A Fatal Twist of Lemon

 

A Fatal Twist of Lemon

 

 

 

Patrice Greenwood

 

 

 

 

Evennight Books

Cedar Crest, New Mexico

 

 

A Fatal Twist of Lemon

copyright
©
2012 by Patrice Greenwood

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

 

ISBN: 978-1-61138-183-2

Published by Evennight Books, Cedar Crest, New Mexico, an affiliate of Book View Caf
é

 

Editorial team:  Sherwood Smith, Jennifer Stevenson, Judith Tarr

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

 

for the St. James Tearoom

 

 

 

 

My heartfelt thanks to the following people for their invaluable assistance with this novel:  to Sherwood Smith, Jennifer Stevenson, and Judith Tarr for editorial advice; to Ken and Marilyn Dusenberry, Sally Gwylan, Kathy Kitts, Pari Noskin, D. Lynn Smith, and Jerry Weinberg for their thoughtful input, and to Chris Krohn for his untiring support. Thanks also to the members of Book View Caf
é for their help with a thousand little details of bringing out a book, and to the founders and staff of the St. James Tearoom for inspiring me to write this story.

 

 

 

1

T
he first day my tearoom opened was wonderful—mostly. Funny how life can go swimmingly one moment, and fall to pieces the next.

The sun was starting to dip toward the west, filtered by the wisteria vines on the front porch, as
I bade my guests farewell
. My thank-you tea party had been a success, and the butterflies in my stomach had mostly settled down. After months of hard work, the Wisteria Tearoom was ready for its official grand opening celebration in two days.

“The tea was marvelous, Ellen! Come for dinner tomorrow,” said my aunt Nat, giving me a big hug.

“Oh … I've got so much to do—”

“And you won't get it done if you don't take a rest now and then. Say ‘Yes, thank you,' like a good girl.”

“Yes, thank you,” I said meekly.

Nat smiled. “Six o'clock.”

I waved farewell to her and her perennial beau Manny Salazar, whose produce business was one of my suppliers. With a grateful sigh, I went inside and started toward the kitchen.

Claudia Pearson—a tall, older woman with snowy hair drawn into a tight bun and an aristocratic Roman nose, who always reminded me of Georgia O'Keeffe—stood in the hall putting on her gloves. She and Sylvia Carruthers, both from the Santa Fe Preservation Trust, were my most important guests at the thank-you tea. In fact, I'd come up with the party as a way of acknowledging them. Without their help, I wouldn't have been able to open the tearoom.

“Did Mrs. Carruthers go already?” I asked Claudia, who seemed in no hurry to leave.

“No, she hasn't come out.”

We both looked toward the private dining parlor at the back of the tearoom, which doubled as a conference room and was where the tea had taken place. Vi, one of my servers, a stunning Juno of a girl with a tumble of flaming curls barely confined by a lavender ribbon, stepped out of the pantry across the hall, carrying an empty tray.

“Maybe she forgot something,” I said to Claudia. “I'll go and see.”

I went to the dining parlor door with Vi close on my heels. Dusk gathered at the windows and French doors, pushed back by the golden pool of light from the chandelier. I stopped short just inside the doorway.

Sylvia Carruthers lay sprawled on the floor beside the table, her huge heishi necklace tight around her throat, eyes bulging and her face a livid purple.

My heart gave a terrified thump.

“Vi, call an ambulance! Hurry!”

Vi made a small, startled sound, then disappeared. I rushed to Sylvia, dropping to my knees.

I lifted her by the shoulders and pulled her necklace loose. It wasn't easy—the heishi was practically embedded in her neck. As I tugged at it, some of the strands broke, sending tiny yellow beads dancing across the wood floor, a delicate waterfall of sound.

Sylvia didn't breathe. She didn't move. I tried to find a pulse, but there was none.

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

Things seemed to happen in flashes after that. I remember Claudia Pearson standing over me, saying something wry, then taking out her cell phone.

I did what I could to revive Sylvia, but I knew in my heart it was hopeless. Paramedics arrived in mere moments and confirmed that Sylvia was beyond help. I felt guilty and appalled and terribly, terribly sad. I also felt apprehensive, especially when the police began to invade.

Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.

