A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  The light gleamed from the upper story, right between two pillars.

  With a little gasp of frustration I glanced at the sky. The sun was hidden. The light must have come from another source.

  There was nothing across from there to cast a light. The second story on the east side was featureless except for a few small windows.

  A car headlight, maybe?

  It was a long shot, but the only other thing I could think of was someone standing on one of the rooftops with a flashlight—an even longer shot. I turned to gaze again at the space where I had seen the light gleam. Maybe someone upstairs had lit a cigarette.

  Wrong kind of light, I thought as I climbed the stairs. I walked to where the light had appeared, hoping to find a shop window, maybe with one of those intense halogen accent lights inside. Instead, there was a blank wall between the two pillars. To one side was a shoe shop, to the other a soap place that smelled so strongly of lavender I didn’t have the fortitude to go in.

  Frustrated, I looked out over the plaza, stepping to the wooden railing, which was far too low for current safety rules. I felt a moment’s vertigo and took a step back.

  Maybe it was all the dark wood, coupled with the storm clouds. Maybe it was remembering Maria’s sad story—she had never married, and I suspected it was because she had been forbidden by her family to marry her true love, Captain Dusenberry—that made me shiver with a wave of sorrow.

  Home. I wanted to be home, with a fire and a pot of tea and a book that would take me away from the real world and promise me a happy ending.

  Hurrying down the stairs, I didn’t slow until I reached the ground. A more overt crack of thunder quickened my pace again as I turned west, and by the time I stepped out from beneath the portal it had begun to rain.

  I tugged on my hat and deployed my umbrella, hastening past the Palace of the Governors, where tourists bent to admire the wares of the Indian vendors despite the weather. The last couple of blocks I kept my gaze on the sidewalk except where I had to cross streets, and went up the back way to my house as it was closer.

  Wind and rain had set the lilacs thrashing. I scurried up the driveway to the back door.

  Safe inside, with the door locked behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. Quiet enfolded me, the rain a distant patter on the upstairs roof.

  The hall was shadowed; storm-darkened daylight coming in the little windows called “lights” that surrounded the door was inadequate to penetrate more than a few feet. I flipped on the switch for the hall lights, welcoming their brightness.

  The dining parlor door stood open on my right, taunting me. Nat and Manny’s wedding gifts: I had meant to take them to Nat’s house that day. Not going to happen in this storm, though. It would have to be Monday.

  Could I do it in one trip? I stepped into the parlor to try to estimate whether the presents piled on the table would all fit into my car. There was enough daylight coming through the French doors that I didn’t bother turning on the chandelier, but I did glance up at it.

  A single crystal drop swung, and a glint of light from the hall shone out from it.

  I stood stock still. That was the light that I’d seen in Hidalgo Plaza.

  7

  Captain Dusenberry had been sending me glints of light as I walked around Santa Fe. I hadn’t known he could do that. And as far as I knew, he’d never left the house before, at least not since I had bought it.

  “Why?” I whispered, watching the crystal’s swing grow smaller and smaller until it stopped.

  Had he been trying to tell me something about Maria? Pointing out some feature of Hidalgo Plaza? But I was pretty sure the upper story where I’d last seen the light hadn’t existed in his day.

  The crystal was now perfectly still. A gust of wind spattered rain against the French doors.

  I needed tea, and some time to sit and think.

  Upstairs, I shed my wet coat and hat and left the umbrella in the hall to dry while I put on my kettle and lit every candle in my suite. A fleeting wish for a warm chimney was doomed to be unfulfilled; I didn’t feel like going downstairs to build a fire. Instead I switched on the little electric space heater I’d bought the previous winter and put on my favorite raggedy sweater and my sheepskin slippers.

  Sheepskin. Reminded me of the fuzzy woman, the gallery owner who had approached Roberto. He had kept cool, but Gwyneth’s excitement had betrayed how much the opportunity meant to him.

