“In the butler's pantry, but you won't—”
He was already halfway down the hall, moving with surprising silence. I stepped out of my shoes and hurried after him in my stocking feet.
I caught up with him at the door to the pantry, and saw that he had a gun in his hands. I stopped short, suddenly frightened. I hadn't even realized he was carrying a weapon.
He moved sideways along the wall toward the archway that led into the butler's pantry. I held my breath.
In one swift movement, Tony stepped into the pantry and brought his gun to chest height. I stayed where I was, though I could no longer see him.
“There's no one here,” he said.
I let out my breath. “Right.”
He stepped out into the hall, gun pointed at the floor, glaring at me. “If this is a joke—”
“I wouldn't dream of playing a prank like this on you. Honestly, Tony, I don't know what's doing it. I say it's Captain Dusenberry, but I don't know.”
He turned to stare at the stereo. “Someone could rig up a remote control to turn that on.”
“I guess.”
“Same with the lights.”
“Wouldn't they have to mess with the wiring?”
“Yeah.”
“Well...I live here.”
“They could wait until you go out.”
I didn't like what he was suggesting. “There's been no sign of a break-in.”
“Do you have an alarm system?”
“No...”
“Might want to get one.”
I sighed. “I'll think about it.”
“What's your email address? I'll send you some links to good shops.”
I hesitated. Not that I didn't want Tony to have my email address, but it seemed kind of intimate. A friend thing, even though he was really just making a business recommendation.
I liked thinking of him as a friend.
I would have liked it more if he hadn't been holding a gun.
I opened my purse and took out a card, wrote my personal email on the back, and handed it to him. He shoved it in his back pocket, then looked at me, dark eyes concerned.
“Thanks. You going to be OK? Want me to check upstairs.”
“There's no need, but thank you.” I took a deep breath. “Tony, I have a request.”
“Yeah?”
“I'd rather you didn't bring guns into the tearoom.”
He stared at me, incredulous. “I always carry a gun.”
“It's your job, I know. But do you think you could leave it at home when you're off duty?”
A frown settled on his brow. “A cop is never completely off duty. We're always watching.”
“It's just that I'm trying to make this a place of peace. Guns don't fit into that.”
“Then I guess I don't belong in your tearoom.”
“Don't be angry, please.”
He cast a restless look around the hallway. “I'm not, but you've got to understand. It's part of who I am.”
I was sad at the thought that he couldn't bear to be apart from his weapon, even for a few hours. I swallowed.
“I do understand, but this is part of who I am,” I said. “I want this house to be a place of harmony. I try to see the beauty in everyone I meet.”
“I'm trained to see the ugly.”
“I know.”
Our gazes met, and the trouble in his beautiful, dark eyes made my heart ache. Maybe this wouldn't work, after all. Maybe we were too different.
“Just think about it, please,” I whispered. “That's all I ask.”
He sighed and nodded, then looked around the hallway. “All right. Call if you need me. Even if it's just Goths in the bushes.”
I chuckled, relieved that he could still make a joke. “Thanks. Actually, you might be able to help me with that.”
He turned his head toward me as we started toward the front door. “Oh?”
“I need to think about how to handle it. I'll let you know.”
“OK. Oh, and thanks for the lecture,” he said. “It was interesting.”
“I'll email you the topic for the next one.”
“Yeah.”
We were at the door. Tony stood in front of it, glowering at it, then turned to me. “See you.”
“See you.”
A tiny frown creased his brow. With a swiftness that made me catch my breath, he leaned forward to kiss my cheek.
“Be safe.”
He opened the door and went out, shutting it behind him.
“You, too,” I said softly.
30
Candles glowed on the table in the dining parlor. I had brought out my mother's antique silver candelabra for the occasion, though I doubted Ramon and his friends appreciated them. Each held six candles, which lit the room fairly well. Tony's giant candle holders flanked the fireplace, and Willow stood in front of it, dressed in her black tour-guide style, talking about Captain Dusenberry to the Goths who were seated around the table.
“This room was the captain's study during his lifetime, and he was sitting at his desk here when he was murdered.”
A flicker of interest showed in the face of the henna-haired girl, whose name was Alison. So far, the kids seemed unimpressed with the captain's history, but that might just be part of their brand of cool.
I glanced up at the chandelier. I had left it off, illuminating the room only with candlelight, both for atmosphere and in the hope that Captain Dusenberry might indulge my guests by turning it on. So far, nothing—not even a wiggling crystal.
