A Fatal Twist of Lemon

by Patrice Greenwood

  “To him you are.”

  “I see. Well, thanks, Julio.”

  He nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

  I watched him into the building, thinking about what he’d said. I didn’t consider myself rich—not at all, if you looked at my mortgage. But the fact that I had such a mortgage in the first place was due to my inheritance. The Dusenberry house was not cheap, being both historic and in the midst of old Santa Fe, a short walk from the plaza.

  So Detective Aragón was touchy about money. That explained some things.

  I drove east on Paseo de Peralta to the historic neighborhood where the Santa Fe Preservation Trust had their offices. Their building, a comfortable, sprawling adobe, had once belonged to a rancher who had served a term as governor of New Mexico.

  I parked and hurried through the rain to the shelter of the portal, pausing there to look westward across downtown. The sky was darkening, though it was still hours to sunset. A huge storm was blowing up out of the west, promising more rain. A distant rumble of thunder followed up the threat. I went inside, glad to be out of the chill.

  Shelly, the pretty brunette receptionist whom I’d met a few times during visits to the Trust, looked up with a smile. “Hi, Ms. Rosings. She’s on the phone. Would you like to warm up by the fire until she’s free?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I took off my coat and strolled over to the kiva fireplace, sitting on the cushioned banco beside it. The fire had fallen to coals, and I took a stick of piñon from a rack nearby and propped it against the back of the roughly conical fireplace. After a moment flames began to lick up its sides.

  “Thanks,” Shelly said. “Sorry. It’s been a little crazy here today.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’m so sorry about Mrs. Carruthers.”

  Shelly looked at me with wide eyes. “Poor Claudia’s been a wreck all day. It must have been awful for you, too!”

  “It wasn’t the best of days,” I admitted.

  “I think she feels extra bad, because … well.” Shelly picked up a stack of papers and began to sort them.

  I moved to the chair by her desk. “Because why?” I asked gently.

  Shelly glanced toward the closed door behind her which led to a series of rooms, the last of which had been Sylvia’s. Claudia’s office was next to last, I knew from having passed through it on previous visits. Shelly leaned toward me and lowered her voice.

  “They argued yesterday morning, and I don’t think they had sorted it out before they went to your tea party.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Poor Claudia! She must feel awful.”

  Shelly nodded. “They worked really well together most of the time, but every now and then we’d see fireworks. It’s just too bad it had to happen yesterday.”

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  Shelly shook her head. “All I know is Sylvia won. Please don’t mention it to Claudia. She’s upset enough.”

  “Of course not,” I said, though my curiosity was aroused.

  “There, she’s off the phone now,” said Shelly. “Go on back, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  I fetched my coat and opened the door, passing through the conference room and a records room before pausing to knock on Claudia’s door. The building was arranged on the old hacienda design, with no hallways. Instead there was a central plazuela, like the courtyard at my parents’ house on Stagecoach Road. As I glanced out a window at the rain pouring onto the little garden, I felt a pang of homesickness for the old house.

  Claudia opened her door and looked out at me. She was wearing a dark brown dress and a dark patterned scarf caught to her shoulder with a silver and turquoise pin. For a second she looked apprehensive, then she gave a stiff smile and waved me toward a chair.

  “Sorry I’ve been hard to reach. Busy day.”

  “Mine, too,” I said, draping my coat over the back of the chair.

  It was an old-fashioned chair, leather on a blocky wood foundation with lots of big brass studs. The rest of Claudia’s office decor was similar. Solid woods, a few well-chosen ornaments like the classic Navajo rug on the wall behind her desk and the polychrome pot on the mantel of her small kiva fireplace. There was no fire burning there. Probably she didn’t have time to fuss with it. She was a no-fuss kind of person.

  We both sat down, and Claudia put aside some papers and leaned her clasped hands on her desk. “What can I do for you?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m hoping you can—well, give me some peace of mind.”

