A Fatal Twist of Lemon

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping in. “Forgot my tunes.”

  I waited while he fetched his music player and headphones from the kitchen. He stuffed them in his jacket pocket and grinned at me as he went back out.

  “Thanks, Ms. R. Night.”

  “Call me Ellen, Mick. Good night.”

  Ms. R. Sounded like “bizarre.” Better than “boss,” I supposed, but only by a little bit.

  I locked the door and went back to the dining parlor. Mick’s headlights sent another momentary flare of light through the glass door. The car’s engine rumbled mightily as he started it, confirming a need for interior as well as exterior work. I watched the headlights fade back and swing away, then turn out into the alley and vanish behind the neighboring building.

  “All right, let’s try this again.”

  I returned to the dining parlor and approached the French doors, but hesitated before touching the handles. I didn’t remember cleaning them the night before. I bent to peer at them, looking for the black fingerprint dust that the police had gotten all over the room. I saw a grain or two caught in the crevices, but none of the smudges I’d had to clean from the china and glassware and furniture. There were no fingerprints on the door handles.

  That was definitely strange. There should have been prints all over them. We had used those doors a lot while we were decorating and setting up the dining parlor.

  I left the handles alone and locked the deadbolt with my key. Glancing at the sideboard, I remembered the missing napkin and wondered if someone had used it to wipe the door handles. The killer might have left by those doors, using the napkin to keep from leaving prints and taking it away afterward.

  I frowned, then returned to the kitchen and looked out the window. I could see the dining parlor doors if I stood far to the right and leaned forward over the counter, but someone just working at the counter probably wouldn’t be able to see anyone leaving by those doors.

  So anyone could have left that way undetected. For that matter, anyone could have come in those doors and probably not have been seen except by whoever was in the dining parlor.

  I groaned. Instead of narrowing the possibilities down, I had just thrown them wide open. Anyone with a grudge against Sylvia, who had known she was going to be at the tea, could have staked out that back door and come in when they saw their chance.

  “Wait a minute,” I said aloud. “It was a crime of impulse. Staking out the back door is premeditation.”

  The killer was someone at the tea. I didn’t like that, but I kept coming back to it. I had invited Sylvia’s killer into my house, and unwittingly provided the opportunity for the murder.

  “Ugh.”

  I went back to the dining parlor, turned off the chandelier and closed the door. Anxious now to get away from the room, I ran upstairs and put the bank bag on Kris’s desk, then went across the hall into my suite. I turned on every light, leaving the hall light on as well. The downstairs lights were on, too. I didn’t care; I’d get them later. Right now I wanted light in the house.

  I put Chopin’s Etudes on my stereo and cranked it up over the pounding of the rain on the roof, then went to work putting my suite back in order. As I picked up the mess Detective Aragón had made, I couldn’t help remembering our weird confrontation that afternoon.

  He was mad at me, personally. I represented something he hated. It wasn’t fair, but fairness didn’t enter into it. I remembered his expression—cold eyes, hint of a sneer—as one I’d seen before, on the playground at school, in the high school hallways.

  Anglos are a minority in Santa Fe, and growing up you’re aware of it. Contempt in the dark eyes turned toward you from clusters of cholos. Groups of mean-eyed girls from the Catholic school controlling the sidewalk as you walked home. All kids have to deal with that stuff, but racial tension adds an edge to it. I had Hispanic friends, plenty of them, but there were some who wanted no friendship.

  It didn’t matter that my grandmother had been born in Santa Fe. That had just caught Aragón off guard, but it wouldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t stop being angry because he’d realized he was wrong. It would probably make him more angry. I’d made an enemy, and that was a problem.

  “Good thing he’s a cop and not in a gang,” I muttered as I put fresh sheets on my bed.

  Having a cop mad at me was bad. Having him be the lead detective of a murder investigation involving my house was rather more than bad. He could easily continue harassing me, even to the point of filing charges against me. They might not stick, but it would cost me time and effort to fight them, and I needed to put everything I could into the tearoom right now. If the tearoom failed, I’d be in a huge mess.

