Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Crap.” I glanced toward the front windows, but the wisteria vines obscured the street. “You OK here for now? Dee just came in and she needs a little support.”

  “Yes. Go.”

  “I owe you a huge margarita, Nat.”

  “Make it a Doña Tules.”

  “Yikes.”

  I went back to the kitchen, where Ramon met me at the door. “We’re going home,” he said, glancing toward Julio.

  “OK. You driving?”

  He nodded. He hadn’t known Vi—I was pretty sure he hadn’t even met her—but he was obviously concerned about his cousin.

  “Thanks, Ramon. See you tomorrow.” I included Julio in that last. He looked tired, but nodded. I watched them get into Ramon’s car, then put together my tea tray and took it upstairs.

  Dee and Mick were up front by the window, two blonde heads together as they talked quietly. I joined them, gave them tea, listened to what they knew and confirmed what I could. I was getting numb from having to support my staff, but they had taken up the slack when I was out of it the previous day, so I owed them. Mick was mostly concerned, but Dee was quite upset. She, Vi, and Iz had been my original servers.

  “I’m sorry we missed the meeting,” Dee said.

  “Yes—I wanted to have it early, because the news was talking about it.”

  She nodded. “The radio said she might have fallen.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. A fall from the ground level into the elevator pit probably wouldn’t have killed her. A fall from the top of the stage…

  My mind flashed to the end of Tosca, when Tosca threw herself off the balcony. That moment had given me a stab of fear, and I now realized why: I knew that the height from the top of the stage to the ground level was dangerous. Usher must have had something to land on, but if Vi had fallen from that spot accidentally … or been pushed….

  She wouldn’t have landed in the elevator pit, but if the B-lift had been down, that was a height of twenty feet or more. I began to wonder if she had fallen first, and then been placed in the pit.

  I shook myself out of my reverie. These were thoughts I couldn’t share with Dee.

  “We’ll have to wait for more information,” I said.

  “Detective Aragón didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  Kris came out of her office. “Ellen? Got a minute?”

  I glanced at Dee, who was looking somewhat calmer. “Will you excuse me?”

  Dee nodded with a small smile. Mick took her hand as I stood.

  When I stepped into Kris’s office, she handed me some message slips. “I’m going, but I’ll be in early tomorrow. I’ve forwarded the phone to your desk, if you don’t mind watching it until six.”

  “OK. No word from Usher?”

  She shook her head. “Channel seven is pushing hard for an interview. I told them absolutely not today.”

  “Let me guess. They’re the ones camped out front.”

  “Are they? I’m not surprised. I gave them the non-committal statement, but they’re going to want more.”

  I sighed. “As soon as the police confirm Vi’s identity, give out the second statement.”

  “Will do. Have a peaceful night.”

  She left, and I went back to Dee and Mick, who were now sufficiently composed to go to work. I went downstairs with them to double-check that everyone else was all right (Iz stoutly refused to go home early), then returned to my office to work on my messages.

  The stack Kris had handed me included a confirmation of the massage reservation that Nat had made for me, and the first three calls of condolence. I sighed, knowing there would be many more. I couldn’t face talking on the phone about Vi, so I set them aside.

  I monitored the phone calls. If Sandra Usher called, I’d pick up, but everyone else was getting voicemail, thank you. I had reason to be glad of this decision when I noted the first of several calls from news media.

  The day crawled to a close. Iz and Rosa went home, then Nat, and finally Dee and Mick.

  I was long past weary. I changed out of my dress and into some comfy clothes, and went to my kitchenette. In the fridge: yesterday’s sandwiches and fruit. I decided I’d rather cook.

  Chicken and risotto would be good. The risotto would take a little while, but I actually liked stirring it and watching it come together. And, my favorite recipe required some white wine, so I’d have to open a bottle. Gee whiz.

