A Fatal Twist of Lemon (6 page)

And now, after all that effort, the Wisteria Tearoom was in jeopardy. I glanced at the disarray in the dining parlor.

My tearoom. My dream.

I could have wept with frustration, but I didn't want to slide back into the despair I'd felt after Dad died. I straightened my shoulders, carried my tray to the pantry, and began loading the dishes into the commercial dishwashing station. That little gem had been expensive, too.

As I rinsed plates and cups with the high-power spray, I wondered if the sound could have drowned out any noises from the dining parlor. It pretty well drowned out the music, though there were no speakers in the kitchen.

I paused, frowning at the Paragon cup in my hand, misty green with a medallion of poppies in the bottom. It had been Sylvia's cup. Probably the last thing she'd drunk from.

If only I hadn't arranged that tea party. Poor Sylvia might still be alive if I hadn't wanted to thank her.

“Stop it, Ellen,” I said aloud. “You'll make yourself crazy.”

I finished stacking the dishes in the washer and carried the tray back to the dining parlor to fetch the rest. As I moved around the room collecting the last of the china and straightening the furniture, I pondered why would someone want to kill Sylvia Carruthers.

She had been a generous soul, if a bit gruff. Her passion was history in all its forms, or so she had said. She certainly approached her work with the Preservation Trust with a passion. I remembered being carried along with it, rather overwhelmed by it, in fact. She didn't let anything stand in the way of what she thought was right for a property that deserved preservation.

Were there other matters on which she had the same determination? The usual reasons for murder were money, jealousy, lust. I couldn't picture anyone lusting after Sylvia, but she had an attractive daughter. What if she was as protective of Donna as she was of her beloved historic properties?

No, I'm not allowed to meddle in Mother's good works.

Donna Carruthers had said that in response to some polite question I'd asked at the tea. She was a foot taller than her mother, and I couldn't remember having seen her smile. She had worn a tailored suit of beige linen to the tea, the antithesis of her mother's Santa Fe Lady style.

Donna and her mother hadn't conversed together at the thank-you tea, now that I thought of it, though that could have been because they'd been seated at opposite ends of the table. Could Donna have killed her mother in order to escape her?

Horrible, horrible thought. I rejected it, though a doubt whispered to me that it was possible. I didn't know Donna. She might have hated her mother.

Even if she didn't, she might stand to inherit from Sylvia. Money was a common motive for murder.

I didn't like thinking this way. My instinct was to feel terribly sorry for Donna. I knew how painful it was to lose a parent, especially the second parent. Even if they hadn't always seen eye to eye, there must still have been a deep connection between her and Sylvia.

I returned to the dining parlor to collect the linens. As I did so I heard a small rattling sound on the floor. I set my tray down, bent to peer at the hardwood, and found a tiny, lemon-colored heishi bead up against the molding.

Sylvia's necklace. The police must have collected the beads, and missed this one. I picked it up, rolling it between my thumb and fingertip. It was no more than three millimeters long. Who would have thought such a tiny thing could be deadly? Not by itself, but along with hundreds, thousands of others….

A necklace wasn't the best choice of murder weapon. Nor was a busy tearoom the best choice of location. I looked up sharply, my gaze falling on a reproduction of Monet's “Wisteria” that I had hung above the sideboard.

The murder must have been an act of impulse. I wondered if Detective Aragón had thought of that.

 

 

 

 

 4 

I
awoke with a start after a restless night. The light coming through the tiny gap in the curtains of my bedroom was faint, a pre-dawn blue-gray. I sat up, listening, and heard the sound of the back door downstairs being pushed shut. Its opening had awakened me.

I pictured a faceless murderer creeping up the stairs to throttle me in my bed. A moment later the faint sound of salsa music dispelled that phantom. Julio was downstairs, gearing up to make his kitchen magic.

“Oh, good. He came back.” As long as Julio stayed I had a shot at pulling the tearoom through this mess.

Profoundly relieved, I got up, showered, and dressed, choosing a gray silk dress with long, full sleeves caught into wide cuffs at the wrist. As I descended the stairs the smell of saut
é
ing onions wafted up to me, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

“Good morning, Julio,” I said, entering the kitchen.

“Morning, boss.”

His pants today were burgundy with white pinstripes, with matching baker's cap and a plain white t-shirt that would later be hidden by his chef's jacket. It was the most subdued outfit I'd seen him wear yet. He scooped up a double handful of chopped mushrooms and dumped them into the skillet with the onions, raising a soft hiss.

“Figured you could use a good breakfast today.”

“That's very thoughtful, thank you. Can I help with anything?”

“Nah. You cleaned up last night, no?”

“I needed to wind down.”

He added chopped green chiles and chopped ham to the skillet, gave it a stir, then poured beaten eggs from a bowl into the pan for a frittata. My mouth started watering.

“Went through a lot of coffee,” he said. “Have to order more soon.”

“Go ahead.”

“It can wait a couple days.”

Meaning he had doubts about the tearoom's survival. I wanted to say something rousing and hopeful, but I had my doubts, too. We both kept them to ourselves.

Julio poured coffee into his mug, then lifted the pot, inquiring if I wanted some. I shook my head.

