A Bodkin for the Bride Page 19

  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!

  14

  Tommy Swazo had died less than ten yards from where Captain Dusenberry had died, both of gunshot wounds. A shiver went through me as I recalled the sound of Tony’s gun. Two shots. The Captain had also been shot twice.

  Could this house be a vortex of violence? Would I never be free of the shadow of death?

  I shook myself. It wasn’t that bad. It seemed so right now, but we’d recover. The story would fade, and the tearoom I’d worked so hard to establish would go on. It had to.

  I didn’t want to think about what would happen if the tearoom failed. I’d be in debt forever. I’d have to sell the house and get a job, probably as a teacher. I dreaded having to deal with the current school system. The mere thought nudged me closer to depression.

  Kris came in with the bank bag. “Saturday was a good day,” she said.

  “Good. Have we had cancellations?”

  “A few.”

  I nodded. “Not surprising. I just hope it doesn’t turn into an avalanche.”

  “Mrs. Olavssen booked a reservation for tomorrow.”

  I winced. Leave it to the Bird Woman to be the first on the scene. She’d wheedle me for information about the shooting. Maybe I’d spend Tuesday upstairs. In bed.

  “Well, it’s nice to have loyal patrons,” I said, trying to look at the bright side.

  Kris smiled. “Have a good lunch.”

  Lunch? Oh, yeah. Food. I’d kind of skipped breakfast.

  I didn’t feel hungry. Maybe I’d stop for a bite after seeing Loren. Fetching a tweed jacket from my suite, I slipped my phone into one pocket and the envelope for the Hospice Center in the other, and headed out with the bank bag.

  At the foot of the stairs, I heard voices from the kitchen. Curious, I peeked in and saw a vaguely familiar blonde guy leaning against the counter, watching Julio work. A bosun-necked shirt exposed a tempting glimpse of male shoulder. He looked up and smiled, and I remembered: he was Julio’s roommate.

  “Andre,” I said, going over to shake hands. “Nice to see you.”

  “Hi, Ellen. Julio wanted some company, and I had the day off. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “As long as you don’t share our trade secrets with Santacafé. How’s it going over there?”

  “Pretty well.”

  Julio glanced up. “He’s in line for a promotion.”

  “Is he? Congratulations!”

  “Thanks,” Andre said.

  “I’m going out,” I told Julio. “Need me to pick up anything?”

  “Still making this week’s list. There’s nothing urgent.”

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Andre said.

  I was about to say that it wasn’t necessary, but he was already at the kitchen’s back door, so I smiled my thanks and went out. I hesitated at the sight of two men loitering in my driveway. One of them looked familiar—a reporter?

  Andre stepped between me and them as they started toward me. “Ms. Rosings isn’t commenting,” he said, arms out in a herding-away gesture.

  Amazed and grateful, I made a beeline for my car. A dark patch on the ground made me freeze. Carefully, I stepped around it, got in the driver’s seat, and threw Andre a grateful look. He smiled as I started the engine and backed out past the scowling newsmen.

  How kind of Andre, and of Julio! I didn’t doubt for a second that my chef had called his friend in to help buffer me from the press.

  The day was pretty, though rather chilly, with large puffy clouds in the sky. I rolled down my window as I drove through town, imagining I detected the scent of rain. I’d left a bit early, so I stopped by the bank first, then headed for the Hospice Center.

  Loren was in the lobby when I came in, dressed in a nice shirt and slacks, sage green over beige. He smiled, but gave me a rather searching look.

  “Good to see you, Ellen. I half expected you to cancel.”

  “I gather you saw the news.”

  He nodded. “Let’s go on back.”

  The little lounge was again empty. I couldn’t help a sigh of relief as I sank into the sofa with a cup of coffee. This place felt safe.

  “I’m glad you decided to come,” Loren said.

  “Well, I couldn’t cancel. I promised to tell you about the Bird Woman.”

  “Bird Woman?”

  “Our regular customer. The one who played the Andrews Sisters.”

  “Oh, yes. Why is she the Bird Woman?”

  “Well, she looks like one. Oh, my aunt said to tell you hello,” I said. “Do you remember her? Natasha Wheeler?”

  “Of course. She was there on Saturday, right?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  He smiled. “Please tell her hello back for me.”

  “I will.”

  I swallowed some coffee, then took the envelope from my pocket. “Here’s a donation for the Center.”

  “Thank you,” he said, setting it on the table between us. “How are you doing?”

  I sighed and stared at the mug in my hands. “I’ve been better.”

  “There wasn’t much detail on the news.”

