A Fatal Twist of Lemon (7 page)

She flashed an unexpected smile. “Oh, I think it's fascinating! I looked at the parlor on my way up, but it's hard to tell anything happened.”

“I should hope so. I just want to get back to normal.”

Her wry look told me she thought this impossible. I went downstairs, conscious of the dining parlor as I passed it on the way to the butler's pantry.

By the time I returned, Kris had been through half the messages. I set the tea tray on a credenza, hesitating as I noticed the picture above it, an ebony-framed reproduction of Millais's “Ophelia.”

Kris had brought it in while we were decorating and asked my permission to hang it, and I'd had no objection at the time. Now, though, it bothered me a little. Lovely and ethereal as it was, it was still a picture of a woman drowning, and I was feeling a bit sensitive to the idea of death just then.

I poured tea for us both and carried it to her desk, sitting with my back to “Ophelia.” Kris finished jotting a message, then hung up the phone and read from her notes.

“All four TV stations, the
Journal North
and the
New Mexican
all want to interview you,” she said, “and you have messages from Katie Hutchins, Manny Salazar, someone named Willow, and two from a Detective Aragón.”

“Drat. What did the detective want?”

“Didn't say. Just left a number for you to call back.” She handed me a bunch of message slips.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want me to return the calls from the media?”

I stood up and picked up my teacup. “Not yet. See what else we've got. Who knows, there might be a reservation in there.”

“Oh, there already was. One.”

I looked at her in surprise. “Well, that's good news.”

She gave an apologetic smile. “And three cancellations.”

“Oh. Well, carry on.”

I carried my tea into my office. As I sat at my desk, something seemed out of place. I put down the cup and saucer and the message slips and looked at the desk. I'd left it clean when I'd given it over to Detective Aragón to use.

The lower right hand drawer wasn't quite closed. It tended to stick, and I'd been meaning to wax it but hadn't gotten around to it.

I pulled it open. The papers I had stashed in there the previous evening lay in a tidy stack.

Too tidy. I remembered I hadn't racked them carefully when I put them away, but they were racked now.

“That bastard!” I whispered.

He'd gone through my desk.

Well, I hadn't told him not to. I'd left him alone in there. He was a cop investigating a murder, what did I expect?

I expected a respect for my privacy, and a little common courtesy, that was what. I took a deep breath, struggling to control my anger. It was going to be a difficult day, and I couldn't let something like this throw me into a bad mood before we even opened.

The phone rang again and I glanced up. This time it was my private line, so I answered it.

“Ellen!” said Aunt Nat. “I've been so worried! Didn't you get my message?”

“Oh—sorry, I haven't checked my cell phone yet. The tearoom's phone has been ringing off the hook.”

“I can believe that! Why didn't you call me last night? I'd have come and helped.”

“Sorry, I meant to call. There wouldn't have been anything for you to do, but thanks for thinking of me.”

“Well, what can I do today? Do you need help with the tearoom?”

“Ah—maybe. Don't put off your own plans, but—”

“I have nothing planned today. I'll come right down.”

I leaned back in my chair, surprised at how relieved I felt. “Thanks. It'll be good to have you here. I could use some moral support.”

“You poor duck. You should forget all about it and go up to the spa and get a massage.”

I laughed. “Not today. I'm sticking to my post until the fuss blows over.”

“Brave girl. I'll come stick with you. About half an hour okay?”

“Anytime, no hurry. We don't open ‘til eleven.”

“See you soon, then.”

I hung up, feeling rather better, and decided to check my personal messages. There were three, one each from Gina, Nat, and Jody Thompson, the real estate agent. I called Gina's number, got voicemail, left her a cheery message. Jody didn't answer either; she was probably out showing properties. Hers had been a courtesy call, so I left a message thanking her and assuring her that the tearoom was getting back to normal, and that I hoped to see her at the grand opening on Friday.

The next day. We had one day to pull it all together. I'd been counting on spending evenings getting ready, but Wednesday night had been a total loss.

