A Fatal Twist of Lemon (14 page)

It didn't matter that my grandmother had been born in Santa Fe. That had just caught Aragón off guard, but it wouldn't change his mind. He wouldn't stop being angry because he'd realized he was wrong. It would probably make him
more
angry. I'd made an enemy, and that was a problem.

“Good thing he's a cop and not in a gang,” I muttered as I put fresh sheets on my bed.

Having a cop mad at me was bad. Having him be the lead detective of a murder investigation involving my house was rather more than bad. He could easily continue harassing me, even to the point of filing charges against me. They might not stick, but it would cost me time and effort to fight them, and I needed to put everything I could into the tearoom right now. If the tearoom failed, I'd be in a huge mess.

I stood in the middle of my bedroom and sighed, then closed my eyes. The music had run out, and the rain beating on the metal roof close above filled my head. I let the tension drain out of me and decided to pull a Scarlett O'Hara. I just wouldn't think about it until tomorrow.

Or maybe after tomorrow, because tomorrow was the grand opening. I still had the flowers to do. Dinner first, though. Dinner and a glass of wine.

I went to the little kitchenette in my suite behind the sitting area, just a mini refrigerator/freezer, a two-burner counter-top stove and convection oven combo, and a small microwave. Enough for me to fix meals for myself without having to go downstairs and rattle around in the industrial kitchen. There was also a small sink, a mini dishwasher, and a temperature-controlled wine cooler, just big enough for two dozen bottles.

My father taught me to like good wine and good cheese. In fact I owe most of my expensive tastes to my dad.

I opened a bottle of cabernet franc and put a pot of water on to boil for pasta, then peered in the fridge to see what I had to put on it. Some mushrooms, red bell pepper, and a small zucchini would make a decent primavera. I took them out, along with a leftover half an onion and a couple of cloves of garlic. Sliced those and set them sautéing in olive oil while I cut up the veggies.

The wine and the thrumming rain made me relax, finally. I put the vegetables in with the onions and garlic, which by this time were filling the room with a heavenly smell, and sprinkled in a few herbs. Pasta water was boiling, so I added oil and threw in a cup of penne, then set the timer.

On impulse, I went across the hall to my office and fetched the thank-you tea place cards, then carried them and my wine to my chair by the chimney.

My sitting area is right above Dahlia and Marigold, on the south side of the house. The fire downstairs had warmed up the chimney, so it was quite cozy. I lit a candle on the table beside my chair and snuggled in, tucking my feet under me as I sipped my wine and sifted through the cards, looking at the names, hoping for inspiration.

Claudia Pearson.

My thoughts drifted back to my conversation with her that afternoon. I had gone in half-suspecting her of Sylvia's murder, but after talking to her I felt pretty sure she hadn't done it. What she had told me, though, had raised another possibility. Who stood to gain by Sylvia's death, and was also at the tea?

Donna Carruthers.

I pulled out Donna's place card and gazed at it. I hated to think that a woman would kill her own mother, but the fact was that it sometimes happened. Donna and Sylvia had different ideas about what mattered.

Sylvia had been about to give away a large amount of money.
Any
Santa Fe property was expensive, and historic properties extremely so, especially if they were close to the plaza, like mine.

Was Donna the sort to kill her mother for money? I was assuming she stood to inherit her mother's estate. Would she regard Sylvia's intention of putting a large amount of money into the purchase of an historic property for the Trust as disinheriting her? Did she even know about it? And would that make her angry enough to kill?

I tried to remember if the topic had come up during the thank-you tea.

I wish I could stay, Ellen dear, but we have a meeting at the title company.  Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.

I drew in a sharp breath, recalling Sylvia's remark as the guests were leaving. Could that have been enough to spark Donna to murder her?

I couldn't very well ask Donna. What I could do, perhaps without inflicting any further pain on Donna (which I didn't want to do if she was innocent), was try to pinpoint more closely who was in the room right before Sylvia was murdered.

According to Claudia, Donna was last in the room, alone with Sylvia. To confirm that I could ask Vince, who had stayed talking to Donna after Claudia left the dining parlor. I found Vince's place card and moved it to the top of the stack, to remind me I wanted to talk to him.

The kitchen timer went off. I set the place cards down and went to the stove, stirred the veggies, and dumped the pasta into a colander in the small sink. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was early yet, but I decided not to call Vince that night. It would be better to talk to him in person. Maybe he would be at the grand opening Friday afternoon.

I topped off my wine glass, stirred a little cream into the saut
é
ed veggies, and cut a chunk of Romano cheese to put into my hand-cranked grater. Dumped the pasta onto a stoneware plate and the sauce over it, and carried it all back to my chair. The rain had slacked off a little, and I put on some soft chamber music while I ate.

I was beginning to feel quite mellow, more than I had in days. I'd spent all my waking hours on the tearoom for so long I'd almost forgotten that there were other things in life, other decor besides Victorian.

