I collected a couple of stray coffee mugs from my office and took them down to the dishwashing room. Ignoring the almost constant ringing of the phone, I walked through the parlors, making sure everything was tidy. The girls would check, too, but I wanted to be in the tearoom, to remind myself of the haven I had created and intended to maintain.
I picked up the brass firewood carrier Dee had left in the main parlor and returned it to its place by the back door, then carried the book I had tried to read back to my office. I heard the back door open and close again, and glanced at my clock. It was almost eight. Kris had arrived.
She came into my office, shrugging off her long coat to reveal a black turtleneck and broomstick skirt. A graceful sandcast silver bracelet was her only jewelry. As always, her makeup was perfect and within business-world expectations, though the colors she chose were toward the goth spectrum, rather dark, accentuating her pale skin and black, cropped hair.
“I saw the news last night,” she said in her quiet alto.
“So you know about the murder.”
She nodded, blue-gray eyes gazing at me intently. “It looked insane with cops crawling all over the place. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” The phone rang again and I glanced at it. “It’s been going all morning. There are a bunch of messages for you to deal with, I’m afraid.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to make a fresh pot of tea. Want some?”
“Yes, please. You sure you’re all right?”
Kris has a tendency to view even minor setbacks as tragedies. The end of the world is always just around the corner. While that might be true in this case, I was determined not to acknowledge it. I made an effort and smiled.
“I’m fine. Thanks for being concerned. I’m glad you came in today despite this … unpleasantness.”
She flashed an unexpected smile. “Oh, I think it’s fascinating! I looked at the parlor on my way up, but it’s hard to tell anything happened.”
“I should hope so. I just want to get back to normal.”
Her wry look told me she thought this impossible. I went downstairs, conscious of the dining parlor as I passed it on the way to the butler’s pantry.
By the time I returned, Kris had been through half the messages. I set the tea tray on a credenza, hesitating as I noticed the picture above it, an ebony-framed reproduction of Millais’s “Ophelia.”
Kris had brought it in while we were decorating and asked my permission to hang it, and I’d had no objection at the time. Now, though, it bothered me a little. Lovely and ethereal as it was, it was still a picture of a woman drowning, and I was feeling a bit sensitive to the idea of death just then.
I poured tea for us both and carried it to her desk, sitting with my back to “Ophelia.” Kris finished jotting a message, then hung up the phone and read from her notes.
“All four TV stations, the Journal North and the New Mexican all want to interview you,” she said, “and you have messages from Katie Hutchins, Manny Salazar, someone named Willow, and two from a Detective Aragón.”
“Drat. What did the detective want?”
“Didn’t say. Just left a number for you to call back.” She handed me a bunch of message slips.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want me to return the calls from the media?”
I stood up and picked up my teacup. “Not yet. See what else we’ve got. Who knows, there might be a reservation in there.”
“Oh, there already was. One.”
I looked at her in surprise. “Well, that’s good news.”
She gave an apologetic smile. “And three cancellations.”
“Oh. Well, carry on.”
I carried my tea into my office. As I sat at my desk, something seemed out of place. I put down the cup and saucer and the message slips and looked at the desk. I’d left it clean when I’d given it over to Detective Aragón to use.
The lower right hand drawer wasn’t quite closed. It tended to stick, and I’d been meaning to wax it but hadn’t gotten around to it.
I pulled it open. The papers I had stashed in there the previous evening lay in a tidy stack.
Too tidy. I remembered I hadn’t racked them carefully when I put them away, but they were racked now.
“That bastard!” I whispered.
He’d gone through my desk.
Well, I hadn’t told him not to. I’d left him alone in there. He was a cop investigating a murder, what did I expect?
I expected a respect for my privacy, and a little common courtesy, that was what. I took a deep breath, struggling to control my anger. It was going to be a difficult day, and I couldn’t let something like this throw me into a bad mood before we even opened.
The phone rang again and I glanced up. This time it was my private line, so I answered it.
“Ellen!” said Aunt Nat. “I’ve been so worried! Didn’t you get my message?”
“Oh—sorry, I haven’t checked my cell phone yet. The tearoom’s phone has been ringing off the hook.”
“I can believe that! Why didn’t you call me last night? I’d have come and helped.”
“Sorry, I meant to call. There wouldn’t have been anything for you to do, but thanks for thinking of me.”
“Well, what can I do today? Do you need help with the tearoom?”
“Ah—maybe. Don’t put off your own plans, but—”
“I have nothing planned today. I’ll come right down.”
I leaned back in my chair, surprised at how relieved I felt. “Thanks. It’ll be good to have you here. I could use some moral support.”
“You poor duck. You should forget all about it and go up to the spa and get a massage.”
I laughed. “Not today. I’m sticking to my post until the fuss blows over.”
“Brave girl. I’ll come stick with you. About half an hour okay?”
“Anytime, no hurry. We don’t open ‘til eleven.”
“See you soon, then.”
