4 

I awoke with a start after a restless night. The light coming through the tiny gap in the curtains of my bedroom was faint, a pre-dawn blue-gray. I sat up, listening, and heard the sound of the back door downstairs being pushed shut. Its opening had awakened me.

I pictured a faceless murderer creeping up the stairs to throttle me in my bed. A moment later the faint sound of salsa music dispelled that phantom. Julio was downstairs, gearing up to make his kitchen magic.

“Oh, good. He came back.” As long as Julio stayed I had a shot at pulling the tearoom through this mess.

Profoundly relieved, I got up, showered, and dressed, choosing a gray silk dress with long, full sleeves caught into wide cuffs at the wrist. As I descended the stairs the smell of sautéing onions wafted up to me, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

“Good morning, Julio,” I said, entering the kitchen.

“Morning, boss.”

His pants today were burgundy with white pinstripes, with matching baker’s cap and a plain white t-shirt that would later be hidden by his chef’s jacket. It was the most subdued outfit I’d seen him wear yet. He scooped up a double handful of chopped mushrooms and dumped them into the skillet with the onions, raising a soft hiss.

“Figured you could use a good breakfast today.”

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you. Can I help with anything?”

“Nah. You cleaned up last night, no?”

“I needed to wind down.”

He added chopped green chiles and chopped ham to the skillet, gave it a stir, then poured beaten eggs from a bowl into the pan for a frittata. My mouth started watering.

“Went through a lot of coffee,” he said. “Have to order more soon.”

“Go ahead.”

“It can wait a couple days.”

Meaning he had doubts about the tearoom’s survival. I wanted to say something rousing and hopeful, but I had my doubts, too. We both kept them to ourselves.

Julio poured coffee into his mug, then lifted the pot, inquiring if I wanted some. I shook my head.

“Tea for me. I’ll go make it.”

“This’ll be ready in a few minutes,” he said, checking on the skillet.

“I’ll be back.”

By the time I returned with my pot of Irish Breakfast, Julio had set places for us both on the kitchen’s work table and dished up the frittata with warm flour tortillas on the side. I took a bite and sighed with pleasure at the buttery onions and mushrooms, salty ham, and the sharp bite of green chile.

“Mmm, fantastic! Thank you, Julio.”

“De nada. Get any sleep last night?”

“Some. The police cleared out around eleven.”

Julio tore off a piece of his tortilla. “Tony Aragón hasn’t changed much.”

I looked up at him in surprise. “You know him?”

“My sister dated him in school.”

“Maria?” She was a friend of mine—we’d been in the same class—but I didn’t remember Detective Aragón from high school.

He took a sip of coffee. “No, Anna, my oldest sister. He was a senior when she was a junior. I was just a punk sixth-grader. They went steady for a couple of months, but he was too hot-headed. Got jealous if she even looked at another guy.”

“That’s believable.”

“Got real bent out of shape when she gave him back his pin. I remember him standing out in the driveway yelling that she was a stuck-up faithless bitch. My dad finally had to chase him off.”

“Wow.”

“So be careful, okay? You don’t want to piss him off.”

Julio’s dark eyes looked worried. I did my best to smile back.

“Right. Thanks.”

No problem, I thought. I probably couldn’t piss him off any more than I already had.

I ate some more frittata, concentrating on savoring it. I prided myself on being a good cook, but Julio was a magician.

A punk teenager, he’d surprised everyone who knew him by applying to a top culinary school in New York after barely graduating high school. Four years later he returned to Santa Fe, degree in hand, just in time to make the cake for his sister Maria’s wedding.

I was in the middle of remodeling the tearoom at the time. When I bumped into Julio at the reception, congratulated him on the cake, and expressed a wish I could serve a miniature version in my tearoom, he perked up with interest.

Brand-new culinary graduates were a dime a dozen in Santa Fe; the best they could hope for was usually a sous-chef’s position. We chatted over cake and champagne, and quickly came to a mutually-satisfactory arrangement: he would come cook some samples for me, and if I liked them, he’d be the chef at my new tearoom. It was a risk for both of us, but also a great opportunity.