In my own suite I'd deliberately gone for a different style, just to make it my special refuge from work. Out in the public rooms everything was Victorian, but in here it was more Renaissance, with heavy green and gold acanthus-leaf brocade and wine-red velvet, gold silk braid and tassels instead of Victorian lace. I had candles all over, and rich hangings on my canopy bed that I had made myself, functional so that I could enclose the bed in velvet curtains all around if I wanted to, as such beds were originally intended.

My parents had bought me the canopy bed when I was ten, after a year of my begging and pleading. The hangings had been all girly then, ruffles and lace, but the bed itself was good solid maple. I had refinished it before moving it into my suite, made the new hangings, and splurged on luxurious sheets and blankets and a velvet comforter. I could hear the bed calling to me, but I had to do the flowers first.

I finished my wine and took care of the dishes, then went downstairs. Lights were blazing everywhere, no doubt racking up an obscene electric bill. I turned them all off except for the butler's pantry and the kitchen.

In the pantry I took the clean linens from the washer and loaded them into the dryer stacked above it. Remembering the missing napkin, I wondered if I should tell Detective Aragón about it. That might serve as a peace offering. He undoubtedly knew the doorknob had been wiped, but maybe he'd like to know how. I had his number, and it probably wasn't too late to call.

“Nope. Scarlett O'Hara,” I told myself, and went off to arrange the flowers.

My vases were in the china cupboard in the dining parlor. I turned on the hall light again, unwilling to walk through darkness to open that door. It was silly, but it made me feel better.

I got out every vase I had, plus an old china teapot with violets painted on it. The lid had long since broken but I couldn't bear to part with it, and it did make a nice base for a floral arrangement. I loaded it on a tray with all the vases and carried them to the kitchen, then conscientiously returned and turned out the lights before delving into the big refrigerator for the flowers.

I tuned the radio of Julio's boom box to the classical station. Surrounded with beautiful, fragrant flowers, I felt my mood lifting and was soon humming along with the music as I clipped and arranged the blooms.

The big vases I filled with dramatic sprays of gladiolus and iris. Smaller vases got roses or heavenly-smelling freesias. Nothing seemed quite right for the teapot, though.

I set it on the kitchen counter and stood back, trying to envision the perfect arrangement for it. I could take apart the centerpiece from the thank-you tea, but that was still pretty fresh and I liked it on the dining table. I glanced up at the window to check again whether I could see the dining parlor's back door from there. I couldn't, but I did see a splash of light falling across the porch from that direction.

At first I thought it was the hall door, but I could see another, fainter band of light just at the bottom edge of the window. Leaning forward, I confirmed that the lower light was coming from the hall door, spillover from the kitchen lights. It was the French doors from the dining parlor that were pouring light onto the porch.

Not wanting to waste power, I went out to the hall and opened the dining parlor door, this time feeling brave enough to leave the hall light off. I shut off the switch and the chandelier went dark. A pale glint trembled along the edge of one crystal. The room seemed to be holding its breath.

“You're imagining things, Rosings,” I said aloud, then closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

I kept glancing at the violet teapot while I finished with the rest of the flowers. Finally it occurred to me that lilacs would look perfect spilling out of it. There were purple and white lilac bushes growing between the tearoom and the building to the north. I caught up my clippers, ran some cold water in the teapot, and went out the back door.

The rain had fallen to a light drizzle. I walked north along the porch, then stepped off it onto the grass and into the rain, inhaling deeply. There is nothing quite so wonderful as the smell of rain.

I set the teapot on the grass at the foot of an old lilac bush that was at least ten feet tall and easily as wide. A whole row of them ran along the north side of the house. I clipped several sprays of the beautiful, pale purple blooms, shook the rain off them, and dumped them in the pot. The neighboring bush was white lilacs, and I clipped some of those, too, then carried the pot back to the house.

I was about to step on the porch when I glanced up and froze. Light was pouring out of the dining parlor door again. I was certain I had turned that light off.

Which meant that someone was in the house.

 

 

 

 

 8 

I
stood frozen, heart pounding, watching all the back doors. I had locked the French doors in the dining parlor. The kitchen and the hall also had doors that opened onto the porch. The hall door was locked, but I'd left the kitchen door open.

Coatless, I was beginning to shiver in the cold. I stepped onto the porch, trying to make no sound as I got under its shelter.

If someone was in the house, they must have gone in the kitchen door and then into the dining parlor, turning on the light. That implied they were searching for something in the dining parlor, but the police had been all over the room. It didn't make sense.

Could they be waiting to ambush me? Why, though? Had the killer found out that I was asking questions? Other than my staff, the only one I'd talked to that day was Claudia.

I waited a long time, but nothing happened. Finally I set the lilacs on a bench on the porch, then slowly approached the French doors. I had my garden snips in hand, not much of a weapon but better than nothing. I paused, listening for any sound of movement from inside.

Nothing. I stepped quickly past the doors and paused again, listening. Still no sound, so I cautiously turned the handle of the hall door, trying to be silent.

I looked in to confirm the hall was empty. It was still dark, but I saw no lurking shadows. Quietly I went into the kitchen, then slipped off my shoes and padded barefoot into the hall to face the dining parlor door. Light showed beneath it.

I put my ear to the door to listen. No sound but the faint music from the radio in the kitchen.