A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  The door opened and Manny came into the kitchen, full of bluster and a bit out of breath, his tanned cheeks glowing. “Cops have a dozen cars parked on the street. I had to go up to the top of the hill!”

  Nat gave him a smooch. “You’re just in time to set the table.”

  “Good, I’m starving. It smells fantastic! Hi, hija,” he added, catching my shoulders in one powerful arm.

  “Hey, Tio,” I replied, putting down my knife to hug him back.

  “Tio-to-be.”

  “Not long now.”

  He chuckled, then started getting out dishes. He and Nat had been keeping company long enough that he was perfectly at home in her kitchen.

  I smiled as I diced the last of the carrots and tossed them into the salad bowl. The prospect of having Manny as my uncle pleased me to no end. He could not have been more different than Uncle Stephen: bulldog-like physique, merry and mischievous, with bristly black hair liberally sprinkled with salt. Stephen had been ethereal by comparison, yet Nat had loved him deeply.

  I helped Nat carry the food out to the table. As I went back for the salad dressing, my phone rang. I took it out, and let out a small gasp of relief when I saw that it was Tony calling.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I wish you were here.”

  “I just heard. Don’t worry, Zeke is all right.”

  “Can you come help him?”

  “Sorry—it’s his baby. Got my hands full anyway. Gang fight. Two dead.”

  “Oh, no!“

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “Be careful, Tony!“

  “I’m always careful.”

  He hung up, abruptly as usual. I’d begun to suspect that he had something against saying goodbye. Swallowing self-pity, I put my phone away, grabbed the bottle of Nat’s homemade vinaigrette, and went to the dining room.

  “That your boyfriend?” Manny asked.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Just an acquaintance checking up on you? That’s nice.”

  I did not dignify that with an answer. Instead, I took my seat, and accepted a bowl of green chile chicken stew from Nat.

  “Any luck with the musicians?” Nat asked.

  “Nah,” Manny said. “They wanted me to rent sound equipment. And they had too many trumpets. Whatever happened to strolling mariachis?”

  “Maybe you should talk to La Fonda. Don’t they have them sometimes?”

  “Did you try the talent agencies?” I asked.

  Manny shook his head. “I don’t want to pay a commission. I’ve got a couple more leads.”

  “Isn’t it the musicians who pay the commission?”

  “Yeah, well I don’t want them to have to pay it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find someone,” said Nat, smiling.

  How kind she was. She didn’t particularly want mariachis at her wedding, but she knew it meant something to Manny. I doubted I’d have been as patient in her position.

  I thought about offering to talk to Ramon, who was an excellent guitarist when he wasn’t working in the tearoom’s kitchen, but he wasn’t a mariachi and might not know anyone to recommend.

  “So, Ellen,” Manny said. “Tell me about all that.” He nodded his head toward the driveway.

  “Not over dinner!“ Nat protested.

  “There isn’t that much to tell,” I said. “At first I thought it was a homeless guy, but then I saw that he’d been in a fight.”

  I thought of Tony’s gang fight investigation, and wondered fleetingly if the moon was full.

  Some stranger got in a fight and wandered into the driveway to die?” Manny said.

  “I think he must have been looking for help. Maybe he came up from the frontage road. And Nat, the police may ask you if you know him.”

  “They did.”

  “Well, I saw him at the flea market this morning, in the Tesuque tent. He was selling knives.”

  “Nat’s eyes widened in alarm. “Did he talk to you?”

  “No, he ignored me, actually. I wanted to ask him a question but his attention was elsewhere.”

  She frowned. “I don’t like this, Ellen.”

  The police are thinking he must have followed us, but it doesn’t make sense. There were hours between when we came home and when I found him. He couldn’t have been lying in the driveway all that time.”

  Could he? Wouldn’t he have been bloated? Smelly? Wouldn’t someone have noticed him? I didn’t know that much about dead bodies.

