A Fatal Twist of Lemon

by Patrice Greenwood

  I laughed. “I just don’t want to be a burden.”

  “You’re never a burden, Ellen. We’d love to have you.”

  “Okay. See you at six, then.”

  I hung up, wondering what to take as a hostess gift. Not wine; Nat’s wine cellar was better stocked than mine. Flowers?

  Musing on this comfortable question, I went out to my car and drove to the Unitarian Church, where I’d attended services off and on since coming home from college. I’m not deeply religious, but I do believe in the power of prayer. I had a lot at stake just then, so I thought I should apply for whatever divine assistance might be available.

  I arrived in time for the late service. My thoughts tended to drift, but I figured I could be forgiven for that. I sent up a silent prayer for the success of the tearoom. I also put in a word for Donna Carruthers, and one for poor Sylvia. Then I tossed in the names of everyone at the thank-you tea, and all my staff, and Detective Aragón. Might as well cover all bases.

  After the service I went out into the parking lot and saw that the cloud cover was breaking up. A brisk breeze sent torn shreds of gray and white flying across a brilliant blue sky. It was good to be out and about, and despite the coolness of the day I kept my window down as I drove home. Remembering Gina’s concern that I should get out of the tearoom, I parked my car behind the kitchen and took a walk, heading down Palace Avenue to the Santa Fe plaza.

  The breeze stirred the new leaves budding out on the cottonwoods. Indian jewelry vendors were already doing business beneath the long portal of the Palace of the Governors, their handmade wares laid out on colorful blankets. Silver sandcast bracelets, pendants and bolo ties and squash blossom necklaces sporting huge chunks of turquoise, traditional and more modern styles of jewelry all looked inviting. I strolled along behind the tourists who were doing the serious shopping, and paused at a blanket covered with heishi necklaces.

  The strands of tiny beads—coral, silver, turquoise, and a rainbow of other stones I couldn’t identify—lay there mocking me. Figure it out, they seemed to say. I saw no lemon agate among them.

  Turning away, I crossed the plaza to La Fonda, the historic hotel on the plaza’s southeast corner. La Fonda’s been a magnet for celebrities and Santa Fe socialites not just for decades but for centuries. It’s where the President stays when he’s in town. Everybody who’s anybody goes there, as well as a lot of us who aren’t anybody in particular. I decided to stroll through the old hotel and then stop at the French Pastry Shop for a cappuccino and something sweet and sinful.

  La Fonda is a fabulous, jumbled pile of brown stucco, renovated in the early twentieth century by architect John Gaw Meem, one of the creators of Pueblo Revival style. Meem’s hallmarks are seen throughout the building in the heavy, carved beams and zapatas, Mexican tile ornamentation and punched tin light fixtures, and many other details that made La Fonda one of the defining places of what is known as Santa Fe Style.

  I went in the front entrance and up a half dozen steps to the lobby. The dark flagstones of the steps and the floor are polished smooth with the wear of countless feet. Shop display cases take up a lot of the lobby walls now, but there’s still some art on display, including classic Santa Fe Opera posters, Fiesta posters, and the famous paintings of dancers—matachines, the Buffalo Dancer, the Shalako and the Spanish dancer—and other images by early 20th century Santa Fe artist Gerald Cassidy.

  I wandered down the hallway that ran along one side of La Plazuela restaurant, which had been an actual open-air plazuela before I was born but was now enclosed. The restaurant is still a gathering place for Santa Feans as well as visitors. The food’s excellent, though they serve what we call “gringo chile,” suitable for the tourist palate but lacking the heat most locals prefer.

  A long, glass wall had been added between the hall where I was walking (which had once been an outdoor portal) and the restaurant. French doors in places along it gave a clear view into the restaurant, but the panes of glass all around them were painted with bright Mexican-folk style designs, birds and flowers and animals and geometrics in vivid, chaotic colors.

  As my gaze wandered over the pictures, I glimpsed a familiar face through the one of the doors. I stepped back and paused, my heart jumping with alarm as I put a red, yellow and green rooster between me and the restaurant. Cautiously I peeped around the edge of the painted pane. Donna Carruthers was sitting in the restaurant.

