Intermezzo: Spirit Matters

by Patrice Greenwood

Julio shook his head and turned to take down a mixing bowl, mind already on the next task. I headed out.

  The day was sunny but cold. I drove to the bank, then headed back by way of Hidalgo Plaza, and was lucky enough to find a meter on the street. I had brought a hat for the occasion and now put it on. Not knowing who I’d meet in the little office, I hoped the formality would express my respect and sincerity.

  Also, I liked hats.

  I walked through the zaguan, cold enough to make me shiver, and into the dappled sunlight of the plazuela. Dry leaves had blown about the pathways. I went to the little white office door. It looked the same except that the hand-lettered sign was gone.

  Deep breath. Straighten shoulders. I knocked.

  Silence.

  I was about to knock again when I heard a shuffling sound, perhaps a footstep. It came again and I waited, listening. At last the door opened with the clink of a bell hanging from the inside knob, and an elderly Hispanic man looked out. He was a little shorter than I and had thinning gray hair combed back from a high forehead. He wore a white dress shirt and a very nice bolo tie—with a chunk of turquoise that would probably pay for a small car—over black trousers. His eyes were dark and warm, and as he looked at me his expression changed from mild annoyance to mild interest.

  I smiled. “Hello. I’m Ellen Rosings. I run a tearoom in an old house nearby, and I’ve been doing some historical research. Could you perhaps tell me anything about Maria Imelda Fuentes y Hidalgo?”

  The man’s silvered eyebrows rose. “Tia Maria. She was quite a character.”

  “Tia Maria?”

  “Yes, that’s what they called her. She never married. Would you like to see her picture?”

  “Yes, very much!”

  He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in. I’m Eduardo Hidalgo, by the way.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hidalgo,” I said, and entered the office.

  The room was small and utilitarian, walls painted white like the door, clearly a front office. It was a bit cluttered, but tidy. A coffee maker and attendant tray of cups, sugar, etc. sat on a low bookcase. A spider plant atop a filing cabinet added a touch of color, and a receptionist’s desk bore an old electric typewriter, a mug full of pens and pencils, and a stack of unopened mail.

  Mr. Hidalgo led me through a door to a slightly larger office, much more cluttered and homey. Here there were personal touches: pictures on the walls, an ancient cast-iron coat rack with a nice wool jacket hanging on it, a couple of Navajo rugs, and a faint, lingering smell of tobacco.

  “This is her,” he said, pointing to a small, framed, ancient photograph, one of several grouped on the south wall.

  The photo was a portrait of a Latino woman perhaps thirty-five years old, unsmiling (no doubt holding her breath to keep still). She sat facing the camera square on, head erect, shoulders back. Her hair was pulled into a knot on top of her head, and her dress was high-necked and white. Her only adornment was a small locket—or possibly a watch—on a chain, pinned to her dress.

  “She’s lovely,” I said.

  “Mm. She had a lot of proposals, some from very prominent men, but she turned them all down. Died an old maid.”

  “Was she just not interested in marriage?”

  “Story goes she was disappointed in love at an early age, but that’s all we know. She became a great philanthropist, and of course, a wonderful aunt. A little strange sometimes. She always wore white.”

  He looked at me with a smile. I smiled back.

  “Would you mind if I took a picture of this with my phone?” I asked.

  “Go ahead, but don’t use the flash, please.”

  I took out my phone and fiddled with the settings, then took two pictures of the photograph. Turning to Mr. Hidalgo, I said, “Thank you. Do you have any of her papers?”

  “Just her diaries. Would you like to see them?”

  My heart jumped with excitement. “Yes, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “What makes you so interested in Maria?”

  I hesitated, not wanting to show my hand. “I found some references to her in a description of a concert that the original owner of my house also attended.”

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. She loved music. She even hosted a singing group for a little while.” He gestured toward the front office. “Help yourself to coffee. I’ll bring the diaries right out.”

