The group included the Bird Woman, back for her third time on the tour. I put on a friendly smile for her and the others as they shuffled into the parlor.
As Willow passed, I touched her arm. “I’d like to talk to you afterward, if you have time.”
She nodded and followed her charges in to tea while I went upstairs to alert Mr. Quentin, the reenactor who gave a talk about Captain Dusenberry as part of the tour. He waited quietly in the sitting area by the front window, a slightly stocky gentleman in his mid-forties, rusty-colored hair and beard with a few threads of silver, reading a book by the light of a mica-shaded table lamp. His Union army uniform, spectacles, even the book in his hands were authentic recreations and looked well-used, not donned merely for the occasion, but lived in.
I paused, watching him for a moment before intruding. Captain Dusenberry had probably looked very much like he did. Though Mr. Quentin was not here to portray the captain, he did help people understand what that 19th-century gentleman’s life had been like.
“They’re here,” I said, stepping forward.
Mr. Quentin nodded, consulted a pocket watch on the end of a chain, then resumed reading. The group would have twenty minutes to enjoy their tea before he went down to address them.
I retreated to check on the tearoom, and met Iz carrying an empty firewood sling. “Didn’t Mick fill the rack?” I asked.
“Yes, but we’ve gone through it all, and now he’s backed up.”
“Let me get it,” I said, reaching for the sling. “You don’t want to smudge your apron.”
The firewood was stacked out back, against the fence that ran along the driveway. I put on my coat and brought in two loads of wood, one for the main parlor and one for the south parlor, where four smaller alcoves shared the back-to-back fireplaces.
Peeking into Dahlia, I saw that both it and Violet were empty. I filled the firewood rack, then paused to look at Vi’s portrait.
Yes, it definitely needed better illumination, although there was a candle again, casting flickering shadows on the painting. I noticed a small card propped up behind the candle and picked it up. On the front was a picture of Jesus surrounded by sheep and doves. On the back was a prayer titled “Comfort for those who Mourn.”
This must be the offering Rosa had wanted to leave. Prayer cards were mostly a Catholic custom, though I’d seen them at a couple of Protestant funerals. I read the card, then replaced it behind the votive. The prayer was pretty generic, so I didn’t think it would offend anyone who happened to be curious.
It did add to the appearance of an altar, though. Well, if anyone complained I’d move the offerings. So far no one had.
Three logs were left in the sling. As I carried them to the dining parlor, bits of the prayer rolled around in my head.
Though invisible to us, our dear dead are not absent.
Hm. Guess I really couldn’t deny that.
As I slipped into the dining parlor, hoping to avoid disrupting the tour group, the Bird Woman’s voice rang out. “But how many times have you seen Julia Staub?”
Willow fielded this with grace. In the role of a chamber-maid, I pretended disinterest as I unloaded the wood into the rack. The fire had died down, so I gave it a poke and added one log, then beat a retreat as Dee came in with a fresh pot of tea.
I looked into the kitchen, where Julio was wrapping up for the day while Mick heroically tackled a mound of used china. “Grocery list for tomorrow?”
“Right there.” Julio pointed to a slip of paper held by a magnet onto a small whiteboard mounted by the door. “I’m out.”
Willow’s tour group had another hour; Mick and Dee were staying to look after them. I headed up to my office and met Mr. Quentin—or Lieutenant Quentin, as he referred to himself in his presentation—on the stairs. He had donned his haversack and ammunition pouch, and carried his replica rifle carefully with the barrel upright. The upstairs chandelier cast a halo around him for a moment as he descended, making me pause.
...our dear dead are not absent.
As I reached the upper landing, I met Kris coming out of her office, also headed home.
“Payroll’s on your desk,” she said over her shoulder.
“Thanks.”
I stepped through the doorway shared by our offices, and couldn’t help glancing toward her desk. The skull was nowhere in evidence.
Retiring to my desk with a cup of tea, I wondered what Captain Dusenberry thought of Mr. Quentin’s presentation. We’d hosted more than a dozen tour groups already. I’d heard the talk myself twice. It was thought-provoking, especially since I knew more about the captain than anyone else.
