A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) Page 5

  Julio stripped off his chef’s jacket and tossed it in the laundry hamper. This reminded me that it was time for me to change out of my velvet dress and into working clothes. I ran upstairs and hopped into jeans and a tee-shirt, thinking about the sugar skulls.

  Julio had asked to hold a decorating party in the kitchen the Sunday before Halloween, and I’d agreed. Sugar skulls were a tradition for el Dia de los Muertos. This would give me a chance to see firsthand what it was all about.

  I stuffed my phone in my pocket, then returned to the kitchen, peering out the south window at the garden. The wedding guests were all gone and the rental company’s truck was at the curb.

  “We vacuumed and swept,” Rosa said as she and Iz came in. “Should we fold up the chairs from the tent?”

  “No, the rental people will do that. Go on home,” I told them, handing each a box of cake. “We’re almost done. Have a great evening, and thank you.”

  “I wanted to ask you,” Rosa said, hanging back. “Would you mind if I brought something to add to your ofrenda?”

  “My ofrenda?”

  “In Violet. For Vi.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t intended to create an altar, but I could see how it might look like that with Julio’s candle and my little vase of pansies on the mantel. “Of course you may add something if you wish.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. Goodnight, Ellen.”

  Mick and I restored the parlor to its normal state. The floral arrangements from the wedding now adorned the alcoves. They’d be good for a few days. Outside, the rental people were disassembling the dance floor. The lawn beneath was rather flattened, but looked like it would recover.

  Long shadows crept across the yard. To the west, above the rooftops, clouds glowed golden. I sent Mick home with his box of cake, started a load of laundry, and checked the time. Quarter to six.

  Maybe Tony had forgotten. Even if he hadn’t, I could use a shower. As I trudged upstairs, mariachi music running through my head, my phone rang and displayed Tony’s number.

  “Sorry, this is taking longer than I thought,” he said. “Do you mind a late dinner? I can get away by eight or so.”

  “I’m kind of wiped, actually. What about tomorrow night?”

  There was a beat, during which I imagined him frowning, but his voice was resigned rather than angry. “Family night at my mom’s. She’d probably be glad to have you over, but I should talk to her more in advance.”

  “Right. Another week.” Good that he was thinking that way.

  “Monday?” he said.

  “OK.”

  “OK.”

  A silence followed. I was too tired to come up with pleasantries.

  “Wish I could see you tonight,” he said.

  “Monday’s not that far away. I’ll be better company after I get some rest anyway.”

  “OK. I’ll come at 5:30.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “See you then.”

  “Yes. Goodnight.”

  Nothing.

  Well, he had almost said goodbye. That was progress.

  At the top of the stairs I found a wash of orange light glowing all through the upper floor’s central hallway, spilling in through the window to the west. Nat and Claudia’s tea things from that morning sat on the low table. I took them downstairs. I’d wash them up in the morning, but I was done, done, done for now.

  My maid-of-honor bouquet stood on the kitchen break table, reposing in a small vase. Rosa or Iz must have brought it in. I took it upstairs to my suite, where I trimmed the stems, then arranged the flowers in the vase. As I was doing this, I accidentally snapped the stem of an orange rose.

  “Drat.”

  I set the rose aside and put the vase on my table. It was time for supper, but I was more tired than hungry. I’d been on my feet most of the day.

  And I was still being haunted by the mariachis, a fragment of a song that I didn’t know completely. I put on Chopin’s Nocturnes to banish them, then started hot water running in the bathtub. A bottle of Malbec yielded its cork with a satisfying pop, and I poured myself a generous glass. The first sip tasted of pepper and berries.

  On impulse I picked it up the broken rose and pulled off the petals, tossing them into the bath water. Then I lit three candles, stripped off my work clothes, and fetched my wine.

  Sinking into the hot water, I let out a long sigh. Rose petals drifted around me, gently bumping against my skin. I took another swallow of wine and began to relax.

  Really, the wedding had been a success. No disasters. No murders; no fights, even. Nat and Manny were blissfully happy.

