I shivered and rubbed my arms, despite the warm weather. My teeth were chattering. Shock.
Raised voices came from the backstage area. There were wide sets of steps on either side of the B-lift. I’d forgotten that, though I’d seen them before and remembered them being used for grand entrances of the chorus in past operas. Now the stage crew were scrambling up and down them, calling to each other, shouting questions and instructions. The B-lift had stopped partway up between the steps. It looked odd there.
I turned away, looking westward. The Jemez Mountains lay serene and blue in the distance. Closer by, the dusty hillside was dotted with piñon trees and sage. Two big water towers rose up from the hill, a little to the left. Storage of the runoff from the opera’s many rooftops, I remembered from a previous tour. They saved it all for watering the landscaping.
“This way, please, everyone,” said the tour guide. “We’ll go inside now to where you can sit down. The police will want to talk to you.”
He led us down some stairs and south to a building I didn’t remember. It was large, and a sign announced it as the Stieren Orchestra Hall. This was the back of the building, and the doorway we went through led to a lower level; like the theatre, most of the building was above us. We passed through a hallway to a conference room, where the guide invited us to sit down. He was on the phone, figuring out what to do with us, no doubt.
Phone. What had I done with mine? I didn’t remember.
I looked in my purse and found it in its usual pocket. I must have put it away without realizing.
I sank into a chair, grateful to be off my feet.
We were in that room forever, it seemed. People would talk for a while, speculating on what had happened—was it an accident? Or suicide?—and then lapse into silence.
If it was Vi, and I was terribly afraid that it was, then it couldn’t have been suicide. She’d been upset when I saw her, but not enough to take her life. She had a brilliant career ahead of her.
Oh, Vi.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the voices of the others, trying to keep myself together. I just had to make it until Tony got there. Then everything would be all right.
My phone rang, startling me. I took it out, expecting to see Tony’s number, but it was Rhonda Benning.
Oh, God.
I wanted to chicken out and let it go to voicemail, but I couldn’t do that to poor Rhonda. I stood and went out into the hall to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Ellen, it’s Rhonda. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d seen Vi. She didn’t come home last night.”
I bit my lip. “The last time I saw her was night before last. She dropped by after her performance.”
“But not last night?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t tell her about the body. What if it wasn’t Vi? Much as I wanted to ease Rhonda’s mind, if I told her anything it might just make everything worse.
“Could … she have stayed with a friend?” I asked.
“I’ve checked with everyone I could think of,” Rhonda said. “No one’s seen her, and she’s not answering her cell.”
“Oh. I really wish I could help….”
“Thanks, Ellen. If you hear from her—”
I swallowed. “I’ll tell her to call you.”
“Thanks.”
We said goodbye, and I returned to the conference room. My stomach was in knots.
The tour guide came in—I hadn’t realized he was gone—and passed around a clipboard, asking us all to write down our names, addresses, and phone numbers. I complied, then sat staring out the doorway.
Vi wouldn’t kill herself, and I doubted she’d be careless around the stage. So someone had pushed her, or knocked her unconscious and dropped her into the elevator pit, and then lowered the platform.
I squeezed my eyes shut. If you fell in the pit, could you get out? There must be a way—too much of a risk without some way to escape. My mind told me that I had glimpsed a ladder mounted to one wall, black on black.
Which meant that Vi hadn’t been able to climb out. She’d been unconscious. Or … already dead?
I shuddered.
Maybe it wasn’t Vi. Stop thinking it’s Vi, I told myself.
“Can’t we go home?” a plaintive voice behind me said.
I turned my head to see the woman who had collapsed. Her husband was murmuring to her. Others were checking their watches.
Oh, God. The tearoom!
I took my phone out again. Almost eleven. I was debating whether to call Kris when a uniformed police officer walked in, accompanied by a woman who looked like a security guard, carrying the clipboard we’d all signed.
“Thank you for your patience, everyone,” the guard said. “The police would like to interview each of you briefly, then you’ll be free to go home.” She glanced at the clipboard. “Ellen Rosings?”
I stood.
“And Melvin Steinberg.”
A gruff-looking older man joined me. We went into the hall and it was all I could do to keep from squeaking when I saw Tony. I hurried to him and he caught me in a quick hug, then put me at a distance. All business.
“Come out here.” He nodded down the hallway. The uniformed cop was leading Mr. Steinberg in the other direction.
Tony led me outside the way we’d come in, to a parking lot behind Stieren Hall. I blinked at the bright sunlight, and though we stood in the shade of the building, I could feel the heat reflected from the pavement.
“Tell me what you saw,” Tony said, taking out his notebook.
I told him. “Tony, I’m afraid it m-might be Vi. She liked to wear purple and black.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“But her mother just called me. She didn’t come home last night after her performance.”
His brows folded into a frown. “We can’t make a positive I.D. yet. Have to wait for the M.E.”
I nodded and swallowed, blinking back the threat of more tears.
“You OK?”
I drew a shaky breath. “Not really.”