“The murderer stood in the doorway and shot the captain twice, hitting him in the back and the head. He was found the next morning by his servant, Private David Rogers. Nothing was taken from the house, and the killer was never caught.”
Thea, an androgynous, painfully thin girl with spiky black hair hanging in her eyes, raised her hand. “How long did he take to die? Did he, like, suffer a lot?”
“Probably not,” Willow said. “He was still in his chair, fallen forward onto his desk, when he was found. It's likely that he was unconscious, if not dead, immediately.”
“So he didn't leave a last message or anything?”
Scrawled in blood, perhaps? I kept the thought to myself.
“No,” Willow said. “He'd been working on an inventory report. It was found on the desk beneath his body.”
Ramon raised his hand. “What part of the room was the desk in?”
“That's not known, but I would guess that it was about where Ms. Rosings is standing.”
I started, and took a step to one side. Willow was probably right—if I were to use the room as a study, I would place my desk so that I could see both the door and the windows.
“Have you ever seen him?” asked a third girl...Wendy? Mindy?
“I have not, but I do get a sense of his presence in the house, and in this room particularly,” Willow said.
The kids looked around the room, as if to spot Captain Dusenberry hovering in a corner. I wondered if it was time to bring out the tea and scones. Julio had made some blood orange curd especially for this group.
A creak sounded above our heads. Everyone looked up at the ceiling. The chandelier was motionless.
A slow, heavy tread moved across the ceiling, then descended the stairs. The kids exchanged glances, eyes wide with excitement. Their faces turned toward the door as the footsteps came down the hall.
A man appeared in the shadowed doorway, wearing the dark blue uniform of a mid-nineteenth-century army officer. His hat—a forage cap, I'd been told—was pulled down so that the bill hid his eyes.
“Boo,” he said.
The kids laughed.
“You're not a ghost!” Alison accused.
“No, I'm not,” Tony said, stepping into the dining parlor. “But we thought you might like to see the kind of uniform Captain Dusenberry would have worn, and the kind of gun that killed him.”
He took a Colt Navy pistol—a replica, though it looked like an antique—from
the holster at his hip. The kids gathered around him.
“Cool!”
“Is it loaded?”
Tony glanced at me. “No. It's a black powder weapon. It gets loaded with a cartridge like this one.”
He took a paper cartridge and a loose bullet from his pocket and showed them to the kids, demonstrating how the gun would be loaded but not actually doing so. We had agreed on that, and he stuck to his word.
The gun was plainly the highlight of the evening for the kids, though Ramon took an interest in the officer's sword Tony also wore. Tony had borrowed the uniform and weapons from a friend on the police force who was a Civil War reenactor.
I suppressed a small sigh as I slipped out to fetch the tea and scones. So much for peace and harmony. These Goth kids wanted murder and mayhem.
But maybe they'd like the scones, and maybe one or two of them would come back for tea sometime, and get an idea that beauty and elegance could also be cool. I could hope.
I had also told Ramon I was serious about hiring him to come play guitar at the tearoom, once a week through the summer, until he had to go back to college. I was all for encouraging talent, and it might give him a new focus for his energies.
I served tea and scones while the kids continued to pepper Tony with questions, many of them unanswerable. Willow offered explanations where she could, but the fact remained that very little was known about Captain Dusenberry's murder. I had made an appointment to go to the museum with Willow and talk to her friend, who I hoped could shed some light on the matter, or at least point me toward more information. The captain's unsolved murder was becoming a mission for me.
When the scones had all been devoured, Willow made some closing remarks, and I wished Ramon and his friends good night. Tony helped me usher them out the back door. Ramon hung back.
“Thanks, Ms. Rosings,” he said, smiling. “It was really interesting.”
“I'm glad you enjoyed it.”
He looked at Tony and held up his hand for a fist-bump, then shepherded his friends toward their cars. I watched them pile in and drive away.
“Well, that's that,” I said, going through the French doors back into the dining parlor. “Hopefully they'll come in the front door from now on, if they come back at all.”
“I'm going to go change out of this wool,” Tony said.
“Hot?” I asked.
“Itchy. Ray offered to lend me some long johns to wear underneath, but I said nah. Now I wish I'd taken him up on it.”
“You'll have to do that if we make this presentation again,” Willow said.
“Hm.” Tony headed upstairs without further comment.
I turned to Willow. “There's a little tea left. Would you like some?”
“No, thanks. It'll keep me awake.”
“I could make some tisane...”
“No, I ought to be going. This went well, Ellen. Would Tony be willing to present the Captain again, do you think?”
“I don't know.”
