Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (4 page)

I passed the last guests in the hallway. They were leaving; the day was over. In the kitchen, I handed the plate and fork to Mick, who washed them in a flash and started packing up to go.

Dee had stayed to close up, and she and Mick teased each other—brother and sister stuff—as they walked out the back door. The tiny staff parking lot was empty except for my sedan and Mick’s Mustang, which was a work in progress. Primer gray blotched it in a pinto-like pattern over at least three different colors of body paint. My private nickname for the car was “Frankenstein.”

Dee turned to wave at me as they got in. I smiled and waved back, then locked the door.

Alone at last. The house was mine until five the next morning, when Julio would arrive to start baking.

The sun was still up, pouring in through the western windows. I went to the gift shop and closed out the cash register, taking the bank bag with the day’s receipts up to my office where I locked it in my desk. It was warm upstairs; even though the office had no window on the west side, the adobe wall radiated heat.

I retreated downstairs, poked my nose in the fridge again and nabbed some leftover cucumber sandwiches, virtuously resisting the cakes. I’d skipped lunch in all the busy preparation for Vi’s event.

The dining parlor was the coolest room in the house, being on the northeast corner of the ground floor. I sat at the table and nibbled my sandwiches, thinking over the day.

Vi’s event was a lot of work, but it also gave everyone a lot of pleasure. It had filled the tearoom with guests on an afternoon that might otherwise have seen empty tables. I wasn’t worried; the summer tourist season had brought an increase in business. In the fall and spring, though, when things would be slower, a few events like today’s might give my bottom line a boost.

I should call Mr. Ingraham and tell him that Tony would be escorting me to his opera party. A little swell of pleasure rose in my chest at the thought.

Mr. Ingraham would remember Tony from the investigation of Sylvia Carruthers’s murder. Tony had been a little aggressive about that, but it was his job. I hoped he’d feel comfortable talking to my aunt and Mr. Ingraham in a more social setting. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be their fault.

I wondered what Captain Dusenberry had thought of Vi’s singing. Smiling at myself, I got up and went to the French doors, then ran my hands over the wall to the left of them. A habit of mine; I knew that Captain Dusenberry had been shot in this room, and I often wondered if any bullets had lodged in the adobe wall.

If they had, they had long since been plastered and painted over. Maybe I should try to borrow a metal detector. I bet one of Tony’s Civil War reenactor friends would have one.

I felt all the way to the corner. A board creaked beneath my foot, and I grimaced. The last thing I needed was to have to repair the floor.

Three gentle notes of music sent a chill through my shoulder blades. Someone was playing my piano.

I froze. The notes hadn’t been loud, but I was certain I had not imagined them.

It wasn’t the stereo; Dee had turned that off when she left. Of course, Captain Dusenberry could have turned it back on…

But the music didn’t continue. I turned, trying to be silent, and stepped out of my shoes. Padding down the hall in my stocking feet, I strained to hear anything more. I slowed and peeped around the edge of the parlor doorway.

The room was empty, the piano closed.

I could still hear the three notes in my mind: ti, la, sol. I walked over and opened the keyboard, and played them. B, A, G.

A song? Or just a scale?

Three blind mice.

Too short a fragment to identify, really. It could be anything.

I gazed around the room. I felt as if a question had been asked, and I’d missed it, so I couldn’t answer.

2

T
he morning of the 20th was blustery, with fits of scattered rain. Not the best weather for an outing to the Santa Fe Opera, especially a tailgate dinner. I checked the forecast online, and prayed that the showers would taper off before the evening.

It was a Friday, and the tearoom was busy all day. I stayed downstairs until almost six, then left it to Iz and Rosa to close, and hurried up to my suite to dress.

Waiting for me on a hanger hooked on my canopy bed was the dress I had chosen for the occasion: an Edwardian-style, cream-colored silk with lace insets and pearl buttons, one of my favorites. I briefly considered picking out something warmer instead, but decided that my long coat and the lap blanket I always brought to the opera would be enough protection.

The sun had emerged in the afternoon, and the upstairs was warm. I stepped out of my work dress, and in my slip redid my hair and touched up my makeup for the evening. To my Gibson-girl hairdo I added three fresh rosebuds, creamy white. I had made a matching boutonnière for Tony, to help him feel more dressed-up.

Satisfied with my hair, I slid the silk gown over my shoulders, deliciously cool against my skin. A check in my full-length mirror showed me an acceptable self: not a tall goddess, or a voluptuous vamp, but a reasonably elegant lady of medium height with soft brown hair and pleasant features. Best I could do.

I moved my billfold and a lipstick into my beaded evening bag, slid the opera glasses that my father had given me for my eighteenth birthday into the tote that held my lap blanket and a collapsible umbrella, draped my coat over my arm, and picked up Tony’s boutonnière. Locking my suite behind me, I went downstairs to the kitchen.

Mick was finishing the last of the day’s china. He glanced up and gave me a nod, did a double-take with a smile and a thumbs-up, then continued bopping to whatever was playing in his earbuds.

Julio had left for the day. I opened the fridge to check that the Aria Cakes I’d asked him to make for the dinner hadn’t been raided by the staff. They were safe in a covered container, protected by a note in Julio’s sternest black marker: “HANDS OFF – OPERA PARTY.”