Two days later he appeared at my tearoom with an armload of groceries, wearing a white chef’s coat and flaming red pants printed with multicolored tropical flowers, and a chef’s hat made from the same fabric.

“Nice outfit,” I’d said, somewhat stunned.

“It’s got hibiscus,” he’d said proudly, pointing at a bright pink blossom on one knee.  “Ties into the tea theme.”

He then proceeded to take over my kitchen for three hours, producing four kinds of savories, a tea bread, and three sweets, all amazing. He had to have spent the two intervening days studying tea food, because everything he created that day was absolutely appropriate, not to mention delicious. I’d hired him on the spot.

I took another bite of my frittata and looked up at him. “Thanks for not quitting, Julio.”

“Over this?” He scoffed. “I’ve seen worse.”

No doubt he had. His family’s neighborhood was borderline, on the edge of rougher  parts of town. They were good, decent people, and had struggled to stay that way.

We finished our breakfast and I cleared away the dishes and built a fire in the kitchen fireplace by the work table, just for comfort, while Julio got started making scones. By then the sun was up, a pale, feeble glow through an overcast of cloud.

The phone started ringing at seven o’clock. I let the machine answer, then went up to my office to check the message. The call was from a television reporter requesting an interview. I left it, not wanting to deal with it yet, though sooner or later I’d have to. Before I could stand up the phone rang again.

I collected a couple of stray coffee mugs from my office and took them down to the dishwashing room. Ignoring the almost constant ringing of the phone, I walked through the parlors, making sure everything was tidy. The girls would check, too, but I wanted to be in the tearoom, to remind myself of the haven I had created and intended to maintain.

I picked up the brass firewood carrier Dee had left in the main parlor and returned it to its place by the back door, then carried the book I had tried to read back to my office. I heard the back door open and close again, and glanced at my clock. It was almost eight. Kris had arrived.

She came into my office, shrugging off her long coat to reveal a black turtleneck and broomstick skirt. A graceful sandcast silver bracelet was her only jewelry. As always, her makeup was perfect and within business-world expectations, though the colors she chose were toward the goth spectrum, rather dark, accentuating her pale skin and black, cropped hair.

“I saw the news last night,” she said in her quiet alto.

“So you know about the murder.”

She nodded, blue-gray eyes gazing at me intently. “It looked insane with cops crawling all over the place. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” The phone rang again and I glanced at it. “It’s been going all morning. There are a bunch of messages for you to deal with, I’m afraid.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to make a fresh pot of tea. Want some?”

“Yes, please. You sure you’re all right?”

Kris has a tendency to view even minor setbacks as tragedies. The end of the world is always just around the corner. While that might be true in this case, I was determined not to acknowledge it. I made an effort and smiled.

“I’m fine. Thanks for being concerned. I’m glad you came in today despite this … unpleasantness.”

She flashed an unexpected smile. “Oh, I think it’s fascinating! I looked at the parlor on my way up, but it’s hard to tell anything happened.”

“I should hope so. I just want to get back to normal.”

Her wry look told me she thought this impossible. I went downstairs, conscious of the dining parlor as I passed it on the way to the butler’s pantry.

By the time I returned, Kris had been through half the messages. I set the tea tray on a credenza, hesitating as I noticed the picture above it, an ebony-framed reproduction of Millais’s “Ophelia.”

Kris had brought it in while we were decorating and asked my permission to hang it, and I’d had no objection at the time. Now, though, it bothered me a little. Lovely and ethereal as it was, it was still a picture of a woman drowning, and I was feeling a bit sensitive to the idea of death just then.

I poured tea for us both and carried it to her desk, sitting with my back to “Ophelia.” Kris finished jotting a message, then hung up the phone and read from her notes.

