Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  I had too much going on, as usual. I needed to set some of it aside.

  When I was cried out, Nat got up and fetched me a glass of water. “Drink this, and eat one sandwich, and then if you’re ready go talk to Kris. I’ll go downstairs and make sure everything’s all right.”

  I held the glass with both hands, like a child afraid of dropping it. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, honey.” She kissed my cheek. “I’ll be back before I leave.”

  She slipped out, quietly closing the door. A moment later I heard her and Kris talking briefly, then Nat went downstairs.

  I followed her instructions, though the sandwich didn’t taste like anything. I put the rest of the food away in my fridge, and went to the bathroom to wash my face. Caught a glimpse of my hair when I looked in the mirror.

  “Yikes!”

  I brushed it and pulled it back into a ponytail, then blew my nose once more and put on my shoes. Ready to face the world, or at least my job, I went across the hall.

  Kris had on a skin-tight black silk dress with long sleeves and a deep neckline which was decorously obscured by a lavender lace scarf. She welcomed me without comment and we had a very businesslike conversation, with no mention of dead bodies. She suggested scheduling interviews with the two potential new servers on Monday.

  “It shouldn’t take long, and you could go ahead and show them the ropes if you decide you like them.”

  “Do you know either of them?” I asked.

  “Yes, one is a friend of mine, Dale Whittier. Very reliable.”

  “And the other?”

  “A friend of Ramon’s. Thea Swift.”

  She placed their applications before me on her desk. I gazed at them without registering any details. There went half a day of my free time.

  “All right, but not until the afternoon. I need the morning to myself.”

  “Fine. I’ll schedule them for … say, one and three?”

  I nodded. Kris put aside the applications and launched into the plan for Sandra Usher’s party. I paid attention as well as I could, but my mind did wander a bit. Ordinarily I’d be interested in all the details of planning such a party, but I just couldn’t find the enthusiasm. I was sliding into numbness again. A symptom of overload.

  I gave Kris the go-ahead to book the party and do whatever rearranging of the schedule it required. In response to my query whether reservations were slowing down at all, she shook her head.

  “You might want to think about raising prices.”

  I blinked. “We’ve only been open three months!”

  She shrugged. “Just saying. If you want to slow the reservations down a bit, that might do it.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “The house across the street is for sale, by the way.”

  I looked up sharply, but she was making a note on her computer. I knew the house she meant: an historic home with distinctive faux-brick plastering, formerly owned by Vince Margolan, which he’d been turning into a gallery and in which he tried to throttle me.

  “Let’s pay this one off, first,” I said.

  I would never buy that house, but there was no need to be rude about the suggestion. Possibly the Hutchinses, who lived on the corner, would be interested in expanding their B&B.

  “Well, that’s all I have right now. I’d better get on the phone to these two,” Kris said. “I left some messages on your desk, but there’s nothing urgent.”

  “All right. Thanks for staying on top of things, Kris.”

  She flashed me a rare smile and turned her attention back to her computer. I went into my office, sat at my desk, and stared at the pile of message slips.

  A rumble of thunder surprised me into looking up. There was still sunlight outside, but when I went to look out the window I saw dark clouds gathered over the Sangre de Cristos. The morning’s promise had come through, at least for the mountains.

  I looked at my watch. Four o’clock: tea time. Right on time for the summer rains.

  I opened the window, hoping to catch the smell of rain. Too far away, but I left the window open and stood enjoying the breeze that set the sheers dancing. With luck, the rain would reach us eventually.

  I was still standing there, thinking about the rain dances my brother and I had done as children, when I heard Nat go into Kris’s office and talk with her briefly about Ms. Usher’s party. She looked through the adjoining doorway and smiled.

  “There you are. You look better.”

  “I could hardly look worse. Why didn’t you tell me my hair was a rat’s nest?”

  “Was it? I didn’t notice.”

  “Faithful Auntie Nat.”

  She collected me into a hug. I needed that, and I held on to her greedily for a minute. When we finally parted she grasped my shoulders and looked me over with a critical eye.

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All right. Do you want to come home with me for dinner?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’d just be a lump.”

  “It’s all right to be a lump with your family.”

  “Not tonight, Nat. Thank you.”

  “Are you going to Thomas’s on Friday?”

  “Oh! Crap! I forgot to call him back.” I stepped to my desk, but my phone wasn’t there. Still in my purse, which was still in my suite.

  I stopped, recognizing the tension between my shoulders. Stress, caused by trying to please too many other people. I couldn’t afford that right now.

  “You know what? I think I’m going to wimp out on that.”

  “Company might do you good,” Nat said.

  I pictured dining with Mr. Ingraham and friends, and knew that the conversation would be dominated by the new murder. “No,” I said. “Not this time. I’ll call him with my regrets.”

  “Let me make a suggestion for something else. No, an offer: I’ll call and book you a massage at Ten Thousand Waves.”

  “Oh, Nat—”

  “You need some time away from the tearoom. If you’re not up to socializing, then I prescribe some TLC. My treat, for your birthday.”

  “You already gave me a birthday present.”

  “Well, you’re my only niece so I get to spoil you all I want.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, Auntie.”

