Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (17 page)

“Well, that’s no reason to yell at you.”

“He was in a bad mood anyway, because the rehearsal wasn’t going well, and Neil and Charles and everyone were watching. I think he just needed to yell at someone, and I gave him the perfect excuse.”

She drank some more tea, then set her cup down, glancing toward the piano. It was silent. The captain had apparently made his point, whatever it was.

“Pretty skirt,” I said.

“Oh, thanks.” She smiled ruefully. “I’m so predictable.”

“Not at all. You look stunning in purple. You have every right to take advantage of it.”

“But it’s my name. How tacky, right? Any self-respecting kid would have rebelled and chosen orange for a favorite color. But I can’t help it—I’ve always loved violet.”

“Me, too. You observe how unselfish I am, by being willing to share it with you.”

That got her to laugh a little. I refreshed our tea.

“How’s your mom?”

“Oh, she’s fretting over me. I can’t explain why, but that just makes it worse.”

I nodded. I knew the feeling.

“I’m thinking….”

I waited, watching her. She seemed to slump a little.

“Maybe I wasn’t cut out for opera after all.”

I bit back the urge to protest, sure that her mother would have done so. Instead I sipped tea and answered as calmly as I could.

“Why is that?”

“I guess I didn’t realize how much Victor protected me. It’s so awful now. Everyone’s on edge.”

“That’s temporary, don’t you think?”

“Some of it might not be. Sandra and David never did like each other, and yesterday at rehearsal they had a terrible fight.”

“Really?” I thought back to the as-yet-unidentified Brit’s comment that Tony and I had overheard:
practically snogging him onstage
. If he hadn’t been talking about Usher and Ebinger, whom had he meant?

My mind flashed back to the performance, to the opening where Cavaradossi and the Sacristan opened the opera together. I remember thinking it had gone on a long time. Then the Sacristan went off and Angelotti, sung by Geoffrey Harrison, came on. Could there have been an exchange then that I had missed?

“It was awful,” Vi said. “Neil yelled at them both, and then called off the rehearsal.”

“Wow!”

“It was running late anyway, and they had to change the sets for the evening’s performance. It takes a while to move those big pieces up from downstairs.”

I remembered the Italianate pillars and trellises, the gigantic church set, and the prison, all from
Tosca
. “They store them on the bottom level, right? There’s so little room backstage.”

“Yes, it all goes up and down on the stage B-lift.”

“The what?”

“That’s what they call the stage elevator. It’s so quiet they can move things even during a scene.”

I thought back to my backstage tours, but only had a vague recollection of the elevator. I decided I needed to take the tour again and refresh my memory.

As soon as I had a free morning.

A click of china drew my attention. Vi had set down her empty cup and saucer. I reached for the teapot, but she shook her head.

“I’d better go. Mom’ll be starting to worry. Thanks for listening, and for not minding my barging in.”

“Not at all. Mi casa es su casa.”

We both got up, and she enfolded me in a goddess-like hug. “Don’t be surprised if I come crawling back, asking for my old job.”

“You are welcome to your old job whenever you want it, but I expect you to report to it on your feet, not your hands and knees.”

She grinned at me. “Because Miss Manners disapproves of crawling.”

“In the parlor, certainly, if one is over the age of five.”

Vi laughed. “You always cheer me up.”

“I’m glad. I hope things get better at the opera.”

She looked sad, then squared her shoulders and found a smile. “Me too. Thanks, Ellen.”

I saw her out, then went back to collect the tea tray from the main parlor. Pausing at the doorway, I looked back before turning out the light.

All quiet. All still, except for one crystal on the main chandelier in the center of the room, swinging gently back and forth.

~

I slept lightly, disturbed by questions about the murder. When I woke, I couldn’t even remember the questions, much less any answers.

I sent Tony a text suggesting he look into the argument between Usher and Ebinger, dealt with a few personal messages, then headed downstairs to see if Julio needed my help. It wasn’t yet nine, but to my surprise, Ramon was already there, wearing an apron and spreading butter on slices of bread. He looked up at me with a grin.

“Morning, boss!”

“Ellen, please.”

“Rosa said you’d say that.”

