A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn (14 page)

“Hope not.” She took another sip of tea, then put down the cup and finished her scone. “I'll pay you back the bond money.”

“Thank you. Monday morning would be good, if you can manage it.”

“I can get it tonight, if you want.”

“No need. Monday's soon enough.”

“Sorry I had to impose on you.”

“It's all right. Of course, I'm legally obligated to nag you to go to your court hearing.”

She smiled weakly at the joke, then gazed at the table between us, blinking. “I guess I'm ready to go get my car. I can call a cab—”

“No, don't be silly. I'll drive you.”

She collected her purse and the manila envelope from the sideboard. The latter gave a metallic chink as she picked it up. Jewelry, I supposed.

We went back out to the car, and Kris directed me to an older neighborhood on the west side of town. I had pictured the Goth party in one of the Victorians, but those were all downtown and hideously expensive, not the sort of place most Goth kids could afford. I could barely afford it myself, and that was with sinking all my inheritance into it.

The house we stopped at was a cheap cinder-block Pueblo style that was stuccoed, as near as I could tell in the dark, a sickly mint green. I pulled up behind Kris's car—a black Scion—at the curb out in front. There were no lights on in the house, nor any illumination on the porch.

“Did the others all get bailed out?” I asked.

“Yeah. They called their families.”

I felt a pang of worry but refrained from telling her to be careful or saying anything else mom-like. Despite the evening's events, Kris wasn't stupid.

“I'll see you on Monday, then,” I said.

“Yeah.” Kris opened her door and slid out of the car, then bent down to look at me. “Thanks again, Ellen.”

“You're welcome. Take care.”

She nodded, smiled crookedly, and walked to her own car. I waited just in case she had trouble with it, but it started smoothly and glided away down the street, tires intact and lights all lighting as they should.

I looked at the dashboard clock. Eleven-thirty. Felt more like three a.m.

I drove back to the tearoom, wondering whether to take a hot bath or just collapse. I slowed as I drove up the alley to the back of the house. Something was bothering me, but I didn't figure it out until I turned off the car and the headlights.

Once again, the tearoom was dark. I rolled down my window and listened a little to see if Captain Dusenberry had also turned off the stereo.

No music, but I heard rustling and the sound of smothered laughter.

 

 

14

I
sat wondering if I should call the police. If, as I suspected, the Goth kids were back under my lilacs, I could legitimately complain about trespass.

I didn't want to be a boring establishment spoilsport—I'd already been that tonight and it wasn't fun—but the thought that they might be imbibing absinthe and who knew what else beneath my lilacs decided me. I took out the flashlight again and quietly got out of my car.

Silence. I stepped up onto the
portal
as if to open the back door, but instead turned to my right and aimed the flash at the bushes.

Three startled faces turned toward me, pale in the harsh light. The next instant they scrambled away, toward the street again. I followed and saw the last one jump the fence and run off uphill. Returning, I shone my light under the bushes and noticed a fleck of white.

I stepped closer and peered at the ground where the kids had been sitting. The white was the tiny stub-end of a roach. A hint of pot smoke lingered in the air.

I looked all around the area but didn't see anything else. Leaving the roach where it was, I called the police department's non-emergency number to report the trespass and request a patrol for the following night.

“Do you want us to send someone now?” asked the dispatcher who answered my call.

“Only if they want to pick up this roach. I doubt the kids will be back tonight.”

“We'll assign a patrol for tomorrow. What's the address?”

I gave it, thanked the dispatcher, and hung up. Put away the flashlight and as I set foot on the
portal
again, the dining parlor lights came on.

“You don't seem very friendly to our garden guests,” I said as I let myself in.

The lights flickered. I confess it scared me just a little.

“Well, you're right. They weren't invited.”

I locked up and went upstairs, leaving Captain Dusenberry to hold the fort. Too tense to sleep right away, I fixed myself a cup of hot milk with cinnamon and drank it at my desk while I surfed up the details of Maria's funeral.

Her obituary was online, and I learned that she was a leading figure in the Hispanic community, so much so that her funeral would be held in St. Francis Basilica, the largest Catholic church in town, and one of Santa Fe's famous landmarks. It spoke to Maria's stature that her funeral was being held there; the cathedral (as I still thought of it) was the center of Santa Fe's Catholic community. I sipped my milk as I read through the details of an amazing life and legacy.

Maria's family had come to New Mexico with the second wave of Spanish settlers in the late seventeenth century. They had been in Santa Fe ever since, and to call them a dynasty would not be exaggerating that much. In addition to the restaurants, which were a fairly new acquisition, having been purchased by Maria's father, she owned quite a lot of real estate and several retail businesses, from a gallery of native art to a haute couture shop on the Plaza. She was the modern equivalent of nobility.

I ordered a large vase of white roses to be sent to the funeral, and wrote a formal note of condolence to Rick and his family. By that time I was yawning, so I shut down my computer and went to bed.

In the morning I slept late, then got up and puttered around the tearoom, laundering linens and aprons and refreshing the vases, pulling out tired flowers and trimming stems. I enjoyed these quiet times when the tearoom was closed and I could walk through the parlors, admiring everything, soaking up the atmosphere of peace and rich beauty. A time to remind myself of what I was trying to create, for myself and for my customers.