  I poured myself a glass of sauvignon blanc, started some chicken defrosting in the microwave, and put some broth on the stove to warm up. I didn’t have a whole lot of supplies in the kitchenette, but there were onions and some slightly tired spinach that would be OK braised in butter. While the onions were sautéing, I went out into the hall and peeked out through the sheers over the front window.

  The news van was still parked at the curb.

  I went back to the stove and got the risotto started, wondering why they were bothering. They should be camped at the Opera, not here.

  I heard muffled strains of Mozart: my phone. Still in my purse from earlier. I dug it out and saw that the call was from Gina. I answered as I headed back to the stove.

  “Hi, girlfriend,” I said.

  “Dude, you’re on the news!”

  10

  Huh? I haven’t talked to anyone.” I frowned, wondering if the news van was broadcasting an image of my front door.

  “They’re showing footage from when Sylvia was murdered, and saying you said Vi Benning was an exemplary employee. Were you really at the Opera when they found the body?”

  I dropped my spoon in the risotto. “They’re saying that?”

  “Yeah. Is it true?”

  I refrained from cursing, and used a fork to fish out the spoon. “Yeah, it’s true. I was taking the backstage tour. There were maybe a dozen of us, and we all saw.”

  “Really? The reporter is making it out like it was just you.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Probably because I’m the only one who knew Vi.”

  “Are you a suspect?”

  “No. Geez, Gina, I called it in!”

  I hoped I wasn’t a suspect. How could I be? I hadn’t been near the opera until I went there with the tour.

  Was there something Tony wasn’t telling me?

  “So they’re saying this might be related to the murder of that opera singer last week.”

  I put the chicken in with the onions, splashed some wine over them, and topped up my glass. “Are they?”

  “You’re not going to share with me?”

  “There’s nothing to share, Gina. You know about as much as I do.”

  “I doubt that, with Detective Arrogant on the case.”

  So the media were hassling Tony, too? “Don’t call him that, Gina. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “If you say so. You came up with it, remember.”

  “That was before I got to know him.”

  “How’s that going, anyway? That dating the cop thing?”

  I drank a swig of wine. “Right now neither of us has time. How’s your love life?”

  She chattered about her latest. I listened, adding more broth to the risotto, stirring, being Zen. Eventually she went back to the news media.

  “You should give them an interview,” she said.

  “Not if they’re painting me as a suspect.”

  “You can clear your name. And it would be great exposure for the tearoom.”

  “To be honest, we don’t need it right now. Thanks to some word of mouth at the opera, we’re booked solid for the next week.”

  “That’s great! There’s nothing like having to turn away business! This could make the tearoom the latest hot spot in Santa Fe. Just do one little interview—pick your favorite station.”

  Sometimes Gina could be a little too profit-focused for me. “Maybe in a day or two,” I said. “I’m not up to it right now.”

  “Oh, of course. She was your friend. I’m sorry, Ellen.”

  “Thanks.”

 
Stirring. Adding broth. Stirring.

  “You’re mad,” Gina said.

  “I’m tired. We’re crazy busy. I’ve hired a new assistant chef, I’m hiring two more servers, and I might still need more help.”

  “Wow! Sounds like you need a drink! Want me to come pick you up?”

  “No, thanks. I’m making dinner.”

  “How about tomorrow night? We can paint the town.”

  “Sorry, I’ve got an appointment for a massage. Nat’s idea.”

  “Nat’s smart. OK, girlfriend, I’ll call you again on Sunday, how’s that?”

  I smiled. “OK.”

  “Love you gobs.”

  “Back at you. Bye.”

  The spinach and the chicken were done. I added the last bit of broth to the risotto, ground some pepper over it, dash of salt and a handful of grated Romano. Stirred it all together, then plated up my dinner and ate it slowly, in solitary state, at my petite dining table.

  I was already feeling the wine, but I topped up my glass once more before putting the bottle in the fridge. I’d killed a little over half of it, but that included what went into the risotto.

