A Fatal Twist of Lemon

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Gina—”

  “Because half a million New Mexicans will see it and they’ll want to come here. Where’s your lipstick?”

  “Upstairs. You don’t think all those people will mind that there was a murder here?”

  She took a lipstick from her purse and grabbed my chin like a grandmother inspecting her grandkid. “No,” she said as she carefully touched up my lips. “In fact a lot of them will find that intriguing. How could such a pretty place be the scene of a horrible murder? Blot,” she added, grabbing a tissue from the hostess stand and handing it to me.

  I blotted, feeling rather unhappy about the whole thing, but it was too late. The news crew was heading up the path.

  “Let me answer the door,” Gina said, pushing me into the gift shop.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re too important to answer the door!”

  She ducked back into the hall, leaving me to reflect that it was too bad I hadn’t known how important I was before. I’d been answering the door all my life.

  I tidied the hostess station to pass the time while Gina greeted the media people. A minute later she breezed in.

  “It’s channel four, Ms. Rosings,” she said grandly. “Do you think you could spare just a couple of minutes to talk to them?”

  I mouthed “No,” which she ignored. She caught my arm and propelled me into the hall.

  “This is Carla Algodones, Ms. Rosings,” Gina said, smiling as she presented me to a sleek newscaster who looked familiar. Ms. Algodones wore a beige trench coat over a blue dress, and her shoulder-length hair was perfect, dark brown and curling.

  “How do you do?” I said.

  “So sorry to hear about the tragic event, Ms. Rosings. Do you have a few minutes to tell us about it?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Out on the porch would be best, I think,” said Gina, shepherding us outside to where two young men waited next to several cases that probably held electronic gear.

  “I only have a few minutes,” I said. “We open at eleven.”

  Ms. Algodones smiled. “This won’t take long.”

  It was a bit chilly outside, and I stood with arms crossed to keep warm while the two men flung open their cases and hauled out floodlights and a shoulder-held television camera. To give them credit, they were ready in a very short time. With the lights supplementing the feeble daylight, I stood beside a column draped with wisteria, a lace-curtained window behind me, while Ms. Algodones held a microphone toward me.

  “Ms. Rosings, can you tell us what happened here last night?”

  Broadly put. I hesitated, then said, “I don’t think I should talk about the details while the police are still investigating.”

  She looked impatient, then the bright-eyed newscaster smile returned. “Tell us what you can.”

  “Well, several guests were attending a private party in the tearoom yesterday evening, and unfortunately one of them died shortly afterward.”

  “And the police are investigating it as a murder?”

  “Suspicious death,” I said.

  “The police haven’t released this person’s identity, but can you tell us a little about them?” asked the reporter.

  “She was an older woman, a long-time resident of Santa Fe.”

  “Respected in the community?”

  “Oh, yes. We are so very sorry for her family and friends.”

  “Was there any sort of altercation at this party?”

  People just don’t respect history as they should!

  Sylvia, her voice vibrating with passion. There had been a couple of awkward moments during the tea, but I didn’t think they could be called altercations.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said with confidence.

  I saw two ladies out on the sidewalk, dressed in coats and hats. They paused at the gate, then after a moment’s hesitation they opened it and started up the path.

  “I’m so sorry, I have customers arriving,” I said to Ms. Algodones. “I have to go now.”

  She looked disappointed. “Okay. Thanks for your time,” she said, and turned to the crew. “Where do you want to do the lead-in?”

  “Out in the yard,” said the one with the camera. “Get a shot of the whole house.”

  Ms. Algodones cocked a suspicious eye at the sky and produced a collapsible umbrella from the pocket of her trench coat. I escaped into the tearoom, where Nat looked up at me from the hostess station.

  “Two customers coming,” I told her. “Make them feel at home, please. I think the camera crew made them nervous.”

  “Will do.”

  Gina pounced on me. “That was great! You looked wonderful.”

  “I need a cup of tea.”

  I headed back to the butler’s pantry with Gina on my heels. Dee and Vi looked up as we came in.

  “We’re open,” I said, reaching for a kettle. “Customers on the way.”

  Dee gestured at two cozy-covered teapots on the counter. Nearby stood two double-tiered serving trays on which sweets were already arranged.

  “We’re all set,” she said. “Just need the scones.”

  “I’ll get them,” Vi said, and darted out toward the kitchen.

  I put the kettle to boil and went upstairs to fetch down the teapot I’d been using. Gina followed me, still burbling over the news crew.

  “Maybe we can get the other stations to come, too.”

  “I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem,” I said drily. “They’ve all been calling.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Is it?”

  She smiled at me, shaking her head. “Honey, you can’t buy this kind of publicity!”

  “Gina, I wouldn’t buy this kind of publicity.”

  I took the teapot into the kitchen, intending to rinse it. Mick jumped up from the work table and took the pot out of my hands.

  “You’re here early,” I said.

  “Thought there’d be a bunch of dishes to do.”

  “Oh, no, I did them last night.”

  “Yeah, I saw. I put them away.”

  “Thanks, Mick. You’re a gem.”