  I pushed it all out of my mind and focused on enjoying my bath. Not until the water had gone tepid and my wineglass was empty did I climb out and wrap myself in my fluffy bathrobe.

  Leftovers for supper, another glass of wine, then wedding cake for dessert. I retired to bed, thinking of Nat and Manny. They were spending the night in Los Angeles, but soon they would be on a beach in Hawaii, and that’s how I pictured them—walking hand in hand, barefoot, through the sand—as I drifted to sleep.

  A clap of thunder woke me and I sat up, disoriented, half-dreaming about being pursued through a thunderstorm by mariachis. The battering of rain on the steel roof overhead proved the storm was real. A glance at my clock told me it was after nine, so I dragged myself up and put on a kettle for tea.

  Stormy weather, good for baking or sitting by the fire with a book. Would it be odd to build a fire downstairs so I could enjoy the warmth of the chimney upstairs in my suite?

  As I pondered this question, my phone rang. I grabbed it, feeling slightly let down when I saw that the caller was Loren.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Morning, Ellen. Shelly and I are going to the art show at eleven. Would you like to join us, and maybe have some lunch afterward?” After the slightest of hesitations, he added, “Detective Aragón is welcome, of course.”

  “He’s busy today.”

  “Oh.”

  A pause; I pictured Loren trying compose a sentence that politely expressed a degree of disappointment that he didn’t actually feel. I couldn’t help a silent chuckle.

  “I’d be happy to join you, though,” I said.

  “Great! We can pick you up.”

  “Why don’t we meet there? It’s just around the corner from me.”

  “But it’s raining.”

  “I have an umbrella.”

  “OK. Don’t twist an ankle dancing in the gutters.”

  I laughed. “I won’t. See you at eleven.”

  The call lightened my mood, and I hummed as I went downstairs to wash up the dishes from Nat and Claudia’s tea. Halfway through drying them I realized what I was humming: a mariachi tune.

  “Aargh!”

  I turned on the stereo in the butler’s pantry, filling the house with Beethoven. For breakfast, I treated myself to a couple of Julio’s empanadas, which I hadn’t had a chance to try the day before. They were delicious: flaky crust and tangy fillings, apple with just a touch of cinnamon in one, and cherry in the other.

  By then, it was time to leave. I changed into jeans and a nice sweater, donned my wool coat and a hat, and stepped out the front door.

  The thunder had stopped, and the rain was now little more than a drizzle. I didn’t bother with the umbrella. The storm had knocked a lot of leaves down, turning the sidewalk into a pretty fall mosaic. Someone had a fire going, and the aroma of piñon smoke teased me as I walked north to the corner and crossed the street.

  The Santa Fe Community Convention Center was hopping. Much expanded from Sweeney Center, the humble community auditorium it had been during my childhood, it was now a true convention center, tastefully designed in pueblo revival style. A banner reading “SANTA FE AUTUMN ART EXHIBITION” graced the front entrance. I went in and paid my admission.

  “There she is!”

  I turned and saw Loren and Shelly approaching, bundled in coats and scarves over jeans. Loren smiled. “How wa
s the walk?”

  I glanced toward the street with a bemused look. I’d walked perhaps fifty paces to get here; if it weren’t for the height of the building next to my house, I could have thrown a rock into my yard from the sidewalk outside the convention center.

  “Very refreshing,” I said, smiling.

  “You were smart. It took us five minutes to find a parking place.”

  I laughed. “Shall we go in?”

  The main hall was like any big convention space, presently filled with booths of artwork. The door-keeper, an older woman with silver hair up in a bun and a festive, colored shawl, handed each of us a badge-holder on a lanyard, containing a diagram of the ballroom laid out with booths. “Here’s your guide.”

  “Oh, that’s clever,” I said, looking at the map of numbered booths. “So I don’t lose it.”

  “Right. The index is in your program.” She gave each of us a folded page. We stepped aside to look them over.

  The exhibition was a juried show. The index listed Gabriel Rhodes in a booth at the back of the hall. I started off in that direction.

  “Don’t you want to see the ones in front?” Shelly asked.

