Intermezzo: Spirit Matters Page 4

  “Ellen,” she said, sounding slightly out of breath, “I want to have a séance.”

  “Oh, Kris.” I couldn’t hide my dismay.

  “After hours. We won’t disrupt business, but it has to be in the dining parlor.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea—”

  “I have to know,” she said, then stopped abruptly, her face crumpling. Without another word she turned and went into her office, shrugging out of her coat.

  Well, hell.

  I rubbed my hands over my face and took a deep breath, then stood and went to the credenza. I poured tea into a clean cup for Kris, refilled my own cup while I was there, and carried both into her office.

  She was sitting at her desk, wiping her eyes. Her coat hung sideways over the back of her guest chair, as if tossed there in haste. I put the teacups on her desk, carefully hung the coat on the coat rack out in the hall, then returned and sat across from Kris.

  “What do you have to know?” I asked gently, picking up my cup and saucer.

  She looked straight at me, eyes dry now, if a little red. “I have to know if Gabriel killed himself.”

  “But it was an accident,” I said.

  Kris shook her head. “He might have jumped.”

  “But, Margo—”

  “Margo was out of her mind. You know that.”

  “You’re suggesting he jumped, just trusting that he’d be able to catch his lanyard on that iron hook?”

  She picked up a pen and tapped the end against her desk, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “No. If he jumped, it was with the expectation that the fall would kill him.”

  “That isn’t that likely,” I said. “It was only one story.”

  “I didn’t say it was a reasonable expectation.”

  “But Gabriel had no reason to kill himself.”

  Kris winced, as though I had twisted a knife. I waited. Finally she met my gaze.

  “We argued,” she said in a tight voice.

  I nodded. I’d overheard a bit of it.

  “I said some things....” She seemed unable to continue—just stared unseeing at her desk.

  “Was it Dee?” I asked gently.

  She pursed her lips, then shook her head. “It isn’t Dee’s fault. It was Gabriel, not her.”

  “Kris, I can’t imagine your saying anything to make him want to die.”

  She looked at me, her mouth twisting wryly. “No?”

  Her expression made me doubt. She could be sharp, even cruel. Ever since I’d hired her I’d wondered, at times, what past experience had given her the cynical streak she occasionally showed. Such moments were brief; even now, her face softened into grief.

  “If I could just talk to him. I just want to set things straight.”

  “You don’t think it’s too late for that?”

  “No!”

  She banged a fist on her desk, making me jump and rattling her teacup, which landed askew in the saucer. She carefully straightened it.

  “I have to know. A séance is the best way to find out. Please, Ellen.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t talked to Willow.”

  Kris grimaced. “I did. She won’t do it. Even though she’s the one....”

  Abruptly, she picked up her teacup and took a swallow. “I heard her telling you about manifestations, and ether, and all that.”

  “Oh.” I sipped my own tea. “You know, the chances of a manifestation are probably pretty slim.”

  “That’s why it has to be here. Where he spent his last evening. A night he’d looked forward to, prepared for....” She paused, swallowed, and rubbed angrily at her eyes. “Anyway, I just want to try. I have to try.”

  I lifted my cup, but it was empty. I set it back down. “All right. After hours. But, Kris – I don’t want any ... any dark ...”

  “Black magic?” she supplied. “I’m not into that. Don’t worry.”

  “If Willow won’t do it, how are you going to...?”

  “I have a couple of friends who are into spirit stuff.”

  This did not fill me with confidence. “When do you want to do it?”

  “As soon as I can set it up. Tonight’s probably out, but maybe tomorrow.” With that, Kris turned to her computer, as if there were no more to be said.

  I got up and carried my cup to the credenza for a refill. I had a day to get in touch with Willow and ask her advice—not about running a séance, but about making sure it didn’t create havoc.

  As the snow melted under a cheerful November sun, the tearoom began to bustle. The cold weather had apparently inspired Santa Feans with a desire to get out and about. We had more walk-ins than usual, and I ended up helping downstairs for most of the day. True, I was partly giving Kris space, and partly avoiding further discussion of the séance. I knew it was unlikely that Kris would give up the idea, and I shamelessly shoved it aside, to be dealt with later. I admit to wishing for some miracle to make her change her mind.

