A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (27 page)

“Downstairs will have to wait until the technicians are finished,” I said. “And that reminds me—Dee, they want to talk to you.”

Her eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yes. Don’t worry—I think it’s about the costume.”

“Oh.”

“Since we have to wait,” Owen said, “I’d like start up here, if you don’t mind.”

Dee glanced at me. “I don’t mind. Should I take off the cover?”

“There’s more?” Owen’s face lit with excitement, and he took out his camera. “Let me get this first.”

He took a few minutes to decide where the best lighting was. In the end, I brought out a table lamp from my suite to supplement the hall chandelier, and Owen had Dee stand in front of a blank patch of wall. Mick was sufficiently interested in the proceedings to withdraw from his musical reverie and watch with a critical eye.

After taking what seemed like a hundred photos, Owen told Dee to remove the black cover-up. I helped her to take it off, avoiding brushing it against her makeup. She rearranged the lacy shroud and looked expectantly at Owen.

“Wow!” he said. “This was going to be the midnight reveal.”

“Yes,” Dee said.

“That’s not body paint.”

“It’s a bodysuit. He painted it in three sessions. He did the makeup and the hands tonight.”

“Magnificent! OK, let’s start with a profile.”

For the next half hour, Owen took pictures from every angle. Full body shots, half-body shots, details. He didn’t pose Dee much, but occasionally asked her to shift a limb or change her position, and I could see that these subtle changes made a difference. The whole process was so fascinating I forgot about the Goths and the cops until a heavy tread approached on the stairs.

Officer Finch appeared on the landing. “Detective’s talking with your cook now. We need the rest of you down here.”

Owen put away his camera, and Dee draped the black cover-up around her shoulders. We trooped downstairs after Officer Finch and found Tony standing in the hall, leafing through his notes on the legal pad. Officer Marcos was gone.

Ramon came out of the pantry, carrying his guitar and sound gear. “I’m going home, unless you need me to stay.”

“No, go ahead. I’ll talk to you on Monday.” I locked the door behind him, then returned to the others.

Tony glanced at Owen. “You can go.”

“Actually, I’ve asked him to stay and take some photos for me,” I said.

Tony gave me a skeptical look. I gestured to Dee.

“This is Gabriel’s last work of art,” I said.

Last
surviving
work; his own face paint was damaged, and while the ghoulish might still consider it art, I had no wish to record it even if I could have. The police photos would have to stand as documentation for that.

Dee lifted the cover-up to show her costume. Tony stared at it.

“Oh,” he said.

“It was going to be revealed at midnight, in the black chamber,” Dee said.

“That was supposed to be the highlight of the evening,” I added. “Everyone was going to unmask, and there was going to be a toast—ohmigod. The vodka. It’s probably still in the kitchen.”

Tony turned to me. “Vodka?”

“Cinnamon vodka. To symbolize the Red Death.”

He frowned. “I want you to explain this whole Red Death thing to me,” he said.

“Yes, of course. It’s a story by Edgar Allen Poe—”

“Not now.”

Silenced, I waited. Tony seemed lost in thought.

“Could we take the photos?” Dee said. “It’s cold.”

With a shrug, Tony gestured toward the front of the house, which we took for permission. The technicians were now on the south side, so we went into the main parlor. It was warmer there, though the fire was down to coals. The candles in Rose were burning low, but still lit the black chamber with a red glare.

“I should turn off the lights,” I said, glancing at Owen, who had his camera ready.

He nodded, and while everyone else clustered at the entrance of Rose, Dee removed the cover-up and took her place between the two candle lanterns. I turned off the overhead lights, and the others gasped.

Dee looked ethereal, a pale skeleton with a glowing red shroud. The silver paint dappled in patches on her face—and also on the bodysuit, the shroud, and even the tips of the wig, I noted—reflected the light from the candle lanterns in a brilliant red gleam, while the rest of the costume was shadowy. The effect was of tiny droplets of liquid blood, dappled all over her body.

¹⁵
 

M
agnificent,” Owen said softly, breaking the silence. He went to work taking photos of Dee, asking her to change position slightly so that he could get every angle.

The sandy-haired tech came across the hall to look. “Oh, that is
awesome!”
he declared, and summoned the police photographer to take photos of Dee.

I moved out of the way, into the center of the parlor where the draped archways gave onto the other chambers. Tony touched my arm and nodded for me to follow him out to the hall.

“We’ll need that vodka,” he said to me. “No one actually drank it?”

“No. You don’t think—”

“I don’t want to find out the hard way.”

I swallowed. “OK. Yes, you’re right—though I don’t think Gabriel would do that.”

Tony gave me his flat cop stare.

“And besides, Julio prepared the drinks.”

“Let’s go see what you’ve got,” Tony said. He glanced at Officer Finch, who was watching through the draped archway. “Keep an eye on that.”

Finch nodded and folded his arms across his chest. I led Tony to the kitchen.

“God, what a night,” he said, suddenly looking exhausted.

“Want some coffee? I think there’s some left.”

“Yeah.”

I poured him a mug and held it out to him. He put his notepad on the work table and wrapped his hands around mine. For a heartbeat we stood, gazes locked. Then he pulled the mug away and drank.

“The vodka,” he said.

“It’s not in the fridge; I was in there earlier. I bet Julio put it in the freezer.” 

I opened the door of the walk-in, and saw the tray immediately. It stopped me short.

