¹³

I know I dreamed, and that the dreams weren’t fun, but they weren’t scary enough to wake me and the sound of the cell phone buzzing its way across the table chased them away. I sat up, blinking, grabbed the phone, and glanced at the caller ID.

“Tony! Are you all right?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah, I’m OK.”

“What happened? Why—”

“I had to be interviewed. Standard procedure.”

It was his tough guy voice. I usually didn’t have much luck communicating with him when I heard it.

“Tony, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Listen, do you want to come over? We could talk...”

Another long pause. “I’d better not. Not tonight.”

I swallowed. “OK. You still want to come for dinner tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Sorry, I’m just...”

“It’s OK, Tony,” I said after a moment. “It’s OK. If it helps, I think you did the right thing. There’s no question.”

“Thanks.”

“They’ve got to follow procedure, right? That’s all this is.”

“I hope so.”

I tried to think of something more to say, something to encourage him. It seemed obvious to me that Tony had done the only thing he could do.

“See, they have to decide if it was legal,” he said, his voice tight. “Doesn’t matter if it was right. If I acted outside the law...”

“You were defending me! He would have killed me—”

“Maybe. That’s what you and I think.”

My stomach sank. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. You’ve done what you can.”

I closed my eyes. He sounded depressed, which I could understand. I couldn’t begin to imagine how terrible I would feel if I had killed someone, even if it had been the right course of action.

On top of that, a Sword of Damocles was hanging over Tony. He might lose his job. Maybe even go to jail.

“Call me tomorrow, OK?” I said. “If you have time.”

“Oh, I’ll have time,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I’m on leave for three days.”

“Oh, Tony...”

“It’s OK. It’s just that I can’t wrap up my case. Not allowed to work on anything.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting tears. I couldn’t melt down, not now. That would just make everything worse. Tony needed support.

I swallowed. “Maybe you can get some rest. You’ve been working so hard.”

“Yeah. Well. Speaking of rest, I’d better let you go.”

I wanted to protest, to keep him talking. My tired brain couldn’t come up with a way to do that.

“Sleep well, then,” I told him. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

A click told me he’d hung up. I put the phone down and cried.

Daniel Swazo did not visit me that night. Hiccup-free, I went to bed without a sleeping pill. I was immensely relieved that the spasms were gone, but too sad to celebrate. My dreams were restless although not horrible, and I couldn’t remember them when I woke.

It was early, but I got up. Some little sound from downstairs must have alerted me to Julio’s arrival. I checked my phone, discarded several texts from reporters, answered two from Gina and Kris. Nothing from Tony.

Wanting company, I dressed in jeans and a sweater, slid my phone into a pocket, and went down. I started a pot of tea brewing in the pantry, then went into the kitchen, where I found Julio looking at the clean mugs in the dishwasher.

“Have a party last night?” he asked, turning to me.

“It wasn’t on the news?”

“I didn’t watch the news. Why do I have a bad feeling?”

I sighed, grabbed one of the clean mugs, and helped myself to his freshly-brewed coffee. “I owe you a pound of this. I made a bunch of it last night, for half the cops in SFPD.”

“You found another body?”

“Not exactly.”

We sat down with coffee and I told him about Swazo and Tony and all the rest. His frown deepened as he listened.

“How can I help?”

“I don’t think you can, but thanks.” I finished my coffee and stood. “Oh, the media might show up. Just ignore them.”

“Right.”

“What do I owe you for the coffee?”

“Nada. My gift.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” He looked at me with serious eyes. “You’ve had a rough time lately. It’s the least I can do.”

I smiled and gave him a quick hug. “Thanks, Julio. You’re a prince.”

He grinned. “Hey, your hiccups are gone!”

“Yeah. I found the ultimate cure.”

I collected my tea and went upstairs to my office, where I sat down with a cuppa and my messages from Saturday. My phone buzzed, goosing me. I took it out, saw a number I didn’t know, and set it on the desk.

Resisting the urge to call Tony, I went through the messages. None were urgent. I returned a couple of calls, then checked my email, where I found a bunch of inquiries from the press and a message from Sonja at the Archives:

Ellen -

Here are the files that came up first on a search for Colt and Hidalgo. These are probably your best bet, but if you want more I saved the search results. I have not gone through these files to identify the references.

Three files were attached: a diary belonging to one Manuel Hidalgo, a collection of letters addressed to Seraphina Ruiz, and a sales register from Seligman’s Mercantile. It would take time to go through them and find the references, if indeed there were any. Sometimes these files didn’t include the search keys they turned up under.

