A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (26 page)

“What are they saying?”

“That Gabriel’s in trouble. Some of them think he’s in jail, some think he was in some kind of accident.”

I swallowed. “He’s not in jail.”

Ramon gave me a sharp look. “But he is in trouble.”

“I shouldn’t talk to you about it,” I said. “Detective Aragón will want to interview you, too.”

He looked disgruntled, but didn’t say anything. Instead he attacked his sandwich.

“Sorry it turned out to be such a mess,” I said.

He shrugged and swallowed a bite. “Not your fault.”

I sighed, wondering if Gabriel had paid him in advance for the music. If he hadn’t, I would pay Ramon myself, as well as Mick and Dee. Gabriel had put down a sizable deposit on the party, but I’d be lucky if it would cover the cost of the food, and I might not get any more. If so, I was looking at a substantial loss on this hellish night.

Unexpectedly, that thought brought tears to my eyes. It wasn’t about the bills; I was plenty used to living on the edge of financial disaster by now. It had something to do with all Gabriel’s effort going to waste.

The timer rang. It took me a second to remember what it was for: the scones.

I got up, brushing at my face, and took the tray out of the oven, leaving the heat on in case I’d need to bake another batch. While they cooled, I got out lemon curd and clotted cream, and set up three trays: one for the Goths, one for the cops, and a small one for Dee and Mick. I fed the Goths first, then took scones around to the cops.

Officer Marcos broke into a smile.
“That’s
what I’ve been smelling. Thanks!”

Officer Finch looked at the scones with suspicion. “Biscuits?”

The parlor door opened and a vampire slunk out, headed for the back door. “They’re scones,” Tony said from the parlor doorway. “Thanks, Ellen,” he added as he helped himself to one.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Mmph,” he said through a mouthful. He handed the list to Finch, who looked at the remaining Goths and called, “Gwyneth Bancroft.”

She rose from a love seat where she’d been sitting with Roberto. He stood, too, and escorted her to the dining parlor like an attendant knight, her pale hand on his arm. They had both removed their masks, which made me glance at the others in the hall and realize that all the guests were unmasked. A tiny ping of sadness went through me at this further deconstruction of Gabriel’s planned moment.

Roberto looked at me as he returned to his seat. “Kris was looking for you after Gabriel disappeared,” he said. “Do you know what happened?”

Feeling a dozen pairs of eyes on me, I grabbed an empty pitcher. “Let me get you some more water,” I said, and escaped to the kitchen.

In a blatant act of cowardice, I sent Ramon out with the full pitcher. I ducked upstairs with the scones for Dee and Mick, taking my teacup with me, and hid with them while I drank another cup.

When I came down again, Roberto was gone and I heard muffled crying. Looking toward the dining parlor, I saw Finch with his arms crossed, staring at the back door. The crying was coming from
outside
, I realized. I went to the back door and opened it before Finch could react.

Gwyneth stood on the back
portal
, softly weeping. A frowning female cop stood with her.

“Hey!” Finch said behind me.

“Is there a problem?” I asked Gwyneth.

“They won’t let me back in, but Roberto’s my ride home,” she said.

I took her hands in mine. They were cold.

“She’s too lightly dressed to wait outside,” I said to the female cop. “May I take her in the kitchen?”

I indicated the kitchen door. The cop looked through the window.

“Who’s that in there?” she demanded.

“One of my staff. Ramon Garcia.”

“Has he talked to the detective?”

“Not yet.”

The cop opened the door and went in, shooting a glance around the room. Ramon looked up from washing his sandwich plate.

“Wait out in the hall,” the cop told him with a jerk of the head.

He glanced at me, then at Gwyneth, then headed for the pantry. The cop followed him out.

I drew Gwyneth into the kitchen and closed the door. “Would you like a hot drink? Coffee, or tea?”

She shook her head, looking forlorn, then a shiver went through her and she began to cry in earnest.

“Come and sit down,” I said, gently putting an arm around her and steering her to the break table.

There was a box of tissue there; I pushed it toward her. While she was mopping her face, I ducked into the pantry and put the kettle on, wondering what Tony had said to her. When he was in cop mode he could be pretty ruthless.