“All four TV stations, the Journal North and the New Mexican all want to interview you,” she said, “and you have messages from Katie Hutchins, Manny Salazar, someone named Willow, and two from a Detective Aragón.”

“Drat. What did the detective want?”

“Didn’t say. Just left a number for you to call back.” She handed me a bunch of message slips.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want me to return the calls from the media?”

I stood up and picked up my teacup. “Not yet. See what else we’ve got. Who knows, there might be a reservation in there.”

“Oh, there already was. One.”

I looked at her in surprise. “Well, that’s good news.”

She gave an apologetic smile. “And three cancellations.”

“Oh. Well, carry on.”

I carried my tea into my office. As I sat at my desk, something seemed out of place. I put down the cup and saucer and the message slips and looked at the desk. I’d left it clean when I’d given it over to Detective Aragón to use.

The lower right hand drawer wasn’t quite closed. It tended to stick, and I’d been meaning to wax it but hadn’t gotten around to it.

I pulled it open. The papers I had stashed in there the previous evening lay in a tidy stack.

Too tidy. I remembered I hadn’t racked them carefully when I put them away, but they were racked now.

“That bastard!” I whispered.

He’d gone through my desk.

Well, I hadn’t told him not to. I’d left him alone in there. He was a cop investigating a murder, what did I expect?

I expected a respect for my privacy, and a little common courtesy, that was what. I took a deep breath, struggling to control my anger. It was going to be a difficult day, and I couldn’t let something like this throw me into a bad mood before we even opened.

The phone rang again and I glanced up. This time it was my private line, so I answered it.

“Ellen!” said Aunt Nat. “I’ve been so worried! Didn’t you get my message?”

“Oh—sorry, I haven’t checked my cell phone yet. The tearoom’s phone has been ringing off the hook.”

“I can believe that! Why didn’t you call me last night? I’d have come and helped.”

“Sorry, I meant to call. There wouldn’t have been anything for you to do, but thanks for thinking of me.”

“Well, what can I do today? Do you need help with the tearoom?”

“Ah—maybe. Don’t put off your own plans, but—”

“I have nothing planned today. I’ll come right down.”

I leaned back in my chair, surprised at how relieved I felt. “Thanks. It’ll be good to have you here. I could use some moral support.”

“You poor duck. You should forget all about it and go up to the spa and get a massage.”

I laughed. “Not today. I’m sticking to my post until the fuss blows over.”

“Brave girl. I’ll come stick with you. About half an hour okay?”

“Anytime, no hurry. We don’t open ‘til eleven.”

“See you soon, then.”

I hung up, feeling rather better, and decided to check my personal messages. There were three, one each from Gina, Nat, and Jody Thompson, the real estate agent. I called Gina’s number, got voicemail, left her a cheery message. Jody didn’t answer either; she was probably out showing properties. Hers had been a courtesy call, so I left a message thanking her and assuring her that the tearoom was getting back to normal, and that I hoped to see her at the grand opening on Friday.

The next day. We had one day to pull it all together. I’d been counting on spending evenings getting ready, but Wednesday night had been a total loss.

I was about to jump up and get busy when my cell phone rang. I answered.

“Hello, Ms. Rosings, it’s Vince Margolan. I just heard about what happened. I’m so terribly sorry!”

“Thank you, Mr. Margolan.”

“Oh, Vince, please, we’re neighbors, right?” he said in his hasty, New York way. “Listen, is there anything I can do?”

“No, no. Thank you. The police will probably want to ask you some questions.”

“Yes, I just had a visit from a detective. That’s why I called.”

“Detective Aragón?”

“Yeah. Not very friendly.”

I grimaced. “Well, I hope he didn’t disrupt your day.”

“No, well, not much. Just getting some paperwork together for the gallery.”

“I’ll let you get back to it, then. Thank you so much for calling. I hope we’ll see you at our opening tomorrow afternoon.”

“Uh, if I have time. Busy week, you know. I’m hoping—well, I’ve got some big plans for the gallery. Lots to do.”

