A Fatal Twist of Lemon

by Patrice Greenwood

  “She did care passionately about historic buildings,” Nat said.

  “Yes.”

  The silence stretched for an awkward moment. The roomful of strangers stared at me and my aunt, and Donna’s hard gaze dared Nat to say more.

  At last a young man in a black suit with a shock of blond hair hanging over one eye came up and, as though we weren’t there, started chatting to Donna about a movie he’d seen at the local art theater. Donna looked at him and nodded, the tension gone from her face. Nat and I moved away, and Manny drifted after us.

  “Did you want to talk to anyone else?” I asked Nat.

  She looked around the room. Most of the guests were closer to my age than to hers.

  “I guess not. I don’t see any of Sylvia’s friends here.”

  “Maybe they knew—” I caught myself about to say that Sylvia and Donna didn’t get along.

  “What?” Nat asked.

  “Nothing. I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

  Nat looked at Manny. “Let’s go, then. I could use some lunch in a quiet place. Do you have time to join us?” she asked, turning to me.

  “Um, not today if you don’t mind. I have a couple of things I need to get done.”

  I didn’t tell her that they involved trying to figure out who had killed Sylvia, and why. Seeing Donna had reminded me that I wanted to find out what she and Sylvia had been talking about before Donna left the tearoom on Wednesday. I’d been meaning to ask Vince Margolan about it, but he hadn’t come to the grand opening or to Sylvia’s funeral. I’d half expected to see him at the funeral or at Donna’s. I decided to drop by his gallery and say hello, and see what he could tell me.

  A breeze stirred the wisterias as I hurried up the path and stepped onto the tearoom’s porch after Manny and Nat dropped me off. I turned to wave goodbye, then went in to check on things before walking over to Vince’s.

  All was quiet at the hostess stand. One customer was browsing in the gift shop, there were a couple of parties in the main parlor, and Dee told me three groups were coming in at four.

  “Julio’s saying he might go home early,” she added.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I went back to the kitchen to see Julio, who was sitting at the break table by the fireplace, poring over a cookbook. He looked up as I came in.

  “How was the funeral?”

  “Quite nice, as funerals go. I hear you’d like to leave early.”

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind. Andre wants me to come to the Bistro and try his dessert.”

  “I don’t mind at all. You did a great job yesterday, and I know you worked extra hard. The strawberry puffs were a huge hit, by the way.”

  He grinned and closed his cookbook, tucking it away on a shelf with dozens of others. “Thanks. See you Tuesday morning.”

  “Right. Have a great weekend.”

  He tossed a smile at me over his shoulder as he hung up his chef’s jacket. I locked the kitchen door behind him then went back out into the hall, glancing at the dining parlor door as I passed. No light beneath it, I was pleased to see.

  “I’m going out for a few minutes,” I told Dee, as I tucked a couple of scones into a box. “Just across the street.”

  “OK. To the B and B?”

  “No, to Mr. Margolan’s gallery. It’s in that little brick house, catty-corner to the north.”

  The house was a pleasant one, with the rambling construction of a building that has grown as its residents prospered. No Victorian lines here, though it was made of brick, an indication of the wealth of its builder, and that it was probably built after the railroad had come through in the 1880’s. Brick would have been too expensive to import before then, which was why my house, though Victorian in design, was built of adobe.

  The windows were covered with white paper. I stepped onto the small porch and knocked at the front door. Vince Margolan opened it, wearing a black turtleneck and jeans.

  He was about forty with medium-length blond hair and a sleek, tailored New York look. Just then the hair was a little disarrayed, which made him seem rakish and rather appealing. When he saw me he gave a self-conscious start.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, smiling. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I wondered if you might have a few minutes to chat?”

  He glanced over his shoulder toward a table spread with large blueprint pages in the middle of the room. Another man stood there, slender with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, wearing glasses, a plaid shirt, and jeans.

  “If this is a bad time I can come back,” I added.

