A Fatal Twist of Lemon (30 page)

“Call me Tony.” He looked at me, then hunched a shoulder in a shrug. “The only people who call me Detective Aragón are reporters and the top brass.”

“Okay, Tony,” I said. “Then I'm Ellen.”

We started down the hall toward the front door. “There was a girl named Ellen in my fifth grade class,” he said. “She was a total snob.”

“How unfortunate,” I said in my best Miss Manners voice.

He glanced at me sidelong and laughed. “Ah, don't get in a huff. She wasn't pretty, either.”

“This is supposed to reassure me?”

“Yeah, cause she wasn't anything like you.”

“Well, thanks, I think.”

We stopped at the front door. He turned to face me.

“I'm not great at compliments, I guess,” he said.

“Maybe you just need more practice.”

“Maybe.”

He continued to gaze at me, dark Spanish eyes under slightly drooping lids. I felt my pulse increase slightly. He opened his mouth to say something, then his cell phone went off. Muttering a curse, he pulled it off his belt and glanced at it.

“Gotta go,” he said, reaching for the door.

“Okay. Thanks again.”

“No, thank
you
,” he said, pointing the cell phone at me. It rang again and he brought it to his face as he stepped out the door. “Yeah, what is it?”

I watched him stride down the path, aware that my heart was still beating faster than it should.

Miss Manners is opposed to cell phones on the principle that they interfere with normal social interaction. I felt inclined to agree, but it wasn't until after Tony Aragón's motorcycle had disappeared down the street that I let myself wonder what would have happened if his phone hadn't rung.

 

 

 

 

16 

I
spent the afternoon puttering around the tearoom, trying to remember white wool and thinking over the murder case in general. Tony had seemed discouraged about it, and it was hard not to pick up the feeling.

The fact that the police lab hadn't been able to match the fibers to any of the clothing they'd collected brought back the possibility that anyone could have snuck into the dining parlor through the outside door. There would have been a slight risk of being seen from the kitchen window, but it was feasible.

At around four I went to the butler's pantry to make myself a pot of tea, and while I waited for the kettle to boil I tried to imagine myself a cold-hearted killer bent on taking down Sylvia Carruthers. I spied on Sylvia to find out where she would be and when, and chose the tearoom as the best place to kill her.

Why the tearoom and not somewhere else? Because I knew when she'd be there, and I knew I could sneak in the back door. How did I know what room she'd be in? Well, I didn't. I just took a chance (reasonable) that the hostess was having her party in the dining parlor. How did I know I'd be able to catch Sylvia alone? I didn't, but trusting in my own luck and ingenuity, I donned my white wool coat (not very inconspicuous, but oh well), and crept up to the back of the tearoom an hour and a half after the party began, to await my opportunity to strike.

With no weapon. I knew she liked big fancy necklaces, so I planned in advance to use whatever one she was wearing to strangle her.

As a logical scenario it pretty well stank. Maybe I wasn't cut out for this kind of speculation.

The kettle boiled. I emptied the warm water from my favorite hydrangea chintz teapot, put in tea leaves and poured hot water over them, the fragrant, flowery scent of Darjeeling rising with the steam. While it steeped I made myself a sandwich, shamelessly raiding Julio's refrigerator for bread, lettuce, and the last little bit of leftover pâté.

I glanced at the kitchen window a few times while I moved around in there, confirming that one mostly couldn't see the porch and the dining parlor door. Someone crossing the backyard and the little parking area would be taking a greater risk of being seen. Maybe the killer had come around the north side of the house, near the lilacs, and slipped onto the porch from there.

I took my tea and sandwich, plus a couple of leftover petits fours and a small bunch of grapes, upstairs to sitting area by the window at the front of the house. I had put some of my favorite ornaments from my parents' house around the area—southwestern stuff that didn't fit with the Victoriana downstairs—things I loved and remembered from childhood, like an old mudhead kachina and a pottery frog we had picked up on a trip down to Mexico.

The frog had a big, gaping mouth that glowed mysteriously when lit by a candle inside. I remembered being entranced by it at evening patio parties as a little girl, a magical arch of flickering golden candlelight, the frog itself invisible in the darkness.

Now, afternoon sunlight streamed in the window and the frog sat dark, hiding in the shadow behind the drapes. I left the gauze curtains closed to soften the light a bit, and was still able to bask in the radiant warmth while I relaxed with my tea.

It had now been five days since Sylvia's murder. I mulled over my previous speculations. I still kept coming back to Donna, or Donna with Vince's help, as the most likely killer. Donna seemed to have the best motivation for the crime. Tony had dismissed the idea of a conspiracy, but it still niggled at me as a possibility.

I sat musing about it for a long while, then I poured myself a last cup of tea, emptying the teapot, and leaned back with a sigh. Tony had been right, I decided. A conspiracy implied advance planning, and it would be poor planning to commit a murder in a public place and without the preparedness of having a weapon.

If I was going to murder someone at a tea party, I'd drop arsenic in their tea. I shivered at the thought, and realized it had been a worry in the back of my mind. For a moment I wondered if Sylvia could have been the victim of a multiple attack murder
à
la
Orient Express
. I dismissed it, though. The autopsy would have revealed poison, and Tony would no doubt have bullied me and my staff with obnoxious questions if anything like that had shown up.