“Of course. Thanks again.”

We said goodbye and as I hung up I brushed aside a fleeting worry that no one would attend the grand opening. It was pointless to worry about that. Much more productive to get to work. Leaving the rest of my messages for later, I stood up and left the office, glancing into Kris’s office before I went downstairs.

“Need anything?” I asked.

Kris shook her head, then held up a message slip. “That detective called again. You were on your cell.”

I stifled a groan and stepped in to collect the slip. “I’d better call him back.”

“Sounded kind of pissed.”

“I’m not surprised.”

I went back to my desk and dialed Detective Aragón’s number, but got voicemail. I left a polite message, then went down to see how Julio was doing. As I came into the kitchen he was standing by the sink. I froze. His hands were up to the wrists in blood.

“Hey, boss,” he said, smiling as he looked up at me.

He turned back to the sink, in which sat a colander of raw chicken livers. I relaxed, silently chiding myself for being so touchy. The smell of sautéing onions was back, and I went to the stove to stir them since Julio had his hands full.

“Starting on the pâté for tomorrow, I see,” I said, proud that my voice sounded calm.

“Yeah.”

He carried the colander over and started to dump the livers into the pan. On another burner a large pot of eggs was about to boil. I’d requested deviled eggs for the grand opening, a tribute to the day Nat had first suggested the tearoom idea.

“Anything I can do, or shall I get out of your way?”

“It’s all under control. Oh, hey—that fruit basket in the fridge is yours, right?”

I nodded. “Manny Salazar brought it.”

“Can I use a couple of the mangoes?”

“You can use anything you want except the raspberries. Those are mine.”

“Got it. Thanks, boss.”

He went over to the sink to rinse the colander. I stayed and stirred the simmering chicken livers.

“By the way, the candied violets yesterday were a delightful touch.”

He came back, took the wooden spoon from my hand and glanced up with a small, wry smile. “I wanted to make your party really special.”

“It was really special. And we’re going to keep doing really special events. Don’t you worry.”

A muffled knocking sounded from the rear hall door. I gave Julio a reassuring smile as I opened the kitchen’s outside door and looked out onto the porch.

It was the delivery girl from the florist, with cut flowers I had ordered for the grand opening. She and I carried bucket after bucket of white gladiolas, purple roses, blue iris and multicolored freesias and alstroemerias into the big, industrial refrigerator in the kitchen. I’d be up late that night, arranging them all in vases and teapots for the celebration.

Aunt Nat showed up as the florist’s girl was leaving, wearing a handsome paisley dress in rich tones of burgundy, gold, and green. She caught me in a huge hug.

“Poor darling,” she said into my shoulder. “What a horrible mess for you to have to deal with.”

“Yes, well. I’m managing.”

She leaned back, holding me by the shoulders. “Tell me what to do.”

“Come and help me move the dining table, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

We went across the hall to the dining parlor, which I hadn’t entered since the previous night. The chandelier was on, warm light filling the room. I must have forgotten to turn it off.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Nat said, glancing around.

“I cleaned up the tea things last night and wiped up all the fingerprint dust, but I couldn’t shift the table by myself. They moved it to make room to work.”

Nat went to the foot of the table, where she’d sat the day before. We pulled the chairs aside and moved the table back to the center of the room, then tidied everything up. I put a fresh tablecloth down and I retrieved the centerpiece from the south sideboard, placing it beneath the chandelier. Purple-edged white lisianthus, yellow rosebuds, and blue mist—a combination I’d chosen after long deliberation.

The dining parlor was back to normal, except that I couldn’t help thinking about Sylvia whenever I was in there. I glanced up and saw my aunt gazing wistfully at the flowers.

“I haven’t told you how sorry I am,” I said. “You were pretty good friends, weren’t you?”

“Oh, lunch-now-and-then friends,” Nat said. “We weren’t terribly close, but I’ll miss her. I’ve known her for years.”