  “No, no—ah. No. Come on in. Gene was just leaving.” Vince strode to the table and rolled up the sheets, handing them to the other man. “This all looks fine. We’ll go over the details later.”

  “I’ll go ahead and start getting the materials, then,” said Gene.

  “Yeah, fine. Call me.”

  Gene gave me a nod as he left, and Vince beckoned me in. The front room of the house was wide and low-ceilinged, with white-painted walls and a weather-beaten hardwood floor. Just now the room looked bare and stark. Loose ends of wires stuck out in places from the walls and ceiling. No furniture except the table and a standing lamp. Its bright fluorescent bulb cast harsh shadows of the work table across the floor, reminding me of Donna Carruthers’s abstract art.

  “Sorry I don’t have any chairs in here or I’d offer you one,” Vince said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Looks like you’re remodeling.”

  He nodded. “Hoping to get the gallery opened in a couple months. What can I do for you—Ellen, right?”

  I nodded. “I brought you some scones. I guess you were busy yesterday.”

  “Yeah. Very busy.” He accepted the box of scones and put it on the work table, then shifted some tools that lay there, straightening them into a line.

  “I just wanted to ask you about Wednesday, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I think you were one of the last people who talked to Sylvia.”

  “Oh.” He frowned a bit, possibly in distaste.

  “Sorry to bring up an awkward subject,” I added, “but I’ve been trying to puzzle out what happened, hoping it’ll bring me some peace of mind.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I can. The cops didn’t think I helped much.”

  “I was wondering if you knew what Donna and Sylvia Carruthers were talking about. I think you were in the room with them when everyone was leaving?”

  “Um, yeah. I was telling Donna about the Fanshawe Gallery’s opening. She was real interested, but she didn’t show up for it last night.”

  I gave a small smile. “She was probably getting ready for the funeral this afternoon.”

  “Oh, was it today? Oh.”

  Vince glanced toward the bare work table, then back at me. He ran a hand through his hair, making me think that was how it had gotten ruffled.

  “Well, I’m not sure what they were talking about,” he said. “Sylvia said something to Donna about, ‘Are you doing something Friday?’ and then I left the room.”

  “Did you see anyone else go in?”

  He shook his head, blinking. “No, I didn’t notice anyone.”

  “I see. Well, thanks,” I said, taking a last look around at the bare walls. “Good luck with the remodeling. It isn’t easy working within the historic building preservation guidelines.”

  He laughed as he walked with me to the door. “Yeah, I bet you know about that.”

  “Oh, yes! It’s worth it, though. This is a great part of town. I hope you’ll enjoy being here.”

  “Thanks.” He opened the door and leaned against it, a slight frown hovering on his brow. “Say, Ellen?”

  “Yes?”

  I paused on the doorstep. Vince hesitated, and I put my hands in my coat pockets against the chill breeze.

  “I’m sorry about—about missing your opening,” Vince said. “I hope it went all right.”

  “It did, thanks.”

  He was quite close, and almost seemed to be leaning to
ward me. Then he flashed a sudden smile.

  “Thanks for stopping by. I’m a little shy about getting to know the neighbors.”

  I smiled back. “Well, don’t be. Come in for tea some time. Neighbors are always welcome.”

  “I will.”

  I left and crossed the street, hurrying back to the tearoom. As I closed the gate in the tearoom’s white picket fence behind me I glanced toward Vince’s gallery. He was still in the doorway, watching me. I waved, then hurried inside, ready for a hot cuppa.

  It was just before four, and a trio of women were talking with Dee at the hostess station as I came in. I slipped past, intending to go to the butler’s pantry and make a pot of Darjeeling. Dee caught my eye.

  “Ms. Rosings? There’s someone here to see you.”

  Her voice sounded a little worried. I gave her an inquiring look.

  She glanced at the customers, then added, “He came while you were across the street. I put him in Marigold.”

  “All right. Thank you, Dee.”