I glanced at the dishwashing station, but it was empty. He had already put everything away. I went to the pantry and started a pot of tea, then came back and asked Julio what I could do to help.

“Nothing,” he said. “You’re going to have enough to do today. Ramon’s all the help I need.”

“OK. Well, if that changes, let me know. I’ll be upstairs.”

I took my pot of tea up with me. Kris came in the back door as I was starting up the stairs. She went straight to work peeling messages off the reservation line. I poured each of us some tea, then left her to it while I made a to-do list for myself.

At the top of the list was keeping an eye on Ramon. I didn’t mind that he’d come in earlier than I’d requested—for all I knew, Julio had asked him to—but while that kind of initiative was fine for this week, I couldn’t let it keep happening when our business dropped to a more normal level.

Number two on the list was to sit down with Kris and discuss Ramon’s hire (about which I hadn’t yet told her) and overtime in general.

After that it got more eclectic. Call Willow. Spend some time at the state archives researching Maria Hidalgo. Figure out the Mozart.

To the bottom of the list, I added “take SFO backstage tour.” That one was niggling at me, though I couldn’t say exactly why. I did want to see the stage B-lift again, but I wasn’t sure what use that would be.

I went back to the top of the list. Ramon’s schedule I’d deal with later; talking with Kris about him was top priority. I topped up my teacup and carried it into Kris’s office along with the W-4 I’d had Ramon fill out.

Kris was on the phone, apologizing to a client for the fact that we were booked up at the time she wanted. I waited while she talked the client into a date the following week, then placed the form in front of her.

“Surprise.”

“Oh, good! The way things are going we’re going to need a couple more.”

“Still getting a lot of calls?”

“Thirty-seven when I got here. I’ve gone through about ten, but two more have come in. We’re booked through next Wednesday now.”

“Holy…”

“Yeah. The Solano Effect is going strong.”

We discussed advertising for another assistant chef and two servers. I decided to first ask the existing staff if they had friends who were looking for work. If we could get another Ramon or two, we wouldn’t need to spend money on ads.

My hope of finding time for the archives and the backstage tour receded. I went to my desk and dialed Willow’s number, expecting more phone tag, but she answered after two rings.

“Willow! Did you get my message?”

“Yes, thank you. Sorry I couldn’t take the call yesterday.”

“I hope you don’t mind that we can’t accommodate your tour today. I called as soon as I realized.”

“It’s fine. That’s not why I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Why, then?”

She paused. “I need you to be open-minded. I have a message for you.”

Oh, boy. “OK.”

“Water.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Water. It’s very important.”

I picked up my pen and tapped it on my to-do list. “Who is this message from?”

“It came through my spirit-guide. It’s from a concerned entity. I’m not sure who.”

“All right. I don’t know what it means, though.”

“Just let it rest in your awareness. You’ll see the connection when the time is right.”

Oooookay.

“Um, thanks. Listen, you’re bringing your tour today, right?”

“Yes, and on Wednesday, and I’ll be doing an extra one on Friday. The first two are booked to the max.”

Her maximum was twenty. Had the Solano Effect spilled over to the spirit tours?

“Just this tour?” I asked. “I mean, not the history one, or—”

“The Spirit Homes tour is the only one that sold out, yes. It is peak tourist season, though. All the numbers are up.”

“Well, let us know when you get here. We’ll have some iced tea for your customers on the
portal
.”

“That’s very nice of you, Ellen. Thank you.”

“See you this afternoon.”

I hung up, and pulled my list toward me. I crossed out Willow’s name and wrote “Water” at the bottom of the list, then gazed at it and shook my head. This was turning out to be a weird day, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet.

Kris brought me a message from one of our suppliers—they were out of the sliced almonds we needed. I scrambled to find another source that wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg. By the time I was done with that, Nat had arrived, peeking into my office from the doorway.

I scribbled “Nat’s wedding” at the bottom of my list, then got up to greet her.

“Tea?” I lifted the pot on my credenza. “Oh, we’re out.”

“I’m fine. I just wanted to let you know I was here. There are some people just browsing in the shop, and Iz asked if I could cover for her so she can help serve.”