  Actually, I knew more than I wanted to about them.

  “So, I think we can finish your dress tonight,” I said.

  We talked about the sewing projects for the rest of the meal. Manny showed polite interest, and applauded Nat’s choice of buttons. He insisted on helping her with the dishes, and I left them to it, giving them a chance to talk privately.

  I went back to the living room and took out Nat’s blouse. We had finished the skirt, and I was putting together the sleeves. I made buttonholes in the long cuffs, savoring the rich feel of the velvet under my fingers, the glow of its color in the cove lighting of Nat’s living room. I was grateful for a project that required concentration. I didn’t want to think about the body.

  By the time Nat joined me I was finishing the second sleeve. She sewed buttons on the first one, then we traded and I started fitting the first sleeve into the tunic. We worked in comfortable silence until the doorbell rang. I went with Nat to answer it, and found Detective Walters outside.

  “Miss Rosings? I just need to ask you a couple more questions.”

  “Come in,” Nat said before I could step out. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. That’s very good coffee you make, ma’am.”

  Nat fussed with mugs and spoons while I invited the detective to sit at the small table in the kitchen nook. I didn’t feel like welcoming him farther into her house.

  I waited. The detective stared at me. I stared back.

  Nat placed a mug of coffee in front of each of us. That distracted him; he looked up and thanked her, took a sip, then cleared his throat.

  “So, Miss Rosings.” He took a notepad out of his pocket and scribbled on it. “What did you do at the flea market, and who did you talk to?”

  I took a swallow of coffee and kept my fingers wrapped around the warm mug. “My aunt wanted to buy some buttons from a vendor she’d seen last week in the Tesuque crafters’ tent, so we went straight there when we arrived. While she was shopping for buttons, I looked at the horno bread and talked to the man selling it. I bought some biscochitos from him. Then I went to the neighboring booth and admired some handmade dolls. Then the next booth was ... the man selling knives. The man I found later in the driveway. I wanted to ask him a question but he got distracted, and then my aunt called me over to the jeweler’s booth. We discussed the buttons, she bought some, and we left.”

  He looked up from his notebook, his eyes sharp beneath bushy brows. “That’s a good description.”

  I smiled, but refrained from commenting that I’d had plenty of practice. He must know by now that I’d been interviewed about multiple murders this year.

  That probably didn’t look good. I could protest all I wanted that it was coincidence, but if I’d learned anything about cops from my acquaintance with Tony, it was that they were perpetually suspicious.

  “So the name Daniel Swazo doesn’t mean anything to you.”

  “You told me that was the dead man’s name. Otherwise, no.”

  “How about Tommy Swazo?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  “Have you ever been up to Tesuque Pueblo?”

  “My parents took me to one of their feast days when I was little, but I haven’t been back since then.”

  “Know anyone from the pueblo?”

  “One of my employees. Isabel Naranjo.”

  He scribbled some more. “Did you see her at the flea market?”

  “No.”

  He dump
ed a large dollop of cream into his coffee, swallowed about half the mug at once, and set it down. “Well, thank you, Miss Rosings. We may have more questions for you later.”

  “Are your people still working in the driveway?”

  “Hm? Oh, no. It’s clear now. You can go home.”

  “Thank you.”

  I glanced at the clock on Nat’s microwave: 10:45, too late to call Gina. I got up to fetch my purse while the detective said goodbye to Nat. When I heard the door close, I came back to the kitchen and took the small plastic bag of biscochitos out of my purse.

  “I’d forgotten about these. Want one?”

  “Sure,” Nat said, bringing her own mug of coffee to the table.

  The biscochitos were mostly intact: only one had broken. Pretty good for an inherently fragile cookie. I set the open bag between us and fished out a half. Nice, crumbly short cookie with just the right hint of anise, generously dusted with cinnamon sugar that stuck to my fingers and made a mess on Nat’s table.

  “Well, at least we made progress on the dress,” Nat said.

