A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (16 page)

“I did. Thank you, I’m really glad I got to do that.”

“I did one, too. Want to put them in Violet?”

“Oh. Sure, why not?”

I fetched my skull from my plate and followed Julio up the hall and into Violet. When I saw the mantel I caught my breath.

A length of lace now covered the wood. On top of it sat the votive holder on its coaster, the prayer card, my vase of pansies, a garland of pink silk roses that ran the length of the mantel, and three decorated skulls propped against the chimney. I recognized Kris’s black-and-lavender work and Rosa’s yellow and orange marigolds. The third skull was pale blue and lavender with touches of yellow, very swirly.

“Who did that one?” I said softly, leaning forward to take a closer look.

“Dee,” Julio said. “Here’s mine.”

He placed his skull to the right of Rosa’s, then put a fresh candle in the votive holder and lit it. I swallowed. There was now no pretending that this was anything less than an
ofrenda
.

Slowly, I propped up my skull next to Dee’s, then touched the lace.

“Rosa brought that,” Julio said. “And the roses.”

“They’re lovely. She didn’t have to go to such trouble. She hardly knew Vi.”

“She’s Vi’s successor, though. She wants to honor her.”

I let out my breath in a gentle sigh, looking up at the portrait. The candle’s flame made shadows dance across Vi’s face.

“This is why you wanted to decorate skulls,” I said.

“Partly, yes.”

Turning, I saw a hollow look on Julio’s face—a look I knew well. He immediately changed his expression, reaching up to straighten the votive which was already perfectly straight.

“I miss her, too,” I said. “I’m going to get a better light for the painting.”

He met my gaze, eyebrows tightening with sorrow. “Thanks.”

We left in silence, walking slowly back to the kitchen. Andre had put away all the food and was swapping out the kitchen trash.

“You don’t have to do that!” I said.

He grinned. “It was full. Lot of paper plates gooped up with icing.”

“We’ll stick it in the dumpster,” Julio said. “Can I leave the extra skulls here for now? And the leftover icing—it’s all in the fridge.”

“Sure,” I said slowly. “Actually, I might do another skull or two.”

“Have at it.”

Julio tucked the box of skulls into a shelf under the counter, then grabbed his jacket and headed out with Andre and the trash. Silence fell over the house. I looked around the kitchen, which showed almost no signs of the creativity explosion. The slow-cooker was still on the counter; its insert was drying in the rack.

A satisfying day, all in all. As I thought about the
ofrenda
in Violet, it occurred to me that I wasn’t quite finished.

I took out the box of blank skulls and grabbed a couple of paper plates from the stack of leftovers that was on the same shelf. I put a blank skull on a plate and gazed at it for a while, then poured myself a cup of Wisteria White. Fortified by the tea, I opened the fridge and chose a half-dozen colors of icing, then sat down at the break table to work.

I gave the skull pale blue hair, big brown eyes, and red lips, then drew a triple line of yellow dots along the jaw. It didn’t really look like a necklace, but I knew what it represented: lemon agate heishi.

Setting that skull aside, I got a fresh one and gave it black hair with some stripes of white, brown eyes, and red lips. Realizing I needed more colors, I went back to the fridge, then I carefully crowned the hair with pink roses, and put a couple more on the cheeks for good measure.

The third skull took a little more thought. I decided an abstract design would serve best. I gave it black hair and brown eyes, then used green, blue, and violet to make blocks of color on the cheeks and forehead. My lines were a little shaky, but that didn’t matter. I knew what it stood for.

The fourth skull was the hardest of all. I didn’t know the person it represented—much—and I certainly didn’t like him. But I wanted to make a skull for him. It would give me closure. After staring at a blank skull for a while, I picked up the red icing.

Red is my least favorite color, but it was the right color to use. It represented anger and hate. Those were the things I remembered about the man who had died in my driveway—the man who had tried to kill me there. I made the eyes red and drew a down-turned mouth. With black, I added frowning eyebrows and a patch of hair.

