Intermezzo Read online

  PATRICE GREENWOOD

  Evennight Books

  Cedar Crest, New Mexico

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  INTERMEZZO: FAMILY MATTERS

  Copyright © 2021 by Patrice Greenwood

  All rights reserved

  Evennight Books

  P.O. Box 1644

  Cedar Crest, NM 87008

  Cover photo: Pati Nagle

  ISBN: 978-1-952653-00-1

  First Edition January 2021

  http://evennight.com

  Digital version: 20210122pgn

  for Vivien,

  who wears the best hats

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Deborah Ross and Chris Krohn for their help with this book, and to all my buddies in the Treehouse (treehousewriters.com) for their support and encouragement.

  A Note from the Author

  Dear Readers,

  This book is a little different. I’d like to explain a few things so you’ll know what to expect.

  ~ This is not a mystery. The next Wisteria Tearoom Mystery will be A Valentine for One. Yes, it is in the works. No, I do not know the publication date.

  ~ This is not a novel. It’s a novella, about a third as long as a novel, yet it is a complete story. It is short and sweet. That's why it costs less than the novels.

  ~ This is not “leftovers.” It is not text that was edited out of a novel. It’s all original material that is focused on the characters in the series.

  ~ Where it fits: this story falls between book 7, A Black Place and a White Place, and book 8, A Valentine for One.

  ~ Finally, if you have not encountered the Wisteria Tearoom books before, this is not the best one to start with. Any of the mysteries—the full-length novels—is a better choice. Since they’re sequential, I recom­mend starting with book 1, A Fatal Twist of Lemon.

  I hope you enjoy this little interlude. Meanwhile, I’m off to the writing chair to work on book 8.

  —Patrice Greenwood

  1

  Istood back, looking at the two charming alcoves we were about to destroy, and couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss. Poppy and Hyacinth were both small—the smallest alcoves in the tearoom, accommodating only two guests in each—but parties of two were a large part of our business and I had worked to make both of these seatings beautiful. Poppy had cheerful red chairs, a sweet little standing lamp with a red beaded shade, and a black lacquer oriental screen with red peonies and gold cranes. Hyacinth’s chairs were a dreamy, soft blue, complemented by tapestry screens of lush blue and lavender flowers. In my heart, I didn’t want to give them up.

  You’ll increase the square footage of the gift shop by half, said Kris’s voice in my head. And you’ll get rid of that pass-through in Poppy. It’s a win.

  The pass-through was awkward, true. Parties in Poppy had to put up with people stepping through to the two alcoves beyond it, Dahlia and Violet. But no one had ever complained.

  My Aunt Nat, who had helped me set it all up months ago, gave me a knowing smile. “It’s hard, isn’t it? So many memories.”

  I nodded. The tearoom had been open less than a year, but there were many good memories. And some not so good, of course. Life was like that.

  “Let’s go, hija,” said Uncle Manny, leaning on the hand truck he’d brought from his delivery truck. “I want to catch a game this afternoon.”

  Sighing, I let go. Farewell, Hyacinth and Poppy. I had photographs to remember them by. This wasn’t the first change we had made to the tearoom’s seatings, and it would doubtless not be the last.

  “Screens first,” I said. “Take them upstairs, please.”

  Manny stepped forward, carefully lifting the lacquer screen away from the furnishings of Poppy and folding it before carrying it away. I picked up an empty storage box and set it on one of the red chairs. Nat brought tissue paper over from the sales counter, and we began carefully wrapping the ornaments on the tables and putting them in the box.

  Nat picked up a poppy-bedecked teapot that had long ago lost its lid and was now serving as a vase. The white lilies and red carnations it held were beginning to fade. I watched with a twinge of possessiveness as she carried it over to the sales counter. Glancing at the framed print of a painting of poppies that hung on the wall beside the fireplace, I decided to keep it there, in honor of Poppy. Same with the print of hyacinths on the other side.

