A Fatal Twist of Lemon (20 page)

Donna was sitting in the front pew, her hair looking reddish beneath a small, modern black hat. Her dress was black also, but with white polka dots. Two other women sat with her, neither of whom I recognized.

As the music built to a shimmering crescendo, I saw Claudia come in carrying a folded sheet of paper. She gave me a fleeting smile as she continued to the front and sat across the aisle from Donna. Wondering what had become of Manny, I looked around toward the door and saw Detective Aragón standing against the wall at the back of the chapel, wearing a dark suit and black raincoat instead of his motorcycle leathers.

My heart gave an unpleasant lurch and I quickly faced forward again. A moment later Manny squeezed into the pew beside us, and shortly the mass began.

What was Aragón doing there? I wondered. Cops on television attended funerals to observe suspicious behavior, but maybe he was merely paying respect to Sylvia.

I frowned and tried to put him out of my mind. I didn't like the thought of him behind me, watching everyone in the chapel, taking note of which suspects were present. I couldn't help thinking his eyes were on me.

The service was simple, delivered by Sylvia's priest who had known her for decades and could actually talk about her life with understanding and intelligence. He spoke of her charity and her devotion to Santa Fe's history, then invited Claudia Pearson to give the eulogy. Claudia came forward and unfolded her page of notes, from which she read a short speech about Sylvia's work with the Santa Fe Preservation Trust.

Donna had not felt up to giving the eulogy, then. I wasn't surprised. Whatever her relationship with her mother, she must be upset by Sylvia's death, especially the manner of it. I remembered how hard I had found it to give the eulogy at my own mother's funeral, and when Dad had died so soon afterward I'd been so crushed I was unable to say anything at all, and had left the task to my brother.

Claudia finished speaking and returned to her seat, and the priest went on with the mass. When the time came for communion, Manny went forward while I sat listening to the music with Nat clinging to my hand.

I glanced back at Detective Aragón, curious whether he intended to take communion. Apparently not, for he hadn't moved from his place against the wall. He looked my way and I faced forward again, trying to pretend he wasn't there.

When the mass ended Donna stood up and walked out at once, looking composed if slightly pale, with her friends close behind. The pall bearers carried out the casket and the congregation began to disperse, spilling out of the chapel into the chilly sunshine of a spring afternoon. Manny, Nat, and I didn't go to the graveside, choosing instead to remain in front of the chapel. A small cluster of people gathered around the grave. I could see Donna's polka-dot dress.

Beyond them a fence marked the division between Rosario Cemetery and the much larger National Cemetery. I could see rows of military markers on the rising slope in the distance, bright white against the green grass. Nearer by, in the oldest part of the cemetery, the gravestones were less regular and showed evidence of age. Mature cottonwood trees, just now leafing out, cast restless dappled shadows over the markers.

I remembered Willow's suggestion that I visit Captain Dusenberry's grave if I wanted to make peace. That advice seemed a little less ludicrous now.

Katie and Bob Hutchins made their way over to us. Katie looked sad and a little tired, but gave me a small smile.

“Wasn't that a lovely service?” she said.

Nat nodded. “I like that photo of Sylvia they had on display. I hadn't seen it before. Maybe Donna would lend it to me so I could get it copied.”

We stood chatting for a few minutes, Nat and Katie exchanging reminiscences. I glimpsed Detective Aragón hovering nearby and ignored him. Finally Donna and her friends climbed into a limousine and were driven away.

Manny went off to fetch his car while Nat and I said goodbye to the Hutchinses. As Katie shook my hand she leaned close and hissed in my ear.

“What's that man doing here?”

I knew who she meant without having to follow her glance. “Paying his respects, I guess.”

“Rather unfeeling of him to intrude! What must poor Donna have thought?”

Having no idea what she thought, I just shrugged. Katie went off with Bob, and Nat and I walked forward to meet Manny, who had joined the line of cars picking up passengers in front of the chapel. I opened the front door for Nat and helped her in, then stepped to the back door. Before I could open it a man's hand reached for the handle, blocking my way.