  Gina Fiorelli, my best friend and incidentally my advertising agent, came by to whisk me away to a business lunch that we had scheduled before Halloween. Being a privileged person at the tearoom, she was allowed by my staff to come upstairs unescorted, and she caught me leaving a voice message for Tony Aragón. When she appeared in my doorway in a scarlet coat over a magnificent paisley dress in shades of green and bronze, I hastily ended my message and reached into my desk for my purse.

  “Happy November!” she said, enveloping me in an Estée-scented hug. “Let’s get to The Shed before it fills up with tourists.”

  She hustled me into my coat and out to her car. I made a feeble protest that we could walk, but she overruled me on grounds of the weather, and drove the short distance along Marcy Street to the little lot behind Hidalgo Plaza, some of the closest parking to The Shed.

  We entered through the north zaguan, one of three that gave access to the plaza. I couldn’t help glancing at the balcony as we crossed toward the southwest zaguan and Palace Avenue.

  Gina’s heels clicked on the old bricks, wet now with melting snow. She got ahead of me as I paused to look at a doorway in the west side that I’d seen many times but never given much thought. It was an old, wooden door with glass panes in the upper half, set into the ground floor under the south end of the balcony. The wood was painted white, and the glass was shrouded by a shade on the inside. A brass plate reading “OFFICE” was mounted on the adobe wall beside it, and a small, hand-lettered sign taped to the lower right pane said “Back at 2:00.”

  “Hurry up,” Gina called, “before the tourists eat all the soufflé!”

  I hurried through the southwestern zaguan and caught up with her on the covered walkway between Hidalgo Plaza and the smaller plazuela that gave access to The Shed. My thoughts circled like windblown leaves around Captain Dusenberry, Maria Hidalgo, and Gabriel.

  “What’re you frowning about?” Gina said, clutching the pager given to us by the hostess, as we stepped into The Shed’s small waiting room and gravitated to the little kiva fireplace. On this cold day, a fire burned brightly there, sending a bit of heat and some cheer into the room.

  I shook my head, trying to erase the tension from my forehead. “Nothing, really.”

  Gina gave me a quizzical look. “Don’t tell me there’s another body.”

  “No! God, no. We’re still dealing with the last one.”

  “I thought it was all wrapped up.”

  “Well—”

  The pager in Gina’s hand lit up and started playing music. We claimed our table and were led into one of the back rooms—through the passage where you have to duck your head to avoid hitting it on a centuries-old roof beam (much padded nowadays, and marked with a friendly sign with a picture of a duck, advising visitors to watch their heads). We settled in, ordered our lunch and a pair of Silver Coin margaritas, and drank a toast to a profitable holiday season.

  “Now, what’s bugging you?” Gina said. “Spill. I want your full attention for the ads, so get whatever it is off
your chest.”

  I took a restorative sip of my Silver Coin. “Kris wants to have a séance.”

  “Oh yeah?” Gina grinned. “Can I come?”

  I gave her an exasperated frown. “You’re as bad as the Bird Woman!”

  She laughed. “Remember the séance we had at that pajama party?”

  “We were fifteen!”

  Gina’s eyes narrowed as she chuckled. “We all thought we were really talking to Cleopatra!”

  “Until we caught Debbie Fisher pushing the pointer.” I took a longer pull at my drink, feeling better. “I doubt Kris is planning to use a Ouija board.”

  “Who’s she going to talk to? Gabriel, of course. Anyone else?”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t have thought Kris would go for that kind of thing. She’s pretty level-headed, for a Goth.”

  “She’s grieving. Grief makes you do weird things. It makes you grasp at straws.”

  “Yeah, but a séance?”

  “She heard Willow telling me about them, and I guess the idea stuck in her brain. May I see the ads now?”

  Gina opened her folio and poked at its contents. “Why was Willow telling you about séances?”