  “It was Daniel Swazo’s brother.”

  “Oh!"

  I told him all of it, trusting his discretion. He listened, nodding now and then but not interrupting. My recitation was pretty incoherent, because I kept backtracking to explain things like why Tony was having supper at Nat’s house.

  “We’ve been trying to get together for a movie, and he finally had a
night off, so he came over but in the meantime Swazo was there,” I said, not very coherently. “You met Detective Aragón, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” I drank some coffee, suddenly embarrassed.

  “You’ve known him for a while, I gather?”

  “Since the tearoom opened last spring. He investigated the murder. The first murder,” I added bitterly.

  “I see.”

  “Do you think I’m a corpse magnet?”

  Loren looked startled. “A what?”

  “It’s just that there’ve been so many murders, in less than a year.”

  “Not all at the tearoom.”

  “True, but—”

  “And this last one wasn’t a murder.”

  “I hope not. It depends what the legal experts think.”

  He was silent. I drank some more coffee, feeling depressed. It had been good to talk it out, but that didn’t change the fact that Tony was in trouble, possibly big trouble, because of me.

  I looked up and found Loren watching me, a slight, worried frown on his face. I’d confounded him.

  Way to go, Rosings.

  I put my mug down. “Thank you for listening. You’ve been a big help, but perhaps I shouldn’t come again.”

  Dismay fleeted across his face, quickly replaced by studied calm. “Why not?”

  “Well, I think maybe there are some personal feelings going on.”

  He blinked, then relaxed into a wry smile. “I’ve always had a terrible poker face.”

  “It’s OK.”

  He stood up. “No, I apologize. I can’t counsel you any more, in this situation. I should have....” He paced a couple of steps toward the kitchenette and back. “If you want a different counselor, there are others here. Or if you’d rather go somewhere else, I can make some recommendations, but I’m afraid they’re not free.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about that.”

  Conscious of a sense of disappointment, I stood and carried my mug to the kitchenette. Loren leaned back against a counter, watching me from a distance.

  “I do like you, Ellen. I’d like to know you better.” I turned to face him, and he held up a hand. “I understand—don’t worry. I’d still like to be friends, if that’s an option.”

  “You’d settle for that?”

  “Sure.” His gaze on me was soft, making me doubt whether he really could settle, even if he thought he could. “Beats nothing,” he added.

  “I don’t want to string you along.”

  “I’m a grown-up. And I do have my eyes open.”

  Pretty eyes, too. Amazing clear blue. I hoped I wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Well,” I said slowly, “I’m kind of in one-day-at-a-time mode.”

  “That works.”

  We gazed at each other for a long while. It was perfectly comfortable, which rather surprised me. I could stare into his eyes without worrying about ... anything, really.

  “I’d better go,” I said, without moving.

  “OK.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Thanks for not being mad. I hope you’re not mad?”

  “No.”

  “I notice your hiccups are gone.”

  “Yes. But I don’t recommend this particular cure.”

  He chuckled. “As long as you can joke, it’s not too bad.”

  I went back to the couch and collected my purse. Loren followed, still keeping a careful distance. Considerate of him.

  “Maybe in a week or so I’ll call and we can go to lunch. Dutch treat,” he added as I shot him a look, then he grinned. “I still want to hear about the Bird Woman.”

  I laughed. He walked with me out to the lobby. A whisper of evergreen scent followed us.

  “Good to see you, Ellen,” he said at the door. “Let me know if you want some referrals.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  I got in my car, feeling a bit light-headed, probably from coffee and tea and emotion and no food. Not being in the mood to ponder about where to eat, I headed for a favorite standby: the French Pastry Shop at La Fonda. It was autumn and they were serving French onion soup.

  While I was enjoying my soup and a small salad, my phone buzzed. I took it out to check the caller: Tony.

  “Hi,” I said, my heart beating fast all at once.

  “Hi.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “OK. Nothing new.”

  I bit my lip. What to ask? What not to ask?

  “Things OK with you?” he said.

  “Yeah. I’ve been dodging the press.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” I said, smiling. He’d said the same thing to me last night. “I’ve got people running interference for me. It’s pretty sweet of them.”

  “Not surprised. People like you.”

  “So, are you coming for dinner?”

  Long pause. I held my breath.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  Oh man. Was he building a wall? But at least he was willing to see me.

  “What do you like?”

  “Anything. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you make. Should I bring some wine or beer or something?”

  “I’ve got wine. If you want something else, feel free.”

  “OK. What time?”

  “Seven? Or would you rather eat earlier?”

