Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (15 page)

When I called Manny, I could hear him grinning through the ionosphere. “How’s your head, chica?”

“Fine. How about yours?”

“Eh, all I had was beer. Still want those peaches?”

“Yes. Got any raspberries?”

“Not yet. Give it a couple of weeks.”

“How about oranges?”

“Always. How many?”

I gave him the whole list, and he promised to deliver it the next morning. We chatted a little more, then I pleaded work and said goodbye.

I headed down to the kitchen and got out an apron. “What can I help with?”

Julio looked up from measuring flour. “Stir that pot on the stove.”

I washed my hands and went over to stir. The pot held a syrupy liquid that had a familiar, deep, rich smell. “Assam?”

“Yes, that’s the syrup for the cakes.”

The afternoon flew by while I learned how to make Aria Cakes. We finished two batches and the cake layers for a third. Julio moved on to his orange scones, delegating the curd to me. I was rather proud that he trusted me with it.

The kitchen filled with the fragrance of oranges and the sharp tang of zested rind. Julio rolled out and cut two dozen scones and stowed them in the freezer, then stuck two scones in the oven and started a batch of our regular currant scones.

At that point, a knock on the back door made me look up from stirring curd. Through the window I saw Ramon Garcia outside, standing by the kitchen door, his black hair loose over the shoulders of a red tee-shirt with silhouettes of flamenco dancers on the front. I hurried to let him in.

“Ramon, thank you for coming. You know Julio.”

They traded nods and greetings in Spanish. I stepped to the stove and gave the curd a last stir, then moved it aside, covered the pot, and turned off the burner.

“Come on upstairs and sign a W-4 for me.”

He followed me up to my office, where I offered him the guest chair.

“Sorry about the heat,” I said, going around behind the desk.

“Better than the kitchen at Vaquero.”

As I sat, I noticed that my phone had messages. I glanced at it, saw that the most recent call was from Tony, and set it aside.

“You’ve worked at El Vaquero?”

“Summers, yeah. Washing dishes and bussing.”

“Well, I appreciate your willingness to help us out on short notice.”

“I was surprised when Rosa said you wanted me.”

“Oh? Why?”

He looked down and his cheeks colored slightly. “Because of the trespassing.”

I watched him, recalling the occasions early in the summer when he and some Goth-wannabee friends (I couldn’t think of them as real Goths, not with Kris working for me) had come poking around in my back yard looking for signs of Captain Dusenberry. Ramon seemed contrite.

“Well, it hasn’t happened since we talked,” I said. “I’m satisfied.”

I printed out a W-4 for him and pushed it across the desk, along with a pen. He stared at them briefly, then met my gaze. “Thanks.”

I smiled. “You’re welcome. Later in the summer, when this rush is over, I’d like to talk to you about coming to play here now and then.”

His eyes widened and he straightened in the chair. “That would be great!”

“It might not be until fall—we’ll have to see how the rest of summer goes.”

“That’s fine, but if it’s fall it’ll have to be weekends. I’ll be back at UNM.” He grabbed the pen and started filling out the form. “Rosa’s always talking about how great this place is. She really loves working here.”

“I’m glad. We love having her.”

I asked him a couple more questions and offered him the same rate that I paid Mick. He agreed to it, and to coming in at ten in the morning to get a head start on the dishes. Mick didn’t usually arrive until one.

“In the morning it will mostly be food-prep stuff, but about midday you’ll start to get china. You’ll want to do that separately from the cooking things.”

He nodded. “Rosa said you have fancy dishes.”

“The teapots are the trickiest. Let’s go back down and I’ll show you the machine.”

The commercial dishwashing station was full of clean china, Mick’s last load from Saturday night. I showed Ramon where the teapots, cups, and saucers were stored in the butler’s pantry. He helped me unload the machine, and I watched how he handled the china. He was careful enough to allay any fears I had.

“Shall I do these?” he asked, waving toward Julio’s and my accumulation of baking miscellany.

“Sure. Let’s get you a timecard, though.”

Duly checked in, he set to work on the bowls, measuring cups, and baking sheets with an air of confidence that could only have come from experience. I silently thanked my lucky stars. It looked like Ramon was a find.

