A Fatal Twist of Lemon (25 page)

“That depends. Are we shopping for the tearoom?”

“No, no. I just thought of something I'd like to pick up.”

We went into the supermarket nearby, where I bought an inexpensive bouquet of flowers. Gina gave me a curious look, but didn't ask why. As we got back to her car I explained.

“I'd like to take these over to the cemetery.”

“Oh, uh-huh. For Sylvia?”

“No, for Captain Dusenberry.”

“Aw, no! I thought we were getting away from that stuff!”

“Willow told me his grave is over there. I just want to make a gesture, all right? It'll make
me
feel better.”

She sighed. “Okay, but after this no more ghost or murder stuff today, all right?”

“Deal.”

She drove up the street to the National Cemetery's entrance, then wound back down to the very back near Rosario, to where the earliest military graves were located. The National Cemetery had first been created to receive Civil War casualties, and some of the markers in that section were pretty weathered.

“Where is it?” Gina said as she parked the car.

“I don't know. I guess we should have checked the list up by the gate.”

“Want to go back?”

“No, let's just walk through and see if we can find it. It should be in the oldest part here.”

I got out of the car and held the flowers to my face for a minute, smelling spicy-sweet carnations. Gina joined me and we took off tramping across the damp, green grass, heading for the corner of the fence that separated the National Cemetery from Rosario.

“Great,” Gina said. “Just how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon.”

“Cemeteries are interesting,” I said. “Haven't you ever visited Arlington?”

“Sure, but there's a house and stuff there, and lots of cool statuary. Here the markers aren't even interesting, they're all the same.”

I strode along the first row of markers, looking for Captain Dusenberry's name. “Well, yes, because they're military. But the names are interesting–-and look at that, there's a different cross on this one.”

Gina glanced at it. “Means he was a Confederate. They all have that.”

I grinned. “Thought you weren't interested in cemeteries.”

“Yeah, but my dad dragged me to Gettysburg when I was a kid. We have a great-great-umpty-great uncle there.”

We came to the end of one row and started down the next. The day had warmed up a bit, enough that the breeze was pleasant instead of chilly and made the shadows of new leaves dance over the grass.

We paused to read the text of a large, imposing monument that turned out to be the remains of a group of Confederate soldiers who had been found buried together in Glorieta Pass, east of town. Moving moved on, we noted the time frames of various markers and the ethnicities of the names.

“Here he is,” Gina called out.

We stood before the marker and I read it aloud. “Captain Samuel Dusenberry, died April 5, 1855. I guess that's him. I should have checked his name.”

“How many Captain Dusenberrys do you think there are out here?”

“Good point.”

I slid the flowers from their plastic cover and laid them at the bottom of the grave marker, then stood silently thinking about Captain Dusenberry. Maybe I ought to try to find out more about him. Willow probably knew everything there was to know, but I was a little hesitant to talk to her about my unorthodox house guest.

Or was I his guest? He might see it that way, having been the original owner of the house.

Don't go there, Rosings, I told myself. That way lies madness.

I gazed at Captain Dusenberry's name, said, “I wish you peace,” then turned away.

Gina put an arm around me and we walked back to the car, no longer looking at the names on the markers. I glanced back when we reached Gina's Miata, and spotted my flowers peeking out a little from behind the gravestone. I noted which row it was in, and saw a gnarled cottonwood nearby that would help me remember its location. I didn't plan on making this a pilgrimage, but I might want to stop by again.

“Now,” Gina said as she drove back toward the gate, “what are you doing for dinner tonight? And don't say you're going to stay home.”

“Actually, I'm going to Nat's. She's been bugging me to come over.”

“Good. Have a fabulous time. Tomorrow night I'll take you out.”

I gazed across at her and smiled. “Darling Gina, you spoil me.”

She grinned and brushed a dark lock of hair back from her face. “That's what friends are for! You'd do the same for me if someone had been murdered in my house.”

“Two someones. Captain Dusenberry was killed there too.”

She raised a warning finger. “Ah-ah! No murder or ghost stuff!”

“Hey, you brought it up!”

“My bad. Let's go shopping.”