  I cleaned up the dishes, put away leftovers, and tidied the kitchenette, then went back to my wine. I grabbed my phone again and checked for anything from Tony. Nothing, so I sent him a short text asking if there was any news.

  Stupid. He’d have contacted me if there was. I was just feeling lonely.

  I carried my wine out into the hall. News van still out front. I went downstairs, leaving the lights off.

  Outside it was dusk, so the parlors were filled with twilight. I went into the main parlor, closed the pocket doors between the piano and the front window, and sat down to play.

  My music was packed away somewhere, so I played from memory. Bach, Satie, and some Elizabethan ayres I’d been fond of in high school. My technique was rusty to say the least, but the only one listening was Captain Dusenberry, and I believed he wasn’t one to voice his opinions.

  He was a music lover. Probably uncritical. I could almost imagine him sitting in one of the wing chairs, teacup on his knee, smiling as he listened.

  By the time I’d played through all I could remember, it was getting too dark to see the keys. I closed the piano, feeling a little better, and took another swig from my wine glass. The wine was getting warm.

  I stood, gazing around the dusky parlor, feeling a little lost. Drifting out into the hall, I was surprised by a sudden intense light coming through the lights that surrounded the front door.

  I tiptoed back into the main parlor and gently opened the pocket door, edging toward the front window but keeping out of sight. The sheers were closed, though the drapes were open. I moved as close as I dared to the window, and peered through a gap in the sheers.

  A guy came up the front walk carrying a big black case. The news van was still at the curb, its side doors open. A crew was setting up for a broadcast, probably the nine o’clock news. On my doorstep.

  My first instinct was to open the front door and yell at them. Bad idea.

  Second thought: call the cops.

  Also a bad idea. The media would just report my recalcitrance and make it a part of their story. No, best course of action was to ignore them.

  Annoyed, I went through the gift shop and back to Marigold, the most remote of my parlor seatings. Its window on the south side, overlooking the rose garden, was not in line of sight from the front door, but I closed the drapes anyway. I turned on a little lamp on a side table and made myself at home, curling up in a wing chair with my feet tucked beneath me.

  This was where I’d had tea with Vi the previous Sunday. It seemed forever ago. Remembering her laughter and the pleasure we had shared mellowed my mood. Hard to believe she was gone.

  Shying away from that thought, I looked around at the décor. It was mostly gold, with brown touches and small hints of orange. Not my favorite colors at all. They reflected the name, was all. I loved the space—it was probably my favorite seating, just because of its situation, but I’d never liked the colors.

  Well, maybe it was time for a change.

  I finished my wine. I didn’t need to redecorate Marigold. Better to put the money toward paying down my mortgage.

  Besides, I’d have to come up with a different flower name if I wanted something other than yellow or orange. I’d already used a lot of my favorite flowers. What was left? Honeysuckle? Morning glory? Lilac?

  Violet.

  A shiver went through me. Yes, of course. I’d do it.

  A tribute to Vi.

  A few tears came. I wiped them away, thinking of how the room would look done in shades of violet.

  Yes. It would be lovely.

  Oh, Vi.

  A thump from the front portal, and voices. The news crew intruded.

  I picked up my wine glass and turned off the lamp. Did they even realize that I lived here?

  It didn’t matter. They didn’t know I was there, and that was fine with me. In my best ghost-like manner, I slipped out into the hall and up the stairs.

  ~

  Friday morning found me dragging. It was not because of the wine, but because I’d slept poorly. Troubled dreams, too vague to remember, had denied me rest. I wanted to stay in bed, but I couldn’t let my staff down, so I dragged myself into the kitchenette and started a kettle.

  Two more days, Friday and Saturday, and then I could collapse.

  I looked in the refrigerator and found the fruit that Julio had cut up for me two days before. It was a little tired, but still edible. I had it for breakfast while my tea brewed. My phone was by my chair, and I discovered that Tony had sent me a text at a horrid hour when he should have been asleep:

  NOTHING IN POOL.

