“Okay,” I said to the room. “I get that you’re here, but could you please not keep turning on the light? It wastes electricity.”
“Sylvia wouldn’t waste electricity,” Gina whispered in my ear.
“Captain Dusenberry probably never worried about conservation,” I whispered back.
“Yeah, he probably used oil lanterns anyway,” Gina agreed.
“Why are we whispering?”
We looked at each other. Gina reached out and turned off the light switch, and I pulled the door shut.
“Still want to look in the kitchen?” I asked.
Gina shot a resentful glance at the dining parlor door, then went into the kitchen and pantry entrance across the hall. “Might as well. You got any booze in there?”
I turned on lights as we passed the pantry and entered the kitchen. “Just the stuff Julio uses for cooking. If you want a drink we can go back upstairs.”
“Nah.”
Gina stood by the center island, gazing around the empty kitchen. She frowned at the narrow stairs that led up to the small attic, which we used for storage.
“It’s locked,” I said. “Julio and I have the only keys.”
“OK. And that cubby under the stairs?”
We went over and checked it. The entrance to the cubby space, also storage, had no door and was covered by a calico curtain. Gina pulled it aside, revealing nothing scarier than sacks of sugar and flour. She let it fall again.
“I guess I’d better get home. You sure you’ll be all right?”
I shrugged and smiled as best I could. “I was all right last night.”
She grabbed me in a big bear hug. “Maybe it’s a friendly ghost.”
“Hasn’t throttled anyone that I know of.”
Gina pulled back and stared at me, wide-eyed. She didn’t say a word, but her appalled expression told me she was thinking of Sylvia.
“Gina,” I said firmly, “Sylvia Carruthers was not killed by a ghost.”
“Right. Sure you don’t want to come home with me?”
“Thanks, but no. Now go get your beauty sleep. You have to look gorgeous for Ted tomorrow.”
I opened the kitchen’s outside door for Gina. She glanced across the porch toward the dining parlor door. It was dark.
“Call me if you need anything,” she said. “Anytime. I mean it. Call me if you have a bad dream.”
“I will.” I smiled, trying to look more brave than I felt. “Now stop fretting. I’ll be fine.”
She gave me a worried smile back and went to her car and got in. I waved and closed the kitchen door, locking it. I watched out the window as she drove away, then I left the kitchen, turning the light out behind me.
The hall was dark. The only light was a dim glow of the city coming through the lights around the front and back doors. I stood for a moment, listening to the house, the small settling sounds of an older building. Beyond that were the city sounds: distant music, voices of passing tourists or kids out on the town, the occasional rush of a passing car. All normal sounds.
I looked at the dining parlor door. The space beneath it was dark.
“Thank you,” I said, and went upstairs to go to bed.
The next morning was quiet. The dining parlor light remained off, for which I was silently grateful. I spent the early morning doing the receipts from the previous night, and took them to Kris just before ten thirty.
“Thanks,” she said. “I found some more stuff about Sylvia for you.”
“Would you leave it on my desk? I’m going to the funeral service.”
“Ah, that’s why the sober look today.”
She nodded toward the plain navy dress I was wearing. She was back in black—a chiffon dress with long, floaty sleeves.
“I should be back in a couple of hours,” I told her.
“I won’t say have fun.” She gave me a deadpan look, then picked up the bank bag.
I went downstairs to wait for Aunt Nat, who had offered me a ride. Checking the reservation list I saw that we had only two groups at eleven, so I sat in Jonquil, where I could watch for Nat out of a front window. Dee brought me a cup of Darjeeling.
“That was really fun yesterday,” she said.
“I’m glad you thought so. Thanks for all your hard work.”
“Is every Friday going to be like that?”
“Not that elaborate, no. We’ll serve a full afternoon tea, but we won’t rearrange the furniture.”
“Oh, good!” she grinned. “That was the least fun part.”
“Amen to that,” I said.
