A Fatal Twist of Lemon (3 page)

The corner of his mouth turned upward, though his eyes remained hard. “Nah. No offense, I hope. Gotta ask.”

“Of course you do.”

I turned off my computer and collected my paperwork, tucking it out of the way into a drawer as I sought to regain my composure. I then stood, and to his credit Detective Aragón got to his feet at once. His mother must have taught him the basics of civility, even if his manners were rusty from disuse.

I stepped out from behind my desk, indicating with a gesture that he was welcome to use it. “My chef has made coffee. Shall I send some up for you?”

“Not gonna offer me some tea?” His face revealed nothing, but I heard the disdain in his voice.

Two could play at that game. I gazed at him innocently. “Would you prefer tea?”

He held my gaze for a moment, and a sudden smile quirked up his mouth. To my surprise, this time it reached his eyes.

“Nah. Coffee's fine.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Black.”

I nodded politely and started to go out. He called after me.

“Oh, hey, would you send up, ah—Claudia Pearson?”

He stood behind my desk, hunched a little beneath the sloping ceiling, notepad in hand, looking altogether out of place in his motorcycle gear amid my Victorian decor. Suddenly he was the one who seemed awkward.

“All right,” I said, and left, relieved to be done with the interview.

I walked to the head of the stairs and stopped, heart pounding.

There was a dead body below. I did not want to return to face the upheaval.

I glanced toward my office, feeling an urge to ask the detective to escort me down, but that was foolish. I gave my head a brief shake and straightened my shoulders.

Cops drink coffee
.

He wasn't part of my world, wouldn't understand my world. No doubt he wouldn't know what to do with a bone china cup and saucer. I was on my own. As usual.

I took a deep breath and went downstairs.

 

 

 

 2 

A
s it happened, I didn't see Detective Aragón again for hours. One by one he summoned everyone upstairs to be interviewed, then set them free. I sent the staff home as they were released, it being obvious that we would not be allowed to clean up the dining parlor for some time.

“I can stay, boss,” Julio said, pulling off his chef's coat after he came down from being interviewed. He hung the coat on a hook by the door and went to the counter, looking lean in a muscle shirt and his festive chef's pants. I stared at a tattoo design circling his upper arm—I hadn't seen it before. It was high enough to be hidden by a t-shirt sleeve, and t-shirts were what he'd usually worn until that morning.

“No, go home,” I told him. “You need to be here early to bake.”

He started measuring beans into the grinder for yet another pot of coffee. “We gonna open tomorrow?”

“Of course we are.”

If we didn't, we might never open again. We had to weather this. It would be all right. If I kept telling myself that, maybe I'd believe it.

I watched him, looking for a sign of rebellion. If Julio quit, I'd be in big trouble. He didn't say anything, just kept working.

A loud rapping at the front door made me step into the hall. The front door was closed at last; apparently all the cops who could fit into the dining parlor were already in there.

Bright, white light shone in through the small windows called “lights” that surrounded the door, along with occasional flashes from the emergency vehicles still parked out front. It looked like there were camera crews out on the sidewalk beyond the picket fence. I hoped they wouldn't come any closer.

I walked to the door, my steps echoing from the hardwood floor. Peeking out through the lights, I recognized the giant poppies on the dress outside, and pulled the door open.

“Gina!”

She caught me in a tight hug. I almost lost it right then, but I managed to step back, pulling her in with me.

“Thanks for coming back.”

She grinned, cheeks dimpling deeply. “You kidding? I love circuses. Where's your TV? I bet this makes the ten o'clock news.”

I closed my eyes. “I don't want to know.”

“Yes, you do, it's important!”

I sighed, starting toward the kitchen. “It's in storage. Have you eaten?”

I had rented a storage shed for some of my parents' furniture that wasn't suited to the tearoom but that I couldn't bear to part with. The television had gone there as well, and I'd been so busy I hadn't missed it.

“Not since the tea,” Gina said. “Come home with me and we'll get a pizza.”

“No, I'm not leaving.” I led her into the kitchen and looked around for the sandwiches. Julio must have put them away. He was nowhere in sight.

“You need to get away from all this nutzy police stuff. Hi,” Gina added, smiling at a blond evidence technician who came in and reached for the coffee pot.

My hand went out toward it automatically. “It's still—”

The tech pulled the pot out of the coffee maker and held his mug over the burner, catching the stream. A slight smell of burned coffee rose from the little that had splashed on the burner.

“—brewing,” I said.

The tech smiled at me, blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses. He was younger than me, looked like he should still be in high school. I felt tired, all of a sudden.

We didn't talk while the tech's mug slowly filled. He replaced the coffee pot, shoveled two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into the mug and stirred it with the sugar spoon, then went back upstairs.

Julio came in again, wearing a leather jacket and escorting Vi, whose shoulders slumped. “We're going, boss. Vi's gonna give me a ride home.”

“Thanks, Vi. If you want you can take tomorrow off.”

She gave me a wan smile that didn't erase the frown lines on her brow. “I'll be all right. Iz has a test.”

“Okay. Get some sleep, though.”

