Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  Except that maybe I should do a new centerpiece for the dining parlor. Vi had said that Sandra Usher, the soprano who sang Tosca, was coming.

  Well, if I turned out to have time I’d do it. Meanwhile I carried the flower trimmings out to the compost bin, washed the bowl and my scissors, and went up to my office to attack the grocery orders. I made up one list of things I was sure we’d need in addition to our usual orders, and a second list of things to ask Julio about. By then it was almost nine, and I collected the bank bag and headed out to run errands.

  The Archives were in a fairly new and rather imposing building on the south side of town. I waited a few minutes while the receptionist, an older Hispanic woman, helped the two people in front of me. When my turn came, I asked if there was a quick way to find out whether there were any records pertaining to Captain Dusenberry.

  “Let me take a look at the catalog,” she said.

  A few keystrokes, and she nodded. “Yes, he was an officer at Fort Marcy Post.”

  “What sort of records are there?”

  “Mostly correspondence. Military, and for the land office he ran. Some newspaper articles about his death.”

  “Any letters? Diaries?”

  “I don’t see any. They could be indexed under another subject.”

  “OK. How about Maria Hidalgo.”

  “Do you have her middle name? There are probably a lot of Maria Hidalgos.”

  “I don’t. Can you check?”

  She typed, long brown fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “Well, you’ve got 230 results. Jose Maria Hidalgo, Maria Peron y Hidalgo, Maria Sanchez Hidalgo—“

  “OK, never mind on that. I’ll see if I can find her middle name.”

  “Or what time frame?”

  “Oh … 1865.”

  “Maria Imelda Fuentes y Hidalgo?”

  “Maybe.”

  “She lived in Santa Fe between 1841 and 1889.”

  “That’s probably her.”

  The receptionist typed a little more, then reached for a piece of paper that came out of a printer behind her. “Here’s a list of resources in our collection. Some of them might just mention her in passing.”

  I looked at the page full of text. “This is a start. Thank you.”

  She smiled. “Glad to help. Do you want me to show you how to request a folder?”

  “I don’t have time today, but I’ll come back.” I folded the page and stuck it in my purse. “Thank you very much.”

  I hurried out, aware that I’d spent more time than I had intended on this. I snaked through neighborhoods in order to bypass the heaviest traffic, but it was well past noon by the time I got back to the tearoom.

  I heard music from the house as I got out of my car: salsa music. Julio was in the kitchen. I poked my head in to greet him, and got a wave back. He was mixing something, feet dancing to the boom box. He had on a black muscle shirt and black baggy pants with red, green, and yellow chiles on them, with a matching cap.

  “Be right back,” I said over the blaring music, and escaped upstairs. I put the deposit receipt on Kris’s desk and left my purse in my suite, then made myself a quick sandwich so that I wouldn’t be tempted to nibble tea food.

  Refreshed, I collected my notes on the grocery orders and went downstairs again. I stopped in the butler’s pantry to put the kettle on. Julio had thoughtfully turned down the volume on his boom box.

  “Hey, boss,” he said, nodding as I came in.

  “Hi. Will you be at a stopping point soon?”

  “Pretty soon, yeah. About five minutes.”

  “Good. I have some questions about what to order, and I’ll need to start making calls pretty soon.”

  “Right. Just let me get this in the oven.”

  I went back to the pantry to pick out a teapot and decide what tea to brew. I liked lighter teas in the afternoon, and went with an orange-blossom green. I brewed it and poured myself a cup, then went back to the kitchen.

  Julio was just shutting the door of the oven. “I took the violets out. They looked like they were dry.” He gestured to the lunch table, where my tray of violets sat under a loose sheet of plastic wrap.

  “Probably, yes,” I said.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “From the garden.”

  “Bueno. They should last a couple of days. They’re better than the ones from La Fleur.”

  “Thanks. I only wish I had more of them.”

  We sat at the table together and went over the grocery orders. I made corrections to my estimates based on Julio’s judgment of what we’d need.

  “Get extra butter and cream, and a bag of oranges. I’m going to make some orange scones, and orange curd to go with them.”

  “OK. Why now?”

  He shrugged. “Just to mix things up a little.”

  “Keep some lemon curd on hand, too, though.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I dismissed the thought that this week might not be the best time to experiment with the menu. Julio was an artist, and I had learned not to question his instincts. If nothing else, changing things up would be a stress-reliever for him.

  “Can you work extra hours this week?” I asked.

  “Already planning on it.”

  “Thank you. Rosa’s brother is coming in, but I don’t know how much kitchen experience he has.”

  “Ramon? He’s done his time bussing tables at El Vaquero. He’ll be able to handle simple stuff at least.”

  I’d forgotten that Ramon and Rosa were Julio’s cousins. It made me doubly glad that I’d taken Ramon on as a temporary hire. He’d probably fare better than a stranger would in Julio’s kitchen.

  “He’s sure a great musician,” I said. “I’m thinking about hiring him to play, later in the year.”

  Julio nodded absently, perusing my list. “Extra raw milk, too. I’m going to have to double the clotted cream.”

  I made a note, and picked up my teacup. It was empty.