  It was a good business decision, I reminded myself for the zillionth time. It would improve our cash flow. But I would still miss these alcoves. Money was nice, but it wasn’t cozy.

  We finished packing the ornaments in short order. I gazed sadly at the empty tables.

  “Where do you want the lamp?” Nat asked, unplugging the standing lamp from the discreet power strip tucked against the cupboard that had divided the two alcoves.

  “In the hall, by the foot of the stairs. We’ll put the chairs there, too.”

  “All of them?”

  “Just the red ones.”

  I hadn’t decided what to do with the chairs from Hyacinth. I didn’t want the hall to get too cluttered, and we already had the gold chairs from Marigold-that-was sitting by the front door.

  I paused, remembering the Room of Many Chairs at Ghost Ranch, and had to smile. No, we would not have the Hall of Many Chairs here. The blue chairs would go upstairs, facing the television I had recently unearthed from storage, and the tapestry screens would separate them from the sitting area by the front window. The upper hall was gradually becoming my living room, an extension of my suite.

  Except that I wouldn’t be living here much longer. Tony and I still needed to find a place. The clock was quietly ticking away the seconds before the wedding. We needed to find a venue for that, too.

  One thing at a time, I told myself, and opened the doors of the waist-high cupboard that stood between Poppy and Hyacinth as a divider and support for one of the tapestry screens. I removed a couple of boxes of gift shop inventory and set them on the sales counter. The cupboard would go upstairs, too, replacing the storage boxes that were currently holding the TV.

  It didn’t take long at all. Manny hauled the furniture upstairs, and Nat got out the vacuum and gave the oriental rug a good going-over before I rolled it and took it upstairs as well. Returning to the gift shop, I stood in the doorway to appreciate the newly opened space. The wood floor gleamed, and the room felt less cramped.

  We would fill the space, of course—with a second table of inventory to match the existing one, and two more display cabinets along the south wall. Manny had it all in his van outside: the cabinets and two matching credenzas, which would go back-to-back to form the table, along with a board cut to fit on top of them.

  The room would still have a more open quality, though, and I liked that. The credenzas would provide more storage for inventory, and shoppers would have more to choose from. They would also be able to enjoy the fireplace that the two alcoves had shared, each having only a partial view.

  Looking at the fireplace now, I shivered and thought about making a fire. It was a cold day, and Manny had propped the front door open so he could bring in the new furniture.

  “Come on,” Nat said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the now-unobstructed doorway to Dahlia. She led me through to Violet, where a cozy-covered teapot and two cups rested on the table between the two chairs. Nat pointed to the chair by the window with a commanding finger, and I obeyed. She took the other chair, lifted the cozy, and poured tea for us both.

  “When did you make this?” I asked.

  “While you were upstairs arranging the furniture.”

  “Thank you,”
I said, warming my hands around the cup. It was oolong, a tea that demanded one relax and pay attention. I loved that the French called it thé bleu, “blue tea.” I inhaled the steam, fragrant with a hint of oxidation, then let out a long breath and leaned back in the wing chair.

  “It’ll be splendid,” Nat said. “You’ll see.”

  “I know it will be. I’m just a little worried about losing the seatings. We’re nearly booked up for the week of Valentine’s Day.”

  “Didn’t Kris say the open seating in the dining parlor would make up for it?”

  “Yes.”

  In December, we had offered cream tea in the dining parlor on a first come, first served basis, and it had been a big success. Shoppers without reservations had been able to relax with tea and scones at the large dining table, with the only exceptions being times when the room had been booked for afternoon tea by a private party. But we didn’t get all that many big parties, and the dining parlor would have stood empty if not for the cream tea. Kris had done the math, and even with the lower price of cream tea, the flow-through and the higher capacity for guests (the table could seat up to ten) had more than equaled the revenue from Poppy and Hyacinth.