“If not, perhaps his friend could put us in touch with one of the reenactors. I could see making this a part of our tour-and-tea package.”
“I'll ask him,” I said. “Thanks again, Willow.” I handed her an envelope containing a thank-you note and a gift card for tea for two.
“My pleasure,” she said, gazing at the chandelier.
One crystal was swinging gently back and forth, glinting in the candlelight.
Willow looked at me sidelong and smiled. “Good night,” she said softly.
I saw her out, then turned on the chandelier. The brilliance of electricity made me blink. I began putting out the candles, using my mother's candle extinguisher, smiling at the memory of her teaching me how much better it was than blowing candles out. No wax flying onto your table, and besides, it was more elegant.
The evening had gone well, and I was grateful. There'd been constraint between me and Tony ever since our talk about guns. We hadn't gone dancing; this was the first I'd seen of him since the evening of the lecture, though we'd exchanged emails. It felt as if we'd taken a step back in our friendship, but at least we were still talking.
Tony came downstairs, wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans, his arms piled with the uniform and accoutrements. I picked up another envelope and walked out with him to the back. He'd driven his mother's car, since the uniform and weapons were too much to carry on his bike. I waited until he'd loaded them in, then handed him the envelope.
“What's this?”
“A gift card. I thought you might like to bring your grandmother to tea.”
“That's nice of you. I'll have to warn her she can't smoke here.”
“I'd appreciate that.”
His lips twitched. “She might say no. She loves her cigs.”
“Well, then maybe you could bring your mother, or one of your sisters.”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the envelope, held between his hands. The paper made a small crinkling sound. He looked up at me.
“Would you join us?”
Heart skip. “I'd be honored,” I said.
He nodded, then turned and tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat. “Well.”
“Thanks for doing this,” I said. “You were the hit of the evening. Willow wants to know if you'd do it again.”
He grimaced. “I don't know.”
“Or if not, whether Ray could recommend someone.”
“That's probably a better way to go. Those kids asked a lot of questions I couldn't answer. A real Civil War buff wouldn't look so dumb.”
“You didn't look dumb. You looked rather handsome, I thought.”
“Yeah?”
“In a macho, gun-toting sort of way.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Right. OK, good night.”
“Good night, Tony. Thanks again.”
“Glad to help.”
He got in and started the engine.
“The door is ajar,” said the car.
I pushed it closed and Tony hastily buckled his seat belt, then rolled down the window. “I'll call you.”
“OK.”
He stared at me for a few seconds, then gave a little chin-lift and backed the car. I retreated to the dining parlor and stood watching him through the French doors.
The chandelier went out.
I stayed where I was, better able to see Tony as I stood in the darkened parlor. I wondered if he had noticed the light going out. If he had, he didn't let it stop him.
Ellen's Rose Petal Jam
Note: Harvest roses from bushes that have not been sprayed or treated with systemic insecticide, or use edible rose petals from a commercial source. If you harvest your own roses, cut them in the late morning. Wash them on the stem, being careful of any thorns. Gather the petals into a bud with your fingertips and pull from the stem, then use scissors to clip off the white bases, which are bitter. Wash the petals again, thoroughly.
Ingredients
1 cup fresh edible rose petals
2 cups sugar
4 cups water
2 lemons
fruit pectin (optional)
1/2 T cold butter
Put rose petals into a bowl and sprinkle with 1 cup sugar. Toss with your fingers, bruising petals to release their fragrance. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.
Juice the lemons, leaving any seeds in the juice (for pectin). In medium saucepan, combine lemon juice, seeds, water, and remaining sugar (1 cup). Add a little fruit pectin if desired. Heat gently, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Add rose petals and simmer 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Bring to a boil and cook for 5 minutes* until jam thickens (220°F or 105°C), or until a spoonful dropped onto a cold plate shows jam texture.
Remove from heat. Stir in butter. Use a spoon to remove lemon seeds.
Pour jam into clean jars, close lids tightly. Use hot water bath if you like, or just store in refrigerator after cooling.
*Note—at elevations over a mile above sea level this may take much longe
r, up to half an hour. This has an added benefit: you may end up cleaning your kitchen while you wait for the jam to thicken.
About the Author
Patrice Greenwood was born and raised in New Mexico, and remembers when dusty dogs rolled in the Santa Fe plaza. She loves afternoon tea, old buildings, gourmet tailgating at the opera, and solving puzzles.
Books by Patrice Greenwood
Wysteria Tearoom Mysteries
A Fatal Twist of Lemon
A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn
About Book View Café
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