  “Go ahead, get some more,” Julio said. “I’ll look over this list one more time.”

  I went to the pantry and brought the teapot back with me. Julio frowned at the list while I filled my cup.

  “We’ve never been booked solid before.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Why this week? Any idea?”

  “Apparently Victor Solano told some people he liked the tearoom.”

  “Solano? The opera singer? The one who was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  His frown deepened as he stared past my list to something I couldn’t see.

  “You disliked him, didn’t you?” I said.

  Julio glanced at me, then back at the list. He made a change with his pencil.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. I just wondered why. Vi was so fond of him…”

  “Yeah, well, maybe he didn’t come on to her.”

  It took an effort not to gape. “You mean he came on to you? When?”

  “At Vi’s event. It wasn’t a huge thing, but….”

  “Are you sure he wasn’t just being friendly?”

  “I’m sure.” He glanced at me again, eyes dark beneath his frowning brows. “I get it a lot. It gets old.”

  Now I was seriously confused. Was Julio gay? Or did he just mean gay guys were drawn to him? He didn’t seem like the type you’d expect to attract that kind of attention. Julio was not effeminate in any way. He was completely masculine, as far as I was concerned. Yes, he wore colorful chef’s pants and matching hats, but he never swished.

  It’s true that I had wondered, from time to time, whether he and his roommate might be romantically involved, but other than the fact that they shared an apartment, I had nothing on which to base that notion. They were close, but they’d never acted like more than friends when I’d seen them together.

  None of it was my business.

  I picked up the list. “Well, if this is done, I’ll go up and call in the orders.”

 
; Julio nodded, pushed back his chair, and got up. I watched him check the oven and then get out a clean mixing bowl.

  I swallowed the rest of my tea, filled the cup again, and carried it upstairs. The sun was coming around to the west, now, and the upper floor was starting to bake. I cracked the windows at either end of the hall and closed the drapes over the west window, then spent half an hour on the phone placing orders.

  When I called Manny, I could hear him grinning through the ionosphere. “How’s your head, chica?”

  “Fine. How about yours?”

  “Eh, all I had was beer. Still want those peaches?”

  “Yes. Got any raspberries?”

  “Not yet. Give it a couple of weeks.”

  “How about oranges?”

  “Always. How many?”

  I gave him the whole list, and he promised to deliver it the next morning. We chatted a little more, then I pleaded work and said goodbye.

  I headed down to the kitchen and got out an apron. “What can I help with?”

  Julio looked up from measuring flour. “Stir that pot on the stove.”

  I washed my hands and went over to stir. The pot held a syrupy liquid that had a familiar, deep, rich smell. “Assam?”

  “Yes, that’s the syrup for the cakes.”

  The afternoon flew by while I learned how to make Aria Cakes. We finished two batches and the cake layers for a third. Julio moved on to his orange scones, delegating the curd to me. I was rather proud that he trusted me with it.

  The kitchen filled with the fragrance of oranges and the sharp tang of zested rind. Julio rolled out and cut two dozen scones and stowed them in the freezer, then stuck two scones in the oven and started a batch of our regular currant scones.

  At that point, a knock on the back door made me look up from stirring curd. Through the window I saw Ramon Garcia outside, standing by the kitchen door, his black hair loose over the shoulders of a red tee-shirt with silhouettes of flamenco dancers on the front. I hurried to let him in.

  “Ramon, thank you for coming. You know Julio.”

  They traded nods and greetings in Spanish. I stepped to the stove and gave the curd a last stir, then moved it aside, covered the pot, and turned off the burner.

  “Come on upstairs and sign a W-4 for me.”

  He followed me up to my office, where I offered him the guest chair.

  “Sorry about the heat,” I said, going around behind the desk.

  “Better than the kitchen at Vaquero.”

  As I sat, I noticed that my phone had messages. I glanced at it, saw that the most recent call was from Tony, and set it aside.

  “You’ve worked at El Vaquero?”

  “Summers, yeah. Washing dishes and bussing.”

  “Well, I appreciate your willingness to help us out on short notice.”

  “I was surprised when Rosa said you wanted me.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  He looked down and his cheeks colored slightly. “Because of the trespassing.”

  I watched him, recalling the occasions early in the summer when he and some Goth-wannabee friends (I couldn’t think of them as real Goths, not with Kris working for me) had come poking around in my back yard looking for signs of Captain Dusenberry. Ramon seemed contrite.

  “Well, it hasn’t happened since we talked,” I said. “I’m satisfied.”

  I printed out a W-4 for him and pushed it across the desk, along with a pen. He stared at them briefly, then met my gaze. “Thanks.”

  I smiled. “You’re welcome. Later in the summer, when this rush is over, I’d like to talk to you about coming to play here now and then.”

  His eyes widened and he straightened in the chair. “That would be great!”

  “It might not be until fall—we’ll have to see how the rest of summer goes.”

  “That’s fine, but if it’s fall it’ll have to be weekends. I’ll be back at UNM.” He grabbed the pen and started filling out the form. “Rosa’s always talking about how great this place is. She really loves working here.”

  “I’m glad. We love having her.”

