A Fatal Twist of Lemon (23 page)

The present exception to that rule was the full afternoon tea on Fridays, with hot savories and sandwiches that had to be made fresh. If afternoon tea became popular, as I hoped it would, we would add it on more days.

At the moment we only served cream tea and light tea during the rest of the week. For that, the petits fours and other sweets could be made ahead and needed little or no prep right before serving. The exception was the scones, which had to be baked fresh, but they could be made ahead and frozen.

The savory smell of the pot pie began to fill my suite, making my mouth water. I made a salad while I waited, and poured myself a glass of wine. I was just beginning to think about putting on some music when I realized I was already hearing music. Harp and flute music. The stereo downstairs was on.

“Oh, no,” I said, and closed my eyes for a moment, then took a big swallow of wine and went downstairs.

The doors were locked. Julio hadn't come in, and no forced entry had occurred. Even the light in the dining parlor was off, but the stereo was cranking out Mozart.

I stood in the hall staring at the dining parlor door. “Like music, do you?” I said softly, then went into the butler's pantry and took the Mozart disc out of the stereo.

“We already listened to this today,” I said, feeling foolish that I was explaining my actions to a ghost.

I pulled out a disc of Chopin's Ballades, which were rather too exuberant for business hours, and put them on. Piano music filled the house. I turned it up a bit louder so I'd be able to hear it upstairs. Felt a little silly doing that, too, but I shrugged it off and went back up to rescue my pot pie, which was just shy of starting to burn.

The pastry was crispy gold and steaming. Gravy had burbled out of the slits in the top crust and browned, making a tantalizing caramelized smell. I slid the pie onto a plate, heaped salad beside it, and sat down to enjoy my dinner with a good book for company.

An hour later I was sated and yawning. The music downstairs had progressed to the next disc in the changer, Handel's “Water Music.” I took a bubble bath, then threw on my robe and slippers and padded downstairs to turn off the stereo.

“I'm going to sleep now,” I announced in the hall, hoping to fend off any midnight musicales.

If Captain Dusenberry got into the habit of playing the stereo at all hours, I could be in trouble. Maybe I should have left well enough alone. At least the light in the dining parlor couldn't keep me awake.

I went to bed, but despite being tired and relaxed I couldn't get to sleep right away. I lay staring at the brocade canopy overhead, my brain refusing to shut down. Part of it was me waiting for the stereo to come on, but I also found myself thinking through the day.

The funeral, and Donna's house, and the unexpected visit from Detective Aragón all flitted through my mind. I wondered if I was being too obsessive about the murder, then decided that no, it was healthy to want to work through it. Much healthier than denying the seriousness of the situation.

I was a suspect in a murder case. I hadn't really acknowledged that square-on before, I'd just sort of been looking at it from the corner of my mind's eye. Detective Aragón had confirmed it that afternoon, though.

Worst case, I could go to jail. Lose the tearoom, not to mention my freedom for the rest of my life, possibly.

That was why I was trying to solve the murder, I acknowledged to the canopy. It wasn't just for my own peace of mind. It was self-defense.

In that light, it seemed I had made pretty poor progress in four days. I hadn't eliminated any suspects but my staff, Gina, Manny, Nat, and Mr. Ingraham, and it could be argued that any of the latter three could have slipped back to the tearoom and come in the dining parlor's back door.

I threw back the covers and got up, walking around the chimney to my sitting area. Flopping into a chair, I picked up the stack of place cards and sorted through them.

Vince Margolan. Too busy remodeling to care about my opening or Sylvia's funeral. Never met her before the thank-you tea.

Claudia Pearson. Pretty much the opposite; she had made time for the tearoom's opening and plainly cared enough to deliver Sylvia's eulogy, though she hadn't been at Donna's that I'd seen.

Katie Hutchins. Sweet and obsessed about her earring.

Mr. Ingraham, also unacquainted with Sylvia before the tea. Left early, probably innocent. Ditto for Nat, Gina, and Manny.

Me. Not guilty.

Sylvia. I paused, biting my lip as I looked at her name.

“Why did you die?” I whispered. “I wish you could tell me.”

I moved her card to the bottom of the stack, leaving Donna's on top.

Donna a killer. I wasn't happy with that. She had a reasonably strong motive, but she wasn't stupid. If she had wanted her mother dead, she would have had plenty of time to plan a safer, less public murder. Sylvia's killer had taken an extreme risk of being discovered, and I still felt strongly that the murder had been an act of impulse, a crime of opportunity.

I was missing something. I wanted to call Detective Aragón and talk over the list of suspects with him. That was nuts; I knew he couldn't discuss the case with me. Annoyed with myself, I went back to bed, rolled over a few dozen times, and finally managed to go to sleep.

The next morning dawned cloudy again. I went downstairs and made myself an omelet, enjoying the luxury of having the huge old kitchen to myself. After carefully cleaning up the dishes and wiping the stove and counter tops (to avoid the wrath of Julio), I called Nat.

“I'm inviting myself to dinner,” I told her.

“Finally! Yes, do come. Cocktails at six, dinner whenever Manny gets the grill going.”

“Sounds great. What can I bring?”

“Nothing, darling. We've got it all under control. We'll have a few other guests.”

“Oh—should I pick another night?”

“No, no! It's no one alarming, I promise.”