I went downstairs with her, bringing the empty teapot with the idea that I’d brew more, but the tearoom was open and all the seatings were already full, with most of the outdoor tables full as well. I ended up helping Iz and Rosa serve while Nat manned the register in the gift shop. I did poke my head into the kitchen a couple of times, to warn Julio that the almonds wouldn’t come in until Wednesday, and that we’d need iced tea for twenty tour guests in the afternoon.

“Gonna need more paper cups, then,” he said. “And we need more lemons for tomorrow.”

“I’ll call Manny.”

I kept an eye on the clock and made sure to be downstairs at two, which was when the Kowalski party was scheduled to arrive for the dining parlor. I hovered in the gift shop, and my suspicions were confirmed when Sandra Usher came in, leading a half-dozen men and women who had the lean and focused look of performing artists. I was sure I recognized a couple of them from the cast of
Tosca
, though I didn’t know their names.

“Welcome to the Wisteria Tearoom,” I said, smiling. “Let me show you to the dining parlor.”

Ms. Kowalski-kum-Usher, in a scarlet dress and huge sunglasses, luxurious dark hair spilling over her shoulders, smiled and followed me out into the hall. I escorted her party to their room, where the table was already set with china and water goblets and teapots under velvet cozies. I pulled the door closed, and while the guests were arranging themselves around the table I spoke to Ms. Usher.

“I was at your performance on Friday. It was magnificent.”

She removed her sunglasses and gave me a guarded look. “Thank you.”

“Please accept my condolences on the passing of your colleague. I hope the company is recovering.”

“We’ll manage,” she said in a softer voice. “Thank you.”

Rosa came in with the first of two three-tiered food trays, and I went to fetch the second while she poured tea. As I placed the tray on the table Ms. Usher addressed me.

“You’re the owner?”

“Yes, I’m Ellen Rosings.”

“Tell us about your ghost! This is the haunted room, isn’t it?”

“This is the room where Captain Dusenberry was killed, and where the majority of manifestations have been reported.”

I continued with the story of Captain Dusenberry’s unfortunate fate, feeling like I was channeling Willow Lane. I’d heard her spiel often enough to do so. I’d also answered the same questions from my own customers so frequently that I knew what the guests wanted to hear about. I was careful to make no claim that the “reported manifestations” proved the ghost’s existence, and kept my personal opinions to myself.

I kept Maria Hidalgo to myself, too. I needed to learn more before I’d share her with anyone.

Ms. Usher’s party seemed satisfied with my descriptions of lights turning on and off and crystals dancing. The latter made them all look up at the chandelier, which of course was stock-still.

“We’ve also had the stereo come on unexpectedly on several occasions,” I said.

“So Captain Dusenberry is fond of music,” said one of the men I recognized, a lean-faced brunet with sparkling dark eyes and a wry lilt to his voice, which was deeper than his spare frame had led me to expect. “Does he like opera?”

“Actually…” I hesitated, not sure if I was ready to mention the piano. I looked at Ms. Usher and decided to compromise.

“There’s a musical phrase that’s come up more than once. I’m sure it’s Mozart, but I can’t place it. If you’ll forgive me…” I sang the little fragment, la-la-ing it, extremely conscious of the inadequacy of my voice in the company of these professionals.

Ms. Usher picked up the next line without a blink. She sang softly, but the power of her voice still raised a thrill in me. The words were Italian; the tune hauntingly sad despite the major key. We all held still until she concluded the brief passage.

“
Nozze di Figaro
,” said the brunet.

“Yes, ‘Contessa, perdono,’” Usher said, glancing at me. “My favorite moment in the opera.”

“Thank you! It’s been bothering me for days!”

“Look!” said one of the women, pointing toward the chandelier.

Everyone raised their eyes and exclaimed. A single crystal was swinging back and forth.

I left them to enjoy their tea and their speculations. In the pantry I checked on Rosa and Iz, who assured me they had everything under control. I poked my head into the kitchen to verify that the iced tea was ready, then dashed upstairs.

I didn’t have time for a web search, so I wrote “Contessa, perdono” on my to-do list. The only thing that immediately came to mind about
Le Nozze de Figaro
was that Vi had sung an aria from it at her tea.