“Tea for me. I'll go make it.”

“This'll be ready in a few minutes,” he said, checking on the skillet.

“I'll be back.”

By the time I returned with my pot of Irish Breakfast, Julio had set places for us both on the kitchen's work table and dished up the frittata with warm flour tortillas on the side. I took a bite and sighed with pleasure at the buttery onions and mushrooms, salty ham, and the sharp bite of green chile.

“Mmm, fantastic! Thank you, Julio.”

“De nada. Get any sleep last night?”

“Some. The police cleared out around eleven.”

Julio tore off a piece of his tortilla. “Tony Aragón hasn't changed much.”

I looked up at him in surprise. “You know him?”

“My sister dated him in school.”

“Maria?” She was a friend of mine—we'd been in the same class—but I didn't remember Detective Aragón from high school.

He took a sip of coffee. “No, Anna, my oldest sister. He was a senior when she was a junior. I was just a punk sixth-grader. They went steady for a couple of months, but he was too hot-headed. Got jealous if she even looked at another guy.”

“That's believable.”

“Got real bent out of shape when she gave him back his pin. I remember him standing out in the driveway yelling that she was a stuck-up faithless bitch. My dad finally had to chase him off.”

“Wow.”

“So be careful, okay? You don't want to piss him off.”

Julio's dark eyes looked worried. I did my best to smile back.

“Right. Thanks.”

No problem, I thought. I probably couldn't piss him off any more than I already had.

I ate some more frittata, concentrating on savoring it. I prided myself on being a good cook, but Julio was a magician.

A punk teenager, he'd surprised everyone who knew him by applying to a top culinary school in New York after barely graduating high school. Four years later he returned to Santa Fe, degree in hand, just in time to make the cake for his sister Maria's wedding.

I was in the middle of remodeling the tearoom at the time. When I bumped into Julio at the reception, congratulated him on the cake, and expressed a wish I could serve a miniature version in my tearoom, he perked up with interest.

Brand-new culinary graduates were a dime a dozen in Santa Fe; the best they could hope for was usually a sous-chef's position. We chatted over cake and champagne, and quickly came to a mutually-satisfactory arrangement: he would come cook some samples for me, and if I liked them, he'd be the chef at my new tearoom. It was a risk for both of us, but also a great opportunity.

Two days later he appeared at my tearoom with an armload of groceries, wearing a white chef's coat and flaming red pants printed with multicolored tropical flowers, and a chef's hat made from the same fabric.

“Nice outfit,” I'd said, somewhat stunned.

“It's got hibiscus,” he'd said proudly, pointing at a bright pink blossom on one knee.  “Ties into the tea theme.”

He then proceeded to take over my kitchen for three hours, producing four kinds of savories, a tea bread, and three sweets, all amazing. He had to have spent the two intervening days studying tea food, because everything he created that day was absolutely appropriate, not to mention delicious. I'd hired him on the spot.

I took another bite of my frittata and looked up at him. “Thanks for not quitting, Julio.”

“Over this?” He scoffed. “I've seen worse.”

No doubt he had. His family's neighborhood was borderline, on the edge of rougher  parts of town. They were good, decent people, and had struggled to stay that way.

We finished our breakfast and I cleared away the dishes and built a fire in the kitchen fireplace by the work table, just for comfort, while Julio got started making scones. By then the sun was up, a pale, feeble glow through an overcast of cloud.

The phone started ringing at seven o'clock. I let the machine answer, then went up to my office to check the message. The call was from a television reporter requesting an interview. I left it, not wanting to deal with it yet, though sooner or later I'd have to. Before I could stand up the phone rang again.

I collected a couple of stray coffee mugs from my office and took them down to the dishwashing room. Ignoring the almost constant ringing of the phone, I walked through the parlors, making sure everything was tidy. The girls would check, too, but I wanted to be in the tearoom, to remind myself of the haven I had created and intended to maintain.

I picked up the brass firewood carrier Dee had left in the main parlor and returned it to its place by the back door, then carried the book I had tried to read back to my office. I heard the back door open and close again, and glanced at my clock. It was almost eight. Kris had arrived.

She came into my office, shrugging off her long coat to reveal a black turtleneck and broomstick skirt. A graceful sandcast silver bracelet was her only jewelry. As always, her makeup was perfect and within business-world expectations, though the colors she chose were toward the goth spectrum, rather dark, accentuating her pale skin and black, cropped hair.

“I saw the news last night,” she said in her quiet alto.

“So you know about the murder.”

She nodded, blue-gray eyes gazing at me intently. “It looked insane with cops crawling all over the place. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” The phone rang again and I glanced at it. “It's been going all morning. There are a bunch of messages for you to deal with, I'm afraid.”

“Okay.”

“I'm going to make a fresh pot of tea. Want some?”

“Yes, please. You sure you're all right?”

Kris has a tendency to view even minor setbacks as tragedies. The end of the world is always just around the corner. While that might be true in this case, I was determined not to acknowledge it. I made an effort and smiled.

“I'm fine. Thanks for being concerned. I'm glad you came in today despite this … unpleasantness.”