A Fatal Twist of Lemon (31 page)

The next morning I was up early, before Julio arrived. I was impatient to talk to the staff about what they had seen during the thank-you tea. I passed the time by setting out linens and china in the alcoves, then as soon as Julio came in I pounced on him. He very patiently repeated to me what he'd told the police, which amounted to he hadn't seen a thing.

“What about the window?” I asked, gesturing to the kitchen window. “Did you see anybody coming or going out back? Anybody in white, especially?”

Julio, looking like a cholo with his ball cap—tropical fish print today—on backward, shook his head as he measured out flour for the day's scones. “Nope. Nada.”

“Okay. Thanks, Julio.”

“Still trying to crack the case, eh boss?”

I snatched a currant out of a bowl he had sitting on the counter. “Yes. Not doing a very good job of it, I'm afraid.”

“Maybe it's time to let it go.”

I didn't answer, feeling a stubbornness rising in me. For a while I watched him cook, moving confidently around the kitchen. He knew his business. Did I know mine, or was I getting too far out of bounds?

Not yet, I decided. Not until I had at least talked to all the staff. Thoroughness, I thought, wondering what case Tony was working on today. Probably not this one, not unless some startling new evidence had come in.

I grilled Vi and Dee when they arrived. Dee had been waiting on the customers up front and had seen Mr. Ingraham leaving, but hadn't seen any of the other thank-you tea guests. Vi had been in the dining parlor most of the time, though she had started clearing and was back and forth to the pantry when the party was breaking up. She had been with me when I found Sylvia's body, helping to solidify my alibi.

“Who was in the parlor the last time you left it before we found the body?” I asked her.

“I took the tea trays out first,” she said, referring to the three-tiered trays on which the scones and sweets had been served. “When I left with the second one, there were four people in the room: Mrs. Carruthers, her daughter, Mr. Margolan, and Mrs. Hutchins.”

“That's what I remembered. Thanks, Vi.”

She gave me a slightly anxious look. “The police haven't figured it out yet?”

“Not yet.” I smiled to reassure her. “Don't worry, they will.”

Kris arrived and I went upstairs with her to ask what she'd seen, even though she had left the tearoom at five on Wednesday. She smoothed her black hair behind one ear and frowned in thought.

“White wool? No, I don't remember anyone wearing that. I would have noticed, I think. A white wool dress would be kind of unusual,” she said, looking intrigued at the idea.

“Well, it's not necessarily a dress. Could be a coat, or even a scarf.”

I frowned, trying to picture my imaginary killer strangling Sylvia while wearing a white wool scarf. Instead the disobliging killer strangled her
with
the scarf. I shook off the thought.

“You left by the back door, right? Did you see anyone outside?”

She shook her head, generating a slight chiming sound from the earrings she was wearing, long, dangling clusters of tiny silver bells. “No, sorry. I did turn and look back, and I saw the doors to the dining parlor all lit up, but that was it.”

“Okay. Thanks, Kris.”

“Sure thing.”

The only two staffers I hadn't talked to were Mick and Iz. Mick would come in at eleven, when we opened for business. Iz would be in at one today, to take over for Dee who had an afternoon class.

I passed the morning going through a backlog of messages from over the weekend and writing thank-you notes to people who had sent flowers and other gifts in honor of the tearoom's opening. Just before eleven I went downstairs and started haunting the kitchen, waiting for Mick to arrive. Julio was piping meringue onto a parchment-covered baking sheet in the shape of little seashells. I caught a whiff of almond in the air.

“Those are darling, Julio! Will they hold their shape?”

“That's what I'm going to find out. I think they will. Got a batch in the oven already. No peeking!” he added as I started toward the two commercial ovens.

“I won't open it, I'll just turn on the light. Yes, they look great! Wonderful idea!”

“Thanks.”

“When you have a minute I'd like to talk about some ideas for lunch items.”

He gave me a quizzical glance. “Lunch? Have you seen today's reservation list?”

“Tuesdays are probably going to be our slowest days,” I said, dismissing reservations with a wave of my hand that was much lighter than I felt. “That's why this is a good day for planning. This afternoon, before you go.”

“Okay.”

I had caught sight of Mick through the window as he parked his mottled car behind the house. I fetched myself a cup of tea to give him time to come in, then sat down with him at the break table in the corner of the kitchen.

“I'm going over what happened last Wednesday, Mick.”

“Again?” He glowered.

“Yes. I'm sorry. Could you please tell me everything you saw during and after the thank-you tea?”

“Not much besides china,” he said, jerking his head toward the dishwashing station. “All I can see is the little hall outside the butler's pantry and the restroom.”

I nodded. The small hallway was the only indoor access to those rooms and to the kitchen. It had an outside door that opened onto the porch, like the kitchen, but Julio had already told me neither door had been opened Wednesday afternoon.

“Do you remember seeing anyone besides me and the girls in the hallway?”

“Well, yeah, when you brought people in to show them the kitchen. Other than that, I saw the lady in the purple dress go into the restroom, and the guy in the turtleneck and jacket came and waited outside it for a while, but he went away again before she left.”

“Wait—could you repeat that?”

He did. The purple, or plum, dress had been Claudia's. The turtleneck and jacket had been Vince.

“He waited for the restroom, but then went away again?”

“Yeah. Guess he got impatient.”

“Did you see where he went?”

“Back out into the main hall.”

