A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  Do it, I told my reluctant self. The only ghost around is the friendly one.

  I took my water with me. My slippers shuffled on the hardwood floor of the hall. Lights came on ahead of me. It was like one of those futuristic homes where everything was computer driven, or the frozen food aisle in the supermarket, where the ice cream cases had motion-sensitive lights that flickered to life to entice the passer-by.

  The captain had figured out some new tricks. He’d never messed with the upstairs lights before, or the main parlor and the gift shop, yet both were illuminated as I stepped in and looked at each of the alcoves.

  Everything was in order. The tables were clean, every stray crumb had been vacuumed, all was ready for Tuesday morning.

  I stood in Violet, looking up at Vi’s portrait. Such a lovely smile. I didn’t think she was here, hanging around the tearoom. She’d never been one to dawdle when she had better things to do.

  A feeling of peace settled over me. I loved this little room, the most remote corner of the public area. I sat in one of the wing chairs and gazed at the décor that Nat and the servers had helped me with. Every piece of furniture, every fabric, every touch of art, had been carefully chosen. More than any of the other alcoves, though I loved all of them, this space was personally meaningful to me.

  I hadn’t shown it to Vi’s mother yet, but I felt it would soon be time. Maybe in December, when she’d be missing her daughter during the holiday season. I made a mental note to ask in a few weeks.

  An aroma of garlic and tomato was beginning to drift through the tearoom; most uncharacteristic. I returned to the kitchen to find the lasagna happily bubbling away. I fixed myself a plate and turned to the break table, then changed my mind.

  Captain Dusenberry was being very kind. I would have my midnight supper in his room.

  I collected a place mat along with some silverware and carried everything across the hall to the dining parlor. The chandelier came on as I reached the doorway. I set my place at the center of the table’s west side, so I could look out the French doors. When I pushed aside the sheers, I saw moonlight pooled outside and the branches of the lilacs waving in the wind.

  The first bite of lasagna made me sigh with bliss. Gina always made it the way her grandmother did: spinach and mushrooms, no meat, and lots of garlic. I was pretty sure she also made her own marinara sauce. She wasn’t ordinarily opposed to shortcuts, but this was Nonna Fiorello’s recipe.

  As I ate, I thought about Captain Dusenberry. I was sure the Navy revolver was the key to figuring out who had killed him. I knew from the contemporary newspaper stories that a ball had been dug out of the wall of this room, but it had apparently not ended up in the Museum’s collection.

  What if there was another ball still in the wall?

  A shiver went through me. Two bullets had struck Captain Dusenberry. Had they both ended up in the wall?

  I needed a metal detector. Maybe Tony would be able to get his hands on one—except Tony was busy with his case.

  The reenactor. Mr. Quentin. Those guys sometimes used metal detectors, going over battlefields looking for artifacts. I’d talk to him. Maybe he could bring a detector over and we could go over the walls.

  Excitement made me want to jump up and contact him that minute, but it was the middle of the freaking night. All I had was his phone number; I wasn’t even sure he had email. I’d have to wait until a more civilized hour.

  I finished my lasagna and drank my water, thinking about what would happen if I did find a bullet in the wall. A ballistics test—would that cost money? Probably. And what would I compare it to? I’d have to find a candidate for the gun, one that had belonged to one of the Hidalgos, and have that tested, too. This could get expensive.

  Maybe the Museum would pay for part of the testing? If the results could be used for an article? Bennett Cole could write something; the history buffs would love it. Hundred-fifty-year-old murder solved!

  Or maybe I was the only one who cared.

  I sighed, glancing up at the chandelier. One crystal, in the exact center of the side nearest me, was swinging gently back and forth.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, smiling. “I’ll find a—hic—way.”

  My water glass was empty, and my full stomach was making me drowsy. That was good—drowsy was good. I carried my dishes to the kitchen and washed them, because I didn’t want to be a total pig. Put away the lasagna, tidied the kitchen, then refilled my glass and carried it upstairs, turning out the kitchen light as I passed the switch.

  When I stepped into the hall, the parlor lights were out, and the pantry light turned off behind me. The music stayed on, though: Mozart, I thought. I left it.