I darted upstairs to fetch her white satin cloak and Roberto’s black velvet, then returned to find Gwyneth making a valiant attempt to compose herself. I sat beside her and took her hand again, just holding it to steady her.

“Gabriel’s dead,” she whispered, and I felt a tremor go through her hand.

“Yes,” I said softly.

She turned wide, green eyes on me. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She dabbed at it absently with the wad of tissue in her other hand.

We sat in silence for a while. Distant voices reached us from the hall, unintelligible but present, reminding us we were not alone. Eventually Officer Finch called out a name. Shortly afterward, Roberto came through the outside door.

Gwyneth released my hand and stood as he hurried toward us. She gave a small gasp as they embraced, and I instinctively moved away. At that moment the kettle in the pantry whistled, so I busied myself setting tea to steep. When that was done, I turned back to the kitchen. Roberto met me at the pantry door, his cloak over his arm.

“We’re going,” he said. “Thank you for bringing her inside.”

Gwyneth, standing a few feet away in her own cloak, looked much more composed. I nodded to Roberto. “Take care,” I said. An inadequate wish, but it would do to represent the stronger feelings that were still too raw to be articulated.

I saw them out through the back door, then started more coffee and tea. There were still paper cups in the hall, so I put the teapot on a tray with sugar, milk, and spoons, and took it out.

A half-dozen scones were left. As I debated whether to make more, a purple-corseted fairy left the dining parlor and Officer Finch called out, “Margo Foss.”

This surprised me; I hadn’t noticed Margo in a while and had assumed she was gone. The reason, I realized, as she rose from her chair, was that she had removed not only her mask, but her hennin, and she’d taken her hair down. It was longer than I’d thought: straight and dark, ending well below her shoulders. Her emerald gown was dark enough to look black in the shadow of the stairs, where she’d been seated. She walked silently down the hall to the parlor, and Finch waved her in.

What next? I stood in the center of the hall, going through the options: coffee, tea, water, scones. I was caught up.

Oh, no.

“Excuse me, Ms. Rosings?” said a gentle, masculine voice.

Turning, I saw the long-haired nature spirit rising from a chair. He held his mask of leaves in his hand. His costume—a vaguely Georgian coat and knee-breeches of tapestry-like fabric, rich with dark greens and crusted with silver braid, embroidery, and a sprinkling of glinting gems—was almost as glorious as Gabriel’s had been, although more subtle. Without the mask, he might have stepped out of some historic painting, except that no Georgian gentleman would wear his hair loose and waist-length. It was a perfect, dark waterfall that I admired every time I saw it.

“Yes?” I said.

“May I have a word with you?”

He stepped toward the foot of the stairs, a little apart from the others. Under the watchful eyes of Officer Marcos, I joined him there.

He’d been to the tearoom before, on several occasions. He was one of Kris’s friends, and I really ought to remember his name.

“Owen Hughes,” he said disconcertingly, with a slight bow. He then lowered his voice. “We’ve all deduced that something’s happened with Gabriel.”

“I really shouldn’t discuss it. I’m sorry.”

“I won’t ask you to, but I thought you should know that he asked me to photograph the chambers throughout the evening.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.” He reached into a capacious pocket in the skirt of his coat and withdrew a slim digital camera. “I’d prefer that the police not confiscate this. Do you have a way to download a copy of the photos for them?”

He had interposed his body between me and the officer at the door, shielding his hand from view.

“I won’t withhold anything from them,” I said.

“I’m not asking you to. Exactly the opposite; I want you to give them the photos. I’d just rather keep possession of my camera.”

“All right. May I keep copies for myself?”

“Of course.”

I slipped the camera into my pocket, then went upstairs. Dee had her phone out and was reading her book, which I took to be a good sign. Mick was zoning on his music. I waved to get his attention, and he disconnected.

“Could you help me with something?”

I led him into my office. “I’m going to download the photos from this,” I said, showing him Owen’s camera. “I want you to watch, so you can confirm that I’m not deleting anything.”

He looked puzzled. “OK.”

“The photographer wants to keep his camera,” I explained. “The pictures were taken here, tonight. I’m going to burn them onto a disk for the police.”