  Claudia frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “The police have talked to everyone, but they haven’t told me anything of course, and I’ve been trying to puzzle things out on my own.”

  “You mean about Sylvia.”

  “Yes. I know you were in the room when I left. Can you tell me who else was there?”

  “I left right after you did.”

  I didn’t remember that. What I did remember was that when I came back from showing Nat and Manny out, Claudia had been in the hall, putting on her gloves. I remembered that clearly, because I’d found it so charming and old-fashioned. Claudia had been the only one who’d worn gloves to the tea.

  Gloves, of course, would leave no fingerprints. When Willow had told me about the absence of prints on the necklace I’d thought of Claudia at once. But I knew the lack of prints was due to my moving the necklace.

  “I went into the restroom,” Claudia added. “When I left the parlor Sylvia was talking to Kate Hendricks, and Donna was in the room talking to Vince Margolan. When I came out of the restroom I glanced in and saw Sylvia and Donna talking, then I went to get my coat.”

  That fit with what Katie had told me. I nodded.

  “All right. Thank you.”

  “Did the police ask you about me?” Claudia watched me intently.

  “No,” I said. “That is, they asked if I knew of any reason why any of the tea guests would want to kill Sylvia. I told them no.”

  She seemed to relax a little, and looked down at her clasped hands. “Sylvia and I didn’t always get along very easily.”

  A tingle went down my arms. I answered with polite interest.

  “Oh? I thought you worked together well.”

  A small unhappy smile curved Claudia’s lips. “As long as I let her have her way, yes. Now and then we differed, and it usually led to harsh words. I’m afraid that happened yesterday.”

  “Oh. How unfortunate.”

  “Sylvia always thought her own opinions were right. She didn’t like being challenged.”

  “And you challenged her?”

  Claudia sighed, picked up a pen and began to twirl it between her fingers. “Yesterday morning. We disagreed about the acquisition we were to make that afternoon at the title company, after your tea.”

  “An acquisition for the Trust?”

  “Yes. In your neighborhood, in fact. I thought we were paying far too much money for it, but Sylvia was determined. We had been bidding against another party who wanted the property, you see.”

  “Oh.”

  She straightened up suddenly. “I’m sorry—would you like some coffee or a soda or something?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, waving a hand. “I had a late lunch. So what happened with the property?”

  She went back to twiddling with the pen, doodling a little on a notepad by her phone. “The price got so high the Trust couldn’t afford to buy it. Sylvia wouldn’t let go of it, though. She arranged to put up half the money herself.”

  “Goodness! That must have been a lot of money for her to just donate.”

  Claudia nodded. “A big chunk of her savings, I believe. She was adamant, though. Kept saying there was no better use for her money than to preserve an endangered historic building. The more I tried to reason with her, the more stubborn she became.”

  “I can believe that,” I said. “She does—she did—come on like a steamroller sometimes.”

  Claudia laughed. “Yes, she did.”


  “Well, maybe you could name the building for her.”

  “Oh, we didn’t get it.” Claudia dropped the pencil into a rust-colored stoneware mug of other pens and pencils. “We would have had to close yesterday, and without Sylvia’s signature we couldn’t. The sale fell through.”

  “You’re not going to pursue it?”

  She shrugged. “We can’t. Without the money she was going to put into it, we can’t possibly afford it.”

  I gazed at Claudia, trying to decide if there was a hint of smug satisfaction in her attitude. Perhaps so, but I didn’t think winning an argument, even over a large financial transaction, would be enough reason for her to murder a long-time colleague.

  “I don’t suppose Donna would give you the money her mother intended to donate,” I said slowly.

  “I seriously doubt it,” Claudia said. “Donna’s never been interested in historic preservation. She’s always said it was a waste of time and money. A bit of leftover youthful rebellion, I think. Anyway, it’s too late. They’ve probably sold the building to the other bidder by now.”