  I could, of course, convert the dining parlor into alcoves. It was almost as big as the main parlor, and could be divided into two grand alcoves or four regular ones. But I didn’t want to do that. The dining parlor was my formal dining room, and also my conference room for occasions when I needed one, and I didn’t want to give it up. Besides, moving my parents’ dining table would be a pain, especially if we put it upstairs.

  Also, I had a feeling Captain Dusenberry wouldn’t approve. It had been his study. It was his room—the room where he had died.

  “You’ll have the extra income from Valentine’s Day itself,” Nat added.

  Called back to business, I nodded. Valentine’s Day was a Sunday this year, and I had yielded to customers’ requests and Kris’s advice that we open that day, with a special “romance” package including fresh roses and chocolate truffles for each guest to take home. Even with the higher price of this offer, we had instantly sold out all the seatings for the day, including the dining parlor. Kris had suggested extending the special for the whole week. I had hesitated only briefly about working on Valentine’s. Tony was more pragmatic than sentimental, so I had no personal reason not to work. We could celebrate in the evening. Or on Monday.

  If he even wanted to celebrate Valentine’s. If he wasn’t working.

  I took another sip of oolong.

  Small thumps and rumbles reached us from the gift shop. Manny was still maneuvering the heavy things. I’d offered to help, but he’d declined. I had a feeling he thought I’d just be in the way.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I turned to Nat with a smile. “How are the plans for Paris going?”

  “We have too many of them. We need to pick and choose.”

  I nodded. Paris was on my bucket list, and there were many museums, many tearooms, many historic attractions. Monet’s gardens at Giverny! Versailles! Wineries and cheese makers, not to mention fine dining. I could easily fill a month or more.

  Would Tony be interested in Paris? We hadn’t talked about a honeymoon yet...

  I finished my tea, and set down the cup and saucer. Nat gave me a questioning look, one hand poised over the tea cozy. I shook my head. The thumps from the gift shop had ceased. I stood and went through Dahlia.

  Manny was adjusting the board on top of the new credenzas. It was solid oak, stained to match them, and it looked great.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Thank you, Manny.”

  He grinned. “You’re welcome, hija. Now I’m gonna steal my wife and get out of here.”

  “I owe you a dinner, remember.”

  Manny had refused to accept payment for his help, so I’d offered to treat him and Nat to dinner at a nice Italian restaurant nearby. We hadn’t yet set a date. Manny nodded, and wheeled his hand truck out the front door, picking up the brick he’d used to prop it open.

  Nat came into the gift shop with the tea things on a tray, which she set on the sales counter. “It looks beautiful, Ellen!”

  I nodded. “Thank you for helping. And for lending me Manny.”

  “Our pleasure.” She gave me a hug and a kiss, then reached for the tea tray.

  “I’ll get that. Go and get Manny settled for his game.”

  “All right, sweetie. See you tomorrow.”

  I saw her out and locked the front door behind her. I had the rest of the day to myself.

  I carried the tea tray to the kitchen. There was still tea in the pot, so I poured myself another cup and sipped it while I washed the dishes.

  Outside, the sun was bright and the air, I knew, was crisply cold. Late January: the holiday tourists had mostly gone home, and the streets were fairly quiet. It should be a relaxing time, before the Valentine’s rush, but the need-to-dos were niggling at me, exerting a subtle pressure.

  It was my day off, I reminded them. I’d already worked on tearoom business. Whatever else I did would be for me. Preferably something fun.

  I finished my tea and washed the cup, then went upstairs. As I reached the upper floor, there was the ghost of Hyacinth: the two chairs, a small table between them, the oriental rug beneath them, and the tapestry screens behind them. I smiled, and sat in one of the chairs just to see what it felt like. The television, now perched on the cupboard, was framed by the oriental screen, with the chandelier above. Much more classy than a stack of cardboard boxes.

  I hadn’t been sure about the TV. I’d actually enjoyed not having it for most of a year, but the cooking shows were indeed wonderful. I didn’t much care for watching the news.