  “Stop that.” She kissed my cheek, and I caught a whiff of her perfume, sweet and floral. “Feel better, sweetie. Don’t come downstairs, everything’s under control. I’ll stay until closing.”

  “But Manny—”

  “Manny’s experimenting with the grill again. He found a TV show on PBS where they cook absolutely everything on a grill. I think he’s making grilled quiche.”

  “Ack!”

  “Yes, well. We’ll see. Now you relax on this beautiful chaise longue that you never use, and read a novel or something. Can I bring you some tea?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “All right. See you tomorrow.”

  I followed her to the doorway. She turned around and frowned at me.

  “Just getting my phone,” I said, gesturing to my suite. “And a book.”

  Nat stood at the head of the stairs and watched me go across to my door. I had to laugh, which I supposed was her intention. She actually waited until I went back to my office, book and phone in hand, then waved as she went down the stairs.

  I glanced through the messages on my phone, but there was none from Tony. Ignoring the rest, I left the phone on my desk and went over to the chaise.

  Nat had helped me find it, and bullied me into buying it even though I’d balked at the price. It was antique maple, with beautiful carved scrollwork along the back and green velvet upholstery. I turned on the stained-glass lamp over it and took a moment to admire the glowing colors.

  This was a corner I had created for myself, and Nat was right: I didn’t use it enough. Tucked beneath the sloping roof, with a view of the window, the chaise was a perfect spot for cozy alone-time. I stretched out on it, sighed, and opene
d my long-neglected book: Cotillion by Georgette Heyer. It was a very silly book, and I’d read it many times. I still loved it.

  Before I knew it, Kris was in the doorway saying good night.

  “Don’t get up. I made an appointment for Monday with Dale, and left a message for Thea. And I got the reservations all switched, so Ms. Usher’s party is good to go.”

  “Did you tell her?” I asked, wondering if Ms. Usher had heard about the new tragedy at SFO.

  “I left a message.”

  “OK. Good night, Kris. Thanks.”

  With her departure, I had the upper floor to myself. Some of the tension in my back dissolved. I hadn’t realized it was there.

  There were a million things I should do. I ignored them all, and dove back into Cotillion. Now and then I heard a door close downstairs, but I was able to ignore that, too. Not until my private doorbell rang did I look up.

  To my surprise, it was dark outside. I smelled rain. Going to the window, I found the sill was wet. I closed the window, then left my book on my desk and hurried down to the back door.

  Tony was standing outside, raindrops glinting on the shoulders of his leather jacket, helmet in one hand and a white carry-out bag in the other. I invited him in with a gesture. He stepped over the threshold, looking at me with serious eyes.

  “It’s Vi,” I said.

  He nodded.

  9

  Damn it,” I said, tears sliding down my cheeks.

  Tony put his helmet and bag on the floor and gathered me into his arms.

  “I’m sorry, Ellen,” he said in my ear, his voice rough.

  I didn’t bother trying to stop crying. He held me and occasionally murmured comforting nothings. When I finally wound down, he picked up his paper bag, and I saw the blue and red logo of Blake’s Lotaburger.

  “Green chile cheeseburgers,” Tony said. “You might not be hungry, but you should eat anyway.”

  “Actually, that sounds good,” I said. “This is your dinner?”

  “Yeah. Gotta go back, but I didn’t want to break it to you on the phone.”

  I sniffed. “Thanks. Come on in here.”

  I led him into the kitchen, and we sat at the staff’s break table. There were two chocolate malts and a bag of tired fries along with the burgers.

  “Want some coffee? I could make some,” I said.

  He shook his head as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Don’t bother. Coffee’s easy to find.”

  I took a bite of my cheeseburger, and was instantly transported back to high school. I closed my eyes, savoring the distraction.

  “Did you work today?” Tony asked.

  “Not much. I mostly sat around being numb. Took a nap for a couple of hours.”

  “Good.”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Well, kind of chaotic at the moment.”

  Questions came to mind, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answers. I ate a couple of fries and sucked at my malt.

  “I’m going to want to talk with you about this,” Tony said. “Not tonight, but in a day or so.”

  “OK.”

  “Did you remember anything else?”

  “No. All I can think of is that Victor Solano’s murderer must have thought she was a threat.”

  “Yeah, that’s our working hypothesis. Can’t find that she had any enemies.”

  I shook my head. Vi was the sweetest person in the world. Why would anyone…

  I couldn’t think about that. I returned my attention to my meal, trying to spark my flagging appetite.

  “Really nice of you to bring me dinner,” I said, managing a smile. “That’s two meals I owe you.”

  “Who’s counting?”

  “When we’re back to normal, I’m going to make you a five-course dinner.”

  “Boy howdy.”

  I feigned offense. “Well, if you don’t appreciate it—”

  “I’ve been living on mostly junk food for five days. At this point, I’d appreciate spaghetti and meatballs and a bottle of wine.”

  “I can do that.”

  He grinned. “You can do better, I’m sure.”

  I took another pull on the malt. “I’m going to hire two more servers.”

  “Wow. Still booming, eh?”

  “Louder and louder.”