  I stood in the middle of my bedroom and sighed, then closed my eyes. The music had run out, and the rain beating on the metal roof close above filled my head. I let the tension drain out of me and decided to pull a Scarlett O’Hara. I just wouldn’t think about it until tomorrow.

  Or maybe after tomorrow, because tomorrow was the grand opening. I still had the flowers to do. Dinner first, though. Dinner and a glass of wine.

  I went to the little kitchenette in my suite behind the sitting area, just a mini refrigerator/freezer, a two-burner counter-top stove and convection oven combo, and a small microwave. Enough for me to fix meals for myself without having to go downstairs and rattle around in the industrial kitchen. There was also a small sink, a mini dishwasher, and a temperature-controlled wine cooler, just big enough for two dozen bottles.

  My father taught me to like good wine and good cheese. In fact I owe most of my expensive tastes to my dad.

  I opened a bottle of cabernet franc and put a pot of water on to boil for pasta, then peered in the fridge to see what I had to put on it. Some mushrooms, red bell pepper, and a small zucchini would make a decent primavera. I took them out, along with a leftover half an onion and a couple of cloves of garlic. Sliced those and set them sautéing in olive oil while I cut up the veggies.

  The wine and the thrumming rain made me relax, finally. I put the vegetables in with the onions and garlic, which by this time were filling the room with a heavenly smell, and sprinkled in a few herbs. Pasta water was boiling, so I added oil and threw in a cup of penne, then set the timer.

  On impulse, I went across the hall to my office and fetched the thank-you tea place cards, then carried them and my wine to my chair by the chimney.

  My sitting area is right above Dahlia and Marigold, on the south side of the house. The fire downstairs had warmed up the chimney, so it was quite cozy. I lit a candle on the table beside my chair and snuggled in, tucking my feet under me as I sipped my wine and sifted through the cards, looking at the names, hoping for inspiration.

  Claudia Pearson.

  My thoughts drifted back to my conversation with her that afternoon. I had gone in half-suspecting her of Sylvia’s murder, but after talking to her I felt pretty sure she hadn’t done it. What she had told me, though, had raised another possibility. Who stood to gain by Sylvia’s death, and was also at the tea?

  Donna Carruthers.

  I pulled out Donna’s place card and gazed at it. I hated to think that a woman would kill her own mother, but the fact was that it sometimes happened. Donna and Sylvia had different ideas about what mattered.

  Sylvia had been about to give away a large amount of money. Any Santa Fe property was expensive, and historic properties extremely so, especially if they were close to the plaza, like mine.

  Was Donna the sort to kill her mother for money? I was assuming she stood to inherit her mother’s estate. Would she regard Sylvia’s intention of putting a large amount of money into the purchase of an historic property for the Trust as disinheriting her? Did she even know about it? And would that make her angry enough to kill?

  I tried to remember if the topic had come up during the thank-you tea.

  I wish I could stay, Ellen dear, but we have a meeting at the title company. Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.

  I d
rew in a sharp breath, recalling Sylvia’s remark as the guests were leaving. Could that have been enough to spark Donna to murder her?

  I couldn’t very well ask Donna. What I could do, perhaps without inflicting any further pain on Donna (which I didn’t want to do if she was innocent), was try to pinpoint more closely who was in the room right before Sylvia was murdered.

  According to Claudia, Donna was last in the room, alone with Sylvia. To confirm that I could ask Vince, who had stayed talking to Donna after Claudia left the dining parlor. I found Vince’s place card and moved it to the top of the stack, to remind me I wanted to talk to him.

  The kitchen timer went off. I set the place cards down and went to the stove, stirred the veggies, and dumped the pasta into a colander in the small sink. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was early yet, but I decided not to call Vince that night. It would be better to talk to him in person. Maybe he would be at the grand opening Friday afternoon.

