A Fatal Twist of Lemon (13 page)

“You love the work, too, don't you?” I asked.

“Yes, but I'm not Sylvia. I don't think anyone can replace her.”

She seemed genuinely sad. If she had wanted control of the Trust, she certainly hid it well. My instinct was to believe that she hadn't. I felt quite sorry for her, almost more so than I'd felt for Donna.

“Could you do me one more favor?” I asked.

“If I'm able.”

“I'd like to learn more about Captain Dusenberry.  A—visitor told me that he was murdered. In the house.”

Silvia's brows rose. “What a horrid coincidence, if it's true. I don't know, but I'll have Shelly pull the file and send you a copy of whatever information we have.”

“Thanks. Well, I've taken up enough of your time,” I said, gathering my coat and purse. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Thanks for the visit. I needed to come up for air.”

I put on my coat and wrapped my scarf around my neck. “Come to our opening tomorrow, if you like. Four o'clock.”

She smiled, but it was more polite than enthusiastic. “If I have time. Thanks.”

On my way out I asked Shelly for one of the Trust's brochures. I don't know why, but I thought I should look it over. Maybe it would give me some additional insight into Sylvia's way of doing business.

It was getting quite dark now, and the rumble of thunder that greeted me as I stepped out of the Trust was enough to make me scuttle to my car. I drove to the tearoom and hurried in the back door. Vi was just coming out of the butler's pantry with a cozy-covered teapot on a tray. She smiled.

“Hi, bo—uh, Ellen.”

“Hello, Vi. Everything going all right?”

She nodded. “Just one party of two left. They're in Marigold, I thought it would be cozier than the big parlor.”

“Fine. I'll be upstairs if you need me.”

It was after five, but Kris hadn't left yet. I caught her just as she was leaving her office.

“Do you have a minute?” I asked. “I'd like you to check something for me on the Internet.”

Her brows rose, but she flipped the light switch on again. The stained glass chandelier lit with rich jewel tones. Kris went around to her chair and turned on her computer, then looked at me expectantly.

“How easy is it to find out who's selling historic properties in Santa Fe?”

“Hm.” She frowned for a moment, then started typing.

I took off my coat and sat down in one of her guest chairs. I can stumble my way around the Internet, but Kris is a whiz. If there was information out there, she'd find it. After a minute her screen lit up brightly, and she started scrolling with her mouse.

“Hm. The National Trust has one listed for sale. Other than that it's a lot of real estate pages. I'd have to look at each one's site to see what they're offering.”

“No, no,” I said. “I want to know about the owners, not real estate agents.”

“I'll add ‘owner' to the search.” She clicked away for a minute, then shook her head. “Couple of ‘for sale by owner' listings, but not much else. The Santa Fe Preservation Trust's registry page came up.”

“I think by the time it's listed for sale it's too late,” I said. “Is there a way to find out if an owner is looking for preservation funding?”

“I'll try … no, I get some pages about applying for preservation loans, but that's it. The Trust shows up there, too.”

I frowned. I had been the rounds with the sources of preservation loans. It was Sylvia who had helped me find them. She must have connections with all those groups. Maybe that was how she found out who was looking for help with an historic property, or perhaps who wanted to sell one.

“Okay, thanks, Kris,” I said, standing up.

She shut down her computer. “Sorry I wasn't more help.”

“No, it helped. Thanks.”

“You're trying to figure out why that lady was killed.”

She said it as a statement, not a question. Her eyes regarded me calmly. Maybe it was her manners or her style of dress, but she seemed older than twenty-three.

“Yes,” I said. “Not doing a very good job of it, I'm afraid.”

Kris put on her long, black coat. “I'll see what I can dig up.”

“Don't spend a lot of your personal time on it.”

“I wasn't going to. It'll give me something to do tomorrow if it's quiet. Tonight I'm going clubbing.”

A flash of lightning made us both look toward the window. The gauze curtains stirred in the restless air, then the rumble of thunder rattled around the house.

“Stay warm,” I said as we both left the office.

She grinned. “I will. Great night to be out.”

To each her own. I like thunderstorms—most people who live in New Mexico like rain—but I prefer to enjoy them from the comfort of a fireside chair.

 

 

 

 

 7 

I
watched Kris down the stairs, then put my coat and purse away before following. It was nearly six, and the last customers were leaving the tearoom. I thanked them for coming and locked the front door behind them.

Dee and Vi were already clearing Marigold, setting it up for the next day. I tossed another log on the fire there, to keep the chimney warm so it would heat my suite, then covered it tight with the screen and went out to the gift shop to close out the cash register and pack the day's dismal receipts into a bank bag for Kris. I carried it back to the pantry and looked in. Mick was just setting the dishwasher to run, and Dee and Vi were putting on their coats.

“Anybody need a ride home?” I asked.

Mick shook his head. He had his own car—an old Mustang that was parked outside the back door. It was a restoration work in progress, currently several shades of paint dominated by primer gray.

“Thanks,” Vi said, “but Dee's giving me a ride.”

I looked at her closely, seeking signs of stress. She seemed better than she had that morning.

“I started the linens washing,” Dee said as the girls headed for the back door.