  She looked very different than she had at the funeral. Today she was wearing a dress made up of large, rectangular panels of lime green and turquoise, her hair was pulled into a stylish French twist, and her face was shining with laughter. She sat at a large round table having lunch with several others, a couple of whom I’d seen at her house the day before.

  There was one other face I knew at the table. Seated next to Donna, wearing a black sport coat over a gold turtleneck and black jeans, was Vince Margolan.

  13

  I drew back, though it was pretty unlikely that Donna or Vince had seen me. I frowned at them around the edge of the painted rooster, wondering if they knew each other better than I’d realized.

  Vince hadn’t been at the funeral or the reception at Donna’s house, but here he was today, looking awfully chummy with Donna. Maybe they moved in the same circles. They were both interested in art, so it wasn’t a stretch.

  I didn’t know what kind of art Vince would be showing in his gallery. I had assumed that since it was in an historic house it would be a kind of classic, Santa Fe gallery with sweeping landscapes, cowboy art, traditional Southwestern stuff. But maybe not.

  I stepped a little closer to the windows again, shamelessly spying on Donna and Vince. The conversation at the table appeared to be lively. I saw Vince lean toward Donna to say something to her. She laughed and touched his wrist.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?” said a man’s voice behind me.

  I jumped and turned, then managed a smile. It was a stranger, probably a tourist, an older man in a polo shirt and, oh dear, plaid slacks.

  “Um, yes,” I said, realizing he meant the painted windows. I pointed to the pane next to the rooster, which bore an agave plant rendered in shocking green. “I was just trying to figure out what this one is.”

  “I think that’s a yucca,” said the helpful stranger.

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  He showed no sign of going away, just stayed standing next to me, gazing at the windows. I stepped away, bypassing the shops in the hallway to wander deeper into the hotel, past a couple of meeting rooms and a bank of elevators. Here I paused. Before me, embedded in the wall, was a large image of La Guadalupana on painted tiles.

  La Guadalupana is another Virgin Mary, very different from La Conquistadora. Guadalupana is surrounded in a full-body halo of radiant light, and stands on a crescent supported by a cherub. She wears a blue mantle spangled with stars, and often has roses at her feet. She’s the patroness of New Mexico-–of all the New World, really—and one of my favorite cultural images. She can be seen everywhere, and many a rose-scented candle bearing her image has been lit in New Mexico churches and chapels, shrines, and in private homes. I’ve lit more than a few myself, and I’m not even Catholic.

  I touched the tiles, cool and smooth beneath my fingers. La Guadalupana always has a calming effect on me. I realized it was foolish of me to act guilty for watching Donna and Vince. I had seen two people I knew through the window, no crime in that. My feelings were too easily ruffled lately. I decided it was definitely time for the French Pastry Shop, and retraced my steps.

  The tourist gent had gone, but I didn’t dawdle in the hall of windows. I couldn’t help glancing through them at Donna and Vince’s table of artsy people, though. They were still there, still chatting over their lunch. I continued to the lobby and crossed it to the Pastry Shop’s inside door.

  The smell of French onion soup welcomed me, and I succumbed to temptation and ordered a bowl of it along with my cappuccino and one of the shop’s decadent Napoleons. I sat at a
table by the window and watched the people walking up and down San Francisco street. I could see the cathedral—now a basilica—Bishop Lamy’s pet project, rising in imposing grandeur at the east end of the street.

  My cell phone rang. I dug it out of my purse, checked the caller ID and saw that it was Gina, so I answered, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the other patrons. Ordinarily I would have stepped outside, but I didn’t want to abandon my lunch.

  “Hi, dearie! Happy first day off,” Gina said in a cheery voice. “Want to meet for lunch?”

  “Actually, I’m already having lunch. I’m at the French Pastry Shop. Care to join me?”

  “Be there in a flash,” she said. “Boy, have I got news for you!”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “No, you have to buy me a gooey dessert first!”