I drank my tea, gazing out at the wisterias on the porch, thinking of all the plans I had made. When the weather got warmer I intended to put patio tables out on the porch for additional seating. If the tearoom lasted that long.
Nat’s car pulled up outside just as I finished my tea. I went out to the hall and put on my hat and coat, and was met at the door by Manny Salazar, wearing a dark suit and a gray overcoat.
“I offered to drive,” he explained as we walked out to the car. “She’s kind of down this morning.”
“Oh? I hope she’s all right.”
“Just feeling her years, I think. You know we’re not spring chickens any more.”
Nat waved at me through the car window as Manny opened the back door. I slid into the seat and clasped the hand Nat reached back to me.
“Thanks for picking me up,” I said.
“I’m glad you’re coming with us,” she said, turning her head to look back at me. “Nice to have younger people around. This is the third funeral I’ve attended this year.”
I squeezed her hand, then sat back as Manny drove the short distance to Rosario Cemetery on the north side of town. The oldest cemetery in Santa Fe, it was still active. Having a plot there was a mark of some prestige, and usually indicated a long-time Santa Fe family.
My own family was not Catholic, so my parents were buried in Memorial Gardens on the south side of town, but Sylvia’s family was here. I glanced away from the open grave draped with artificial turf as Manny dropped us at the door of the chapel and went away to park the car. Nat took my arm and we walked together into the old, adobe chapel.
This was actually the second chapel, built in the early nineteenth century after the first had collapsed. The original chapel had been built by De Vargas, who had pledged to carry his statue of the Virgin Mary there every year in thanks for the successful return of the Spanish to Santa Fe after the Pueblo Rebellion. The statue, now known as “La Conquistadora,” was kept in the much more elaborate and famous San Francisco Basilica near the Plaza, but once every year she was carried with great ceremony to Rosario Chapel in fulfillment of De Vargas’s promise. Her passage, now a full-blown parade, was the basis of Santa Fe’s annual Fiesta.
The small chapel was almost filled. Sylvia had many friends, it appeared. As Nat and I took the last spots in a pew near the middle of the building, I thought about the irony of this place of peace being the result of the conflict between the Pueblo Indians and the Spanish colonists.
The structure was simple but lovely, its high adobe walls soft and thick, with stained glass windows glowing like jewels against the whitewash. This chapel felt peaceful, despite its history.
The soft strains of Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” played in the background. Sylvia’s casket lay elevated at the front of the chapel, a spray of white flowers on top of it and a large photo of Sylvia on a stand beside it. Seeing her face for the first time since her death gave me an unexpected pang of sadness. I hadn’t known her very long or very well, but I had reason to be grateful to her and to regret the community’s loss.
Donna was sitting in the front pew, her hair looking reddish beneath a small, modern black hat. Her dress was black also, but with white polka dots. Two other women sat with her, neither of whom I recognized.
As the music built to a shimmering crescendo, I saw Claudia come in carrying a folded sheet of paper. She gave me a fleeting smile as she continued to the
front and sat across the aisle from Donna. Wondering what had become of Manny, I looked around toward the door and saw Detective Aragón standing against the wall at the back of the chapel, wearing a dark suit and black raincoat instead of his motorcycle leathers.
My heart gave an unpleasant lurch and I quickly faced forward again. A moment later Manny squeezed into the pew beside us, and shortly the mass began.
What was Aragón doing there? I wondered. Cops on television attended funerals to observe suspicious behavior, but maybe he was merely paying respect to Sylvia.
I frowned and tried to put him out of my mind. I didn’t like the thought of him behind me, watching everyone in the chapel, taking note of which suspects were present. I couldn’t help thinking his eyes were on me.
The service was simple, delivered by Sylvia’s priest who had known her for decades and could actually talk about her life with understanding and intelligence. He spoke of her charity and her devotion to Santa Fe’s history, then invited Claudia Pearson to give the eulogy. Claudia came forward and unfolded her page of notes, from which she read a short speech about Sylvia’s work with the Santa Fe Preservation Trust.