  I took off my coat and hat and hung them in the hall between a fur-collared camel hair coat and a black raincoat. I stepped into the restroom to smooth my dress and my hair, then went through the gift shop and into the back part of the south parlor to Marigold, the most remote of the alcoves.

  The chair by the window was empty, so I had to step past the screen and credenza in order to see my visitor. I did so, and I’m afraid I stopped and stared in surprise.

  Seated in a rust-colored wing chair, staring moodily into the fire, was Detective Aragón.

  12

  “What are you doing here?” I said, and was immediately sorry for it. Not only was it rude, it made me seem hostile, which was the last thing I needed. For all I knew I was Detective Aragón’s prime suspect.

  He grimaced but didn’t shoot back the sarcastic comment I was expecting. He was still wearing the suit he’d had on at the funeral, and now he shifted in his chair as if uncomfortable.

  “I want to talk to you,” he began, then paused as Dee entered the room behind me.

  “Can I bring you anything?” she asked, giving me a worried glance.

  I looked at Aragón. “Would you like some coffee?”

  He fidgeted again. “How about tea?”

  There was a pause, then Dee asked, “What kind?”

  “Lapsang Souchong,” I said in a burst of pique.

  Dee’s eyes went wide and her lips twitched as she no doubt imagined the detective’s reaction to the strong, smoky tea. For most it was an acquired taste.

  I relented. “On second thought, make it Ceylon. Thank you, Dee.”

  I sat in the chair by the window, trying to settle my feelings. Perhaps it was just that the day had been a bit emotional for me, with the funeral and all. I wasn’t ready for another round of sniping with Detective Arrogant. I took a deep breath, imagining Miss Manners’s mantle of civility settling on my shoulders.

  “What may I do for you, Detective?”

  He gazed at me, a tiny frown creasing his brow, then he swallowed and looked away toward the fire. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced between them.

  “I want to offer you an apology.” He cleared his throat, then faced me again, his jaw muscles tight. “I’m proud of my work. I’m good at it. But the last time I was here I behaved unprofessionally toward you. I’m sorry.”

  I took a breath, relieved and rather surprised. “Accepted.”

  “Thanks.”

  He leaned back in the wing chair, gingerly as though worried he would break it, and looked around the room as if surprised to find himself there. I remembered what Julio said about his family’s lack of money.

  “Since you’re here,” I said, “I have a question or two, if you don’t mind.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t promise to answer them, but you can ask.”

  “I was wondering if you had found an earring when you searched the dining parlor.”

  His gaze snapped to my face, suddenly sharp. “What kind of earring?”

  I blinked. “Well, I don’t know what it looks like. Katie Hutchins said she’d lost one at the tea that day.”

  Detective Aragón’s eyes narrowed and he continued to stare, but didn’t say anything. I leaned back in my chair, returning his gaze.

  “So you did find it,” I said.

  He pressed his lips together. “We found an earring, yes.”

  “Good. Katie will be glad to hear it.”

  “She can’t have it back. It’s evidence.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll understand that,” I said slowly. “Once you have the case settled she can request to get it back, can’t she?”

  He continued watching me, frowning slightly. The mantel clock chimed the half hour, its tones gradually fading to silence.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to her about it,” he said.

  “All right.”

  I felt a pang of foreboding on Katie’s behalf. She couldn’t have killed Sylvia, could she? Though it had been odd to find her searching the dining parlor. I brushed the thought aside, not wanting to think ill of Katie, who was a good neighbor.

  “Speaking of getting things back,” I said, “I assume I’ll eventually get my dress back?”

  Aragón shrugged. “Can’t promise.”

  “Yes, I know. Evidence. I’m sure you found fibers from it on Mrs. Carruthers’s dress. I’m more interested to know what kind of fibers you found on her back. She must have been strangled from behind.”

  He frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but then Dee came in with the tea, and for a couple of minutes we were busy with cups and saucers. She had brought some scones as well, and put them on the low table between us along with lemon curd and clotted cream. As she straightened, she cast me an anxious glance. I smiled to reassure her, and thanked her as she left. Detective Aragón and I settled back with our teacups.