  I smiled and obeyed, going back to the front office to give him privacy. I don’t like drinking out of styrofoam but it was the only choice, so I poured a cup and added a spoonful of sugar for comfort. The coffee was tepid, not terribly fresh, but it was strong. I sipped it and strolled to the door, lifting the shade to peek out the only window in the suite. It had a narrow view of the plazuala, and if I’d been the resident of that office, I would have kept the shade up so I could see that view.

  These small rooms were not what I had imagined for the controller of Hidalgo Plaza, with all its shops and the restaurant and bistro that must bring in a lot of revenue. But then, Mr. Hidalgo wasn’t quite what I had imagined either.

  “Here you are,” said Mr. Hidalgo, returning with his shuffling step and three slender ledgers in his hands. “You can sit at the desk to look at them. Beverly’s not here today.”

  He pushed the mail aside and set the books down. I left my cup on the bookcase and stepped around the desk to the receptionist’s chair. “Thank you. This is very kind of you.”

  He gave a small shrug. “It’s nice that you’re interested in Maria. I’ve always been a fan of hers. She kind of got ignored by the family—they weren’t happy that she wouldn’t marry, you know. She could have made an alliance, and she didn’t, and that made them mad. But she did a lot of good, in her own way.”

  The bell on the door clanked, making us both look up. A tall, gaunt, Hispanic man looked in.

  “Eh, ’Duardo!”

  Mr. Hidalgo broke into a grin. “Hey, Jose! Adelante!”

  They went into the back room together, conversing in Spanish. Mr. Hidalgo left the door open, no doubt to keep an eye on me. I turned my attention to the diaries.

  They were bound in leather, the pages yellowed but intact. With a little thrill, I recognized Maria’s handwriting. Unfortunately, she had written in Spanish. I could understand some of it, but not all.

  The oldest of the three volumes was the one that covered the time of Maria’s letters to Captain Dusenberry. I flipped through the pages—carefully, so as not to damage them—looking for his name, but I didn’t find a single reference. When I reached the last page, I sighed in disappointment. I turned it over and found a picture of La Guadalupana pasted onto inside of the back cover.

  I’d always liked Our Lady. I ran a finger lightly over the picture—printed—probably a common piece at the time. I sensed an irregularity and wondered if the print had been raised, or if the fading gold had been painted on by hand. Feeling again, I changed my mind. It wasn’t the image, but the paper that felt irregular. The edges were firm, but the center felt softer.

  As if there was something behind it.

  A tingle ran down my arms. I glanced over my shoulder at the men, who were deep in earnest conversation.

  Running my fingertip around the edges of the picture, I found one that was unsecured, the long edge closest to the spine. I swallowed, and gently tried to lift it. I couldn’t raise it much, but succeeded enough to see that another piece of paper was behind it.

  I looked up at the pencil mug. It held a letter opener. I took it in hand and carefully used it to lift the side of the picture enough that I could slide the paper out.

  It was small, old, and folded in half. Holding my breath I opened it.

  I instantly recognized the handwriting: it was Captain Dusenberry’s.

  Mi Corazon –

  Catching my breath, I took out my phone, smoothed the brief note open, and took a photo of it with shaking hands. I took two more for insurance, then refolded the note and slid it back into its hiding
place after checking that the photos were legible.

  My heart was pounding. I glanced at the men again, but they were paying no attention to me.

  Looking back at my phone, I saw that it was quarter to noon. I was late.

  I put the phone away, returned the letter opener to the mug, and closed the diary. My standing up drew Mr. Hidalgo’s attention. I carried the three diaries to the door of his office.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Hidalgo. I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Could I come and look at these again another time?”

  He rose and came to accept the books. “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you so much.” I handed him my card, and another card good for a free cream tea. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you for your time.”

  He saw me out, smiling. I hopped in my car and rushed back to the tearoom, arriving a couple of minutes after noon. Dee was on the way out of the butler’s pantry with a tray of tea food as I came in the back door.

  “Has Owen arrived?” I asked her.

  “Yeah, just now. I sent him to talk to Julio.”