  “I do, but I’m looking for a particular artist. I’d like to see his work first, then I’ll go through the whole hall.”

  “We can keep you company,” Loren offered.

  “Up to you.”

  They followed, apparently by silent consent. The booths we passed contained everything from oil paintings to photography to textiles and pottery. Artists looked out eagerly, ready to sell.

  The booth designated as Gabriel’s was unattended, though a security guard nearby was keeping an eye on the entire row. I stood looking at the paintings, which impressed me more than I expected. They were stark and rich at the same time. Color was used sparingly, but what color was there was striking.

  One painting, mostly white, was of a beautiful young woman looking forlornly downward while a dark, faceless figure in black robes with black feathered wings loomed behind her. The model for the woman must have been Gwyneth; the nose and hair were hers, and the ethereal, filmy garment was just the sort of thing she’d probably wear. But the look of hopelessness in her eyes was unfamiliar. I assumed that was the artist’s interpretation. I glanced at the title: “Resignation.”

  I suspected Gwyneth had also modeled for an odalisque all in tones of gray—although her face was turned away in that piece—and for a very dark painting titled “Harpy” that was the most sensually attractive harpy I’d ever seen. Remembering Kris’s assertion that Gabriel had slept with all of the women at Friday’s meeting—or had she meant the women and the men both?—I felt uncomfortably informed about his relationship with Gwyneth.

  What had happened to make Gwyneth transfer her affections to Roberto? Had Gabriel simply moved on?

  Not that any of it was my business. I gave myself a shake and returned to admiring the artwork.

  There were a couple of abstract pieces in Gabriel’s display, and two small sculptures. His paintings were far more moving. My attention was caught by one titled “The Seventh Chamber.” It was dark, with two asymmetrical patches of mottled red at the sides. At first I thought they were merely abstract, but then I realized they were windows: red windows, lit from behind by fires on pedestals.

  That tickled my memory and I looked at the central figure of the painting, a man dressed as a Renaissance nobleman, illuminated by the red light from the windows. He stood in an attitude of despair, mouth agape beneath an elaborate, silver-trimmed mask, one hand drooping with a dagger about to slip from its grasp. Almost invisible against the dark background, a shadowy form robed in black stood opposing him. A tall, standing clock stood in the figure’s shadow, its hands just discernible, pointing to twelve.

  It was the climax of Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death.”

  So Gabriel’s fascination with the story was not just about the Halloween party. The painting was surely Prince Prospero realizing he was about to die in the moment before the Red Death took him.

  I moved on, looking for comfort in some other picture. I didn’t really find it. Gabriel’s work was not about comfort.

  On the last panel was a single painting of a nude—Gwyneth again, I was pretty sure, but her face was obscured by her hair—crouched amid the shattered remains of something that had been made of red glass. There was no blood, but the implication that blood would flow the moment she tried to move out of the disaster zone was strong. Her bare feet would surely be cut by some tiny unseen shard, or her hands if she used them to sweep an escape path. If she tried to jump clear of the glass, she might land on a piece with painful results. The painting was titled “Calculation.”

  “Interesting work,” said Loren beside me. “Is the artist a friend of yours?”

  “A friend of a friend. I just met him a couple of days ago.”

  “Ah.”

  Shelly joined us, gazing at “Calculation” with troubled eyes. “Kind of disturbing,” she said.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “It’s meant to be,” said a smooth voice behind us.

  I turned and saw Gabriel smiling with satisfaction, dressed in cream silk and linen, his ankh just peeking out of his neckline. Kris was beside him, in a clinging black chenille sweater over spiderweb tights, more overtly Goth than anything she wore to work.

  “Glad you could make it,” Gabriel said to me.

  “Me, too, but I just got here, so I haven’t seen much yet. I came looking for you first.”

  “Merci du compliment.”

  “Your work is striking. I see why you were accepted into the White Iris. Allow me to congratulate you again.”

  He gave me a small, gracious bow. “Thank you.”

