I smiled and pointed to one of the cartoons. “Funny.”
She looked back at her magazine. Having the impression she didn’t like me looking at the bulletin board, I glanced toward the workers’ compensation poster, decided I wasn’t that desperate, and sat down again. After a minute I started cleaning out my purse. I had just finished counting the dollar sixty-seven in change that had been floating around in the bottom when Detective Aragón came into the room.
“Ms. Rosings?”
I hastily scooped my things back into my purse, stood up, and followed his gesture beckoning me into the hallway. Katie Hutchins was there, looking a little dazed. I felt a surge of relief and had to resist the urge to hug her.
“Hi, Katie,” I said, trying for a normal tone. “I came to see if you’d like a ride home.”
She gave a wavery smile. “That’s so sweet of you, Ellen! Thank you.”
I took her by the arm and started toward the exit, mouthing a silent “thank you” to Detective Aragón over my shoulder. He didn’t respond, just stood watching us go, looking somewhat disgusted.
We didn’t talk until we got into my car and were on the way home. I glanced over at Katie, who was still looking shell-shocked.
“Pretty rude of them to drag you out this late,” I said. “I thought only TV cops did that sort of thing.”
“Oh!” Katie said with a rush of pent-up feeling. “They just kept going on and on about my earring like it was a matter of national security! I couldn’t believe it! You know I told you I’d lost an earring on Wednesday.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, they wanted to know exactly how I’d lost it. They kept asking me again and again. Can you imagine? If I knew how it fell out of my ear, I wouldn’t have lost it, would I?”
“No, probably not.”
I couldn’t watch her face while I was driving, but I could hear the frustration in her voice. She sounded sincere. I found myself wishing I had waited to talk about it until I could sit down with her and watch her reactions, then chided myself. I had just spent over an hour working to get her released. Hardly the time to start doubting her.
“And then that Detective Aragón came in and wanted to know which earring it was, right or left. So I told him it was the left, and he demanded to look at both my ears!”
I turned onto Paseo de Peralta and cruised along behind a low-rider. “He’s just trying to be thorough, Katie.”
“What on earth does it matter what my ears look like?”
So he hadn’t told her where her earring was found. That made sense, I supposed. He probably shouldn’t have told me.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but the police have to check everything. Maybe they were just making sure your earring didn’t have anything to do with the murder.”
“And they still haven’t given it back to me!”
I listened while she continued to vent her indignation. She was recovering her spirits, which made me feel relieved. I’d rather listen to her rant than have her sitting crushed and silent, as she’d looked at first.
“And poor Bob! They wouldn’t even let me call him. I thought you were supposed to get a phone call.”
“That’s if you’re arrested.”
“Oh.”
“Katie, if they do this again, just tell them you want to talk to your lawyer. That’ll get them off your back.”
“I didn’t think of that. Hmph.”
I turned onto our street and pulled over in front of the B&B. The porch light gleamed a welcome, and I saw Bob looking anxiously out the front window.
“Thank you for the ride, Ellen,” Katie said. “You’re a gem.”
“You’re welcome. Good night.”
I watched her into the house, then drove around the corner and up the alley to the back of the tearoom. It was getting close to midnight, and I was definitely ready to crash.
I let myself in and stood listening to the house for a moment. No stereo tonight, and no light under the dining parlor door. Maybe Sunday was a day of rest for ghosts as well. Christian ghosts, anyway. Captain Dusenberry probably fit the bill.
I went up and started getting ready for bed, thinking over the police station escapade as I brushed my teeth. I had taken a bit of a risk speculating about Katie’s earring, I realized. If she had been guilty, my guesswork might have led to her arrest. Which would have been the right thing to happen, but I’d have felt awful about it.
Maybe I was going too far, meddling in people’s fate. It was my fate, too, though. I wanted to get this murder resolved so I could move on and make a go of the tearoom. I had lots of plans, but they were all on hold.
I had donned my satin pajamas and was just about to climb into bed when my cell phone went off, muffled Mozart trying to fight its way out of my purse. I fetched the phone and crawled into bed before looking at the caller ID. It showed “Unavailable.” I was tempted to leave the anonymous caller to the appropriate fate, i.e. voicemail, but on the third ring I relented and flipped the phone open.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” said a male voice, as if expecting to be recognized. I frowned, trying to place it.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“It’s me. Tony Aragón.”
“Oh,” I said, glancing at my bedside clock. Ten to midnight.
“Sorry to call this late. I figured you’d still be up.”
“Just barely,” I said, wondering if this was a prelude to the arrival of another squad car. I eyed my wardrobe and the dresser that held my t-shirts and jeans. If I was going to be hauled into the police station, I wanted to get into some comfortable clothes.
“Oh. Well, sorry. I just … maybe I should call back.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said, plumping my pillows. “You’ve got me, you might as well tell me what you need.”
“Um.”
I waited, leaning back against my pillows and stifling a yawn. I wasn’t going to be much good for problem-solving this late at night.
He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me.”
15
I was suddenly wide awake, and suddenly conscious of having a conversation with Detective Aragón while lying in bed. I sat up, feeling a blush creep up my face.
