A Fatal Twist of Lemon (24 page)

I jumped and turned, then managed a smile. It was a stranger, probably a tourist, an older man in a polo shirt and, oh dear, plaid slacks.

“Um, yes,” I said, realizing he meant the painted windows. I pointed to the pane next to the rooster, which bore an agave plant rendered in shocking green. “I was just trying to figure out what this one is.”

“I think that's a yucca,” said the helpful stranger.

“Oh. Thanks.”

He showed no sign of going away, just stayed standing next to me, gazing at the windows. I stepped away, bypassing the shops in the hallway to wander deeper into the hotel, past a couple of meeting rooms and a bank of elevators. Here I paused. Before me, embedded in the wall, was a large image of La Guadalupana on painted tiles.

La Guadalupana is another Virgin Mary, very different from La Conquistadora. Guadalupana is surrounded in a full-body halo of radiant light, and stands on a crescent supported by a cherub. She wears a blue mantle spangled with stars, and often has roses at her feet. She's the patroness of New Mexico-–of all the New World, really—and one of my favorite cultural images. She can be seen everywhere, and many a rose-scented candle bearing her image has been lit in New Mexico churches and chapels, shrines, and in private homes. I've lit more than a few myself, and I'm not even Catholic.

I touched the tiles, cool and smooth beneath my fingers. La Guadalupana always has a calming effect on me. I realized it was foolish of me to act guilty for watching Donna and Vince. I had seen two people I knew through the window, no crime in that. My feelings were too easily ruffled lately. I decided it was definitely time for the French Pastry Shop, and retraced my steps.

The tourist gent had gone, but I didn't dawdle in the hall of windows. I couldn't help glancing through them at Donna and Vince's table of artsy people, though. They were still there, still chatting over their lunch. I continued to the lobby and crossed it to the Pastry Shop's inside door.

The smell of French onion soup welcomed me, and I succumbed to temptation and ordered a bowl of it along with my cappuccino and one of the shop's decadent Napoleons. I sat at a table by the window and watched the people walking up and down San Francisco street. I could see the cathedral—now a basilica—Bishop Lamy's pet project, rising in imposing grandeur at the east end of the street.

My cell phone rang. I dug it out of my purse, checked the caller ID and saw that it was Gina, so I answered, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the other patrons. Ordinarily I would have stepped outside, but I didn't want to abandon my lunch.

“Hi, dearie! Happy first day off,” Gina said in a cheery voice. “Want to meet for lunch?”

“Actually, I'm already having lunch. I'm at the French Pastry Shop. Care to join me?”

“Be there in a flash,” she said. “Boy, have I got news for you!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“No, you have to buy me a gooey dessert first!”

“Tease.”

She hung up and I went back to savoring my soup, chopping with my spoon at the crouton and the wonderful, stringy cheese. I was just finishing the last salty spoonful when Gina came in the shop's street-side door. She was wearing a knee-length cable-knit cardigan over a splashy floral sun dress, and carrying a manila envelope. She grinned at me as she came over to my table.

“Chilly out there! What are you having, French onion? That sounds perfect.” She sat down and handed me the envelope.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Clippings of all the news stories about the tearoom. I knew you wouldn't have time.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I gazed doubtfully at the envelope. No doubt the clippings had pictures of crime tape and other things of which I didn't want to be reminded.

“Save them for later. I just thought you should have a record.”

“My dear, efficient friend.” I tucked the envelope beside my purse, then squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”

A waitress wandered over to take Gina's order. Gina asked for soup and a bottle of mineral water.

“What do you want for your gooey dessert?” I asked.

“That looks fine,” she said, pointing to my Napoleon.

I looked at the waitress. “Another of these, and I'll have another cappuccino, please.”

“Oh, yum!,” Gina said. “Me too!”

“You know,” I said after the waitress had left, “maybe French onion soup would be a good lunchtime thing for the tearoom.”

Gina bugged out her eyes at me. “What? The tearoom serving conventional lunch? You're selling out already?”