  “Almost done,” I agreed.

  “Sorry about your evening with Gina.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. At least I got to hang out with you.”

  I was feeling a little down, but I didn’t want Nat to worry, so I chatted about plans for the wedding while we finished the biscochitos. Then hugs and goodnight—no, she wouldn’t let me help put away the sewing; I was to go straight home and take a hot bath.

  Yes, ma’am,” I said, smooching her on the cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow when I know whether I’ll have time to come sew some more.”

  I shouldered my purse and went out to the car. I couldn’t help pausing to look toward the bottom of the driveway.

  All the signs of police activity were gone, except for the rather churned appearance of the gravel at the foot of the drive. A streetlight cast a sodium-orange glow over it.

  I found myself staring at the spot where I’d found Daniel Swazo. Waiting for him to appear, or to manifest in some other way?

  I’d been living in a haunted house too long. Shaking myself, I got in my car and headed home.

  Monday mornings were usually lazy for me, but while I was lounging in bed I heard someone open the back door downstairs. A minute later the sound of salsa music informed me that it was Julio, my chef.

  He wasn’t usually this early on Mondays. The tearoom was closed, and he came in only part of the day, to get a head start on the week’s baking, making scones to freeze and bake as they were needed.

  Sighing for my lost alone time, I got up and dressed, then went downstairs. If Julio was going to rob me of my solitude, the least he could do was make me breakfast.

  The smell of eggs and cheese met me at the foot of the stairs. My stomach growled approval. I paused in the butler’s pantry to put on a kettle, then continued into the kitchen, where Julio was dancing by the stove.

  “Morning, jefa! I made you breakfast.”

  “So I divined. Thank you.”

  He grinned and gestured toward the table at the back of the kitchen where my staff took their breaks. He’d set it with a full place setting for one, including a chrysanthemum in a bud vase.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion. Have a seat, it’s ready. You want coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  I generally prefer tea, but Julio’s coffee was very good. He presented me with my favorite breakfast sandwich: green chile cheese croissant, egg over medium, with a slice of cheddar melting over the egg. I began to suspect I was being buttered up.

  “Are you having some?” I asked.

  “I already ate.”

  “Well, sit down and keep me company, then.”

  He helped himself to coffee and did so. I took my time savoring a bite of the sandwich, then asked him how his weekend had gone.

  “Good. I got some great ideas for the menu for October. Want to hear?”

  I nodded. He talked about harvest soup and a variation on rumaki, but I could tell from the humming excitement in his limbs that these were not the main thing on his mind. Finally, as I finished the last bite of sandwich, he cast a sidelong glance at me.

  “More coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Just tell me your brainstorm.”

  He bit his lip, then took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It was an article torn from a magazine, with a photo of cubes, balls, and other geometric shapes outlined in three dimensions, in bright neon colors.

  I read the first couple of lines. “Three-D Printing?”

  He pointed to the shapes. “Ignore the colors. That’s sugar.”

  “Nice, but—”

  “I could program a printer to make little skulls. Sugar skulls, right? For Halloween. Only little ones that can sweeten your tea!“ His eyes were alight with creative excitement.

  “It’s a great idea, Julio, but don’t those printers cost a lot of money?”

  “It would be worth it. You could sell the sugar shapes in the gift shop. We could make little holly leaves for Christmas, hearts for Valentine’s, even Wisteria flowers for the petit fours.”

  “I like the buttercream wisteria blossoms.”

  “Well, there’s a lot of other stuff we could do with it. All kinds of garnishes for the sweets.”

  I sighed. “How much does a food-grade 3-D printer cost?”

  “I don’t know. They’re pretty new still.”

  “I’ll ask Kris to dig up some quotes, but don’t get your hopes up. We don’t have a lot of extra funds in the budget.”

  Julio nodded, shoulders slumped a bit. “I figured you’d say that.”

  “Sorry. Next year might be a better bet.”