I opened the lower drawer of my desk where I had stashed Maria’s letters, protected by a carved teak box. I had read them often enough to know them almost by heart, and I knew that handling them risked damaging them, so I left them where they were and locked the drawer.
Soon, I told myself. Soon I’d give them to the museum.
Remembering the lights in Hidalgo Plaza, I turned to my computer and sent off an email to my contact at the State Historical Archives, asking for any information about the plaza’s physical characteristics—maps, inventories, letters—during the late nineteenth century. If I got very lucky, there might be a mention of Maria’s rooms.
I signed the payroll checks and locked them in Kris’s desk, then tidied my own desk, sorting through the stack of papers “to file” that never seemed to go away. It included Gabriel’s diagram of the seven colored chambers for their party, and the lanyard with the map of the art show booths. Interesting juxtaposition. I laid them both in front of me and mused about Gabriel and maps. Maps were so technical and dry, not what I’d expect to be interesting to an artist.
Maybe they weren’t. Maybe the elusive thought tickling at the back of my brain was just the coincidence that Gabriel had touched both of these maps. I was about to toss them, then thought perhaps I should keep the diagram for the party. In the end, I shoved them both to the bottom of the “to file” stack.
I finished my tea, locked my desk, and went downstairs. Mr. Quentin had just concluded his talk and stood in the hall chatting with the guests as they put on their coats. I moved past him, thanking the guests, working my way toward the dining parlor where I hoped to find Willow.
“Hey!”
The harsh whisper accompanied a tug on my sleeve. I turned to find the Bird Woman peering up at me. She wore a heavy fuchsia cable-knit sweater over jade green slacks and pink sneakers with lights that blinked red every time she moved her feet. Her feathery silver hair must have been charged with static, perhaps by her sweater; wisps of it stood straight up from her head, swaying gently.
“Mrs. Olavssen. What can I do for you?”
“You can get me that soldier’s phone number,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Soldier?” I glanced toward Mr. Quentin. “You mean the reenactor?”
“Yeah. He’s really hot!”
I squelched an impulse to laugh, even as I felt a pang of sympathy for Mr. Quentin. “I’m afraid I don’t have it. Would you like to write your number on a card, and give it to him?”
“OK,” she said, taking a lime green scarf off a peg. “But you give it to him. I don’t want the girls to know.”
I fetched one of the tearoom’s business cards and a pen from the gift shop and handed them to her, then looked into the dining parlor. Willow stood talking with Margo, who was dressed in a loose, forest green sweater over a black velvet broomstick skirt and boots.
“Hello, Margo” I said with a smile. “I didn’t know you were taking the tour.”
She smiled and shrugged a shoulder. “Dale said it was really good.”
“Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” I said, glancing at Willow.
Immaculate as always in a black turtleneck knit dress and a necklace of turquoise heishi, Willow seemed unconcerned. Probably she was used to both Goths and skeptics. I imagined that they, along with rabid enthusiasts, comprised t
he bulk of her clientele.
“The ghost didn’t shake the chandelier,” Margo said.
“That’s pretty rare,” Willow said.
“But you’ve seen it?” Margo looked from Willow to me.
“I’ve seen it,” Willow said, moving toward the door. She held out her hand to me. “Thank you, Ellen. The tea was wonderful as always.”
I smiled and nodded as we shook hands. Poor Willow had been served this same menu with each tour group, and had another half-dozen tours scheduled. Usually she just drank tea and maybe had one sandwich and a scone.
“I have a couple of questions for you, if you have time,” I said to her. “If not, I can call you tomorrow.”
“I have a little time,” she said. “Just let me tidy up.”
She headed for the restroom, and I turned to help Dee, who had come in and started to collect the used china. Margo lingered by the sideboard. I carried one of the tea trays to the pantry and returned for the other, and she was still there, looking bored.
“Anything I can help you with?” I asked.