I put the skulls on fresh plates: Sylvia Carruthers and Maria Garcia on one, Daniel and Tommy Swazo on another. Almost done.

I set a blank skull on a clean plate, and picked up the brown icing. Hair, eyes, brows, and mustache, all brown, and owing more than a little to Mr. Quentin’s example. I didn’t know if that was correct, but it felt right. A touch of pink to the mouth, just a line, because I didn’t want it to look like lipstick, but I managed to give it a slight smile.

Not much to it, but something about the smile made it feel real. With the pale blue icing, I drew a “D” on the forehead.

“There you go, Captain,” I said softly.

Setting down the icing, I looked out the kitchen window and realized it was dark. I put away the blank skulls and cleaned the table, then carried my skulls upstairs, where I arranged them on the low table by the front window.

I collected two candles and a box of matches from my suite and went back to the hall, where I placed the candles on either side of the skulls and lit them. Sitting on the sofa, I gazed at the five skulls.

Four of those people had died this year: two of them in the tearoom, one out in the driveway, and one in my Aunt Nat’s driveway. To them, I sent a silent wish for peace.

To Captain Dusenberry, whose skull was in the center, I sent peace as well, and also gratitude. I considered him a friend, or perhaps even a family member, I realized to my surprise. I definitely felt affection for him.

Looking up at the pitched ceiling above me, I wondered what this space had looked like in his day. The walls hadn’t changed that much. The dormer windows at the front and back of the upper hall were the same, just as the doors framed by lights on the ground floor beneath them were the same.

In my heart, I thought of it not as my house, but as our house.

Smiling at myself, I got up and went to my suite to find something for supper. As I stepped through the door, the hall chandelier behind me came on.

I turned to confirm it. Yes, the light was on—and a single crystal drop was swaying back and forth.

I smiled. “Good night, Captain.”

October drew to a close in a frenetic rush. Willow called Monday morning to say she couldn’t meet that day.

“The first, then?” I asked.

“That’s Sunday. Monday would be better for me. Say, ten-thirty?”

“Got it.” I added it to my calendar. “See you tomorrow, then. Are you sick of the tea food yet?”

“No, it’s a nice break, especially when it’s cold.”

“Well, just one more week.”

“Yes...for now.”

Did that mean she wanted to do this again next year? I’d be willing. It had given our bottom line a nice boost.

I used the rest of my day off to get caught up on my personal life: laundry, housekeeping, bills, even cooking. I made a giant pan of lasagna in an attempt to duplicate Nonna Fiorello’s secret recipe. The seasoning wasn’t quite right, but I was closing in on it.

“Less rosemary,” said Gina as we shared the results in my suite Monday evening.

“Really? I was wondering about less basil.”

“No. More basil, if anything. Nonna loves basil.”

I smiled. “How was the concert?”

“Good, but the chairs at the art museum were uncomfortable, and we couldn’t see the string quartet.”

“Oh, when you said it was at the museum I thought it was the history museum. They have a nice auditorium.”

“No such luck.” Gina stabbed a forkful of salad. “How was the skull thing?”

“It was fun, and...quite satisfying.”

Gina tilted her head. “Satisfying?”

“Yeah. It was a good thing to do. I made a skull for my dad, and for my mom and my uncle.”

“Hm. Sounds morbid.”

“It wasn’t. If anything, it was the opposite.”

“This whole Day of the Dead thing. I don’t get it. Dancing, partying skeletons. It’s weird.”

“It’s supposed to represent happy memories, I think. And help us think about the dead in positive ways, instead of continuing to grieve.”

She fixed me with a speculative eye. “Is that what it’s done for you?”

“I think it has,” I said, nodding.

My plate was empty. I sipped my wine—a nice Malbec that Gina had brought—and thought about the skulls. “You want to see them?”

“Your skulls? Sure.” She scooped up the last bite of her lasagna, grabbed her wine glass, and stood.

