Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  Julio’s expression went somber. “What about Vi?”

  “I haven’t heard anything more,” I said.

  “Will there be a service?”

  “I’m sure there will. As soon as I hear, I’ll let you know. As long as it doesn’t interfere with next Wednesday’s private party, you can have time off to attend.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not what I meant. I meant here. Are we going to do something to remember her?”

  There was pain in Julio’s eyes and in his voice. It made me want to gather him up and hold him, but he probably wouldn’t like that.

  “I have some thoughts,” I said, “but they’re more long-term. What do you think we should do?”

  “Something here. Just for us. Where we can all talk about it. We’re so busy….” He swallowed. “Can we just do something after hours? It doesn’t have to be fancy.”

  I nodded. He was right; we were all stressed, and hadn’t really had time to properly acknowledge that we, as a group, had suffered a terrible loss.

  “How about tomorrow evening?” I said. “Potluck supper, here, after we close?”

  Julio nodded. “That would be good.”

  “Um,” said Ramon, “I could bring my guitar.”

  “That would be wonderful, Ramon. Thank you.” I looked up at the whiteboard, stood, erased my previous message about the staff meeting and wrote: POTLUCK 7:30 p.m. SATURDAY, MAIN PARLOR, TO REMEMBER VI.

  “How’s that?”

  “Good,” Julio said.

  “Should I invite Vi’s mom?” I asked, thinking it might do Rhonda some good.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “We’ll also have a counselor here this afternoon, if you feel like talking to someone in the meantime.”

  Julio pressed his lips together. “We’ll see. Got a lot to get done today.”

  “Then I’ll let you get started. If I have time I’ll come and help. Thank you both—you’re doing a fantastic job.”

  I went upstairs, told Kris about the potluck, and sent a text to the staff about it for good measure. Then I called Rhonda’s number and got her brother. I told him about our gathering and said they were both welcome to come if Rhonda felt up to it. He was non-committal. No surprise.

  Before I hung up, Kris was in the doorway, eyes gleaming with excitement. I said goodbye to Sam and looked at her.

  “Usher called. The party’s on.”

  “Oh.”

  “She wants a talk about Captain Dusenberry. Should I call Willow Lane?”

  Did I want to deliver a talk about my ghost? “Yes, call her. The fee will cover it, right?”

  “Oh, Usher’s paying for any extras. We’re talking string quartet at the moment, and ten cases of Gruet.”

  I blinked. “We don’t have a liquor license!”

  “The Opera can get a picnic license. They’ll send a couple of their bartenders to serve.”

  “You told Ms. Usher about our occupancy limit, right?”

  “Right, but there’s also the portal. That gives us seating for an additional twenty, and we could put tables in the garden, with umbrellas for shade.”

  “Let’s not,” I said. “We don’t want to disrupt the neighborhood.”

  Kind of a lame objection, since my neighbors were also businesses, but I didn’t want this affair to turn into a block party. Not classy.

  Kris drew herself up. She didn’t quite pout, but she was disappointed.

  “Don’t worry, Ellen. I won’t let it get out of hand.”

  “Occupancy plus twenty. That’s the limit,” I said.

  “OK.”

  She went back into her office. I looked at my chaise longue, where my unfinished novel beckoned to me. Couldn’t justify it, not when my staff were busting their behinds.

  My phone buzzed with an incoming text. I glanced at it and saw that it was from Tony.

  NEED MORE STEAK. PICK U UP @ 7?

  I smiled in spite of myself.

  NOT TONIGHT – GETTING A MASSAGE.

  TOMORROW?

  Too complex for texting. I dialed Tony’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

  “We’re having a potluck after work tomorrow,” I said. “The staff wants to remember Vi.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Ah … well, I’m worried that would make them uncomfortable.”

  “I won’t ask any questions. I’ll just be a fly on the wall.”

  “Or in the ointment.”

  “You really think I’d bother them?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t know … I guess I’m feeling protective. If it looks like anyone’s upset, will you make yourself scarce?”