  I pulled my coat off as I hurried to the kitchen. When I reached it I saw a tableau:

  Julio, motionless with a dishtowel in his hands, staring at Owen Hughes with eyes a bit wide.

  Owen, camera bag slung over his shoulder, one hand in a pocket, smiling slightly. He had pulled his long, black hair into a ponytail that hung down the back of his black suede coat.

  My entering the room broke the spell. Julio turned away to hang up the towel by the sink. Owen turned to me, his smile widening.

  “Hi, Ellen.”

  “Hello! Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. You’ve met my chef, Julio Delgado?”

  “I have now. Well met,” he said, offering a hand to Julio.

  “Julio, this is Owen Hughes,” I said. “He’s a friend of Kris’s, and an excellent photographer.”

  Owen shot me a grin. “Thanks.”

  Julio shook hands, the clasp lasting a second longer than strictly necessary. “Weren’t you at the grand opening?”

  “Yes,” Owen said. “Did we meet there? I don’t remember.”

  “No, I just remember seeing you. Not many guys with hair like that.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” Owen said, grinning. He glanced toward the windows. “We shooting in here?”

  “No,” I said, “unless you want to. I thought one of the alcoves might be a better backdrop. I have two adjacent ones set aside for us.”

  “Perfect. Lead on.”

  Julio turned away again, picking up a pair of food storage boxes from the counter. I led him and Owen to the south parlor, where Dahlia and Violet were tucked behind the gift shop. Dee came out of the main parlor as we passed.

  “Dee, could you bring a pot of tea to Violet, please?” I said. “Any black – it’s for photos.”

  She nodded and continued down the hall. I had brought a tray of china and accompaniments to Dahlia earlier, ready to set up whatever Owen needed. I had also moved back the screen that usually separated the two alcoves.

  “You can use either side,” I told him.

  “This one, then,” he said, stepping into Violet. “This was my favorite at the party. Oh, you’ve moved the skulls.” He looked from the mantel to Vi’s portrait.

  “Yes,” I said, watching Julio set the food boxes on a side table in Dahlia. “New season.”

  Owen nodded, then turned around. “Can I put my case on a chair?”

  “Certainly.” I stepped out of his way, and picked up a small plate from the tray. “I thought this, for the food. There are two if you want a second one.”

  Julio held his hand out for the plate. “Let’s start with one.”

  I moved into Violet to get out of their way. Glancing out the lace sheers over the window, I saw that the wind was picking up. Dry leaves were blowing across the lawn.

  “Shall I close the drapes, or leave them open?” I asked.

  “Open for now,” Owen said, adjusting his camera. “I prefer natural light.”

  Dee brought in the tea, and a few minutes were spent arranging things on the small table between the two wing chairs in Violet. A fictional setting for two, with filled teacups and the pot in the background of the food plate, where Julio had arranged three scones and half a dozen biscochitos.

  Owen shot a couple dozen photos of this, then stood looking at the table, musing. “Let’s make it more active,” he said, picking up a biscochito and taking a bite. He put the rest back on the plate, and shifted a teacup closer to the bitten cookie as he chewed. These two small changes made the table more intimate, somehow.

  “Mm.” Owen swallowed. “Oh, man. Best biscochito ever.”

  “Thanks,” Julio said softly.

  Owen looked up at him, flashed a smile, then knelt before the table to take more photos. “The food at the party was all great, too.”

  Julio didn’t answer. I glanced at him and saw that he, too, was watching Owen work.

  There was a silent undercurrent of intensity in the room. I was fascinated by the small changes Owen made that transformed his subject. I’d had no idea that a table of tea and baked goods could look so different with the addition of a half-folded napkin, or a spoon turned just so, or a scone broken in half on the plate. Julio brought curd and cream and Owen slathered part of the scone, then left the knife beside it as if the user had just been called away.

  After a while the afternoon light shifted, making shadows deeper in the room. Owen asked me to build up the fire and close one of the drapes. The remaining daylight still cast shadows, but now the fire’s glow added golden touches to the china.

