A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (35 page)

I offered Kris a week off. She declined, but eventually ended up taking a couple of days to deal with the details of Gabriel’s estate. I was prepared to offer the tearoom for the wake, but she wisely chose to have it elsewhere. No need to remind all of Gabriel’s friends of his tragic final evening. I, for one, would never forget.

I attended the memorial service, feeling I owed it to Gabriel. It felt to me like a reunion of the Halloween party, except that Margo was not present. Nor were any of Gabriel’s family, though Kris had invited them. Perhaps they had felt the trip from New Hampshire was too far.

Cherie, however, was there, looking pale but sane. She wore black, and the infamous ankh, but kept the dramatics to a minimum.

Gabriel’s ashes were displayed in an elegant white marble urn at the service. I had expected something more elaborate, dark and Victorian, but the moment I saw it I realized the white was perfect. I also knew that it wouldn’t be buried, that Kris would give it a place in her home, at least for now.

The service was brief; testimonials would be shared at the wake, which I did not attend. Instead I went home and lit a candle for Gabriel on the table in the upstairs sitting area.

How do you tell when a Goth is in mourning? No jewelry.

Kris wore black every day now, with minimal makeup. After the memorial she began to wear one necklace, a string of jet Victorian mourning beads with a pendant, that Cherie had given her.

November flew by. Nat returned from her honeymoon in buoyant spirits. I offered Dale the job he’d applied for, and he accepted. Preparations for the holiday season kept me and Kris busy. That was a blessing, for both of us.

Tony had stopped answering my texts, my calls, my emails. I was hurt, but I couldn’t be surprised. Apparently I had gone too far. Still, I didn’t regret going to Margo’s apartment.

She was charged with involuntary manslaughter. I felt pity for her, and sadness. I bought more candles and kept them lit, both for Margo and for Tony.

Just before Thanksgiving, the White Iris Gallery mounted its exhibit of Gabriel’s art. Kris invited me to the opening. I went, more to give her moral support than because I wanted to see Gabriel’s artwork again.

I sent Tony a text about it for form’s sake, but planned on going stag. I suspected that Gina’s personality might be a bit too energetic for Kris, yet. Nat agreed to close the tearoom for me so that I could leave early.

The evening was calm and cold. We’d had snow a couple of times, but not enough to stick. I wore a gray knit dress and boots under my long wool coat. Black hat and scarf. I parked in the public lot and walked down Canyon Road to the gallery in twilight.

The street was notoriously narrow, meandering its way east into the foothills of the
Sangre de Cristos
, and lined with quaint, old, adobe houses, some of the most expensive real estate in the city. Most of them were now commercial properties, the majority being galleries. Canyon Road was the art Mecca of Santa Fe.

White Iris Gallery was in an old adobe house, smallish and linear, with rooms obviously added over time. A small fire burned in a brazier outside the front door, a harbinger of the holiday season to come. I paused in the foyer to sign the guest book and enjoy another fire in a corner kiva fireplace. The house had low ceilings, wood floors, white walls, and candles in nichos making it warm and bright inside.

I entered the first room and was met by the sight of “Calculation.” I’d been uncomfortable when I first saw the painting; now I was dismayed. The crouching female—Gwyneth—had no good choices, none at all. The shattered red glass took me back to Cherie’s suicide attempt. Pain, of all kinds, in all directions. Somehow, in my heart, that tied into Gabriel’s tragic death. I felt my throat tightening, then I noticed a small stand to one side holding a single sugar skull, with a card labeled “La Princessa.” With a shock, I recognized it as one of the skulls Gabriel had decorated at Julio’s party.

Beyond the skull hung another painting, an abstract in shades of cream and pale blue that I remembered from the exhibition. Beside this was another sugar skull on a stand, this one labeled “Night.”

Three more paintings hung in the first room, each paired with a skull. I didn’t remember all of the skulls, and as I moved to the second room and saw more of them, I began to suspect that Gabriel had made additional skulls after the decorating party.