I was about to jump up and get busy when my cell phone rang. I answered.

“Hello, Ms. Rosings, it's Vince Margolan. I just heard about what happened. I'm so terribly sorry!”

“Thank you, Mr. Margolan.”

“Oh, Vince, please, we're neighbors, right?” he said in his hasty, New York way. “Listen, is there anything I can do?”

“No, no. Thank you. The police will probably want to ask you some questions.”

“Yes, I just had a visit from a detective. That's why I called.”

“Detective Aragón?”

“Yeah. Not very friendly.”

I grimaced. “Well, I hope he didn't disrupt your day.”

“No, well, not much. Just getting some paperwork together for the gallery.”

“I'll let you get back to it, then. Thank you so much for calling. I hope we'll see you at our opening tomorrow afternoon.”

“Uh, if I have time. Busy week, you know. I'm hoping—well, I've got some big plans for the gallery. Lots to do.”

“Of course. Thanks again.”

We said goodbye and as I hung up I brushed aside a fleeting worry that no one would attend the grand opening. It was pointless to worry about that. Much more productive to get to work. Leaving the rest of my messages for later, I stood up and left the office, glancing into Kris's office before I went downstairs.

“Need anything?” I asked.

Kris shook her head, then held up a message slip. “That detective called again. You were on your cell.”

I stifled a groan and stepped in to collect the slip. “I'd better call him back.”

“Sounded kind of pissed.”

“I'm not surprised.”

I went back to my desk and dialed Detective Aragón's number, but got voicemail. I left a polite message, then went down to see how Julio was doing. As I came into the kitchen he was standing by the sink. I froze. His hands were up to the wrists in blood.

“Hey, boss,” he said, smiling as he looked up at me.

He turned back to the sink, in which sat a colander of raw chicken livers. I relaxed, silently chiding myself for being so touchy. The smell of sautéing onions was back, and I went to the stove to stir them since Julio had his hands full.

“Starting on the p
â
té for tomorrow, I see,” I said, proud that my voice sounded calm.

“Yeah.”

He carried the colander over and started to dump the livers into the pan. On another burner a large pot of eggs was about to boil. I'd requested deviled eggs for the grand opening, a tribute to the day Nat had first suggested the tearoom idea.

“Anything I can do, or shall I get out of your way?”

“It's all under control. Oh, hey—that fruit basket in the fridge is yours, right?”

I nodded. “Manny Salazar brought it.”

“Can I use a couple of the mangoes?”

“You can use anything you want except the raspberries. Those are mine.”

“Got it. Thanks, boss.”

He went over to the sink to rinse the colander. I stayed and stirred the simmering chicken livers.

“By the way, the candied violets yesterday were a delightful touch.”

He came back, took the wooden spoon from my hand and glanced up with a small, wry smile. “I wanted to make your party really special.”

“It
was
really special. And we're going to keep doing really special events. Don't you worry.”

A muffled knocking sounded from the rear hall door. I gave Julio a reassuring smile as I opened the kitchen's outside door and looked out onto the porch.

It was the delivery girl from the florist, with cut flowers I had ordered for the grand opening. She and I carried bucket after bucket of white gladiolas, purple roses, blue iris and multicolored freesias and alstroemerias into the big, industrial refrigerator in the kitchen. I'd be up late that night, arranging them all in vases and teapots for the celebration.

Aunt Nat showed up as the florist's girl was leaving, wearing a handsome paisley dress in rich tones of burgundy, gold, and green. She caught me in a huge hug.

“Poor darling,” she said into my shoulder. “What a horrible mess for you to have to deal with.”

“Yes, well. I'm managing.”

She leaned back, holding me by the shoulders. “Tell me what to do.”

“Come and help me move the dining table, if you don't mind.”

“Of course not.”

We went across the hall to the dining parlor, which I hadn't entered since the previous night. The chandelier was on, warm light filling the room. I must have forgotten to turn it off.