So Vince had been in the main hall between the time he left the dining parlor and the time Claudia came out of the restroom. I had been in the hall at that time, too, but I didn't remember seeing him. Of course, I'd been dealing with coats and goodbyes.

“All right, Mick. Thanks.”

“Sure. You done with that?” he asked, pointing at my empty teacup.

“Uh, yes.”

He carried the cup to the dishwashing station, and I wandered back upstairs and sat by the front window, trying to recall everyone I'd said goodbye to after the tea, and in what order. Mr. Ingraham had left first, then Gina, then Katie. I had said goodbye to Manny and Nat and watched them drive away. Then Donna had sort of stormed out, leaving me and Claudia in the hall.

I couldn't remember seeing Vince leave. I had the impression he'd said goodbye, but I didn't recall watching him out the front door.

When Iz came in I asked her to tell me who she'd seen leaving and in what order on Wednesday, when she'd been at the hostess station. She had been a little distracted with customers in the gift shop, but had seen my guests leaving in the same order I recalled.

“What about Mr. Margolan?” I asked.

“The man in the white turtleneck? I didn't see him go out.”

White turtleneck. I sucked a swift breath. Off-white, I'd have called it, but yes. He had worn a light-colored turtleneck under a black jacket. It had looked like cashmere to me.

“You're sure you didn't see him?” I asked her.

Iz nodded seriously. “I figured he'd left while I was ringing up customers. That one lady bought a cup and saucer, and I had to get a box and tissue paper to wrap it. I was poking around under the counter for a while.”

“Thank you, Iz.”

I walked slowly down the hall toward the back of the house, thinking. Vince had not left by the front door, I was fairly certain.

He could have left by the back hall door, or by the dining parlor door. His gallery was across the street and to the north of the tearoom, so if he'd gone out the back way he could have walked past the lilacs and out alongside the fenced front yard to the street. Little chance anyone would have seen him from the kitchen window.

So that probably explained how Vince had left without being seen by me or Vi. It didn't explain why he would kill Sylvia. I had only a semi-plausible motive for him—ownership of the house where he was planning to open his gallery.

And if his cashmere sweater was the source of the white fibers, why hadn't it matched the sample the police had taken from Sylvia's dress?

I found myself standing in the dining parlor, gripping the back of the chair in which Sylvia had sat. I didn't remember going in. I glanced at the door, standing half-open behind me, and at the chandelier over the table, which for once was dark and absolutely still.

Tony should know this. I had a strong urge to call him and ask what might be a dumb question. What clothes had Vince given to the police? He could have substituted other clothes for the ones he'd worn at the tea.

That would have been risky, especially if anyone had given the police a detailed description of what he'd been wearing. But Tony hadn't asked me about what the others had worn.

I left the room, closing the door with a snap, and hurried upstairs to find my cell phone. I searched back through the calls until I found Tony's, dialed his number, and sat tapping my foot while I waited for him to answer. After four rings I heard the tell-tale sound of a transfer to voice mail. Curbing my impatience, I waited to leave a message.

“Tony, it's Ellen. Please give me a call as soon as you can. I think you need to look at Vince Margolan. He was wearing a light-colored cashmere turtleneck and a dark jacket and slacks at the tea last Wednesday. If that's not the clothing he provided you, then—well, call me.”

I hung up and sat frowning at the artwork on my office walls, then got up and went back downstairs, taking my cell phone with me. For half an hour I busied myself around the tearoom, but it was slow and there really wasn't much that needed doing.

Iz and Mick were making more tea samplers at the kitchen work table while Vi watched out front. Julio was baking spice bread for tomorrow, and glared at me the third time I looked into the kitchen.

“You want to talk about lunches?”

“Ah—not right now. Say, that looks wonderful,” I added as he turned out a fresh, brown loaf and set it on a cooling rack.

“Want a taste?”

He reached for a loaf that had already cooled, sliced off the heel, and handed it to me. “Good with butter or cream cheese.”

“Mm! Wonderful by itself,” I said. “In fact, I think I'd like to take some over to Mr. Margolan's gallery. I've been meaning to see how he's doing. Could you cut me a few slices?”

“Sure,” Julio said.

I fetched a small plate from the pantry and loaded it with slices of the fresh spice bread. Julio put a chilled swirl of piped butter on the plate next to the bread.

“Want to cover it with something?”

“No, I'm just going across the street. I'll be right back.”

No, it wasn't very smart of me. I should have waited until I heard back from Tony, but I was impatient. I should have taken my cell phone with me, but mindful of Miss Manners I left it behind.

As I carried the bread across the street I thought about what to say on my neighborly visit. I'd already asked Vince about what Donna had been saying to her mother after the tea, so I couldn't go there again. I hadn't asked him about Donna's departure, though.

I arranged myself on the front porch, friendly offering in hand, friendly smile on face, before I knocked on the wooden door. After a moment it opened and Vince looked out. He was wearing jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt spattered with white paint, and had a pair of goggles pushed up on his forehead, his hair a sandy spray above them.

“Oh,” I said. “Have I come at a bad time? I just wanted to bring you some of this spice bread.”

I looked past him into the house. What had been an empty space was now filled with a clutter of crates, power tools, drop cloths, boom box and painting gear. What had been a series of rooms in an old brick house was now a single, long room. Vince had knocked down walls, a definite no-no in historic preservation terms.

Vince glanced over his shoulder, following my gaze, then opened the door wider. “Come in.”

 

 

 

 

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