  The kettle whistled, interrupting my musings. I set the tea brewing and leaned against the counter in my kitchenette while I waited, enjoying malty whiffs of Assam.

  The lights in Hidalgo Plaza troubled me. The feeling that it was important, that Captain Dusenberry was trying to tell me something, stayed with me. Maybe I should consult Willow about it.

  Except that was a slippery slope that I had managed to avoid. Mostly. Talking with Willow about the captain, I had so far maintained the stance of listening to her opinions with an open mind, but not committing to much myself.

  Captain Dusenberry was the ghost—or spirit, as Willow always said—of the man for whom my house had originally been built. I had acknowledged that much. He had made his presence known in the house ever since I had opened the tearoom. He could move crystals on the chandelier in the dining parlor, which had been his study and was the room where he had been murdered. He could turn on lights and the stereo system. He had, a couple of times, played music on the piano.

  This was the first time he had followed me out of the house, and the first time he had manifested light out of nothing, as far as I knew. Somehow he had recreated the glint of light on a chandelier drop. Very clever of him.

  But why?

  I was no closer to answering that question. If I asked Willow for help in understanding, I would be acknowledging that she could communicate with the captain.

  Would that be so terrible? I had already tacitly validated her by going in with her on the spirit tour and tea combination that we had been running all month—very successfully, I admitted. Every tour we scheduled had sold out quickly, even the second batch of dates we had added. Tourists and locals alike were delighted to walk around Santa Fe with Willow, visiting the haunts of several well-known spirits, and concluding with tea in my dining parlor and a talk about Captain Dusenberry from a local reenactor.

  It was Halloween. People liked that kind of thing around Halloween.

  The timer went off, and I retired to my favorite wing chair with a steaming mug of tea. Wind moaned among the tree branches outside, and the rain was still hitting the roof and windows in sharp, intermittent gusts.

  There wouldn’t be any dire consequence if I acknowledged that Willow could communicate with ghosts. It wasn’t as though I’d be giving her a public endorsement. Why did I feel so reluctant?

  Maybe because I didn’t want to share the captain.

  I curled deeper into the chair, cupping my tea with both hands. I still hadn’t told anyone about the ribbon-tied bundle of papers I’d found beneath the floor in the dining parlor: letters to Captain Dusenberry from Maria Hidalgo. They were my secret treasure, and while I knew they belonged in the museum, I wasn’t ready to give them up.

  If only I could find Maria’s stash of letters from the captain. Then I’d have a fuller picture.

  Was that what the captain had been trying to tell me? Was he directing me to Maria’s room at Hidalgo Plaza?

  I shook my head. It didn’t make sense. The light had appeared in the garden, and then upstairs on the balcony, not near any room that would have been there during Maria’s time. And anyway, it was pretty unlikely that any of Maria’s personal papers had survived. She would have burned them, or asked a family member to do so upon her demise. Anything that was left would probably be in the state archives, and I’d already looked there.

  Unless, of course, they were in the possession of some private citizen who was unreasonably hoarding them. I acknowledged a twinge of guilt, and promised myself I would hand over the captain’s letter
s to the museum soon.

  So assuming that there was no stash of papers to be found in Hidalgo Plaza, what could the captain’s lights mean?

  A puzzle. One that Willow might be able to help me solve.

  I took a mouthful of tea and luxuriated in the feel of it on my tongue, the tingle of caffeine on my palate. I’d leave the puzzle until tomorrow. Willow was probably working. Weekends were good for tourist activities, though I hoped for her sake that Willow wasn’t having to lead a tour in this weather.

  The next morning I woke to the distant sound of salsa music: Julio was at work in the kitchen. I rolled out of bed and made myself a breakfast of tea, soft-boiled eggs, and toast. The storm had passed, and the sun was shining on the wet garden. I dressed and went downstairs to find the kitchen counters overrun with rows and rows of small, white skulls.