  I topped off my wine glass, stirred a little cream into the sautéed veggies, and cut a chunk of Romano cheese to put into my hand-cranked grater. Dumped the pasta onto a stoneware plate and the sauce over it, and carried it all back to my chair. The rain had slacked off a little, and I put on some soft chamber music while I ate.

  I was beginning to feel quite mellow, more than I had in days. I’d spent all my waking hours on the tearoom for so long I’d almost forgotten that there were other things in life, other decor besides Victorian.

  In my own suite I’d deliberately gone for a different style, just to make it my special refuge from work. Out in the public rooms everything was Victorian, but in here it was more Renaissance, with heavy green and gold acanthus-leaf brocade and wine-red velvet, gold silk braid and tassels instead of Victorian lace. I had candles all over, and rich hangings on my canopy bed that I had made myself, functional so that I could enclose the bed in velvet curtains all around if I wanted to, as such beds were originally intended.

  My parents had bought me the canopy bed when I was ten, after a year of my begging and pleading. The hangings had been all girly then, ruffles and lace, but the bed itself was good solid maple. I had refinished it before moving it into my suite, made the new hangings, and splurged on luxurious sheets and blankets and a velvet comforter. I could hear the bed calling to me, but I had to do the flowers first.

  I finished my wine and took care of the dishes, then went downstairs. Lights were blazing everywhere, no doubt racking up an obscene electric bill. I turned them all off except for the butler’s pantry and the kitchen.

  In the pantry I took the clean linens from the washer and loaded them into the dryer stacked above it. Remembering the missing napkin, I wondered if I should tell Detective Aragón about it. That might serve as a peace offering. He undoubtedly knew the doorknob had been wiped, but maybe he’d like to know how. I had his number, and it probably wasn’t too late to call.

  “Nope. Scarlett O’Hara,” I told myself, and went off to arrange the flowers.

  My vases were in the china cupboard in the dining parlor. I turned on the hall light again, unwilling to walk through darkness to open that door. It was silly, but it made me feel better.

  I got out every vase I had, plus an old china teapot with violets painted on it. The lid had long since broken but I couldn’t bear to part with it, and it did make a nice base for a floral arrangement. I loaded it on a tray with all the vases and carried them to the kitchen, then conscientiously returned and turned out the lights before delving into the big refrigerator for the flowers.

  I tuned the radio of Julio’s boom box to the classical station. Surrounded with beautiful, fragrant flowers, I felt my mood lifting and was soon humming along with the music as I clipped and arranged the blooms.

  The big vases I filled with dramatic sprays of gladiolus and iris. Smaller vases got roses or heavenly-smelling freesias. Nothing seemed quite right for the teapot, though.

  I set it on the kitchen counter and stood back, trying to envision the perfect arrangement for it. I could take apart the centerpiece from the thank-you tea, but that was still pretty fresh and I liked it on the dining table. I glanced up at the window to check again whether I could see the dining parlor’s back door from there. I couldn’t, but I did see a splash of light falling across the porch from that direction.

  At first I thought it was the hall door, but I could see another, fainter band of light just at the bottom edge of the window. Leaning forward, I confirmed that the lower light was coming from the hall door, spillover from the kitchen lights. It was the French doors from the dining parlor that were pouring light onto the porch.

  Not wanting to waste power, I went out to the hall and opened the dining parlor door, this time feeling brave enough to leave the hall light off. I shut off the switch and the chandelier went dark. A pale glint trembled along the edge of one crystal. The room seemed to be holding its breath.

  “You’re imagining things, Rosings,” I said aloud, then closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

  I kept glancing at the violet teapot while I finished with the rest of the flowers. Finally it occurred to me that lilacs would look perfect spilling out of it. There were purple and white lilac bushes growing between the tearoom and the building to the north. I caught up my clippers, ran some cold water in the teapot, and went out the back door.

  The rain had fallen to a light drizzle. I walked north along the porch, then stepped off it onto the grass and into the rain, inhaling deeply. There is nothing quite so wonderful as the smell of rain.

