A Fatal Twist of Lemon

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Twenty-six,” I said, sticking a tally sheet in a clipboard mounted on the wall by the door.

  “Okay.” Julio nodded, but his brow creased in a slight frown.

  “We may get some walk-ins,” I said hopefully.

  In the butler’s pantry I found that Dee and Vi had arrived and were helping Nat fold the last of the clean linens. Relief flooded me at the sight of them.

  “Good morning!” I said, trying for cheer.

  “Morning!” Dee smiled. “Any interesting developments?”

  “Ah—none that I can think of. Here are today’s reservations.”

  Dee pounced on the tally sheet and started getting out china and place settings for the setup trays. I watched Vi, who was uncharacteristically quiet. Usually I think of her as “Vi for vivacious,” but that was not her present mood.

  “Fires today?” Dee asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Looks like it may rain.”

  I beckoned Nat out into the hall and led her down to the gift shop, where I put the last copy of the reservation tally on the hostess stand, next to the diagram of the parlor alcoves. “Can you play back-up hostess? I’ll be here as much as I can, but I’ve still got some calls to return.”

  “Of course,” she said, looking at the sheet. “Looks like it won’t be too busy.”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “Now, don’t you get discouraged. This is only your second day, remember? It takes months to get a restaurant going.”

  “Years,” I said. “Or mere weeks for it flop to right out the gate.”

  “It won’t flop. Chin up, Ellen.”

  I met her gaze. Neither of us mentioned the elephant in the dining parlor.

  I gave her a smile I didn’t feel and headed back down the hall, passing Dee, who was carrying a set-up tray of china and linens. I peeked into the butler’s pantry and found Vi absently sorting the tiny silver teaspoons and knives that I’d washed the night before.

  “Vi? Could you come upstairs for a minute?”

  She glanced up and nodded, following me. I led her through Kris’s office to the small storage room behind it, where I picked up a big basket filled with tea samplers—three varieties of tea, enough to brew one pot of each, tied up with pretty ribbons—that I’d been putting together in my spare time.

  I handed the basket to Vi. “Could you take these down to the gift shop?”

  “Sure.”

  “But first come with me for a minute.”

  I led her out, past Kris who was on the phone, and down the hall to a small sitting area I had set up by the window at the end of the hall. This was at the front of the house, overlooking the garden and the street. The space wasn’t really practical for office use, but I wasn’t about to let a window go to waste, so I had set it up with two comfy leather chairs and a low table, as a place to have private tea with a friend.

  “Have a seat,” I said, taking a chair.

  Vi set down the basket and sat in the other chair, folding her hands on her knees. Her posture was stiff, leaning forward as if she expected to have to jump up at any moment.

  “Did you get any sleep?” I asked gently.

  She gave a little, surprised laugh and met my gaze. “Not much.”

  “Me neither.”

  “It’s so awful. I kept seeing her face.”

  I nodded. I’d had my own nightmares, including one where I’d wandered through the tearoom, finding my guests one by one, each dead. I shook the memory away.

  “It’s a slow day,” I said. “You could go home.”

  “But that would leave only Dee serving!”

  “I can pitch in if need be.”

  She sat up straighter and shook her head. “I won’t abandon you. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “I’d much rather have you go now and be rested for tomorrow. And by the way, thank you for not quitting.”

  She surprised me by bursting into tears. I handed her my handkerchief and waited for the storm to subside, which it did quickly. I’d indulged in a few tears myself, the night before.

  “You’ve worked so hard for this,” she said, wiping at her cheeks.

  “So have you. So has all the staff.”

  “And you made such a wonderful p-place, and beautiful and everything. I love the tearoom!”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling.

  “And then this happens!”

  I swallowed. “It’s hard right now, but we’ll get through it. Everything we worked for is still here.”

  I knew I was trying to convince myself as well as Vi. She gave a couple more sniffs and dabbed at her face.

  “Is my makeup ruined?”

  “No. Just needs a little tidying.”

  She nodded, dabbing beneath her eyes, then heaved a sigh. “I’m all right.”

  “You sure? It really would be fine for you to take the day off. My aunt is here.”

  She sat gazing out of the window at the street below, blinking. “No, I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

  A distant rumble of thunder made me glance out the window. The sky to the west was mostly clear, but our weather usually formed over the mountains to the east.

  “Have you heard back from the Opera?”

  Vi shook her head. “Not yet, but it should be soon. Rehearsals start in May, they told me.”

  “Let me know when you find out the schedule. We’ll adjust your hours as needed.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. It’s great of you to put up with the uncertainty. You’re the best boss ever.”

  I felt myself blushing. “Well, I did music in college. I know how crazy it can be.”

  Vi stood, smoothed her apron, and picked up the basket of samplers. She looked at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand.

  “I’ll take that,” I said, standing.

  She handed it to me with a last, small sniff. “Thanks, Ms. Rosings.”

  “Why don’t you call me Ellen. It’s not so stiff.”

  She looked at me, blue eyes wide. “Really?”