  I was getting full, so I put the rest of my burger down and watched Tony finish his. For a man who ate mostly junk food, he was in pretty fine shape. He looked tired, though.

  “How’s your family?” I asked.

  “Hell if I know. Been a week since I talked to any of them.”

  “I’d still like to have you bring your mother and grandmother to tea. When things have settled down, I mean.”

  He smiled. “They’d like that. Thanks.”

  “I have an ulterior motive. I’m curious to meet them.”

  “They want to meet you, too.”

  They do?

  Now I was really curious: what had Tony told his family about me? I was surprised he’d told them anything, until I remembered that he’d borrowed his mother’s car once to take me to dinner.

  Had he told them I was Anglo? The thought brought back some of our less comfortable discussions. We were still feeling our way toward a balance, coming from rather different cultural and social backgrounds.

  Tony polished off his burger and stuffed a few fries in his mouth. I took one more fry and nibbled at it, though I wasn’t really hungry anymore.

  He pulled at his straw until his malt rattled its last gasp, then stuffed the cup and the wrappers into the Blake’s bag. “I’d better get back. You done with that?”

  I nodded. “Full. Thanks, Tony.”

  “You need to get a dog. Shame to let that go to waste.”

  “Take it with you if you like. I’m sure you could find a dog without any trouble.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  He stuffed my abandoned sandwich and the rest of the fries into the bag. I relieved him of it and put it in the trash compactor. He put on his jacket and grabbed his helmet, and I walked with him to the back door.

  The air was cold and damp and delicious, and the night was quiet, as if waiting for whatever came next. Not even a cricket singing.

  “Looks like it’s stopped raining,” I said.

  “Yeah. Well, good night. Get some rest.”

  “You, too. You’re not made of steel, you know.”

  “Says who?” He grinned, putting on his helmet. “I’ll call you.”

  “Good night.”

  I watched him walk out to his bike. He coasted it down the gravel driveway to the street before starting the engine. Considerate of him.

  He did that a lot; surprised me by an act of courtesy or an elegant turn of phrase just when I figured he was in total cop mode. I wondered if that was his nature, or if he was making extra effort for my sake.

  I went back to the kitchen, put the rest of my malt in the freezer, tidied up the table, and turned out the light. I was on my way to the stairs when the piano began.

  “Contessa, perdono.” I recognized it now.

  An expression of condolence? Or an actual apology?

  I couldn’t think why Captain Dusenberry would need to apologize to me. I walked down the hall to the main parlor and turned on the light.

  The piano was closed. The music continued to the end of the phrase.

  “How are you doing that?” I said aloud. “Are you plucking the strings?”

  It was just the melody line, though it sounded more confident now than it had previously. Maybe he’d been practicing.

  I moved the ornaments off the lid and opened the sound box again. Turning my ear toward the strings, I could just sense a latent vibration.

  It was real. I had not imagined the music. I wasn’t the only one who had heard it. Vi—

  Oh, Vi.

  I sat in the nearest chair and gave one gusty sob. I didn’t want to cry any more; I was tired. I took a few deep breaths.

  “Damn it.”<
br />
  The piano played a single, low note—a C, I thought. I got up and looked in the sound box, and saw one hammer settling back into place.

  So that was how he did it. He was hitting the hammers, one by one. Like hunt and peck typing. How, I had no clue. Maybe Willow Lane could explain it.

  What did low C mean? It was the ultimate tonic.

  Tonic. As in restorative?

  I was too sad to smile, but I wondered if Captain Dusenberry was a punster. Or maybe a C, the tonic, the foundation of the most basic scale, was meant to indicate agreement. Either way, I did find it strangely comforting.

  ~

  I confess, I resorted to a sleeping pill. Actually an eighth of an over-the-counter pill; anything more would have me dragging all the next morning. I didn’t like drugging myself to sleep, but my thoughts would have haunted me if I hadn’t shut them up. I had learned that the hard way when my father died.

  I woke feeling sad but reasonably refreshed. A faint smell of coffee reached me; it was coming through the window in my sitting area, which I’d forgotten was cracked open. I pulled on my robe against the morning chill and hurried to investigate how much rain had come in, and whether I needed to do emergency cleanup.

  The wind must have been from the north, because there wasn’t a mess of water under the window. The sill was slightly damp, but that would soon dry. Already the sun was shining on an ironically cheerful morning.

  I put on a plain gray dress and went downstairs, said hello to Julio and Ramon, and stepped out into my garden with my clippers, gloves, and an empty vase. It was really an excuse to walk among the flowers: “the sweetness of the wet garden.” I cut a few roses and lilies, and paused to smell each bush, though the rain had carried away a good deal of scent. The most fragrant roses were up and running, though.

  I lingered for half an hour, making a mental list of little garden chores that needed attention. The violets were putting out more blossoms.

  I paused, closing my eyes. Vi had been more than an employee. She was a friend. I’d known her less than a year, but it still hurt like hell to think she was gone. It was just so wrong.

  And by damn, if there was anything I could do to help catch her killer, I’d do it.

  I bent down and clipped a few violets, then went inside and found a tiny vase for them. The larger vase I left on my credenza while I brought the violets to my desk.