Perhaps that was the wrong approach to the situation. Perhaps I should join the Rose guild, and work to change things from within. Was that naively optimistic? Maybe, but it was better than giving up.
After an hour I had a bucket full of deadheads and a vase full of fresh roses, and I was hot and tired again. I cleaned up the garden things and carried the vase up to my suite, where I finally took a long shower.
When I emerged, feeling rather better, the sunlight seeping around the edges of the brocade window curtains had a golden hue. I strolled naked into my bedroom and put on a casual, summery dress.
The candlesticks stood huddled together by one end of the chimney where Tony had left them. I moved them to flank the window, stood back to look at them, couldn’t decide whether I liked them there or not. I decided to leave them for the time being.
My stomach was no longer in knots and I was able to face the kitchenette, though all I wanted was a salad. I fixed a plate, garnished it with a couple of Greek olives and a dab of cottage cheese, and sat in my living room to eat, as I usually do when alone.
Gazing at my mountain landscape, I was reminded of Tony’s desire to replace it with a flatscreen. He’d learned more about me than I about him in that conversation. Cop instinct, maybe, to give away as little as possible about himself.
I realized I was frowning and tried to shake it off. No one wants frown lines permanently etched into one’s brow.
Was it a bad idea to pursue a closer acquaintance with Tony? I wondered, not for the first time. On a superficial level it was plainly a bad idea. Cops were notorious for failed relationships. Tony had even said that about himself, or something like it.
Why, then, was he bothering? Was he just after a quick lay? It didn’t seem so.
On another level, one we’d danced around that afternoon, was the issue of our different backgrounds. All right, our different racial backgrounds, to be blunt about it.
There were plenty of mixed Anglo-Hispanic couples in Santa Fe. It wasn’t at all unusual, but it wasn’t something I’d ever considered for myself, so I had never thought about the possible repercussions. They were subtle, but I saw now that they definitely existed.
For one thing, he was Catholic, at least in upbringing. I could respect Catholicism, but I would never embrace it.
I’d hung around with Hispanic kids in high school—the band crowd was egalitarian—but I had never dated an Hispanic. Of course, I could count the guys I had dated on one hand.
In college I had mostly been too busy. A couple of brief flings had been it. Also white guys, but I’d been away from home, in a population more heavily Caucasian.
Was I a bigot?
My instant response was indignant denial, but in light of my recent conversation with Tony I had to reconsider. There is such a thing as habitual bigotry, I decided. A bigotry of avoidance, easy enough to slip into. One tended to run with one’s own kind. It was natural. Was it, however, worth making an effort to overcome?
I had a sudden urge to watch Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Annoying, because the best way to do that was call Gina, and we’d just watched a movie at her place the other night. I could imagine Tony laughing at me.
I got up and washed my plate, then poured the last of the lemonade over ice and carried it downstairs. Too sunny on the front portal, with the western light slanting in, but the back was cool and shady. I sat on the bench with my feet curled under me, sipping lemonade, thinking about ways to make the back yard look less like the parking lot it was.
I needed the parking for my staff, but maybe I could create a buffer between it and the house. A hedge, perhaps, to shield the portal from the sight of the cars. More lilacs?
The lilacs on the north side of the house were coming to the end of their bloom. I glanced at them, thinking absently that I should cut some for my suite. The fragrance bothered some people, so I couldn’t put them in the tearoom, but upstairs I could enjoy them.
A lilac hedge along the portal? Hedges were heavy, though, even when something as pretty as lilacs. Maybe trellises instead, with climbing roses? But that might block all the morning sunlight from the dining parlor. Captain Dusenberry might be displeased.
“What do you think, Captain? Would you mind roses outside these windows?”
The captain was disinclined to answer, it seemed. I even glanced at the windows behind me, but the lights were off and remained so.
It was a good thing no one was watching me. I was sitting on the portal talking to a ghost. Pretty wacko.
What I was really doing was avoiding thinking about Tony or making a decision about him. The subject was uncomfortable, and I am an unabashed hedonist. I like being comfortable. I go out of my way for it.
So. Continue to explore the potential for a relationship? Or play it safe and keep a distance? The former would no doubt involve continued discomfort. The latter...
The latter was boring. And depressing. And chicken-hearted.
I was more than merely interested in Tony, I realized. I truly liked him. I was on my way to liking him very much, despite his annoying habit of rubbing my face in uncomfortable truths.
I only hoped I hadn’t disgusted him to the point he was no longer interested in me.
17
I was out of lemonade, and in fact I wanted something stronger to distract me from fretting about Tony. I went upstairs and looked over the selections in my small, climate-controlled wine-cellar, really little more than a specialized mini-refrigerator. The wine industry must be doing well off of such toys, I reflected as I pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay from a New Mexico winery.
I poured myself a glass of wine, then glanced at the book I was currently reading, but I wasn’t in the mood. I looked toward the window and decided I didn’t like the candlesticks there. If I lit the candles and had the window open, a breeze might blow the curtains against them and start a fire. I moved the candlesticks to stand on either side of my faux fireplace, and stood frowning at them for a while.
