Aunt Nat and Manny came out of the parlor, Nat in a light blue cotton dress with a full skirt and puffed sleeves, complemented by a necklace of bird fetishes, the ensemble slightly fiesta-looking. Manny wore a jacket and bolo tie over light trousers. They both grinned at me.
“I see Thomas has sprung our surprise,” said Nat.
I hugged her, burbling thanks. “I can’t wait! I haven’t tailgated in years.”
“Not even at a football game?” inquired Mr. Solano, all innocence.
I shook my head, smiling. “Not a football fan.”
“How un-American. To be honest, I’m not either.”
By this time, most of the guests had left, and Vi and Wendy came out to join us in the hall. Vi went straight up to Mr. Solano.
“Thank you so much for coming.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t have missed it. You were in fine voice.”
She grinned, pink with pleasure. “Thank you.”
Rhonda Benning and my girlfriend Gina ambled out together. Gina, her dress a white print splashed with big sunflowers, complemented by a gauzy, white, broad-brimmed hat, caught me in a big, Italian hug.
“What a lovely event! Congratulations!”
“Thank you, but the kudos go to Julio, and to Vi for being the pièce de résistance.”
“Oh, yes!” Gina turned to Vi. “I loved what you sang, although I half-expected something from La Traviata.”
“Well, I turned out to be a mezzo-soprano, much to my mother’s dismay.”
“Not true!” said Rhonda in mock indignation. She smiled with pride, and I saw the same laughing light in her eyes that so often shone in her daughter’s. Rhonda was darker than Vi, and not quite as tall, but the bones of their faces were the same.
Vi introduced her mother to Mr. Solano, and while they were chatting, Mr. Ingraham came up to me to say goodbye. “I’ll call you about the details for Tosca.”
“Yes, do. And I meant it about the cakes—I’d be glad to bring some.”
“Let me look at my menu, but I have a feeling I’ll be taking you up on that.”
Nat and Manny left with him, and I slipped into the parlor. The last of the guests were departing. I thanked them for coming and walked them out, passing Iz in the doorway. She had a large tray for collecting china, a signal that the party was over.
Vi and her mother, Gina, Wendy, and Mr. Solano were all that were left. As I joined them, I saw Julio hovering a little way down the hall, a pastry box in his hands, watching Vi.
“Mr. Solano,” I said, “is this your second season at Santa Fe or your third?”
“Fourth, actually. My first role was Escamillo in Carmen, nine years ago, early in my career.”
Julio slipped up and touched Vi’s elbow, drawing her away. From the corner of my eye I saw him give her the box. They exchanged whispered words.
“I don’t think I saw that,” I said. “I must have gone to something else that year.”
“My performance was not terribly memorable, but it was my first time in Santa Fe, and I was absolutely hooked. I would have come back every summer if I could.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here this year.”
“As am I.”
Vi rejoined us. Julio had disappeared again. Mr. Solano looked Vi up and down.
“Well, fledgling. Back to the salt mines?”
She nodded, then turned to me. “Thanks so much, Ellen!”
“Thank you. We’re the ones who benefitted.”
“So did she,” said Mr. Solano. “It’s good for her to sing out.”
“You forgot to mention the apprentice showcase,” Wendy said to Vi.
“Oh! Well, I’ll be doing Serse again.”
“I’d love to hear it again,” I said. “The apprentice concerts are always delightful. I can mention them in the tearoom’s newsletter, if you like.”
“Yes, thanks!” Vi said. “I’ll send you all the details.”
Hugs and farewells, and she was off, with her mother and Mr. Solano in attendance. I glanced into the parlor, where Iz had already loaded her tray. I knew if I tried to help her she’d shoo me away, so I turned to Gina.
“Want more tea?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a meeting with a client,” she said, moving toward the front door.
I strolled along with her. “Well, thank you for coming. I know opera isn’t your favorite.”
“Shh! An Italian who doesn’t like opera? Sacrilege!”