On any other day I would have been excited to receive this lead, but I didn’t have the energy to devote to needle-hunting. My thoughts were on Tony, wishing he’d call, trying to figure out ways to help him. I saved the files, set the email aside, and turned back to my “to-do” pile.

On top was a message from Willow, from last week. I’d already talked to her. I dropped it in the recycling bin, but then remembered that I wanted to do a cleansing on the house. Now, more than ever, I wanted to make sure no hostile spirits were hanging around. Willow might have suggestions.

Not wanting to talk on the phone, I sent her a brief email. I assumed she’d heard the news, and told her it was related to the Swazo case. That should be enough information, I figured.

Next on the stack was the flyer from the Hospice Center. A wince of guilt went through me—I’d said I would make a donation. Well, no time like the present. I got out my checkbook and wrote out a check for fifty dollars. Not as much as I’d have liked to donate, but as much as I could afford. I could always send more later, if business continued to be good.

I pulled the check out of the book and slipped it into an envelope. As I was writing “The Hospice Center” on the outside, I remembered I’d made an appointment with Loren for Monday.

Was it Monday? Yes. My sense of order and normalcy had been disrupted to the point I wasn’t sure of the day. That was bad.

So, appointment with Loren. I looked on my calendar and verified the time: eleven o’clock. I could take the check with me and save a stamp.

If I went. Maybe another day would be better.

Except a talk with Loren would probably be a big relief right now. I could tell him about Swazo. He already knew about my dreams about Daniel.

A memory arose of Loren and his sister, dressed for tea, smiling. Loren’s smile especially warm.

I’d go. If nothing else, I needed to set some boundaries.

The moment that thought went through my mind, my feelings crystallized.

I liked Loren. A lot. He was very attractive, and he got my jokes. I could even see myself dating him, if circumstances were different.

But Tony and I had unfinished business. Despite our differences, we were involved, at least emotionally, and now there was this—mess—to resolve.

I checked the cell phone again, but there was nothing new. I’d have heard it buzz.

Footsteps on the stairs roused me from musing. I tucked the envelope under my phone and got up to refill my teacup, meeting Kris in the doorway.

She had on black jeans and turtleneck, with a silver ankh on a black leather cord around her neck and tiny ankh earrings.

“Good morning,” I said. “You don’t usually come in on Mondays.”

“I saw the ten o’clock news last night. What the hell happened?”

“Tea?” I offered, filling my own cup.

“Yes. And by the way, there’s a television crew camped out front.”

I grimaced. We took our tea out to the sitting area by the front window and I told her the story. In exchange, she told me what the television stations had reported.

“Officer-involved shooting. One man dead. Identity withheld pending notification of next of kin. They had a good shot of the back yard, with yellow tape and all.”

“Great,” I said, and took another swallow of tea.

Next of kin. Poor Mrs. Swazo. Another son gone. Did she have any other kids, or was she all alone now?

“I noticed you didn’t talk to the media,” Kris said.

“No, and I don’t plan to.”

“Gina will yell.”

I pressed my fingertips against my eyes. “I can’t deal with them right now.”

“OK. I’d better go pull the messages, then. Do you want me to answer any of them?”

“Not from the press.”

“Want to give me a statement for them, in case one gets through?”

I thought for a minute. “Tell them ... no, that would be a lie. Just refer them to the police.”

“Right.”

Kris stood, then picked up her cup and saucer. “Is there any tea left?”

“I think we drank it all.” I lifted the lid of the teapot. “Yep. I’ll go make some more.”

I followed Kris into her office and left my cup on the credenza. “I have an appointment at eleven, so I’ll be going out,” I said. “I could take Saturday’s deposit if it’s ready.”

Kris nodded, already on the phone. I took the pot downstairs, made more tea, snooped on Julio (making scones), and went back up to check my cell. More unknowns, nothing from Tony.

The phone rang as I was putting it down. Nat, calling to check up on me. We talked, and she asked if I wanted her to come in.

“No, thanks. Julio and Kris are here. Um, I don’t think I’ll come to work on the dress tonight.”

“That’s all right, but please call me if you want company. Or call Gina. Don’t isolate yourself, Ellen.”

“No, I won’t. I’m going to talk to that counselor today.”

“Good! Tell him I said hello.”

We said goodbye, then I looked for something to occupy me until it was time to leave. Gina had emailed me proofs for an ad campaign for the spirit tour/tea combo. It was tasteful and intriguing, but I wondered if I should ditch it in view of last night’s events. Tommy Swazo’s death could be bad news for the tearoom. There hadn’t been a shooting here before.

What was I thinking? Yes, there had—Captain Dusenberry’s!