Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  “The tea was marvelous, Ellen! Come for dinner tomorrow,” said my aunt Nat, giving me a big hug.

  “Oh … I’ve got so much to do—”

  “And you won’t get it done if you don’t take a rest now and then. Say ‘Yes, thank you,’ like a good girl.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said meekly.

  Nat smiled. “Six o’clock.”

  I waved farewell to her and her perennial beau Manny Salazar, whose produce business was one of my suppliers. With a grateful sigh, I went inside and started toward the kitchen.

  Claudia Pearson—a tall, older woman with snowy hair drawn into a tight bun and an aristocratic Roman nose, who always reminded me of Georgia O’Keeffe—stood in the hall putting on her gloves. She and Sylvia Carruthers, both from the Santa Fe Preservation Trust, were my most important guests at the thank-you tea. In fact, I’d come up with the party as a way of acknowledging them. Without their help, I wouldn’t have been able to open the tearoom.

  “Did Mrs. Carruthers go already?” I asked Claudia, who seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “No, she hasn’t come out.”

  We both looked toward the private dining parlor at the back of the tearoom, which doubled as a conference room and was where the tea had taken place. Vi, one of my servers, a stunning Juno of a girl with a tumble of flaming curls barely confined by a lavender ribbon, stepped out of the pantry across the hall, carrying an empty tray.

  “Maybe she forgot something,” I said to Claudia. “I’ll go and see.”

  I went to the dining parlor door with Vi close on my heels. Dusk gathered at the windows and French doors, pushed back by the golden pool of light from the chandelier. I stopped short just inside the doorway.

  Sylvia Carruthers lay sprawled on the floor beside the table, her huge heishi necklace tight around her throat, eyes bulging and her face a livid purple.

  My heart gave a terrified thump.

  “Vi, call an ambulance! Hurry!”

  Vi made a small, startled sound, then disappeared. I rushed to Sylvia, dropping to my knees.

  I lifted her by the shoulders and pulled her necklace loose. It wasn’t easy—the heishi was practically embedded in her neck. As I tugged at it, some of the strands broke, sending tiny yellow beads dancing across the wood floor, a delicate waterfall of sound.

  Sylvia didn’t breathe. She didn’t move. I tried to find a pulse, but there was none.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered.

  Things seemed to happen in flashes after that. I remember Claudia Pearson standing over me, saying something wry, then taking out her cell phone.

  I did what I could to revive Sylvia, but I knew in my heart it was hopeless. Paramedics arrived in mere moments and confirmed that Sylvia was beyond help. I felt guilty and appalled and terribly, terribly sad. I also felt apprehensive, especially when the police began to invade.

  Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.

  Sylvia’s last words to me echoed in my mind. I’d intended to honor her with this celebration. Instead…

  The police wanted to talk to everyone. Vi and the other two servers, my chef Julio, and dishwasher Mick gathered in the kitchen where I asked them to wait. All young—college age—and looking rather shocked. I was not their peer, but I felt more divided from them than ever now as they clustered together, talking in low voices. I wished I could think of something to say to reassure them, but I was feeling none too assured myself.

  Claudia remained, having called to cancel the meeting she and Sylvia had been headed for. I took her to wait in the Iris alcove in the tearoom’s main parlor. With a resigned expression, she made herself comfortable in a blue velvet wing chair by the embers of the fire.

  “Would you like tea, or have you had your fill?” I asked her.

  “A pot of tea would be welcome, since I’m likely to be here a while.”

  “I’ll get it. Oh—should I call Donna?” I said, remembering Sylvia’s daughter, who had also been at the party. The thought of calling her dismayed me, but it could be considered my duty as hostess.

  “I’ve already done so,” Claudia said.

  I breathed relief. “Thank you. I’m afraid I’m a bit distracted.”

  She raised an elegant eyebrow. “You’ve had a shock. Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I will, as soon as I…”

  I stepped out into the hall and nearly collided with a police officer. She shot me an irritated glance, then headed toward the dining parlor with heavy, clumping steps.

