There had to be something here. I was sure there must be.
I peered into the wings, out at the seats and the mezzanine, down at the orchestra pit and the pool. I could see a glimpse of the stage manager’s console, and part of the railing on the stairs backstage left.
What could have distracted Vi?
I faced upstage again. She had said she was looking out the back of the stage when she missed her cue. I stared at the back deck, and the hillside beyond it. Nothing.
A heavy tread shook the platform where we stood and made hollow, drum-like thumps. I looked around and saw a man in black shirt and jeans, with a black ball cap pulled over sandy curls, approaching us from the stage.
“I’m sorry, you can’t be up here.”
Tony showed his badge. “SFPD. Just checking something.”
“We have to take down this platform.”
The guy sounded cranky. I cast one more glance at the hillside out back, then turned to Tony.
“Let’s walk out onto the deck.”
“Who is this?” demanded the guy in black.
“Consultant,” Tony said, stepping past him to the stairs.
I followed him down and into the wings. The guy in black followed me. I headed for the stairs to the deck, and Tony came with me.
My heart started to thump as we descended. The whir of the B-lift starting up didn’t help. I kept my gaze away from the pit and walked straight out onto the back deck, toward the hillside.
“Did you see something?” Tony asked.
“No.”
I walked along the edge of the deck toward the north. Now I could see the mountains, deep shades of blue against the brighter blue of the sky, but I gave them only a brief glance. I peered over the railing at the hillside, which was quite a drop from where I stood. I was looking for something on the ground. Something shiny.
A knife? Come on, Rosings, they must have searched all around here.
“We’ve been over this,” Tony said quietly, echoing my thoughts.
I reached the northern edge of the deck. The scene shop was there; closed. I went back the other way, and down the stairs to the level below, where the scenery storage was. Outside there, we were closer to the hillside. I peered at the ground and under the bushes, until we reached the water tanks.
“Babe…”
Water.
I took a sharp breath and looked up at the tanks. There was no ladder that I could see, not from this side anyway.
I had been able to see the top of the tanks from the upstage platform. Something on top of the tanks could have glinted, catching Vi’s eye. The angle of the sun would be different in the afternoon, when she was rehearsing.
I glanced around and saw that the guy in black was watching us from the foot of the stairs. I turned away from him, facing the water tanks.
“Tony, did you search on top of these?”
He looked at me, then his gaze rose to the top of the tank, probably twenty feet high, as his eyes widened.
“Shhhit,” he said.
He hopped over the railing onto the hillside and strode to the south side of the southern tank, setting up puffs of dust from the dry soil. A ladder was mounted on the side of the tank, and Tony was up it in seconds.
“Hey!”
I turned to face the guy in black, ready to do my feeble best to fend him off.
“You can’t go up there!” he said, coming toward us.
“We have a warrant that says he can,” I said, hoping it was true.
The guy in back apparently believed me, because he slowed down and just frowned up at Tony. Tony walked around on top of the tank, then bent down out of sight. There was a moment’s silence.
“Hey, Ellen, what time is it?”
I checked my watch. “Nine-forty-seven.”
“We’d better get going, then.”
He came back down, traded a suspicious glance with the guy in black, and walked south toward the parking lot, where he climbed onto the pavement. He led me past the rehearsal hall, up a set of stairs to the theatre, then up more stairs toward the main parking lot. I had to hustle to keep up with him.
“What’s the hurry?”
“You open at ten, right?”
“Eleven.”
“But you said you had to be back at ten.”
“Ideally, but nothing will explode if I’m not. Tony—”
“Let’s get to the car.”
I saved my breath for brisk walking. My shoes were reasonably comfortable but not intended for track and field. Between Tony’s stride and the many steps up to the parking lot, I was slightly winded by the time we reached the car.
I unlocked it and Tony got in, taking his cell phone out as I joined him.
“Did you find something?” I asked.
He glanced at me, then toward the theatre. No menacing figures were coming toward us.
He reached into his jacket and took out a clear plastic bag, which he laid on the console between us. The date and “9:47” were written on it in black marker, along with Tony’s initials.
Inside it was a small, brass, folded knife.
12
I drove while Tony called the police lab. He’d be bringing in a new piece of evidence, how fast could they process it? Yes, it was freaking important.
I wanted a better look at the knife. It looked odd, and also somehow familiar, but unlike any pocket knife I’d ever seen. It was smaller than a Swiss army knife, and much thinner. It probably only had one blade. Very simple.
I parked and Tony was out of the car immediately, grabbing his helmet from the back seat.
“Tony, may I see it? Just for a moment?”
He gave me a hard look, then handed me the bag. “Don’t open it.”
I turned the bag over in my hands, peering at the knife. Yes, very small. It looked like there was something engraved on one end, at the base. I smoothed the plastic and caught my breath.
“Did you see this?”
He frowned and took the bag, holding it closer and squinting. A second later his face lit with a smile of triumph.
“I owe you the biggest steak in town. Hell, I owe you a whole cow!”
I laughed. Engraved on the base of the knife was the letter “P.”
Tony caught me by the shoulders and kissed me. Surprised, I gasped and stared at him. Heat lit in his eyes and bloomed in my cheeks.
