“Yes, Vi was with me. Violetta Benning.”
He looked up. “Violetta?”
“Her mother’s an opera buff.”
Detective Aragón stared, his face incredulous. Finally he scowled and scribbled in his notebook.
“Benning. Okay, now could you describe the body as you found it?”
I did so, as briefly as I could while still mentioning the details I had noticed. He took notes without commenting, only looking up at me now and then with that appraising gaze.
“The necklace wasn’t around her neck when we got here.”
“No—I thought there might be a chance…” I swallowed, unable to continue.
“So you removed it. You realize that’s tampering with evidence.”
I glanced up at him angrily. “I was trying to save her life!”
He held my gaze and I felt like I was being weighed. Refusing to be intimidated, I stared back. A distant thumping testified to the activities of the police downstairs. At last Detective Aragón looked down at his notes.
“Did you know the deceased—ah, Mrs. Carruthers. Did you know her well?”
“Not personally. She was a great help to me in acquiring the tearoom.”
“How so?”
“She knew of some grants that were available for historic preservation, and helped me meet the requirements and submit the applications. Without the grant money I couldn’t have afforded to remodel and open the tearoom. She also put in a good word for me with the mortgage company.”
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.
2
As it happened, I didn’t see Detective Aragón again for hours. One by one he summoned everyone upstairs to be interviewed, then set them free. I sent the staff home as they were released, it being obvious that we would not be allowed to clean up the dining parlor for some time.
“I can stay, boss,” Julio said, pulling off his chef’s coat after he came down from being interviewed. He hung the coat on a hook by the door and went to the counter, looking lean in a muscle shirt and his festive chef’s pants. I stared at a tattoo design circling his upper arm—I hadn’t seen it before. It was high enough to be hidden by a t-shirt sleeve, and t-shirts were what he’d usually worn until that morning.
“No, go home,” I told him. “You need to be here early to bake.”
He started measuring beans into the grinder for yet another pot of coffee. “We gonna open tomorrow?”
“Of course we are.”
If we didn’t, we might never open again. We had to weather this. It would be all right. If I kept telling myself that, maybe I’d believe it.
I watched him, looking for a sign of rebellion. If Julio quit, I’d be in big trouble. He didn’t say anything, just kept working.
A loud rapping at the front door made me step into the hall. The front door was closed at last; apparently all the cops who could fit into the dining parlor were already in there.
Bright, white light shone in through the small windows called “lights” that surrounded the door, along with occasional flashes from the emergency vehicles still parked out front. It looked like there were camera crews out on the sidewalk beyond the picket fence. I hoped they wouldn’t come any closer.
I walked to the door, my steps echoing from the hardwood floor. Peeking out through the lights, I recognized the giant poppies on the dress outside, and pulled the door open.
“Gina!”
She caught me in a tight hug. I almost lost it right then, but I managed to step back, pulling her in with me.
“Thanks for coming back.”
She grinned, cheeks dimpling deeply. “You kidding? I love circuses. Where’s your TV? I bet this makes the ten o’clock news.”
I closed my eyes. “I don’t want to know.”
“Yes, you do, it’s important!”
I sighed, starting toward the kitchen. “It’s in storage. Have you eaten?”
I had rented a storage shed for some of my parents’ furniture that wasn’t suited to the tearoom but that I couldn’t bear to part with. The television had gone there as well, and I’d been so busy I hadn’t missed it.
“Not since the tea,” Gina said. “Come home with me and we’ll get a pizza.”
“No, I’m not leaving.” I led her into the kitchen and looked around for the sandwiches. Julio must have put them away. He was nowhere in sight.
“You need to get away from all this nutzy police stuff. Hi,” Gina added, smiling at a blond evidence technician who came in and reached for the coffee pot.
My hand went out toward it automatically. “It’s still—”
The tech pulled the pot out of the coffee maker and held his mug over the burner, catching the stream. A slight smell of burned coffee rose from the little that had splashed on the burner.
“—brewing,” I said.
The tech smiled at me, blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses. He was younger than me, looked like he should still be in high school. I felt tired, all of a sudden.
We didn’t talk while the tech’s mug slowly filled. He replaced the coffee pot, shoveled two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into the mug and stirred it with the sugar spoon, then went back upstairs.
Julio came in again, wearing a leather jacket and escorting Vi, whose shoulders slumped. “We’re going, boss. Vi’s gonna give me a ride home.”
“Thanks, Vi. If you want you can take tomorrow off.”
She gave me a wan smile that didn’t erase the frown lines on her brow. “I’ll be all right. Iz has a test.”
“Okay. Get some sleep, though.”
“You too, boss.”
I nodded, though I doubted I’d be getting much rest that night. They went out the kitchen door onto the back porch, leaving me and Gina alone. I could hear Mick and Dee, still waiting to be interviewed, talking quietly in the butler’s pantry.