Donna had not felt up to giving the eulogy, then. I wasn’t surprised. Whatever her relationship with her mother, she must be upset by Sylvia’s death, especially the manner of it. I remembered how hard I had found it to give the eulogy at my own mother’s funeral, and when Dad had died so soon afterward I’d been so crushed I was unable to say anything at all, and had left the task to my brother.
Claudia finished speaking and returned to her seat, and the priest went on with the mass. When the time came for communion, Manny went forward while I sat listening to the music with Nat clinging to my hand.
I glanced back at Detective Aragón, curious whether he intended to take communion. Apparently not, for he hadn’t moved from his place against the wall. He looked my way and I faced forward again, trying to pretend he wasn’t there.
When the mass ended Donna stood up and walked out at once, looking composed if slightly pale, with her friends close behind. The pall bearers carried out the casket and the congregation began to disperse, spilling out of the chapel into the chilly sunshine of a spring afternoon. Manny, Nat, and I didn’t go to the graveside, choosing instead to remain in front of the chapel. A small cluster of people gathered around the grave. I could see Donna’s polka-dot dress.
Beyond them a fence marked the division between Rosario Cemetery and the much larger National Cemetery. I could see rows of military markers on the rising slope in the distance, bright white against the green grass. Nearer by, in the oldest part of the cemetery, the gravestones were less regular and showed evidence of age. Mature cottonwood trees, just now leafing out, cast restless dappled shadows over the markers.
I remembered Willow’s suggestion that I visit Captain Dusenberry’s grave if I wanted to make peace. That advice seemed a little less ludicrous now.
Katie and Bob Hutchins made their way over to us. Katie looked sad and a little tired, but gave me a small smile.
“Wasn’t that a lovely service?” she said.
Nat nodded. “I like that photo of Sylvia they had on display. I hadn’t seen it before. Maybe Donna would lend it to me so I could get it copied.”
We stood chatting for a few minutes, Nat and Katie exchanging reminiscences. I glimpsed Detective Aragón hovering nearby and ignored him. Finally Donna and her friends climbed into a limousine and were driven away.
Manny went off to fetch his car while Nat and I said goodbye to the Hutchinses. As Katie shook my hand she leaned close and hissed in my ear.
“What’s that man doing here?”
I knew who she meant without having to follow her glance. “Paying his respects, I guess.”
“Rather unfeeling of him to intrude! What must poor Donna have thought?”
Having no idea what she thought, I just shrugged. Katie went off with Bob, and Nat and I walked forward to meet Manny, who had joined the line of cars picking up passengers in front of the chapel. I opened the front door for Nat and helped her in, then stepped to the back door. Before I could open it a man’s hand reached for the handle, blocking my way.
I looked up in surprise and found Detective Aragón gazing back at me. A rush of resentment made me say the first thought in my head.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Detective.”
“I could say the same to you. Thought you didn’t know Mrs. Carruthers that well.”
“I didn’t, but she was a friend of my aunt’s,” I said, nodding toward the front seat of the car. “And in any case, I have good reason to be here. Without Mrs. Carruthers’s help I wouldn’t have been able to open the tearoom.”
He stood still, slightly frowning as he appraised me with his dark gaze, then at last opened the car door. I got in, maintaining my dignity with an attitude of cold formality.
“Thank you,” I said, then used fastening my seat belt as an excuse to turn away.
Detective Aragón closed the door and stood watching as Manny drove us away. Not until the car pulled out onto Paseo de Peralta did I relax. I only half heard Nat’s repeated thanks to me for coming with them.
“Do you have to get back to the tearoom right away,” she said, “or can you come to Donna’s with us? We’re only planning to stay a little while.”
“Sure, I’ll come with you.”
I was curious to see more of Donna, and to see her home. So much of one’s personality is expressed in one’s residence. I also admitted to myself that I wanted to observe her behavior. As bad as Detective Arrogant, I told myself.