“You might enjoy the apprentice showcase. It’s inexpensive, and if you haven’t seen the opera house it’s a great excuse.”
“I’ll think about it. I don’t suppose you wear football jerseys to the tailgate?”
I laughed. “No.”
“Opera costumes?”
“Not unless you’re really eccentric.”
The Bird Woman chose that moment to emerge from the gift shop, carrying a large shopping bag and blinking at us before heading for the door. I had to stifle a laugh.
“Well, you’ll have to explain all the customs to me,” said Gina. “Ciao, dearest. I’ll call you.”
“Ciao.”
I watched her go, the afternoon sun electrifying her sunflowers as she strode down the path to the street, passing the slower-moving Bird Woman with a friendly smile. I watched her get into her hot red Camaro, then went back inside.
On the way to my office, I looked into the kitchen. Julio was gathering up his things, about to head home.
“Brilliant job, Julio. Thanks.”
He flashed me a smile as he slid his coffee thermos into his backpack. “It was good to see Vi. Great to hear her sing. Thanks for letting me listen in.”
“Of course! I only wish you’d taken a bow.”
He shook his head. He didn’t much care for being fussed over in public.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
He hefted his pack onto his shoulder. “Sure. Why?”
I recalled the unease I’d sensed earlier, but it had just been for an instant, and I didn’t know how to explain my concern, so I just smiled. “No reason. See you tomorrow.”
He headed out the back door, and I went upstairs to my office. Tucked beneath the sloping roof of the upper floor, it was cozy and dark compared to the airy, light-filled center hallway. I turned on the stained-glass lamp and sat at my desk to admire my birthday gift.
I took the tickets out of the envelope and held them in my hands. Opera tickets had always been a treat for me.
My parents had supported the Santa Fe Opera for as long as I could remember, and from the time I was twelve (the dawn of young-ladyhood, as my mother had called it) they had consulted me each year on the choice of which opera the family should attend. My brother, three years older than I, had never been that interested. He was not musically inclined, and often bowed out of the annual excursion to SFO. Aunt Nat had come, though, as had Uncle Stephen while he was alive.
When I was little, going to the opera had been a magical evening, not only for the performance, but for the opera house and grounds, and the audience as well. In those days (long gone, alas), people dressed up to go to the opera. I remembered goggling at beautiful and astonishing attire: a gorgeous blonde in a white full-length gown with a spray of roses in her hair and a feather boa; a young man in a morning coat with a waterfall of black hair down his back, carrying a walking stick and top hat; numerous gentlemen in formal kilts for a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor.
Nowadays, opera-goers could be seen wearing tee-shirts and shorts. I was certain Miss Manners must share my opinion that this was a travesty.
The Santa Fe Opera performed in an open-air theatre perched on top of a hill north of Santa Fe, with a view of the Jemez Mountains behind the stage so splendid that the sets were usually constructed so as to leave it visible. Sometimes a lightning storm would add atmosphere to the performance.
I was too young to have seen the first opera house, which burned down in 1967. The Opera of my memory was the second building, with its
distinctive, swooping roof extensions that failed to completely protect the center rows of the audience from rain, and gave the house its famous architectural silhouette. The front courtyard featured a long, curving flower bed planted entirely with white petunias that glowed in the dusk as the audience gathered before the performances.
I cried when that second opera house was demolished to make way for the third structure. The change had been necessary, but despite the many improvements of the new theatre (not the least of which was complete overhead protection for the audience), I still missed the old building, where my love for the opera had been formed.
That love filled my heart as I sat gazing at the tickets in my hands. What a wonderful gift from a beloved aunt and a new friend. Now that I was alone, I could think about who to invite.
Tony Aragón came into my thoughts. He’d been hovering at the edge of them since Mr. Ingraham had given me the tickets, but I wasn’t sure I had the courage to ask him to join the opera party.
Would he accept? Or would he think opera was one of those activities reserved for a privileged few that did not include him? An Anglo thing?