“It doesn't look too bad,” Nat said, glancing around.

“I cleaned up the tea things last night and wiped up all the fingerprint dust, but I couldn't shift the table by myself. They moved it to make room to work.”

Nat went to the foot of the table, where she'd sat the day before. We pulled the chairs aside and moved the table back to the center of the room, then tidied everything up. I put a fresh tablecloth down and I retrieved the centerpiece from the south sideboard, placing it beneath the chandelier. Purple-edged white lisianthus, yellow rosebuds, and blue mist—a combination I'd chosen after long deliberation.

The dining parlor was back to normal, except that I couldn't help thinking about Sylvia whenever I was in there. I glanced up and saw my aunt gazing wistfully at the flowers.

“I haven't told
you
how sorry I am,” I said. “You were pretty good friends, weren't you?”

“Oh, lunch-now-and-then friends,” Nat said. “We weren't terribly close, but I'll miss her. I've known her for years.”

She shook her head, frowning. I went over and gave her a hug.

“I keep trying to think why anyone would kill her,” Nat said. “She wasn't the easiest person, but she had a good heart.”

“I know.”

“She could come on pretty strong, of course, when she cared deeply about something.”

I looked at Nat, trying to decide how upset she really was. She seemed bewildered, mostly.

“Did Sylvia and Donna get along well, do you know?” I asked. “I got the impression they didn't, but maybe they were just having an off day.”

Nat sighed, and adjusted one of the hurricane lamps on the south sideboard. “Sylvia's always been a little disappointed in Donna. They're both headstrong, you know, and when they disagree … but they never had a serious clash that I knew of.”

I nodded. “Well, let's go fold linens,” I said, wanting to take Nat's mind, not to mention my own, off the murder.

We crossed the hall to the butler's pantry and got busy with the laundry. I had washed all the linens used the previous day, and now they had to be folded and put away. Nat took charge of the tearoom linens while I collected the tablecloth and napkins—my mother's lace—that we had used in the dining parlor.

“That's strange,” I said. “There's a napkin missing.”

“Maybe it's in with these,” Nat said.

We looked through everything again. One napkin from the dining set was missing. I checked the washer and dryer, then around beside and behind them. No luck.

“Maybe someone snuck some scones home in it,” Nat said.

I laughed and let it go, reaching for more napkins to fold. Nat began taking chores away from me, gently bullying me to go up to my office and answer the rest of my calls. I finally gave in and did so, reassuring first Manny and then Katie that everything was all right at the tearoom.

“I saw all those emergency vehicles last night,” Katie said, sounding concerned. “I would have come over, but I had guests arriving and one of them got in late—”

“Thanks, Katie, but I'm glad you didn't come,” I said. “It was pretty chaotic.”

“You poor dear. I wish I could help somehow.”

I picked up the pile of message slips and let them sift back to my desk like falling leaves. My gaze fell on the place cards I'd collected from the dining parlor and left on my desk. “Well, actually, you could clear something up for me, if you don't mind.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“You were still in the dining parlor when I left after the tea,” I said, my pulse speeding up a little at the memory.

“Yes, I was talking to poor Sylvia.”

“What about?”

“Oh, just about the Trust. You know how she likes to go on.”

“Do you remember who else was in the room?”

“Sylvia's daughter and Vince. They were talking about a gallery opening, I think.”

“His gallery?”

“No, no. He's just getting started, he won't be ready to open for a while. I think they were talking about an opening this weekend, over on Canyon Road.”

“And they were both still there when you left?”

“Yes. So was Sylvia.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“The detective asked me if I thought either of them would have a reason to kill Sylvia. Can you imagine?”

“Detective Aragón? He spoke to you already?”

“Yes, he was here this morning.”

I frowned, wondering why he hadn't stopped by the tearoom if he was in the neighborhood calling on Vince and Katie. “What else did he ask you?”

“Well … I'm sure those kinds of questions are just routine—”