Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Page 6

  ~

  The next day was unusually busy, even for a Saturday. By the time I finished a quick breakfast of tea and a croissant, eight messages were stacked on the reservation line, all but two of them wanting to come in that day. I was trying to fit them into the schedule when Kris came in, wearing a dress of black and white vertical stripes that looked like a throwback to the seventies.

  “Did you hear about the murder at the opera?” she asked, stepping into my office.

  So it was officially murder. News must have traveled fast. I wondered if Tony had a suspect.

  “I was there,” I said.

  “Oh, was last night your party? Awesome! Did you see anything?”

  Did I?

  I shook my head. “It happened backstage. Kris, we have six people wanting reservations today. Can you help me fit them in?”

  “Let me handle it.”

  I handed her the notes I had jotted down. “I didn’t erase the messages.”

  “Good. Is there tea?”

  “I was about to make some.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  She went into her own office, and I sat staring at the chimney that anchored the wall between us.

  Had I seen anything? Onstage, or perhaps in the audience?

  The only thing that came to mind was the arguing woman in the fur coat. Anger had radiated from her. I wondered who she was.

  Maybe I’d ask Tony. I got up and went out into the hall, stepping to the front window. His bike was gone. I felt an odd stab of disappointment.

  Not wanting to go downstairs, I went across to my suite to make a pot of tea for myself and Kris. I put together a tray and carried it back across the hall, setting it on the credenza in my office.

  “Here you are,” I said as I brought a cup to Kris.

  “Thanks. All set on the reservations, but two more have come in. Do you want to stay open late?”

  I gave a small sigh. On busy days, we sometimes stayed open an extra half-hour or more to fit in a few late reservations. I didn’t really feel like it that day, but it was good business.

  “How late?”

  “Six-thirty, maybe seven.”

  “All right. No later than seven, though.”

  “Got it.” She held out two slips of lavender message paper. “These are for you.”

  I carried the messages back to my desk, but didn’t look at them until I’d fixed myself a cup of tea, with sugar. It was that kind of morning.

  One of the messages was from Mr. Ingraham, asking me to call when it was convenient. The other, same message but with a bit more urgency, was from Willow Lane.

  I leaned my head in my hands. I could just guess what she wanted.

  Another ghost to add to her tour.

  I finished my tea and went downstairs, to find Julio dancing in the kitchen, intent on a tray of watercress sandwiches. He looked up and took off his headphones.

  “Full house today,” he said. “Can you put in some scones for me? It’s time to start the first batch, and I have to finish these.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, going to the sink to wash my hands.

  “There’s a tray in the fridge, but not set up for baking. We’ll have to go to frozen in the afternoon unless I get time to make some more.”

  I put on gloves, took out a baking tray and lined it with parchment. “Has Kris sent down the updated list? We’re staying open late.”

  Julio nodded. “That’s why I’m scrambling, here.”

  “Interested in some overtime?”

  He gave me a pained look. “I’ve got a date. I could do an extra half hour.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to.”

  I helped Julio until it was almost ten-thirty, then went up front to make sure everything was ready in the gift shop. Rosa was there to open, and Iz was setting up trays in the butler’s pantry. A glance out the front windows told me that all the tables on the portal were already set. There were people waiting outside the front door.

  “We’re booked up outside, too?”

  Rosa nodded. “Booked solid, and we’re still getting calls.”

  This was beyond a busy day. What was going on?

  I helped Rosa open up and seat the waiting customers, then hurried upstairs to Kris’s office. She was on the phone. I waited while she recorded a reservation.

  “Tuesday’s booking up,” she said as she hung up. “And Wednesday’s half-full. Do you want to extend hours for the week?”

  “I’ll have to check with Julio. Any idea why the rush?”

  Kris shook her head. “A lot of first-timers, though.”

  My phone rang. I stepped over to my desk to see who it was, intending to let the call go to voicemail.

  It was Tony.

  I caught up the phone on the third ring. “Tony?”

  “Hi. I need to talk to you.” He sounded exhausted.

  “It’s crazy here today. Would tonight be all right?”

  “What time?”

  “Seven thirty?”

  “OK.”

  He hung up. I swallowed annoyance; it was just his habit, and he must be under a lot of stress just now. I put the phone down and went downstairs.

  Between helping Julio in the kitchen and making sure everything was going all right in the parlors and outside on the portal, I was on my feet all day. I made a point of talking to any guests I didn’t recognize, asking them where they’d heard about the tearoom. This paid off halfway through the afternoon, when a couple a few years older than I, seated by the window in Jonquil, told me they’d heard that Victor Solano had been here and liked it.

  “Oh?” I said, feeling a little uneasy.

  “Yes,” said the woman, a trim brunette in an elegant linen dress. She glanced at her partner. “We were at the opera last night … have you heard…?”

  “I was there, too,” I said. “Such a tragedy.”

  She nodded. “While we were waiting to leave, someone in line told us Mr. Solano loved the Wisteria Tearoom. So we thought…”

  “I see. Well, I’m sorry for the way you found us, but thank you for giving us a try.”