She shrugged one shoulder and gave a lopsided smile. “No, I’m just waiting to see if...you know. Anything happens.”
“It could be a long wait,” I said, trying to keep my tone kind.
Margo looked back at the chandelier. I traded a glance with Dee as I took away the second tea tray.
The Bird Woman was lying in wait for me when I returned to the hall, now bundled in a very puffy, bubblegum pink, down parka. Her head looked tiny, peeking out of the neckline above the lime scarf. She pressed the card I had given her into my hand.
“Slip it to him after I’m gone,” she whispered.
“All right,” I whispered back.
She beamed, pulled a chartreuse fake-fur hat à la Russe down on top of her free-flying hair, and clomped along the hall toward her friends by the front door, heels and toes both blinking. I glanced at the card in my hand, saw a long-ish message scrawled on it in spidery handwriting, and hoped she hadn’t written anything too outlandish. I couldn’t bring myself to be so rude as to read it.
The last few guests were putting on their hats and gloves. Mr. Quentin was nowhere in evidence. Deducing that he had gone upstairs, I hurried up and found him donning his large, pale blue woolen overcoat.
“Thank you, Mr. Quentin. Another successful event.”
He smiled. “My talk seems to be especially popular in nasty weather.”
I returned the smile, then swallowed. “One of the guests asked me to give you her number. She was...very impressed, I believe.”
He accepted the card with a small bow and tucked it into his pocket, much to my relief. Maybe he’d forget about it for a few days. Or months. Years.
We went downstairs together and found Willow waiting in the hall. Mr. Quentin bade us both a courteous goodnight and left by the back door. I locked it, and since the hall was otherwise empty, I glanced into the dining parlor.
Margo still stood looking up at the chandelier. I cleared my throat.
“We’re closed, now,” I said gently. “Thank you for taking the tour.”
She slowly came out of the room. I switched off the chandelier as she reached the hall, and pulled the parlor door shut for good measure. Margo donned a heavy black coat and a dark plaid scarf, and followed me to the front door, where I said good night and locked the door behind her.
Turning to Willow, I heard a distant clink of china from the kitchen. “Thanks for staying. This won’t take long. May I offer you a glass of something? sherry, or wine...?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m having dinner with friends.”
“Ah. Well, I won’t keep you. Let’s sit somewhere more comfortable. Do you have a favorite alcove?”
“I heard you redecorated one of them.”
“Oh, yes. Violet. Used to be Marigold.”
I led her through the gift shop and back to Violet. The fire there had settled to coals. Willow stepped up to the fireplace, peering at Vi’s portrait.
“That’s a stunning likeness,” she said. “It really captures her spirit.”
“Thank you. Julio Delgado painted it.”
“Your chef?”
I nodded. “They were friends.”
She looked back at the painting, then took in the votive candle, the prayer card, and the small vase of marigolds with which I had replaced the faded pansies the previous day.
“Nice of you to honor her,” she said, and moved to one of the wing chairs. “So, how can I help you?”
I took the other chair. “I had an unusual experience a few days ago.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I saw...well, a glint of light. It was just like the way light shines off the chandelier.” I nodded toward the dining parlor, and she nodded back. “Only I saw it outside, in Hidalgo Plaza.”
“Really?” Her gaze intensified a degree. “Maybe it was a reflection.”
“I checked. There was nothing reflective in the area. Actually, I saw it in three different places. As if it was leading me along.”
Willow’s brows rose. “And where did it lead you?”
“To the balcony on the west side of the plaza. The spot didn’t seem significant. There wasn’t a door or a window right there.”
“And yet you felt the light led you there.”
“Well...yes. So I wondered if it could be Captain Dusenberry.” I felt my cheeks getting warm. “Is that something he’d be capable of doing? Making a light out of thin air?”
“Not out of thin air, exactly, but yes. That would be a fairly simple manifestation.”
“Is there a way to tell if it was the captain or...or someone else?”
“I would trust your instinct on that,” Willow said. “You’re pretty well acquainted with the captain.”