She shook her head, frowning. I went over and gave her a hug.

“I keep trying to think why anyone would kill her,” Nat said. “She wasn’t the easiest person, but she had a good heart.”

“I know.”

“She could come on pretty strong, of course, when she cared deeply about something.”

I looked at Nat, trying to decide how upset she really was. She seemed bewildered, mostly.

“Did Sylvia and Donna get along well, do you know?” I asked. “I got the impression they didn’t, but maybe they were just having an off day.”

Nat sighed, and adjusted one of the hurricane lamps on the south sideboard. “Sylvia’s always been a little disappointed in Donna. They’re both headstrong, you know, and when they disagree … but they never had a serious clash that I knew of.”

I nodded. “Well, let’s go fold linens,” I said, wanting to take Nat’s mind, not to mention my own, off the murder.

We crossed the hall to the butler’s pantry and got busy with the laundry. I had washed all the linens used the previous day, and now they had to be folded and put away. Nat took charge of the tearoom linens while I collected the tablecloth and napkins—my mother’s lace—that we had used in the dining parlor.

“That’s strange,” I said. “There’s a napkin missing.”

“Maybe it’s in with these,” Nat said.

We looked through everything again. One napkin from the dining set was missing. I checked the washer and dryer, then around beside and behind them. No luck.

“Maybe someone snuck some scones home in it,” Nat said.

I laughed and let it go, reaching for more napkins to fold. Nat began taking chores away from me, gently bullying me to go up to my office and answer the rest of my calls. I finally gave in and did so, reassuring first Manny and then Katie that everything was all right at the tearoom.

“I saw all those emergency vehicles last night,” Katie said, sounding concerned. “I would have come over, but I had guests arriving and one of them got in late—”

“Thanks, Katie, but I’m glad you didn’t come,” I said. “It was pretty chaotic.”

“You poor dear. I wish I could help somehow.”

I picked up the pile of message slips and let them sift back to my desk like falling leaves. My gaze fell on the place cards I’d collected from the dining parlor and left on my desk. “Well, actually, you could clear something up for me, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“You were still in the dining parlor when I left after the tea,” I said, my pulse speeding up a little at the memory.

“Yes, I was talking to poor Sylvia.”

“What about?”

“Oh, just about the Trust. You know how she likes to go on.”

“Do you remember who else was in the room?”

“Sylvia’s daughter and Vince. They were talking about a gallery opening, I think.”

“His gallery?”

“No, no. He’s just getting started, he won’t be ready to open for a while. I think they were talking about an opening this weekend, over on Canyon Road.”

“And they were both still there when you left?”

“Yes. So was Sylvia.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“The detective asked me if I thought either of them would have a reason to kill Sylvia. Can you imagine?”

“Detective Aragón? He spoke to you already?”

“Yes, he was here this morning.”

I frowned, wondering why he hadn’t stopped by the tearoom if he was in the neighborhood calling on Vince and Katie. “What else did he ask you?”

“Well … I’m sure those kinds of questions are just routine—”

“He asked you if I had a reason to kill her.”

“I told him no, of course.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Sure thing. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

“I will, thanks, Katie. Do come by tomorrow afternoon for the opening, if you have time.”

“Yes, I’m planning on it. I think I can drag Bob over for a little while, too. We don’t have any new guests arriving tomorrow.”

“Bring your guests, if they’d care to come.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Ellen! Thank you, I’ll let them know.”

I sat musing for a while after we said goodbye, then glanced through the message slips to make sure I’d taken care of them all. The only call I hadn’t returned was the one from “someone named Willow.” I had a feeling that it was one of Santa Fe’s woo-woo types, and didn’t feel up to it at the moment, so I left that slip on my desk, tossed the rest, and went into to Kris’s office.

“Do you have today’s reservation tally?” I asked her.

She handed me three copies of a page printed from a spreadsheet. “Twenty-six.”

