A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn Read online




  A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn

  Patrice Greenwood

  Evennight Books/Book View Café

  Cedar Crest, New Mexico

  A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn

  copyright © 2013 by Patrice Greenwood

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-271-6

  Published by Evennight Books, Cedar Crest, New Mexico, an affiliate of Book View Café

  Publication team: Sherwood Smith, Nancy Jane Moore, Chris Krohn

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  in loving memory of

  Rita A. Krohn

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to the following people for their invaluable assistance with this novel: to my publication team, Sherwood Smith, Nancy Jane Moore, and Chris Krohn; to Ken and Marilyn Dusenberry, Sally Gwylan, Kathy Kitts, Pari Noskin, D. Lynn Smith, and Jerry Weinberg for their thoughtful input, and to Chris Krohn for his untiring support. Thanks also to the members of Book View Café for their help with a thousand little details of bringing out a book, and to the founders and staff of the St. James Tearoom for inspiring me to write this series.

  From the white-blossom’d sloe my dear Chloris requested

  A sprig, her fair breast to adorn:

  No, by Heavens! I exclaim’d, let me perish, if ever

  I plant in that bosom a thorn!

  —Robert Burns, “On Chloris requesting a sprig of blossom’d thorn”

  1

  “Was Captain Dusenberry married?” I asked as I filled Willow's cup with Keemun tea.

  My guest used the silver tongs to pick up a lump of turbinado sugar and drop it carefully into her cup, then leaned back in her wing chair, stirring. “Oh, no. He died a bachelor. Very sad.”

  “I was wondering if he planted the wisterias.”

  “I doubt it, Ellen. They'd be gigantic after a hundred and fifty years.”

  “True. I hadn't thought of that.”

  She smiled slightly and sipped her tea. She was dressed in ivory silk, almost the same color as her hair, which was caught up in a French twist. She looked ethereal against the blue velvet of the chair, the opposite of the way I usually pictured her.

  When I'd first met Willow Lane, owner of Spirit Tours of Santa Fe, the weather had been colder and she'd been dressed à la Santa Fe lady: black broomstick skirt, turtleneck, and boots, accented with a tasteful necklace of tiny bird fetishes. I'd been wary of her business and of the advice she'd offered, but in fact both had proved advantageous for me.

  She had added Captain Dusenberry—the first occupant of the Victorian house that was now my Wisteria Tearoom—to her spirit tour, which meant that three times a week she brought a handful of curious visitors to the tearoom. Enough of them came back for tea that I could only be grateful to Willow. I'd invited her to have afternoon tea with me as a thank-you, and also because I wanted to pick her brain.

  I offered her a plate of scones and lemon-thyme tea cakes. “I checked with the Preservation Trust, but their file doesn't have much about him. Will you tell me his story, or must I sign up for a tour?”

  She laughed, a little musical chuckle, and added a tea cake to her plate. “I won't make you take the tour. I know you're a skeptic.”

  “I'm just not sure....”

  “After almost three months? I assume the activity hasn't stopped.”

  I shrugged a shoulder and broke open a scone. “No, but there could be other explanations.”

  She didn't answer. I slathered clotted cream and lemon curd on my scone, ignoring her steady gaze. At last she set down her teacup and took a bite of the cake. “Mmm. Delicious.”

  “Thank you. The thyme is from my garden.”

  “I saw that you had planted herbs among the roses. Very charming.”

  “I like old traditions.”

  “So do I.” She finished the little cake in one more bite and picked up her cup and saucer. “All right. The Dusenberry talk.”

  Willow took a sip of tea, then shifted in her chair, drawing herself up to speak. She was always poised—possibly a habit from her vocation—and her voice was soft and rich.

  “Captain Samuel Dusenberry was the quartermaster at Fort Marcy Post from 1849 until April 5th of 1855, when he was murdered in his study.”

  In this house, I could hear her add, but she spared me.

  “He was originally from Brooklyn, New York, and had been in the army since receiving his commission at the age of twenty in 1834. He was an exemplary officer and was buried with honors in the military cemetery north of Santa Fe.”

  I nodded. I'd visited his grave on more than one occasion. It was becoming one of the places I went when I needed to get away and think.

  “Do you want to hear the details of the murder?”

  I took a swallow of tea. “He was shot, I believe.”

  “Yes. In the back, twice, while he was seated at his desk. The killer was never found.”

  “Was it a robbery?”

  “No. Nothing was taken from the house. The captain's body was found by his servant, Private David Rogers, on the morning of April 6th. The post doctor's report stated that the captain must have been shot the previous evening. The murder weapon was a Colt Navy pistol, a common sidearm at the time. One of the balls was found embedded in the wall of the study.”

  “Navy sidearm?”

  “Military in general, though lots of civilians had them, too.”

  I gave a small sigh. “So there's no clue who killed him.”

  “It was probably a man. Probably someone he knew.”

  “What could he have done to make someone want to murder him?”

  “That, I don't know.” She sipped her tea, watching me over the rim of the cup.