“No, no. Lots of British tearooms serve lunch. Meat pies and stuff like that-–casserole lunches. Julio and I have been talking about adding a few choices like that. It would bring in a lunch crowd.”

“Oh. Well, that's okay, then. How about green chile stew?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, no green chile in Great Britain.”

“Rats. You make such good chile stew, too.”

“I'll make some just for us.”

The waitress returned with Gina's soup and dessert and our drinks. I sipped my cappuccino.

“The tea lady drinking coffee,” Gina said, grinning at me over her soup. “Don't let the press get hold of that.”

“I'm off duty.”

I took another sip, licked foamed milk off my upper lip, then started in on my Napoleon. Flakes of puff pastry scattered under my fork. I took a bite, then looked at Gina.

“So, how was the big date?”

“Fabulous! Ted actually
liked
the chamber music, even though he'd never heard it before. He wants to go to the symphony concert next week.”

“Wow! Sounds like you found a keeper.”

“He's definitely got potential. And, my dear, I got him talking about his work, and he told me all about the building he sold in your neighborhood. Apparently the transaction was a big hassle and he was more than happy to complain to me about it, so I got all the juicy details.”

“Do tell!”

She took a bite of soup. “Well, first of all, you were right about it being historic. It's right on your street.”

“I wondered.”

“Second, you'll never guess who bought it!”

“Shirley MacLaine.”

“No, silly, she likes out in the country! Ted showed her a ranch once, but the views weren't good enough for her.”

“I give up,” I said.

“Vince Margolan! The gallery guy who was at your thank-you tea!”

“Vince,” I said, feeling stupid.

“Yeah! Small world, huh?”

I frowned. “But he's just remodeling his gallery.”

Gina nodded. “That's the place he bought.”

“I thought he already owned it.”

“No, he was leasing. The owner decided to sell, and was going to offer it to Vince, but then the Trust approached him and made a preemptive offer. Ted smelled a bidding war and he was right. He talked to Vince, and Vince came back with a higher offer.”

“Whoa, this is weird.” I gave a nervous glance over my shoulder. “Vince Margolan and Donna Carruthers are over in La Plazuela having lunch right this minute.”

“Wow, really?” Gina looked up from her soup, grinning. “Let's go spy on them!”

“Gina!” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “No!”

“Why not? We might figure out what they're up to!”

“They're up to having lunch with some friends. Speaking of which…”

I took a bite of my Napoleon. Gina pushed aside her empty soup bowl and picked up her fork, attacking her pastry.

“If we hurry we could catch them. Maybe Donna put Vince up to it!”

“Shhh!”

She switched to a whisper. “Donna's got a lot of money, right? And Vince is probably spending a lot on his gallery. Maybe she paid him.”

I frowned. “That sounds kind of convoluted. I need to think about this.”

I glanced at the door to the lobby, puzzling over Vince and Donna and the property sale. I felt like I was trying to push my way through fog.

“Oh, by the way, I have another little tidbit from Ted,” Gina said.

“Hm?”

“Our friend, Detective Arrogant?”

I took a sip of coffee. “What about him?”

“He's famous for hating real estate people.”

“How odd. Any idea why?”

“No clue. Ted said he won't talk to them. If he's working a case and a real estate agent is involved, he always sends some other cop to interview them.”

“Oh.”

Maybe it was because he didn't have the bucks to shop for fancy real estate. That didn't seem enough to cause such an extreme response, but I'd had a taste of Aragón's capacity for irrational reaction. I wouldn't put it past him to be touchy about anyone who dealt with large amounts of money.

I didn't mention this to Gina. After the detective's apology, it didn't seem fair to rip him up. He must have had his reasons for feeling as he did.

Gina dropped her fork onto her empty plate and raised her hands in the air. “Done! Let's go.”

She snatched up both our tickets and hurried to the cash register. Resigned, I ate the last couple of bites of my pastry. By the time I finished she was back, standing by my chair and practically vibrating with excitement.

