Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (13 page)

I yawned. “Thanks for inviting me, Nat. I needed a break.”

“You said it was busy yesterday.”

“Yeah, and it looks like it will be all week. Apparently Mr. Solano said he liked the tearoom, and word has been going around in opera circles. We’re booked solid.”

“Wow! Do you need help?”

“Maybe. Rosa’s brother is going to come in.”

“Can he cook?”

“I have no idea. I’ll see what he’s good for when he gets there. He plays the guitar beautifully, but that’s not what I need this week.”

“Opera circles,” mused Claudia over her martini glass of cotton-candy. “I wonder if Thomas had anything to do with it.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” I said. “You think he might have?”

“He does love a good story.”

And he was at the tearoom for Vi’s event. Well, if I owed my busy week to Mr. Ingraham, I could only be grateful to him.

“Claudia, what do you know about La Fonda?” I asked. “I’ve been reading some old nineteenth-century letters and it sounds like there were concerts and maybe dances there.”

“I can believe that. It was the biggest building other than the church, back then. And the church, of course, wasn’t nearly as big as the basilica is today.”

“Bigger than the Palace of the Governors?” Nat asked.

“I think so, and it had a ballroom. The Palace didn’t.”

“Is there a good history of the hotel in print?” I asked.

“Not that I know of. You could check with the museum, or there might be some records in the state archives.”

I took a swig of beer. Part of me wanted to tell them about my find, but another part of me wanted to keep the letters to myself, at least until I’d had a chance to read them all. I was afraid everyone would insist that I turn them over to the museum. And I would … but not just yet.

“Hey,” Manny called from around the corner. “What does a guy have to do to get a beer around here?”

I jumped up. “I’ll get you one. No, you stay put, Nat. I bet you’ve been cooking and cleaning all afternoon.”

“Bring the pitcher,” she called after me.

I fetched a beer and the pitcher and brought them back, by which time Manny was moving sausages onto a platter. He took a deep swig from the bottle, then gave an appreciative “Ahhh!”

“Those done?”

“Yes. Tell Nat to bring out the sides.”

I conveyed this message, which caused Nat and Claudia to spring into action. I offered to set the outdoor table while they carried out the potato salad, green beans, and a basket of garlic bread that had been hiding in the oven. By the time we were done, Manny appeared with his platter heaped with meat.

“I hope you invited more people,” I said to Nat, looking at all the food.

“The Lindholms, but they weren’t sure they could make it.”

“Tony said the same thing.”

“More for us,” Manny said, taking his seat and helping himself to a steak.

I tried a little of everything. The veggies were wonderful, of course. Manny always made sure that Nat had the best produce, which would have made me jealous except that he did the same for me.

“Oh, Manny—I’m probably going to need extra lemons and cucumbers this week. And maybe some shallots.”

“Just let me know by two tomorrow.”

“OK.”

Julio had said he would come in for the afternoon; I’d draw up an estimate of what we’d need in the morning and have him approve it before I adjusted the week’s orders.

“Got some nice organic peaches in,” Manny said. “First of the season.”

“From Colorado?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take a couple of pounds for me.” I couldn’t quite afford organic produce for the tearoom, though that was one of my hopes for the future.

My seat faced the north, and though there were hills in the way, I knew the Opera wasn’t far away. “You know, it just occurred to me that we should have gone to
Cesar Chavez
. Are you interested in it, Manny?”

He shrugged. “That’s history, as far as I’m concerned. I can take it or leave it.”

Nat chuckled. “Like any opera.”

“No, I like going with you to the opera. Chance to dress up.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Claudia. “Better keep him, Natasha.”

“As a matter of fact…” Manny said, glancing at Nat.

Her gaze rested on him fondly. “Oh, well—now you’re letting the cat out of the bag,” she said, teasing. She looked at me and broke out in a beaming smile. “I’ve accepted Manny’s proposal. We’re getting married in the fall.”

“Nat!” I jumped up and hugged her, then ran around the table to hug Manny. “Uncle Manny!”

“Ahem. My nieces and nephews say
‘Tio’
.”

“
Tio Manuel
. That’s fabulous!”

“Here’s to the happy couple,” said Claudia, raising her glass.

I grabbed my beer. We drank several more toasts so that everyone was sure to have consumed enough liquor. The pink stuff in the pitcher underwent serious depletion.

“Doña Tules is almost gone,” Nat said, looking at the pitcher. “We’re going to need to make more.”

“Not on my account,” said Claudia. “I have to get myself home in one piece.”

“Well, there’s dessert.”

“I’ll have one,” I said, feeling reckless and wanting to please my aunt.

Nat stood, divided the last of the pink between her glass and Claudia’s, and headed for the kitchen. I tagged along.

“Bring me another beer while you’re in there,” Manny called after us.

The kitchen faced north, but the living room to the west was bathed in orange light from the setting sun. I leaned against the counter and watched Nat concocting more Doña Tules.

“Have you made any plans about the wedding?” I asked while I watched her squeeze limes.

“Nothing elaborate,” she said. “Just family and a few friends. I was wondering if you’d be willing to have it in your garden?”

“I’d love to! Should I ask Julio about the cake?”

“Oh, Manny would love that! He’s crazy about that cake you did for the opera.”