  “Do you know who the other bidder was?”

  She shook her head. “No idea. We were going through our real estate agent, who was dealing with the seller’s agent. Sylvia might have known, she was good at ferreting out that kind of information. That’s one of the things that made the Trust so successful. She always knew when some historic building was about to come on the market. She loved making preemptive acquisitions.”

  “So what happens to the Trust now?” I asked. “Sylvia was the president, wasn’t she?”

  Claudia nodded. “I’m the V.P. I’ll run things until the board decides on a new president.”

  “It’ll probably be you, won’t it?”

  “I suppose so.” Claudia looked up at me and flashed a smile, the first real smile she’d shown during the conversation. “Unless they find some other sucker.”

  “You love the work, too, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I’m not Sylvia. I don’t think anyone can replace her.”

  She seemed genuinely sad. If she had wanted control of the Trust, she certainly hid it well. My instinct was to believe that she hadn’t. I felt quite sorry for her, almost more so than I’d felt for Donna.

  “Could you do me one more favor?” I asked.

  “If I’m able.”

  “I’d like to learn more about Captain Dusenberry. A—visitor told me that he was murdered. In the house.”

  Silvia’s brows rose. “What a horrid coincidence, if it’s true. I don’t know, but I’ll have Shelly pull the file and send you a copy of whatever information we have.”

  “Thanks. Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I said, gathering my coat and purse. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Thanks for the visit. I needed to come up for air.”

  I put on my coat and wrapped my scarf around my neck. “Come to our opening tomorrow, if you like. Four o’clock.”

  She smiled, but it was more polite than enthusiastic. “If I have time. Thanks.”

  On my way out I asked Shelly for one of the Trust’s brochures. I don’t know why, but I thought I should look it over. Maybe it would give me some additional insight into Sylvia’s way of doing business.

  It was getting quite dark now, and the rumble of thunder that greeted me as I stepped out of the Trust was enough to make me scuttle to my car. I drove to the tearoom and hurried in the back door. Vi was just coming out of the butler’s pantry with a cozy-covered teapot on a tray. She smiled.

  “Hi, bo—uh, Ellen.”

  “Hello, Vi. Everything going all right?”

  She nodded. “Just one party of two left. They’re in Marigold, I thought it would be cozier than the big parlor.”

  “Fine. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

  It was after five, but Kris hadn’t left yet. I caught her just as she was leaving her office.

  “Do you have a minute?” I asked. “I’d like you to check something for me on the Internet.”

  Her brows rose, but she flipped the light switch on again. The stained glass chandelier lit with rich jewel tones. Kris went around to her chair and turned on her computer, then looked at me expectantly.

  “How easy is it to find out who’s selling historic properties in Santa Fe?”

  “Hm.” She frowned for a moment, then started typing.

  I took off my coat and sat down in one of her guest chairs. I can stumble my way around the Internet, but Kris is a whiz. If there was information out there, she’d find it. After a minute her screen lit up brightly, and she started scrolling with her mouse.

  “Hm. The National Trust has one listed for sale. Other than that it’s a lot of real estate pages. I’d have to look at each one’s site to see what they’re offering.”

  “No, no,” I said. “I want to know about the owners, not real estate agents.”

  “I’ll add ‘owner’ to the search.” She clicked away for a minute, then shook her head. “Couple of ‘for sale by owner’ listings, but not much else. The Santa Fe Preservation Trust’s registry page came up.”

  “I think by the time it’s listed for sale it’s too late,” I said. “Is there a way to find out if an owner is looking for preservation funding?”

  “I’ll try … no, I get some pages about applying for preservation loans, but that’s it. The Trust shows up there, too.”

  I frowned. I had been the rounds with the sources of preservation loans. It was Sylvia who had helped me find them. She must have connections with all those groups. Maybe that was how she found out who was looking for help with an historic property, or perhaps who wanted to sell one.