“Okay, I'll finish them,” I said. “Thanks. See you both tomorrow.”

Mick stood in the door of the dishwashing room as he removed his apron—a small ritual of his, I assumed part of leaving the work behind—then hung it up and went to fill out his time sheet at the rack on the wall by the fireplace. He wore a slight frown, which prompted me to thank him as he headed for the door.

He nodded. “I might be in a little late tomorrow. Putting in a new muffler. That OK?”

“As long as you're here by three-thirty.”

“I will be. Thanks.”

I locked the door behind him and watched him head for his car. Alone in the big, old house, I stood looking out the window at the back porch, listening to the rain drum on the roof.

It occurred to me to wonder if the outside doors to the dining parlor were locked. I hadn't thought of it the previous night.

I walked through the side hall, past the butler's pantry and the restroom and out into the main hall, then stood before the closed door into the dining parlor, feeling reluctant to open it. Willow's advice echoed in my mind—best leave the room alone for a while. Wouldn't want Captain Dusenberry to get too stirred up.

That settled it. I opened the parlor door and turned on the light switch. The chandelier threw its warm glow over the table and chairs, the sideboard and the china cupboard, all gleaming with fresh polish. I turned to my right, toward the French doors, just as a flash of lightning sent blue-white light through the back yard.

A man was standing on the porch, silhouetted against the chiffon-curtained glass door. The next second darkness swallowed him.

My reaction was purely instinctive. I ducked out into the hall and flattened myself against the wall, staring at the window lights around the back door, waiting for the sound of the stranger entering the dining parlor. Instead someone tried the back door, then knocked.

Okay, murderous ghosts don't knock. I peeled myself off the wall and walked to the back door, trying to breathe calmly. I paused to turn on the porch lights and look out the windows.

Mick stood outside, huddled in his light jacket with his ball cap pulled low over his eyes. I unlocked the door and opened it.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping in. “Forgot my tunes.”

I waited while he fetched his music player and headphones from the kitchen. He stuffed them in his jacket pocket and grinned at me as he went back out.

“Thanks, Ms. R. Night.”

“Call me Ellen, Mick. Good night.”

Ms. R. Sounded like “bizarre.” Better than “boss,” I supposed, but only by a little bit.

I locked the door and went back to the dining parlor. Mick's headlights sent another momentary flare of light through the glass door. The car's engine rumbled mightily as he started it, confirming a need for interior as well as exterior work. I watched the headlights fade back and swing away, then turn out into the alley and vanish behind the neighboring building.

“All right, let's try this again.”

I returned to the dining parlor and approached the French doors, but hesitated before touching the handles. I didn't remember cleaning them the night before. I bent to peer at them, looking for the black fingerprint dust that the police had gotten all over the room. I saw a grain or two caught in the crevices, but none of the smudges I'd had to clean from the china and glassware and furniture. There were no fingerprints on the door handles.

That was definitely strange. There should have been prints all over them. We had used those doors a lot while we were decorating and setting up the dining parlor.

I left the handles alone and locked the deadbolt with my key. Glancing at the sideboard, I remembered the missing napkin and wondered if someone had used it to wipe the door handles. The killer might have left by those doors, using the napkin to keep from leaving prints and taking it away afterward.

I frowned, then returned to the kitchen and looked out the window. I could see the dining parlor doors if I stood far to the right and leaned forward over the counter, but someone just working at the counter probably wouldn't be able to see anyone leaving by those doors.

So anyone could have left that way undetected. For that matter, anyone could have come in those doors and probably not have been seen except by whoever was in the dining parlor.

I groaned. Instead of narrowing the possibilities down, I had just thrown them wide open. Anyone with a grudge against Sylvia, who had known she was going to be at the tea, could have staked out that back door and come in when they saw their chance.

“Wait a minute,” I said aloud. “It was a crime of impulse. Staking out the back door is premeditation.”

The killer was someone at the tea. I didn't like that, but I kept coming back to it. I had invited Sylvia's killer into my house, and unwittingly provided the opportunity for the murder.

“Ugh.”

I went back to the dining parlor, turned off the chandelier and closed the door. Anxious now to get away from the room, I ran upstairs and put the bank bag on Kris's desk, then went across the hall into my suite. I turned on every light, leaving the hall light on as well. The downstairs lights were on, too. I didn't care; I'd get them later. Right now I wanted light in the house.

I put Chopin's Etudes on my stereo and cranked it up over the pounding of the rain on the roof, then went to work putting my suite back in order. As I picked up the mess Detective Aragón had made, I couldn't help remembering our weird confrontation that afternoon.

He was mad at me, personally. I represented something he hated. It wasn't fair, but fairness didn't enter into it. I remembered his expression—cold eyes, hint of a sneer—as one I'd seen before, on the playground at school, in the high school hallways.

Anglos are a minority in Santa Fe, and growing up you're aware of it. Contempt in the dark eyes turned toward you from clusters of cholos. Groups of mean-eyed girls from the Catholic school controlling the sidewalk as you walked home. All kids have to deal with that stuff, but racial tension adds an edge to it. I had Hispanic friends, plenty of them, but there were some who wanted no friendship.