“Ah.” Mick nodded.

I turned on my computer and invited Mick to bring one of the guest chairs around behind the desk. Meanwhile I dug around in Kris’s office until I found a package of disks and another of paper sleeves. The camera’s port was compatible with my phone cable, and it connected cheerfully with my computer. I copied the photos onto my hard drive, then burned them onto the three disks, labeling them with a marker and sliding them into sleeves.

“Thanks,” I said to Mick as I disconnected the camera.

“Sure thing. Easiest job I ever had.” He smiled, which reassured me.

We went out to the hall, where Mick resumed his seat and I collected the scones tray, the teapot, and the empty sandwich plate from the sitting area.

Downstairs, the company of Goths was growing sparse. There were fewer than a dozen left. The nature spirit—Owen—hovered near the foot of the stairs, and looked up with relief as I came down.

“They’ve called my name,” he said.

I nodded, and led him back to the dining parlor, leaving my tray on an empty table. He gave me a troubled glance, but followed.

Tony was waiting in the doorway, tired and grouchy. I caught his eye.

“May I come in for a moment? I have something for you.”

His eyes went alert, then he nodded and stepped back. I gestured to Owen to join us, gently closing the door after he came in.

“Gabriel asked Owen to take pictures during the party,” I said, producing the camera and the disks. “Owen would like to keep his camera, so he asked me to download them for you. Mick watched; he can verify that I didn’t delete anything.” I offered two disks to Tony, and one to Owen along with his camera.

Tony gave me a long look. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the CDs.

Owen received his camera and the third disk with another small bow. “Thank you very much,” he said.

“Do you need more coffee?” I asked Tony. “Something to eat?”

He shook his head. “Glass of water?”

I nodded and left them together, returning to the kitchen where I found Ramon washing trays and pitchers.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“Passes the time,” he replied.

I filled a clean pitcher with water and put it on a tray with a stack of paper cups, then took it to the dining parlor. Officer Finch knocked on the door and opened it for me.

Tony was seated in the chair I’d taken in for Gwyneth, but he’d moved it to the north wall, between the two windows. The candles on their pillar stands to either side were guttering. He looked like a king holding court.

I paused, taking in the scene he had staged. Who knew that Tony had such a flair for the dramatic?

Owen stood before the fireplace. They watched me set the water on the sideboard, next to the impressive array of alcohol.

“Owen, may I talk to you before you leave?” I said.

“He can’t go back to the waiting area,” Tony said.

“May I take him upstairs?”

Tony gave a grudging nod. I looked to Owen, who also nodded.

“Thanks. Let me know if you need anything else,” I said to Tony, and got out.

I should have taken another chair into that room hours before, I realized. Except that if Tony had wanted one, he would have asked for it. I pressed my lips together, disliking the subtle intimidation of making people stand while they were questioned. If I’d thought of it, I’d have sent a chair in anyway, but it was too late now.

Back to the kitchen, where the timer was beeping and Ramon was taking the scones out of the oven. I took them out to the remaining Goths and got back to the dining parlor just as Owen was emerging.

“Straight upstairs,” Tony told me, “and straight out when you’re done.”

I nodded, and led Owen up to my office. He accepted a chair and set his leaf mask on my desk, then sat gazing absently at the print of Monet’s “Water Lilies” on my wall.

“Would you like tea, or a scone?” I offered.

He shook his head and smiled. “I’m fine, thanks. You’ve worked hard to make us comfortable. What did you want to talk about?”

“Photography,” I said. “Are you a professional?”

“Semi-pro. I freelance. Gabriel is—was—a client. He had me document all his work.”

“Oh! Well, then, what I have to ask is a continuation of that. And I’ll pay, since Gabriel isn’t able to.”

Owen raised an intrigued eyebrow. “You have some of Gabriel’s work? I assume you mean besides the chambers downstairs.”

“Yes. His finale. Come and see.”

We went out to the sitting area, where I introduced Owen to Dee and asked her to stand up. Owen took a step toward her and peered at her face, marveling.

“Wow. Yes, of course I’d be glad to photograph it.”

“It should be downstairs, in the black chamber,” Dee said.