  “Tease.”

  She hung up and I went back to savoring my soup, chopping with my spoon at the crouton and the wonderful, stringy cheese. I was just finishing the last salty spoonful when Gina came in the shop’s street-side door. She was wearing a knee-length cable-knit cardigan over a splashy floral sun dress, and carrying a manila envelope. She grinned at me as she came over to my table.

  “Chilly out there! What are you having, French onion? That sounds perfect.” She sat down and handed me the envelope.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Clippings of all the news stories about the tearoom. I knew you wouldn’t have time.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I gazed doubtfully at the envelope. No doubt the clippings had pictures of crime tape and other things of which I didn’t want to be reminded.

  “Save them for later. I just thought you should have a record.”

  “My dear, efficient friend.” I tucked the envelope beside my purse, then squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”

  A waitress wandered over to take Gina’s order. Gina asked for soup and a bottle of mineral water.

  “What do you want for your gooey dessert?” I asked.

  “That looks fine,” she said, pointing to my Napoleon.

  I looked at the waitress. “Another of these, and I’ll have another cappuccino, please.”

  “Oh, yum!,” Gina said. “Me too!”

  “You know,” I said after the waitress had left, “maybe French onion soup would be a good lunchtime thing for the tearoom.”

  Gina bugged out her eyes at me. “What? The tearoom serving conventional lunch? You’re selling out already?”

  “No, no. Lots of British tearooms serve lunch. Meat pies and stuff like that-–casserole lunches. Julio and I have been talking about adding a few choices like that. It would bring in a lunch crowd.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay, then. How about green chile stew?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, no green chile in Great Britain.”

  “Rats. You make such good chile stew, too.”

  “I’ll make some just for us.”

  The waitress returned with Gina’s soup and dessert and our drinks. I sipped my cappuccino.

  “The tea lady drinking coffee,” Gina said, grinning at me over her soup. “Don’t let the press get hold of that.”

  “I’m off duty.”

  I took another sip, licked foamed milk off my upper lip, then started in on my Napoleon. Flakes of puff pastry scattered under my fork. I took a bite, then looked at Gina.

  “So, how was the big date?”

  “Fabulous! Ted actually liked the chamber music, even though he’d never heard it before. He wants to go to the symphony concert next week.”

  “Wow! Sounds like you found a keeper.”

  “He’s definitely got potential. And, my dear, I got him talking about his work, and he told me all about the building he sold in your neighborhood. Apparently the transaction was a big hassle and he was more than happy to complain to me about it, so I got all the juicy details.”

  “Do tell!”

  She took a bite of soup. “Well, first of all, you were right about it being historic. It’s right on your street.”

  “I wondered.”

  “Second, you’ll never guess who bought it!”

  “Shirley MacLaine.”

  “No, silly, she likes out in the country! Ted showed her a ranch once, but the views weren’t good enough for her.”

  “I give up,” I said.

  “Vince Margolan! The gallery guy who was at your thank-you tea!”

  “Vince,” I said, feeling stupid.

  “Yeah! Small world, huh?”

  I frowned. “But he’s just remodeling his gallery.”

  Gina nodded. “That’s the place he bought.”

  “I thought he already owned it.”

  “No, he was leasing. The owner decided to sell, and was going to offer it to Vince, but then the Trust approached him and made a preemptive offer. Ted smelled a bidding war and he was right. He talked to Vince, and Vince came back with a higher offer.”

  “Whoa, this is weird.” I gave a nervous glance over my shoulder. “Vince Margolan and Donna Carruthers are over in La Plazuela having lunch right this minute.”

  “Wow, really?” Gina looked up from her soup, grinning. “Let’s go spy on them!”

  “Gina!” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “No!”

  “Why not? We might figure out what they’re up to!”

  “They’re up to having lunch with some friends. Speaking of which…”

  I took a bite of my Napoleon. Gina pushed aside her empty soup bowl and picked up her fork, attacking her pastry.