  My phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket, guiltily hoping it wasn’t Gina, who would want to talk about wedding plans.

  It was Tony. I smiled and answered.

  “Hi!”

  “Hey, babe. Want to go apartment hunting?”

  “Sure. Have you had lunch?”

  “Not yet.”

  It was Sunday; restaurants would be busy with churchgoers.

  “I’ll fix us something.”

  “Be right over.”

  “OK, bye,” I said, though I knew he’d already hung up.

  I went into my suite and poked through the fridge in my kitchenette. One advantage of moving would be having an actual kitchen. My search yielded eggs, butter, English muffins, and some spinach that was starting to wilt.

  Aha! Eggs Florentine. All I needed was a lemon.

  Fortunately, there were always lemons in the tearoom. I fetched one from downstairs, and pulled out pots and pans, humming while I braised the spinach and made Hollandaise sauce. When I heard Tony’s bike arrive, I slid the eggs into hot water to poach and turned on the toaster oven to brown the muffins, then went downstairs to let him in.

  He was scrubbing his feet on the doormat when I opened the door. He looked up with a grin, came inside and pushed the door shut as he swept me into his arms for a kiss. He smelled like winter and leather.

  I returned the kiss warmly, then squirmed free and led him upstairs. “I don’t want the eggs to overcook.”

  They were perfect, and I hastily assembled the muffins and spinach on plates, then slipped an egg on top of each muffin and poured Hollandaise over all.

  “Wow,” Tony said, as we sat at the café table. “This is fancy!”

  “It’s what I had,” I told him.

  “Mm,” he replied, mouth already full.

  I smiled and cut myself a bite, egg yolk oozing, a streak of darker gold against the Hollandaise. This was one of my favorite dishes, and I savored the silky sauce, tang of lemon, astringent spinach and the crunch of the muffin.

  It was not a low-calorie meal. We would make up for it by walking, I told myself.

  Besides, we weren’t drinking champagne, so it wasn’t completely decadent.

  “You got some new furniture,” Tony commented when he’d finished his first muffin. He n
odded toward the hall.

  “It’s from Poppy and Hyacinth. We dismantled them to make the gift shop bigger.”

  Tony nodded, mouth full again. I had mentioned to him that I was considering the change, but it had been a few days since I’d seen him, and the decision had been made in the meantime.

  “How’s your case going?” I asked, though I knew it must be going well or he wouldn’t be here.

  “Wrapped it up yesterday. Just paperwork left.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Wish they were all this easy. Perp confessed the minute we showed up at his door.”

  I nodded, trying to remember if Tony had told me anything about the case. Usually he didn’t, unless he wanted to ask a question he thought I could answer.

  Or unless I had found the body. I took another bite of Florentine. Not going to think about that, thanks.

  When Tony had finished and I had discreetly scraped up as much sauce as I could get off my plate with my fork, we rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

  “Should we look online for rentals?” I asked.

  “I picked up a paper,” Tony said.

  “I’ll get a highlighter.”

  We settled on the sofa by the front window. Outside, the sky was sharp blue, with a scattering of light clouds. Maybe the sun would warm things up a bit. Melt down the snow.

  We perused the classified ads and marked anything that looked remotely interesting, including a couple of places that were more expensive than the monthly rent we had agreed we could afford. Anything more than ten minutes away from the tearoom in morning traffic, we disqualified. Tony could check in to his job from anywhere; I had to be in the tearoom by at least nine. I could plan on coming in early, when the kitchen staff arrived, and avoid the rush hour traffic that way, but it would make for long days for me. Twelve hours, basically—seven to seven—not counting commuting time.

  Musing on that, I realized I was putting in nine or ten hours most days anyway. I hadn’t thought it was that much. Usually I was in the office, fielding administrative tasks from Kris, and struggling to keep up with messages. But if we were short-handed or particularly busy downstairs, I would help out there.