I looked up in surprise and found Detective Aragón gazing back at me. A rush of resentment made me say the first thought in my head.

“I'm surprised to see you here, Detective.”

“I could say the same to you. Thought you didn't know Mrs. Carruthers that well.”

“I didn't, but she was a friend of my aunt's,” I said, nodding toward the front seat of the car. “And in any case, I have good reason to be here. Without Mrs. Carruthers's help I wouldn't have been able to open the tearoom.”

He stood still, slightly frowning as he appraised me with his dark gaze, then at last opened the car door. I got in, maintaining my dignity with an attitude of cold formality.

“Thank you,” I said, then used fastening my seat belt as an excuse to turn away.

Detective Aragón closed the door and stood watching as Manny drove us away. Not until the car pulled out onto Paseo de Peralta did I relax. I only half heard Nat's repeated thanks to me for coming with them.

“Do you have to get back to the tearoom right away,” she said, “or can you come to Donna's with us? We're only planning to stay a little while.”

“Sure, I'll come with you.”

I was curious to see more of Donna, and to see her home. So much of one's personality is expressed in one's residence. I also admitted to myself that I wanted to observe her behavior. As bad as Detective Arrogant, I told myself.

Donna lived in Colinas Verdas, one of several developments on the northwest side of town, out of the city proper. As Manny drove through the countryside, over and between hills dotted with piñon and juniper trees, I marveled at how many new and expensive-looking houses had been built in the area. Santa Fe attracts money, and a lot of it was out here, where the lots were anywhere from two to twenty acres in size and offered sweeping vistas.

Donna's home was very modern, with lots of steel and huge windows, perched on top of a hill. Cars jammed the gravel driveway and spilled out onto the street. Manny parked, and the three of us walked together up the steep drive.

Inside, the house was just as angular and modern as it appeared from outside. The front door opened onto a small entryway, which in turn led to a large, high-ceilinged living room filled with chattering people, most of whom I didn't know.

Donna seemed to favor chrome and glass, and her decorating was austere. The only color was on the white walls, in the form of vivid abstract paintings. She had a lot of them, along with the occasional piece of abstract sculpture.

Donna stood near a gas fireplace whose artificial logs were cold and dark. A largish group of people surrounded her, having what appeared to be an animated discussion. Deciding to wait a little for a better opportunity to pay my respects, I offered to fetch Nat a drink and found my way into the kitchen.

It was huge, almost as large as the tearoom's commercial kitchen, and almost everything in it was brushed steel. People were chatting in here, too, though in a more relaxed way as they grazed from plates of elegant finger food on a long, granite-topped counter.

The food caught my eye—professional interest—and I was intrigued.  It looked rather like abstract sculpture, so ornate that it must have been catered. I wished Julio could see it, not because I wanted such food in the tearoom but because I thought it would amuse him.

I took a celery stick filled with a piped squiggle of pimiento cream cheese from a silver Nambé ware platter on which identical-length sticks were arranged with military precision. I half expected a waiter to rush to replace my celery and repair the design.

I did spy a young woman a little older than my servers, in black slacks and formal white shirt with her hair pulled back into a businesslike ponytail, collecting abandoned wine glasses from the windowsills of the adjacent dining nook. I nodded when she glanced up at me; she gave me a brief smile in return. I poured cups of soda for myself and Nat and wandered back out to the living room.

Donna had taken a seat on a white leather sofa. I gave Nat her drink and strolled toward Donna, hoping to get a moment to say hello. Seated beside her was a painfully thin redheaded woman in a fuchsia dress, talking a mile a minute.

“—really a shame you missed it! The First Lady was there and everyone thought the Frankenthaler was fabulous! Come by the gallery before Friday and you'll see what I mean, though of course all the best pieces have sold but you might find something you like. It's an outstanding show, really!”

The woman paused to take a breath and I stepped forward, smiling at Donna. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

Donna looked up with a slight frown. “Oh, thank you. Thank you for coming, Ms…”

“Rosings. Ellen Rosings.”

“Right, from the tearoom.”

The woman in fuchsia stared at me as if Donna had announced I was from the moon. I acknowledged her presence with a fleeting smile, then turned my attention back to Donna.