  When I reached the upper floor, the stairwell lights went out. I stepped to the switches and turned off the chandelier.

  “Thank you, Captain,” I said again, and crossed the darkened hall to my suite, where the lights were still burning. Here, in my private space, he left the lights to me. I shut them off in the main room and returned to my bedroom, where I made a ceremony of straightening the bedclothes and fluffing the pillows.

  “Daniel,” I said, with an absolutely straight face, “I have not forgotten about the knife. I’m going to follow up on it tomorrow. Please let me get a good night’s sleep.”

  I took one last swallow of water, set the glass on my nightstand, and climbed into bed.

  I slept well, undisturbed by further dreams. Apparently Daniel felt he’d gotten his message across. Maybe the day would bring me further understanding.

  The hiccups were still with me when I woke, which was disappointing, but at least I no longer felt deeply depressed. I got up and dressed, ate some yogurt and an apple for breakfast, and hopped in my car to head for the flea market.

  The sky was brilliant blue, with a scattering of pillowy clouds that might get serious later in the day. I smelled frybread on the breeze as I crossed the parking lot, and contemplated a second breakfast.

  Nat would feed me well, though. I resisted, bypassing the food stands and making my way back to the Tesuque artists’ tent.

  The jewelers and the doll-maker were there. The man selling bread was at the end of the row, and I was surprised to see a table covered with stone-inlaid knives next to his. On first seeing them, I shivered. I picked up a doll from the neighboring table to buy myself some breathing time.

  The doll’s dress was red velvet, like Nat’s wedding dress. I made a show of examining the details, while the doll-maker watched me placidly.

  I saw movement to my right and glanced that way. An older Pueblo woman—petite, with strands of silver in her dark hair—had come up to the table of knives and stood adjusting them as they lay on the cotton tablecloth. She was bundled in a shawl despite the mild day, and she looked sad.

  Daniel’s mother. Or grandmother? I drew a sharp breath.

  She shouldn’t be here, not so soon, not while her grief was still fresh. She touched each knife tenderly, as if remembering their maker.

  Maybe she needed to sell them, to let them go. Or maybe she needed the money.

  I looked at the doll-maker. “I’ll take this one.” I’d give it to Nat, as a pre-wedding gift. She didn’t want a shower, but she’d agreed to a tea with a few friends to celebrate her engagement.

  While the artist was putting the doll in a recycled grocery bag for me, I turned to the knife table. “Those are very pretty. I was admiring them last—hic—week.”

  The woman looked up at me with woe-weary eyes and a shadow of a smile. “Thank you. My son’s work.”

  Her voice was a little rough. Probably she’d been crying a lot.

  There were fewer knives than last week. I looked at each of them, again debating whether to buy one for Manny. It would be a gift to Daniel’s mother as well, and that made me more inclined.

  A folded pocket knife caught my eye. It had broad bands of turquoise and narrower stripes of something pale green, either a different turquoise or jade.

  I reached toward it
, then hesitated. In the dream, touching Daniel’s knife had not been a good idea.

  This was not a dream, however, and this was not Daniel’s personal knife, even though he had made it. I steeled myself to run a finger along the stone inlay. It was perfectly smooth; I couldn’t feel a seam anywhere. Beautiful work.

  The back of my neck tingled. I glanced up at the man with the bread. He was watching me. For a second his face reminded me of Daniel’s, except for a tightness to the skin around his eyes. Was it Daniel’s brother, then? He was taller, more muscular. Belatedly, he smiled, but his eyes were still watchful.

  Tomás,” Daniel’s mother said to him, and then followed with something in Tewa. So it was Daniel’s brother; Tommy, the detective had called him.

  Mrs. Swazo stepped over to arrange the loaves of bread more neatly. I followed.

  “Did you bake—hic—the bread?” I asked her.

  “Yes. This morning.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I picked up a loaf that was a cluster of lumps, like pull-apart rolls except in a flower shape rather than a rectangle. “I’ll take this one, and this knife.”