“Come here.”
He led me south, away from the theatre. I followed, sniffed once, tried to pull myself together. We walked around the corner of the building and I saw that the paved area we were on connected with the patio to the south of the theatre.
Tony stopped walking and put his arm around my shoulders. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to be busy all week.”
“We are, but I had an idea. I didn’t want to bother you with it, and I figured if I took the tour I could check myself.”
“What idea?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“OK.”
“I thought the murder weapon might be in the pool by the orchestra pit. If the murderer needed to hide it quickly….”
He looked surprised. “What made you think that?”
I couldn’t tell him about Willow’s suggestion—not if I didn’t want to get laughed at. “Just a hunch,” I said. “But I didn’t see anything, so never mind.”
“It’s not a bad idea. We didn’t look there, since it was in full view of the audience. But we’ll check it out, since we’re here.”
“You don’t have to do it just to make me feel good.”
“Hey.”
He turned me to face him, both hands on my shoulders. His gaze steadied me.
“I value your opinions, OK? You’ve already helped us a lot on this. So don’t ever hesitate to tell me your ideas, even if you think I’ll laugh. OK?”
I nodded and sniffed again, trying to smile. “OK.”
“Where’s your handkerchief? Don’t you always carry one?”
“Um, yeah.” I dug in my purse.
“You’ve had a shock.” Tony’s voice was gentle. I looked up and saw his eyes—soft, not the hard cop gaze—looking at me with concern. “Are you all right to drive home?”
I nodded. “Yea
h.”
“I want you to go there now, and take an hour to lie down or just sit quietly. No jumping into work. If you think of anything more—if you remember anything else—call me.”
“OK.”
“And please don’t talk to anyone about what you saw. Not even Vi’s mom.”
“Right. I didn’t tell her anything.”
“Good.”
He hugged me and I clung to him, fighting back sobs. He bore it patiently, and I managed to keep from breaking down completely.
“Go home and cry, babe. I’ll call you when I have any news.”
“OK.” I let him go and mopped at my face with my handkerchief. “Thanks, Tony.”
“Thank you for calling me right away. You did the right thing.”
I managed a smile.
“Want me to walk you to your car?”
Yes.
“No, I’m all right. You have a lot to do.”
“OK. Take care. I’ll call you.”
He brushed his thumb across my cheek, then walked away. I watched until he disappeared around the building, heading back for the theatre. The crime scene.
I took a deep breath, then turned and headed for the parking lot.
~
The tearoom was bustling. It took some effort, and a bit of prevarication, to avoid getting sucked into the activity. I finally claimed a headache and told the staff that I wanted to be left alone for an hour.
As I was heading upstairs to my suite, I heard a firm tread behind me. At the top of the staircase I turned to find Nat frowning at me.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“N-not exactly. I just need some quiet.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t talk about it, Nat. I’ll tell you later, OK?”
“Ellen!” Her face and her voice showed dismay. I had to fight back a sudden onslaught of tears.
“Just give me an hour or so,” I said. “Please.”
“Oh, sweetie! Of course.” She caught me in a swift hug and then stepped back. “Can I bring you anything?”
I shook my head, and tried to smile as I unlocked my suite.
“Tell Kris, OK?”
Nat nodded, still frowning in concern as I gently closed the door between us.
Sunlight blew in on a warm breeze through the window I’d left cracked, setting the gauze curtains swaying. The suite was otherwise dark.
I walked to the kitchenette, leaving the lights off, and filled a kettle for tea. The routine calmed me: warming the pot, choosing which tea, measuring the leaves. When the kettle boiled I poured the water slowly, inhaling steam with the first hint of tea aroma. I set a timer and retreated to my favorite chair to wait.
Now that I was alone and free to indulge in hysteria, the tears wouldn’t come. There was a hard knot in my chest and I knew the feeling. Defense.
I knew how to do this. I’d done it before. It wasn’t easy but it was manageable.
But I had to wait. No point in grieving until I was certain.
The timer went off and I got up. I filled my favorite mug with tea and indulged in honey and milk, turning it into a sweet.
Oh, yeah. I hadn’t had lunch.
My stomach clenched at the idea of food. I abandoned the thought, and paced aimlessly, both hands wrapped around my mug, sipping now and then.
Part of me wished I hadn’t gone to the opera that morning. But if I hadn’t been there, Tony wouldn’t have heard about the—new body—until much later. So it was good that I was there. Just upsetting.
Who would want to murder Vi?
Someone who wanted her roles? But she was an apprentice. Bottom of the totem pole. Nothing to gain from her death. There was someone covering the solo parts she had, but it would be another apprentice, most likely. No, the gain, if there was any, wasn’t enough to offset the risk.
So who else?
The murderer. If Vi knew something about Victor Solano’s death, his killer might feel threatened by her and decide to get her out of the way.
My throat tightened. What a nightmare.
I couldn’t follow that train of thought any more. I let it slide away, and emptied my mind, just pacing from my sitting room to my bedroom and back. When I ran out of tea, I took my mug back to the kitchenette and left it there.