Sylvia's last words to me echoed in my mind. I'd intended to honor her with this celebration. Instead…

The police wanted to talk to everyone. Vi and the other two servers, my chef Julio, and dishwasher Mick gathered in the kitchen where I asked them to wait. All young—college age—and looking rather shocked. I was not their peer, but I felt more divided from them than ever now as they clustered together, talking in low voices. I wished I could think of something to say to reassure them, but I was feeling none too assured myself.

Claudia remained, having called to cancel the meeting she and Sylvia had been headed for. I took her to wait in the Iris alcove in the tearoom's main parlor. With a resigned expression, she made herself comfortable in a blue velvet wing chair by the embers of the fire.

“Would you like tea, or have you had your fill?” I asked her.

“A pot of tea would be welcome, since I'm likely to be here a while.”

“I'll get it.  Oh—should I call Donna?” I said, remembering Sylvia's daughter, who had also been at the party. The thought of calling her dismayed me, but it could be considered my duty as hostess.

“I've already done so,” Claudia said.

I breathed relief. “Thank you. I'm afraid I'm a bit distracted.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow. “You've had a shock. Why don't you sit down?”

“I will, as soon as I…”

I stepped out into the hall and nearly collided with a police officer. She shot me an irritated glance, then headed toward the dining parlor with heavy, clumping steps.

Flashes of red and blue light spun down the hallway, reflecting on the polished oak floor. I felt a wave of dread for what this might do to my business.

I went to the kitchen. Julio had made a pot of coffee, normally anathema in the tearoom, but I was in no state to object at the moment.

The staff were all sitting around the small wooden table at the back of the kitchen with mugs in their hands. Vi huddled forward, cupping both hands around her mug, looking shell-shocked. Julio got up and reached for a fresh mug when he saw me come in.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I'm going to make some tea.”

Dee, one of the servers, jumped up, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I'll make it. What kind?”

“Assam,” I said, choosing a tea with a warm and malty flavor, one I associate with comfort. “And two cups, please. Bring them to Iris.”

Dee hurried to the butler's pantry. Her brother, Mick, the dishwasher, got up and followed her. Iz, the third in my trio of servers, a shy and soft-spoken Indian girl from Tesuque Pueblo, looked up at me, then laid a hand on Vi's back and started rubbing it.

“We going to be here a while, boss?” Julio asked. He was still in his white chef's jacket, but had unbuttoned the collar and freed his curling black hair from the hairnet and his customary colorful cap.

I swallowed. “I'm afraid so.”

“I'll make some sandwiches.”

“Bless you. And thank you for making the coffee, Julio.”

“Cops drink coffee,” he said, pouring the last of the pot into his mug and setting about to make more.

I smiled a little, thinking that cops probably didn't usually drink coffee of the quality Julio made. We'd had a tussle about that; I didn't want the tearoom to be pervaded by the aroma of coffee. Julio had promised not to make it during business hours, but he insisted on being able to have coffee early in the day while he was baking. Then he'd offered me some of his favorite Colombian blend, and I had given in.

Returning to the hall, I found more police arriving, bringing equipment into the house. I tried talking to them, offering to help, but they made it plain I was just in the way.

I glanced into the dining parlor, saw the flowers and crystal and china still on the table—phantoms of the pleasant tea party—but the room was filled with police wielding cameras and other paraphernalia. A flash blinded me and I stepped back, blinking.

The front door stood open, and a sharp breeze blew in along with harsher strobing lights from the emergency vehicles outside. Shivering, I went back to Iris to check on Claudia.

Dee was on her knees before the fireplace, building up the fire. She looked like something straight out of a Victorian painting, golden light from new flames glowing on her pale hair, white apron, and lavender dress. Such a lovely, comforting sight in the midst of all this chaos.

“Thank you, Dee,” I said. “It was getting cold in here.”

She gave me a small smile and stood, dusting her hands. Her gaze shifted to the hall, where police were coming and going, and intensified with interest. She went out, leaving me with Claudia, my last remaining guest.

A tea tray sat on the low table, with cups and saucers, milk and sugar. Hostess instinct kicked in, giving me something to do.

I seated myself across from Claudia. As I lifted the teapot, the lid rattled. My hands were shaking.

“Why don't you let me pour,” said Claudia.