There were plenty of Hispanics who attended the opera, but they weren’t from Tony’s class. He was a detective, definitely working-class, more a football guy than a fine arts guy. I could picture the narrowing of his dark eyes, the pinching of his nose in the hint of a sneer.
I wanted to share this treat with him, but I wasn’t sure he would see it as a treat.
Sighing, I laid the tickets down on my desk. Detective Aragón was a perpetual question mark in my life. I liked him; he’d done me some favors.
Well all right—he’d saved my life. That was more than a favor.
And he was … very attractive. I couldn’t deny that. It was one of the things that made thinking about him uncomfortable.
Footsteps in the hallway preceded Kris’s entrance through the entrance that our offices shared. She looked in at me with a smile, her black hair and kohl-dark eyes making her look Cleopatra-esque.
“Bird Woman spent a hundred dollars in the gift shop.”
“God bless her,” I said.
“Everyone loved the event. Heard lots of good comments.”
“Thanks. What did you think?”
“I thought it went very well.”
“No, I mean Vi’s singing. Did you like it?”
She tilted her head, thinking. “I liked the second number better.”
That was no surprise. Kris had excellent taste, but she was also a Goth, so her preferences ran toward darker themes. Her work clothes were always elegant, and the décor she had chosen for her office was, too, but the lovely print of Millais’s Ophelia she had on the wall was still a picture of a dying woman.
She headed into her office, and I looked back at my opera tickets.
I could play it safe and invite Gina. She wasn’t an opera buff, but she was always up for a party.
Coward.
I hated it when the little voice in my head talked to me like that. Especially when it was right.
I grabbed my phone, and before I could chicken out completely, I sent a text to Tony Aragón.
PLEASE DROP BY THE TEAROOM WHEN YOU GET A CHANCE.
I refuse to use shorthand when texting. I know it’s faster, but I grew up with a respect for proper English. Yes, I know it’s a losing battle. Still, I endeavor.
I put the phone down, then went downstairs so that I wouldn’t stare at it. The girls had the parlor rearranged already, restored to its normal configuration of four smaller seating areas separated by a combination of pocket doors and strategically placed furniture. My mother’s upright piano was back in its normal place against the wall.
I should get out some music and come down and play it after hours. I hadn’t touched the piano since the move. Granted, it had been out of tune, but I hated to think I might lose my music from being too busy with other things.
I smiled, looking at the polished, dark wood. I’d learned to play on that piano. I wasn’t great, but I could play a few pieces competently, and I so loved it.
Nothing like the soaring music that had filled the room that afternoon. Remembering Vi’s wonderful voice, I smiled.
The day was ending. Apart from one couple in the Iris seating, the tearoom was empty of guests. I strolled down to the butler’s pantry and found Iz arranging scones on a tray for them.
“Is there any tea brewed for staff?”
She nodded and gestured to a cozy-covered pot. Iz, a native of Tesuque Pueblo, is quiet and shy, but steady as a rock. Staying out of her way, I collected a cup and saucer and poured myself some tea—Keemun, it smelled like—then went into the kitchen.
Julio had left the place tidy, as always. Mick was in the alcove with the industrial dish-washing station, finishing up the china from the event. His long, blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and he wore a Pearl Jam tee-shirt. His face, very like his sister Dee’s, was slightly flushed from the steam.
I headed for the fridge. As I’d hoped, a tray of Aria Cakes sat inside. I took it out and put a cake on a plate.
“Mick? Did you get to try an Aria Cake?”
He turned off the water and took out his earbuds. “Sorry, what?”
I held out the plate toward him. “Cake. Did you get a piece?”
“No, not yet. Thanks!”
I fetched him a fork, and another for myself, then served up my own piece of cake before putting the tray back in the fridge. Picking up my tea, I went across the hall to the dining parlor and sat in the middle of the table, looking out through the gauze-draped French doors at the back garden.
With a small sigh of satisfaction, I sipped my tea and took a bite of cake. Almond and butter and assam, sweet with a little crunch. Perfection.