I nodded, feeling a little silly, but glad that Willow hadn’t dismissed my story. The light in the room wavered; we both looked up at the votive on the mantel, which was flickering. After a moment it stilled.
“If...if you went there with me, do you think you might be able to, um...sense anything?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.”
“I’d pay you for your time. I don’t want to impose.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve done me plenty of good, Ellen. I’d be glad to go there with you. I don’t know of any activity in Hidalgo Plaza so now I’m curious, but it’ll have to be another day.”
“Of course.” I stood. “Maybe next month, after you’re finished with the tea tours.”
Willow smiled as she rose. “Or maybe we can find half an hour next week. I know you’re busy too, but the sooner the better with this sort of thing. Let’s both check our calendars and find a time that works.”
“Yes. Thanks, Willow. I didn’t know what to think.” I gestured for her to precede me out of the alcove.
“Do you know of any reason the captain would be interested in Hidalgo Plaza?”
“Maybe,” I said as we reached the hall. I felt reluctant to share what I knew about the captain and Maria, though if anyone could sympathize it would be Willow. She might even be able to get more information. “We could talk about it when we meet.”
“All right.” She put on her coat and a lavender cashmere scarf, then turned to me with a smile. “Well, see you at tomorrow’s tour.”
“See you then. Good night.”
I let her out the front door and locked it behind her, then walked slowly back toward the kitchen to check on Mick and Dee. The dining parlor door was still closed. I opened it and looked in.
All was still in the dim light, softened by lace curtains, that came through the French doors. Dappled shadows lay across the table. The chandelier was quiet.
Waiting for something.
Was that my imagination, making up a story to account for my feelings? With a small sigh, I left to finish the last of the day’s duties.
When Dee and Mick had gone and I had the house to myself, I opened the calendar on my compu
ter and looked for a day when I could go to Hidalgo Plaza with Willow. The coming weekend was out; I was short-staffed on Saturday so I’d have to help out in the tearoom, and Sunday was Julio’s skull-decorating party. Monday was the only possibility, unless Willow had time in between tours. From Tuesday through Halloween she was doing at least one tea tour a day, usually two, and who knew how many other tours sans tea were on her plate. I sent her an email suggesting November first if Monday wouldn’t work for her.
November first. El Dia de los Muertos. Ironic if that turned out to be the best time for pursuing a ghost.
The next couple of days were uneventful except for phone calls. Nat called from Hawaii, bubbling with happiness. Gina called to gossip: she was having a lovely time with her beau, but did not expect a proposal despite having caught Nat’s bouquet in his company. No, she couldn’t decorate skulls; they were going to a concert.
Angela, however, was delighted to be asked to the decorating and called to accept. She had made arrangements for her grandmother in order to be free. I felt a moment’s pang that her arrangements might inconvenience Tony, but then thought better of it. If he was still working, then he wouldn’t be available to help Angela.
Tony called to say he was again working through the weekend; he wanted to see me but didn’t know when he’d be free. I told him we could always talk on the phone if he didn’t have time to meet. The suggestion didn’t thrill him (conversation had never been his strong suit), and for a long moment’s silence I imagined him struggling with an impulse to question me about whether I’d been seeing anyone else. If he had, I was prepared to give him a gushing description of Mr. Quentin. Fortunately, he didn’t.
Sunday started early with Julio sneaking into the kitchen. I woke, aware of his presence despite his best efforts to be quiet, and rolled over to look at my clock. Seven a.m.
I sighed, knowing I wouldn’t get back to sleep. I put on a kettle, dragged on some clothes, and went down to say hello.
The smells of Julio’s coffee and fresh-baked bread greeted me as I reached the kitchen. On the counter stood a row of plastic storage boxes filled with sugar skulls, three gallon jugs of apple cider, a giant package of paper plates, and two grocery bags. Julio was at the work table, dumping powdered sugar into the largest bowl. He had on jeans and a black T-shirt adorned with an elaborate, giant sugar skull.
A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) Page 9