A Fatal Twist of Lemon (29 page)

I remembered the shift in the seventies, when Santa Fe suddenly became trendy and went from a sleepy, dusty town to a gallery-ridden Destination. I had been little and my memories of that time were fragmentary, but I remember my parents talking about it for years afterward. They called it the Aspenization of Santa Fe. Quite a few unfortunate families had lost their ancestral homes for the very reason Tony Aragón was describing.

“They sold it to a real estate shark,” he said bitterly. “Guy turned around and sold it to some rich New Yorker for twice the price.”

“Oh. I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah. Well. Shit happens.”

He took another long swig at his water, and I got the impression the subject was closed. I pulled a piece off my garlic bread, swabbed up the last of my chile sauce, and ate it, trying to think of some happier subject.

“I wonder whose house your fancy tearoom used to be,” Aragón said in a low voice with a nasty edge to it.

I met his gaze, but refused to go for the bait. He felt cheated. He was venting. It wasn't personal, and I wouldn't let it become personal. Instead I gave him a smile.

“Captain Dusenberry's.”

He frowned. “A cop?”

“No, a soldier.”

“What, did he lose his pension?”

I chuckled. “No, he was the original owner. Occupant, I should say—the army built it. He died in 1855. I bought the house from a law firm,” I added.

“Oh.” He stared at his empty plate, which he'd already wiped clean.

“I think he might still be around,” I said casually.

“What?”

“Captain Dusenberry. Have you met Willow, the lady who does the ghost tours?”

He shook his head.

“Well, she assures me that there is a presence in the house.”

Aragón made a face of disgust. “Yeah, I'll bet.”

“She even suggested a ghost might materialize to commit a murder. I should have mentioned it before; you probably want to add the captain to your list of suspects.”

“Only if he's wearing a white wool shroud.”

I laughed. He glanced up at me, and his sullen expression faded into a reluctant grin.

The waiter came by to pick up our plates. “Care for any dessert?”

“Not for me,” I said, regretfully. The Shed's desserts were wonderful, but after Julio's sweets at the opening I needed to behave myself.

Aragón shook his head, and the waiter took a black folder from his waistband and set it on the table. I reached for my purse.

“I'll get it,” Aragón said sharply.

I looked at him. The frown was back.

“Working lunch,” I said. “Thought it might be Dutch treat.”

His face softened. “No, I invited you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He looked at the ticket, pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet and tucked them in the folder, then flipped it shut. He glanced up and saw me watching him, held my gaze for a moment, then looked out the window.

“In high school I would never have asked a girl like you out.”

“Why not?” I asked softly.

“Because girls like you would never look at guys like me.”

“I don't know. You seem worth looking at.”

A swallow moved his throat. I felt myself starting to blush, and reached for my water glass.

“High school's crazy,” I said. “Everyone's scared or angry or both.”

“Yeah.”

He glanced back at me, and for an instant he was the lost boy again. Then his face went blank, back to the cop mask.

“Let's get out of here,” he said.

We worked our way through the now-crowded lobby and the almost-as-crowded
plazuela
. Lunch was in full swing and the tourists didn't mind waiting an hour or more for a taste of Santa Fe's history. We went through the deep
zaguan
, a passageway wide enough for a wagon, that led to the street and stepped out onto the long
portal
that fronts the whole block. Across the street to the east the cathedral was bustling, too, a tour group listening raptly to its guide in front of the huge wooden doors.

“Can I give you a ride home?”

“Oh, uh…” I turned to him and saw that his eyes had gone half-anxious, half-sullen, as if he expected rejection. “Sure,” I said with a helpless shrug. The smile he gave me went a long way toward making up for the torture I'd just agreed to.

I really, really dislike motorcycles. They're noisy and obnoxious, and so are a lot of the people who ride them. They disobey traffic rules and endanger pedestrians and I just don't like them. It's a failing of mine, a prejudice. Sorry, Miss Manners, but some things just can't be helped.