Donna lived in Colinas Verdas, one of several developments on the northwest side of town, out of the city proper. As Manny drove through the countryside, over and between hills dotted with piñon and juniper trees, I marveled at how many new and expensive-looking houses had been built in the area. Santa Fe attracts money, and a lot of it was out here, where the lots were anywhere from two to twenty acres in size and offered sweeping vistas.
Donna’s home was very modern, with lots of steel and huge windows, perched on top of a hill. Cars jammed the gravel driveway and spilled out onto the street. Manny parked, and the three of us walked together up the steep drive.
Inside, the house was just as angular and modern as it appeared from outside. The front door opened onto a small entryway, which in turn led to a large, high-ceilinged living room filled with chattering people, most of whom I didn’t know.
Donna seemed to favor chrome and glass, and her decorating was austere. The only color was on the white walls, in the form of vivid abstract paintings. She had a lot of them, along with the occasional piece of abstract sculpture.
Donna stood near a gas fireplace whose artificial logs were cold and dark. A largish group of people surrounded her, having what appeared to be an animated discussion. Deciding to wait a little for a better opportunity to pay my respects, I offered to fetch Nat a drink and found my way into the kitchen.
It was huge, almost as large as the tearoom’s commercial kitchen, and almost everything in it was brushed steel. People were chatting in here, too, though in a more relaxed way as they grazed from plates of elegant finger food on a long, granite-topped counter.
The food caught my eye—professional interest—and I was intrigued. It looked rather like abstract sculpture, so ornate that it must have been catered. I wished Julio could see it, not because I wanted such food in the tearoom but because I thought it would amuse him.
I took a celery stick filled with a piped squiggle of pimiento cream cheese from a silver Nambé ware platter on which identical-length sticks were arranged with military precision. I half expected a waiter to rush to replace my celery and repair the design.
I did spy a young woman a little older than my servers, in black slacks and formal white shirt with her hair pulled back into a businesslike ponytail, collecting abandoned wine glasses from the windowsills of the adjacent dining nook. I nodded when she glanced up at me; she
gave me a brief smile in return. I poured cups of soda for myself and Nat and wandered back out to the living room.
Donna had taken a seat on a white leather sofa. I gave Nat her drink and strolled toward Donna, hoping to get a moment to say hello. Seated beside her was a painfully thin redheaded woman in a fuchsia dress, talking a mile a minute.
“—really a shame you missed it! The First Lady was there and everyone thought the Frankenthaler was fabulous! Come by the gallery before Friday and you’ll see what I mean, though of course all the best pieces have sold but you might find something you like. It’s an outstanding show, really!”
The woman paused to take a breath and I stepped forward, smiling at Donna. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
Donna looked up with a slight frown. “Oh, thank you. Thank you for coming, Ms…”
“Rosings. Ellen Rosings.”
“Right, from the tearoom.”
The woman in fuchsia stared at me as if Donna had announced I was from the moon. I acknowledged her presence with a fleeting smile, then turned my attention back to Donna.
“Your mother helped me accomplish my goals. I really wouldn’t have succeeded without her. I want you to know that I’ll always remember her generosity.”
Donna pressed her lips together in a thin smile. Her gaze shifted to Nat and Manny, who had come up beside me. Nat reached out a hand toward Donna, who took it briefly.
“Donna, dear, I’m so sorry,” Nat said, shaking her head. “Sylvia was a good woman.”
“Thank you,” Donna said.
“Did she live here with you?” Manny asked.
“Oh, no. She had an old ramshackle place on Otero Street. It belongs to the Trust now.”
“She left her house to the Preservation Trust?” I asked.
Donna turned a flat gaze on me. “Actually she gave it to them years ago, after my father died. She kept living there, but she signed the house over to the Trust. I guess she was afraid I’d try to update the plumbing or put in double-pane windows, God forbid.”
A Fatal Twist of Lemon Page 14