  “Okay, thanks, Kris,” I said, standing up.

  She shut down her computer. “Sorry I wasn’t more help.”

  “No, it helped. Thanks.”

  “You’re trying to figure out why that lady was killed.”

  She said it as a statement, not a question. Her eyes regarded me calmly. Maybe it was her manners or her style of dress, but she seemed older than twenty-three.

  “Yes,” I said. “Not doing a very good job of it, I’m afraid.”

  Kris put on her long, black coat. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Don’t spend a lot of your personal time on it.”

  “I wasn’t going to. It’ll give me something to do tomorrow if it’s quiet. Tonight I’m going clubbing.”

  A flash of lightning made us both look toward the window. The gauze curtains stirred in the restless air, then the rumble of thunder rattled around the house.

  “Stay warm,” I said as we both left the office.

  She grinned. “I will. Great night to be out.”

  To each her own. I like thunderstorms—most people who live in New Mexico like rain—but I prefer to enjoy them from the comfort of a fireside chair.

  7

  I watched Kris down the stairs, then put my coat and purse away before following. It was nearly six, and the last customers were leaving the tearoom. I thanked them for coming and locked the front door behind them.

  Dee and Vi were already clearing Marigold, setting it up for the next day. I tossed another log on the fire there, to keep the chimney warm so it would heat my suite, then covered it tight with the screen and went out to the gift shop to close out the cash register and pack the day’s dismal receipts into a bank bag for Kris. I carried it back to the pantry and looked in. Mick was just setting the dishwasher to run, and Dee and Vi were putting on their coats.

  “Anybody need a ride home?” I asked.

  Mick shook his head. He had his own car—an old Mustang that was parked outside the back door. It was a restoration work in progress, currently several shades of paint dominated by primer gray.

  “Thanks,” Vi said, “but Dee’s giving me a ride.”

  I looked at her closely, seeking signs of stress. She seemed better than she had that morning.

  “I started the linens washing,” Dee said as the girls h
eaded for the back door.

  “Okay, I’ll finish them,” I said. “Thanks. See you both tomorrow.”

  Mick stood in the door of the dishwashing room as he removed his apron—a small ritual of his, I assumed part of leaving the work behind—then hung it up and went to fill out his time sheet at the rack on the wall by the fireplace. He wore a slight frown, which prompted me to thank him as he headed for the door.

  He nodded. “I might be in a little late tomorrow. Putting in a new muffler. That OK?”

  “As long as you’re here by three-thirty.”

  “I will be. Thanks.”

  I locked the door behind him and watched him head for his car. Alone in the big, old house, I stood looking out the window at the back porch, listening to the rain drum on the roof.

  It occurred to me to wonder if the outside doors to the dining parlor were locked. I hadn’t thought of it the previous night.

  I walked through the side hall, past the butler’s pantry and the restroom and out into the main hall, then stood before the closed door into the dining parlor, feeling reluctant to open it. Willow’s advice echoed in my mind—best leave the room alone for a while. Wouldn’t want Captain Dusenberry to get too stirred up.

  That settled it. I opened the parlor door and turned on the light switch. The chandelier threw its warm glow over the table and chairs, the sideboard and the china cupboard, all gleaming with fresh polish. I turned to my right, toward the French doors, just as a flash of lightning sent blue-white light through the back yard.

  A man was standing on the porch, silhouetted against the chiffon-curtained glass door. The next second darkness swallowed him.

  My reaction was purely instinctive. I ducked out into the hall and flattened myself against the wall, staring at the window lights around the back door, waiting for the sound of the stranger entering the dining parlor. Instead someone tried the back door, then knocked.

  Okay, murderous ghosts don’t knock. I peeled myself off the wall and walked to the back door, trying to breathe calmly. I paused to turn on the porch lights and look out the windows.

  Mick stood outside, huddled in his light jacket with his ball cap pulled low over his eyes. I unlocked the door and opened it.