  I set the teapot on the grass at the foot of an old lilac bush that was at least ten feet tall and easily as wide. A whole row of them ran along the north side of the house. I clipped several sprays of the beautiful, pale purple blooms, shook the rain off them, and dumped them in the pot. The neighboring bush was white lilacs, and I clipped some of those, too, then carried the pot back to the house.

  I was about to step on the porch when I glanced up and froze. Light was pouring out of the dining parlor door again. I was certain I had turned that light off.

  Which meant that someone was in the house.

  8

  I stood frozen, heart pounding, watching all the back doors. I had locked the French doors in the dining parlor. The kitchen and the hall also had doors that opened onto the porch. The hall door was locked, but I’d left the kitchen door open.

  Coatless, I was beginning to shiver in the cold. I stepped onto the porch, trying to make no sound as I got under its shelter.

  If someone was in the house, they must have gone in the kitchen door and then into the dining parlor, turning on the light. That implied they were searching for something in the dining parlor, but the police had been all over the room. It didn’t make sense.

  Could they be waiting to ambush me? Why, though? Had the killer found out that I was asking questions? Other than my staff, the only one I’d talked to that day was Claudia.

  I waited a long time, but nothing happened. Finally I set the lilacs on a bench on the porch, then slowly approached the French doors. I had my garden snips in hand, not much of a weapon but better than nothing. I paused, listening for any sound of movement from inside.

  Nothing. I stepped quickly past the doors and paused again, listening. Still no sound, so I cautiously turned the handle of the hall door, trying to be silent.

  I looked in to confirm the hall was empty. It was still dark, but I saw no lurking shadows. Quietly I went into the kitchen, then slipped off my shoes and padded barefoot into the hall to face the dining parlor door. Light showed beneath it.

  I put my ear to the door to listen. No sound but the faint music from the radio in the kitchen.

  All right. Make it quick. If there’s a lunatic in there, slam the door and get out of the house.

  I glanced at the side hall. That was my escape route, through the kitchen. I’d run to Katie’s and call the police from there if I had to.

  Taking a firm grip on my garden snips in my left hand, I put my ri
ght on the doorknob, turned it swiftly and pushed the door open, so hard it banged against the wall.

  There was no one in the room.

  The chandelier was on, and I noticed one of the crystals moving back and forth slightly. Just one.

  I glanced up at the ceiling. Kris’s office was overhead. Could someone have gone up there? Could Kris have stopped in late after her clubbing?

  Or could the murderer be up there, waiting to ambush me? Or Detective Aragón, could he be snooping around?

  Or maybe it was Jack the Ripper.

  “Stop making up stories, Rosings,” I muttered, turning off the chandelier and closing the door.

  I put my shoes back on, fetched the lilacs from the porch, then locked the kitchen door. Determined to behave normally, I began trimming and arranging the lilacs in the teapot, though I did turn off the radio.

  If the murderer was in the house, I’d hear him or her coming down, because the staircase is old and it creaks. Likewise, if Kris had come in I’d eventually hear her moving around. Or Detective Aragón. Or Jack.

  No sound except for a couple of rumbles of distant thunder. By the time I’d finished the lilacs, I was pretty sure I was alone in the house.

  I distributed the flowers in the parlors, making sure to put some iris in Iris, roses in Rose, and alstroemerias in Lily. Silly, perhaps, but it made me smile. I put a big vase of gladiolas on the hostess stand and set the lilacs on top of a half-high bookcase on the long wall of Jonquil. I’d have to plant some jonquils and hyacinths in the garden for next spring.

  Satisfied that everything was ready for the grand opening, I shut off the parlor lights and returned to the kitchen to clean up the mess from flower arranging. When everything was spotless again and ready for Julio, I turned off the lights and reached for the hall switch to light my way upstairs.

  The dining parlor light was on again.

  Warm light, golden on the polished hardwood, spilling across the hall floor from beneath the door.

  The house was silent. I hadn’t heard anyone coming down the stairs, and I was sure there wasn’t anyone in any of the downstairs rooms. I’d just been in all of them, even the restroom, distributing flowers.