  I pointed to the pocket knife. While Mrs. Swazo bustled about getting me a bag, I collected my doll from the doll-maker. I’d have to stop by an ATM to replenish my pocket money, I thought ruefully, but I didn’t regret these purchases.

  A young Hispanic man with a shaved head and tattoos climbing up his neck came up to Daniel’s brother, who shook his head and muttered, “Not today.” Tommy’s gaze shot to Mrs. Swazo, then to me. I looked away.

  I didn’t like him. Iz’s words came back to me—something about him always being in trouble. I looked at his mother, wondering how much grief he had caused her.

  Here you go,” she said with a brave smile, handing me the bag. I paid her and thanked her, then strolled down the aisle. I wanted to get away from Tommy; I didn’t like his eyes. It was good that he was helping his mother, but I wouldn’t mind never seeing him again.

  I walked out to the parking lot, feeling sad for Daniel’s mom. I would have liked to help her more, but she probably didn’t come to the flea market every week. She hadn’t been there the previous week; it had just been Daniel and Tommy.

  Giving myself a shake, I let go of thinking about Tommy Swazo, and turned my thoughts to my own family instead. I put my gifts for Nat and Manny in the trunk of my car, and took the bread with me in the front. I’d give it to Nat, who would probably feed it to me with lunch, which I wouldn’t mind. Yes, it was sinful bread, but it smelled so good...

  Sinful bread. Something niggled at me on those words. I put my keys in the ignition but didn’t start the car, trying to pin down the thought.

  My phone buzzed. I took it out and saw that it was a text from Tony.

  Sorry about yesterday. Might get some time free today. Want to do a movie?

  Aargh. My day was spoken for, but I didn’t want to put Tony off again. I typed a quick answer:

  Working on Nat’s wedding dress. What about tonight?

  He didn’t reply immediately. I started the car and headed for Nat’s house. The phone buzzed while I was driving, but I waited until I was parked in the driveway before checking it.

  Let me check. Get back soon.

  I slipped the phone in my pocket so I’d be sure to catch Tony’s text, then grabbed the bread and got out. Manny was on the portal scrubbing the grill. He looked up at me with a grin.

  “I found a mariachi band! My cousin Tabo knows a guy who’s in one.”

  I quaked in my shoes, but bravely asked him, “How many trumpets?”

  None. Just two guitars, a violin, a vihuela and a guitarrón.”

  Is the guitarrón the big thing that looks like a cross between a guitar and a string bass?”

  Yeah, and the vihuela is the little baby guitar.”

  “Is there a singer?”

  “They all sing. They’re really good—I went and listened to them the other night. It’ll be great!”

  I smiled. “Congratulations! That’s one chore off the list.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. Now for the other hundred and fifty!”

  I kissed his cheek and went inside. Nat was at the stove, peering into a stew pot.

  “I brought bread,” I said, setting it on the counter next to her.

  “You’ve been to the flea market!” She picked up the loaf and held it to her face, inhaling deeply. “Ahh. I was really tempted by these last time.”

  “Me, too. I caved today.”

  She put the bread down and reached for a spoon to stir the pot. “It’ll go great with this.”

  “What’s ‘this’? I smell garlic.” I leaned against her, peering into the pot, where I saw chunks of chicken, tomato, and green pepper.

  “It’s ‘clean the fridge’ soup.”

  “Works for me.”

  Nat laid the spoon on a ceramic sunflower on the counter and put a lid on the pot, trapping all the yummy smells inside. “Shall we get started? Maybe we can finish my dress by lunch, and move on to yours.”

  We did that, with the help of tea and oranges. Right before noon, Nat tried on her dress and stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom while I plucked at the hems and snipped off stray threads.

  “Oh, Ellen. It’s beautiful. Just what I’ve wanted all these years!”

  I met her gaze in the mirror and couldn’t help smiling. The burgundy velvet gleamed softly in the muted light from the window, its richly-gathered, tiered skirt a plush waterfall. Nat’s favorite concho belt caught the blouse to her waist in flattering folds. Above the pointed collar, set off nicely by the silver buttons, Nat’s face beamed with happiness, and that made me happy, too.