  The smell of sugar hung in the air. Julio glanced up at me from the work table, where he was up to his elbows in our largest bowl. An unopened ten-pound package of sugar stood nearby.

  Julio carefully slid a filled mold onto a cardboard rectangle which already held five skulls, gave it a tap, then lifted it off, leaving a sixth skull behind. He dropped the mold into the bowl, wiped his hands on a towel, and turned down the music.

  “Morning, boss.”

  “Good morning. This is quite a production!”

  “We might have a dozen or more people here for the decorating. I don’t want to run out. Don’t touch,” he warned as I peered more closely at the skulls on the counter. “They’ll crumble. You can handle them tomorrow.”

  The skulls were flat on the back, each about four inches long, comprising perhaps half a cup of sugar. I’d seen full skulls, but those probably took more work to make and put together.

  “Are they edible?” I asked.

  “Sure, if you don’t mind a little meringue powder. But would you want to eat one?”

  When I was a kid, yes, I would have, but Julio was right. I was past the age when consuming a giant lump of sugar sounded like fun.

  “Guess not,” I said. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, unless you need help?”

  “Nah. Thanks.”

  I crossed the hall to the dining parlor, then realized I didn’t have my keys. Dashed upstairs to get them and caught sight of my laundry basket, which I grabbed. Returning to the dining parlor, I started piling gifts into the basket.

  It took six trips to move all the presents. The back seat of my Camry was stuffed to the windows, and the trunk and passenger seat were also full, but all the gifts were in. After letting Julio know I was going out, I drove sedately to Nat’s house.

  The hills north of town smelled of damp piñon. The sun shone brightly in a sky of brilliant blue, untroubled by a couple of token puffs of cloud. I drew a deep breath of the fragrant air as I got out of my car, grateful for the beauty of the day. Nat had a splendid view of the Sangre de Cristos, and today they were splashed with gold: the aspens were in full fall color. I felt an urge to run up there and walk beneath those magical trees.

  However, there was my laundry basket on the passenger seat, full of giftwrapped packages. I carried it to the front door of the old adobe house and fished Nat’s key out of my purse. There was still a gash in the heavy oak of the door from where Tommy Swazo had stuck a knife into it. Repressing a shiver, I opened it and carried the presents inside.

  I loved Nat’s house. Funky and old, made of adobe and local pine, it held many fond memories for me. Growing up, I ran tame in the place. Our families spent a lot of time together. Things had changed—Uncle Stephen was gone, and my cousin Alice had left for college three years before I graduated from high school and never returned—but the echoes of happy times still lived here.

  As I was bringing in the third load, my phone rang. It was Tony. My heart gave a happy little flutter as I answered.

  “Bad news,” Tony said. “I can’t do dinner.”

  “Oh, no! Still working?”

  “I’ve got a meeting at six.”

  “Are you free now?”

  “For a couple hours. Lunch?”

  “Lunch would be fine. Actually...I’ve been wanting to go look at the aspens. I can throw a picnic together. What do you think?”

  “As long as I’m back by two. Waiting on some lab results.”

  “Give me about forty-five minutes,” I said.

  “OK.”

  As usual he didn’t say goodbye. I put the phone in my pocket and finished unloading the presents, then locked up and drove home, stopping at a cheese shop on the way for a baguette, fontina, cheddar, smoked gouda, and some olives.

  Julio’s car was still in the driveway. Through the open kitchen window I heard his boom box playing something slow and sultry.

  I went in, and found every horizontal surface in the kitchen—the counters, the work table, even the break table in the corner— covered with sugar skulls. Julio stood at the dish washing station, cleaning up the bowl and utensils he’d used.

  “Wow,” I said, taking in the mass of rounded white shapes. If I hadn’t known they were skulls I would have thought at first glance that it was a snowball-manufacturing operation.

  Julio turned off the water and set a measuring cup in the drying rack. “I ran out of room, so there are a few in the dining parlor. Hope that’s OK. I covered the table first.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’ll come in early tomorrow and put them away before work.”