  “We’ll be back,” said the man, smiling. “Everything’s delightful.”

  “Thank you.”

  I made sure they had everything they wanted, then escaped to the kitchen. Julio greeted me with an empty tray.

  “We’ve gone through the Aria Cakes. I can make more of those, or more scones, but not both.”

  “We have frozen scones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make the cakes. What am I making?” I hefted the tray.

  “Cucumber sandwiches.”

  I grabbed an apron and went to work. My brain was at work elsewhere.

  How many of our new guests were from the opera? How far had this idea spread? Mr. Solano might have mentioned his visit to the tearoom, but I doubted he had urged people to try us. Maybe just a mild positive recommendation from him, backed by the weight of his stature, had started an avalanche.

  I had highly conflicting feelings about that. I was glad that I was too busy to think about it much.

  Tray of cucumber sandwiches, then a tray of frozen scones into the oven. Julio set me to making almond buttercream icing for the cakes, then toasting sliced almonds. He made the tea syrup while the cakes were baking. I went out for another round of the parlors, then returned to help assemble the cakes. Julio insisted on garnishing them himself.

  “We’re almost out of violets,” he said.

  “Already? I’ll order more. Use the broken pieces.”

  He nodded, already picking through the diminished supply. I dashed upstairs to call the supplier and place a rush order for more candied violets, hoping they’d arrive by Tuesday.

  I had a bed of violets out back. Maybe there’d be some blooming, still. I’d check in the morning.

  I passed Kris on her way home in the doorway as I headed back downstairs. On a normal Saturday she would have been gone by two, but she had stayed to help with the reservation line, whi
ch was still going crazy.

  “How is it?” I asked.

  “Booked solid through Thursday. Friday will be gone by Tuesday morning. Probably Saturday, too.”

  I let out a deep breath. “Thank you for staying.”

  She nodded. “See you Tuesday.”

  I’d be paying a lot of overtime for this week. I hoped the extra business would cover it.

  I went back down to the kitchen and found Julio putting the garnish on a tray of thirty Aria Cakes. He looked tired.

  “These should get you through the rest of today. I can come in Monday afternoon to get a head start on the week.”

  “Thanks, Julio. Is your roommate still looking for work?”

  He shook his head. “He found a job at Santacafé.”

  “Any chance he’d like to come in for a few hours?”

  “He’s full-time, and it’s high tourist season. There’s no way.”

  “OK. I’ll see what I can do. Enjoy your evening.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turned back to the kitchen. Mick was hard at work at the washing station. I put the Aria cakes in the fridge, checked on the scones in the oven, and carried the timer with me as I went up front.

  In the gift shop, Dee stood at the register ringing up purchases while a short line of guests waited patiently. A lot of the new visitors were browsing there, which gave me hope for my bottom line.

  I checked on the parlors. The portal was now sunny and rather warm, but the tables were shaded by the wisteria vines, and were all full. Rosa circulated with a fresh pot of tea.

  My timer went off, and I hurried back to the kitchen to take out the scones. I set them on the work table to cool, then went into the butler’s pantry where I found Iz setting sandwiches on trays.

  “You were supposed to go home at three!”

  She cast me a wary look. “Julio asked if I could stay. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes—thank you! Only I don’t want to ruin your plans.”

  “I don’t have anything planned tonight.”

  “Well, you’re a life-saver. Thank you, Iz. I’ll bring you the scones.”

  I helped her with the trays, then helped Rosa clear up front, then we were suddenly done. The last guests had been served. I sent Iz home, grabbed a teapot, and made a final round of the parlors and the portal.

  Two more parties told me they were here because of Victor Solano. One had been at last night’s performance, and the other had heard from friends who were there. I thanked them for coming.

  Dee and Rosa had things under control. Mick was catching up on the china. I went upstairs to check messages, balked at the number on the tearoom voicemail, and looked through the small pile of lavender slips on my desk.

  Call from Claudia Pearson. A second call from Willow. A call from a reporter at The New Mexican—yikes. Kris would want me to answer that one, and my friend Gina would yell at me if I didn’t. I was too tired, though. I set it aside for later.

  I checked my phone, where I had a message from Nat and one from Gina; apparently The New Mexican had already run a story on the murder. I started to call Gina back, then remembered that Tony was coming over.

  Later. I would deal with it all later.

  I took the morning’s tea tray back to my suite and made a fresh pot of Darjeeling for myself. In case any of the staff needed to find me, I carried it back to my office, and sat sipping at my desk as I pulled up the online edition of The New Mexican.

  OPERA STAR MURDERED AT SFO

  Great. It was officially murder.

  I skimmed the story. A little knot of pain beneath my breast-bone kept me from reading it too closely. I knew that pain well. It was the onset of grief.

  A knock made me look up. Dee was standing in the doorway.

  “We’re going,” she said, “unless you need us for something.”

  “No, no.” I stood. “Thank you, Dee. Are we closed?”

  She nodded. “Mick is finishing up. Rosa’s gone home.”

  “I might need you to put in some overtime this week, if you can.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll talk about it Tuesday. Have a great weekend.”