“You too, boss.”

I nodded, though I doubted I'd be getting much rest that night. They went out the kitchen door onto the back
porch
, leaving me and Gina alone. I could hear Mick and Dee, still waiting to be interviewed, talking quietly in the butler's pantry.

“‘Boss'?” Gina said, opening the door of the refrigerator and peering inside. “I thought you'd nixed that.”

I sighed. “We're still negotiating what they should call me. Julio suggested ‘jefa' but to me that sounds too much like ‘heifer'.”

“How about ‘Madam'?”

“Too stiff. Besides, we're a block away from the Palace. It might suggest connotations that aren't appropriate for the tearoom.”

The Palace Restaurant had once been a famous brothel. Gina guffawed.

“Right now it's ‘Ms. Rosings,' but none of us like that much,” I added. “Trouble is, ‘boss' is much easier to say. I'll probably give in and let them call me ‘Ellen,' much as I hate to yield to modern informality.”

Gina gave a gasp of mock horror. “What will Miss Manners say?”

“Scoff if you like,” I said haughtily.

Gina looked at me over her shoulder. “Getting a little tired? I've got a nice, comfy spare bed, you know.”

“I'm not going to leave while the police are crawling all over the place. This is my home!”

“Okay, okay!” She pulled a bowl of leftover chocolate mousse out of the fridge and put it in my hands, then took my arm. “Come on, girlfriend. Let's go sit by the fire.”

We scrounged up two spoons and went back to Iris.  The fire had died down again. I pulled a log from the carrier Dee had left and laid it on top of the coals, then sat staring at it, watching the first tendrils of smoke begin to rise.

Gina wrapped my hand around a spoon. “Eat your medicine.”

I gave a half-hearted laugh. “Trying to make me fat?”

“Trying to get some sustenance into you. You didn't eat much at the tea.”

“Too nervous.”

“You need something in your stomach. It's going to be a long night, if you're staying here.”

“Yes, Italian Mama.”

Chocolate is such good comfort food. I took a spoonful of mousse and let it melt on my tongue. The energy of the adrenaline rush was long gone, and it was really starting to sink in.

There'd been a murder in my tearoom, in my beautiful dining parlor. A room I'd worked so hard to make inviting and peaceful.

Gina leaned forward and scooped up a spoonful of mousse. “So who do you think did it?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Come on, you've got to have some suspicions.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“No, because that would be a stupid conversation, because we'd really be thinking about the murder.”

She sat in the wing chair with her arms draped over the armrests, spoon dangling from one hand, looking regal and righteous, her hair a dark, curly halo. I pictured her reigning over a court of nineteenth-century Italians, all of whom cowered before her, and had to smile.

“Now,” she said, “who can you eliminate?”

“You. Unless you're the killer?”

“No, I'm not so crude in my methods,” she said airily. “There are legal ways to destroy people.”

I laughed, shaking my head. Gina wouldn't hurt a fly. She's the sort of person who'd give her last dollar to someone in need.

“And Aunt Nat,” I said. “She was friends with Mrs. Carruthers.”

Gina raised an admonitory finger. “Ah, ah—friends can have fights.”

“But did they look like they were angry with each other? No. Besides, Sylvia was still in the dining parlor when I came out with Nat and Manny and watched them leave together.”

“By the front door?”

“Yes. I saw them drive off in Manny's car.”

“And they never left your sight?”

“No.”

“Good, that eliminates them.”

“You're enjoying this.”

She tilted her head and shrugged. “Might as well.”

I ate another spoonful of chocolate. My stomach growled, probably from being clenched for hours.

“So, not me, not you, not Nat, not Manny,” Gina said, frowning in concentration. “That leaves six suspects.”

“Five. I don't think she strangled herself.”

“Five, right.”

“Plus the staff and the customers. And anyone else who might have slipped in.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “We'll worry about them later. The people who were at the tea are the primary suspects. They had immediate access to the dining room.”

“You like watching cop shows, don't you?”

“Love ‘em. Don't change the subject.”

“That
is
the subject!”

“Who are the five suspects?” She ticked off the fingers on one hand. “That food critic.”

“Mr. Ingraham.”

“And Sylvia's daughter, Donna? Donna,” she said as I nodded. “Then that guy who's opening the gallery…”

“Vince Margolan. And Katie Hutchins, but I don't think she'd do it. She's so sweet, and what would she have to gain?”

“We'll leave her on the list for now.” Gina looked at her protruding thumb. “Who else?”

“Claudia Pearson.”

Hasty footsteps in the hall made us look up. Iz came in wearing a long coat over her lavender dress, purse strap over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed.

“That guy is
so rude!
”

“What guy?” Gina asked, looking from Iz to me.

“
Detective Aragón.”

Gina turned to Iz, curiosity glowing in her face. “What did he say?”

“He asked all kinds of nosy questions about the customers. Then he asked if I killed that poor lady, and I said no. So he asked if I thought
you
had done it,” she said, turning to me with an angry throb in her voice.

“It's his job, I'm afraid,” I said. “I'm sorry, Iz.”