I hung up, feeling rather better, and decided to check my personal messages. There were three, one each from Gina, Nat, and Jody Thompson, the real estate agent. I called Gina’s number, got voicemail, left her a cheery message. Jody didn’t answer either; she was probably out showing properties. Hers had been a courtesy call, so I left a message thanking her and assuring her that the tearoom was getting back to normal, and that I hoped to see her at the grand opening on Friday.
The next day. We had one day to pull it all together. I’d been counting on spending evenings getting ready, but Wednesday night had been a total loss.
I was about to jump up and get busy when my cell phone rang. I answered.
“Hello, Ms. Rosings, it’s Vince Margolan. I just heard about what happened. I’m so terribly sorry!”
“Thank you, Mr. Margolan.”
“Oh, Vince, please, we’re neighbors, right?” he said in his hasty, New York way. “Listen, is there anything I can do?”
“No, no. Thank you. The police will probably want to ask you some questions.”
“Yes, I just had a visit from a detective. That’s why I called.”
“Detective Aragón?”
“Yeah. Not very friendly.”
I grimaced. “Well, I hope he didn’t disrupt your day.”
“No, well, not much. Just getting some paperwork together for the gallery.”
“I’ll let you get back to it, then. Thank you so much for calling. I hope we’ll see you at our opening tomorrow afternoon.”
“Uh, if I have time. Busy week, you know. I’m hoping—well, I’ve got some big plans for the gallery. Lots to do.”
“Of course. Thanks again.”
We said goodbye and as I hung up I brushed aside a fleeting worry that no one would attend the grand opening. It was pointless to worry about that. Much more productive to get to work. Leaving the rest of my messages for later, I stood up and left the office, glancing into Kris’s office before I went downstairs.
“Need anything?�
� I asked.
Kris shook her head, then held up a message slip. “That detective called again. You were on your cell.”
I stifled a groan and stepped in to collect the slip. “I’d better call him back.”
“Sounded kind of pissed.”
“I’m not surprised.”
I went back to my desk and dialed Detective Aragón’s number, but got voicemail. I left a polite message, then went down to see how Julio was doing. As I came into the kitchen he was standing by the sink. I froze. His hands were up to the wrists in blood.
“Hey, boss,” he said, smiling as he looked up at me.
He turned back to the sink, in which sat a colander of raw chicken livers. I relaxed, silently chiding myself for being so touchy. The smell of sautéing onions was back, and I went to the stove to stir them since Julio had his hands full.
“Starting on the pâté for tomorrow, I see,” I said, proud that my voice sounded calm.
“Yeah.”
He carried the colander over and started to dump the livers into the pan. On another burner a large pot of eggs was about to boil. I’d requested deviled eggs for the grand opening, a tribute to the day Nat had first suggested the tearoom idea.
“Anything I can do, or shall I get out of your way?”
“It’s all under control. Oh, hey—that fruit basket in the fridge is yours, right?”
I nodded. “Manny Salazar brought it.”
“Can I use a couple of the mangoes?”
“You can use anything you want except the raspberries. Those are mine.”
“Got it. Thanks, boss.”
He went over to the sink to rinse the colander. I stayed and stirred the simmering chicken livers.
“By the way, the candied violets yesterday were a delightful touch.”
He came back, took the wooden spoon from my hand and glanced up with a small, wry smile. “I wanted to make your party really special.”
“It was really special. And we’re going to keep doing really special events. Don’t you worry.”
A muffled knocking sounded from the rear hall door. I gave Julio a reassuring smile as I opened the kitchen’s outside door and looked out onto the porch.
It was the delivery girl from the florist, with cut flowers I had ordered for the grand opening. She and I carried bucket after bucket of white gladiolas, purple roses, blue iris and multicolored freesias and alstroemerias into the big, industrial refrigerator in the kitchen. I’d be up late that night, arranging them all in vases and teapots for the celebration.
Aunt Nat showed up as the florist’s girl was leaving, wearing a handsome paisley dress in rich tones of burgundy, gold, and green. She caught me in a huge hug.
“Poor darling,” she said into my shoulder. “What a horrible mess for you to have to deal with.”
“Yes, well. I’m managing.”
She leaned back, holding me by the shoulders. “Tell me what to do.”
“Come and help me move the dining table, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
We went across the hall to the dining parlor, which I hadn’t entered since the previous night. The chandelier was on, warm light filling the room. I must have forgotten to turn it off.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” Nat said, glancing around.
“I cleaned up the tea things last night and wiped up all the fingerprint dust, but I couldn’t shift the table by myself. They moved it to make room to work.”
Nat went to the foot of the table, where she’d sat the day before. We pulled the chairs aside and moved the table back to the center of the room, then tidied everything up. I put a fresh tablecloth down and I retrieved the centerpiece from the south sideboard, placing it beneath the chandelier. Purple-edged white lisianthus, yellow rosebuds, and blue mist—a combination I’d chosen after long deliberation.
The dining parlor was back to normal, except that I couldn’t help thinking about Sylvia whenever I was in there. I glanced up and saw my aunt gazing wistfully at the flowers.
“I haven’t told you how sorry I am,” I said. “You were pretty good friends, weren’t you?”
“Oh, lunch-now-and-then friends,” Nat said. “We weren’t terribly close, but I’ll miss her. I’ve known her for years.”