  Movement caught my eye and I looked up to see Rosa, my newest server, in the neighboring alcove, petite and pretty in her wisteria-purple dress and lace apron. She picked up a place setting from the low table and carried it to the Lily alcove at the front of the parlor.

  “Well, thank you,” I said to Willow. “Can you recommend any books that might mention him?”

  “I don't know of any. My information came from the obituary and the post records. I didn't dig into his career before he came to Santa Fe. He'd been at Fort Marcy Post for six years.”

  Rosa returned to the Rose alcove next to where we were seated, put the place setting back where it had been, and stood frowning at it. I lifted the cozy from our teapot and freshened our cups.

  “Was there a report in the newspaper?”

  “Just a couple of lines about the investigation was all I found, other than the obituary. 'Anyone with information please come forward.' You could look through later issues to see if there's any more; I just checked the month after his death.”

  “I guess if there'd been more the Trust would have known about it.”

  “Not necessarily. It might be worth digging a little deeper. I could help.”

  “Would you? I don't really know where to begin.”

  “The state archives are a good place to start. The Museum of New Mexico might have something, too—they have a lot of the old records and artifacts from the military post. I can introduce you to one of the curators.”

  “Thank you, that would be great.”

  “My pleasure. I'm glad you're taking an interest in the captain.”

  Rosa picked up the place setting again and carried it back to Lily. I finished my scone and tried to ignore her; I would ask her what was up after my
guest departed.

  “How is your tour doing?” I asked, offering Willow a plate of sweets.

  “Quite well, thanks. Business is up. Captain Dusenberry has brought out some repeat customers.”

  We chatted about her tour over strawberry meringue puffs, wisteria-blossom petits fours, and chocolate mousse cups. Willow was interested in offering a combination spirit-tour-and-tea package for the summer tourist season; she'd rearrange her usual tour so that the tearoom was the final stop, and her customers would have afternoon tea in the dining parlor that had once been Captain Dusenberry's study. I agreed to try it for the month of July.

  The part of me that wanted to say “no” made a feeble protest, but I swatted it down. Regardless of my personal doubts and discomforts, I couldn't deny that Captain Dusenberry was good for my business, too.

  When Willow and I were both sugared out, I flagged down Rosa and asked her to fetch a box for the leftover sweets, which I insisted Willow take home. I walked her to the front door and said goodbye on the portal with its wisteria-twined wooden columns.

  They might not be over a century old, but the vines were still impressive, climbing up onto the portal's roof and nearly reaching the upper-story windows of the old house. They were lush now that summer had arrived, heavy with leaves and the occasional cluster of pale purple blossoms giving off a heady perfume. A couple of bees drifted around the flowers.

  “Thank you for a lovely tea,” Willow said. “I'll call you about going to the museum.”

  “Yes, thanks. And thank you for the information about the captain.”

  “Any time. You know I'm glad to help.” She gazed up at the wisterias as she said that, and I had the feeling she wasn't just talking to me.

  I watched her walk down the path between my rosebushes, which were happily blooming in the June sunshine. I had planted them the previous fall, and they seemed to be enjoying their new home.

  Going back in, I found Rosa clearing the dishes from the Iris alcove where Willow and I had been sitting. Confusing, having a server with a flower name, since I had named all the alcoves after flowers in a fit of romanticism when I was designing the tearoom's layout. I had needed to hire someone fast, though, and my chef, Julio, had suggested his cousin Rosa.

  “Thank you,” I told her. “You don't have to do that if you're busy.”

  Rosa shook her head, smiling. “Dee's got the party in Hyacinth, and that's it until four.”

  I nodded, picked up the tiered tea tray, and followed her back to the butler's pantry. I watched her long, black braid swaying as I tried to think of a way to ask what she'd been doing in Rose and Lily without coming across as a snoop.

  I didn't know her well, yet. She'd only hired on two weeks ago, as a replacement for Vi, who had landed a summer job as an apprentice with the Santa Fe Opera.

  Come to think of it, Vi had a flower name, too: Violetta. Her mother was opera-mad and had named her for the title character in La Traviata.

  Vi was thrilled to death about being an apprentice, once I convinced her that I wasn't angry and she'd get her job at the tearoom back when the season was over. That had been a bit of a rash promise—my budget was tight as a drum--but I had hopes that business would increase enough by September to enable me to keep it.

  We piled the dishes by the washing station, where Dee's brother Mick was gallantly working his way through the huge stack that had accumulated since the morning, bopping to the music in his earbuds. Everything about him was long—limbs, hair, fingers—but he was dextrous and always handled the fragile china with competent care. I gave him a smile and he nodded.

  Rosa went into the butler's pantry and started to tidy. I strolled up front to the gift shop and looked at the reservation list. As she had said, there was one party coming in at four. They were assigned to sit in Jonquil, not Rose or Lily. Why the back-and-forth with the place setting, then?

  A puzzlement.

  Dee, one of those lovely young blondes who always look so fresh and pretty, stepped in from Hyacinth, a teapot in her hands. “Kris is looking for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, glancing at my watch, a gold pendant that had been my grandmother’s and been left to me by my own mother.

