A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (12 page)

“That’s for Anglos.”

Rich Anglos, I heard behind the tone. I cut a bite of cake to hide my annoyance.

“Not necessarily.”

“We always thought it was a tourist thing. We’d go to
Las Posadas
instead.”

I nodded, remembering the candlelight procession of Joseph and Mary looking for a place to stay, with crowds of people singing as they followed the couple around the Plaza and watched at each stop where they asked for shelter. “When we were little, our parents would take us to that. I loved booing the devils.”

“You don’t go any more?”

“It’s so crowded these days. Like Zozobra.”

He nodded. “Like everything.”

“Progress, I guess.”

“Mm.”

We finished the cake and drank the last of the tea. I packed up the remainder of the food and set the basket aside, then lay back on the blanket, staring up at the aspens. Golden-white towers reaching up to the incredibly blue sky. I sighed with pleasure.

Tony stretched out beside me. “OK, that’s gorgeous,” he said.

I turned my head to look at him, glad to see the frown was gone. He still looked care-worn. There were lines of weariness etched into his face.

“Worth taking the time?” I said softly.

He turned his head to meet my gaze. “Yeah.”

I smiled, and he moved closer for a kiss. One kiss became two, became more. We twined around each other and my heart began to race. Tony’s hands moved over my body, sending flashes of lightning joy through me. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

“We should go,” he said, his voice rough.

“In a little while,” I said, and nipped his ear.

“No, I’m late.” He kissed me again, then pulled away.

I sat up and looked at my phone. Quarter to two.

Damn.

He was watching me with a hungry look that had nothing to do with food.

“But you want to stay, right?” I asked, smoothing my hair.

“Yes.”

“So let’s get together again soon.”

“Yes.”

I demanded one more kiss, then got up. We folded the blanket and walked back to my car.

At home, I parked and headed for the back door, sorting through my keys. Tony stood looking at the car.

Oh. Yes. The bloodstain was gone from the driveway, but the memory would still be there.

“Tony?” I said softly.

He turned, giving his shoulders a shake. I opened the door and we walked up the hall to its counterpart, sunlight shining through the front door lights. I set the picnic basket down.

“Thanks for taking the time to see me. It was nice.”

I reached for the doorknob but Tony intervened, catching me in a tight hug. I hugged him back, gave him the kisses he wanted.

“I have to go back to work,” he said hoarsely, catching my hand and kissing the palm.

“OK. Call me?”

“Yeah.”

One more kiss, then he reached for the door. I followed him out to watch him stride down the path to the gate, and shivered a little in the chill.

“Bye,” I said softly.

He got onto his bike with the unconscious grace of a lifelong horseman. The engine started up on a low growl. Tony made a U-turn in the empty street, then cruised to the intersection at Palace Avenue and turned the corner out of sight.

⁸

T
he next few days passed quickly. A thousand small tasks needed attention, many of which had been on hold while I dealt with the wedding. In addition, the holiday season loomed.

I called Tony’s sister, Angela, and got her voicemail. She was in college, I knew, and also cared for their grandmother. I left a message inviting her to come decorate sugar skulls on Sunday, then double-checked with Julio (yes, belatedly) that it was all right to ask a friend.

“Hey, it’s your house,” Julio said as he kneaded a mound of
pan de muerto
dough. “Sure, ask whoever you want. I’m just glad you’re giving us the space.”

“Should we have some snacks? I could make tea...”

“No, no, no. Not on your day off. You leave the snacks to me. I put it at one o’clock so people would have lunch before coming.”

The first shipment of holiday merchandise arrived on Tuesday. I was not in the mood for Christmas; in fact, I resented its intrusion into autumn, which was my favorite season. Business demanded that I attend to it, though. I helped Kris sort through the goods and get them ready for sale, but I insisted that we would not put out holiday merchandise until after Thanksgiving.

“People like to shop early,” Kris said, glancing up at me under sculpted, dark brows as we stood among stacks of boxes in the storage closet behind her desk.

“We have plenty of things they can buy. I just don’t want holly and candy canes all over the place for two months.”

She resumed checking off inventory on packing slips. Sometimes Kris’s silences shouted louder than a dozen howler monkeys.

“This is our first Christmas,” I said. “Let’s see how it goes. If it’s a mistake, we’ll reconsider for next year.”

Having put my foot down on the merchandise issue, I then caved on the subject of advertising. Our first holiday ad—tastefully designed by my pal Gina’s advertising firm—would appear the week before Thanksgiving, announcing extended hours for December and encouraging early reservations.

Three more boxes arrived in Wednesday’s mail. The smallest was addressed to Kris, so I put it on her desk and took the others into the storage closet. As I opened one and examined the ornaments inside, I became aware of a weighted silence in the outer office.

Looking out, I saw the small box standing open and Kris regarding a life-sized skull sitting on her desk. I put down a china teacup ornament and stepped out to join her.

