A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5)

PATRICE GREENWOOD

Evennight Books/Book View Café

Cedar Crest, New Mexico

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A MASQUERADE OF MUERTOS

Copyright © 2016 by Patrice Greenwood

All rights reserved

An Evennight Book

Published by Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

P.O. Box 1624

Cedar Crest, NM 87008

www.bookviewcafe.com

Cover photo: Chris Krohn

Map illustrations: Chris Krohn and Patrice Greenwood

ISBN: 978-1-61138-631-8

First Edition August 2016

http://bookviewcafe.com

Digital version: 20160805pgn

for Pari

who gets all my weird stuff

My thanks to my wonderful publication team for their help with this novel: Doranna Durgin, Pari Noskin, Sherwood Smith, Leah Cutter, and Chris Krohn; to my infinitely patient consultants Ken and Marilyn Dusenberry; and to my colleagues in Book View Café.

And as always, thanks to Mary Alice Higbie and the staff of the St. James Tearoom, for inspiring me to write this series, for making Wisteria White tea a reality, and for offering in their tearoom an incomparable haven.

...while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion...

—Edgar Allen Poe, “The Masque of the Red Death”

¹

T
he day before my aunt Nat’s wedding, it rained. We agreed, when we talked on the phone that morning, that this was a good omen. Rain is always welcome in Santa Fe. Neither of us voiced any wish for it to stop, although I privately hoped that we’d get sunshine for the wedding, which was to take place in my garden.

It was Friday, so the tearoom was bustling. The day flew by as I juggled final wedding details, tending to my customers, and preparing for a meeting that evening. Late in the afternoon I stood on the front
portal
, shivering despite my wool coat, watching workers set up a tent in the garden. I didn’t want them to trample any of my flowers. The roses were big enough to be on their radar, but the smaller plants might go unnoticed.

The rain had dropped to a cold sprinkle tossed by a capricious breeze. Wet cottonwood leaves scattered over the lawn, and the wind raised a wonderful, autumnal scent from them into the air. It made me want to run up into the mountains and walk beneath the aspen trees, all cloaked in golden glory. I promised myself I’d do that soon, because the fall color was almost over. We should get some more pleasant days before the end of October, but the first snow could come any time.

The front door opened with a jangle of tiny bells, and my office manager, Kris Overland, looked out. “Ellen? Meeting starts in ten minutes.”

“Yes, all right.”

With a final glance at the workers, I eased past the café tables—unoccupied; too cold for tea outdoors that day—and retreated into the comfort of the tearoom. The smells of piñon wood burning in the fireplaces and sweet bread baking in the kitchen combined to fill me with bliss as I hung my coat on one of the hooks in the hall.

In the parlors, the last few customers of the day murmured quietly over their tea. Or as quietly as possible; I recognized the strident voice of the Bird Woman—one of our regular customers, often a challenge—soaring out of the main parlor. She was expounding on the virtues of the Ouija board versus the pendulum.

The meeting, which Kris had arranged, was for planning an event on Halloween night. She and her friends had booked the entire tearoom.

I followed Kris down the hall to the dining parlor. Her burgundy velour dress hugged the curves of her hips nicely, its close sleeves extending past the wrists in a quasi-medieval touch. Rather sensuous for a business meeting, but though Kris’s wardrobe was often striking, it was always in good taste. She stopped outside the door and turned to me.

“I’d like you to meet someone,” she said, a tinge of color blooming in her cheeks.

In the parlor, a young man stood waiting at the far end of the dining table. He was tall, with honey-colored hair that brushed his shoulders and chiseled cheekbones worthy of a Tolkien elf. He wore black, as did a lot of Kris’s Goth friends: in his case a long-sleeved black dress shirt (silk if I was any judge), open at the neckline to allow a glimpse of a silver ankh hanging on a fine chain, and black jeans. A pair of penetrating, warm brown eyes fixed on me and a slight smile grew on his lips, then he looked to Kris.

“Gabriel,” Kris said, “I’d like you to meet my boss, Ellen Rosings. Ellen, this is Gabriel Rhodes.”

“How do you do,” he said with a small, gracious bow that would have caused heart flutters in a colder woman than me.

“Pleased to meet you, Gabriel,” I said, nodding in return. “Are you here for the planning meeting?”

“Yes,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m a little early.”

Kris slipped past the table to join him, and he slid an arm around her waist. She leaned into his shoulder and smiled up at him.

Oh.

“I’ll just check on the tea,” I said brightly. “Back in a minute.”

I crossed the hall, going through the short side hallway to the butler’s pantry, where Dee, one of my servers, was preparing for the meeting. She brushed a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear as she looked up at me with a smile. “Don’t worry, it’ll all be ready.”

“I’m not worried,” I said. “Thanks for being willing to stay late.”