“Lunch?” I said. “Oh. Ah—sure, I guess. When?”
“Would tomorrow be good?”
“Yes, actually, because we’re closed Mondays. Where?”
I sounded like a prosecutor, snapping off questions. I couldn’t help it. I was nervous.
“You like the Shed?” he asked.
“Love it.”
“I can give you a ride, if you don’t mind motorcycles.”
I detested motorcycles. “Actually, I think I’ll walk, if that’s okay with you. I could use the exercise.”
“Okay,” he said. “Meet you at the Shed at eleven-thirty.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
He hung up. I listened to the nothing of the airwaves for a moment, then closed my phone.
“Bye,” I said softly, wondering what the heck he meant by calling at midnight to ask for a date and then not even saying goodbye.
Not a date, I told myself as I got up to put away the phone. Lunch. Lunch is not a date. Dinner and the symphony is a date.
My mind leapt forward to picture me and Tony Aragón double-dating with Gina and Ted. I guffawed. That would be the day!
No, he probably just wanted to talk over something about the murder case. I slid back into bed and lay there wondering what it could be until I finally dozed off.
In the morning I got up and busied myself with chores around the tearoom. With Bach merrily pouring from the stereo I spent a pleasant couple of hours finishing some bits of decorating that hadn’t quite been done the previous week, watering all the flowers and removing the faded blooms, and restocking items in the gift shop. The girls had put together more tea samplers on Saturday, so I put price tags on them and refilled the big basket display.
&n
bsp; By then it was ten-thirty, time to get ready to meet Detective Aragón. I went upstairs to change.
The dress I’d been thinking about wearing, a pretty, springtime floral, wouldn’t work with any of my shoes that were comfortable enough for walking to the Shed, about half a mile away. In fact, my walking shoes were all pretty rustic—more sturdy than lovely.
Well, why was I worrying so much about it? I was having lunch with a cop. Big deal. He’d be wearing his motorcycle duds.
I glanced down at the jeans and green velour sweater I was wearing, decided they were good enough, and kicked off my flats so I could put on walking shoes. Brushed my hair, touch of makeup, and a pair of gold hoop earrings and I was ready.
The day was sunny, so I put on a big straw sun hat and sunglasses before heading toward the Plaza. Tourist season was getting into gear, and the vendors at the Palace of the Governors were so thronged I had to walk down the street instead of the crowded portal. That was fine because the street was blocked off along the Plaza. Palace Avenue is closed to cars at the Plaza a lot of the year now. Too many tourists getting run over by impatient drivers. I crossed Washington Avenue and continued east to the Shed.
A wonderful little restaurant at the back of an old plazuela, the Shed has been around for decades and is a local favorite. Purple paint on the door heralds the splashes of color inside. Giant flowers and vines twine around windows and doorways on the thick adobe walls in purple, turquoise, pink, and green with metallic gold embellishments. The designs are reminiscent of the sixties, which was about when the Shed moved to this location.
I was early, so I sat in the sunny plazuela, basking in the warmth of a mild morning. Tourists meandered in and out of the shops on either side of the little courtyard, or poked their heads in from the passage to the street and stared at the restaurant, debating whether to try it. I took out my phone to make some notes on menu ideas. I definitely wanted to talk to Julio about French onion soup. Welsh rarebit might have possibilities, too, if it could be made unmessy enough to be eaten like cheese toast, and easy to prep.
“Wow, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
I looked up at Detective Aragón, standing before me in his leather motorcycle jacket and black jeans, black shades. He grinned.
“Didn’t know a fancy tea lady was allowed to wear jeans.”
I put away my phone. “What is it with everyone? Yes, I wear jeans, yes, I drink coffee. Give me credit for a little dimension.”
He laughed as I stood up, then gestured for me to precede him through the Shed’s very narrow door. Despite the crowds of tourists, we were early enough to get a table right away, a tiny one beside a window looking out on the plazuela.
He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, revealing a long-sleeved, red and gray striped shirt with a bosun neckline. I propped my hat and purse on the windowsill. The window was open a crack, letting in the cool breeze and a murmur of voices from the tourists milling around outside.
A waiter appeared, a young man dressed all in black, which made me look twice. I thought he might be one of Kris’s crowd, but there was really no way to tell. He didn’t look extraordinarily gothy, though he did have a silver cross dangling from one ear.
I ordered my usual, the number four enchilada plate, with iced tea. Detective Aragón ordered a number five, same dish but with beans and posole on the side. The waiter bustled off, leaving us gazing at each other in a momentary awkward silence. For my part, I was wondering what kind of lunch this would be—business (i.e. discussing the murder case), social, or a little of both.
Aragón cleared his throat. “Nice earrings.”
“Thanks.”
Miss Manners recommends asking questions to smooth over awkward social moments. I couldn’t for the life of me think of one, other than “Why did you invite me to lunch?” which I was able to refrain from blurting.
“Um,” he said, “I wanted to thank you for pointing out that stuff about the earring.”
“Oh. Sure. Glad to help.”
“I was mad about it at first.”
“Because you wanted Katie to be guilty?”
