A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (10 page)

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

C
aptain 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 letters 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.