  Flashes of red and blue light spun down the hallway, reflecting on the polished oak floor. I felt a wave of dread for what this might do to my business.

  I went to the kitchen. Julio had made a pot of coffee, normally anathema in the tearoom, but I was in no state to object at the moment.

  The staff were all sitting around the small wooden table at the back of the kitchen with mugs in their hands. Vi huddled forward, cupping both hands around her mug, looking shell-shocked. Julio got up and reached for a fresh mug when he saw me come in.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m going to make some tea.”

  Dee, one of the servers, jumped up, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I’ll make it. What kind?”

  “Assam,” I said, choosing a tea with a warm and malty flavor, one I associate with comfort. “And two cups, please. Bring them to Iris.”

  Dee hurried to the butler’s pantry. Her brother, Mitch, the dishwasher, got up and followed her. Iz, the third in my trio of servers, a shy and soft-spoken Indian girl from Tesuque Pueblo, looked up at me, then laid a hand on Vi’s back and started rubbing it.

  “We going to be here a while, boss?” Julio asked. He was still in his white chef’s jacket, but had unbuttoned the collar and freed his curling black hair from the hairnet and his customary colorful cap.

  I swallowed. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ll make some sandwiches.”

  “Bless you. And thank you for making the coffee, Julio.”

  “Cops drink coffee,” he said, pouring the last of the pot into his mug and setting about to make more.

  I smiled a little, thinking that cops probably didn’t usually drink coffee of the quality Julio made. We’d had a tussle about that; I didn’t want the tearoom to be pervaded by the aroma of coffee. Julio had promised not to make it during business hours, but he insisted on being able to have coffee early in the day while he was baking. Then he’d offered me some of his favorite Colombian blend, and I had given in.

  Returning to the hall, I found more police arriving, bringing equipment into the house. I tried talking to them, offering to help, but they made it plain I was just in the way.

  I glanced into the dining parlor, saw the flowers and crystal and china still on the table—phantoms of the pleasant tea party—but the room was filled with police wielding cameras and other paraphernalia. A flash blinded me and I stepped back, blinking.

  The front door stood open, and a sharp breeze blew in along with harsher strobing lights from the emergency vehicles outside. Shivering, I went back to Iris to check on Claudia.

  Dee was on her knees before the fireplace, building up the fire. She looked like something straight out of a Victorian painting, golden light from new flames glowing on her pale hair, white apron, and lavender dress. Such a lovely, comforting sight in the midst of all this chaos.

  “Thank you, Dee,” I said. “It was getting cold in here.”

  She gave me a small smile and stood, dusting her hands. Her gaze shifted to the hall, where police were coming and going, and intensified with interest. She went out, leaving me with Claudia, my last remaining guest.

  A tea tray sat on the low table, with cups and saucers, milk and sugar. Hostess instinct kicked in, giving me something to do.

  I seated myself across from Claudia. As I lifted the teapot, the lid rattled. My hands were shaking.

  “Why don’t you let me pour,” said Claudia.

  I yielded the pot and watched her serve us both
tea, thinking it strange that she was so little affected by Sylvia’s death. They were close colleagues, after all, if not exactly friends. Sylvia was a difficult person; I’d been terrified of her, myself. But Claudia seemed immune to her rants.

  She also seemed unfazed by Sylvia’s death. Could she have done it?

  What a horrible thought! But there it was.

  I hadn’t really paused to consider who might have killed Sylvia Carruthers. It almost had to be someone at the thank-you tea. The only others who had been in the dining parlor were Julio and Vi, and neither of them knew Sylvia, as far as I was aware.

  I frowned, trying to remember if I had seen anyone else in the tearoom. There had been a few walk-in customers, even though our first day open had been unannounced. Friday’s grand opening was to be our official launch.

  Dee returned with a plate of sandwiches cut into quarters, and two tea plates. She set them on the table, then left us alone again. Claudia leaned back in her chair with her cup and saucer on her knee.

