A Fatal Twist of Lemon (9 page)

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She glanced at me, then back at the dining parlor. “May we talk privately?”

“Of course,” I said, stifling a sigh. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you. I have to meet a tour group at ten-thirty.”

I glanced into the dining parlor. It seemed perfectly normal, but still I turned off the light and closed the door.

Willow smiled in approval. “Best to leave it quiet for a while. It may be that all the recent activity has stirred the spirit up a bit too much.”

“Mm.”

“Many people find that they can coexist peacefully with resident spirits,” Willow added as I led her down the hall to the front parlor. “Over at La Posada they get along pretty well with Julia Staub.”

“Do they?”

“There's no reason why that can't be true for you as well.”

I invited her to sit in Lily, by a window overlooking the porch. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I just wanted to tell you that it's possible Captain Dusenberry's spirit is responsible for what happened last night.”

“Are—are you suggesting that a
ghost
killed Sylvia Carruthers?”

“It's possible,” she said, her pale eyes wide behind the wire frames. “Physical manifestations are rare because they require a great deal of energy, but they have been documented. A restless spirit, one with pent-up hostility, might very well be able to attack and kill a human being.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Forgive me, but I find that very hard to believe.”

“Do you?” Her faint smile returned. “Would you also have trouble believing that no fingerprints were found on the murder weapon?”

 

 

 

 

 5 

I
stared at Willow in astonishment. Behind her the lace curtains stirred, though the window was closed. Stray draft, I told myself. Old houses are drafty.

“How do you know there were no fingerprints?” I asked.

“I have a friend in the police department. I'd better not mention who.”

“Well, the killer could have worn gloves,” I said.

Willow tilted her head, blue eyes gazing at me with steady curiosity. “Wouldn't you have noticed someone wearing gloves?”

I would, and in fact I had, but I didn't care to discuss that with Willow. “My point is that there could be any number of reasons for a lack of fingerprints,” I said.

Not the least of which being that the weapon was a necklace of tiny beads. I was surprised that none of my prints had been found on it, but then it had broken, and even if it hadn't, getting all the strands to line up again…

“True,” Willow said. “I don't know that the spirit is responsible, I only wanted to alert you to the possibility. Do be careful, Ms. Rosings. There
is
a presence in that room.”

“And you think it's Captain Dusenberry.”

“Yes.”

“You know, we've been here for months, and no one has noticed anything unusual.”

“Until last night.”

Her gaze was steady, her voice matter-of-fact. If it weren't for the outrageous things she was saying, I would have found her completely credible.

“Have you shared your theory with the police?” I asked, wondering what Detective Aragón would make of her.

“No. In general the police tend not to credit theories of paranormal manifestation. The only time I talk to them about such things is if they come to me.”

“And do they? Come to you, I mean?”

She shrugged. “I've been consulted on a couple of missing persons cases. They only turn to a medium if they're desperate, of course.”

“Of course.”

I wondered how successful those consultations had been, but didn't quite have the guts to ask. Willow might respond with a lecture on communicating with the spirit world, and I didn't think I could face it just then.

She took a wristwatch out of her purse and looked at it, then put it back. “I've got to meet my group,” she said, standing up. “If the presence becomes troublesome and you decide you want help, give me a call. I can offer you a couple of recommendations.”

“For exorcists?”

She gazed at me, eyes calm. “Not exactly. The people I know are more attuned to manifestations of energy than to religion. Of course, your personal preferences would be respected.”

“How considerate,” I said faintly.

“In the meantime, if you feel like making a gesture of conciliation you might try visiting Captain Dusenberry's grave. It's in the National Cemetery.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

I stood up to show her out. Willow turned to me as we reached the front door.

“I'd still like to discuss adding your tearoom to one of my tours, after things have settled down of course.”

“Yes. Well, thank you for stopping by.” I unlocked the door and opened it. Outside the sky was heavier, and a breeze had come up.

“I'm not a nut, Ms. Rosings. In case you were wondering.”

“No, I wasn't wondering.”

Willow gazed at me as if evaluating my honesty, then gave a brief smile. “Good luck,” she said, and went out.

I closed the door and watched her stride down the steps and along the path to the sidewalk. She went through the gate and closed it behind her without a backward glance. I watched her out of sight, then my gaze strayed to the wisterias on the porch.

Big, drooping clusters of pale purple flowers—they had come to symbolize the dreams I had for the tearoom. Dreams that were worth fighting for. I wasn't going to let Sylvia's murder kill the tearoom too.

The back door banged. Turning around, I saw Gina striding toward me, radiant in a ruby-colored dress with a fringed shawl printed with roses swathing her shoulders.

“Hola, girlfriend! I came to see how you're holding up.”

“Thanks. Doing okay so far.”

“You open at eleven, right?”

“Right.” I glanced at the clock behind the hostess station, which showed ten-forty-three.

“Good,” Gina said, grinning. “You'll have time.”