Tony Aragón led me down the
portal
to the next
plazuela
, a much bigger one called Sena Plaza. It had been built and for a long time inhabited by the Sena family, an important and wealthy family in Santa Fe's history. Now it was all shops and the Casa Sena Restaurant, a fancy expensive place with nouveau southwestern cuisine. They were serving lunch in their
plazuela
on this pleasant day, with spring flowers making a show in the garden.

We crossed the
plazuela
and went out through a passage on the north side into the parking lot behind the building. Aragón's motorcycle was parked there, all gleaming black and chrome. He lifted the helmet and handed it to me.

“You get to wear this.”

“Thanks,” I said doubtfully. I took off my hat and put on the helmet, fastening the strap beneath my chin. I slung my purse across my chest. The hat I'd just have to hold.

He had already thrown his leg over the bike, and sat there with his hands on the handlebars, grinning at me. “You look scared.”

“I'm not scared. I've just never ridden a motorcycle.” The second part was true.

“Never ever?”

“No.”

“Well, don't worry. I'll take it nice and easy. Climb on.”

I slid uneasily onto the seat behind him, clutching my hat with one hand. I didn't know what to do with the other. I tried gripping the little seat back behind me, but that was awkward.

“Put your arm around my waist and hold on,” he said over his shoulder.

I did so, reluctantly and feeling very conscious of the warmth of his back through his leather jacket. He started the motor, gunned it a little, then backed gently and turned around to leave the dirt parking lot.

“Mind if we take a slight detour?” he said over his shoulder, raising his voice over the sound of the engine. “I want to show you something. It won't take long.”

“Okay,” I called back.

I leaned forward and clung to him like a limpet, which was no doubt what he'd had in mind. Cheeky bastard.

The ride couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes, but my sense of time was distorted and made it seem a lot longer. I was getting overloaded with confusing sensations. I still definitely did not like motorcycles, but I did seem to enjoy touching Tony Aragón, though in a way that was scarier than the bike.

I found myself wondering what he'd been like in high school, wishing I'd known him then, wondering if he'd gone to college or straight into the police academy. Probably the latter, if his family was strapped for cash.

He cruised east to Paseo de Peralta, then turned south. Cars whooshed by at what seemed to me to be reckless speed. I tried hard not to wince as each one passed.

He turned east again, and cruised along the street for a couple of blocks, then coasted to a stop at the curb and touched his foot to the pavement. A park ran the length of the street on the south side. He turned his head north to gaze at a large, sprawling adobe house across the street. A sign out front proclaimed it the “Sagebrush Bed & Breakfast” in elegant, scrolling letters.

“That's it,” he said over the subdued idle of the motorcycle engine. “Abuelito's house.”

I stared at it, feeling a mixture of pity and embarrassment. No wonder he was angry about losing it. It was a classic old Santa Fe house, from the blue paint on the door and window frames to the stair-stepped adobe wall around a burgeoning garden. He might have inherited it, though from its size and location I suspected it would take more than a cop's salary to pay the taxes.

“Nice place,” I said, unable to think of a better comment.

“Yeah. Well, thanks for indulging me. I'll get you home now.”

He didn't say anything more until he pulled up in front of the tearoom. The bike tilted a little as he leaned it on the kickstand and I clutched at him, caught off guard.

“Easy there,” he said. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said, climbing off the bike and trying to recover my dignity. I took off the helmet and handed it to him. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Any time.”

He sat there gazing at me. I couldn't quite read his face, amusement or speculation or something else.

“Would you mind if I came inside for a minute?” he asked. “I just want to look at the room again.”

“Of course,” I said, taking my keys out of my purse.

We went through the gate and down the path to the house. Sunshine had wakened the earthy smells of the garden, making me want to dig in the dirt. I'd plant gladiolas soon, I thought, looking at the new red leaves coming out on the rosebushes I had put in.