  Disappointing, but not surprising. I was just glad I hadn’t been awakened by it.

  I turned my thoughts to what I should wear that day. The news of Vi’s death would soon be official, if it wasn’t already. I’d worn gray the day before, but I was feeling more depressed now, and it was more likely that people would notice what I chose to wear.

  I had a mid-length navy dress that was very plain, which I often wore to funerals. That would do. No jewelry. Hair up in a simple bun. I’d look like a stereotypical schoolteacher, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that people who were close to Vi would see that I acknowledged her loss as something real and serious.

  Fortified by two cups of tea, I ventured across the hall. Kris was at her desk, though it wasn’t yet nine. She had on a fairly conservative, for her, black dress and a necklace of plain jet beads. If I knew Kris, it was Victorian mourning jewelry.

  “You’re early,” I said, stepping into her office. “Want some tea?”

  “I’ve got coffee, thanks.” She indicated a travel mug on her desk. Black, with a red hourglass à la black widow. “We’ve got another server candidate. I scheduled her for two on Monday, if that’s OK. You won’t need more than an hour between appointments, will you?”

  “I doubt it. This another friend of a friend?”

  “Another friend of Ramon’s.”

  “We don’t need all three, do we?”

  “See what you think of them.”

  “All right.”

  “Oh, and a counselor from the Hospice Center is coming in at noon.”

  “Excellent. Thank you. They can use my office.”

  Kris nodded as she answered the phone. I checked my desk, glanced through my messages, decided they could all wait, and went down to the kitchen.

  Julio’s chef pants, muscle shirt, and hat were solid black. If we’d had any black aprons, he’d have put one on, no doubt. Other than this overt expression of mourning he seemed all right, and promised me five minutes to talk after he had the current batch of shortbread in the oven.

  I went up front, just to see if the news crew had done any damage on the portal. Before approaching the door, where I’d be visible through the surrounding lights, I stepped into the parlor and peeked out the window
. The van was gone.

  I went outside, taking a deep breath of the morning air. Other than the disarrangement of a few tables and chairs, nothing was amiss. I straightened the furniture and went back inside to start some tea.

  Julio poked his head in the pantry just as I was setting a pot to brew. “Done with the shortbread.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I set a timer, then put it and the teapot on a tray and carried it into the kitchen. Sitting at the break table, I gestured for Julio to join me.

  “You, too, Ramon. This is a kitchen conference.”

  They both came over and sat across from me. Ramon seemed fine. It was hard to recall how defiant he’d been when we’d first met; he was now deferential to both me and Julio, and I’d seen enough of him to know that his manners were excellent. I could only assume that he liked the job and was eager to keep it.

  “First of all,” I said, “do either of you have any concerns?”

  They traded a glance. “Not really,” said Ramon. “It’s been busy, but you warned us it would be.”

  “You’ve been helping with the food more than I thought you would be, Ramon. Is that OK with you?”

  “Sure. It’s fun. Julio’s teaching me stuff.”

  “Are you having any trouble keeping up with the dishes on top of that?”

  “Not so far.” He looked at Julio, who was staring at the table top. “I could probably help Julio more if I didn’t have the dishwashing, too.”

  “Would you prefer that? Helping with the cooking?”

  He hesitated. “It’s not what you hired me for.”

  “That wasn’t the question. Which would you rather be doing?”

  “Cooking’s fun.”

  “OK. I may look for another part-time dishwasher, then. Julio, are you OK with having Ramon help you, or do you need someone with more experience? No offense, Ramon,” I added.

  He shook his head, shrugging it off. We both looked at Julio.

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “It’s good to have help, since we’re this busy. I don’t mind showing Ramon how to do stuff. Long as he takes orders, eh primo?”

  “Si, jefe.”

  “Ellen’s the jefe,” Julio said.

  “You’re the jefe in the kitchen,” I told him. “I concede the title. Anything else either of you would like to talk about?”