I laughed. “I just don't want to be a burden.”

“You're never a burden, Ellen. We'd love to have you.”

“Okay. See you at six, then.”

I hung up, wondering what to take as a hostess gift. Not wine; Nat's wine cellar was better stocked than mine. Flowers?

Musing on this comfortable question, I went out to my car and drove to the Unitarian Church, where I'd attended services off and on since coming home from college. I'm not deeply religious, but I do believe in the power of prayer. I had a lot at stake just then, so I thought I should apply for whatever divine assistance might be available.

I arrived in time for the late service. My thoughts tended to drift, but I figured I could be forgiven for that. I sent up a silent prayer for the success of the tearoom. I also put in a word for Donna Carruthers, and one for poor Sylvia. Then I tossed in the names of everyone at the thank-you tea, and all my staff, and Detective Aragón. Might as well cover all bases.

After the service I went out into the parking lot and saw that the cloud cover was breaking up. A brisk breeze sent torn shreds of gray and white flying across a brilliant blue sky. It was good to be out and about, and despite the coolness of the day I kept my window down as I drove home. Remembering Gina's concern that I should get out of the tearoom, I parked my car behind the kitchen and took a walk, heading down Palace Avenue to the Santa Fe plaza.

The breeze stirred the new leaves budding out on the cottonwoods. Indian jewelry vendors were already doing business beneath the long
portal
of the Palace of the Governors, their handmade wares laid out on colorful blankets. Silver sandcast bracelets, pendants and bolo ties and squash blossom necklaces sporting huge chunks of turquoise, traditional and more modern styles of jewelry all looked inviting. I strolled along behind the tourists who were doing the serious shopping, and paused at a blanket covered with heishi necklaces.

The strands of tiny beads—coral, silver, turquoise, and a rainbow of other stones I couldn't identify—lay there mocking me. Figure it out, they seemed to say. I saw no lemon agate among them.

Turning away, I crossed the plaza to La Fonda, the historic hotel on the plaza's southeast corner. La Fonda's been a magnet for celebrities and Santa Fe socialites not just for decades but for centuries. It's where the President stays when he's in town. Everybody who's anybody goes there, as well as a lot of us who aren't anybody in particular. I decided to stroll through the old hotel and then stop at the French Pastry Shop for a cappuccino and something sweet and sinful.

La Fonda is a fabulous, jumbled pile of brown stucco, renovated in the early twentieth century by architect John Gaw Meem, one of the creators of Pueblo Revival style. Meem's hallmarks are seen throughout the building in the heavy, carved beams and zapatas, Mexican tile ornamentation and punched tin light fixtures, and many other details that made La Fonda one of the defining places of what is known as Santa Fe Style.

I went in the front entrance and up a half dozen steps to the lobby. The dark flagstones of the steps and the floor are polished smooth with the wear of countless feet. Shop display cases take up a lot of the lobby walls now, but there's still some art on display, including classic Santa Fe Opera posters, Fiesta posters, and the famous paintings of dancers—matachines, the Buffalo Dancer, the Shalako and the Spanish dancer—and other images by early 20th century Santa Fe artist Gerald Cassidy.

I wandered down the hallway that ran along one side of La Plazuela restaurant, which had been an actual open-air
plazuela
before I was born but was now enclosed. The restaurant is still a gathering place for Santa Feans as well as visitors. The food's excellent, though they serve what we call “gringo chile,” suitable for the tourist palate but lacking the heat most locals prefer.

A long, glass wall had been added between the hall where I was walking (which had once been an outdoor
portal
) and the restaurant. French doors in places along it gave a clear view into the restaurant, but the panes of glass all around them were painted with bright Mexican-folk style designs, birds and flowers and animals and geometrics in vivid, chaotic colors.

As my gaze wandered over the pictures, I glimpsed a familiar face through the one of the doors. I stepped back and paused, my heart jumping with alarm as I put a red, yellow and green rooster between me and the restaurant. Cautiously I peeped around the edge of the painted pane. Donna Carruthers was sitting in the restaurant.

She looked very different than she had at the funeral. Today she was wearing a dress made up of large, rectangular panels of lime green and turquoise, her hair was pulled into a stylish French twist, and her face was shining with laughter. She sat at a large round table having lunch with several others, a couple of whom I'd seen at her house the day before.

There was one other face I knew at the table. Seated next to Donna, wearing a black sport coat over a gold turtleneck and black jeans, was Vince Margolan.

 

 

 

 

13 

I
drew back, though it was pretty unlikely that Donna or Vince had seen me. I frowned at them around the edge of the painted rooster, wondering if they knew each other better than I'd realized.

Vince hadn't been at the funeral or the reception at Donna's house, but here he was today, looking awfully chummy with Donna. Maybe they moved in the same circles. They were both interested in art, so it wasn't a stretch.

I didn't know what kind of art Vince would be showing in his gallery. I had assumed that since it was in an historic house it would be a kind of classic, Santa Fe gallery with sweeping landscapes, cowboy art, traditional Southwestern stuff. But maybe not.

I stepped a little closer to the windows again, shamelessly spying on Donna and Vince. The conversation at the table appeared to be lively. I saw Vince lean toward Donna to say something to her. She laughed and touched his wrist.

“Pretty, aren't they?” said a man's voice behind me.