“Your mother helped me accomplish my goals. I really wouldn't have succeeded without her. I want you to know that I'll always remember her generosity.”

Donna pressed her lips together in a thin smile. Her gaze shifted to Nat and Manny, who had come up beside me. Nat reached out a hand toward Donna, who took it briefly.

“Donna, dear, I'm so sorry,” Nat said, shaking her head. “Sylvia was a good woman.”

“Thank you,” Donna said.

“Did she live here with you?” Manny asked.

“Oh, no. She had an old ramshackle place on Otero Street. It belongs to the Trust now.”

“She left her house to the Preservation Trust?” I asked.

Donna turned a flat gaze on me. “Actually she gave it to them years ago, after my father died. She kept living there, but she signed the house over to the Trust. I guess she was afraid I'd try to update the plumbing or put in double-pane windows, God forbid.”

“She did care passionately about historic buildings,” Nat said.

“Yes.”

The silence stretched for an awkward moment. The roomful of strangers stared at me and my aunt, and Donna's hard gaze dared Nat to say more.

At last a young man in a black suit with a shock of blond hair hanging over one eye came up and, as though we weren't there, started chatting to Donna about a movie he'd seen at the local art theater. Donna looked at him and nodded, the tension gone from her face. Nat and I moved away, and Manny drifted after us.

“Did you want to talk to anyone else?” I asked Nat.

She looked around the room. Most of the guests were closer to my age than to hers.

“I guess not. I don't see any of Sylvia's friends here.”

“Maybe they knew—” I caught myself about to say that Sylvia and Donna didn't get along.

“What?” Nat asked.

“Nothing. I'm ready to go whenever you are.”

Nat looked at Manny. “Let's go, then. I could use some lunch in a quiet place. Do you have time to join us?” she asked, turning to me.

“Um, not today if you don't mind. I have a couple of things I need to get done.”

I didn't tell her that they involved trying to figure out who had killed Sylvia, and why. Seeing Donna had reminded me that I wanted to find out what she and Sylvia had been talking about before Donna left the tearoom on Wednesday. I'd been meaning to ask Vince Margolan about it, but he hadn't come to the grand opening or to Sylvia's funeral. I'd half expected to see him at the funeral or at Donna's. I decided to drop by his gallery and say hello, and see what he could tell me.

A breeze stirred the wisterias as I hurried up the path and stepped onto the tearoom's porch after Manny and Nat dropped me off. I turned to wave goodbye, then went in to check on things before walking over to Vince's.

All was quiet at the hostess stand. One customer was browsing in the gift shop, there were a couple of parties in the main parlor, and Dee told me three groups were coming in at four.

“Julio's saying he might go home early,” she added.

“Okay, thanks.”

I went back to the kitchen to see Julio, who was sitting at the break table by the fireplace, poring over a cookbook. He looked up as I came in.

“How was the funeral?”

“Quite nice, as funerals go. I hear you'd like to leave early.”

“Yeah, if you don't mind. Andre wants me to come to the Bistro and try his dessert.”

“I don't mind at all. You did a great job yesterday, and I know you worked extra hard. The strawberry puffs were a huge hit, by the way.”

He grinned and closed his cookbook, tucking it away on a shelf with dozens of others. “Thanks. See you Tuesday morning.”

“Right. Have a great weekend.”

He tossed a smile at me over his shoulder as he hung up his chef's jacket. I locked the kitchen door behind him then went back out into the hall, glancing at the dining parlor door as I passed. No light beneath it, I was pleased to see.

“I'm going out for a few minutes,” I told Dee, as I tucked a couple of scones into a box. “Just across the street.”

“OK. To the B and B?”

“No, to Mr. Margolan's gallery. It's in that little brick house, catty-corner to the north.”

The house was a pleasant one, with the rambling construction of a building that has grown as its residents prospered. No Victorian lines here, though it was made of brick, an indication of the wealth of its builder, and that it was probably built after the railroad had come through in the 1880's. Brick would have been too expensive to import before then, which was why my house, though Victorian in design, was built of adobe.