I fixed an omelette for brunch and debated what to do with my afternoon. A visit of condolence to Rosa's family? Maybe, but Ricardo might have his hands full with the restaurant at midday on Sunday, unless he could leave it in the hands of a junior manager.

I thought about calling Willow to ask about researching Captain Dusenberry's murder, but the archives and probably the museum offices would be closed. Library, too.

I could follow up with the Rose Guild. An echo of remembered annoyance with Tony spurred me to get out Joan Timothy's card and make a call. She answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Joan, this is Ellen Rosings. I was wondering if this would be a good time to talk a little more about the Rose Guild?”

“Actually I'm on my way to the City Rose Garden. We meet there every weekend to prune and feed. Would you like to join us? We could talk there.”

“I'd love to.”

“Bring a hat and gloves,” she said cheerily. “I'll be over there in about twenty minutes.”

“See you there.”

I hung up and looked at the shorts and sandals I was wearing. Jeans would be better in a rose garden, as I had no desire to scratch up my thighs. I went upstairs and changed, putting on a light long-sleeved shirt against sunburn and trading the sandals for my garden clogs. Armed with a straw hat, a bottle of ice water, and my gloves and shears in case I was invited to help, I headed out.

The City Rose Garden is actually a park, nicely landscaped with paths, arched bowers over hidden benches, and a central fountain. Lots of people were strolling there on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I saw a cluster of a dozen or more women dressed much as I was at one end of the park, and headed over to join them.

If not for the clothing, I'd have thought they were all likely to be headed for the Wisteria Tearoom. The profile of my average customer is female, over thirty, and Caucasian, and they all fit the bill.

Joining the Rose Guild suddenly seemed an even better idea. I was a little young for the profile, but I'd always hung around with people mostly older than me. I liked roses, and it couldn't hurt to rub elbows with potential customers.

Said potential customers at the moment were busy clipping faded blooms, tying up climbers, doing all the little maintenance chores that kept the roses looking their best. I spotted Joan's tall form and headed toward her.

“Good afternoon!” she said, smiling as she straightened from trimming a burgeoning Mr. Lincoln. She wore a practical hat, a white blouse open over a red t-shirt, and cotton duck trousers of olive green, the knees darkened with dirt.

“Aha, you brought shears—I'm going to put to you work!”

“Please do,” I said, smiling.

“There's an Elegant Lady over here that needs some attention.”

“That's the Diana, Princess of Wales rose, isn't it?”

“Yes. I don't know why they changed the name. Here it is.” She stopped before a tea rose bearing pale white blossoms with just a blush of pink to them.

“Oh, how lovely!” I said, stooping to cup a blossom in my hand and inhale the delicate fragrance. “I thought about planting one but they're hard to find.”

“They're temperamental, too, I'm afraid,” said Joan. “I'm almost sorry we planted it, except the blooms are so beautiful. Just deadhead and put the trimmings in that milk crate over there.”

I started cutting off the faded blooms, clipping each stem back to just above a five-lobed leaf to encourage a new bud to form. Joan watched me for a moment, then went back to her Mr. Lincoln. I smiled to myself, knowing I'd passed initial inspection.

It was soothing, working with the roses, surrounded by their scent and by the gentle, fussy voices of the Rose Guild. I noticed Lucy Kingston a few feet away, pruning a China rose and chattering happily with another woman I didn't recognize. She seemed so cheerful, it was hard to imagine this was the same woman who had exhibited such revulsion at the mention of Maria Garcia's name.

How much money had Mrs. Garcia left the Rose Guild? I couldn't imagine it being worthwhile to kill her for any sum, but the minds of criminals do not see such things normally. I mused about what could inspire a nice old lady to commit murder. By the time I'd finished trimming the Princess Diana, I had reached no conclusion.

It might all be nonsense anyway. It was just as likely—probably more likely—that Mrs. Garcia had picked up the botulism from the soil, perhaps in her own garden.

Except she'd been in the hospital with a broken hip. I remembered the walker she'd used to get into the tearoom, and how weak she had seemed, almost strokey. Had she even gone back to gardening since she'd come home? I'd have been willing to bet she hadn't. Maybe I'd ask Rosa.

I collected my trimmings and carried them to the milk crate Joan had indicated. Lucy Kingston arrived simultaneously with her own double-handful of deadheads. She peered at me from beneath the wide brim of her straw hat, frowning slightly as if trying to remember me. I smiled.

“Hello, Ms. Kingston. Ellen Rosings, from the tearoom?”

“Oh, yes! How nice to see you. Are you joining the Guild?”

“I'm thinking about it. Joan invited me to come and visit.”

“Lovely!” She gave me a beaming smile. “We need more younger members. Cora says we should be working to recruit, or we're in danger of dying out, ha ha!”

I didn't answer, a little shocked at such a joke so recently after Maria Garcia's death. Perhaps that hadn't occurred to Ms. Kingston.

“You mean Cora Young, right?” I said after a moment. “Is she a good friend of yours?”

“Oh, yes! We've been friends forever. She's around here somewhere.” She craned her head around, scanning the many woman stooping to tend rosebushes, then turned to me with a shrug. “Oh, well. You'll bump into her, probably. I'd better get back to work.”