  “Yes. You can pass that along to the others.”

  She smiled, and caught me in a quick around-the-shoulders hug. “Thanks, Ellen!”

  I fetched a fresh handkerchief from my suite, then returned to the gift shop to close out the cash register, which I should have done the previous night but had forgotten. I pulled the large bills and the checks, printed out the credit card transactions, and put everything into a bank bag for Kris. I was about to take it upstairs when a loud knocking on the front door made me look up.

  “Drat. I bet it’s the press.”

  “I’ll go look,” said Nat, who had been straightening the gift shop merchandise. She went out and came back right away.

  “It’s just one woman,” Nat said. “No cameras. Might be a relative of Sylvia’s—she’s dressed in black.”

  I sighed. “I’d better talk to her. Would you take this up to Kris, please?”

  I handed Nat the bank bag, then went out into the hall and to the front door. The woman Nat had described was standing outside.

  She was indeed all in black, an elegant wool dress and suede boots. Her hair was a carefully cut waterfall of platinum. She wore gold wire-framed glasses, and a necklace of turquoise beads interspersed with tiny bird fetishes set off her outfit nicely, a touch of Santa Fe style without going overboard. Not, however, something I would have chosen to wear if I were in mourning.

  I unlocked the door and opened it a crack, peering past her looking for reporters. “May I help you? I’m afraid we don’t open until eleven.”

  “Good morning.” Her voice was surprisingly low. “Are you the owner? I’m Virginia Lane, but please call me Willow. Everyone does.”

  Someone named Willow. I summoned a smile. “How do you do? Yes, I’m Ellen Rosings.”

  “I heard about last night, and wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “That’s kind of you. Thank you.”

  “It’s quite ironic. I’ve been so anxious for you to open. May I come in?”

/>   “Well … certainly.”

  She stepped inside, and while I locked the door again she stood gazing around the hall and up at the ceiling. Her black ensemble tempted me to invite her upstairs to meet Kris, but I figured neither of them would appreciate the joke.

  “I’ve wanted for years to see Captain Dusenberry’s house,” she said, stepping to the door of the main parlor and looking in.

  Captain Dusenberry was the army captain for whom the house had been built in the nineteenth century. I’d learned about him from the folks at the Santa Fe Preservation Trust. Since the house was historic, I’d had to sign a preservation easement that specified I couldn’t alter the character of the building. It had made remodeling a little tricky.

  “When it was a law firm they didn’t allow visitors,” Willow said, “but now that it’s open to the public—well, here. Let me give you my card.”

  She opened her small shoulder bag. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch, then accepted a glossy black business card with silver lettering: Spirit Tours of Santa Fe.

  “Oh. You’re the guide for the ghost tour.”

  “No,” Willow said with a dismissive gesture. “That tour is aimed at tourists. Famous landmarks around town with spooky stories thrown in. My tours are focused on the spirits themselves. We visit places where they are verified as active, and have known histories.”

  Ooookay. I smiled politely, wondering how to escape.

  “That’s why I wanted to meet you,” she continued. “Of course, now that … well, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do this right away, but eventually I’d like to include Captain Dusenberry in my tour.”

  “Well, I…”

  “This is a bad time, I know. I don’t want to intrude. Would you mind my just taking a look at his study?”

  “Study?”

  “Yes. That’s the room where he was killed.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “How interesting,” I said faintly.

  “Has he manifested for you?”

  “Ah … no.”

  “You do know that he haunts the house,” said Willow, looking at me over her glasses with a very serious expression.

  “Does he? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “May I look at the study, Ms. Rosings? You needn’t escort me, I know which room it is.”

  “Well—”

  “I won’t disturb anything, I promise.”

  She looked at me expectantly. I gazed back.

  “Certainly,” I said slowly.

  She smiled, and walked down the hall. I followed, feeling like I was floating through a bad dream. Willow went straight back to the dining parlor, stood in the doorway for a moment gazing at the room, then turned to me.

  “Do you mind if I go in?”

  I shrugged and gestured that she could. It wasn’t as though a herd of elephants hadn’t already been through there.

  She walked all around the dining table, looking at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Finally she went and stood against the north wall, behind the table, and closed her eyes.

  I watched in horrified fascination. Was she trying to commune with Captain Dusenberry? Was Sylvia getting in the way? She did have a tendency to interrupt…

  I shook my head to clear it. I should probably find out exactly what had happened to Captain Dusenberry. Maybe the Preservation Trust would have some records. I didn’t feel like asking Willow.

  Willow inhaled sharply through her nose, then let out her breath in a long sigh. She opened her eyes and nodded, as if agreeing with something someone had said. At last she came out of the room.

  “You might want to keep this door closed,” she said, gesturing at the dining parlor’s door. “I think the spirit is active.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at me, then back at the dining parlor. “May we talk privately?”

  “Of course,” I said, stifling a sigh. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I have to meet a tour group at ten-thirty.”

  I glanced into the dining parlor. It seemed perfectly normal, but still I turned off the light and closed the door.