  “Would you like milk or sugar in your tea?” I asked, indicating the selection on the tea tray. “Or we can have lemon if you like.”

  “Uh, no thanks,” said Aragón, lifting his cup.

  I watched him take a sip, his thumb and forefinger pinching the small handle of the china cup as if he was afraid it would shatter if he lost control of it. He set it down in the saucer with a small clatter.

  “What kind of tea did you say this was?”

  “Ceylon. It’s from Sri Lanka. It’s just a nice, mellow black tea, the sort of thing you find in most tea bags, only this is a higher quality.”

  His lip curved up in a lopsided smile. “Nothing but the best, eh?”

  “Well, yes. Treat your customers well and they’ll come back. That’s the theory, anyway.” I took a sip of tea, found he was still watching me, and added, “I’m proud of my work, too.”

  He nodded, then gave a soft laugh. “You know, I assumed it was just a hobby for you. Guess I was wrong about that.”

  “Yes, you were,” I said, bristling slightly.

  “Sorry.”

  He smiled, and somehow that made me appreciate this apology more than the first. I smiled back, then glanced down at the cup in my hand. It was a Haviland Limoges cup with a spray of tiny roses beneath an ornate gold border, matching the cup Detective Aragón had balanced on his knee. In that pattern I owned only the two cups and saucers, two tea plates and the matching teapot; they had been in my collection before Nat had suggested I open the tearoom, and were among my best pieces.

  “I put everything I have into this tearoom,” I said. “If it fails…”

  I couldn’t finish that sentence, couldn’t face the possibility of failure. The tearoom had pulled me out of depression, and I was terribly afraid that losing it would send me spiraling down again.

  “That took a lot of courage,” Aragón said. “I guess having a murder here your opening week hasn’t helped much.”

  I gave a small shrug and took a sip of tea. “Too soon to tell. My friend Gina thinks the publicity may actually be
good for us, though I’m sorry to think that could be true. Or it may have killed us.”

  “I hope not,” he said.

  I met his gaze and was surprised to see a soft expression on his face. Maybe the fierce detective had a hint of kindness in him.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled, and I found myself thinking that he really was attractive. Quite gentlemanly, in fact, in his suit and tie. He cleaned up nicely.

  “Would you like a scone?” I said, putting down my cup and picking up the small plate of scones from the tea tray.

  “Is that what they’re called? They look like little biscuits.”

  “They’re like a biscuit, yes. A little sweeter, and more moist. They’re from England, and over there ‘biscuit’ means a cookie.”

  “You have these sent from England?” he said, looking incredulous.

  “No, no,” I laughed. “Our chef makes them. I meant they originated in England. Or some say in Scotland.”

  “Okay, I’ll try one.”

  He set aside his teacup and accepted a scone, carefully putting it on his tea plate. Following my lead, he cut it open with a small knife.

  “This is clotted cream and this is lemon curd,” I said, offering the twin condiment dish. “I like scones with both.”

  His brows rose. “Clotted cream? Sounds gross.”

  “It’s just cooked down really slowly, so it’s very thick. Try a little.”

  I spread lemon curd on half a scone and put a dollop of clotted cream on top. He followed suit, watching me to make sure he was doing it right, like a kid at his first grown-up dinner party. I took a bite and he did the same. His scone crumbled a little and he hastily dropped the rest on his plate.

  “They do fall apart sometimes,” I said. “They’re so tender.”

  “Mm,” he said. “Good. Wow, that cream stuff is really … creamy.”

  I smiled. “I first tasted clotted cream in England. I think that was what made me fall in love with English tea.”

  “So you brought it back to Santa Fe.” He picked up his teacup and sipped. Looked a little more comfortable this time.

  “I’ve tried to,” I said. “It isn’t easy to make here—my chef—well, you wouldn’t be interested in the details.”