  “If we hurry we could catch them. Maybe Donna put Vince up to it!”

  “Shhh!”

  She switched to a whisper. “Donna’s got a lot of money, right? And Vince is probably spending a lot on his gallery. Maybe she paid him.”

  I frowned. “That sounds kind of convoluted. I need to think about this.”

  I glanced at the door to the lobby, puzzling over Vince and Donna and the property sale. I felt like I was trying to push my way through fog.

  “Oh, by the way, I have another little tidbit from Ted,” Gina said.

  “Hm?”

  “Our friend, Detective Arrogant?”

  I took a sip of coffee. “What about him?”

  “He’s famous for hating real estate people.”

  “How odd. Any idea why?”

  “No clue. Ted said he won’t talk to them. If he’s working a case and a real estate agent is involved, he always sends some other cop to interview them.”

  “Oh.”

  Maybe it was because he didn’t have the bucks to shop for fancy real estate. That didn’t seem enough to cause such an extreme response, but I’d had a taste of Aragón’s capacity for irrational reaction. I wouldn’t put it past him to be touchy about anyone who dealt with large amounts of money.

  I didn’t mention this to Gina. After the detective’s apology, it didn’t seem fair to rip him up. He must have had his reasons for feeling as he did.

  Gina dropped her fork onto her empty plate and raised her hands in the air. “Done! Let’s go.”

  She snatched up both our tickets and hurried to the cash register. Resigned, I ate the last couple of bites of my pastry. By the time I finished she was back, standing by my chair and practically vibrating with excitement.

  I got up, slung my purse over my shoulder, and tucked the envelope of clippings under my arm. Gina was already heading for the door into the hotel. I followed, wondering what Miss Manners would recommend as the perfect response if one was caught spying on acquaintances.

  Gina crossed the lobby to the restaurant’s entrance, standing just off to one side as she peered in. She hadn’t spotted Vince and Donna yet, but I could see that they were getting up and saying goodbye to their friends.

  Adrenaline surging, I caught up to Gina, slid my hand through her elbow, and pulled her on past the open doorway.

  “They’re coming,” I whispered.

  I dragged her around the corner where we could peer through the painted panes of glass
. Farewells took a couple of minutes.

  “Who are the others?” Gina asked.

  “I don’t know. I saw the redhead at Donna’s after the funeral. We weren’t introduced.”

  They party broke up, Donna leading the way out of the restaurant with Vince on her heels. I ducked further back behind the glass wall, pulling Gina with me and hoping Donna wasn’t planning on visiting the shops behind us.

  Fortunately, she and her friends all headed for the parking garage. Gina tugged at my arm. I resisted until the last of the party was across the lobby and heading out of sight into the hallway, then let Gina drag me after them.

  “This is a bad idea,” I said, sotto voce.

  “We might learn something important!”

  Gina’s heels clacked on the tile floor, making me wince. As we entered the hall I could see Donna’s friends strolling along ahead of us.

  “Slow down, Gina!”

  She slowed to a brisk walk, but we were still catching up to them. I stopped in front of a display window and pretended to admire its contents while I counted to ten. At five, Gina took off without me.

  At eight, I caved and followed her. Donna’s party had gone through the door to the garage, and Gina was blasting through after them. I hurried to catch up and found myself outside, next to Gina, with the noise of traffic from San Francisco street surrounding me.

  The redhead and a man I didn’t recognize were nearby, waiting for the elevator to upper levels. I glanced away and saw Donna and Vince walking up the aisle between rows of parked cars together. Gina took off after them, and I hurried to catch up.

  Could Donna and Vince be an item? I had assumed they hadn’t met before my tea, but maybe that was wrong. Both art people. Maybe they’d met at some gallery.

  Donna and Vince stopped beside a silver Mercedes. Gina stopped short in front of me and I nearly crashed into her. She caught my hand and pulled me behind an SUV, peering through its smoked windows at our quarry.

  They stood talking by the car while I shifted from foot to foot, wishing I was somewhere else. “This is stupid,” I whispered to Gina. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait.”