The scent of wisteria enveloped us as we stepped onto the porch. Tony Aragón stood gazing at the purple blossoms as if he'd never seen them before. I unlocked the front door and my heart sank a little as strains of Bach wafted out from the stereo I was certain I had turned off.

Just ignore it, I decided. I smiled at Detective Aragón, who was still staring at the wisterias.

“Amazing flowers,” he said, then sneezed.

“Bless you. They've been here a long time. Sylvia Carruthers thinks they—
thought
—they might be as old as the house.”

He gave me the flat stare for a moment. “Yeah? She knew a lot about stuff like that.”

“Yes, she did.”

I looked at the wisterias and the view they framed of the Territorial B&B across the street and the corner of Vince's gallery to one side. Nice, historic houses on all sides. A pretty neighborhood. I felt a rush of gratitude all at once, that I was here in this beautiful place, despite the trouble of the past week.

“Well, come in,” I said, leading the way.

He followed me down the hall to the dining parlor. I frowned at the spill of light from under the door, then opened it and with a gesture invited the detective to go in.

The chandelier cast a cheery glow over the gleaming polished wood of the dining table. I watched Tony Aragón slowly pace through the room. He paused to stare at the outside door, then looked up at the chandelier. I followed his gaze and stifled a sigh when I saw one of the crystals swaying back and forth.

“Is there someone upstairs?” he asked.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“My chef has the only other key, and he's off today.”

Aragón's eyes narrowed as he watched the moving crystal. “Maybe I ought to go up and check it out.” He glanced at me. “With your permission,” he added.

I felt an irrational urge to refuse. The last time he'd been upstairs it had been expressly against my wishes, and I was still a little annoyed about that. There was no need to show him my suite, though. The room above the dining parlor was Kris's office.

“If you insist, but you won't find anyone,” I said.

“I don't insist,” he said quickly.

I shrugged. He gazed at me, brows drawn together. He glanced at the chandelier, then back at me.

“You've seen this before.”

I nodded. “Old houses settle.”

“Wooden houses. This is adobe.”

“Yes, well.” I sighed. “I meant it when I said I thought Captain Dusenberry was still around.”

His eyes widened. “You're shi—you're kidding me!”

I raised my hand to the light switch. “The chandelier was off when I left this morning. He turns it on. This is the room where he was murdered.”

Aragón's eyebrows went up and his gaze went to the chandelier again. “Room's going to get a reputation.”

“It already has. I have goths and a bunch of morbid old ladies who want to have tea in here, not to mention Willow wanting to make it a stop on her ghost tour.”

“Oh, man. Yeah, I can just see a bunch of punked-out goths sitting around this table drinking tea.”

“Actually, it's the old ladies who creep me out.”

He paced around the room again, keeping an eye on the chandelier as if he expected it to hop down and start dancing on the table. I waited, relieved that he hadn't accused me of being a nut case. Maybe he was thinking it, but he was polite enough not to say it.

“Haunted dining room,” he said finally, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Might be a good marketing angle.”

“You sound like my friend Gina.” I noticed a faded lisianthus bloom that had fallen onto the dining table from the centerpiece, and stepped over to pick it up. “Actually, Captain Dusenberry's all right. It's kind of nice to have a man around the place,” I said, trying for wry humor.

Aragón didn't laugh. “Does he do anything else?”

“He turns the stereo on,” I said, nodding my head toward the butler's pantry across the hall. “I think he likes music.”

Aragón closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “You sure no one could be getting in here and doing this stuff?”

“Pretty sure. Why would they?”

“To scare you.”

“It's weird, but it's not really scary.”

He frowned. “Listen, if anything else strange happens, you let me know.”

“Okay. Going into ghost busting?”

“I sure hope not.” He glanced around the dining room once more, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Guess I'm through here. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

I turned off the light and pulled the door shut as we stepped into the hall. “Thanks for the lunch, Detective—”