  I swallowed some more alcohol. “She was explaining ether and manifestations.”

  She looked up at me. “Say what?”

  I held Gina’s gaze briefly. “Manifestations. Like what Captain Dusenberry does with the lights.”

  Gina leaned back in her chair. “What did Willow say about that?”

  “Well, there’s this substance called ether—it’s not a physical substance, or not quite, but it can be used to make manifestations, and move things. I’m a little unclear on how it works.”

  “Sounds like baloney to me.” Gina returned to fishing in her folio.

  “No, it isn’t. The captain turned on the chandelier while we were talking. And then Willow asked him to blink it once for yes, twice for no, and started asking him questions. And he answered!”

  The excitement of communicating with the captain returned to me. Gina gave me a skeptical look.

  “How do you know someone else wasn’t flipping the switch?”

  “We were alone in the house.”

  Her brows drew together in a frown. “Had you left Willow alone in the room before this happened?”

  I blinked. “Maybe. I don’t recall.”

  “She could have messed with the wiring. Plugged a remote control or something into the light switch.”

  “Gina!”

  She shook her head. “It just sounds fishy to me.”

  “I thought you believed in Captain Dusenberry!” I said.

  “I do. I’m just not sure I believe in Willow.”

  Our lunches arrived, putting an end to the subject. I ate a few bites of enchilada in silence, trying to remember my exact movements during my conversation with Willow by the upstairs window.

  What would Willow have to gain from deceiving me? My credulity, was all I could think of, and since we had already done business together with the spirit-tour-and-tea thing, there was no need for her to persuade me.

  Unless she had something more elaborate planned.

  I tried, but couldn’t think of any nefarious motive that would inspire her to hoax me. Plus, she couldn’t have known that I’d ask her upstairs the previous day. Could she?

  We mopped up the last of our enchilada sauce with bits of garlic bread, dismissed the plates, and ordered dessert. The Shed’s famous lemon soufflé, baked in individual pots and served warm from the oven, was the obvious choice on a chilly day like this. While we waited, Gina spread printed drafts of my holiday advertising on the table between us.

  The ads were nicely designed, but they didn’t sing to me. I looked them over slowly, trying to figure out why. They had red and green ribbons and ornaments and all sorts of Christmasy images, along with teapots and teacups and people holding same while smiling.

  “There’s no food,” I realized while staring at a lovely photo of candy canes and truffles beside a teapot. “We really ought to showcase Julio’s food. It’s our trademark.”

  “Wisterias are your trademark. What’s wrong with the candy?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it, but it could be any restaurant in town. I’d like to see something that’s uniquely ours.”

  Gina sighed. “Our photographer’s booked up for a week. If we have to change the pictures, we’ll miss deadlines.”

  “Maybe just this one picture,” I said, tapping the candy canes. “I can get a photographer and have Julio do some samples of the December items.”

  “By Friday?”

  “I think so. I’m pretty sure.”

  Our soufflés arrived, and we gave them our full attention. I can’t remember ever eating a lemon soufflé at The Shed without moaning at least once.

  “Mm,” Gina said after her third bite. “Food of the gods.”

  I nodded, my mouth full of warm, silky, lemony heaven. Gina scooped up another spoonful, then paused.

  “OK, we can switch to a food shot. But if you don’t have a usable photo by Friday, we’ll have to go with this.” She gestured with her spoon toward the candy photo.

  “Deal,” I said.

  Mental note: call Kris’s friend Owen, the photographer. (I liked his work.) Also, warn Julio that we’ll need pretty samples of December food. Set it up for Thursday ... i.e., tomorrow.

  “Yikes!” I whispered.

  “Beg pardon?” Gina said.

  “Nothing.”

  I scraped the last of my soufflé from my dish and savored it, permitted myself one small sigh of satiation, then pulled out my company credit card. This was a business lunch, and therefore deductible. We split the bill, and Gina dropped me off at the tearoom. I went straight into the kitchen, where Julio was just putting on his coat.

  “I have a huge favor to ask,” I told him.