I walked over to Julio. “Need anything more from me?”

“Just your opinion.” He handed me a small plate on which rested an orange scone, still warm from the oven. I broke it open and took a bite.

“Mmm. Oh, that’s lovely.”

“I’m thinking about sprinkling some coarse sugar over the top. Give it a little extra texture.”

“That sounds perfect.” I got out a spoon and scooped up some of the orange curd, which I spread on the other half of the scone. As I bit into it, the double-dose of orange made me close my eyes. “Fabulous. Great idea, Julio!”

“Thanks.”

I looked at him, and saw the small smile of satisfaction that I knew meant he was pleased with himself. Julio had a high opinion of his skill—justified, I thought—but he tended to keep it to himself.

“All right. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

The orange scone was gone by the time I made it to my office. In the privacy of that sanctum, I licked the curd from the plate, then set it aside and looked through my messages.

Willow Lane, then two from Tony. I called him back, and he answered at once.

“Hey, there. Steak tonight?”

I glanced at the clock: almost five. “Depends on when.”

“Seven-thirty?”

“Sold. Casual dress?”

“Yeah. I don’t have time to go change. See you then.”

I called Willow and got her voicemail. I really needed to look up her tour schedule and find a likely time to call her. I surfed to her website and scanned the list of current tours. One was the tour that stopped at the tearoom, and I saw that it was scheduled to come on Tuesday afternoon. I called Willow back and left a second message, explaining that the parlor wouldn’t be available for her tour to visit that afternoon, or any time during the week.

I felt a little bad about that, but we’d had a couple of booked-solid days earlier in July, and Willow had agreed to keep her tour on the
portal
then. I hoped she wouldn’t mind doing that again. Made a mental note to ask Julio to bake some extra cookies for the tour guests.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I was tired, and we hadn’t even been open that day. This was going to be a long week.

Mozart flitted through my head—the same elusive phrase. I opened my eyes and realized that I was still wearing an apron.

With a small groan, I got up and carried my scone plate back downstairs. Ramon saw me come in and came forward to take it from me. He didn’t put it in the machine, but set it aside with the teapot I’d used that morning.

“I’ll do those when this load is done.”

I untied my apron. “No, it’s after five. Just leave this running and go on home. And thanks for staying to work.”

A sudden smile lit his face. “No problem.”

I glanced toward Julio, who was putting a tray of currant scones into the freezer. He closed it and looked at me.

“That’s it. Should give us a head start. See you in the morning.”

I nodded, hanging up my apron. “Thank you, Julio.”

“De nada.” He turned to Ramon. “You too, primo. Mañana.”

“Mañana.”

They bumped fists, then Ramon went to the regular sink and started washing the teapot by hand. I watched Julio go out, then walked over to Ramon.

“I forgot to mention that Julio might need your help with some of the food prep. Would you mind doing that when you’re not washing dishes?”

“That’s cool. I used to make tortilla chips at Vaquero.”

“Great. Thanks. He’ll tell you what he needs.”

I tidied the pantry while Ramon finished the teapot and my plate, then I saw him out and locked the door behind him. Gathered up the aprons and towels from the day’s cooking and stuffed them in the washer. Headed back upstairs for a quick shower and change.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d gone up and down the stairs that day. At least my calves would be in good shape.

In the shower, I indulged in a double-handful of my favorite jasmine-scented body wash, scrubbed myself all over, then stood with the hot water pounding my shoulders for a long time. When I emerged I was relaxed, if not entirely energized.

I pulled out a lightweight sweater of soft green cashmere and my favorite pair of jeans. Not knowing whether Tony would let me drive or insist on my riding with him on his bike, I put on sneakers and grabbed a tweed coat that had been my father’s. It was a little big on me, but comfy and had lots of pockets. I slid my wallet into one, cell phone and lip gloss into another, and declared myself ready.

The back doorbell rang as I was coming down the stairs. I hurried the last few steps and saw Tony peering in through the lights around the back door. I opened it and invited him in.

“If you’re ready, let’s just go,” he said. “That steak is calling me.”

I stepped out and locked the door. “Shall I drive?”

“Sure.”

He glanced at me as he buckled his seat belt. “Ever been to The Farm House?”