They were pretty, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to look at them every time I sat down in my living room. And candlesticks—such huge ones, too, seemed to point up the falseness of my little hearth.
I was just debating whether to start a load of laundry—true desperation—when my cell phone played muffled Mozart from the depths of my purse. Mozart meant Gina. I dug the phone out and opened it.
“Gina, my angel of salvation!”
“Hi, girlfriend!” she said cheerily. “Just making sure you’re still on the planet.”
I carried my wineglass to the living room and curled up in my chair. “Bless you. You’ve rescued me from the laundry.”
Her merry laugh was just the medicine I needed. I smiled and sipped my wine.
“Turnabout is fair play,” Gina said. “You rescued me last time.”
“By the way, my chef loved your tiramisu. He wants me to hire you as his assistant.”
Gina laughed again. “No, really? But you can’t afford me, darling.”
“Don’t I know it.” I took another sip of wine, beginning to feel mellow. “Have a good weekend?”
“Fantastic. Alan took me to a concert at the Lensic last night, and we had dinner after at Santacafé.”
“Oh, I like that place.”
“We shut them down. Then we went up to Ten Thousand Waves.”
“Hot-tubbing in this weather?”
“Oh, it’s cooler up in the mountains. It was fabulous.”
I listened to Gina rattle on. I was happy for her, and hoped for her sake that Alan would last a while.
When she asked about my weekend, I hesitated. I didn’t really want to talk about my abortive date with Tony and bailing Kris out of jail. Instead I told her about my visit to the Rose Guild.
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to the rose garden.”
“You should go, it’s lovely.”
“Maybe I’ll take Alan. He actually likes things like flowers and music. It’s ama
zing.”
I smiled, though it faded as I made the inevitable comparison to Tony. Not such a perfect fit, for me.
“Gina, do you think I’m a Luddite?”
“What’s a Luddite?”
I closed my eyes. “Never mind.”
Tony’s taste might not match mine, but he was intelligent and well-informed. Could that be more important than liking the same music?
We chatted a while longer and eventually started to say goodbye. Just before hanging up, Gina brought up the Santa Fe Institute lecture.
“Still want to go?”
“Oh, I forgot to check my calendar! Hang on, I’ll go look at it now.”
I crossed the hall to my office, which was somewhat stuffy so I opened the window a crack to draw the cool air from the swamp cooler into the room. Leaving the chandelier off, I sat in the darkness and brought up my calendar on my computer to check the coming week.
“Wednesday looks clear. Dinner and a lecture it is.”
“Remember to ask Tommy.”
“Tony. He may not be free.”
“Ask him anyway. Life’s too short for maybes!”
I smiled. “OK, I will.”
“Ciao, darling.”
“Ciao.”
I closed the phone and entered the lecture into my calendar. Considered calling Tony right then, and chickened out. I felt awkward after our not-entirely-pleasant conversation that afternoon, and wanted a little more time to settle down before I talked to him again.
Since I had the computer fired up I decided to check my email, then surf a little to price out some climbing roses. As I was roaming an online gardening catalog I saw a familiar name go by: Our Lady of Guadalupe. I clicked on the link and was presented with the image of a familiar pink rosebush.
Maria’s victory rose. One of her many legacies. I read the description and learned that the Our Lady of Guadalupe rose was blessed by the Diocese of Los Angeles, and that part of the proceeds from every sale went to the Hispanic College Fund. I smiled, thinking it was like Maria, little though I knew her, to support such a cause.
On impulse, and knowing I shouldn’t really be spending the money, I ordered an Our Lady of Guadalupe rosebush. The climbers could wait—they’d cost more anyway, and I’d have to do some serious work out back before I’d be ready to plant them. But this small tribute to Maria was important now.
I clicked confirm before I could change my mind, then turned off the browser and mused about where to plant the rose. I should be able to squeeze in one more bush in the front garden. I wanted it in front, where all the tearoom’s visitors would see it. Not many would recognize the variety or care what it was, but I would know it was there, which was what counted.
Voices roused me, distant voices, barely audible but out of place. I glanced toward the open window.
“Is this the room?” someone said, followed by a shush and some giggles.
The Goths were back.
18
I turned off my computer screen, then quietly stood up in the darkness and walked over to my office window, which overlooks the lilacs on the north side of the house. I could smell their fragrance rising up into the evening air. Standing to the side of the window, I caught an edge of the lace curtain and moved it just enough so I could see.
Below, on the grassy strip between the lilac bushes and the house, a cluster of dark figures had gathered. Their attention seemed focused on the two easternmost windows on the north side of the house—windows of the dining parlor.
Call Tony? No. Call the cops. Was this an emergency or not? I decided not, and went back to my desk to place the call.
A different dispatcher answered this time. After listening to my complaint, she said, “We’ll send someone out when we can.”
“When you can? Could you be a little more specific?”
“If they’re just talking—”
“They are trespassing, they may be partying, and for all I know they could be planning to break in,” I said, controlling my rising annoyance. “This is the third night in a row they’ve been here. Please, could you send someone soon?”
“We’ll send a car as soon as we can.”