  A wary look came into his dark eyes. “What kind of favor?”

  I explained about the ad, and that we’d need food for a photo session the next day. He frowned thoughtfully, then took off his coat. “I can do a batch of biscochitos now, and make some of the candy-cane scones tomorrow morning while I’m doing the regular ones for the day. Those should be pretty, with the crushed peppermint on top.”

  “You’re my hero!” I kissed his cheek, which evoked a reluctant grin. “Clock back in. You’re getting overtime for this.”

  He gave a small nod, as if to say, “Of course I am.”

  Of course he was. Julio knew his worth.

  I wouldn’t think about the budget—not now. I darted upstairs to my office and dug Owen Hughes’s card out of my desk. I was in luck: he answered on the second ring. I told him what I wanted, and asked if he was available to take photographs the next day.

  “I’m open until about five,” he said.

  “Excellent. Shall we say one o’clock?”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  I said goodbye and put down the phone, relieved that it had all come together. Now if only we got a usable photo out of it.

  We would, I told myself. Julio was a pro, and Owen was a marvelous photographer. At least ... with people, he was. I hoped that would carry over to food.

  I checked my messages, hoping Tony had returned my call, but no luck. He was busy, I told myself. Probably a lot of paperwork to do after Gabriel’s case. I shouldn’t bother him. I dialed his number. As it was ringing, I heard a knocking and looked up. Kris stood in the doorway.

  “Got a minute?”

  Tony’s voice drew my attention, but it was his voicemail message. I put down my phone and gestured to my guest chair.

  “Have a seat.”

  Kris sat and gripped the arms of the chair. “We’re all set for tomorrow night. Seven o’clock.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “The séance.”

  “Oh.” I closed my eyes briefly. “Oh, yes. It has to be tomorrow?”

  “The sooner the better. Yo
u don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”

  “I’ll be here.” I smiled, hoping to reassure her. In fact, wild horses could not drag me out of my house while there was anything woo-woo going on inside. Captain Dusenberry would probably consider it cowardice if I left him to the mercy of the Goth crowd’s séance, even if he wasn’t the intended star of the show. This was his home as much as mine, the way I saw it.

  “Thanks,” Kris said. She stood and gave me a small, tight smile before going back to her office.

  I wished I knew how to make her feel better, but I remembered all too well the kind of feelings she was having. When she was out of the room, I picked up my cell phone and brought up Willow’s number. Biting my lip, I debated whether to reach out to her. Could Gina be right? Could she be deceiving me? I still couldn’t think of any reason that would make such an elaborate hoax worth the effort.

  And I didn’t know anyone else who knew more about the spirit world. If she was a fake, she was a well-informed and competent one. She made her living at it, after all.

  I sent her a text:

  Kris wants seance. Help!

  Taking my phone with me, I went downstairs to check on Julio and the biscochitos. The smell of warm cinnamon and sugar was already seeping into the hall from the kitchen. I slipped through the short hallway past the butler’s pantry and found Julio taking a cookie sheet out of the oven.

  He glanced up at me. “I made a couple of different shapes, since we hadn’t decided.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “Can you put them away when they’re cool, or should I stay?”

  “Go,” I said. “I’ll take care of them. Oh, the photographer’s coming at one tomorrow.”

  Julio nodded. “Scones’ll be ready.”

  “Thank you, Julio!”

  He took off his apron and hung it up, taking down his coat again. “You’re welcome. Hasta mañana.”

  I watched him leave, then looked at the cookies. Some were star-shaped, some crescent moons. We’d decided against the traditional fleur-de-lys shape as it was prone to breaking.

  I could feel the heat rising from the pan, and smell the wonderful cinnamon sugar and just a hint of anise. It wasn’t easy, but I resisted the urge to eat one.

  Glancing toward the dish-washing station, I caught Mick eyeing the cookies. He gave me a sheepish grin and continued washing teacups. I left to make a round of the parlors. It was just past four. Three parties were seated in the main parlor and enjoying their first cups of tea; one other group was lingering in Dahlia.