The large, oval serving tray was lined with white velvet. Around the outer edge, plain sugar skulls made a ring that tightly enclosed dozens of tall, straight shot glasses half-filled with red liquor.

“Damn,” Tony muttered.

“We ought to take it to the parlor to be photographed,” I said. “Dee was supposed to distribute them.”

Tony frowned, but said nothing. I carefully picked up the tray and brought it out, realizing too late that my fingers were freezing to the metal.

It was heavy. Julio had been smart to fill the glasses only halfway; one slip and the red would have sloshed onto the white velvet. Gritting my teeth, I set the tray on the work table and carefully unstuck my fingers. They had gotten cold so fast that they ached, and I shook my hands in an attempt to warm them up again.

I closed the freezer, then joined Tony. We both stared at the tray.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “OK. Let’s take it in. Don’t touch the glasses.”

I got some potholders to protect my skin, and picked the tray up again. Tony retrieved his notepad and went ahead to hold the draperies aside for me when we reached the parlor. Officer Finch’s eyes went wide and he moved back.

“Coming through,” Tony said, pushing back the drapery from Rose’s entrance.

The others stepped aside. Dee gave a little gasp as I entered the chamber.

The sugar skulls’ eyes lit up gleaming red. More of the silver paint; I hadn’t noticed it in the kitchen. The vodka glasses lit up, too, with tiny motes of silver-red floating in the glasses.

“What the hell is that?” Tony said.

“Edible glitter. We use it for specialty items.”

I set the tray on the stand where the salmon mousse puffs had been, and stepped back to get a better look at it. The skull eyes were not completely filled with silver; only pinpoints of brightness gleamed out from the center of the sockets. The effect was unnerving.

The clock began striking the hour. It was no longer amplified, but even so, we all stood still to listen. I glanced toward the mantel for the time. Three o’clock, and the night was not yet over.

“Oh, yeah!” Owen said, when the chimes stopped. “Dee, could you stand next to the tray?”

“Don’t touch it,” Tony warned, and looked at the sandy-haired tech. “Process that tray when you’re done taking pictures. It all goes to the lab.”

The tech nodded. Dee took her place, and Owen and the police photographer started taking photos.

Tony stepped out to say something to Finch, who went out to the hall. I heard the front door close and suddenly wanted to check that all the entrances were secured. I had locked the hall’s back door, but what about the kitchen?

Leaving Tony watching the proceedings in Rose, I made sure everything was locked, including the French doors in the dining parlor. Returning to the main parlor, I found the lights on, Dee bundled in the cover-up again, and two of the techs swarming over the tray of vodka shots while the sandy-haired guy stood talking with Tony.

“You get the dining room?” Tony asked.

“Yeah. Looks a lot like the other time, except for the body. And the booze.”

“Check the fireplaces?”

“Nothing in the ashes.”

I felt a touch on my arm and turned to see Owen beside me. “Could you download photos again?” he said. “I said I’d share mine with the police.”

“Sure,” I replied, then looked at Dee. “And Dee, if you’d like to shower and change, you’re welcome to use my suite.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I’m cold.”

Leaving the police to wrap up their business downstairs, the rest of us trooped up, Mick and Owen to watch the file transfer while Dee showered. I marked the disks of photos and gave them to Owen, and we drifted out to the upper hall to wait for Dee. 

I sank into a chair in the sitting area, inviting Owen and Mick to join me with a wave of my hand. Without hostessing tasks to keep me busy, exhaustion was setting in. My eyelids felt heavy. Thoughts of Gabriel’s body in Hidalgo Plaza rose up to haunt me.

Owen took an interest in my
ofrenda
. “May I photograph this?”

My instinct was to say no, though I could think of no logical reason. “It’s private,” I said finally.

Owen nodded and put away his camera. I liked him the better for it. He gazed at the table with the skulls and candles, smiling slightly. Taking pictures in his mind, perhaps.

Tony came upstairs with a heavy tread. “We’re done,” he said. “They’re packing up. Thanks for the coffee and scones.”

“Those two words really don’t belong together,” I remarked, “but you’re welcome.”

Tony walked over to us, gazed at Owen with a slight frown, then turned to me. “So. The Red Death. Want to tell me about it?”

“You might as well read the story. It’s short. I’ll go get my copy.” I started to get up.

“It’s online,” Mick said.

Tony took out his phone and punched up a search. “I take it the gay erotic graphic novel is not what I’m looking for?”

“What? No!” I said.

Owen chuckled.

Flustered, I added, “It’s Edgar Allen Poe. It’s a classic.”

Tony poked the phone again. “‘Masque of the Red Death.’” He showed the phone to Mick, who nodded.

While Tony read, I stared out the front window and realized that the street outside was beginning to be less dark. Glancing toward the east window, I saw that the sky was taking on a blue tinge.

“OK, that’s pretty weird,” Tony said, putting away his phone and sitting on an arm of the couch. “At least now I get the colored rooms. So Gabriel was supposed to be Prospero?”

“It was a work of art,” I said, overwhelmed by sadness. “Performance art, I guess.”

“Maybe. But I don’t like the Jonestown overtones.”

I turned to look at him. “I’m
sure
Gabriel wouldn’t do that!”

“How can you be sure?”

“This was a
party!”

“Just because Goths have a taste for the macabre doesn’t mean we’re into mass suicide,” Owen said. “There’d be a lot fewer Goths if we were.”

Tony stared at him briefly. “Would Gabriel kill himself, though?”

“Gabriel’s the last person I’d expect to do that.”