I peered at the tally sheet and my heart sank. The tearoom could seat up to sixty at a time, and in order to break even we needed to keep it at least a third filled every hour. We had no more than three groups booked at once, and none at all from three to four. The bookings we did have were small, mostly two or three customers.

“Maybe tomorrow will be better,” I said.

“Speaking of tomorrow, you had put a cap on the grand opening at sixty.”

“That’s right. Are we booked up?”

“No, we’re at nineteen, including your invited guests. What I wanted to know was should we cap it at forty-eight, and not use the dining parlor?”

I bit my lip. “Yes, I guess we’d better.”

The phone rang again. Kris answered, punching the button for the business line with a perfectly manicured, silver-frosted fingernail.

“Wisteria Tearoom. May I say who’s calling? Thank you, please hold.” She looked up at me. “It’s channel seven. Want to take it?”

I shook my head, and escaped downstairs with the tally sheets while Kris sent the call to my voicemail. In the kitchen Julio glanced up from glazing a beautiful poppyseed bundt cake.

“Twenty-six,” I said, sticking a tally sheet in a clipboard mounted on the wall by the door.

“Okay.” Julio nodded, but his brow creased in a slight frown.

“We may get some walk-ins,” I said hopefully.

In the butler’s pantry I found that Dee and Vi had arrived and were helping Nat fold the last of the clean linens. Relief flooded me at the sight of them.

“Good morning!” I said, trying for cheer.

“Morning!” Dee smiled. “Any interesting developments?”

“Ah—none that I can think of. Here are today’s reservations.”

Dee pounced on the tally sheet and started getting out china and place settings for the setup trays. I watched Vi, who was uncharacteristically quiet. Usually I think of her as “Vi for vivacious,” but that was not her present mood.

“Fires today?” Dee asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Looks like it may rain.”

I beckoned Nat out into the hall and led her down to the gift shop, where I put the last copy of the reservation tally on the hostess stand, next to the diagram of the parlor alcoves. “Can you play back-up hostess? I’ll be here as much as I can, but I’ve still got some calls to return.”

“Of course,” she said, looking at the sheet. “Looks like it won’t be too busy.”

“No, unfortunately.”

“Now, don’t you get discouraged. This is only your second day, remember? It takes months to get a restaurant going.”

“Years,” I said. “Or mere weeks for it flop to right out the gate.”

“It won’t flop. Chin up, Ellen.”

I met her gaze. Neither of us mentioned the elephant in the dining parlor.

I gave her a smile I didn’t feel and headed back down the hall, passing Dee, who was carrying a set-up tray of china and linens. I peeked into the butler’s pantry and found Vi absently sorting the tiny silver teaspoons and knives that I’d washed the night before.

“Vi? Could you come upstairs for a minute?”

She glanced up and nodded, following me. I led her through Kris’s office to the small storage room behind it, where I picked up a big basket filled with tea samplers—three varieties of tea, enough to brew one pot of each, tied up with pretty ribbons—that I’d been putting together in my spare time.

I handed the basket to Vi. “Could you take these down to the gift shop?”

“Sure.”

“But first come with me for a minute.”

I led her out, past Kris who was on the phone, and down the hall to a small sitting area I had set up by the window at the end of the hall. This was at the front of the house, overlooking the garden and the street. The space wasn’t really practical for office use, but I wasn’t about to let a window go to waste, so I had set it up with two comfy leather chairs and a low table, as a place to have private tea with a friend.

“Have a seat,” I said, taking a chair.

Vi set down the basket and sat in the other chair, folding her hands on her knees.  Her posture was stiff, leaning forward as if she expected to have to jump up at any moment.

“Did you get any sleep?” I asked gently.

She gave a little, surprised laugh and met my gaze. “Not much.”

“Me neither.”

“It’s so awful. I kept seeing her face.”

I nodded. I’d had my own nightmares, including one where I’d wandered through the tearoom, finding my guests one by one, each dead. I shook the memory away.

“It’s a slow day,” I said. “You could go home.”

