A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (38 page)

“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?”

My heart seized with dismay. “So it’s officially a murder investigation.”

His eyes narrowed. “Suspicious death, until we get the autopsy results, but yeah. Looks to me like someone offed her.”

I swallowed, thinking that he must be deliberately trying to provoke me. I would not, however, be tricked into incivility.

The silence stretched. Finally Detective Aragón leaned back in his chair.

“So how about it? Any reason one of your party guests would want to kill her?”

“I can’t think of any reason,” I said slowly, “but I don’t know all of the guests well.”

“Which ones do you know well?”

“My aunt, of course, and Gina Fiorello. She’s a dear friend, who was here because she helped me get the tearoom ready to open. She doesn’t know Sylvia Carruthers. Didn’t,” I corrected, exasperated with myself.

This was all so awkward! I wondered fleetingly if Miss Manners had any advice for proper conduct of murder investigations.

Detective Aragón kept taking notes. After a minute he looked up at me expectantly.

“I’m fairly well acquainted with Katie Hutchins,” I said. “She’s a neighbor, she runs the Territorial B&B across the street. Vince Margolan is another neighbor. He’s in the process of setting up a gallery next to the B&B. I’ve only met him once or twice, though.”

Aware that I was babbling, I stopped and watched the detective writing in his notepad. It felt surreal to be discussing the murder in such ordinary terms. A part of me felt like screaming.

“What about … Claudia Pearson?” he said, glancing up from my seating chart.

I cleared my throat. “I’ve met her several times before today. She works with the Santa Fe Preservation Trust, of which Sylvia was president.”

“And Manny Salazar?”

“He’s one of my suppliers and a friend of my aunt’s.”

He referred to the chart. “That leaves Thomas Ingraham and Donna Carruthers.”

“I met them both for the first time today. Mr. Ingraham is a food critic for the
New Mexican
, also a friend of my aunt’s. Ms. Carruthers is Sylvia’s daughter.”

He nodded. “I’m going to need everyone’s phone numbers.”

“Mrs. Pearson is downstairs, waiting to talk to you.”

“Yeah. How about the rest?”

I turned on my computer and read him the numbers from my organizer. I was beginning to feel impatient, but I certainly wasn’t about to let Detective Aragón know it.

“What about the other customers? Do you have any names or numbers for them?”

“I wouldn’t count on it. They were walk-ins.”

Rudeness is a handy tool for the investigator, I suppose. Being subjected to a flat stare would make anyone restless and uncomfortable, anxious to fill the silence by talking. Perhaps it was stubborn of me, and perhaps unwise, but I was determined not to respond to such tactics. I waited, returning his gaze.

At last he spoke. “So, you have no idea why anyone would want to kill her?”

“I’m afraid not. She was a little abrasive, perhaps, but that’s hardly enough to provoke a murder. I certainly wish whoever killed her hadn’t chosen to do it here.”

His eyebrows twitched into a slight frown, as if he’d been struck by a new thought. “Who else knew she was going to be here?”

I shrugged. “The people at the Trust, I suppose. I don’t know who else. I believe her husband is deceased.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyelids drooped again. “So—did you kill her?”

I was stunned, then angry. I raised my chin, a subtlety that was no doubt lost on him.

“No, I did not! I have every reason to be grateful to her, and I’m horrified that someone—”

I stopped, aware that I was raising my voice. I took a slow breath before speaking again.

“Obviously, I’m upset that this happened. Will there be anything else, Detective Aragón?”

The corner of his mouth turned upward, though his eyes remained hard. “Nah. No offense, I hope. Gotta ask.”

“Of course you do.”

I turned off my computer and collected my paperwork, tucking it out of the way into a drawer as I sought to regain my composure. I then stood, and to his credit Detective Aragón got to his feet at once. His mother must have taught him the basics of civility, even if his manners were rusty from disuse.

I stepped out from behind my desk, indicating with a gesture that he was welcome to use it. “My chef has made coffee. Shall I send some up for you?”

“Not gonna offer me some tea?” His face revealed nothing, but I heard the disdain in his voice.

Two could play at that game. I gazed at him innocently. “Would you prefer tea?”

He held my gaze for a moment, and a sudden smile quirked up his mouth. To my surprise, this time it reached his eyes.

“Nah. Coffee’s fine.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Black.”

I nodded politely and started to go out. He called after me.

“Oh, hey, would you send up, ah—Claudia Pearson?”

He stood behind my desk, hunched a little beneath the sloping ceiling, notepad in hand, looking altogether out of place in his motorcycle gear amid my Victorian decor. Suddenly he was the one who seemed awkward.

“All right,” I said, and left, relieved to be done with the interview.

I walked to the head of the stairs and stopped, heart pounding.

There was a dead body below. I did not want to return to face the upheaval.

I glanced toward my office, feeling an urge to ask the detective to escort me down, but that was foolish. I gave my head a brief shake and straightened my shoulders.

Cops drink coffee
.

He wasn’t part of my world, wouldn’t understand my world. No doubt he wouldn’t know what to do with a bone china cup and saucer. I was on my own. As usual.

I took a deep breath and went downstairs.

We hope you enjoyed this sample of
A Fatal Twist of Lemon
by Patrice Greenwood.