  “You should eat something, Ellen. You’ve had a tough day.”

  I realized I was still holding my teaspoon, though I had stopped stirring my tea. I set the spoon on my saucer, conscious of the small click of silver against china. I took a sip, then put the cup and saucer down on the table.

  “I have a feeling it’s just getting started,” I said, reaching for the sandwiches.

  Julio had made them substantial, with generous layers of sliced turkey and Swiss cheese. I offered the plate to Claudia, who shook her head. I took a sandwich and made myself eat a bite, even though I wasn’t feeling hungry. Protein was a good idea, especially as the food at the thank-you tea had been heavy on the sweet and starchy.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering how pleased I had been with the tea, how hopeful that it would be the start of a successful launch for the tearoom. Now Sylvia’s death had thrown everything into doubt. I couldn’t bear to think of losing all that I’d worked so hard for.

  A motorcycle engine roared to a halt outside, and the next minute I heard boots clomping on the porch. I glanced toward the hall.

  “Is every cop in town going to descend on us?” I muttered, putting my sandwich on my plate.

  Claudia gave a soft laugh. “Just wait until the media shows up.”

  I raised my eyes to her. “Oh, no!”

  A crescendo of voices in the hall was followed by the appearance in the parlor of a uniformed policeman and a surly-looking Hispanic man in a black motorcycle jacket. The policeman pointed at me.

  “This is the owner.”

  I stood and offered a hand. “Ellen Rosings.”

  The motorcycle man pulled an ID case from one of his many pockets and flipped it open to show me his gold badge. “Detective Antonio Aragón.” He looked around at the parlor with a small sneer of distaste. “You got room where we can talk, Ms. Rosings?”

  “My office. It’s upstairs.”

  “Fine,” he said, and headed out to the hall.

  I glanced at Claudia. “Please excuse me.”

  “Ask him how soon we can go,” Claudia said, taking her cell phone from her purse.

  “I will,” I told her.

  Detective Aragón was talking with two of the cops. I started up the stairs, but he called me back.

  “Say, Ms. Rosings, could you look in here a minute?”

  He led me to the dining parlor. The police had now strung yellow “crime scene” tape across the open doorway, and I saw that they had brought in bright lights. Three of them were clustered around Sylvia’s body.

  My heart skipped a beat as I caught sight of her legs, sprawled with her green velvet skirt—classic Santa Fe Lady style—clumped awkwardly about them. I was thankful that I couldn’t see her face, though I doubted I’d ever forget what it looked like.

  Detective Aragón ducked under the yellow tape, then pulled it up with one hand and gestured to me to join him. I did so, albeit reluctantly.

  “You were having a tea party in here, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you show us where the deceased was sitting?”

  His smile was crooked, his eyes narrow, watching me. I swallowed and looked at the table.

  “The farthest seat on the right side,” I said.

  One of the cops in the room glanced toward me. “This one?” he said, holding a hand over my chair at the end of the table.

  “No, the one just beside that. Her name is on the place card.”

  The cop moved his hand over the chair that had been Sylvia’s and I nodded, then turned to the detective. His smile was gone; in its place a look of speculation.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Now where’s your office?”

  I led him upstairs, trying to calm my nerves. My office shares a door with that of my office manager. It stood open, both rooms dark; Kris had left at five. I was grateful that she wouldn’t be involved in this mess, though it seemed ironic that the only one of my staff who wasn’t present when Sylvia had died was the goth.

  Was murdered, I thought. No one had said that word aloud yet. I could still see the swath of yellow heishi tight around her neck.

  It’s lemon agate. Thought that would be appropriate for tea, ha ha.

  The memory of Sylvia’s jolly voice made the muscles in my shoulders tighten. Trying to shrug it off, I flipped the light switch and went to my desk. The stained glass chandelier sent a warm glow through the room.

  “Please sit down,” I told the detective, and tidied some papers on my desk.