The rest of the day passed quickly. I followed Dr. Gina's orders and kept busy with fun stuff, easy because Dr. Gina came along as enforcer. We went back to De Vargas and cruised the stores, then drove out to Santa Fe Place and rode the carousel. After strolling through our favorite shops there we hit the nearby outlet mall for good measure, and Gina dropped me at home with a handful of shopping bags. I didn't go hog-wild, but I did splurge a little, for the first time in months.

Glancing at the clock in the kitchen as I came in, I saw that it was almost five-thirty. I had just enough time to change and drive over to Nat's place. I hurried upstairs and jumped into a rose and cream flowered broomstick skirt and an oversized sage green sweater, combed my hair loose and put on some dangly earrings.

Before leaving I checked the front door, just to make sure it was locked and there were no tell-tale notes or dead bodies on the front porch. The sun was starting to set, and the wisterias stirred in a light breeze. They were beginning to leaf out, I saw; tiny pale green fronds sprouting along the smooth gray vines. Soon the leaves would dominate and the clusters of purple flowers would fade, the vines putting out occasional blooms through the summer but not the spectacular lavender cascades that marked spring.

I had the sense that time was flying, that I was missing out on the pleasures of springtime (all too fleeting in New Mexico) because of being so busy. I resolved to take more time for stopping and smelling the roses, or the wisterias, or whatever happened to be blooming.

Deciding to start now, I unlocked the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The breeze that made the wisteria blooms tremble was cool, a warning that the evening would be chilly. I caught a spray of flowers in my hands and buried my face in them, taking in their scent.

Heady, sweet but not a simple sweetness; a fragrance with the sort of depth and complexity one might expect of the bouquet of a good wine. I had always marveled at the scent of wisterias, as well as their stunning beauty. A miracle flower.

These flowers had drawn me to them, to this house. These old vines had seen a lot of people come and go. Maybe Mrs. Dusenberry had planted them, if there was a Mrs. Dusenberry.

No ghost stuff!

I smiled, then locked up and went through the hall to the back door. Dining parlor light off, stereo quiet. I let myself out and hopped into my car, enjoying the sunset as I drove out to Tano Road.

Similar to Donna's neighborhood but much older, Tano Road is close to Opera Hill, where the Santa Fe Opera juts its dramatic silhouette into the sky northwest of town. The road runs west, more or less, and as I drove along it I enjoyed what was shaping up to be a spectacular sunset, with light spinning golden along the edges of towering clouds.

I turned down Nat's dirt driveway to twine my way up a piñon-dotted hill to her house, a half-bermed wonder of mixed flagstone and adobe, part Chacoan, part Pueblo Revival, part Santa Fe sixties. It was a comfy old jumble, facing north with views of the Jemez Mountains to the west and the Sangre de Cristos to the east.

Nat greeted me at the door, wearing a green and gold tropical print dress that reminded me of Julio, though it was more subdued than most of his outfits. She caught me in a hug.

“Thanks for coming, Ellen.”

“Thanks for letting me barge in. If I'd known you were having company I wouldn't have asked. Here, these are for you,” I said, handing her a jar of chocolate-covered bing cherries, part of my spoils from the afternoon's shopping.

“Thank you, darling! And you know I've been trying to get you for dinner for days. Come on in and say hello to the others.”

The others turned out to be Deb and Alan Carter who had been friends of my parents, Suzanne Marks who was a buddy of Nat's from the Opera Guild, and Thomas Ingraham. Manny stood out on the patio at the grill, frowning in concentration at whatever was sizzling there. He waved at me through the glass door.

“I'll fetch you a drink, dear,” said Nat, and bustled off to the kitchen. I turned to Mr. Ingraham, who looked more casual today than he had at the thank-you tea, wearing slacks and a herringbone jacket over a silk shirt.

“It's good to see you again, Mr. Ingraham.”

“Thomas, please,” he said, smiling at me over a tumbler of what looked like gin and tonic.

“Then call me Ellen. Thank you again for coming over on Wednesday, and thanks especially for mentioning the tearoom in your column. That was kind of you.”

