A Fatal Twist of Lemon (33 page)

She turned back to the gift shop. I went to the front door and opened it.

The sun was high overhead, just beginning to creep toward the house from the garden. A few faded wisteria blooms had fallen to the porch. I'd have to start sweeping every morning, I thought, then I saw Tony Aragón leaning against one of the columns.

He stood up straight as I looked at him. He was wearing his motorcycle duds and his cop shades. Looked very tough. Definitely not right for the tearoom.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello.”

I was a little miffed at him. He hadn't called the night before, or that morning. Not that I'd been expecting a call—I knew he was a busy man. But it would have been thoughtful to touch base with me, make sure I was all right. I wanted to be coldly polite in response to this distant behavior, but it's hard to stay annoyed with someone who has recently saved your life.

He took his shades off, which made him seem less tough. He stuck them in a pocket, then reached into his jacket and produced a folded piece of paper.

“I brought this by for you to sign. It's a statement about what happened yesterday, based on what you told me. We'll use it to file charges against Vince Margolan.”

“You made some poor clerk type this up before you asked if I wanted to press charges?”

He blinked. “I figured I could talk you into it.”

I took the paper and glanced over it while I thought about whether to be angry with him. I heard the scuff of his boot against the porch, and glanced up to see him standing rather close.

“I also figured you wouldn't want to come down to the station,” he said in a low voice. “Thought maybe I could do you a favor by bringing it over.”

I bit my lip, blinking back confusing feelings. Just when I had worked up to being annoyed with him, he had to go and do something thoughtful.

I looked up and was caught by his dark eyes, by the clean, strong lines of his face framed by still-vivid cascades of wisteria. I didn't want to think about Vince Margolan or the murder case or any of that unpleasantness. I let the paper fold back up in my hands, and was about to lean closer to him when I caught movement out of the side of my eye.

I glanced at the window nearby. The bird lady was peering out of it with her bright birdy eyes, smiling and nodding, the hydrangeas on her hat bobbing counterpoint.

“Ah—I've got to go,” Tony said, stepping back. “If you want to think about it I can pick that up later.”

“No, I don't need to think about it. I'll sign it. Do you have a pen?”

“Not on me.”

“Come inside, then. It'll just take a second.”

“Oh, I can wait here.”

I looked back at him from the door, raising an eyebrow. “You're unwilling to come into my tearoom?”

He hunched his shoulders. “Not unwilling. I just don't want to cramp your style.”

“You haven't cramped it so far.”

I pushed the door open. He stood there looking tough for a moment, then one corner of his mouth tweaked upward.

“Yes ma'am,” he said, stepping inside.

I led him to the hostess station. Iz was busy straightening the china display. I signed the statement, then handed it back to Tony.

“There you are.”

“Thanks.”

“See, that wasn't painful.”

“No.” He grinned. “Grandma says the lady's always right.”

I smiled back. “Does she? I think I'd like to meet her. You should bring her to tea some time.”

“Bet she'd like that. Maybe I will.”

He gazed at me, dark eyes half-lidded in a way that made my stomach feel very unsettled. A small clink of china reminded us of Iz's presence.

“Gotta go,” he said, and strode toward the door.

I followed him out to the porch and stood beneath the wisterias, watching him out to his bike at the curb. He glanced back as he closed the gate, but he had his shades on again and I couldn't tell if he was looking at me. He didn't wave.

I remembered lots of things I'd heard about cops, how they were hard to get close to, hard to have relationships with. Some of that was hype from television and movie dramas, but I'd heard enough personal stories to know it was often true.

Tony put on his helmet and swung onto the bike. He started it, gunned it once, then pulled away from the curb. Just before he turned the corner he raised his hand. It could have been to signal a turn, but his fingers formed a victory “V.”

The future seemed more promising, all at once. I smiled, then went back into the tearoom, ready for a cuppa.

 

 

 

 

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atrice Greenwood was born and raised in New Mexico, and remembers when dusty dogs rolled in the Santa Fe plaza.  She loves afternoon tea, old buildings, gourmet tailgating at the opera, and solving puzzles.

 

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