She shook her head, frowning. I went over and gave her a hug.
“I keep trying to think why anyone would kill her,” Nat said. “She wasn’t the easiest person, but she had a good heart.”
“I know.”
“She could come on pretty strong, of course, when she cared deeply about something.”
I looked at Nat, trying to decide how upset she really was. She seemed bewildered, mostly.
“Did Sylvia and Donna get along well, do you know?” I asked. “I got the impression they didn’t, but maybe they were just having an off day.”
Nat sighed, and adjusted one of the hurricane lamps on the south sideboard. “Sylvia’s always been a little disappointed in Donna. They’re both headstrong, you know, and when they disagree … but they never had a serious clash that I knew of.”
I nodded. “Well, let’s go fold linens,” I said, wanting to take Nat’s mind, not to mention my own, off the murder.
We crossed the hall to the butler’s pantry and got busy with the laundry. I had washed all the linens used the previous day, and now they had to be folded and put away. Nat took charge of the tearoom linens while I collected the tablecloth and napkins—my mother’s lace—that we had used in the dining parlor.
“That’s strange,” I said. “There’s a napkin missing.”
“Maybe it’s in with these,” Nat said.
We looked through everything again. One napkin from the dining set was missing. I checked the washer and dryer, then around beside and behind them. No luck.
“Maybe someone snuck some scones home in it,” Nat said.
I laughed and let it go, reaching for more napkins to fold. Nat began taking chores away from me, gently bullying me to go up to my office and answer the rest of my calls. I finally gave in and did so, reassuring first Manny and then Katie that everything was all right at the tearoom.
“I saw all those emergency vehicles last night,” Katie said, sounding concerned. “I would have come over, but I had guests arriving and one of them got in late—”
“Thanks, Katie, but I’m glad you didn’t come,” I said. “It was pretty chaotic.”
“You poor dear. I wish I could help somehow.”
I picked up the pile of message slips and let them sift back to my desk like falling leaves. My gaze fell on the place cards I’d collected from the dining parlor and left on my desk. “Well, actually, you could clear something up for me, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“You were still in the dining parlor when I left after the tea,” I said, my pulse speeding up a little at the memory.
“Yes, I was talking to poor Sylvia.”
“What about?”
“Oh, just about the Trust. You know how she likes to go on.”
“Do you remember who else was in the room?”
“Sylvia’s daughter and Vince. They were talking about a gallery opening, I think.”
“His gallery?”
“No, no. He’s just getting started, he won’t be ready to open for a while. I think they were talking about an opening this weekend, over on Canyon Road.”
“And they were both still there when you left?”
“Yes. So was Sylvia.”
“I see. Thanks.”
“The detective asked me if I thought either of them would have a reason to kill Sylvia. Can you imagine?”
“Detective Aragón? He spoke to you already?”
“Yes, he was here this morning.”
I frowned, wondering why he hadn’t stopped by the tearoom if he was in the neighborhood calling on Vince and Katie. “What else did he ask you?”
“Well … I’m sure those kinds of questions are just routine—”
/>
“He asked you if I had a reason to kill her.”
“I told him no, of course.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Sure thing. Let me know if I can help with anything.”
“I will, thanks, Katie. Do come by tomorrow afternoon for the opening, if you have time.”
“Yes, I’m planning on it. I think I can drag Bob over for a little while, too. We don’t have any new guests arriving tomorrow.”
“Bring your guests, if they’d care to come.”
“That’s so sweet of you, Ellen! Thank you, I’ll let them know.”
I sat musing for a while after we said goodbye, then glanced through the message slips to make sure I’d taken care of them all. The only call I hadn’t returned was the one from “someone named Willow.” I had a feeling that it was one of Santa Fe’s woo-woo types, and didn’t feel up to it at the moment, so I left that slip on my desk, tossed the rest, and went into to Kris’s office.
“Do you have today’s reservation tally?” I asked her.
She handed me three copies of a page printed from a spreadsheet. “Twenty-six.”
I peered at the tally sheet and my heart sank. The tearoom could seat up to sixty at a time, and in order to break even we needed to keep it at least a third filled every hour. We had no more than three groups booked at once, and none at all from three to four. The bookings we did have were small, mostly two or three customers.
“Maybe tomorrow will be better,” I said.
“Speaking of tomorrow, you had put a cap on the grand opening at sixty.”
“That’s right. Are we booked up?”
“No, we’re at nineteen, including your invited guests. What I wanted to know was should we cap it at forty-eight, and not use the dining parlor?”
I bit my lip. “Yes, I guess we’d better.”
The phone rang again. Kris answered, punching the button for the business line with a perfectly manicured, silver-frosted fingernail.
“Wisteria Tearoom. May I say who’s calling? Thank you, please hold.” She looked up at me. “It’s channel seven. Want to take it?”
I shook my head, and escaped downstairs with the tally sheets while Kris sent the call to my voicemail. In the kitchen Julio glanced up from glazing a beautiful poppyseed bundt cake.
A Fatal Twist of Lemon Page 5