“Well, considering the fuss the news-hounds were making over the unfortunate fate of Sylvia Carruthers, I thought you deserved a little positive press, just for the sake of balance. Next time you'll get the full going-over, though,” he warned. “No quarter.”

“I should hope not,” I said, smiling. “We'll be on our toes.”

Nat came out of a kitchen with a tray of tumblers. I accepted one and sipped. It was indeed gin and tonic. I took the lime slice off the rim of the glass and squeezed it over my drink, then dropped it in.

“Speaking of the chaos last week,” I said, “I hope the aftermath didn't trouble you too much.”

Thomas's brows rose slightly. “You mean the police? They grilled me for half an hour and decided I was harmless. Haven't heard a peep since.”

“Oh, good.”

“Fortunately I went to the paper's office immediately after I left your tearoom, and they were able to confirm that I was there by five-fifty.”

“Five-fifty?”

“Yes, the police were very nitpicky about the exact time of my arrival. My luck that the paper's receptionist answered a phone call just as I came in, and logged the time.”

I took another sip of my drink, mulling that over. Maybe I should try to reconstruct the time sequence of Wednesday's events. I glanced up and saw Thomas watching me.

“You hadn't met Sylvia before Wednesday, right?” I asked.

“Not formally. I saw her around town. You know she was quite a gadabout–-in all the historic groups, and several of the art groups. Definitely a force of nature. I've seen her brangle on more than one occasion.”

“Are you in all the same groups with her?”

“Oh, a few.” He smiled, swirling the ice in his glass. “Music is my passion, you know. I'm a member of several ‘friends of' organizations.”

“I thought food was your passion.”

“Food is my job. I'm passionate about it, but in a different way. Thank God for people like your aunt,” he added, glancing toward Nat, who was passing drinks around to the other guests.

“I agree with the sentiment, but why do you mention it?” I asked.

“Because she's one of the few people in town who's not afraid to ask a food critic over for dinner.” He looked at me with a wry smile. “I don't get many private invitations. People are worried I won't like their cooking. As if I'd publish a column about their dinner party.”

“That's terrible!” I said.

He shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”

“Well, I promise to invite you over for dinner, and not worry about your critique. Oh—but it would be in the same room we were in on Wednesday, I'm afraid! Maybe you'd prefer not to come back.”

“Nonsense, I'm not so dainty. Can't afford to be, for the reason I've just given you. And for the same reason, I'll shamelessly accept your invitation in advance.” He smiled, then tipped up his glass to get the last swallow of his drink. “Think I'll track down Natasha and get another of these. May I get you one?”

“Oh, no thanks. Still working on this.”

He strolled away and I joined the Carters and Suzanne. Alan Carter had worked with my father, and was now retired. He and his wife were both lean and sun-bronzed, with round faces creased by smile lines. In the manner of long-term couples, they had grown to look similar. Now they both welcomed me with wide, warm smiles, and gave me their congratulations on the tearoom's opening and condolences on the murder.

“Your folks would have been proud,” Alan said. “You just stand your ground, and you'll come through all right.”

“Have they figured out who did it?” Deb asked.

I shrugged. “If they have, they haven't told me.”

“You poor thing,” said Suzanne Marks, lazily stirring her drink. “It must have been just dreadful for you.”

This wasn't exactly comforting, but I smiled and thanked her. I didn't know Suzanne well, but I knew she was a good friend of Nat's. She was wearing a black velour pant and sweater set with a fuzzy fuchsia scarf, and had her auburn hair styled in a chic bob. Large chunks of turquoise were evident in all of her jewelry, though it was more modern in style than traditional.

Nat returned from a consultation with Manny to announce that dinner was served, and we all wandered into her dining room, which was filled with golden-red light from the last of the sunset. A west-facing picture window gave us a glimpse of a sky splattered with gray clouds edged in crimson.

Candles on the table lent a warm glow to the room, and we all sat down to salad, rice pilaf, and salmon steaks expertly grilled by Manny. A nice chardonnay from Gruet, a New Mexico winery, accompanied the meal. As the odd wheel, I sat between the Carters and Manny, across from Thomas Ingraham.