  “You bet. Kick me out whenever you want.”

  “Then all right. Seven-thirty.”

  “Can I buy you a drink after your massage? I need to consult with you.”

  “New developments?”

  “Sort of.”

  “After my massage I’m going to pour myself into bed.”

  Silence never made me blush before.

  I cleared my throat. “We could meet for breakfast.”

  “Tecolote?”

  “Too far. La Fonda?”

  “Pricey.”

  “My treat. It’s my turn, and I don’t have time to make you that dinner right now.”

  “We’ll see. What time?”

  “Eight. Meet you there?”

  “You got it.”

  Dead line.

  I wondered, not for the first time, if I could get Tony to read Miss Manners. He would probably equate it to torture, I suspected.

  I worked my way through most of my neglected messages. Just when I was starting to think about lunch, Kris buzzed me.

  “I have Willow Lane on the line. She wants to talk to you.”

  “All right.”

  She put the call through and I picked up. “Hello, Willow.”

  “Hi, Ellen. Your manager asked if I could talk about Captain Dusenberry at this private party next week. I’ll have to reschedule a tour, but I think I can swing it.”

  “OK.”

  “What I wanted to ask you is whether your friend could do his demonstration again—of Captain Dusenberry’s uniform and weapons.”

  She meant Tony. He’d done that for the Goth group—Ramon’s friends—when I’d given a night-time tea for them in the dining parlor to get them to stop trespassing with their ghost hunts.

  “Ah … I’m pretty sure he’s not available, but he might be able to get someone else.”

  “OK. Could you let me know, or put me in touch with him?”

  “I’ll find out who to call and get back to you.”

  “Great. Thanks, Ellen. And thanks again for providing iced tea for my groups.”

  “Least I can do while we’re so busy. Sorry you can’t bring them in.”

  “That’s all right. I’m telling them that we’re planning tea/tour combos in the fall.”

  An idea we’d talked about. It had never quite come together, but fall would be a good time.

  “After Fiesta,” I said.

  “Definitely. Maybe not until October, but I think it would be very popular that month.”

  Oy. Halloween. Yeah, it would.

  “I think you’re right. Let’s connect in a couple of weeks.”

  “Sounds good. Thank you, Ellen.”

  We said goodbye and I made a note to ask Tony if one of his reenactor friends might be available for Usher’s party.

  Come to think of it … Tony might want to do it himself. Observing the opera crowd at play….

  Maybe not. I’d tell him about it and see what he said.

  My stomach growled. I went across to my suite, taking my phone with me, to look for lunch.

  Two-day-old sandwiches: no. Carton of yogurt? I didn’t have much else.

  What the heck. It was Friday, almost the end of a long week. I called in an order for three pizzas and a giant salad to be delivered to the back door. On my way downstairs, I met Rosa on the landing, escorting a
tall, slender man with pale blond hair, dressed casually and carrying a small folio.

  “Ellen, this is Mr. Jackson.”

  “Loren,” he said, nodding. His eyes were brilliant blue and friendly. “I’m from the Hospice Center.”

  I liked that he didn’t offer to shake hands. A small detail of old-fashioned courtesy, but rare these days.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said. “I’m Ellen Rosings.”

  And I initiated the handshake. He smiled. His hand was warm, like his voice.

  “I hope I can help,” he said.

  “Come on up and meet my manager. I thought you could use my office, if you’d like.”

  “I’m going back,” said Rosa.

  “Yes, thank you, Rosa. I’ll be down shortly.” I led Mr. Jackson the rest of the way up. “We’re rather busy this week, which is adding to everyone’s stress.”

  “What a wonderful space!”

  He stepped forward, gazing at the front window where the sheers were glowing with light. I joined him.

  “Thank you. It was sort of wasted, so I turned it into a sitting area.”

  He turned to me with a smile. “Not wasted at all. It must be a great place to rest and regroup. So light and airy. It makes one think of heaven.”

