A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5)

by Patrice Greenwood

  “That’ll be Phillips. Send him back here,” Tony said.

  “Phillips?”

  “Investigator.”

  I went to the door and discovered that “investigator” meant my favorite sandy-haired evidence technician, who was apparently named Phillips.

  “Hello, again,” he said, grinning. “Get any sleep?”

  “Not much,” I admitted, waving him in. “You?”

  His grin widened. “Nah, this case is too interesting!”

  “Well, it just got more so. Come on back.”

  I turned him and the photographer following him—a different one, young white male—over to Tony. The kettle began to whistle. I got to the butler’s pantry just in time to catch it before it started shrieking, and started a pot of Assam. Returning to the hall, I met Dale coming out of the bathroom. His sweater was still a little stained, but looked better.

  “Thanks for the tip,” he said, brushing at it.

  I nodded. “Soak it in cold water when you get home, then rub soap into the stain and wash it in cold.”

  “Will do.” He rubbed his hands together, looking chilled and self-conscious. “Guess you’ll give the job to someone else. You’d probably rather not see me again after this.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “You were indispensable when Cherie lost her head.”

  His cheeks reddened. “If I hadn’t brought her here, she wouldn’t have done it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He shook his head. “She only does things like that when she has an audience.”

  “Are you...close?”

  His eyes widened. “Not like that, no. Just friends. But I’ve known her a long time.”

  “Well, you were a good friend to her today.” A stray memory came to me, of Roberto’s painting of Puck, for which Dale had clearly been the model. “Is Roberto a better friend to you than Gabriel was?” I asked.

  Dale looked at me in surprise, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him. “Apples and oranges,” he said. “They’re very different people.” He sighed. “I’ll really miss Gabriel. We all will....Is that a timer going off?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” I started for the pantry.

  “When do you need the fountain out of your way?” Dale asked, following me.

  “By late Monday, if you can. Would you like a cup of tea before you go?” I offered, removing the infuser from the pot. I inhaled a deep, comforting breath of Assam-scented steam.

  “That’s tempting, but I’d better get over to the hospital,” he said. “I’ll call.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  I saw him out, then put together a tea tray, adding a couple of tartlets and two slices of leftover wedding cake. As I carried it toward the stairs, I heard Tony’s voice from the dining parlor. Looking in, I saw him pacing, talking not into his phone but into a hand-held recorder, describing Cherie’s suicide attempt. He glanced up at me, but kept talking. I eased away and went upstairs.

  Kris was where I’d left her. Anger had subsided into sullenness. She accepted a cup of tea, a hopeful sign.

  “The cops’ll think Cherie killed Gabriel now,” she said.

  “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  Kris looked out the window, frowning. “She couldn’t have.”

  In my heart, I agreed, but I had no proof. I lifted my cup and sipped tea.

  “Did you see those heels she was wearing?” Kris said.

  “This morning?”

  “No, at the party. She couldn’t have run in them. She could barely walk.”

  “Why would she need to run?”

  Kris gave me a look. “Gabriel took off running after someone. After the person who...” Her voice hitched, and she took a gulp of tea. “It couldn’t have been Cherie.”

  I nodded, thinking Tony should hear this. Picking up one of the cake plates, I offered it to her. She stared at it.

  “Yeah,” she said, reaching for it. “It’s a cake day.”

  The tearoom phone rang, and we both looked at it. “Let it go to voicemail,” I said.

  “It might be important.” She picked up the handset and had a brief conversation, apparently with someone she knew. “Hold on,” she said, and covered the phone. “It’s Owen Hughes. He says he left his mask.”

  “Yes, it’s in my office.”

  Kris gave me the phone, and I told Owen he could come get the mask any time. “He’s coming over now,” I said, handing the phone back to Kris. “There are some coats and cloaks left, too.”

  “I may be able to tell whose they are,” Kris said. “If not, I’ll get them out of your way.”

  “Who gets the liquor?”

  Kris grimaced. “I guess I’ll take that, too. We can put it out for the wake.”

  “Oh, Kris.”

  She took a bite of cake, then put down her fork and swallowed. “I’ve got to deal with it.”

  “Tell me how I can help,” I said, knowing that platitudes would be useless.

  She turned her head toward me with a shadowed smile. “Keep me busy.”

  “OK.”

  I knew firsthand how the distraction of simple work could keep one from teetering over the cliff of depression. “Tony said Gabriel had a will,” I added, thinking that his family might provide some support.

  She nodded. “He left everything to me, except for a few gifts.”

  “Oh. No family?”

  “Not here.”

  Thinking of Gabriel’s artwork, I wondered if this could be good news for her. But the material gain, whatever it amounted to, was nothing compared with her loss.

  “You might talk to Loren Jackson,” I suggested gently.

  “Maybe.” She picked up the cake again.

  “You’ll think about it?”

  “Yes.”

  We were out of tea. To give her some space, I went downstairs to brew more, and to keep her from following I asked her to make a to-do list for the coming week.

  While I was in the pantry, I heard the rumble of a car engine and the crunch of gravel in the driveway. A minute later the kitchen’s back door opened. I went through and found Mick signing in, looking fresher than I thought was fair.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said. “How’s Dee?”