  As he took off his apron and donned a jacket, I spotted the skull mold on the corner of the work table and picked it up. It was clear plastic, very light—probably a candy mold. It fit into the palm of my hand.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Are we set for Tuesday?”

  “Yes, and Ramon’s going to make scones for the rest of the week. We’ll be fine.”

  “You’ve done a great job training him.”

  Julio held out his hand for the mold, and I gave it to him. “He’s got a lot to learn still, but he’s willing,” he said.

  “That’s the most important step.”

  Julio grinned and switched off the music. “Hasta mañana, jefa.”

  “Mañana.”

  I saw him out, then peeked into the dining parlor. My lace tablecloth sat carefully folded on the sideboard next to the flowers that had graced the table during the wedding. The dining table was draped in a plain cotton cloth, and half a dozen pieces of cardboard filled with sugar skulls sat on top of it.

  I glanced at the chandelier, but apparently the captain had no opinion about the skulls. Leaving the parlor door open to make sure they would dry, I collected some leftover wedding cake for my picnic, then went upstairs to get away from all the sugar. From the depths of my storage cupboard I unearthed my mother’s old wicker picnic basket, and smiled.

  I hadn’t been on a picnic in ages. Definitely since before my father died. This would be fun.

  I made a virtuous salad with tart apples and toasted walnuts to go with the bread and cheese, and to compensate for the cake. No wine; instead I made a thermos of tea and packed a couple of bottles of sparkling water. Paper plates, utensils, cups, napkins, a small trash bag, and a blanket to spread on the ground, and my basket was full. I was just finishing when I heard steps on the stairs, and came out of my suite in time to meet Kris.

  “What’s with all the skulls?” she asked.

  “That’s for Julio’s decorating party. Didn’t he invite you?”

  “Oh, that. Yes, he did.”

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming in today.”

  She took off her coat, revealing a long, knit tunic in black and purple chevron stripes over black leggings and ankle-high suede boots. “Payroll this week. Also, I wanted to bring you this.”

  She handed me a small envelope. I followed her into her office and borrowed her letter opener, a replica of a dagger with a dragon twined around the hilt. Inside was a folded note and a check.

  Dear Ellen,

  Thank you for letting us use your delicious house for
our All Hallows celebration. Here is the deposit we negotiated, rounded up a bit to cover the advance purchase of the wine. I look forward to meeting you again.

  —Gabriel Rhodes

  The signature was an ebullient flourish, not what I would expect from the artist who had painted what I saw at the show. I handed the check to Kris.

  “More work for you. Good of Gabriel to be so prompt.”

  She smiled. “He’s a man of honor.”

  “Is he? That’s good to hear.”

  She tilted her head up with a quizzical smile. “You don’t trust him?”

  “Do you?” I said, thinking of the other women.

  “I trust him to be who he is. Don’t worry, he won’t hurt me.”

  “Has he hurt others?” I asked, then mentally whapped myself. I was being too nosy. I could feel Miss Manners frowning.

  Kris laid the check on a stack of paperwork, then answered quietly. “He has never acted with the intention of hurting someone that I’ve seen. But a person can fling herself against a stone pillar and hurt herself.”

  “Ah,” I said, and let it drop. “Well, I’m going out for a couple of hours. I may be out of cell range, so if you can’t reach me don’t panic.”

  “OK. Ellen?”

  I paused in the doorway and looked back. Kris wore a small smile.

  “Thanks for caring.”

  I smiled back, then left her to her work and crossed the hall to put on a warmer (and prettier) sweater—dark teal with a cowl neckline—and collect a sun hat and my picnic basket. As I reached the foot of the stairs, the front doorbell rang.

  Tony was waiting with hands shoved in the pocket of his jeans. Beneath his leather jacket, he wore a heather-gray Henley that clung rather nicely to his torso.

  “Hi,” I said. “I thought you would come to the back.”