  He smiled, and I felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward my staff. Julio was at the stove, humming softly over something savory. Dee and Vi were fussing over the tea trays in the pantry. They were all sticking by me, despite the whole awful mess. They were terrific, all of them.

  Mick insisted on washing the teapot. Not wanting to deprive him of feeling useful, I took a clean one and made a pot of Darjeeling. After checking with Nat to make sure the customers were doing all right and that the second party with reservations had arrived, I went up to my office with Gina. Julio had made more than enough scones for the day, so we took some up with us and had a cozy munch while I caught Gina up on what I’d figured out about the murder.

  Gina licked a little lemon curd off her fingertip. “So when Katie left the dining parlor, Sylvia was still alive, and Donna and Vince were still there.”

  “Right.”

  “So maybe Donna and Vince were in it together!”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t premeditated. It was impulsive. A premeditated murder would have been much better planned, I think. Actually, the killer took a tremendous risk.”

  “A crime of passion!” Gina said, her brown eyes going wide.

  “Well, some kind of passion anyway. Oh, and there’s another suspect.”

  “Who?”

  I picked up a scone and cut it open. “Captain Dusenberry’s ghost.”

  I described Willow’s visit and her theories of paranormal manifestation. Gina guffawed, enjoying every minute. I played up the ridiculous side of it, but I wasn’t so sure Captain Dusenberry could be ruled out. I wasn’t sure of anything.

  “What about this Willow lady?” Gina asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Could she be the murderer?”

  I blinked. “Well—I guess that’s possible, if she snuck in somehow. I don’t know what reason she’d have to kill Sylvia
, though.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Not much, actually.”

  I showed her Willow’s business card. Gina tapped the card against her palm, looking thoughtful.

  “Let me copy this down,” she said. “I know some people in tourism, I can ask around a little.”

  I handed her a pad of sticky notes and a pen. “Okay, but watch out. She has a friend in the police department.”

  Gina looked up at me and grinned. “I’ll be subtle.”

  “That’ll be a first.”

  She laughed, then scribbled down Willow’s information and handed me back the card. “Gotta go. I have a client meeting at two. You going to be all right?”

  “Yes. It’s slow today, but I’m hoping it’ll pick up tomorrow.”

  “Do some more TV interviews and I guarantee you it will.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I was resigned to doing more interviews. Having talked to channel four, I couldn’t very well refuse to talk to the others. I walked Gina out, then stood on the small porch at the back of the house, gazing up at the Sangre de Cristos, blue mountains with white snowcaps that blaze pink at sunset.

  All my life I’ve looked to those mountains when I need comfort or inspiration. Today they were half-shrouded with wisps of cloud, pale scraps drifting against the blue pine forest.

  By one o’clock it was raining, a steady downpour that drummed distantly on the steel roof and made me want to curl up by the fire. Instead I dutifully returned all my phone calls, even Detective Aragón’s. I got his voicemail again and didn’t bother leaving a second message.

  I called the papers and the TV stations, did phone interviews for the former and made appointments for the latter. I promised each of them fifteen minutes, which I thought was fair and about all I could stand. The first crew would arrive at two-thirty, the others at three and three-thirty, during an hour when we had no reservations that day. I planned on using Hyacinth, a small seating tucked in the corner behind the gift shop, because of the rain.

  At one-thirty, everything went to hell.

  I had just seated some walk-ins—tourists who thought a cup of tea sounded nice on a rainy afternoon and who apparently hadn’t seen the evening news—when an imperative knock fell on the front door. Since we were open for business and anyone could have walked right in, I took this as a bad sign, and I was right.

  When I opened the door (my importance having momentarily slipped my mind), I found Detective Aragón standing outside, his leather motorcycle jacket dripping with rain. Behind him stood two city cops, not dripping but undoubtedly wet, and looking grim.

  The detective handed me a folded piece of paper, and my heart sank. He’d done it, called my bluff. Not that I had anything to hide, but I had hoped he would respect my last remaining shred of privacy.

  “I don’t suppose I can talk you into coming back after business hours,” I said, glancing at the search warrant.

  “Nope,” he said, and brushed past me into the hall.

  I followed, determined not to let him upset my customers or bully my staff. At least he didn’t intrude into the parlors. Instead he tromped straight up the stairs with the two cops behind him.

  I hurried down the hall and poked my head into the butler’s pantry. “Two walk-ins in Marigold,” I said to Vi, then went upstairs after the cops.

  They were all waiting outside my door. I took the key from my pocket and unlocked it, then followed them in. Up here, right beneath the roof, the rain was louder.

  Detective Aragón pushed past me as soon as I had the door open, cast a glance around my suite, and headed straight for my wardrobe. He pulled the doors open.

  “Hey, be careful!” I said, following him. “That’s an antique.”

  He pushed the clothes hangers back and forth. “Where’s the dress were you wearing yesterday?”

  “In the laundry.”

  “Get it for me.”

  “Excuse me? What for?”

  “Evidence. Fiber samples.”

  I frowned, but I understood what he meant. I went into the master bath and took the dress out of my laundry basket. Turning, I found Detective Aragón right on my heels. He almost snatched the dress from my hands, then gave it to one of his sidekicks. I winced as the cop bunched my dress up and stuffed it into a plastic bag.