I got up, slung my purse over my shoulder, and tucked the envelope of clippings under my arm. Gina was already heading for the door into the hotel. I followed, wondering what Miss Manners would recommend as the perfect response if one was caught spying on acquaintances.

Gina crossed the lobby to the restaurant's entrance, standing just off to one side as she peered in. She hadn't spotted Vince and Donna yet, but I could see that they were getting up and saying goodbye to their friends.

Adrenaline surging, I caught up to Gina, slid my hand through her elbow, and pulled her on past the open doorway.

“They're coming,” I whispered.

I dragged her around the corner where we could peer through the painted panes of glass. Farewells took a couple of minutes.

“Who are the others?” Gina asked.

“I don't know. I saw the redhead at Donna's after the funeral. We weren't introduced.”

They party broke up, Donna leading the way out of the restaurant with Vince on her heels. I ducked further back behind the glass wall, pulling Gina with me and hoping Donna wasn't planning on visiting the shops behind us.

Fortunately, she and her friends all headed for the parking garage. Gina tugged at my arm. I resisted until the last of the party was across the lobby and heading out of sight into the hallway, then let Gina drag me after them.

“This is a bad idea,” I said, sotto voce.

“We might learn something important!”

Gina's heels clacked on the tile floor, making me wince. As we entered the hall I could see Donna's friends strolling along ahead of us.

“Slow down, Gina!”

She slowed to a brisk walk, but we were still catching up to them. I stopped in front of a display window and pretended to admire its contents while I counted to ten. At five, Gina took off without me.

At eight, I caved and followed her. Donna's party had gone through the door to the garage, and Gina was blasting through after them. I hurried to catch up and found myself outside, next to Gina, with the noise of traffic from San Francisco street surrounding me.

The redhead and a man I didn't recognize were nearby, waiting for the elevator to upper levels. I glanced away and saw Donna and Vince walking up the aisle between rows of parked cars together. Gina took off after them, and I hurried to catch up.

Could Donna and Vince be an item? I had assumed they hadn't met before my tea, but maybe that was wrong. Both art people. Maybe they'd met at some gallery.

Donna and Vince stopped beside a silver Mercedes. Gina stopped short in front of me and I nearly crashed into her. She caught my hand and pulled me behind an SUV, peering through its smoked windows at our quarry.

They stood talking by the car while I shifted from foot to foot, wishing I was somewhere else. “This is stupid,” I whispered to Gina. “Let's go.”

“Wait.”

Smiling, Donna got into the Mercedes. Vince closed the door, waving as he stepped back. I ducked, hoping he wouldn't notice us behind the SUV, and that it wasn't his car. He walked on up the aisle while the Mercedes pulled out and drove away.

“Huh,” Gina said, clearly disappointed. “No kiss.”

Vince got into a black BMW. The brake lights came on and the engine started. The car sat thrumming for a couple of seconds, then backed out and headed for the exit.

“Can we go now?” I asked.

Gina sighed. “I guess. You're a little edgy today. The ghost hasn't been keeping you up, has he?”

“No. Well, he did turn on the stereo last night.”

“Oh, Christ on a crutch!”

“Only once. I think I'm working things out with him.”

“Jeez, will you listen to yourself?”

“Hey, you saw the light in the dining parlor! I thought you were behind me on this.”

“Yeah, but—but you don't want to get chummy with this ghost guy! And especially you don't want to talk about him in front of other people,” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper as an older couple made their way past where we stood.

I stepped out, heading for the street. “Gina, I think Captain Dusenberry's the least of my problems.”

“Yeah. Let's go to a movie or something. Take your mind off all this morbid stuff.”

“Good idea.”

We got in Gina's car, drove to the multiplex at De Vargas mall, and found a silly movie, which did take my mind off things for a couple of hours. As we came back out to the parking lot my gaze fell on Rosario Cemetery across the street, and the ranks of white military markers marching up the hill beyond it in the National Cemetery.

“Gina, are you in a hurry to get anywhere?”

“Nope.”

“Then do you mind if I go to the grocery store?”