  Owen swallowed the tea in a cup and poured fresh, then took photos of the steam rising from the cup. Small details I would never have thought of were like an artist’s embellishments in his setting. I had known he was talented, but seeing him work deepened my appreciation of his unfailing eye. I poured tea into a spare cup and stood sipping it as I watched, entranced by the artist at work.

  “Excuse me, Ellen?” a voice whispered from the doorway.

  I turned to find Iz peeking in. “Yes?”

  “Kris wants to know where’s the bank bag.”

  “Oh! It’s right here.”

  I had put my hat and coat on a chair in Dahlia when we came in, and the bag was beneath them. I handed it to Iz, who left with whispered thanks. Her intrusion made me curious about the time, and I checked my phone.

  After four. Wow!

  “Owen, I hate to bother you, but I think you said you had to be somewhere at five?”

  He checked something on his camera and stood, “Actually, I found out I’m supposed to be here. Kris asked me to come to her, ah, gathering tonight.” He glanced toward Julio, who said nothing.

  Julio hadn’t said much all afternoon, really.

  “Oh! I see,” I said. “Well, that’s fine. Do you think you can get me some photos by tomorrow morning?”

  Owen nodded. “I’ll make a first cut between now and six-thirty. Can I use this room, or do you need it?”

  “No, I blocked it for the whole afternoon. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “Thanks. Guess we’re about done, unless there’s something else you want to try.”

  I shook my head. “I think you’ve found every possible variation. Thank you so much!”

  He turned to me, smiling. “It was fun. I love working in your house – such a cool old place.”

  “Thanks.”

  He set his camera in its case and picked up the half-scone adorned with cream and curd. With a mischievous glance at me, he ate it. Closing his eyes, he gave a small moan of pleasure.

  “I can make you something more substantial if you like,” Julio offered quietly. “A sandwich, and we have some soup I could heat up.”

  Owen opened his eyes, finished chewing, and swallowed. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Julio glanced at me. “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. Thanks again, Owen. I’ll be upstairs.”


  He turned his head to smile at me, and nodded. “I’ll see if I can pull a couple dozen of the best shots for you.”

  I smiled back, picked up my coat, and slipped out of the room. Julio followed, walking with me until we reached the staircase. I shot a glance at him as I started up and he continued toward the kitchen. He looked pensive.

  I hung my coat on the rack, then peeked into Kris’s office. She was putting away the empty bank bag.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I got distracted. How did the afternoon go?”

  She shrugged. “Pretty quiet. You’ve got a few messages.”

  She handed me several lavender message slips. I took them to my desk and glanced through them. One from Gina, reminding me about the photo deadline on Friday. One from the Vietnamese job candidate – a polite follow-up. Nothing from Tony.

  “I’ll be in my suite,” I called to Kris as I left and crossed the hall. I put away my hat and coat, and changed into off-duty clothes for the evening. Taking advantage of the privacy, I pulled out my cell phone and checked for text messages. There were none. I kept thinking there was something more to do with my phone, but I couldn’t remember what. Attempting to jog my memory, I left it on the kitchenette counter while I put the kettle on for tea.

  The impending séance was making me nervous. I’d be glad when it was over, and (somewhat guiltily) I hoped nothing outrageous would happen during the “sitting,” as Willow had called it. I had enough ghosts in my life.

  Ghosts!

  I grabbed my phone and brought up the photos I had taken in Mr. Hidalgo’s little office. There was the captain’s note to Maria, his neat handwriting slightly hurried (I thought) compared to other samples I’d seen. I went back to my office and downloaded the photos I’d taken of the note and Maria’s portrait to my computer, then backed them up on a flash drive to be extra safe.

  Bringing up the note on my big screen, I tried to puzzle it out, but my Spanish wasn’t equal to the task. “Corazon” meant heart, I knew—an endearment, and one that a Victorian gentleman would not use with a woman he didn’t know well. In fact, I suspected that Captain Dusenberry’s using it to address Señorita Hidalgo had not been strictly proper.