I thanked her despite not feeling very grateful, and returned to the window to snoop on the Goths. Maybe the patrol I’d requested previously would come by and scare them away.
Peering down at the figures below, I counted six that I could see: two boys and four girls. I paid particular attention to the girls, wanting to be sure none was Kris. One was definitely too plump, I decided after watching for a while. I wasn’t sure about the others.
Kris couldn’t be there, I told myself. She couldn’t be so stupid. If she wanted to bring friends to see the dining parlor, all she need do was ask.
Of course, she had experienced a momentary lapse of wisdom regarding the absinthe party.
There was much whispering below, most of which I couldn’t make out. Also much going back and forth between the lilacs and the dining parlor windows. I assumed the attraction was Captain Dusenberry, though it might also be Sylvia Carruthers who had been murdered in the dining parlor on the tearoom’s opening day.
I repressed a shudder at the memory. Unlike the captain, poor Sylvia had not stuck around as far as I knew, but no doubt the kids found the murder fascinating.
Part of me wanted to just leave them alone, let them have their fun, but despite empathizing with them I was an official grownup these days, and had certain tedious responsibilities. As property owner I might possibly be held liable for any idiot thing they decided to do to themselves under my lilacs, if I knowingly allowed it to happen.
I pictured myself sallying forth with double-barreled shotgun in hand, the proverbial enraged landowner chasing away the vagrants. Unfortunately I didn’t own so much as a BB-gun. I didn't like guns, and was well aware that many people who keep guns at home end up at the wrong end of the barrel.
So, could I intimidate the intruders without a weapon? I had my doubts. Goths liked sharp things, knives in particular, and the kids in the garden might be bristling with them. Kris had shown me one she owned—a wavy-bladed dagger she’d said was her namesake. Sacred blade of the ancient druids, she’d called it. Very romantic, very creepy. Very Goth.
I wondered what her real name had been. Something undramatic and Midwestern? Whatever it was, she had left it behind when she’d left home. Her legal name was now Kris Overland, according to the tax forms on file in her office next door.
A flurry of excitement below drew my attention. The purr of an idling car engine could be heard from the street out front.
The Goths abandoned the windows and dodged between the lilacs, getting under cover an instant before the white beam of a searchlight lanced alongside the house. I held my breath, as no doubt the Goths were doing also.
The light swept back and forth a couple of times, splashing along the grass, up onto the wall of the house, then across the lilac bushes where it broke into a thousand splinters. From the front, the view along the row of lilacs would be foreshortened, and I doubted the police would be able to see the kids through the multiple bushes. Even from my somewhat better perspective I saw no movement, though I knew the kids were there.
A couple more sweeps and the light shut off, followed by the car cruising slowly away. End of patrol. Thank you, Santa Fe Police Department.
Frustrated, I began thinking seriously about calling Tony, but this really wasn’t part of his job and I didn’t want to impose on him. I should be able to chase the kids off myself. I’d done it the last couple of nights, after all.
Right. Full of conviction, I left the window and went across to my suite to put on some shoes. Miss Manners, I felt sure, would advocate being shod when confronting trespassers.
I marched downstairs and into the dining parlor, turning on the light as I entered. I head a gasp and a “Shh!” from the north windows. I strode over to the right-hand one and pulled back the curtains.
A girl jumped back, her black-glossed l
ips in a moue of surprise. Her slim figure was sheathed in a black leather corset and a flounced black skirt. Her hair was a dark henna-red, and frizzy. Not Kris, thank goodness.
Behind her I glimpsed a slender black-haired Hispanic boy in a black t-shirt with an elaborate knotwork cross, and another, plumper girl in a loose dark robe like a nun’s habit. All these were the impression of an instant, as the kids immediately scattered and ran, giggling as they went.
I turned on the portal lights and went outside to investigate the lilacs. No roach this time, but plenty of scuff-marks in the dirt.
As I was peering at them, I heard the sound of a car coming up the alley. Somewhat unusual at this hour, since my neighbors are commercial enterprises and I’m the only resident on my side of the street. I looked up in time to see the car turn into my back yard, headlights off, tires crunching on the gravel of my parking lot.
A sudden glare of white light blinded me, and an amplified male voice said, “Don’t move.”
19
“Put your hands in the air,” commanded the voice.
“I’m the property owner,” I called back, then did as I was told.
The light stayed on. Searchlight on a police squad, I was sure. Probably the same car that had cruised the front earlier.
I heard the car door open and footsteps approaching. A second light—a flashlight—came on, weaker but right in my eyes. I moved a hand to shield them.
“I’m Ellen Rosings, I’m the property owner,” I said. “Thanks for coming, but you missed the party.”
The flashlight beam was lowered and a uniformed cop stepped into the spotlight with me. He was younger than Tony, probably a year or so younger than me. Looked very stern.
“You put in a complaint about trespassers, ma’am?”
Ma’am. How depressing.
“Yes, there were six of them at least. Kids. I just chased them away.”
“Kids how old?”
“Late teens. High school age.”
I showed him the lilacs and the windows. He searched around the bushes with his flashlight and peered at a couple of dusty footprints, but found nothing more interesting.
A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn Page 12