Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (10 page)

“Let’s get that steak soon,” he said.

I nodded. “I’d like that.”

My chest felt tight, making my breathing shallow. For a second I thought he was going to kiss me, but he just smiled and stepped away.

“Thanks for your help.”

“Any time.”

I watched him get on his bike and cruise away. Weariness wrapped around me like a quilt, muffling my thoughts and making it hard to move. I locked the door and went upstairs to my suite, where a hot shower and bed were calling to me.

~

I slept in. Luckily I had left my phone in my office, and didn’t hear it ringing. When I carried my second cup of tea in there, three texts and two messages were waiting on my personal phone. I didn’t dare check the tearoom voicemail.

The texts were from Gina, Rosa (saying her brother might be available to help in the kitchen during the coming week), and an old school friend who had heard about the murder and wanted to know if I knew anything about it. The messages were from Mr. Ingraham, with whom I was now officially playing phone tag, and Vi.

I checked the time. Vi’s call had come in about twenty minutes earlier, so she must be awake. I called her back.

“Hi, Ellen.” Her voice was a bit wobbly.

“Hi. I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday. We were crazy busy here.”

“It’s OK. I was pretty worthless yesterday anyway.”

“Have you had breakfast? Want to come over?”

“I had some granola.”

“Well, how about some tea?”

I could hear her thinking, and wondered if maybe she wasn’t up to it yet.

“Actually,” she said with a sigh, “that sounds really nice.”

“Come on over, then. Ring the back bell.”

“OK. Thanks.”

“See you in a few.”

I scurried downstairs to pop some scones in the oven, then returned to change out of my nightshirt into some casual clothes. Back down to put the kettle on, and out into the garden to look for violets. I cut a double handful and put them in a tall shot glass. Later I’d candy them for the Aria Cakes, but just now they were for Vi.

I carried them to Marigold, the most private of the sitting areas in the tearoom, and one of the coziest. A window to the south overlooked the rose garden. I cracked it open for a breeze, then went to the butler’s pantry to start a pot of tea and to fetch china and silver and napkins.

By that time the scones were done. I put them on a plate and dished up some lemon curd and clotted cream. Thought about adding some Aria Cakes, then decided they might be a sad reminder so I left them in the fridge. Instead I nabbed the last of the lavender shortbread cookies that Julio had made on Friday.

I put everything on a tray, added a small candle, and took it to Marigold to lay the table. I had just returned to take the infuser out of the teapot when the doorbell rang.

Vi looked small, as impossible as that seemed for someone of her stature. Her shoulders were hunched, and her eyes were a bit red. In a purple tee-shirt and jeans, with her hair pulled into a ponytail, she seemed young and rather forlorn.

I drew her into a hug, whispering condolences. She let out one shuddering sigh before we parted.

“Thanks, Ellen. It’s good to see you.”

“Come on in. Tea’s ready.”

She followed me into the pantry and gazed around at the canisters of tea leaves and shelves of china while I found a cozy for the teapot. “Wow, I miss this place.”

“Well, we miss you, too. No, I’ll carry it. You’re a guest today.”

We walked up to the front and slipped through the silent gift shop, around the corner to Marigold, tucked behind the shop on the far side of the chimney wall. Too warm for a fire, alas, but the candle added a spark of comforting light. Vi settled into one of the rust-colored velvet wing chairs with a sigh and helped herself to a scone while I poured.

“It’s so nice to have some quiet,” she said. “I haven’t had much chance to just rest.”

I watched her spread curd on half a scone and take a bite. “Well, you can stay as long as you like. I could use some rest, too.”

“You said it was busy yesterday.”

“Yes, we were open late. Looks like this whole week will be busy.”

I didn’t want to mention why; didn’t want to bring up Mr. Solano or the opera until Vi was ready to talk about them. Which maybe she wouldn’t be, today.

She reached for the other half of the scone. “I’ve missed these, too. Oh—how pretty!”

She’d seen the violets. She picked up the glass and raised them to her face, closing her eyes to inhale.

“My mother never could get these to grow at our house.”

“They need a shady spot,” I said. “I have them under the lilac bushes.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“How is she? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s fine. Keeping me fed. There’s no way I could cook with my schedule.”

“Mm.” I nodded, then picked up a piece of shortbread.

“Ellen…”

I glanced up at the soft misery in her voice. Grief had seeped through her company face; she looked at me like a broken-hearted child.

I put down my teacup and took her hand. “Yes,” I said.

Yes, I’m listening, yes, it’s horrible, yes, say whatever you want. Or nothing.

“I woke up this morning thinking it was a bad dream,” she whispered.

“I wish that were true.”

“Everyone’s out of their mind, getting angry at each other over nothing, falling to pieces.”

“You didn’t.”

“Not right then.” She laughed softly. “I was a wreck when I went home.”

“You were entitled.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She ignored it.

“I keep wondering … who would want to kill him? He was so kind!”

Another tear followed the first. Vi took a tissue from the box I’d set on the table between us with the candle and the violets.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but Tony will figure it out.”

“Detective Aragón? Oh, he was so wonderful! He came in like Superman, taking charge of everything. I was so glad, because it was chaos until he showed up. I was surprised to see him, though.”

“Had I not mentioned he would be in our party?”

She shook her head. “Good thing he was. He marched right up to the dressing room, chased everyone away, and closed the door. Then he stood in front of it like a bulldog.”