  “You can go back to your business if you need to,” Detective Aragón said rather unkindly.

  “I think not,” I answered. “I have some fragile antiques in here. I’d rather stay and make sure they aren’t harmed.”

  I waited, arms folded, while the three of them pulled on latex gloves and started tossing my suite. As I watched, my patience thinned and I wondered if Detective Aragón had gone to the trouble of obtaining a search warrant just to spite me.

  I was annoyed, but I wasn’t about to let him know it. Not for nothing am I a devotee of Miss Manners. Courtesy is the best weapon against rudeness.

  They started with the little sitting area I had set up north of the chimney, looking beneath the chair cushions and rifling my bookcase. Detective Aragón made a show of looking underneath the furniture, even turning my wing chair over to poke at the bottom.

  They glanced through my kitchenette, opening all the cupboards, the mini-fridge, the counter-top convection oven, and even the wine cooler. Having exhausted that side of the suite, they moved on to the bedroom.

  One of the cops started poking through the drawers of my low-slung dresser, stooping beneath the slanting ceiling as he did so. The other pulled apart the pile of throw cushions at the head of my canopy bed, shot me a hangdog glance, poked at the pillows a couple of times, then moved on to the nightstand.

  Detective Aragón made a disgusted noise and pulled back all the bedding, scattering cushions on the floor. He lifted the mattress and peered underneath it, went to the far side of the bed and lifted it again, then carelessly threw the covers back over the rumpled bed and stomped through the sitting area to the master bath.

  I strolled to the bathroom door and leaned against the frame, where I could keep an eye on the whole suite. The cop going through my dresser reached the lingerie drawer, turned bright red, and shut it again after a cursory shove this way and that of its contents. The one at the nightstand opened the lower drawer as if expecting a snake to jump out of it, and looked positively relieved when all he found was the novel I was currently reading and a bottle of melatonin tablets. He moved on to the wardrobe.

  Meanwhile, Detective Aragón had poked through my linen closet, stuck his nose into the shower, disarranged the magazines in my small bathroom reading rack, and opened my medicine cabinet. He stood staring at the contents, which consisted of my makeup, vitamins and herbal supplements, and a few basic first-aid items.

  He turned his head to look at me. “You one of those health-nut freaks?”

  “Freaks?”

  “Yeah, vegetarian new-age herbalist bullshit. I got a sister who’s into that crap.”

  “I’m not an herbalist, I just keep a few home remedies,” I said evenly. “You know, you’ve given me a great idea for a special tea event, though. Would your sister know a curandera who might be willing to come and give a little talk on traditional herbal medicine?”

  He glared at me, eyes narrowing, then slammed the medicine cabinet shut and stalked back to the bedroom. I followed. Both cops looked up nervously.

  “Anything?” Aragón snapped.

  They shook their heads. The one at my dresser pushed the bottom drawer shut and stepped away from it.

  “Maybe if I knew what you were looking for I could help you find it,” I said sweetly.

  “I got a better idea,” said Aragón. “Why don’t you come in your office and give us your fingerprints. Leo, go get the kit.”

  One of the cops bobbed his head and hustled out of the room with lightning speed. The other followed the detective out into the hall. I locked the door, thankful that the search was over.

  “We need to fingerprint all yo
ur employees. We’ll use your office again,” Aragón said, starting across the hall. He stopped short when he saw Kris appear in the shared entrance. She gave him a cool glance, then looked at me.

  “Channel two’s on the phone. They want to know if they can come half an hour early.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Who’s this?” demanded Detective Aragón.

  I took a steadying breath. “Kris Overland, my office manager. Kris, this is Detective Aragón.”

  “How come I didn’t see you yesterday?” Aragón asked her.

  “I leave at five,” Kris replied coolly, and turned back to her office.

  “We’ll need your prints, too,” he called after her, then went into my office.

  I followed him, scooping up a fresh pile of message slips from my desk as he sat down behind it. He glanced at me with a narrowed gaze that told me he was looking for a reaction.

  No doubt he was wondering if I’d noticed he had searched my desk. I chose not to pursue that. Instead I took my time glancing through the messages, then looked up at him.

  “Why do you need fingerprints?”

  He wiggled my computer’s mouse and peered at the screen as if hoping something juicy would pop up there. Tough luck for him, the computer was off.

  “So we can identify everyone whose prints we found at the crime scene,” he said, opening my pencil drawer.

  That was deliberate. Yes, he wanted me to know he’d searched my desk. But why?

  It occurred to me that he wanted me to be guilty of this crime. I felt a flush of indignation rise to my cheeks.

  “What good will that do?” I asked, though I knew he was right. I was annoyed enough to want to poke back. “You already know who was in the room, and there weren’t any prints on the murder weapon.”

  Detective Aragón looked up at me, eyes furious. “And just how do you know that?”

  6

  “A friend told me. A friend who has connections in the police department.”

  I hoped Detective Aragón wouldn’t pursue it. I really didn’t want to have to tell him I had learned about the lack of fingerprints from Willow.