I led her out to the sitting area by the front window. I had put out fresh candles that morning—two tall, white votives in clear glass, the seven-day kind. I had also brought my other skulls up, except for the one that was in Violet.

“Impressive,” Gina said, standing in front of the table. “These can’t all be members of your family....”

“No. That’s Dad, and that’s Mom, and that’s Uncle Stephen. Those are the only family members.”

“Who are all the rest of these, then?”

“You can’t guess?”

She frowned, gazing at the collection. She started to shake her head, then bent closer to look at the Captain’s skull.

“D? D for Dusenberry?”

“Got it in one.”

“But I don’t have a clue about the rest.”

I sat on the love seat. “This one is Sylvia Carruthers.”

“Sylvia! Omigod. Then that yellow stuff is her necklace.”

“Right. And this one is Maria Garcia.”

Gina’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know her.”

“The Rose Guild. I told you about her. She was Julio and Rosa’s grandmother.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And these are the Swazos. Daniel and Tommy.”

“I never saw either of them. Just pictures on the news.”

“Well, these don’t look like them, any more than those look like Maria and Sylvia. This just represents how I think of them.”

“You didn’t do the opera singer. What was his name?”

“Victor Solano. He died at the Opera, and I didn’t really know him.”

“And Vi. You didn’t do one for Vi.”

“Yes, I did. It’s downstairs in Violet. Several of us did skulls for her. Do you want to see?”

She turned and gave me a long look. “Yes,” she said finally. “Let’s get more wine, though.”

We refilled our glasses and carried them downstairs. Gina stood looking silently at the
ofrenda
for a couple of minutes. Someone had added a small photograph of Vi in her tearoom server’s outfit: lavender dress, white bibbed apron, lavender ribbon through her auburn curls. Smiling, of course. Vi had almost always smiled.

“It’s a shrine,” Gina said at last, in a quiet voice.

“Part of the tradition,” I said. “It’s called an
ofrenda.
I didn’t plan it; it just sort of developed.”

“What do the customers think?”

“No one’s said anything. Of course, the skulls were only added yesterday.” And the lace, and the roses...

“I want to add something. Is that OK?”

“Of course.”

Gina put down her wine glass and reached up to the back of her neck, unfastening a chain that I hadn’t noticed. She drew it out of the neckline of her red business suit dress. Dangling from the chain was a tiny, gold cross.

“That looks valuable,” I said.

“Not terribly. It’s plate, not solid.” Gina slid the cross off of the chain, which she put into a pocket, and stood holding the cross in her palm and gazing at Vi’s portrait.

“I’ll always remember you fondly,
sorella
.”

She laid the cross beside the votive, then picked up her glass and raised it in a silent toast. I joined her in drinking to Vi.

“Who made the other skulls?” she asked after a moment.

I told her, one by one. She nodded, looking thoughtful.

“This is more serious than I thought.”

“Decorating sugar skulls?”

“Yes. I wish I had come, now.”

“There are some skulls and icing left, if you’d like to make a couple. They’re in the kitchen.”

“Not tonight. I have to get up early. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“Sure.”

We went back upstairs and finished the wine with dessert (dark chocolate mousse), after which Gina headed home. We promised to touch base about the skulls, though I suspected we’d both be too busy to get together.

That night I slept poorly, troubled by strange dreams full of symbols I couldn’t interpret. When I woke, I didn’t remember much: a hair-raising image of Gabriel drinking from Kris’s mysterious new skull paperweight, and a vague memory of running around trying to get rid of vampires, but instead of a cross all I had to wave at them was an ankh.

As I was going through my photos of the sugar skulls and mulling over these delightful recollections, Kris came in with the morning’s mail. “No boxes, hooray!” she said, handing me a short stack of business envelopes. “There’s a letter from
New Mexico Magazine.
Maybe they want to do a feature on us.”

I glanced at it, then set the mail aside. “Kris?”