Now, afternoon sunlight streamed in the window and the frog sat dark, hiding in the shadow behind the drapes. I left the gauze curtains closed to soften the light a bit, and was still able to bask in the radiant warmth while I relaxed with my tea.
It had now been five days since Sylvia’s murder. I mulled over my previous speculations. I still kept coming back to Donna, or Donna with Vince’s help, as the most likely killer. Donna seemed to have the best motivation for the crime. Tony had dismissed the idea of a conspiracy, but it still niggled at me as a possibility.
I sat musing about it for a long while, then I poured myself a last cup of tea, emptying the teapot, and leaned back with a sigh. Tony had been right, I decided. A conspiracy implied advance planning, and it would be poor planning to commit a murder in a public place and without the preparedness of having a weapon.
If I was going to murder someone at a tea party, I’d drop arsenic in their tea. I shivered at the thought, and realized it had been a worry in the back of my mind. For a moment I wondered if Sylvia could have been the victim of a multiple attack murder à la Orient Express. I dismissed it, though. The autopsy would have revealed poison, and Tony would no doubt have bullied me and my staff with obnoxious questions if anything like that had shown up.
So, not Vince and Donna. Maybe Donna alone? But again, if she was in a mood to kill her mother, she could have planned it better.
Vince alone? But why?
Because he and Sylvia both wanted to buy the house where he was planning to open his gallery?
A shiver went down my spine. It seemed unreasonable to commit murder over a house, but then, they’d both wanted it badly enough to bid up the price.
And then the sale had fallen through, and Vince had gotten the house for less money. Because Sylvia had died.
I put down my teacup and fetched my cell phone, sitting back down again in the sunshine to place a call to Claudia Pearson at the Santa Fe Preservation Trust. The receptionist put me through and Claudia answered after a brief wait.
“This is Claudia Pearson,” she said, her voice sounding a bit stressed.
“It’s Ellen Rosings. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“No, no. It’s just busy, is all, but it’s always busy here. What can I do for you?”
“I have a question about the house Mrs. Carruthers wanted to buy for the Trust. I found out who the other buyer was, the one who eventually got the house.”
“Oh, yes. Vince Margolan.”
“You knew about it?”
“Yes, that real estate man who was at your opening told me. I was curious so I went back and checked Sylvia’s file on the project. She’d made notes on a call she received from Mr. Margolan after she made an offer on the house. He wasn’t very polite about it, even though Sylvia had assured him we wouldn’t raise the rent.”
I felt a rush of disappointment. “Oh. That was my question—what did she plan for the Trust to do with the house?”
“Nothing different. Sylvia had already drawn up an agreement for him stating he’d be able to use the house as a gallery. Basically the terms were the same as in the preservation easement we had from the owner.”
I knew what a preservation easement was, because I had one with the Trust myself, for the tearoom. It stated that I retained ownership of the property and the Trust would bear the responsibility for its historic preservation.
“Of course,” Claudia went on, “if the Trust had succeeded in acquiring the house he was leasing, we’d still have been responsible for its maintenance. Sylvia only drafted the agreement to reassure him that the terms of his lease wouldn’t change. It really was a nice deal for him. I don’t know why he didn’t take it.”
“Probably would have cost him less than buying the house,” I mused.
“Definitely.”
I frowned at the gauze curtains before me, aglow with late sunlight that was starting to get a tinge of gold. Why had Vince refused Sylvia’s generous deal? Because he wanted to own the house and not rent it was all I could think of, but it meant much higher costs for him. It didn’t make sense that he’d kill her just to own the house when she was willing to let him keep leasing it for his gallery.
“So, now that Vince owns the house, you have the same preservation easement with him, right?” I asked.
I heard a rustle of papers over the phone. “Yes, the easement is binding on all future owners of the property. I haven’t gotten around to calling him about setting up the annual inspection. It’s one of the things I need to get to. I’m still catching up on Sylvia’s projects.”
I tried to think of any hitch that could mess up a preservation easement. “What happens if Vince doesn’t like the terms of the easement?”
“Too bad. They’re recorded in an easement deed that’s legally enforceable.”
I nodded, remembering the copy of my own easement deed that was filed with the rest of my papers on the house. Maybe I should go find it and read it again, but I was lazy.
“Could you remind me of the sort of terms that might be in the deed?”
“Sure. Basically, in exchange for benefits such as breaks on property and estate taxes, the owner agrees on behalf of himself and all future owners not to make alterations that impact the historic character of the property, and we agree to bear the cost and responsibility of maintaining the property’s historic character. We can take any owner of the property to court to prevent him violating the deed.”
“Did you say estate taxes?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you could have a preservation easement with a private property owner? I mean, someone who owned an historic residence?”
“Sure. That’s one of the reasons for our existence, to help make sure owners of historic properties don’t have to sell them to pay taxes. Estate taxes particularly can be a nasty setback for private homeowners. Of course, it all depends on the current policy in a given year.”
My throat tightened slightly. Where were you when Tony’s grandparents had to sell their house? I thought, but didn’t say it. It had probably been years after the Aragóns had lost their home by the time Sylvia founded the Santa Fe Preservation Trust.