My attention was arrested by “The Seventh Chamber,” Gabriel’s visualization of the end of Poe’s story. Rather stunned that Kris had included it, I looked from the painting to the paired skull, “Harlequin,” the one that Gabriel had made three-dimensional with layers of icing. Why pair a figure of fun with the dark triumph of the Red Death? Was it to point out that Prince Prospero was, in the end, an object of ridicule?

A green diamond on one cheek of the skull triggered a memory from the decorating party:

You are part of the masque.

“There you are!”

I turned to see Kris, sleek and elegant in black velvet with long, close sleeves, the jet beads hanging almost to her waist. She reached for a hug.

“Thank you for coming. Want some champagne?”

“Yes, please.”

She led me into the next room, larger than the first two. In one corner a Latina woman perhaps a few years older than I was standing beside a small refreshments table. Her dark hair was nicely coiffed in a French twist, and her black cocktail dress was simple and elegant. Beside her a younger woman, in caterer’s attire, filled champagne flutes with Gruet Blanc de Noir. A platter of cheeses, adorned with almonds and a scatter of pomegranate seeds, sat on one end of the table.

“Ellen, this is Theresa Cortez, the gallery’s owner. Teri, this is Ellen Rosings, owner of the Wisteria Tearoom.”

Teri shook my hand, then put a glass into it. “Nice to meet you. I’ve been meaning to go by there.”

I set down the glass and dug one of our new promotional cards out of my purse. “Bring this. Good for tea and a scone on the house.”

She accepted it with a smile and a word of thanks. Kris and I strolled away with our glasses.

“Kris, it’s a wonderful show. All the sugar skulls....”

“Yes. Gabriel fell in love with the idea of pairing them with his art. He got Julio to give him a bunch of leftover skulls and spent a couple of days decorating them.”

“It’s stunning.”

She smiled softly. “Fortunately Teri liked the idea. The skulls are for sale, too. They can be preserved, or allowed to go back to dust.”

We strolled around the room, Kris giving me time to admire each of the paintings, several of which I’d seen before. I spent a couple of minutes looking at one of Gwyneth, almost nude in a swath of white gauze, standing amid the distinctive dunes of White Sands. Her head was turned to the side, her expression severe. The sky overhead was an intense blue that made me think of Georgia O’Keeffe. It was striking and lovely. The card gave the title as “Venus of the Apocalypse.”

“This wasn’t in the exhibition,” I said.

“No,” Kris said. “Gabriel didn’t want to show it. They broke up over the photo shoot. Gwyneth got sunburned. That’s why she looks so pissed.”

“What a shame,” I said, hoping that Kris wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“Yes, well. They’d been rocky anyway. And Roberto was waiting in the wings. We all knew it.”

The skull paired with “Venus” was decorated in black. I remembered it from the party. Intricate scroll-work, reminding me of the Renaissance. It was titled, “Cara Mia.”

“Did Gabriel title the skulls?” I asked.

“Most of them.”

We moved on to the next room, where a life-sized painting of Kris from the waist up made me gasp. She stood with her back against a pillar draped in violet satin, light reflecting from the folds in a way that reminded me of water. Kris’s head was tilted back, eyes gazing skyward, expression mournful. The painting was unfinished; the background around Kris and the pillar was lightly sketched in with a few brushstrokes of neutral tones, but the rest of the canvas was blank. The title on the card was “Ophelia,” and it was listed as “Not for Sale.”

“Gabriel’s title?” I asked.

“Yes. He knew I liked the subject.”

I slid my arm around her waist for a hug. She reciprocated, and we stood gazing at the painting. Then I noticed the sugar skull and gave a surprised laugh. It was pink with an orange Van Dyke, and titled “Hamlet.”

The last room was dark, and at first I thought it wasn’t part of the show, but Kris led me toward it. I stopped in the doorway, emotions flooding through me.