Numb, I returned to my bedroom. Darkness enfolded me; the window there was closed and covered. I kicked off my shoes, crawled under the comforter on my bed, and lay still.
Images came to me, though I tried to think of nothing. A glimpse of purple and black. The pool in front of the orchestra pit. A pocket knife, folded shut. Then one with a corkscrew deployed. Mr. Ingraham’s tailgate party.
I clung to that one, because it was a good memory. I had enjoyed that party. Good food, good company, Tony relaxing with my friends. It had been such a nice evening, until the end of the opera.
Murder. I turned over and buried my face in my pillow.
Why was murder a part of my life? It wasn’t because of Tony. It was the other way around; murder had brought Tony into my life. I was glad to know him, but I could do without the emotional trauma.
Three, possibly four murders since the tearoom had opened. Not all here, thank God, but all in my face, more or less. I felt inclined to complain.
Whine, whine, whine. I let the thoughts flow through me. If there was any place where I was entitled to indulge in self-pity, it was in my own bed.
Music drifted into my awareness. Not through my ears, but in my mind. Piano music. No, vocal—a capella, then with an orchestra. I frowned, knowing I recognized it, but not placing it.
Oh. “Contessa, perdono.”
Make that five murders, if you counted Captain Dusenberry. That one had happened over a century ago, but here in my house. That definitely counted as in my face.
Nothing I could do about it. Throw in the towel and close the tearoom? Hell, no. I was building something, maybe the most important thing I’d ever done. I was not going to let a few paltry murders interfere.
Can’t let the bad guys win. I could hear Tony saying that.
Somehow, I drifted to sleep. I woke up to a persistent knocking on my door. Glanced at the bedside clock: 3:08.
“S’minute,” I called.
I slid out of bed, found my shoes, and pushed my hair back from my face. I probably still looked like hell but I didn’t much care.
I opened the door a crack and looked out. Nat was outside with a tray.
“It’s been over two hours. Julio sent up some lunch for you.”
I didn’t have much appetite, but I didn’t want to be rude. I reached for the tray.
“Let me set it down for you. Were you sleeping? I’m sorry to bother you, but they’re getting anxious downstairs.”
I opened the door for her and stepped back, then closed it behind her. Nat set the tray on the low table in my sitting area. It held a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of fresh fruit.
“Thanks, Nat.”
“Is your head better?”
I hesitated. “A little.”
“Mick was listening to the radio and he heard a breaking news announcement. A body was found at the Santa Fe Opera.”
I sighed and sat in my chair, tucking my feet up under me, leaving my shoes on the floor. Nat sat in the other chair.
“Is that what’s bothering you? Did you find the body?”
“Not exactly. The whole tour group saw it.”
“Oh, dear heaven. No wonder you’re upset.”
“Tony asked me not to talk about it.”
“I see.”
Silence stretched out between us. Nat knew better than to badger me with questions or small talk. Like my father, her brother, she had infinite patience.
I gazed out the window, heard voices drifting up from the portal below. I sat up.
“Oh! The spirit tour!”
“Dee’s handling it,” Nat said.
“Oh. Thanks.” I relaxed again. Amazing how weary I felt, considering I hadn’t done much
and had just had a two-hour nap.
“Mind if I pass along a couple of things people asked me to tell you?” Nat said.
“Go ahead.”
“Kris has a couple of applications for temporary servers that she’d like you to look at.”
“That was quick!”
“They’re friends of staff, apparently. She passed the word around.”
“OK.”
“And Sandra Usher wants to book the entire tearoom for a private party next week.”
“Wait … the whole tearoom?”
“Yes. Kris gave her an outrageous quote and she didn’t even blink.”
“But we’re booking up next week already…”
“Kris says she can swing it. Just needs to rearrange a few reservations, but she wants your approval before she starts on that.”
“Man, I go away for a couple of hours…” I pressed my hands to my temples. “What day?”
“Next Wednesday, from one to five.”
A week away. “OK.”
I felt bombarded, but what was I going to do? Turn down a lucrative private party?
“Kris has the details, and would like to go over them with you. Ms. Usher wants a special menu.”
I turned my head to look at Nat. “Not if Julio says no.”
“Julio likes the idea. He’s looking forward to it.”
I took a deep breath. “OK.”
In that moment, I realized I was no longer in control. The tearoom had a life of its own. Sure, I could have said no … but that would have been an act of insanity. My staff thought they could handle this—they wanted to do it—and I’d be nuts to forbid it.
Never mind that I needed a day or two, which I didn’t have, just to sort out my own stuff.
Nat’s hand slid onto my forearm, warm and comforting. I sighed and moved to clasp it.
“Thank you, Auntie Nat.”
“Good Lord, you haven’t called me Auntie in years!”
I gave her a feeble smile, and finally the tears came.
She sat with me, quiet comfort, while I mopped my face and sniveled. Nothing left to explain; she knew it all. Well, mostly all.
Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Page 15