“I have to go,” he said in a raw voice.
I nodded. “Go.”
“I’ll call you.”
He stuffed the bag back in his jacket and put on his helmet, then practically vaulted onto his bike. He didn’t bother wheeling it to the street before starting the engine. In fact, he kind of roared out of the parking lot.
I forgave him.
When he was out of sight, I went inside. The smell of baking scones brought me up short.
Welcome back to a different reality. Soft music played on the stereo: Chopin, a nocturne. Iz and Rosa were setting up trays in the pantry. I peeked into the kitchen.
Julio glanced up. “How was breakfast?”
“Um, fine. Do you need me?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Then I’ll be upstairs.”
Kris wasn’t in yet. I made myself a pot of tea and carried it to my office, then sat at my desk.
What if the knife we’d found wasn’t the murder weapon? What if it was just a random thing?
No, the engraved initial was too much a coincidence. “P” for Passaggio.
He must have thrown it on top of the water tanks, maybe accidentally. Maybe he was trying to throw it out onto the hillside. It didn’t matter; Tony had it now.
What now? I felt oddly adrift. We knew who the murderer was, but was the evidence enough to convict him?
If there were fingerprints on the knife, probably. If not…
There would be traces of blood, maybe, even if the knife had been wiped. But all that would prove was that the knife was the murder weapon, not who had wielded it.
&nb
sp; I shook my head to rid it of mental cobwebs. This was Tony’s problem now; there was no more I could do to help. I had my own problems to manage. A whole stack of them.
I went through my messages, dealt with the easy ones, then made a trip downstairs to say hello to Nat. Neatly attired in a dark green cotton dress, she greeted me with a smile from the register in the gift shop.
“Everything going all right?” I asked.
“Fine. I think we’re getting used to this pace.”
That led me to several different thoughts, some of which I didn’t want to examine. Couldn’t stop myself from wondering what would happen if the current pace was our new “normal.”
“Thomas gave me your tray to bring back. I put it in the kitchen.”
“Oh, thanks!” I’d forgotten the tray that I’d used to take Aria Cakes to the Opera. It seemed ages ago.
“I thought about bringing some Doña Tules for tonight,” Nat said, “but I wasn’t sure if all the staff are over twenty-one.”
“Um, they aren’t. Thanks, but we’ll be all right. I picked up some sodas.”
The front door opened and we both turned, ready to welcome customers. I froze when I saw who it was: a couple, fortyish, middle-height man with curly dark hair and silk suit, petite woman with ice pale hair up in an elegant coiffure and a cobalt sleeveless dress. Neither smiling.
Nat, who was smiling, said, “Welcome to the Wisteria Tearoom! Is this your first visit?”
“Yes, we’d like a table for two, please,” said the man.
I’d heard the voice before, at a distance. Up close it was a bit forceful.
“Do you have a reservation?” Nat said, glancing at the list.
The woman shot the man a look. They had apparently discussed that question, perhaps without reaching an agreement.
“No, but you’ve got some tables outside. We don’t mind sitting out there.” Now he smiled; the smile of one accustomed to being obeyed.
“Well, let’s see,” said Nat, running her finger down the list. “Yes, I think we can squeeze you in.”
She shot me a glance, but I didn’t dare speak. The only thing I could think of to say was that we didn’t cater to murderers.
Nat guided the Passaggios out to the portal, and I was able to breathe again.
I wanted to call Tony and demand that the police remove that man from my property. This, I knew, was impractical, but I enjoyed imagining it.
He had killed a brilliant artist at the peak of his career, and a dear friend of mine at the beginning of hers, and I resented being obliged to offer him my hospitality.
I needed to calm down. I left the gift shop and headed upstairs. Kris glanced up as I stepped through the doorway to our offices.
“Who fed you a lemon?”
I waved my hand, still unable to speak. I poured myself some tea and sat at my desk, nursing it.
Why had he come? It must have been his wife’s idea; everything I knew about Passaggio implied that he was not an afternoon tea sort of person.
Maybe she had heard the word going around the opera crowd about the tearoom and demanded a visit. That I could believe.
I tried to put them out of my mind, but I was seething.
Rise up, furies, from horrid abysses…
I hoped Julio wouldn’t see the Passaggios. But then, Julio didn’t know. No one knew, except Tony, and maybe some others at the police department by now.
My indignation prompted me to send Tony a text:
WANT TO ARREST P? HE’S HERE.
That made me feel a little better. I got up to get more tea, and by the time I returned my phone was buzzing.
NOT YET.
Sighing, I picked up my messages and looked through them, though I really didn’t have the patience at the moment. My phone buzzed again.
STAY AWAY FROM HIM.
No problem. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to him.
Too restless to stay at my desk, I went back downstairs. Julio and Ramon were turning out shortbread and sandwiches.
“We’re fine,” Julio said before I could speak. “Got it covered.”
Denied kitchen-therapy, I went back to the pantry for my standby: an empty vase and my garden shears. I put a little water in the bottom of the vase and stepped out the back door.