The room was draped in black. A mannequin stood in one corner, wearing Dee’s “Red Death” costume and wig and a blank white mask. The mannequin was flanked by two red candle lanterns. Kris must have found a replacement for the broken one, because they were exactly as they had looked at the party, once again turning the silver highlights on Dee’s costume to blood.

On the opposite wall, subtly lit, a series of concept sketches for the costume were displayed in simple frames, along with several of Owen’s photos of Dee in the costume and makeup. On the adjacent wall was a large photo of Gabriel in his golden costume, also Owen’s, obviously taken in the tearoom on Halloween night. My mantel clock was visible over his shoulder. Gabriel stood with arms akimbo, Prospero in his prime. Beside the portrait was a card with a short paragraph about his death. The only other thing on the wall was an eight-by-ten photo of Gabriel’s face in the sun paint. The slight smudges told me it was one of the police photos.

I gasped. “How did you get hold of that?”

“Dee talked to one of the investigators, and he got a duplicate for me.”

“Was his name Phillips, by any chance?”

“I don’t know.”

I couldn’t bear to look at that photo, so I turned back to Owen’s portrait. After a moment I looked at to Kris, blinking back tears, my heart full.

“It’s a lovely tribute,” I whispered.

She smiled. “Thanks.”

A couple of thirty-somethings peeked in, their stylish clothes and expensive cowboy boots marking them as tourists. I stepped out to make room for the probably-paying customers.

“You’re out of champagne,” Kris noted. “Want more?”

“Yes.”

I took some cheese and a cracker to keep the wine from shooting straight to my head. The gallery was filling up; the beautiful people of Santa Fe were coming out to see Gabriel’s show and mingle with a scattering of Goths, some of whom I didn’t recognize. One couple looked almost too perfect: pale-skinned, the woman with straight black hair, the man with white hair brushed straight up. Both of them were dressed entirely in black leather.

Hollywood Goths. Moneyed Goths. Maybe Gabriel’s story had gotten around.

Roberto and Gwyneth, both in black, came into the center room, and Kris went immediately to greet them. I stayed behind to nab another piece of cheese and indulge in people-watching.

My wandering gaze stopped and the cheese turned to dust in my mouth as I spotted Tony in the far doorway.

He was wearing his leather jacket over a dark blue shirt and black jeans. He’d been looking over the crowd, but now his head turned and he met my gaze.

I swallowed the cheese dust and tried for a smile. He threaded his way through the mingling art enthusiasts and stopped in front of me.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi. Want some champagne?”

He glanced at the table where the caterer was still pouring. “Sure.”

He picked up a flute, and we both stepped aside as a trio of guests moved in on the wine and cheese. I struggled for something to say that would be sincere and not inane.

Tony beat me to it. He looked around the room, then said, “So this is Gabriel’s art.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “I don’t do art.”

“It’s OK,” I said, then added, “Here’s to Gabriel.”

He joined my toast, though his expression said he thought it was all crazy. The champagne fizzed in my brain along with a bubbling spring of hope.

“Come and see this,” I said, stepping toward the next room.

Tony followed me to “Ophelia,” and I watched him take it in, a couple of waves of surprise crossing his face.

“This is good,” he said finally. “Too bad it isn’t finished.”

I thought the painting’s state was perfect, given Gabriel’s demise, but I didn’t say so to Tony. Instead I gestured toward the last room.

“Dee’s costume is in there. It was his final work. Do you want to see?”

Tony shook his head. “I spent enough hours staring at that, thanks.”

I nodded and sipped my champagne. “I’m glad you came. Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

He leveled his gaze at me and was silent for two breaths, while I took about five.

“I’m working on it,” he said.

I swallowed, then managed a smile. “Let me know if I can help.”

He knocked back his champagne, and I winced, thinking I’d said the wrong thing. But the next moment he took my free hand.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “You want to go for coffee?”

“Sure,” I said, my heart taking wing.