“‘Boss’?” Gina said, opening the door of the refrigerator and peering inside. “I thought you’d nixed that.”
I sighed. “We’re still negotiating what they should call me. Julio suggested ‘jefa’ but to me that sounds too much like ‘heifer’.”
“How about ‘Madam’?”
“Too stiff. Besides, we’re a block away from the Palace. It might suggest connotations that aren’t appropriate for the tearoom.”
The Palace Restaurant had once been a famous brothel. Gina guffawed.
“Right now it’s ‘Ms. Rosings,’ but none of us like that much,” I added. “Trouble is, ‘boss’ is much easier to say. I’ll probably give in and let them call me ‘Ellen,’ much as I hate to yield to modern informality.”
Gina gave a gasp of mock horror. “What will Miss Manners say?”
“Scoff if you like,” I said haughtily.
Gina looked at me over her shoulder. “Getting a little tired? I’ve got a nice, comfy spare bed, you know.”
“I’m not going to leave while the police are crawling all over the place. This is my home!”
“Okay, okay!” She pulled a bowl of leftover chocolate mousse out of the fridge and put it in my hands, then took my arm. “Come on, girlfriend. Let’s go sit by the fire.”
We scrounged up two spoons and went back to Iris. The fire had died down again. I pulled a log from the carrier Dee had left and laid it on top of the coals, then sat staring at it, watching the first tendrils of smoke begin to rise.
Gina wrapped my hand around a spoon. “Eat your medicine.”
I gave a half-hearted laugh. “Trying to make me fat?”
“Trying to get some sustenance into you. You didn’t eat much at the tea.”
“Too nervous.”
“You need something in your stomach. It’s going to be a long night, if you’re staying here.”
“Yes, Italian Mama.”
Chocolate is such good comfort food. I took a spoonful of mousse and let it melt on my tongue. The energy of the adrenaline rush was long gone, and it was really starting to sink in.
There’d been a murder in my tearoom, in my beautiful dining parlor. A room I’d worked so hard to make inviting and peaceful.
Gina leaned forward and scooped up a spoonful of mousse. “So who do you think did it?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Come on, you’ve got to have some suspicions.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“No, because that would be a stupid conversation, because we’d really be thinking about the murder.”
She sat in the wing chair with her arms draped over the armrests, spoon dangling from one hand, looking regal and righteous, her hair a dark, curly halo. I pictured her reigning over a court of nineteenth-century Italians, all of whom cowered before her, and had to smile.
“Now,” she said, “who can you eliminate?”
“You. Unless you’re the killer?”
“No, I’m not so crude in my methods,” she said airily. “There are legal ways to destroy people.”
I laughed, shaking my head. Gina wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s the sort of person who’d give her last dollar to someone in need.
“And Aunt Nat,” I said. “She was friends with Mrs. Carruthers.”
Gina raised an admonitory finger. “Ah, ah—friends can have fights.”
“But did they look like they were angry with each other? No. Besides, Sylvia was st
ill in the dining parlor when I came out with Nat and Manny and watched them leave together.”
“By the front door?”
“Yes. I saw them drive off in Manny’s car.”
“And they never left your sight?”
“No.”
“Good, that eliminates them.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
She tilted her head and shrugged. “Might as well.”
I ate another spoonful of chocolate. My stomach growled, probably from being clenched for hours.
“So, not me, not you, not Nat, not Manny,” Gina said, frowning in concentration. “That leaves six suspects.”
“Five. I don’t think she strangled herself.”
“Five, right.”
“Plus the staff and the customers. And anyone else who might have slipped in.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “We’ll worry about them later. The people who were at the tea are the primary suspects. They had immediate access to the dining room.”
“You like watching cop shows, don’t you?”
“Love ‘em. Don’t change the subject.”
“That is the subject!”
“Who are the five suspects?” She ticked off the fingers on one hand. “That food critic.”
“Mr. Ingraham.”
“And Sylvia’s daughter, Donna? Donna,” she said as I nodded. “Then that guy who’s opening the gallery…”
“Vince Margolan. And Katie Hutchins, but I don’t think she’d do it. She’s so sweet, and what would she have to gain?”
“We’ll leave her on the list for now.” Gina looked at her protruding thumb. “Who else?”
“Claudia Pearson.”
Hasty footsteps in the hall made us look up. Iz came in wearing a long coat over her lavender dress, purse strap over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed.
“That guy is so rude!”
“What guy?” Gina asked, looking from Iz to me.
“Detective Aragón.”
Gina turned to Iz, curiosity glowing in her face. “What did he say?”
“He asked all kinds of nosy questions about the customers. Then he asked if I killed that poor lady, and I said no. So he asked if I thought you had done it,” she said, turning to me with an angry throb in her voice.
“It’s his job, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’m sorry, Iz.”
A Fatal Twist of Lemon Page 2