The lilacs were done, alas, but some poppies and larkspur were blooming. I cut a few, then headed around the back of the kitchen to the south side of the building. I needed roses.
I took my time, smelling blooms from each bush, cutting one now and then to add to my vase. The fragrance calmed me, and inhaling deeply didn’t do me any harm. I began to feel more balanced.
I worked my way toward the front of the tearoom. When I heard Passaggio’s voice I held still for a moment. My intention was to pretend he didn’t exist, but I indulged in a glance.
They were seated at the south end of the portal, and didn’t look any happier than they had before. All the savories were gone from their tiered tea tray, and one of the scones, but the sweets were untouched.
I was about to turn away when a glint of metal caught my eye. Passaggio had taken something out of his pocket that looked like a miniature guillotine. As I watched, he took out a cigar and used the guillotine to chop the end off it.
My mind flashed to the courtyard at the Opera. Passaggio lighting a cigar, except that then he had used a knife to cut it.
A small, brass knife.
I became aware of his attention, and looked up to meet his gaze. I don’t know what my expression told him, but his eyes narrowed.
I swallowed and stepped forward. “I’m very sorry, but we don’t allow smoking on the portal. It’s too close to the entrance.”
He stared hard at me for a full ten seconds, then silently put the cigar and the guillotine back in his pocket.
“Thank you,” I said, and proceeded toward the front door.
I felt his gaze on me the whole way. My skin crawled. I took a firm grip on my shears, and held my head high as I walked up the steps and through the front door.
I closed it and leaned against it, slightly dizzy. Nat stepped out of the gift shop.
“Are you all right?”
I nodded. “I will be. It’s … a little warm out.”
I went straight up to my office and left the vase and shears on my credenza. No new texts, so I sent one.
I SAW HIM USE THE KNIFE AT THE OPERA. JUST REMEMBERED.
I waited impatiently for an answer. Kris came in and looked at me.
“Going to the bank. Need anything?”
I shook my head. “Thanks.”
She looked bemused. As I listened to her footsteps going down the stairs, my phone buzzed. I pounced on it.
WTF??
HE USED IT TO CUT A CIGAR.
I waited. Finally, when I was about to send a new text, it rang.
“You’re sure?” Tony said.
“Pretty sure.” I lowered my voice, just out of paranoia. “Small brass folding knife.”
“Did anyone else see it?”
“The man he was talking to. I think it was the Opera’s Director.”
“He might be a friend. Anyone else?”
I closed my eyes, thinking back. “Thomas Ingraham was standing with me.”
“I’ll call you back.”
Dead line.
Feeling useless, I took my flowers across to my suite and tidied them up, then went downstairs to put away my shears. I carried my phone, not wanting to miss a call from Tony.
As I came out of the pantry I nearly collided with Mrs. Passaggio, who was emerging from the restroom. I stepped back.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!”
She paused and gave me a thoughtful look. “Have we met?”
“I don’t believe so,” I said. We had passed at the opera, but that’s not meeting. “I hope you enjoyed your tea,” I added, to fill the silence.
She favored me with a frosty smile. “It was very nice. This house is quite charming.”
“T
hank you.”
She turned away and I felt a moment’s pity for her. Maybe she wasn’t very pleasant herself, but that didn’t mean she deserved to be married to a faithless man who was also a vicious killer.
I ducked through the pantry to the kitchen, not wanting to risk encountering the Passaggios again in the hall or the gift shop. Julio was at the counter writing on a notepad, and Ramon was assembling deviled eggs. I snitched one. Lunch.
“There’s some soup left,” Julio said. “Want me to warm it up?”
I swallowed. “Yes, please. Or I can. I have a few minutes.”
“It’s in the fridge door.”
Ramon waggled a scolding finger at me. I stuck my nose in the air and he grinned.
I found the soup, put some in a bowl, and stuck it in the microwave. When it was hot, I took it out onto the back portal, where I had a small patio table and a couple of chairs, shaded now that the sun was past its zenith. I sat and sipped soup and tried to relax.
I was hungry, having failed to eat most of my lovely and expensive breakfast. I made myself eat slowly, though Julio’s soup had only improved over time.
I gazed at my back garden, enjoying the green and the shelter of the shade. The day was pleasantly warm. Traffic hummed along, slightly muted by distance. Birds fussed in the bushes, and hummingbirds flitted around the feeder hanging outside the kitchen window. Someone had filled it; I hadn’t had time.
My phone was annoyingly silent.
Julio came out with his notepad and a small plate holding two tea sandwiches and two shortbread cookies. He set this beside me.
“Got a minute?”
I picked up a sandwich. “Sure. And thanks.”
He pulled up a chair and laid the notepad in front of me. “This is the menu for Usher’s party.”
I glanced through it and whistled. Lobster canapés, roast beef sandwiches, pâté, crab salad, champagne sorbet.
“Will the fee she’s paying cover everything?”
“Oh, yeah. You’ll turn a nice profit.”
“And this won’t be too stressful?”
“We’re closed all day Tuesday, right? So I’ll have the morning for the fragile stuff. Ramon and I can come in Monday, probably just half a day, to prep the rest. Should be fine.”
Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Page 22