“No. Is it as rustic as it sounds?”

“It’s not fancy, but the food is good.”

“Sold.”

He directed me to drive to the south side of town. The Farm House turned out to be not far from the police station, in a building that had housed some other restaurant and been redecorated to look barn-like. I was skeptical, but when we went in, the savory aromas of grilled meat and fried potatoes reassured me.

We were seated by a window and given chips and salsa. To keep myself from spoiling my appetite, I broke a tortilla chip into tiny pieces to nibble. Micro-chips, I thought, grinning to myself.

“Margarita?” Tony asked when the waiter requested our drink order.

I looked up from perusing a list of local micro-brews. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Frozen?” the waiter asked.

“Rocks. With salt.”

He went away, and I ate a micro-chip. “How’s the investigation going?”

Tony sighed. “Tedious. Spent all day yesterday going through the props room, looking for the murder weapon. You know they have like ten thousand props?”

“I knew it was a lot. Five productions.”

“And they’re all numbered and cataloged. Our evidence room should be so organized.”

“Did you find the weapon?”

He shook his head and shoveled salsa into his mouth with a chip. I ate another micro-chip.

“I assumed it was Tosca’s knife,” I said, “but I guess that doesn’t make sense.”

“No. All the prop knives are dulled. And Tosca’s knife is too big, anyway.”

“Too big?”

“The M.E. said the weapon was a small knife. Very sharp.”

“Like a pocket knife?”

“Maybe.”

“Jeez. That could be anywhere.”

“Yeah. When we didn’t find it on the grounds, we were hoping the murderer ditched it with the props, but no luck. I spent an hour looking at switchblades.”

“Switchblades?”

“Yeah. They’re using them in
Cesar Chavez
. Whoever had the idea of writing an opera about him?”

“SFO commissions new works fairly frequently. Every year they do either a commissioned work or a U.S. premiere of something from another country.”

“Hm.”

Our drinks arrived. I sipped my margarita, which was killer strong, and mused about pocket knives. Who would be likely to carry one?

Members of the cast wouldn’t have knives on them, but it would be easy enough to retrieve one from a purse or a gym bag. Really, anyone might have a small knife.

“So what did you do today?” I asked, picking up another micro-chip.

Tony grimaced. “Spent the morning going through the dumpsters. Afternoon at the forensics lab.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not really. Just eliminated a couple of things.”

“Have you talked to the Brit yet?”

“Not yet. The interviewers haven’t seen him. I told them to let me know.”

We paused to assure the waiter that we both wanted large chunks of moo. Actually, I ordered a filet mignon, which was plenty big enough for me when accompanied by a baked potato and a small salad. Tony asked for a rib-eye, rare, with fries.

“How’d your day go?” he asked me when the waiter had sailed off toward the grill.

“Busy. Hired a new employee.”

“Yeah?”

“Temporary, to help in the kitchen.” Though I suspected we’d want to keep Ramon. “And Julio came in and baked all afternoon.”

“On his day off? That’s nice of him.”

“He’s a nice guy.”

Tony took a pull at his margarita. “OK, let’s talk through this. Say you’ve just murdered Victor Solano. What do you do?”

“Oh, thanks a lot!”

“C’mon, I just want to hear your thoughts.”

I crunched a micro-chip, thinking. “Well, I get out of there as fast as I can, as unobtrusively as I can.”

“Which way do you go?”

I frowned. “I’ve got a knife in my hands, and probably some blood on them. I grab a towel or something to wipe it off, and then I stuff the knife and the towel in my pocket or my purse … no, I don’t think I would have brought a purse. So it must be a pocket.”

“Maybe not. Maybe you’re in a slinky dress.” The corner of Tony’s mouth curved upward.

“Well, A: it’s cold, so if I’m in a slinky dress I have a coat on over it. And B: if I have a knife, I must have a pocket. I wouldn’t just carry a knife around the theatre in my hand.”

“Unless you were planning to kill someone.”

I glowered at him and sipped my drink. “If I were planning a murder I’d pick a much better time and place.”

“Good point. So you just happened to have a knife in your pocket, and you went into the dressing room during Act Three and got in a fight with Solano.”