“But that would leave only Dee serving!”

“I can pitch in if need be.”

She sat up straighter and shook her head. “I won’t abandon you. It wouldn’t be right.”

“I’d much rather have you go now and be rested for tomorrow. And by the way, thank you for not quitting.”

She surprised me by bursting into tears. I handed her my handkerchief and waited for the storm to subside, which it did quickly. I’d indulged in a few tears myself, the night before.

“You’ve worked so hard for this,” she said, wiping at her cheeks.

“So have you. So has all the staff.”

“And you made such a wonderful p-place, and beautiful and everything. I love the tearoom!”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling.

“And then this happens!”

I swallowed. “It’s hard right now, but we’ll get through it. Everything we worked for is still here.”

I knew I was trying to convince myself as well as Vi. She gave a couple more sniffs and dabbed at her face.

“Is my makeup ruined?”

“No. Just needs a little tidying.”

She nodded, dabbing beneath her eyes, then heaved a sigh. “I’m all right.”

“You sure? It really would be fine for you to take the day off. My aunt is here.”

She sat gazing out of the window at the street below, blinking. “No, I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

A distant rumble of thunder made me glance out the window. The sky to the west was mostly clear, but our weather usually formed over the mountains to the east.

“Have you heard back from the Opera?”

Vi shook her head. “Not yet, but it should be soon. Rehearsals start in May, they told me.”

“Let me know when you find out the schedule. We’ll adjust your hours as needed.”

She smiled. “Thanks. It’s great of you to put up with the uncertainty. You’re the best boss ever.”

I felt myself blushing. “Well, I did music in college. I know how crazy it can be.”

Vi stood, smoothed her apron, and picked up the basket of samplers. She looked at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand.

“I’ll take that,” I said, standing.

She handed it to me with a last, small sniff. “Thanks, Ms. Rosings.”

“Why don’t you call me Ellen. It’s not so stiff.”

She looked at me, blue eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yes. You can pass that along to the others.”

She smiled, and caught me in a quick around-the-shoulders hug. “Thanks, Ellen!”

I fetched a fresh handkerchief from my suite, then returned to the gift shop to close out the cash register, which I should have done the previous night but had forgotten. I pulled the large bills and the checks, printed out the credit card transactions, and put everything into a bank bag for Kris. I was about to take it upstairs when a loud knocking on the front door made me look up.

“Drat. I bet it’s the press.”

“I’ll go look,” said Nat, who had been straightening the gift shop merchandise. She went out and came back right away.

“It’s just one woman,” Nat said. “No cameras. Might be a relative of Sylvia’s—she’s dressed in black.”

I sighed. “I’d better talk to her. Would you take this up to Kris, please?”

I handed Nat the bank bag, then went out into the hall and to the front door. The woman Nat had described was standing outside.

She was indeed all in black, an elegant wool dress and suede boots. Her hair was a carefully cut waterfall of platinum. She wore gold wire-framed glasses, and a necklace of turquoise beads interspersed with tiny bird fetishes set off her outfit nicely, a touch of Santa Fe style without going overboard. Not, however, something I would have chosen to wear if I were in mourning.

I unlocked the door and opened it a crack, peering past her looking for reporters. “May I help you? I’m afraid we don’t open until eleven.”

“Good morning.” Her voice was surprisingly low. “Are you the owner? I’m Virginia Lane, but please call me Willow. Everyone does.”

Someone named Willow.  I summoned a smile. “How do you do? Yes, I’m Ellen Rosings.”

“I heard about last night, and wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

“That’s kind of you. Thank you.”

“It’s quite ironic. I’ve been so anxious for you to open. May I come in?”

“Well … certainly.”

She stepped inside, and while I locked the door again she stood gazing around the hall and up at the ceiling. Her black ensemble tempted me to invite her upstairs to meet Kris, but I figured neither of them would appreciate the joke.

“I’ve wanted for years to see Captain Dusenberry’s house,” she said, stepping to the door of the main parlor and looking in.