  “Haven’t talked to her today. She was OK when I dropped her at her place. Pretty tired, though.”

  “No surprise. You’re getting overtime for this, by the way.”

  “Where should I start?” he asked. “Dishes or decorations?”

  “Decorations,” I said. “You’ll need the stepladder. Please take down the black fabric around the doors, then work on the south side. The police are in Rose.”

  His brows went up. “Thought they finished last night.”

  “Well, there was a new development. Just stay out of the main parlor until they’re done.”

  “OK.”

  Lingering in the pantry, waiting for the kettle to boil, I opened the lace curtains over the window, revealing the rosebushes dancing in the breeze out in the garden.

  How beautiful they were. I watched, silently grateful, until the kettle was ready.

  Leaving a fresh pot of tea steeping, I went to check on Tony, who emerged from the dining parlor as I approached. “I’m going,” he said.

  “To arrest Cherie?”

  He shook his head. “She’ll be given a psych eval, once she’s stable. Then we’ll see.”

  I nodded, swallowing. Poor Cherie.

  “How’s Kris?” he asked.

  Surprised, I looked up into his eyes. “Coping. She doesn’t think Cherie did it, either.”

  He sighed. “There’s only so much credit I can give to women’s intuition.”

  “It isn’t intuition,” I said. “Kris remembered that Cherie was wearing high heels at the party. Really high heels. She wouldn’t have been able to run in them.”

  Tony frowned. “Got a picture of them?”

  “Maybe Owen took one.”

  “Text it to me?”

 
“Sure.”

  “Phillips will let you know when they’re finished.” He kissed my forehead. “I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I leaned against him, grateful for the contact. His arm slid around me.

  “Hey, Ellen?” he said softly.

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for putting up with me.”

  I looked up and saw weariness in his eyes, tinged with worry. “I’m not the most charming guy on the planet when I’m working,” he added.

  I smiled and touched his cheek. “As long as you remember to wipe your feet, it’s OK.”

  He glanced at his shoes, and we both laughed. I walked with him to the front door, where Mick was taking down the black fabric. Sunlight streamed in, filling me with relief and a tiny spark of hope. There would be an end to this. Life would go on.

  Through the lights, I saw a dark shape outside. It was Owen, looking unexpectedly normal, but still striking, in a gray cable-knit sweater and jeans. He smiled when I opened the door.

  “Thanks for letting me come by. Hi, Detective Aragón.”

  “Hi,” Tony said, and added, “Bye.” His fingers brushed mine, then he was striding down the path toward the curb where his bike was parked.

  “Come in,” I told Owen. “We’re just taking down the decorations. Your mask is upstairs.”

  We went up to my office, where the mask still lay on my credenza. I handed it to him, and he gave a sigh of relief.

  “Did you make it?” I asked.

  “No, Gabriel did. In trade for photography.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s all I have now, besides the photos, to remember him by.”

  “You were close, then?”

  “Not terribly, but I’ve always admired him. He’s—he was—an artistic genius.”

  I nodded, glancing toward Kris’s office. “Such a dreadful loss.”

  “It really is,” Owen said, cradling the mask carefully. “I was hoping to buy one of his paintings one day. Now I guess I won’t have the chance.”

  Prompted by impulse, I stepped to my desk and took out my badge from the art show. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

  He stepped closer to look at it. “Sure. It’s from the exhibition last week.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your badge look like this?” I said, showing him the map side.

  He laughed. “Yes, I asked Gabriel who else I should look at. I have to say, I didn’t care for what I saw in most of those booths.”

  “Neither did I. Do you still have yours?” I waggled the badge.

  Owen nodded. “I liked the holder, so I kept it.”

  “What about the map?”

  “Yes, I kept that, too. Gabriel wrote a message on the back of it.”

  “He did?” I slid the map out of my holder, and found a few words scrawled across the back. Gabriel must have done it when I wasn’t looking.

  Thanks for your support! Looking forward to All Hallows —

  Gabriel

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I said softly.

  “He was good at that sort of thing,” Owen said. “He was good with people.”

  I slid the map back in and returned the badge to my desk drawer. “Keep yours safe,” I advised Owen.

  He smiled wistfully. “I think I’ll keep it with the mask.”

  “Do you have a card?” I asked him as we went downstairs. “For your photography?”

  He took out a metal wallet and handed me a business card. It was black and white, a striking photo of a yucca plant in front of the entrance to a cave.

  “Thanks. I may be calling you.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for keeping this safe.”

  He hefted the mask, then went out. I looked into the gift shop. The blue drapes were all down, and Mick was working on Dahlia. I headed back upstairs and turned on my computer, then took out the case where I kept collected business cards and found a spot for Owen’s next to Gabriel’s.

  Something about Gabriel’s card caught my attention. The design was simple: besides the text, there was just a Celtic knot, no doubt Gabriel’s work. I’d seen it before, I was sure. I fingered the card, trying to remember.