“Did you have someone in mind?” Claudia asked.
“Uh, no. I was just wondering. Thank you for taking the time to answer all my silly questions.”
“Any time, and they’re not silly questions. Which reminds me, Shelly pulled the file on your house. There’s a note about Captain Dusenberry’s murder, but it’s very brief. Apparently the murderer was never caught.”
Restless ghost. Seeking justice?
Or Willow, trying to convince me of his presence? I kind of doubted that, and despite my discomfort, I was starting to consider asking her what she knew about the captain’s murder. It would be faster than doing the research myself, or having Kris do it.
“I see,” I said. “Thank you.”
“We’ll mail you a copy. Thank you for the donation in Sylvia’s memory, by the way. I hope the tearoom’s doing well.”
“So far so good. Drop by when you have time.”
“I will, thanks.”
We said goodbye and I sat thinking for a while, then picked up my tea things and took them downstairs to wash up. Like Tony, I had pretty much reached a dead end with my speculations. I gave up and spent the evening reading until I was yawning too much to see what was on the page.
The next morning I was up early, before Julio arrived. I was impatient to talk to the staff about what they had seen during the thank-you tea. I passed the time by setting out linens and china in the alcoves, then as soon as Julio came in I pounced on him. He very patiently repeated to me what he’d told the police, which amounted to he hadn’t seen a thing.
“What about the window?” I asked, gesturing to the kitchen window. “Did you see anybody coming or going out back? Anybody in white, especially?”
Julio, looking like a cholo with his ball cap—tropical fish print today—on backwar
d, shook his head as he measured out flour for the day’s scones. “Nope. Nada.”
“Okay. Thanks, Julio.”
“Still trying to crack the case, eh boss?”
I snatched a currant out of a bowl he had sitting on the counter. “Yes. Not doing a very good job of it, I’m afraid.”
“Maybe it’s time to let it go.”
I didn’t answer, feeling a stubbornness rising in me. For a while I watched him cook, moving confidently around the kitchen. He knew his business. Did I know mine, or was I getting too far out of bounds?
Not yet, I decided. Not until I had at least talked to all the staff. Thoroughness, I thought, wondering what case Tony was working on today. Probably not this one, not unless some startling new evidence had come in.
I grilled Vi and Dee when they arrived. Dee had been waiting on the customers up front and had seen Mr. Ingraham leaving, but hadn’t seen any of the other thank-you tea guests. Vi had been in the dining parlor most of the time, though she had started clearing and was back and forth to the pantry when the party was breaking up. She had been with me when I found Sylvia’s body, helping to solidify my alibi.
“Who was in the parlor the last time you left it before we found the body?” I asked her.
“I took the tea trays out first,” she said, referring to the three-tiered trays on which the scones and sweets had been served. “When I left with the second one, there were four people in the room: Mrs. Carruthers, her daughter, Mr. Margolan, and Mrs. Hutchins.”
“That’s what I remembered. Thanks, Vi.”
She gave me a slightly anxious look. “The police haven’t figured it out yet?”
“Not yet.” I smiled to reassure her. “Don’t worry, they will.”
Kris arrived and I went upstairs with her to ask what she’d seen, even though she had left the tearoom at five on Wednesday. She smoothed her black hair behind one ear and frowned in thought.
“White wool? No, I don’t remember anyone wearing that. I would have noticed, I think. A white wool dress would be kind of unusual,” she said, looking intrigued at the idea.
“Well, it’s not necessarily a dress. Could be a coat, or even a scarf.”
I frowned, trying to picture my imaginary killer strangling Sylvia while wearing a white wool scarf. Instead the disobliging killer strangled her with the scarf. I shook off the thought.
“You left by the back door, right? Did you see anyone outside?”
She shook her head, generating a slight chiming sound from the earrings she was wearing, long, dangling clusters of tiny silver bells. “No, sorry. I did turn and look back, and I saw the doors to the dining parlor all lit up, but that was it.”
“Okay. Thanks, Kris.”
“Sure thing.”
The only two staffers I hadn’t talked to were Mick and Iz. Mick would come in at eleven, when we opened for business. Iz would be in at one today, to take over for Dee who had an afternoon class.
I passed the morning going through a backlog of messages from over the weekend and writing thank-you notes to people who had sent flowers and other gifts in honor of the tearoom’s opening. Just before eleven I went downstairs and started haunting the kitchen, waiting for Mick to arrive. Julio was piping meringue onto a parchment-covered baking sheet in the shape of little seashells. I caught a whiff of almond in the air.
“Those are darling, Julio! Will they hold their shape?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. I think they will. Got a batch in the oven already. No peeking!” he added as I started toward the two commercial ovens.
“I won’t open it, I’ll just turn on the light. Yes, they look great! Wonderful idea!”
“Thanks.”
“When you have a minute I’d like to talk about some ideas for lunch items.”
He gave me a quizzical glance. “Lunch? Have you seen today’s reservation list?”
“Tuesdays are probably going to be our slowest days,” I said, dismissing reservations with a wave of my hand that was much lighter than I felt. “That’s why this is a good day for planning. This afternoon, before you go.”