Soft strains of music played over the house sound system—a Chopin nocturne. I relaxed as I listened, happy with the result of all the work that had led up to Vi’s event.
This room was one of my favorites in the house. It had been the study of the original owner, Captain Dusenberry, for whom the house was built in the mid-19th century. He had also been killed in the room, as had Sylvia Carruthers, the woman without whose help I would not have been able to acquire the building for my tearoom.
Sighing, I reminded myself there was nothing I could do about the murders. In fact, they had attracted a certain amount of business from Kris’s goth friends, and had made the tearoom a regular stop on a local ghost tour. I really should try to find out more about Captain Dusenberry, considering that he apparently was still around.
I took another bite of cake. I had never believed in ghosts, but I had no explanation for some of the strange things that happened in the tearoom. Lights turning on or off, music likewise. I glanced up at the chandelier over the table, but the crystals were all still, though I’d often seen a single drop swinging back and forth.
Willow Lane, the owner of Spirit Tours of Santa Fe, had assured me that Captain Dusenberry could do all of that. If he actually understood the stereo system, he was possibly more competent with electronics than I.
Tony Aragón suspected that someone had meddled with my ancient wiring. But why would anyone do that? Why go to so much trouble for a prank, when they weren’t even around to witness its effects? In a fit of paranoia I had checked every corner of the dining parlor and every object and fixture in it for hidden cameras or microphones, and found nothing.
And besides, I sometimes felt Captain Dusenberry’s presence. Not in a frightening way—in fact, I found it comforting. I had a benevolent, invisible roommate.
Dee stepped into the doorway, knocking on the open door. “Sorry to bother you, but Detective Aragón is here. He said you asked him to come.”
“Yes, send him in.”
“He’s waiting on the front portal. He said you wouldn’t want him to come in.”
Oh. Yes, the gun.
We were still negotiating about the gun. I’d asked him not to bring it into the tearoom. He’d been pret
ty indignant.
“All right, tell him I’ll be right out. Did you offer him tea?”
“Yes. He said no thanks.”
“Thank you, Dee.”
I stepped across to the kitchen and put another Aria Cake on a plate. Armed with this and a fork, I went down the hall to the front doors and out onto the portal.
Tony was sitting at one of the small tables in the shade of the wisteria vines, watching the traffic, a slight scowl on his face. The lines of his profile made me catch my breath—he really was quite handsome in a classically Latin way. He was dressed in jeans and a motorcycle jacket, open over a plain black shirt on this hot afternoon. His bike was parked on the street past the white picket fence that bordered my garden.
I sat across from him and pushed the plate of cake across the table. “Thank you for coming. Would you like to try Julio’s latest creation?”
He looked surprised, and the scowl disappeared as he took off his shades and picked up the fork. “Thanks! What’s up? I’ve only got a few minutes.”
I discovered I didn’t know how to phrase my invitation. I should have rehearsed. I cleared my throat.
“I was wondering if you’d like to join me … I’ve been given a gift of opera tickets.”
He paused with a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth. “Opera? You’re kidding, right?”
I shook my head, my heart sinking a little. “Do you dislike opera?”
“Don’t know anything about it.” He ate the cake. “Mmm! Oh, man. That’s fantastic.”
“Thank you.” I watched him chop another bite with the fork. “Julio created it in honor of Violetta. She’s an apprentice at the Santa Fe Opera this summer. You remember Vi?”
He frowned, then gave a nod and swallowed. “The tall one, right? Redhead?”
“Yes. She’ll be in the opera I’m going to, Tosca. Mr. Ingraham and my aunt gave me two tickets, so I can bring a guest. And Mr. Ingraham has invited us to his tailgate supper beforehand.”
I was babbling. I clasped my hands in my lap, trying to organize my thoughts.
Tony chewed meditatively, then focused on cutting another bite of cake. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that. Opera tailgating. Candelabras and wine.”
Candelabra, whispered my little voice. I ignored it.
Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Page 2