  I'd promised to meet with my office manager after my tea with Willow. Giving up on the puzzle for the moment, I hurried upstairs to Kris's office, which shared a doorway with mine.

  The slanting roof made the upstairs rooms seem smaller than they actually were. Kris's desk was near the window, which was open to the gentle breeze. The floor creaked beneath my feet—a loose floorboard I'd been meaning to have fixed—but Kris didn't look up from her computer monitor. Unusual; she normally greeted me when I came in. I sat in one of her guest chairs.

  She wore a baby-doll dress with a sweetheart neckline and little puffed sleeves, except it was black. It also had lacings all up the front. Her black hair brushed her jaw, the trimmed edge so perfect it looked knife-sharp. Her nails were polished in frosted white.

  Kris’s Goth styles actually suited the tearoom much better than I had expected at first, and she always dressed with care. Having seen what she wore when she was going out with her friends, I was grateful for the restraint she exercised in choosing her work attire.

  I watched her, and she continued to avoid my gaze. I wondered if something was amiss or if she was just feeling especially Goth that day. I was tempted to ask, but didn't want to offend her. Though we worked well together, I was always conscious of the authority my being her employer gave me. We were close enough in age to make that feel a bit awkward, and I tried to be careful not to patronize her.

  “Would you like some tea?” I offered.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “You must be floating by now. How was your tea with Willow?”

  “Fine. She's got some interesting ideas that might bring us more business.”

  “Good.” Kris glanced at me as she handed me a printed page. “Here's the adjusted budget for June.”

  I looked at the page. Business was up, but so were expenses.

  The tearoom was picking up steam as the summer tourist season in Santa Fe came into full swing. The murder that had occurred there in April was almost forgotten, except by a few people who thought it fascinating and came to visit the tearoom regularly on account of it, about which I could hardly complain.

  We were busy every day and I would soon need to hire more staff, which was a mixed blessing. The budget was tight—scary tight—and most days I spent as much time in the office with Kris as I did downstairs in the tearoom with my customers.

  “Is there any way we can hire another dishwasher?” I asked. “By the time Mick gets here things are stacked to the roof.”

  Kris shook her head and reached for her mouse, twitching it across the desktop as she gazed at her monitor. “Another part-timer is too much. Mick’s not working forty hours, though. You could see if he’s willing to come in an hour earlier. Would that help?”

  “Anything would help! What about two hours earlier?”

  “That would kick him to full-time. Do you want to give him full benefits?”

  I bit my lip. One thing I’d insisted on was that my full-time employees—Julio, Kris, and now Rosa—have decent health care benefits. I subscribed to a plan through the chamber of commerce. It was expensive, but I felt strongly that offering good benefits would increase the loyalty of my staff. I only wished I could offer health care to the part-timers as well—all of my servers were part-time except for Rosa—but at this stage it just wasn’t feasible.

  “Let me talk to him,” I said. “Maybe we’ll try an hour earlier for now.”

  “OK.”

  We moved on to review my chef’s orders for next week. Expensive as well, but good food required good ingredients and I wasn’t about to scrimp. The Wisteria Tearoom was already enjoying a reputation for high quality and I had no intention of cutting corners. I approved Julio’s list.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “That’s it for now.�
��

  I paused, hoping Kris would say something about whatever was making her frown, but she kept her attention on her monitor. “All right, thank you, Kris. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

  She nodded absently, pale fingernails gleaming in a ray of sunlight as she danced her mouse again. I left her to her numbers.

  Wanting to spend some time outdoors, I paused to fetched my shears and a broad-brimmed straw hat from a closet above the stairwell. The closet and the tiny bathroom beside it were on my list for a remodel; both were old and in need of updating, but they'd have to wait until the tearoom's cash flow improved.

  Downstairs, I stopped in the pantry to grab a vase and fill it with water, then stepped into the kitchen to talk to Mick. He was open to coming in an hour earlier, nodding enthusiastically at the suggestion. Maybe he would use the extra income to actually paint his '77 Mustang a single color. Not that I minded it; he parked it in back of the kitchen, so no guests could see it even from the dining parlor.

  I went out into the garden and sighed with pleasure at the scent of the roses in the afternoon sun. They were mostly hybrid tea roses, with a few floribundas and one wickedly-expensive David Austin, a Wildeve, that I'd placed at the southeast corner of the front portal. Planning and planting the rose garden had been therapeutic for me as I grieved for my father, and now that they were in their first full bloom, I was glad that I'd invested the time and money.

  Setting the vase at my feet, I began clipping blooms, inhaling each one's perfume before slipping it into the water. Some were spicy, some lightly sweet, some as rich as chocolate.

  Their colors were delicious, too, ranging from palest pink to the flamingo-hued Tropicana to deep velvety red, and beyond. Peace roses in multicolored pastels. A Sterling Silver, almost the same hue as the wisterias. I smiled, gazing over my garden as I clipped one of the lavender blossoms, pleased that my vision had become reality.