I couldn’t help smiling at the image. Pit bull is what came to mind, more precisely.

“It must have been obvious that it wasn’t an accident or a heart attack,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Oh, yeah. It was obvious. I thought you knew.”

I waited, watching her.

“That’s the worst part,” she said. “So vicious. They not only wanted Victor dead, they destroyed his voice.”

“Destroyed?”

“They slashed his throat.”

4

A
vision of Tosca and her knife rose up in my mind. The ultimate irony: slain in the same way he’d just been “killed” onstage.

“It was so horrible.” Vi mopped her face and took another tissue.

“You saw?”

She nodded.

I had no words of comfort. My mind painted the scene for me: Solano seated at his dressing table, mirror surrounded with lights, reflecting the slumped figure and the blood—stage blood, mingling with real blood…

I gave myself a small shake. Time to redirect my thoughts, and Vi’s, too.

“His cover will take over the role, I assume? They wouldn’t cancel…”

“Oh, no.” Vi gave a short, bitter laugh. “The rest of the performances are all sold out now. The last tickets went yesterday.”

Sometimes people were despicable, I thought.

Aloud, I said, “You’ll get through it.”

“Yes. I was glad we had a performance yesterday. It was a good distraction. When I’m not doing something I start to feel so helpless…”

“When is the next one?”

“Of
Tosca
? A week from tomorrow. Lucky—it gives Matthew a whole week to rehearse. They’re running him through the blocking today.”

“Matthew Carter?” I asked.

“Yes, he’s Victor’s cover for Scarpia.”

The Sacristan. A new motive for murder suddenly occurred to me. Could he have done it for the lead role?

Terrible, terrible thought. I pushed it aside; time enough to examine it later. Vi was my priority at the moment.

“When’s your next performance?” I asked.

“Tuesday.
Magic Flute
.”

“And you’re off until then?”

“No, in the afternoons we have final rehearsals for
Cesar Chavez
. It opens Saturday.”

“That’s the premiere, right? Is it good?”

“I think so. Not very pretty, perhaps, but it’s powerful.”

“What’s your favorite part of it?”

I encouraged her to talk more about the other operas in the season, figuring it would do her good. I mentioned the apprentice showcases, then mentally kicked myself because it brought the sadness back into Vi’s face.

“Victor helped me so much, and now he’ll never see the result.”

“Maybe he will.”

She gave me a wistful smile. “Maybe.”

“I’d like to hear you. Which night should I come?”

“Oh, well—the second one will probably have fewer mistakes. We’ll all be nervous the first night.”

“Maybe that’s when I should come, then. I’ll send you calming vibes from the audience.”

She chuckled. “You and Mom. My fan club.”

“Well, I am your fan. You sang the shepherd wonderfully, by the way. We were delighted to see you.”

A shadow of grief draped her face, then she mastered it. “Thank you. I was so excited.”

“Was the regular performer unwell?”

A nod. “She called in sick that afternoon. Just before call, so I didn’t have time to rehearse, but I knew the part.”

She looked troubled. I picked up the teapot to freshen our cups.

“Do you know her well?”

“Lydia? Not well, no. She … well, she was trying to get Victor’s attention, I think.”

“A lot of people were, I imagine.”

“Yes.” Vi sipped her tea, frowning into the dark fireplace.

I wondered if Vi had become emotionally involved with Victor Solano, beyond friendship. It seemed unlike my impression of him to meddle with someone as vulnerable as she—young, an apprentice, looking up to him—but I heard Tony’s voice whisper that all possibilities had to be considered. Could Vi’s grief reflect a deeper involvement with Solano than I had thought?

“He told me—oh, I’m sorry.” She dug her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the screen, then put it away again. “Sorry, Ellen. I forgot to turn it off.”

“It’s the weekend. Work-time rules don’t apply. And you’re a guest, remember?”

She gave me a weary smile. “This is so nice. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“I’ve been feeling like I’m onstage all the time … like I have to pretend … but it isn’t like that here. I can talk to you.”

“Yes, of course.”

“That helps a lot. You don’t know how much.”

I thought back to my initial, stunned grief over my father’s death more than a year before. “I think I can guess.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. We sat silently for a minute.

“I’m really lucky,” she said eventually. “Lucky that I knew Victor. He was so supportive.”

“He seemed like a wonderful person, the time I met him.”

“Yes. Oh, I wish you’d had the chance to know him better. He was so
good
.”

Was he? Then why would anyone want to kill him?

“You know my first day with the company, he came up to me and said, ‘A Carmen in the making!’”

“Did he?”

“Before he’d even heard me sing! I said, ‘How do you know I’m not a coloratura?’ and he said, ‘I can spot a mezzo-soprano a mile away.’”

“Sounds like he was flirting.”

“Oh, he flirts with everybody. But he was just trying to help me relax, you know?”

I smiled, but this didn’t reassure me. Maybe I should talk to Vi’s mother. She’d probably have a better idea of what Vi’s relationship with Mr. Solano had been.

Or maybe I should just leave it alone.

But the puzzle itched at me. Why had Victor Solano died? Who had hated him enough to destroy his voice—if only as a symbolic gesture—while taking his life?

The sheers stirred at the window, making me look out at the garden. Sunshine wakened the fragrance of the roses, and a breeze carried it in to us. Clouds had begun to bloom, gathering in white puffs, teasing with the possibility of afternoon rain.