A Bodkin for the Bride
Page 22
He leaned back in his chair and cocked his head. “Why did she do all that for you?”
“She wanted to make sure this building was preserved. And she’s—was—also a friend of my aunt’s.”
Poor Nat! I’d have to call her.
“Your aunt. What’s her name?”
“Natasha Wheeler. She was one of the guests at the tea.”
He unfolded the seating chart and made a note, then looked up at me. “So Sylvia Carruthers helped you.”
“Yes. In fact I organized the tea to thank her, among others.” I banished a momentary wish that I hadn’t done so.
His glance flicked to the seating chart. “And these others. Can you think of any reason one of them would want to kill Mrs. Carruthers?”
My heart seized with dismay. “So it’s officially a murder investigation.”
His eyes narrowed. “Suspicious death, until we get the autopsy results, but yeah. Looks to me like someone offed her.”
I swallowed, thinking that he must be deliberately trying to provoke me. I would not, however, be tricked into incivility.
The silence stretched. Finally Detective Aragón leaned back in his chair.
“So how about it? Any reason one of your party guests would want to kill her?”
“I can’t think of any reason,” I said slowly, “but I don’t know all of the guests well.”
“Which ones do you know well?”
“My aunt, of course, and Gina Fiorello. She’s a dear friend, who was here because she helped me get the tearoom ready to open. She doesn’t know Sylvia Carruthers. Didn’t,” I corrected, exasperated with myself.
This was all so awkward! I wondered fleetingly if Miss Manners had any advice for proper conduct of murder investigations.
Detective Aragón kept taking notes. After a minute he looked up at me expectantly.
“I’m fairly well acquainted with Katie Hutchins,” I said. “She’s a neighbor, she runs the Territorial B&B across the street. Vince Margolan is another neighbor. He’s in the process of setting up a gallery next to the B&B. I’ve only met him once or twice, though.”
Aware that I was babbling, I stopped and watched the detective writing in his notepad. It felt surreal to be discussing the murder in such ordinary terms. A part of me felt like screaming.
“What about … Claudia Pearson?” he said, glancing up from my seating chart.
I cleared my throat. “I’ve met her several times before today. She works with the Santa Fe Preservation Trust, of which Sylvia was president.”
“And Manny Salazar?”
“He’s one of my suppliers and a friend of my aunt’s.”
He referred to the chart. “That leaves Thomas Ingraham and Donna Carruthers.”
“I met them both for the first time today. Mr. Ingraham is a food critic for the New Mexican, also a friend of my aunt’s. Ms. Carruthers is Sylvia’s daughter.”
He nodded. “I’m going to need everyone’s phone numbers.”
“Mrs. Pearson is downstairs, waiting to talk to you.”
“Yeah. How about the rest?”
I turned on my computer and read him the numbers from my organizer. I was beginning to feel impatient, but I certainly wasn’t about to let Detective Aragón know it.
“What about the other customers? Do you have any names or numbers for them?”
“I wouldn’t count on it. They were walk-ins.”
Rudeness is a handy tool for the investigator, I suppose. Being subjected to a flat stare would make anyone restless and uncomfortable, anxious to fill the silence by talking. Perhaps it was stubborn of me, and perhaps unwise, but I was determined not to respond to such tactics. I waited, returning his gaze.
At last he spoke. “So, you have no idea why anyone would want to kill her?”
“I’m afraid not. She was a little abrasive, perhaps, but that’s hardly enough to provoke a murder. I certainly wish whoever killed her hadn’t chosen to do it here.”
His eyebrows twitched into a slight frown, as if he’d been struck by a new thought. “Who else knew she was going to be here?”
I shrugged. “The people at the Trust, I suppose. I don’t know who else. I believe her husband is deceased.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyelids drooped again. “So—did you kill her?”
I was stunned, then angry. I raised my chin, a subtlety that was no doubt lost on him.
“No, I did not! I have every reason to be grateful to her, and I’m horrified that someone—”
I stopped, aware that I was raising my voice. I took a slow breath before speaking again.
“Obviously, I’m upset that this happened. Will there be anything else, Detective Aragón?”
The corner of his mouth turned upward, though his eyes remained hard. “Nah. No offense, I hope. Gotta ask.”
“Of course you do.”
I turned off my computer and collected my paperwork, tucking it out of the way into a drawer as I sought to regain my composure. I then stood, and to his credit Detective Aragón got to his feet at once. His mother must have taught him the basics of civility, even if his manners were rusty from disuse.
I stepped out from behind my desk, indicating with a gesture that he was welcome to use it. “My chef has made coffee. Shall I send some up for you?”
“Not gonna offer me some tea?” His face revealed nothing, but I heard the disdain in his voice.
Two could play at that game. I gazed at him innocently. “Would you prefer tea?”
He held my gaze for a moment, and a sudden smile quirked up his mouth. To my surprise, this time it reached his eyes.
“Nah. Coffee’s fine.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black.”
I nodded politely and started to go out. He called after me.
“Oh, hey, would you send up, ah—Claudia Pearson?”
He stood behind my desk, hunched a little beneath the sloping ceiling, notepad in hand, looking altogether out of place in his motorcycle gear amid my Victorian decor. Suddenly he was the one who seemed awkward.
“All right,” I said, and left, relieved to be done with the interview.
I walked to the head of the stairs and stopped, heart pounding.
There was a dead body below. I did not want to return to face the upheaval.
I glanced toward my office, feeling an urge to ask the detective to escort me down, but that was foolish. I gave my head a brief shake and straightened my shoulders.
Cops drink coffee.
He wasn’t part of my world, wouldn’t understand my world. No doubt he wouldn’t know what to do with a bone china cup and saucer. I was on my own. As usual.
I took a deep breath and went downstairs.
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About the Author
Patrice Greenwood was born and raised in New Mexico, and remembers when dusty dogs rolled in the Santa Fe Plaza. She has been writing fiction for over twenty years.
She loves afternoon tea, old buildings, gourmet tailgating at the opera, games, costumes, and solving puzzles. Her popular Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries are i
nformed by many of these interests. She is presently collapsed on her chaise longue, planning the next book in the series.