I left them there and stepped out into the hallway, looking out the lights around the back door at the lilac bushes outside. They were stirring, but not wind-whipped. The sky over the Sangre de Cristo mountains was filled with rather dramatic, dark, storm clouds, but it wasn’t raining down here in Santa Fe. Sunlight slanting in from the west lit the face of Santa Fe Baldy. I drew a deep breath, grateful for the beauty of my world.

“For a minute I thought you were a ghost.”

Startled, I turned to find Tony standing behind me. He grinned, pleased with himself for sneaking up on me.

“A Victorian ghost. Maybe Captain Dusenberry’s wife.”

“He was unmarried. You look very elegant!”

He wore the dark suit I remembered, which set off his shoulders quite deliciously. There was no telltale bulge in his armpit. My glance went to his hips.

“I left it at home,” he said. “Off-duty.”

“Thank you. I know you’d prefer to carry it.”

“Didn’t seem right for the opera.”

I smiled. “Come in here a minute.”

I drew him into the dining parlor, set down my burdens, and raised the boutonnière to his lapel. He peered down at the rosebud as I affixed it.

“Nice. Thanks.”

With my hands on his lapel, I felt my pulse increasing. He lifted his chin and looked at me. I could smell his cologne, feel his warmth.

“Is your bike out front? Would you rather park it back here?”

“It’ll be fine.”

His voice was soft and a little husky. His eyes—lovely warm brown—were hard to look away from. Feeling shaky, I smoothed the lapel and took a step back.

“I guess we’re ready, then. Would you mind carrying something for me? I’m bringing dessert.”

For a second he looked disappointed, then he smiled. “Sure, especially if it’s that cake.”

“It is.”

I fetched the tray from the fridge and gave it to Tony. Rosa was on her way out the back door.

“You look beautiful, Ellen!” she said, smiling shyly.

“Thank you. Everything set for tomorrow?”

“Yes. The front’s locked.”

“See you in the morning, then.”

“Have a great time!” Her glance flicked from me to Tony, then she headed out the door.

We followed, leaving Mick to lock up. I glanced up at the stormy sky. To the east the clouds were clustered on the crown of the mountains; westward they were more broken up, with the sun stabbing through here and there.

“Would you mind holding that on your lap? I’m worried it will slide around on the back seat.”

“No problem,” Tony said.

We climbed into my car and I headed north out of town. It was a little early, but Aunt Nat had told me that Mr. Ingraham’s tailgates were elaborate and took a while to set up. If the table wasn’t ready by the time we got there, I could always show Tony around the opera house.

“Hope it doesn’t rain on our parade,” Tony said.

“Did you bring an umbrella? I forgot to remind you.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Well, we can share mine if we need to.”

“You take an umbrella to the opera?”

“Always. It’s an outdoor house—I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. I guess I figured they would cancel if it got rained out.”

“Oh, no—the audience is covered. It can get a little windy sometimes, but we shouldn’t get rained on.”

I told him a couple of stories about rainy performances in the old opera house, my favorite being the time that I and the other occupants of the unlucky middle rows left our seats and came down to crouch in the front of the aisles—only to be choked by waves of stage fog rolling over us. I’d always wondered how the orchestra could stand that stuff.

“You’re a big fan, eh?” Tony asked.

“Of
this
opera house, yes. I’m not an opera expert, but I’ve always loved coming here.”

I turned off the highway onto the road that wound its way up Opera Hill. The pinon trees were dancing a little in the breeze, but it didn’t look too horribly windy.

“What’s your favorite opera?”

“I’m not sure I have a favorite. There are so many wonderful ones. Mozart’s
Magic Flute
, of course, and the Figaro operas, Donizetti, Bizet, I love Verdi.”

He was silent. I suspected he thought I’d just started speaking Martian.

“We’re supposed to look for a white SUV,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot.

There were only a couple of dozen cars so far. Bored volunteers in fluorescent vests jumped into action, waving flashlights that weren’t yet needed to direct us into the lot. I spotted a big white vehicle with a white tent set up behind it.

“That must be it.”

I had a brief, gestured disagreement with one of the traffic volunteers, who finally let me drive through toward the SUV. I parked next to Manny’s car and got out, leaving my coat and tote for later. Going around to Tony’s door, I offered to take the tray of cakes, but he shook his head.

“I’ve got it.”

He stood without trouble. I closed his door and we walked over to the tent. In the middle of one long side, the canvas had been parted and pulled back to form a prettily-draped entrance. Inside was a table set for six, with a linen table cloth and gleaming crystal. The opposite side of the tent was against the SUV, with a similar draped opening giving access to the various coolers and insulated trays sitting in the back of the vehicle. Mr. Ingraham and Manny, both in black tie, were setting out tea lights protected by tall, glass hurricane chimneys on the table.

“Those are pretty,” I said.

Mr. Ingraham looked up. “Necessary, I’m afraid, because of the wind.”

“Even inside the tent?” Tony asked.

“Oh, yes—it can be gusty, and I refuse to use those electric abominations. Here, let me take that.” Mr. Ingraham relieved Tony of the tray, which he set in the back of the SUV, and turned back, offering to shake hands. “Thank you! And good evening—I’m glad you could join us.”

“Tony, you remember Mr. Ingraham?” I said belatedly.

“Thomas, please,” he said, smiling as he glanced at me. To Tony, he added, “I heard how that murder case ended. You did a good job, taking care of our Ellen.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Tony’s hands moved toward his back pockets, then he changed the gesture and clasped his hands behind his back.