  He stood in the doorway looking around the office as he unfastened his leather jacket. The space is unusual; the upstairs rooms all have sloping ceilings, due to the house’s design. His eyes moved restlessly as if trying to absorb every detail of the room.

  Dark eyes, and I noticed they had long lashes. He was handsome in a very classic, Latin way, though the short, militaristic hairstyle wasn’t my favorite on men. He would have been much more handsome if he ever really smiled.

  He gave a disapproving glance at my reading couch, a green velvet chaise longue against the south wall beneath a bead-fringed lamp. “Nice setup,” he said, pulling a visitor’s chair up to my desk and draping his jacket over its back. He didn’t sound as if he meant it as a compliment.

  I folded my hands. “Have you any idea when my staff and Mrs. Pearson will be allowed to leave?”

  “Have to interview them first. Okay if I use your office here?”

  “Of course,” I said. My voice sounded a trifle stiff, but I couldn’t help it. I was tired and nervous and beginning to feel shock-struck.

  “Great.” Detective Aragón took out a much-crumpled pocket notepad and a ballpoint pen. “Now, you found the body, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was this?”

  “It must have been just before six. I’d been saying goodbye to my guests—”

  “So some of them had left?”

  “Yes, most of them.”

  “I’ll need a list of everyone that was at the tea party.”

  I leafed through my papers and extracted the seating chart I’d drawn up. “Here you are,” I said, handing it to him.

  He blinked at it, then looked up at me in vague surprise. “You do this every time you have a party?”

  “For every formal party, yes.”

  He laughed under his breath and shook his head, folding the page and tucking it behind his notepad. “Okay, so who was still here when you found the body?”

  “My staff, and Claudia Pearson. They’re all downstairs, waiting,” I added.

  “Anyone else? Any customers?”

  “Not that I know of. Our grand opening is Friday, though we did have some walk-ins today. Iz was out front, she should be able to tell you when the last customers left.”

  “Iz?”

  “Isabel. Naranjo. She’s one of my servers.”

  “Did anyone else see the body?”

  “Yes, Vi was with me. Violetta Benning.”

  He looked
up. “Violetta?”

  “Her mother’s an opera buff.”

  Detective Aragón stared, his face incredulous. Finally he scowled and scribbled in his notebook.

  “Benning. Okay, now could you describe the body as you found it?”

  I did so, as briefly as I could while still mentioning the details I had noticed. He took notes without commenting, only looking up at me now and then with that appraising gaze.

  “The necklace wasn’t around her neck when we got here.”

  “No—I thought there might be a chance…” I swallowed, unable to continue.

  “So you removed it. You realize that’s tampering with evidence.”

  I glanced up at him angrily. “I was trying to save her life!”

  He held my gaze and I felt like I was being weighed. Refusing to be intimidated, I stared back. A distant thumping testified to the activities of the police downstairs. At last Detective Aragón looked down at his notes.

  “Did you know the deceased—ah, Mrs. Carruthers. Did you know her well?”

  “Not personally. She was a great help to me in acquiring the tearoom.”

  “How so?”

  “She knew of some grants that were available for historic preservation, and helped me meet the requirements and submit the applications. Without the grant money I couldn’t have afforded to remodel and open the tearoom. She also put in a good word for me with the mortgage company.”

  He leaned back in his chair and cocked his head. “Why did she do all that for you?”

  “She wanted to make sure this building was preserved. And she’s—was—also a friend of my aunt’s.”

  Poor Nat! I’d have to call her.

  “Your aunt. What’s her name?”

  “Natasha Wheeler. She was one of the guests at the tea.”

  He unfolded the seating chart and made a note, then looked up at me. “So Sylvia Carruthers helped you.”

  “Yes. In fact I organized the tea to thank her, among others.” I banished a momentary wish that I hadn’t done so.

  His glance flicked to the seating chart. “And these others. Can you think of any reason one of them would want to kill Mrs. Carruthers?”