“Is that something for the party?”

“Search me,” Kris said. “I didn’t order it.”

“Is there a packing slip?” I leaned forward to peer into the box, but all I saw were wads of black tissue paper.

“No. The cancellation is from the Santa Fe post office.”

The back of my neck prickled. “Maybe we should contact the police.”

She shook her head and picked up the skull, turning it in her hands. “It isn’t real. It’s resin.”

“It could be construed as a threat.”

Kris swiveled her chair to face me. “No, it’s an insult.” She held the skull out toward me. “No lower jaw, see? It’s a Death’s Head. In Shakespearean times, that was a symbol for a bawd or a rake.”

“I don’t get it.”

She shot me a wry glance. “Someone is calling me a whore.”

I couldn’t help a small gasp of outrage.

“Probably one of Gabriel’s exes, is my guess,” Kris added. She held it at arm’s length. “It’ll make a nice paperweight.”

“Kris, I don’t like this.”

“If it bothers you I’ll take it home.”

“I mean I don’t like that someone sent it to you.”

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as she addressed the skull. “And why here, instead of my place? What do you say, Yorick? Is it because they didn’t know my mailing address?”

I took a deep breath. “I need tea.”

Escaping into my office, I poured myself a cup of Oolong from the pot on my credenza. Kris trailed after me.

“Don’t worry about it, Ellen. It’s just drama.”

“Do Goths often send each other skulls?”

She grinned. “Probably more often than you think.”

I took a swallow of tea, then gestured to the pot, offering to pour for Kris. She shook her head.

“Thanks. I’ve had my quota for the day.”

“Let me ask Tony about that skull.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “He’s a homicide detective.”

“Yes, but he might have some advice.”

Kris didn’t quite roll her eyes. “Don’t bother him. If it makes you feel better, I’ll keep the box. Then when I turn up dead, you can have it checked for fingerprints.”

“Not funny.”

She smiled. “Sorry. Really, it’s OK. This isn’t a threat.”

“If you say so.”

“Let’s put away the rest of that merchandise,” she said.

We did, but I couldn’t help glancing at the skull on Kris’s desk now and then.

Friday arrived on the wings of a howling wind storm. I half-expected a call from Willow, canceling her tour for that day, but I had apparently underestimated the determination of the spirit-watching crowd. When four o’clock came they arrived, with cold-reddened noses, bundled in coats, scarves, and hats which they shed on their way down the hall to the dining parlor.

The group included the Bird Woman, back for her third time on the tour. I put on a friendly smile for her and the others as they shuffled into the parlor.

As Willow passed, I touched her arm. “I’d like to talk to you afterward, if you have time.”

She nodded and followed her charges in to tea while I went upstairs to alert Mr. Quentin, the reenactor who gave a talk about Captain Dusenberry as part of the tour. He waited quietly in the sitting area by the front window, a slightly stocky gentleman in his mid-forties, rusty-colored hair and beard with a few threads of silver, reading a book by the light of a mica-shaded table lamp. His Union army uniform, spectacles, even the book in his hands were authentic recreations and looked well-used, not donned merely for the occasion, but lived in.

I paused, watching him for a moment before intruding. Captain Dusenberry had probably looked very much like he did. Though Mr. Quentin was not here to portray the captain, he did help people understand what that 19th-century gentleman’s life had been like.

“They’re here,” I said, stepping forward.

Mr. Quentin nodded, consulted a pocket watch on the end of a chain, then resumed reading. The group would have twenty minutes to enjoy their tea before he went down to address them.

I retreated to check on the tearoom, and met Iz carrying an empty firewood sling. “Didn’t Mick fill the rack?” I asked.

“Yes, but we’ve gone through it all, and now he’s backed up.”

“Let me get it,” I said, reaching for the sling. “You don’t want to smudge your apron.”

The firewood was stacked out back, against the fence that ran along the driveway. I put on my coat and brought in two loads of wood, one for the main parlor and one for the south parlor, where four smaller alcoves shared the back-to-back fireplaces.

Peeking into Dahlia, I saw that both it and Violet were empty. I filled the firewood rack, then paused to look at Vi’s portrait.

Yes, it definitely needed better illumination, although there was a candle again, casting flickering shadows on the painting. I noticed a small card propped up behind the candle and picked it up. On the front was a picture of Jesus surrounded by sheep and doves. On the back was a prayer titled “Comfort for those who Mourn.”

This must be the offering Rosa had wanted to leave. Prayer cards were mostly a Catholic custom, though I’d seen them at a couple of Protestant funerals. I read the card, then replaced it behind the votive. The prayer was pretty generic, so I didn’t think it would offend anyone who happened to be curious.

It did add to the appearance of an altar, though. Well, if anyone complained I’d move the offerings. So far no one had.

Three logs were left in the sling. As I carried them to the dining parlor, bits of the prayer rolled around in my head.

Though invisible to us, our dear dead are not absent.