A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (11 page)

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.”

“I was on Guadalupe Street.” His gaze traveled my form, then he nodded. “Nice sweater.”

“Thanks. Would you like to park your bike in the driveway?”

He glanced over his shoulder toward the motorcycle parked at the curb in front of my gate. “It’ll be all right there. You driving?”

“Yes.” I hefted the basket. “Come on through.”

As I closed the door, he slid his arm around my waist, demanding attention. I was happy to give it to him, along with a lingering kiss. The basket kept us from getting closer, which was probably just as well since time was limited.

We walked down the hall to the back door. Tony looked into the dining parlor. “What’s that?”

“Just a project of Julio’s.”

He stepped into the parlor and flipped on the light switch, then stood gazing at the sugar skulls for a few seconds. “You going to serve those to your guests? Kind of big for sugar cubes.”

“They’re for decorating,” I said. “Julio’s going to host a party next Sunday. I’m sure you’d be welcome,” I added, going out on a limb a bit. Julio’s opinion of Tony was guarded.

“Thanks, but I don’t do art. I’d just make a mess.”

“That could still be fun.”

He gave me a wry look and switched off the light. We went out the back door and climbed into my car. Tony kept quiet as I negotiated traffic. Soon we were driving into the foothills. I rolled my window down, enjoying the crisp breeze.

“How’s your mom?” I asked.

“Oh, fine.”

“Did you get the...was it the washer? Fixed?”

“Dishwasher.
Abuela’s.
Yeah.”

I hoped Tony wasn’t in a monosyllabic mood. That always made conversation a strain.

“It just needed a new hose,” he added.

Oh, good. A whole sentence.

“So you’re handy with fixing things? How about light fixtures?”

He shrugged. “Electrical’s a pain. You’d be better off hiring a pro.”

“OK.”

“Gonna replace that chandelier?”

I felt his gaze on me and glanced over at him. The dark eyes were giving me a cop stare, except that I saw the laughter tightening the outer corners of his eyelids.

“Never,” I replied loftily. “That chandelier is a pathway of communication with the spirit world.”

“You’ve been hanging around with that Willow lady too much.”

Or not enough. I smiled.

“Actually, I want to add an accent light to shine on Vi’s portrait.”

“Oh.”

“I showed it to you, didn’t I? Julio’s painting?”

“Yeah.”

We passed Ten Thousand Waves, Santa Fe’s amazing Japanese spa, and I thought about suggesting we visit there some time, but decided against it for the moment. Soon we passed Hyde State Park, and began to see aspens here and there. I was heading for higher ground, up by the ski hill where the aspen groves were bigger.

“So did you go to the art show?” Tony said.

Ah. I smiled. “Yes. It was really great. So many talented artists.”

“Did you go with that counselor guy?”

“His name is Loren. I met him and his sister at the show, and we had lunch.”

I waited. Would Tony explode? If he did, that might just be where I drew the line.

The road got steeper and the pockets of aspens got bigger. I began to look for a place to park.

“I’m not good at art,” Tony said.

“It’s OK.”

“I mean I’m not interested in it either.”

“I’m not interested in football. That doesn’t mean we can’t be close.”

That evoked a soft laugh. “You were miserable at that party I took you to.”

“Not miserable. But certainly a fish out of water.” It would have helped if I had known anyone else there, but they were mostly Tony’s old high-school buddies, and I’d gone to a different school.

“We don’t have to have everything in common,” I said. “We have enough.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Murder victims?”

Bad time to be sarcastic. Tony fell silent again, and when I glanced at him I saw his mouth was set.

We rounded a curve and came to a hillside splashed with gold. A small pullout provided parking. I stopped the car and got out, drinking in a deep breath of mountain air.

Tony reached out a hand to carry the picnic basket. I gave it to him, and we climbed the hillside. Leaves crunched beneath our feet, sending up the wonderful smell of autumn. Whenever I walked among the aspens, I always imagined myself in Lothlorien.