“Julio did it. Maybe he can make a larger version for a groom’s cake.”

“That,” she said, handing me a martini glass brimming with pink, “would make Manny’s day.”

“No, getting married to you will make his day,” I said, raising the glass to her.

“Then the cake will be the … icing on the cake.”

She gave a chuckle, got another beer from the fridge, picked up the pitcher, and headed back to the deck. I took a swig of pink and noted its effect on me as I walked. I would definitely need some dessert to help me get over it.

Manny and Claudia were chatting about the upcoming Spanish Market and Indian Market, two of the big tourist events of the year in Santa Fe. Like most locals, I tended to avoid them—because, traffic nightmare—but this year I might walk over since the Plaza was so close to the tearoom.

I mused about whether to try some kind of advertising connected to the events … but that was bound to be expensive. And I didn’t need it so much this time of year; certainly not at the moment. It was the slower seasons when I’d need some help getting people into the tearoom.

The pink was making me drowsy. The mountains were pink, too: pink with sunset. I gazed at them, feeling content, listening to Manny and Nat discuss where to go for their honeymoon.

A memory of Uncle Stephen, Nat’s first husband, came to me. A party at my parents’ house, gathered around the fireplace in the great room, Stephen playing the guitar while we sang some silly folk song. He’d been gone for almost a decade, now—cancer—and it had taken Nat a long time to recover.

I hoped she and Manny would be happy together. They were certainly happy now, and marriage should only increase their bond.

By the time the pink had faded from the mountains, it was starting to get just a little chilly. We carried the leftovers and dishes inside, and Nat fed us strawberry shortcake and coffee.

“No coffee for me, thanks,” I said. “I have to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day, gearing up for this week.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come in?” Nat said.

“I’m not sure at all. How would you feel about manning the gift shop?”

“I’d be glad to. Starting Tuesday?”

“Yes. Let me check the schedule. I think we’ll be all right in the mornings but I could use you for sure in the afternoons. We’ll be open late all week.”

Nat traded a look with Manny.

“Good thing I made extra steaks,” he said.

I finished my dessert, firmly declined seconds, and hugged and kissed everybody, Claudia included.

“I’ll walk out with you,” she said. “Nat, thank you for a lovely evening.”

“And Manny, thanks for the excellent viands,” I added.

“Viands.” He chuckled. “Call me tomorrow with your order.”

“Will do.”

As I walked out with Claudia, I paused to look up at the Milky Way. The sky was a deep, velvety indigo. Santa Fe twinkled, but it was the cloudy ribbon across the heavens that drew my gaze.

“Magnificent,” Claudia said. “Not many cities in the country where you can see a sky like that.”

“Yes. We’re blessed.”

We hugged again, promising to meet soon, and went our separate ways. I drove home carefully, suspicious of the possible lingering effects of Doña Tules. When I pulled up, I saw that the hall light was on.

Interesting. Usually Captain Dusenberry messed with the lights in the dining parlor.

I approached the door cautiously, listening, looking for signs of trouble. Other than the light being on, there was nothing unusual. I unlocked the back door and went in, locked it behind me, and stood still for a minute, just listening to the house.

The stereo was not on. I noted this, pondering its meaning. Had Captain Dusenberry run out of music he liked? Or had he played it for me, not for himself?

Or was he a figment of my over-active imagination?

Smiling, I started toward the stairs. I froze as the music began.

Not the stereo. It was coming from the main parlor. My piano.

6

I
stepped out of my loafers. It was my habit, and it just seemed proper, to make a silent approach to any ghostly activity in the house.

I wished for my cell phone, and resolved to make a dash for the gift shop to dial 911 if it happened to be a fleshly musician, then tiptoed toward the parlor. The music was hesitant, a melody picked out note by note. It began with the “Three Blind Mice” opening but went on from there into a different phrase. Slow and mournful.

I reached the doorway to the parlor and stood listening, observing. I heard no breathing, no movement. Only the notes from the piano: a second phrase, balancing the first, with an accidental that sounded very familiar.

Mozart.

I peeped around the doorway. There were no lights on in the parlor, but the light from the hallway lit the edges of the furniture.

No one was seated at the piano. The keyboard was closed.

This was my cue to run screaming, and if I’d been twelve, I would have. I was more than twice that age, though—and I wasn’t afraid, exactly. But I did want to know what was going on.

The music didn’t continue. After that accidental and one more note to resolve it, silence filled the room.

I closed my eyes and ran the phrases through my head again. I recognized them. Definitely Mozart, but which piece? He wrote hundreds.

All right, never mind. I’d figure out the source later. Meanwhile, I would establish that there was nothing wired to my piano to make it play remotely.

I flipped the light switch and the parlor lit up. Blinking at the brightness, I approached the piano and lifted the keyboard lid.

Nothing additional, nothing out of place. I moved several ornaments and a fringed shawl off the top of the instrument and opened the lid to the case. Peering down into it, I saw no strange wires or foreign mechanisms.

I closed the lid and restored the decorations to their places, then sat on the bench with my back to the instrument and just gazed around the room. The phrases ran through my head, repeating over and over. I feared I would fall asleep to them that night.

“What are you trying to tell me?”

Silence.

I could put all my Mozart disks in the stereo. Maybe Captain Dusenberry would find the right piece and play it.