  She grinned. “You get some rest, ma’am. I think you’re gonna need it.”

  I followed her downstairs, said goodbye to her and Mick, and surveyed the kitchen. Mick had tidied up, but I knew that Julio would not approve of the state in which I’d left the work area. I did my best to restore it to perfection, then surveyed the contents of the fridge.

  Four Aria cakes left. Half a dozen finger sandwiches. One deviled egg and two scones.

  Dinner.

  Actually, ridiculously late lunch. I’d been on my feet all day, and hadn’t realized until I opened the fridge that I was starving.

  I put the scones, sandwiches, and egg on a plate and carried them back to my office. Normally I didn’t raid the tearoom’s kitchen for meals, but I was too tired to think about cooking.

  I poured myself another cup of tea and nibbled a scone. Called Mr. Ingraham’s number and got voicemail. I couldn’t bring myself to call Willow, but I called Nat and told her about the madness at the tearoom. She wanted to know if I’d seen the story in the paper, and if I’d like to come over for dinner.

  “Can I take a rain check? I’m beat.”

  “Come tomorrow, then, sweetheart. Promise?”

  “Promise. What can I bring?”

  “Nothing, sweetie. Just a good appetite. Manny’s grilling.”

  “In that case, I’ll skip lunch.”

  “You could bring Tony if you like,” she added.

  “I’ll ask. He’s pretty swamped too, though.”

  We talked a little longer, then I said goodbye and started to call Gina. My private doorbell, which only friends knew how to find, rang. I put the phone down and hurried downstairs to the back door.

  Tony stood outside, back in his motorcycle duds, slouched against a pillar of the portal and frowning. I opened the door and he straightened.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.” His shoulders drooped, and his eyes were heavy.

  “You look exhausted. Would you like some tea?”

  He cocked his head. “Got any bourbon?”

  “Ah … no. Port? Or gin?”

  “Gin? You drink gin?”

  “Gin and tonic. Grown up limeade. Great for hot summer evenings.”

  He sighed. “Actually, I should stay sober. I’m working.”

  “I thought you might be. Come on in.”

  I led him upstairs to my office, poured him a cup of tea, and invited him to share my dinner. He picked up a sandwich, examined it from all angles, and took a bite.

  “That’s watercress and lemon butter. Like it?”

  “Green,” he mumbled through a mouthful.

  “Very.” I took one myself. “I was just on the phone with Nat. She asked me over for dinner tomorrow, and said to invite you.”

  “Doubt I’ll have time. Does she need a definite answer, or is it a ‘drop by’ kind of thing?”

  “Drop by is fine, I think. Six-ish. Manny’s grilling. You have Nat’s address?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “Let me give it to you again.”

  He punched it into his cell phone, then reached for another sandwich. “These are good.”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  He swallowed a bite. “I need to ask you some questions.”

  I nodded. He’d probably been through the interview drill a couple of dozen times already. This was a formality; he knew exactly where I’d been all Friday evening.

  I took a sip of tea and waited. He got up and started pacing, staying toward the chimney wall where he wouldn’t have to crouch beneath the sloping roof. The frown had deepened.

  He stopped abruptly and turned to me. “I’d like to bounce a theory off you.”

  I swallowed my surprise. “All right.”

  “First I want to know what you think might have happened.�
�

  “Tony, I…”

  “You saw the same things I saw. If you noticed the same things, I want to know.”

  “OK.” I poured myself more tea and took a sip. “Last night I got home and started thinking. I know I don’t have complete information, but Mr. Solano had to have died during Act Three. I’m guessing near the end of the act, since he wasn’t found until the curtain call.”

  Tony stayed where he was, staring at me from beneath dark eyebrows. Not so much as a nod.

  “Well, the most likely suspects are the cast, because the crew and everyone else are supposed to stay away from the dressing rooms, especially the principals’ dressing rooms.”

  “That doesn’t rule the others out,” Tony said.

  “I know, but that’s where I’m starting. I looked at the program to see how many male principles were in the cast. I’ve seen the dressing rooms backstage. Mr. Solano would have been sharing with the other principal men—five of them. Of those, two were not onstage at all during Act Three. So either they were away from the dressing room for some reason, or they were involved in the crime.”

  He continued to gaze at me for a moment, then unfolded his arms. “Not bad. Those two are each other’s alibi. Matthew Carter and Geoffrey Harrison. No one else can confirm it.”

  “Oh?” I was pretty sure I remembered those names: the Sacristan and Angelotti.

  Tony grimaced. “They claim they were having a quickie in the rehearsal hall.”

  My jaw dropped. “During a performance?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

  I was embarrassed. I knew that opera, like any of the arts, attracted people who enjoyed alternative lifestyles. Would Tony now think it was a hotbed of gay love?

  I took a bite of sandwich, thinking as I chewed. “But why would they want to kill Mr. Solano? That’s where I don’t know enough.”

  “Neither do I. They’re pretty convincingly upset about his death. Other cast members describe their reaction after the curtain call as being shocked.”

  “You don’t think it was them.”

  “It’s too early to think anything.”

  “Was that what you wanted to bounce off me?”