We found a spot in dappled sunlight, right in the midst of a stand of tall aspens. Their leaves rustled in a constant waterfall sound, and now and then one drifted gently down to the ground. I spread the blanket on a patch of mostly-dry grass and started unpacking the food. Cheeses and olives on a small cheese board, and I offered Tony the baguette.

“Where’s yours?” he said.

“We’re sharing. Just tear off a hunk.”

He did so, pulling off one end and handing the loaf back to me. “I feel like a cave man,” he said, gazing at the bread in his hand.

I laughed, relieved. “Try this. It’s fontina,” I said, cutting him a slice.

He sniffed it, then took a cautious nibble. He nodded approval and took a bigger bite along with some bread.

“Tea or fuzzy water?”

“Tea.”

I agreed with his choice; it was chilly up here despite the sunshine. I poured into paper cups for us both, and we ate in silence for a while. Picking through potential topics of conversation, I found nothing brilliant, so I fell back on a safe, customary standby: work.

“Are you still working on the case that called you away Saturday?”

That got me a dark look. “Yeah.”

“I’m not trying to be nosy.”

He leaned back, chewing a mouthful, then washed it down with some tea. “My job isn’t fun to talk about. Sorry. It’s cleaning up other people’s messes, with a lot of boring paperwork thrown in.”

“Don’t you swap stories with your colleagues?”

“Yeah, but the stories are mostly pathetic. Or morbid. You wouldn’t like them.”

“I can still sympathize.”

He took an olive and ate it. I dished up salad for us both and handed him a plate, afraid to try a different subject. So far I’d just made things more awkward.

“The thing is, I don’t want to put that on you,” he said.

Looking up, I saw concern in his eyes. That was better than a defensive wall. Progress.

“How can I support you, then?” I asked. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

He glanced up at the aspens. “Tell me about paintings. Or flowers. Something good. Your life is about good things.”

The implied converse broke my heart. Tony looked back at me, his expression almost pleading. I could do as he asked, but that would be avoiding the undercurrents of this conversation.

“And your life is about doing good,” I said softly. “That’s harder.”

Our gazes held for a long moment. A tingle went through me, not sexual, but intimate. As if we were looking into each other’s souls.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he said, almost whispering. “I don’t want the bad stuff to touch you.”

“Thank you. But if you build walls between us, they’ll keep us apart.”

I held still, hoping he’d answer, wanting to preserve whatever connection we had just made, but it was insubstantial, like cobwebs. Tony picked up his fork, and the moment had passed.

All right. Talk about something good. I thought about my day.

“I’ve never decorated sugar skulls,” I said. “Have you?”

“Nah. Angela’s the artist in the family.”

“Is she? What kind of art does she do?”

“Different kinds. She’s always crocheting something, and she scrapbooks. In school she loved art classes.
Abuela
still uses an ashtray she made.”

“I like your sister,” I said. “I’d like to get to know her better. Do you think she’d enjoy decorating skulls?”

He gave a skeptical shrug. “You could ask.”

“Is el Dia de los Muertos a big deal in your family?”

“Not really.” He ate a bite of gouda, then added, “Mama lights candles for Dad and
Abuelo
. That’s about it.”

I nodded. The defensive wall had come back, though not as solid as before. I got the feeling I should avoid asking about his family life too much.

I drank some tea. Why did talking to Tony feel like tiptoeing through a mine field? It shouldn’t be this hard.

The salad was gone, and the cheese was mostly gone. I got out the cake and served Tony a piece.

“What about Christmas?” I asked. Christmas had to be safe. “Do you have any family traditions?”

“Yeah. Midnight mass.
Abuela
still insists on going. When we get home we have cocoa and bizcochitos, and we get to open one present. The rest of the presents are opened after breakfast on Christmas morning.”

“We did presents on Christmas morning, too, when I was growing up.”

Tony tilted his head. “Not any more?”

“Well, my parents are gone. Now I get together with Nat for brunch, and we exchange gifts then. Though—I don’t know. It may be different this year, now that she’s married again.” Smiling, I shrugged, trying to shake off a moment’s insecurity. “We’ll see. I’ll still go to the Plaza on Christmas Eve, and walk up Canyon Road to look at the
farolitos
. Do you like to do that?”