“For what?”

“For the interview,” she said, pointing toward the front door.

I looked out and saw a news van pulling up to the curb. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Better get it over with, or they'll just keep bugging you.”

“But I don't
want
to be interviewed.”

“Yes you do.” She pulled me away from the door and started smoothing my hair and my dress. “Listen to Mama Gina. You want that nice man to ask you questions standing on the porch surrounded by wisteria, with your beautiful lace curtains in the background.”

“Gina—”

“Because half a million New Mexicans will see it and they'll want to come here. Where's your lipstick?”

“Upstairs. You don't think all those people will mind that there was a murder here?”

She took a lipstick from her purse and grabbed my chin like a grandmother inspecting her grandkid. “No,” she said as she carefully touched up my lips. “In fact a lot of them will find that intriguing. How could such a pretty place be the scene of a horrible murder? Blot,” she added, grabbing a tissue from the hostess stand and handing it to me.

I blotted, feeling rather unhappy about the whole thing, but it was too late. The news crew was heading up the path.

“Let me answer the door,” Gina said, pushing me into the gift shop.

“Why?”

“Because you're too important to answer the door!”

She ducked back into the hall, leaving me to reflect that it was too bad I hadn't known how important I was before. I'd been answering the door all my life.

I tidied the hostess station to pass the time while Gina greeted the media people. A minute later she breezed in.

“It's channel four, Ms. Rosings,” she said grandly. “Do you think you could spare just a couple of minutes to talk to them?”

I mouthed “No,” which she ignored. She caught my arm and propelled me into the hall.

“This is Carla Algodones, Ms. Rosings,” Gina said, smiling as she presented me to a sleek newscaster who looked familiar. Ms. Algodones wore a beige trench coat over a blue dress, and her shoulder-length hair was perfect, dark brown and curling.

“How do you do?” I said.

“So sorry to hear about the tragic event, Ms. Rosings. Do you have a few minutes to tell us about it?”

“Well, I—”

“Out on the porch would be best, I think,” said Gina, shepherding us outside to where two young men waited next to several cases that probably held electronic gear.

“I only have a few minutes,” I said. “We open at eleven.”

Ms. Algodones smiled. “This won't take long.”

It was a bit chilly outside, and I stood with arms crossed to keep warm while the two men flung open their cases and hauled out floodlights and a shoulder-held television camera. To give them credit, they were ready in a very short time. With the lights supplementing the feeble daylight, I stood beside a column draped with wisteria, a lace-curtained window behind me, while Ms. Algodones held a microphone toward me.

“Ms. Rosings, can you tell us what happened here last night?”

Broadly put. I hesitated, then said, “I don't think I should talk about the details while the police are still investigating.”

She looked impatient, then the bright-eyed newscaster smile returned. “Tell us what you can.”

“Well, several guests were attending a private party in the tearoom yesterday evening, and unfortunately one of them died shortly afterward.”

“And the police are investigating it as a murder?”

“Suspicious death,” I said.

“The police haven't released this person's identity, but can you tell us a little about them?” asked the reporter.

“She was an older woman, a long-time resident of Santa Fe.”

“Respected in the community?”

“Oh, yes. We are so very sorry for her family and friends.”

“Was there any sort of altercation at this party?”

People just don't respect history as they should!

Sylvia, her voice vibrating with passion. There had been a couple of awkward moments during the tea, but I didn't think they could be called altercations.

I shook my head. “No,” I said with confidence.

I saw two ladies out on the sidewalk, dressed in coats and hats. They paused at the gate, then after a moment's hesitation they opened it and started up the path.

“I'm so sorry, I have customers arriving,” I said to Ms. Algodones. “I have to go now.”

She looked disappointed. “Okay. Thanks for your time,” she said, and turned to the crew. “Where do you want to do the lead-in?”

“Out in the yard,” said the one with the camera. “Get a shot of the whole house.”

Ms. Algodones cocked a suspicious eye at the sky and produced a collapsible umbrella from the pocket of her trench coat. I escaped into the tearoom, where Nat looked up at me from the hostess station.

“Two customers coming,” I told her. “Make them feel at home, please. I think the camera crew made them nervous.”

“Will do.”

Gina pounced on me. “That was great! You looked wonderful.”

“I need a cup of tea.”

I headed back to the butler's pantry with Gina on my heels. Dee and Vi looked up as we came in.

“We're open,” I said, reaching for a kettle. “Customers on the way.”

Dee gestured at two cozy-covered teapots on the counter. Nearby stood two double-tiered serving trays on which sweets were already arranged.

“We're all set,” she said. “Just need the scones.”

“I'll get them,” Vi said, and darted out toward the kitchen.

I put the kettle to boil and went upstairs to fetch down the teapot I'd been using. Gina followed me, still burbling over the news crew.

“Maybe we can get the other stations to come, too.”

“I'm sure that wouldn't be a problem,” I said drily. “They've all been calling.”