Captain Dusenberry was the army captain for whom the house had been built in the nineteenth century. I’d learned about him from the folks at the Santa Fe Preservation Trust. Since the house was historic, I’d had to sign a preservation easement that specified I couldn’t alter the character of the building. It had made remodeling a little tricky.

“When it was a law firm they didn’t allow visitors,” Willow said, “but now that it’s open to the public—well, here. Let me give you my card.”

She opened her small shoulder bag. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch, then accepted a glossy black business card with silver lettering: Spirit Tours of Santa Fe.

“Oh. You’re the guide for the ghost tour.”

“No,” Willow said with a dismissive gesture. “That tour is aimed at tourists. Famous landmarks around town with spooky stories thrown in. My tours are focused on the spirits themselves. We visit places where they are verified as active, and have known histories.”

Ooookay. I smiled politely, wondering how to escape.

“That’s why I wanted to meet you,” she continued. “Of course, now that … well, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do this right away, but eventually I’d like to include Captain Dusenberry in my tour.”

“Well, I…”

“This is a bad time, I know. I don’t want to intrude. Would you mind my just taking a look at his study?”

“Study?”

“Yes. That’s the room where he was killed.”

My heart skipped a beat. “How interesting,” I said faintly.

“Has he manifested for you?”

“Ah … no.”

“You do know that he haunts the house,” said Willow, looking at me over her glasses with a very serious expression.

“Does he? I hadn’t noticed.”

“May I look at the study, Ms. Rosings? You needn’t escort me, I know which room it is.”

“Well—”

“I won’t disturb anything, I promise.”

She looked at me expectantly. I gazed back.

“Certainly,” I said slowly.

She smiled, and walked down the hall. I followed, feeling like I was floating through a bad dream. Willow went straight back to the dining parlor, stood in the doorway for a moment gazing at the room, then turned to me.

“Do you mind if I go in?”

I shrugged and gestured that she could. It wasn’t as though a herd of elephants hadn’t already been through there.

She walked all around the dining table, looking at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Finally she went and stood against the north wall, behind the table, and closed her eyes.

I watched in horrified fascination. Was she trying to commune with Captain Dusenberry? Was Sylvia getting in the way? She did have a tendency to interrupt…

I shook my head to clear it. I should probably find out exactly what had happened to Captain Dusenberry. Maybe the Preservation Trust would have some records. I didn’t feel like asking Willow.

Willow inhaled sharply through her nose, then let out her breath in a long sigh. She opened her eyes and nodded, as if agreeing with something someone had said. At last she came out of the room.

“You might want to keep this door closed,” she said, gesturing at the dining parlor’s door. “I think the spirit is active.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She glanced at me, then back at the dining parlor. “May we talk privately?”

“Of course,” I said, stifling a sigh. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you. I have to meet a tour group at ten-thirty.”

I glanced into the dining parlor. It seemed perfectly normal, but still I turned off the light and closed the door.

Willow smiled in approval. “Best to leave it quiet for a while. It may be that all the recent activity has stirred the spirit up a bit too much.”

“Mm.”

“Many people find that they can coexist peacefully with resident spirits,” Willow added as I led her down the hall to the front parlor. “Over at La Posada they get along pretty well with Julia Staub.”

“Do they?”

“There’s no reason why that can’t be true for you as well.”

I invited her to sit in Lily, by a window overlooking the porch. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s possible Captain Dusenberry’s spirit is responsible for what happened last night.”

“Are—are you suggesting that a ghost killed Sylvia Carruthers?”

“It’s possible,” she said, her pale eyes wide behind the wire frames. “Physical manifestations are rare because they require a great deal of energy, but they have been documented. A restless spirit, one with pent-up hostility, might very well be able to attack and kill a human being.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Forgive me, but I find that very hard to believe.”

“Do you?” Her faint smile returned. “Would you also have trouble believing that no fingerprints were found on the murder weapon?”