So, not Vince and Donna. Maybe Donna alone? But again, if she was in a mood to kill her mother, she could have planned it better.

Vince alone? But why?

Because he and Sylvia both wanted to buy the house where he was planning to open his gallery?

A shiver went down my spine. It seemed unreasonable to commit murder over a house, but then, they'd both wanted it badly enough to bid up the price.

And then the sale had fallen through, and Vince had gotten the house for less money. Because Sylvia had died.

I put down my teacup and fetched my cell phone, sitting back down again in the sunshine to place a call to Claudia Pearson at the Santa Fe Preservation Trust. The receptionist put me through and Claudia answered after a brief wait.

“This is Claudia Pearson,” she said, her voice sounding a bit stressed.

“It's Ellen Rosings. I hope I'm not calling at a bad time.”

“No, no. It's just busy, is all, but it's always busy here. What can I do for you?”

“I have a question about the house Mrs. Carruthers wanted to buy for the Trust. I found out who the other buyer was, the one who eventually got the house.”

“Oh, yes. Vince Margolan.”

“You knew about it?”

“Yes, that real estate man who was at your opening told me. I was curious so I went back and checked Sylvia's file on the project. She'd made notes on a call she received from Mr. Margolan after she made an offer on the house. He wasn't very polite about it, even though Sylvia had assured him we wouldn't raise the rent.”

I felt a rush of disappointment. “Oh. That was my question—what did she plan for the Trust to do with the house?”

“Nothing different. Sylvia had already drawn up an agreement for him stating he'd be able to use the house as a gallery. Basically the terms were the same as in the preservation easement we had from the owner.”

I knew what a preservation easement was, because I had one with the Trust myself, for the tearoom. It stated that I retained ownership of the property and the Trust would bear the responsibility for its historic preservation.

“Of course,” Claudia went on, “if the Trust had succeeded in acquiring the house he was leasing, we'd still have been responsible for its maintenance. Sylvia only drafted the agreement to reassure him that the terms of his lease wouldn't change. It really was a nice deal for him. I don't know why he didn't take it.”

“Probably would have cost him less than buying the house,” I mused.

“Definitely.”

I frowned at the gauze curtains before me, aglow with late sunlight that was starting to get a tinge of gold. Why had Vince refused Sylvia's generous deal? Because he wanted to own the house and not rent it was all I could think of, but it meant much higher costs for him. It didn't make sense that he'd kill her just to own the house when she was willing to let him keep leasing it for his gallery.

“So, now that Vince owns the house, you have the same preservation easement with him, right?” I asked.

I heard a rustle of papers over the phone. “Yes, the easement is binding on all future owners of the property. I haven't gotten around to calling him about setting up the annual inspection. It's one of the things I need to get to. I'm still catching up on Sylvia's projects.”

I tried to think of any hitch that could mess up a preservation easement. “What happens if Vince doesn't like the terms of the easement?”

“Too bad. They're recorded in an easement deed that's legally enforceable.”

I nodded, remembering the copy of my own easement deed that was filed with the rest of my papers on the house. Maybe I should go find it and read it again, but I was lazy.

“Could you remind me of the sort of terms that might be in the deed?”

“Sure. Basically, in exchange for benefits such as breaks on property and estate taxes, the owner agrees on behalf of himself and all future owners not to make alterations that impact the historic character of the property, and we agree to bear the cost and responsibility of maintaining the property's historic character. We can take any owner of the property to court to prevent him violating the deed.”

“Did you say estate taxes?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you could have a preservation easement with a private property owner? I mean, someone who owned an historic residence?”

“Sure. That's one of the reasons for our existence, to help make sure owners of historic properties don't have to sell them to pay taxes. Estate taxes particularly can be a nasty setback for private homeowners. Of course, it all depends on the current policy in a given year.”

My throat tightened slightly. Where were you when Tony's grandparents had to sell their house? I thought, but didn't say it. It had probably been years after the Aragóns had lost their home by the time Sylvia founded the Santa Fe Preservation Trust.

“Did you have someone in mind?” Claudia asked.

“Uh, no. I was just wondering. Thank you for taking the time to answer all my silly questions.”

“Any time, and they're not silly questions. Which reminds me, Shelly pulled the file on your house. There's a note about Captain Dusenberry's murder, but it's very brief. Apparently the murderer was never caught.”

Restless ghost. Seeking justice?

Or Willow, trying to convince me of his presence? I kind of doubted that, and despite my discomfort, I was starting to consider asking her what she knew about the captain's murder. It would be faster than doing the research myself, or having Kris do it.

“I see,” I said. “Thank you.”

“We'll mail you a copy. Thank you for the donation in Sylvia's memory, by the way. I hope the tearoom's doing well.”

“So far so good. Drop by when you have time.”

“I will, thanks.”

We said goodbye and I sat thinking for a while, then picked up my tea things and took them downstairs to wash up. Like Tony, I had pretty much reached a dead end with my speculations. I gave up and spent the evening reading until I was yawning too much to see what was on the page.