her car, that one time.”

  The car that talked. I suppressed a shudder.

  “Well, I’m glad I got to meet you, too. I hope you’ll come to tea again. Some time.”

  Angela glanced toward the parlor, looking intimidated, but she nodded. “Some time.”

  An urge to keep hold of this tenuous connection came over me. I took a tearoom business card out of a stand by the door.

  “Do you have a pen?” I asked.

  Angela dug one out of her purse for me. I wrote my cell number on the back of the card. “I meant it about coming to visit the garden. You’re welcome a—hic—any time. Just let me know and I’ll make some lemonade.”

  “Or tea?” Angela said as I handed her the card, and the hint of a smile on her lips reminded me strongly of Tony.

  “Or tea.”

  Her smile softened as she looked at the card. “That’s nice of you. Thanks.”

  “May I have your number?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  She wrote it on the back of another tearoom card, then tucked her pen back in her purse and followed her family into the gift shop. I tagged along. Nat smiled at us from the podium.

  “Did you enjoy your tea?”

  “Oh—” Angela glanced at me. “Yes, it was lovely.”

  “Let me introduce you,” I said to her. “Nat, this is Angela Ar—hic—Aragón, Tony’s sister. Angela, this is my aunt Natasha Wheeler. She’s the one who advised me to open a tearoom.”

  “Yes, but you did all the work!” said Nat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Angela.”