  I asked him a couple more questions and offered him the same rate that I paid Mick. He agreed to it, and to coming in at ten in the morning to get a head start on the dishes. Mick didn’t usually arrive until one.

  “In the morning it will mostly be food-prep stuff, but about midday you’ll start to get china. You’ll want to do that separately from the cooking things.”

  He nodded. “Rosa said you have fancy dishes.”

  “The teapots are the trickiest. Let’s go back down and I’ll show you the machine.”

  The commercial dishwashing station was full of clean china, Mick’s last load from Saturday night. I showed Ramon where the teapots, cups, and saucers were stored in the butler’s pantry. He helped me unload the machine, and I watched how he handled the china. He was careful enough to allay any fears I had.

  “Shall I do these?” he asked, waving toward Julio’s and my accumulation of baking miscellany.

  “Sure. Let’s get you a timecard, though.”

  Duly checked in, he set to work on the bowls, measuring cups, and baking sheets with an air of confidence that could only have come from experience. I silently thanked my lucky stars. It looked like Ramon was a find.

  I walked over to Julio. “Need anything more from me?”

  “Just your opinion.” He handed me a small plate on which rested an orange scone, still warm from the oven. I broke it open and took a bite.

  “Mmm. Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “I’m thinking about sprinkling some coarse sugar over the top. Give it a little extra texture.”

  “That sounds perfect.” I got out a spoon and scooped up some of the orange curd, which I spread on the other half of the scone. As I bit into it, the double-dose of orange made me close my eyes. “Fabulous. Great idea, Julio!”

  “Thanks.”

  I looked at him, and saw the small smile of satisfaction that I knew meant he was pleased with himself. Julio had a high opinion of his skill—justified, I thought—but he tended to keep it to himself.

  “All right. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

  The orange scone was gone by the time I made it to my office. In the privacy of that sanctum, I licked the curd from the plate, then set it aside and looked through my messages.

  Willow Lane, then two from Tony. I called him back, and he answered at once.

  “Hey, there. Steak tonight?”

  I glanced at the clock: almost five. “Depends on when.”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “Sold. Casual dress?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have time to go change. See you then.”

  I called Willow and got her voicemail. I really needed to look up her tour schedule and find a likely time to call her. I surfed to her website and scanned the list of current tours. One was the tour that stopped at the tearoom, and I saw that it was scheduled to come on Tuesday afternoon. I called Willow back and left a second message, explaining that the parlor wouldn’t be available for her tour to visit that afternoon, or any time during the week.

  I felt a little bad about that, but we’d had a couple of booked-solid days earlier in July, and Willow had agreed to keep her tour on the portal then. I hoped she wouldn’t mind doing that again. Made a mental note to ask Julio to bake some extra cookies for the tour guests.

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I was tired, and we hadn’t even been open that day. This was going to be a long week.

  Mozart flitted through my head—the same elusive phrase. I opened my eyes and realized that I was still wearing an apron.

  With a small groan, I got up and carried my scone plate back downstairs. Ramon saw me come in and came forward to take it from me. He didn’t put it in the machine, but set it aside with the teapot I’d used that morning.

  “I’ll do those when this load is done.”

  I untied my apron. “No, it’s after five. Just leave this running and
go on home. And thanks for staying to work.”

  A sudden smile lit his face. “No problem.”

  I glanced toward Julio, who was putting a tray of currant scones into the freezer. He closed it and looked at me.

  “That’s it. Should give us a head start. See you in the morning.”

  I nodded, hanging up my apron. “Thank you, Julio.”

  “De nada.” He turned to Ramon. “You too, primo. Mañana.”

  “Mañana.”

  They bumped fists, then Ramon went to the regular sink and started washing the teapot by hand. I watched Julio go out, then walked over to Ramon.

  “I forgot to mention that Julio might need your help with some of the food prep. Would you mind doing that when you’re not washing dishes?”

  “That’s cool. I used to make tortilla chips at Vaquero.”

  “Great. Thanks. He’ll tell you what he needs.”

  I tidied the pantry while Ramon finished the teapot and my plate, then I saw him out and locked the door behind him. Gathered up the aprons and towels from the day’s cooking and stuffed them in the washer. Headed back upstairs for a quick shower and change.

  I’d lost count of how many times I’d gone up and down the stairs that day. At least my calves would be in good shape.

  In the shower, I indulged in a double-handful of my favorite jasmine-scented body wash, scrubbed myself all over, then stood with the hot water pounding my shoulders for a long time. When I emerged I was relaxed, if not entirely energized.

  I pulled out a lightweight sweater of soft green cashmere and my favorite pair of jeans. Not knowing whether Tony would let me drive or insist on my riding with him on his bike, I put on sneakers and grabbed a tweed coat that had been my father’s. It was a little big on me, but comfy and had lots of pockets. I slid my wallet into one, cell phone and lip gloss into another, and declared myself ready.

  The back doorbell rang as I was coming down the stairs. I hurried the last few steps and saw Tony peering in through the lights around the back door. I opened it and invited him in.

  “If you’re ready, let’s just go,” he said. “That steak is calling me.”

  I stepped out and locked the door. “Shall I drive?”