  “Seven’s fine. See you then.”

  Click.

  “OK, bye,” I said, knowing he was gone.

  I finished my lunch, pondering what to make for him. Something he couldn’t or wouldn’t eat out, and something that didn’t involve baking, since I didn’t have an oven upstairs and I didn’t want to dine downstairs.

  Steak was too easy, and I didn’t know if he liked fish, so I settled on chicken. Maybe with a nice risotto, and something from the wine cellar. I thought through my recipes and decided on a cream sauce with shallots and brandy that I’d made up myself.

  On the way out, I made the obligatory inspection of the pastry case. Having plenty of sweets on hand at the tearoom, I passed on the napoleons and tarts, but I bought a baguette and, as an afterthought, a couple of croissants. I loved croissants for breakfast, and they weren’t on the tearoom’s menu.

  As I walked to my car I remembered the doll and the knife I’d bought for Nat and Manny. Better get them out of the trunk now; if the press were staking out my house, I wouldn’t want to take the time in my driveway. I retrieved the bag that held them both and set it beside the bread on the passenger seat.

  I was having second thoughts about the knife, though. It was beautiful, but I wouldn’t have minded never seeing any of Daniel’s knives again. Maybe I’d set it aside and find something else for Manny.

  Next stop: grocery store. Chicken, shallots, cream, salad fixings, and some fruit and cheese. And yogurt—I was almost out.

  It was nearly one when I reached the tearoom. Julio and Andre must have been watching for me, because Andre came out of the kitchen as I parked, shooed off the reporters again, and helped me carry in the groceries. I followed him into the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” I said as we piled bags on the counter. “I owe you a nice meal.”

  “No, no. Glad to help.”

  “Mind if I go, boss?” Julio asked. “I’m caught up.”

  “Go ahead. See you tomorrow.”

  They left, locking the kitchen door behind them. I headed upstairs with my collection of bags and met Kris at the top of the stairs.

  “You headed out? Here’s the bank bag,” I said, shuffling grocery bags.

  “Yeah, unless you need me to stay. Want a hand with those?”

  “I’ve got it. Thanks. Watch out for the press.”

  I put away the groceries and the gifts, then checked my desk for messages. Rather than write a bunch of message slips, Kris had printed out a list—apparently from a spreadsheet—of all the media people who had called. Just looking at it depressed me; I stuck it in my “later” pile.

  There were a couple of r
egular messages, and an email from Willow. She hoped I wasn’t distressed about Tommy Swazo (how could I not be?), she could recommend a shaman who would cleanse the house but she wanted to talk about it first, and the spirit/tea combo tours were almost completely booked. Could we add some more dates? Perhaps Thursdays?

  Wow. Not even October yet.

  I pulled up the reservations chart and saw that the dining parlor was free on three out of four Thursdays in October. I filled in the same time slot Willow had booked for Wednesdays and Fridays, and an earlier slot on the one conflicting day, then sent the list to Willow for approval. I’d have to contact Mr. Quentin, too.

  While I had the reservation chart up, I glanced at the current week. A bit sparse, but that wasn’t surprising. It might have been worse. Thank goodness for the spirit tours.

  Was my beloved establishment doomed to become “that haunted tearoom?”

  I sighed, dashed off an email to Tony, warning him that the press was hanging around, then headed across the hall to do a whirlwind clean-up on my suite. Laundry, floors, bathroom, kitchenette. I hadn’t been this thorough in months.

  The table looked a little stark, so decided I wanted flowers and went downstairs. I was at the back door, shears and a vase in hand, when I remembered the press.

  I looked out through the lights that surrounded the door. Yes, there they were—hanging around at the end of the driveway. Frowning, I went down the hall to the front door, and peeked out the window lights there.

  A news van was parked at the curb. Past experience had taught me they were there to do a remote broadcast, probably on the six-o’clock news.

  Most annoying. I wanted flowers on my table, and fresh thyme and rosemary for the dinner, but I wasn’t willing to run the gauntlet to get them. I went into the main parlor and raided the vases in Rose for half a dozen pink and red roses. I’d be doing fresh flowers for the tearoom tomorrow, anyway.

  As I carried the vase upstairs, I wondered if I was a coward. Would it hurt me to talk to the press? Gina always said there was no such thing as bad publicity, but I didn’t know. This situation was different. With Tony’s job at risk, I didn’t want to rock the boat.

  I set the vase in the center of the table, then took a long, hot, luxurious shower. A pretty flowered skirt and a long-sleeved top made me feel feminine but not formal. Brush hair, touch of makeup, and I was presentable.