  Despite the strands of silver in her dark curls, she was still beautiful. My beloved aunt, my last connection with my parents’ generation. I gave her a big hug.

  “So, do I get lunch now? I’m starving.”

  “Yes, yes! Let me take this off.”

  When we got to the kitchen, we found Manny peering into the soup pot. He looked up like a kid caught stalking the cookie jar.

  “Just making sure it wasn’t burning.” He put the lid back on. “Hey, want to hear Los Gatos? I got their CD.”

  “Sure,” Nat said, smiling as she took down plates and bowls from the cupboard.

  I grabbed a plate for the bread and fetched Nat’s butter keeper from the back of the counter, then brought them to the kitchenette table, where a handful of sunflowers stood in a stubby green ceramic vase. Manny plugged his CD into Nat’s ancient boom box on the counter, and mariachi music filled the room. The first piece started slowly, march-like, but then quickly accelerated into boisterous waltz-time.

  “I know that one!” I said. “What’s it called?”

  “La Negra,” Manny said. “It’s kind of the mariachi national anthem.”

  I nodded, swaying to the music. Manny caught me in his arms and danced me around the room.

  “Careful!” Nat said, dodging us as she set the table.

  We narrowly avoided crashing into a plant stand and separated, laughing. I hiccuped. Manny went to the fridge, looking for beer.

  “May I help serve?” I asked Nat.

  “No, I’ve got it,” she said. “Go ahead and sit down.”

  I took a moment to check my phone and found a text from Tony:

  Not sure what time I can get off

  I typed back:

  Just come to Nat’s when you’re free.

  After a moment he answered, “OK.” I put my phone away and hurried to the table.

  This smells fantastic,” I said over the music.

  Nat smiled. “Thank you. Manny, could you turn that down a smidge?”

  Manny got up and danced over to the counter to obey. “But they’re good, aren’t they? You like them?”

  “They sound wonderful. I’m sure they’ll be perfect.”

  I smiled and dug into my soup. The mariachis didn’t sound too raucous. The lack of trumpets was reassuring. More importan
t, Manny’s beaming face and Nat’s fond glances at him made me feel that the wedding would be a success.

  “Joe’s coming for the wedding,” Nat said to me. “Did he tell you?”

  “I haven’t heard from him, no. It’ll be good to see him.”

  Privately, I was a little miffed that my brother hadn’t told me he’d be at Nat’s wedding, but it was true that we didn’t communicate much. He had his own world, and I had mine, and there wasn’t much in common between them.

  “Thank you for bringing this bread, Ellen,” Nat said as she tore a bun from the flower.

  I did likewise, popping a bit of bread into my mouth and closing my eyes as I savored its sinful deliciousness, the guilty pleasure of carbohydrates with little or no nutritional value.

  Sinful bread. That niggling thought was back. I watched Manny pull off a chunk for himself, tear it in half, and lavish it with soft butter.

  Could the food on Daniel’s knife be bread?

  A cold tingle washed down my arms, accompanied by a vision of Daniel stabbing a loaf of his mother’s bread.

  And then dipping the knife in meth? It made no sense.

  Why would he stab the bread? Why use a knife when the bread was meant to be pulled apart?

  “Wool-gathering, Ellen?” asked Nat.

  “Sorry. Distracted.”

  I returned my attention to the soup, and listened to Nat and Manny talk about the wedding. Now that the music was lined up, most of the planning was done, and they were down to choosing what they wanted on the menu.

  My thoughts drifted. How could bread and meth have gotten on Daniel’s knife? I wanted to ask Tony, or at least pass along my thought to him. But it wasn’t his case.

  I could call Detective Walters, but what would I say to him? How would I explain that I knew about the lab test? He’d be angry.

  I had to let Tony get the information to him. Or maybe suggest that Tony talk to the lab techs and determine whether the food on the knife really was bread.

  My instinct was that this was important, but I felt that I didn’t completely understand why. I kept puzzling at it while I finished my lunch.

  When her bowl was empty, Nat stood, picking up her plate and Manny’s. “Well, shall we get back to work?”