  Giving up, I fetched my phone and sent Tony a text:

  Check back of badge map for message from G

  I slid Owen’s card into the case. The image was deceptively simple. The darkness of the cave was the perfect background to set off the yucca, bright in sunlight. It confirmed what I’d suspected watching Owen take photos of Dee: he was a professional, in skill level if not in actual fact.

  I brought up the photos I had downloaded from his camera and began looking through them for a picture of Cherie’s heels. Owen had a genius for capturing interpersonal moments. I became acquainted with the guests in a way I’d never imagined. People who had been costumed strangers became living, laughing, sultry or sinister beings. Fascinated, I kept going through the images.

  Ramon frowning in concentration as he played the guitar, looking darkly romantic in his blue tunic.

  Cherie smiling as she talked with the two Goth fairies. Shoes not visible in that photo, unfortunately.

  Gabriel in the black chamber, caught nodding in conversation. The mask concealed his face, but his stance was somehow both regal and humble.

  Gwyneth in a moment of unexpected stillness. Alone in Lily, no one to impress, she was gazing into the distance, looking hopeful and a little afraid. An extraordinary image.

  Dale and Margo flirting by the mulled wine cauldron. Dale was bowing over Margo’s hand, and she was feigning shyness by drawing her veil over her face, while simultaneously sending him a coquettish glance. I hadn’t seen her smile like that very often.

  I gazed at the photo, wondering what had led to it. Was it staged for Owen’s benefit? The others didn’t seem so. If not, he’d been lucky to catch the shot.

  Something niggled at me. I enlarged the image until it nearly filled my screen. The candlelight was soft and warm. Reflections glinted off of Margo’s eyes, the chandelier, and the absinthe fountain in the background.

  I paused, feeling a chill down my back. Owen had captured one large gleam of light shining out from the chandelier, right above Dale and Margo.

  Peering closer, I looked for some unusual detail. The purple feather on Dale’s hat partially obscured his face, but Margo’s veil did little to hide hers.

  Margo’s veil.

  I drew a sharp breath. The hennin, her tall hat, with the stiff black veil floating from its points.

  Could it be tulle?

  I zoomed in on the hat. Fortunately, the photo’s resolution was high and there was no blur from motion. It wasn’t visible against the dark green dress, but against Margo’s pale skin the veil was clearly made of net.

  It looked very much like tulle.

  I cropped the image and sent it to the printer, then sent the whole picture as well. I texted both files to Tony and asked him to call me.

  While the printer slogged on I rummaged in my desk for a copy of the party guest list and a folder. There were some colored ones. I gave a small cry of triumph as I extracted a green one.

  I hurried downstairs, where I found Mick carrying the ladder across to the main parlor. Phillips the Investigator was on his way to the front door, photographer in tow.

  “We’re done,” Phillips told me as I passed.

  “Thanks. Mick, hold up, please.” I switched off the parlor’s overhead lights as the front door closed. “Give me just a minute.”

  I ducked through the drapery passage and into Rose, walking gingerly as glass crunched underfoot. Leaving the folder on the empty food stand, I fetched the long matches from the fireplace and lit the remaining candle lantern. Red light flared.

  “Ellen? What are these?” Kris asked from the archway. She had my printed photos in her hand.

  “Wait, please,” I said.

  I held the folder up between the lanterns and the black drapery. The
crimson light from the lanterns turned the green to a dull, dark gray. A darker shade would certainly have appeared black.

  Margo’s dress would have looked black in there. She would have been hard to see against the black walls, especially at a glance.

  What do you want?

  Gabriel hadn’t been alone when I looked in. I just hadn’t seen who was with him.

  “Right. Mick, you can do Jonquil and Lily, but leave this side up.”

  I blew out the candle, grabbed my folder, and brushed past Kris to turn on the lights. She followed, and I took the photos from her and slipped them into the green folder.

  “Thanks. I’m going out for a bit.”

  “What’s up?”

  I hesitated. She’d suffered enough trauma. I didn’t want to add to her pain, but I also felt I owed her the truth.

  “I think I know what happened. Kris, I believe it was an accident. I’m going to find out.”

  “Going where?”

  “To—the person I think was there.”

  “Are you nuts? You can’t go alone! What if you’re wrong?”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  “That’s about as safe as ‘Hold my beer and watch this’! You should call Tony,” Kris said.

  “I did. I haven’t heard back.”

  I went upstairs for my purse and keys. Kris trailed after me.

  “I thought you were all law-abiding leave-it-to-the-police.”

  “Usually,” I said, “but if this was an accident, it’ll go easier on—the other party—if they turn themself in. Do you see?”

  “‘Themself’? From you, the grammar queen?”

  “I’m trying to be discreet.”

  Kris crossed her arms and leaned against the frame of the door to my suite. “If you want to be discreet about gender, you could say ‘hirself’ or ‘zemself.’ But being discreet about it at all implies that the person you’re protecting is female.”

  When the mood strikes her, Kris can be an even more annoying pedant than me.

  “Fine,” I said, stepping past her into the hall. “Yes, you’re right. If she turns herself in, the police may go easier on her.”

  “And you think you can convince her to turn herself in?”

  “I have to try.”

  I moved to lock my suite and she stepped out of the way. “Take me with you,” she said, following me back down the stairs.