  Willow smiled in approval. “Best to leave it quiet for a while. It may be that all the recent activity has stirred the spirit up a bit too much.”

  “Mm.”

  “Many people find that they can coexist peacefully with resident spirits,” Willow added as I led her down the hall to the front parlor. “Over at La Posada they get along pretty well with Julia Staub.”

  “Do they?”

  “There’s no reason why that can’t be true for you as well.”

  I invited her to sit in Lily, by a window overlooking the porch. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s possible Captain Dusenberry’s spirit is responsible for what happened last night.”

  “Are—are you suggesting that a ghost killed Sylvia Carruthers?”

  “It’s possible,” she said, her pale eyes wide behind the wire frames. “Physical manifestations are rare because they require a great deal of energy, but they have been documented. A restless spirit, one with pent-up hostility, might very well be able to attack and kill a human being.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Forgive me, but I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Do you?” Her faint smile returned. “Would you also have trouble believing that no fingerprints were found on the murder weapon?”

  5

  I stared at Willow in astonishment. Behind her the lace curtains stirred, though the window was closed. Stray draft, I told myself. Old houses are drafty.

  “How do you know there were no fingerprints?” I asked.

  “I have a friend in the police department. I’d better not mention who.”

  “Well, the killer could have worn gloves,” I said.

  Willow tilted her head, blue eyes gazing at me with steady curiosity. “Wouldn’t you have noticed someone wearing gloves?”

  I would, and in fact I had, but I didn’t care to discuss that with Willow. “My point is that there could be any number of reasons for a lack of fingerprints,” I said.

  Not the least of which being that the weapon was a necklace of tiny beads. I was surprised that none of my prints had been found on it, but then it had broken, and even if it hadn’t, getting all the strands to line up again…

  “True,” Willow said. “I don’t know that the spirit is responsible, I only wanted to alert you to the possibility. Do be careful, Ms. Rosings. There is a presence in that room.”

  “And you think it’s Captain Dusenberry.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, we’ve been here for months, and no one has noticed anything unusual.”

  “Until last night.”

  Her gaze was steady, her voice matter-of-fact. If it weren’t for the outrageous things she was saying, I would have found her completely credible.

  “Have you shared your theory with the police?” I asked, wondering what Detective Aragón would make of her.

  “No. In general the police tend not to credit theories of paranormal manifestation. The only time I talk to them about such things is if they come to me.”

  “And do they? Come to you, I mean?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been consulted on a couple of missing persons cases. They only turn to a medium if they’re desperate, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  I wondered how successful those consultations had been, but didn’t quite have the guts to ask. Willow might respond with a lecture on communicating with the spirit world, and I didn’t think I could face it just then.

  She took a wristwatch out of her purse and looked at it, then put it back. “I’ve got to meet my group,” she said, standing up. “If the presence becomes troublesome and you decide you want help, give me a call. I can offer you a couple of recommendations.”

  “For exorcists?”

  She gazed at me, eyes calm. “Not exactly. The people I know are more attuned to manifestations of energy than to rel
igion. Of course, your personal preferences would be respected.”

  “How considerate,” I said faintly.

  “In the meantime, if you feel like making a gesture of conciliation you might try visiting Captain Dusenberry’s grave. It’s in the National Cemetery.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  I stood up to show her out. Willow turned to me as we reached the front door.

  “I’d still like to discuss adding your tearoom to one of my tours, after things have settled down of course.”

  “Yes. Well, thank you for stopping by.” I unlocked the door and opened it. Outside the sky was heavier, and a breeze had come up.

  “I’m not a nut, Ms. Rosings. In case you were wondering.”

  “No, I wasn’t wondering.”

  Willow gazed at me as if evaluating my honesty, then gave a brief smile. “Good luck,” she said, and went out.

  I closed the door and watched her stride down the steps and along the path to the sidewalk. She went through the gate and closed it behind her without a backward glance. I watched her out of sight, then my gaze strayed to the wisterias on the porch.

  Big, drooping clusters of pale purple flowers—they had come to symbolize the dreams I had for the tearoom. Dreams that were worth fighting for. I wasn’t going to let Sylvia’s murder kill the tearoom too.

  The back door banged. Turning around, I saw Gina striding toward me, radiant in a ruby-colored dress with a fringed shawl printed with roses swathing her shoulders.

  “Hola, girlfriend! I came to see how you’re holding up.”

  “Thanks. Doing okay so far.”

  “You open at eleven, right?”

  “Right.” I glanced at the clock behind the hostess station, which showed ten-forty-three.

  “Good,” Gina said, grinning. “You’ll have time.”

  “For what?”

  “For the interview,” she said, pointing toward the front door.

  I looked out and saw a news van pulling up to the curb. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. Better get it over with, or they’ll just keep bugging you.”

  “But I don’t want to be interviewed.”

  “Yes you do.” She pulled me away from the door and started smoothing my hair and my dress. “Listen to Mama Gina. You want that nice man to ask you questions standing on the porch surrounded by wisteria, with your beautiful lace curtains in the background.”