  He shrugged and gave me a crooked smile. “Maybe by then they’ll be able to do chocolate.”

  I got up to take my plate to the dishwashing station. Julio took it from my hands.

  “Thanks. May I borrow this?” I waved the article.

  “Sure, boss. Thanks for listening.”

  Feeling bad about disappointing him, I made a pot of tea and carried it up to my office. There I wrote a note to my office manager asking her to find quotes for culinary-grade 3-D printers, clipped it to Julio’s article, and set it on her desk in the neighboring office. Returning to my desk, I sat down to a small stack of messages that I hadn’t been able to get to on Friday.

  Willow Lane had left two of them. I felt a pang of guilt; Willow, the owner of Spirit Tours of Santa Fe, often sank to the bottom half of my priority list. She made me slightly uncomfortable, though she’d proved herself to be not only a class act but sincerely interested in me.

  Well, sincerely interested in the tearoom anyway. I had a feeling she cared a lot more about Captain Dusenberry than about me.

  I refilled my teacup and fired up my computer. Captain Dusenberry’s murder was another subject I had been neglecting of late. Over the summer I’d formed a determination to figure out who had murdered him downstairs in the dining parlor (then his study), even though it had happened over a hundred years ago. I’d established a connection with Sonja Lindholm, one of the archivists at the State Archives, who emailed me copies of the documents I requested from time to time, but searching for information about Captain Dusenberry’s death beyond the scant mentions in military records and the local newspaper was pretty much a needle/haystack proposition.

  I pulled up a PDF from Sonja’s latest email and perused several dull letters about a charity concert held at the Exchange Hotel (now known as La Fonda) in 1884. Some of them mentioned Maria Hidalgo, whom I believed to have been in love with Captain Dusenberry, but only in passing among a list of subscribers to the concert.

  The handwriting was more elegant than anything I could produce, and I’d always been proud of my penmanship. Something about the variation in thickness of the lines, probably a result of writing with a quill pen, made it exceptionally beautiful. Now cursive writing was no longer being taught in some s
chools. It might just be matter of time until only scholars would be able to read letters like these.

  The digital age had its wonders, and also its costs.

  I finished going through the PDF, finding nothing interesting. Sent an email to Sonja thanking her and asking for the next document on my list. Picked up my teacup and found it empty.

  I stood and walked over to the credenza in Kris’s office, where I always left the tea tray so that I’d have to get up to get more tea. Deciding to take a bit more of a break, I left my cup by the pot and went out into the hallway. Julio’s salsa music was a muted distant thrumming beat, easily ignored in my office but more noticeable out here as it drifted up the stairwell.

  The pitched roof of the old Victorian house gave the upstairs hallway a cathedral-ish ceiling. White sheers flanked the tall window at the western end, glowing softly in the indirect morning light. I remembered Vi standing before that window on the day she sang for a special tea in the main parlor downstairs. My throat tightened, recalling the happiness of that day and the sorrow that had followed. Such a promising artist, and dear friend, struck down so cruelly. I swallowed and walked through my little sitting area up to the window, looking down at my garden.

  A few dry leaves skittered over the portal’s roof below. The wisteria vines were starting to go yellow; the cottonwoods on the street were showing the first hint of gold. Autumn was a time of endings. Normally I loved it, but there was a hollow feeling in me today.

  I went back to my office, poured tea, and picked up the phone, dialing Willow’s number before I could procrastinate again. Two rings and she answered, her smooth voice intoning the name of her business.

  “Willow, it’s Ellen Rosings. Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you.”

  “No problem, Ellen. I know you’re busy.”

  There was a pause, and I thought I heard her take a long, slow breath.

  “You wanted to talk about the tour and tea package for October?” I prompted.

  “Ah...yes. Is this a good time?”

  “Sure. I was thinking a light tea might be better than a full meal. A couple of savories, a scone, and one or two sweets. What do you think?”