  “Are you religious, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Please call me Loren, if you don’t mind. I’m not evangelical, if that concerns you. I have to be open-minded about people’s beliefs. But almost everyone has some concept of heaven, even if it’s abstract.”

  His voice was gentle, and his face had a peaceful quality that I found set me at ease. Combined with his fair looks, it made him seem a little angelic. I could see why he’d make an effective counselor.

  “Would it be all right if I used this area to meet with your staff?” he asked.

  “Wherever you’re comfortable. Have a look at my office, and then you can decide.”

  I stepped to the doorway and looked in at Kris. She was typing away, but looked up.

  “Kris, this is Loren Jackson from the Hospice Center. My office manager, Kris Overland.”

  Loren nodded. “I think we talked on the phone yesterday. Nice to meet you.”

  “Hi,” Kris said, watching him with a wary eye.

  “This side is my office,” I said, inviting Loren to follow me. I tucked the few message slips on my desk into a drawer.

  He stood near the entrance, gazing around the room. “Interesting, how the roof impacts the space. This is an old building.”

  “1865. Are you an architect?”

  “I was going to be. Two years toward a degree, but I wound up changing directions.”

  I knew what that was like. I wondered if some personal tragedy had inspired him to become a counselor. None of my business, of course.

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather use that sitting area,” he said.

  “Not at all. Anything you need? Paper and pen?”

  He lifted his folio. “I think I have everything here.”

  “Would you like some tea? I’m afraid we don’t serve coffee.”

  “Tea would be nice. Thanks.”

  We went back out to the hall. It was warm, so I cracked open the window while he made himself at home. “When the sun gets around to the west, you can close the drapes if it’s too hot.”

  “OK. May I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Sure.” I took a seat.

  “Your manager—Kris?”

  I nodded.

  “She told me that one of your employees passed away this week, and that it’s been in the news.”

  “Yes. Violetta Benning. She was an apprentice at the Santa Fe Opera, and…” I found my throat tightening. “Well, perhaps you’ve heard about it on the news.”

  He nodded, looking serious. “Yes. A tragedy to lose someone so young.”

  I took a steadying breath. “She was one of my first employees. Vi and Iz Naranjo and Dee Gallagher were the servers when we opened.”

  “I see. Are Iz and Dee here today?”

  “Yes. Well, Dee will be in this afternoon—she might be here by now.”

  He made a note on a pad from his folio. “Is there anyone else Vi was close to?”

  “Julio, my chef. I don’t know if he’ll want to talk….”

  “If he doesn’t it’s all right, but please let them all know I’m here.”

  “What’s the best way … should we have a sign-up sheet?”

  “Probably not necessary. They’d each take a break, normally, right?”

  “Usually.”

  “Then you might suggest they come up during their breaks if they’d like to talk, or have any questions. I have some information sheets. I’ll leave some of those with you in case anyone’s curious but shy.”

  “OK.”

  “Do you have any questions?”

  I looked at him, then my gaze landed on his notepad. I didn’t have a question, but my mind had jumped to the backstage tour.

  “I understand you were at the opera when she was found,” he said gently.

  “Yes.” I straightened in my chair. “I called the police. I know a detective. He’s working on the Victor Solano case.”

  “Ah.”

  “Vi knew Mr. Solano quite well. She was very upset by his death.”

  “Upset enough to—”

  “No. Vi wouldn’t do that.”

  He gazed at me for a long moment, then wrote something on his pad.

  I suddenly felt like I was being interrogated. I took a deep breath and stood.

  “I should get downstairs. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, thank you. Just let your people know I’m here.”

  I nodded, then went down to the pantry and started a kettle. Rosa came in with a ravaged tea tray, which she took through to the kitchen. When she came back I asked her to take some cups and saucers upstairs, and told her about Loren. I set a large pot of Keemun brewing, then stepped into the kitchen.