“Okay.”
I had caught sight of Mick through the window as he parked his mottled car behind the house. I fetched myself a cup of tea to give him time to come in, then sat down with him at the break table in the corner of the kitchen.
“I’m going over what happened last Wednesday, Mick.”
“Again?” He glowered.
“Yes. I’m sorry. Could you please tell me everything you saw during and after the thank-you tea?”
“Not much besides china,” he said, jerking his head toward the dishwashing station. “All I can see is the little hall outside the butler’s pantry and the restroom.”
I nodded. The small hallway was the only indoor access to those rooms and to the kitchen. It had an outside door that opened onto the porch, like the kitchen, but Julio had already told me neither door had been opened Wednesday afternoon.
“Do you remember seeing anyone besides me and the girls in the hallway?”
“Well, yeah, when you brought people in to show them the kitchen. Other than that, I saw the lady in the purple dress go into the restroom, and the guy in the turtleneck and jacket came and waited outside it for a while, but he went away again before she left.”
“Wait—could you repeat that?”
He did. The purple, or plum, dress had been Claudia’s. The turtleneck and jacket had been Vince.
“He waited for the restroom, but then went away again?”
“Yeah. Guess he got impatient.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“Back out into the main hall.”
So Vince had been in the main hall between the time he left the dining parlor and the time Claudia came out of the restroom. I had been in the hall at that time, too, but I didn’t remember seeing him. Of course, I’d been dealing with coats and goodbyes.
“All right, Mick. Thanks.”
“Sure. You done with that?” he asked, pointing at my empty teacup.
“Uh, yes.”
He carried the cup to the dishwashing station, and I wandered back upstairs and sat by the front window, trying to recall everyone I’d said goodbye to after the tea, and in what order. Mr. Ingraham had left first, then Gina, then Katie. I had said goodbye to Manny and Nat and watched them drive away. Then Donna had sort of stormed out, leaving me and Claudia in the hall.
I couldn’t remember seeing Vince leave. I had the impression he’d said goodbye, but I didn’t recall watching him out the front door.
When Iz came in I asked her to tell me who she’d seen leaving and in what order on Wednesday, when she’d been at the hostess station. She had been a little distracted with customers in the gift shop, but had seen my guests leaving in the same order I recalled.
“What about Mr. Margolan?” I asked.
“The man in the white turtleneck? I didn’t see him go out.”
White turtleneck. I sucked a swift breath. Off-white, I’d have called it, but yes. He had worn a light-colored turtleneck under a black jacket. It had looked like cashmere to me.
“You’re sure you didn’t see him?” I asked her.
Iz nodded seriously. “I figured he’d left while I was ringing up customers. That one lady bought a cup and saucer, and I had to get a box and tissue paper to wrap it. I was poking around under the counter for a while.”
“Thank you, Iz.”
I walked slowly down the hall toward the back of the house, thinking. Vince had not left by the front door, I was fairly certain.
He could have left by the back hall door, or by the dining parlor door. His gallery was across the street and to the north of the tearoom, so if he’d gone out the back way he could have walked past the lilacs and out alongside the fenced front yard to the street. Little chance anyone would have seen him from the kitchen window.
So that probably explained how Vince had left without being seen by me or Vi. It didn’t explain
why he would kill Sylvia. I had only a semi-plausible motive for him—ownership of the house where he was planning to open his gallery.
And if his cashmere sweater was the source of the white fibers, why hadn’t it matched the sample the police had taken from Sylvia’s dress?
I found myself standing in the dining parlor, gripping the back of the chair in which Sylvia had sat. I didn’t remember going in. I glanced at the door, standing half-open behind me, and at the chandelier over the table, which for once was dark and absolutely still.
Tony should know this. I had a strong urge to call him and ask what might be a dumb question. What clothes had Vince given to the police? He could have substituted other clothes for the ones he’d worn at the tea.
That would have been risky, especially if anyone had given the police a detailed description of what he’d been wearing. But Tony hadn’t asked me about what the others had worn.
I left the room, closing the door with a snap, and hurried upstairs to find my cell phone. I searched back through the calls until I found Tony’s, dialed his number, and sat tapping my foot while I waited for him to answer. After four rings I heard the tell-tale sound of a transfer to voice mail. Curbing my impatience, I waited to leave a message.
“Tony, it’s Ellen. Please give me a call as soon as you can. I think you need to look at Vince Margolan. He was wearing a light-colored cashmere turtleneck and a dark jacket and slacks at the tea last Wednesday. If that’s not the clothing he provided you, then—well, call me.”
I hung up and sat frowning at the artwork on my office walls, then got up and went back downstairs, taking my cell phone with me. For half an hour I busied myself around the tearoom, but it was slow and there really wasn’t much that needed doing.
Iz and Mick were making more tea samplers at the kitchen work table while Vi watched out front. Julio was baking spice bread for tomorrow, and glared at me the third time I looked into the kitchen.
“You want to talk about lunches?”
“Ah—not right now. Say, that looks wonderful,” I added as he turned out a fresh, brown loaf and set it on a cooling rack.
A Fatal Twist of Lemon Page 22