  I introduced the Jacksons, and Gabriel made Shelly giggle by bowing gallantly over her hand. As we stood chatting, Dale Whittier and a familiar-looking woman approached. For a second my mind dressed her as Lolita.

  Right! One of Kris’s friends. Martha, or Margaret? She’d been at the Halloween planning party.

  “Hi, Dale,” I said, then smiled at the woman. “Hello, again.”

  “Hi,” she returned absently, looking at Gabriel.

  He turned at the sound of her voice. “Margo! Thank you for coming.”

  Her face transformed with pleasure. “I wanted to see your latest stuff.”

  Gabriel welcomed her into the booth with a sweep of his arm. Margo stepped up to “Calculation.”

  “I haven’t seen this one,” she said.

  “It’s new.”

  Margo nodded, slowly smiling. Dale joined her.

  “Have you any favorite artists in the show to recommend?” I asked Gabriel.

  “Well, you must see Roberto’s work, of course. He’s two rows down.” he gestured, and as far as I could tell his smile was sincere.

  “Thanks. Are there others?”

  “Let me mark them on your map.”

  “Perfect! Thank you.”

  I took off my lanyard and handed it to him. He slipped the map out, produced a pen, and began circling numbers. Loren had turned to watch, and I gestured to him.

  “Kris, you remember Loren,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. And Shelly. We were all chatting at the wedding yesterday.”

  Shelly was staring at Gabriel, eyes wide. I wondered, uncharitably I admit, whether she was one of those women who specialized in falling for other women’s partners. In my private thoughts I figured she’d be better off mooning after Tony than after Gabriel. Not that I wished her to do either.

  Gabriel seemed to become aware of her regard, and an interesting shift occurred. He turned to face her, and his smile expanded. A new radiance rose around him.

  “Are you fond of art, Shelly?” he asked.

  “Kind of,” she said lamely, taking a step back.

  “Let me guess. Peaceful landscapes are more to your liking,” he said, with a soft laugh.

  Magnetism. That’s what it was. No wonder he’d slept wi
th whole roomfuls of women.

  “These aren’t easy to look at,” she said, gesturing to his paintings.

  “That’s true,” he said. “I didn’t intend them to be easy.”

  “Peaceful landscapes sound nice,” I said. “Think I’ll see if there are any here.”

  “Oh, there are,” Gabriel said, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “Here are my suggestions, but you probably won’t find peaceful landscapes at any of them.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded as he handed back my lanyard. “Best of luck with the show.”

  “Mark them for me, too!” Margo said, holding out her own lanyard to Gabriel.

  “Good idea,” Dale said, taking his off his neck.

  I turned toward the next booth, and found myself facing Cherie. In a black velour dress with a plunging, lace-bordered neckline over net stockings and knee-high laced boots, eyes heavily lined with kohl, she looked more ready for a nightclub than an art show. Her sly smile acknowledged my reaction. She gave me a nod, then glided past me.

  “Gabriel,” she called. “I made it! Be proud of me.”

  Gabriel handed Margo’s badge back to her and glanced at Cherie as he slid Dale’s map from his badge. “Astonished, but proud.”

  “Tsk. What are you doing? Signing autographs?”

  “Giving advice about what to see in the show.”

  “Ah!” She produced her own badge and held it out to him. “Por favor.”

  Their fingers met on the badge holder, and a tiny tug-of-war ensued. Cherie released it with a grin, and Gabriel grinned back.

  I shot a swift glance at Kris. She was watching, standing back. Eyes cold, not smiling.

  I stepped toward her, instinct prompting me to shield her, though there was no practical way that I could. She looked at me, then turned toward “Calculation.” I stepped up beside her.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “I don’t own him.”

  I pressed my lips together, swallowing my sympathy. Kris calmly fielded a question from an older gentleman in a tweed coat, providing him with one of Gabriel’s business cards from a tiny ebony table.

  My interest in antique furniture made me look closer at the exquisite little piece, no more than two feet by eight inches. It bore a filigreed rack holding Gabriel’s cards, and a scattering of other business cards, presumably left by visitors. One of them drew my attention.