  Julio was breaking eggs into a bowl. Ramon was measuring flour into another. He looked up with a quick smile.

  “I ordered pizza for everyone,” I said.

  That got Julio to look up. “I could have made pizza.”

  “You’re busy. Yes, I know yours would be better.”

  That got a reluctant smile out of him. I proceeded to tell them about Loren, and suggested they go up and say hello to him on their breaks. Then I left them to consider that and went back to the pantry, where the tea had just finished brewing. I put the pot on a small tray along with milk and sugar, and carried it upstairs.

  Rosa was sitting with Loren. They both glanced up as I set the tea on the table before them, next to the tray of cups that Rosa had brought up. I left again immediately, in case they were having a productive discussion, and went back downstairs to encourage Iz to see Loren on her break.

  Nat was in command in the gift shop. I wasn’t worried about her emotional state, but for the sake of thoroughness I told her about Loren, and also about the pizza.

  “That all sounds excellent,” she said. “I like the potluck, too.”

  “Julio’s idea.”

  “OK if I come?”

  “You look like staff to me.”

  She smiled as a customer came up to the register with some leaf tea to purchase. “This week, anyway.”

  I went back to the pantry, made a round of the parlors with a pot of tea, and checked on the outdoor tables. By then, Rosa had come downstairs and the pizza had arrived. I ate lunch at the staff table, then went upstairs to check my phone.

  Iz was sitting with Loren, talking in a low, intense voice. I went into my office, checked the phone and a couple of slips Kris had left on my desk, returned a call and then stepped into Kris’s office.

  “There’s pizza downstairs.”

  “Thanks. I was just about to go to the bank.”

  “Want me to go?”

  “No, I need a break, but thanks.”

  We went downstairs together and I donned
an apron and presented myself to Julio. He put me to work on sandwiches. Ramon was cutting out scones on the other table, and Julio was doing something at the stove.

  After half an hour or so, I heard Iz and Rosa talking in the pantry. “I think Loren’s free, if anyone’s interested,” I said.

  Ramon glanced at me, then at Julio. Neither of them said anything.

  Well, I couldn’t force them.

  I finished the sandwiches, covered them and slid them into the fridge. Julio gave me a batch of boiled eggs to peel.

  My thoughts kept returning to Vi as I worked. I recalled our last two conversations, both here in the tearoom. Had she said anything that might give me a clue to who had attacked her?

  The director of Cesar Chavez had yelled at her during rehearsal. Not necessarily a prelude to murder, but she had seemed surprised and confused by his wrath. Unless he had some connection to Victor Solano, though, he wasn’t a very likely suspect.

  I was, of course, assuming that the two murders were linked. It was possible they weren’t, but my instinct told me they were. Vi had somehow presented a danger to the killer, and he had killed again to protect himself.

  Or herself. Sandra Usher was a possibility.

  I thought about Tony’s sketch of the romantic involvements in the opera company. Usher was possibly sleeping with Neil Passaggio (that’s why his wife had confronted her), but it looked like she wasn’t sleeping with Ebinger, her onstage lover. Vi had said they didn’t like each other.

  Which made the comment Tony and I had overheard from the Brit make no sense. “Practically snogging him onstage.” That could refer to Ebinger and Usher (but apparently didn’t), or to Usher and Solano (but she didn’t seem devastated by his death). Who else had practically been snogging onstage? I couldn’t think of anyone. Tosca and her lover and Scarpia were the only romantic—or perhaps sexual was a better word—relationships in the opera.

  There was one other romance that I knew of, between Carter and Harrison, but I couldn’t recall a moment when they’d touched onstage. They apparently preferred to do their snogging in private.

  Vi had said that everyone had been on edge since Solano’s death. From what I’d chanced to observe, that had also been true on Friday night—a week ago, now—the night Solano was killed. Was it really a coincidence that the Passaggios had argued, and Mrs. Passaggio taken the rather extreme step of going backstage during a performance to chew out one of the artists, just before the murder?