He looked at me and brushed a hand over his hair, a gesture I’d seen before. “Not that, exactly. We want to make an arrest, but not if it’s the wrong person.”
I nodded. I could certainly understand the frustration of not being able to pinpoint the killer.
“Anyway, we’re kind of stumped on this case for the moment. I’ve got three other cases working and right now there’s not a lot more I can do on this one.”
“You’re not dropping it?” I sounded more dismayed than I intended.
“No, no. But it’s starting to go cold, I’m afraid.” He cleared his throat again. “I wanted to ask you if you remember anyone else being at your tearoom that day who was wearing white.”
“White?”
“Yeah. Some of the fibers we can’t identify are white.”
“There’s white all over the tearoom! The girls’ aprons are white, and Julio’s chef’s jacket—”
He shook his head. “No, we checked what all of them were wearing. Doesn’t match.”
Our lunch arrived, putting a temporary end to the discussion. The waiter carefully set hot plates before us, blue corn enchiladas swimming in the Shed’s hot red chile sauce, with a basket of garlic bread on the side for mopping up. I took a bite of enchilada and let the spice explode inside my head, then cooled off with a sip of tea.
“Our linens are white, and there’s that missing napkin.” I frowned, trying to think why the killer would have a napkin in hand, but Detective Aragón scotched that line of thinking.
“Your napkins and stuff are all cotton, right?”
“Some of it’s real linen. That’s flax.”
“But it’s not wool.” He cut off a forkful of his enchilada and glanced at me before eating it. “The fibers we want are wool.”
“Oh.” I took another bite of my lunch, musing. “White wool.”
I tried to think of anyone I’d seen wearing white wool that day. Not Claudia’s gloves, which were white but undoubtedly cotton. Mick had worn a white t-shirt, also cotton. The other customers, ladies, mostly, were a blur of pastel color as far as I could recall.
Donna had worn a beige sleeveless dress. I had a flash of memory—her graceful movements as she removed a white coat and hung it in the hall.
“Donna had a white coat—”
“We’re pretty sure it’s not Donna.”
“Oh!”
I gazed at him, waiting, but he didn’t offer any details. Remembering my own conclusion that Donna would have planned more carefully, I nodded.
“It was a crime of impulse.”
“Exactly.” He looked disappointed.
I bit my lip, then shook my head. “I can’t think of anyone in white wool.”
“Okay. If something occurs to you, give me a call.”
“I will.”
A breeze gusted in the window beside us, carrying the smell of cigarettes. Aragón grimaced and pushed the window shut.
“Damn smokers,” he said. “Ban them from the restaurants, and they blow it in from outside.”
“You don’t smoke?” I asked.
“No.” He glanced at me and a slow grin crawled onto his face. “Not all cops smoke. Give me credit for some dimension.”
I laughed, then sipped my tea, gazing at him in speculation. I could let it drop, but I decided not to.
“It’s just that last night at the station I thought you smelled of cigarettes,” I said.
“Oh. Yeah, I was visiting my grandmother when I got the call about the lab results. She’s ninety-two and smokes like a chimney.”
“Wow. Her doctors don’t object?”
“Sure they do, but she’s ninety-two, for chrissakes. It’s one of the few things she enjoys any more.”
“Oh, I see.” I sipped my tea again. “Do you visit her often?”
He shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. “I
go once a week. I always feel like I should go through decon afterward.”
I laughed. “Such sacrifice! You must really be fond of her.”
He smiled, then grabbed a piece of garlic bread and started swabbing chile sauce from his plate. I took a piece too and broke it in half.
“Does she live in a retirement place?” I asked.
His eyes snapped to mine, suddenly angry. “No, she lives in a crummy apartment off Cerrillos Road, all right?”
“Sorry! Just making conversation.”
He blinked a couple of times, then took a long pull at his water glass. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. It’s just … we can’t afford one of those places. And she wouldn’t go, anyway. My sister takes care of her.”
“Oh,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say, another question that wouldn’t be dangerous. “Has she lived there a long time?”
His mouth curved down in a frown, but he didn’t explode again. “Yeah. She and my grandfather moved there in the seventies after they lost their house.” His voice was low and angry, but the anger wasn’t directed at me.
“Lost their house?” I said softly. “That’s terrible.”
His eyes got a faraway look, as if he was gazing into memory. “Abuelito’s house, actually—my great grandfather. They lived with him there, out on East Alameda. A big old rambling adobe. I remember wandering around lost in it when I was real little.”
“Sounds like a nice place.”
He nodded. “It had been in the family forever. When the galleries started moving in and the taxes went sky-high, it started getting tough to pay the bills. Then Abuelito died, and Grandma and Grandpa couldn’t afford to pay the estate taxes. They had to sell the house.”
I remembered the shift in the seventies, when Santa Fe suddenly became trendy and went from a sleepy, dusty town to a gallery-ridden Destination. I had been little and my memories of that time were fragmentary, but I remember my parents talking about it for years afterward. They called it the Aspenization of Santa Fe. Quite a few unfortunate families had lost their ancestral homes for the very reason Tony Aragón was describing.
A Fatal Twist of Lemon Page 20