A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn (8 page)

The sun was setting as I drove to Gina's upscale condo in the southeast part of town. Her complex was built on a hillside and had great views and elegant, minimal landscaping. Modern lines but still brown stucco. A nice place, and on an advertising executive's salary, Gina could afford it.

She opened the door and immediately pulled me into a big, Italian hug. “Hi, girlfriend!”

Gina is good for my soul. I have a tendency to fall into melancholy now and then, and she snaps me right out of it every time.

She smooched me before letting me go. “Come on in while I finish the salad. This is going to be fun!”

I followed her to the kitchen, which smelled wonderful—garlic and herbs and savory tomato sauce. My mouth started watering. I picked up an olive from a dish sitting on the counter.

Gina was in casual mode, wearing a bright fuchsia tank top and white capri pants, both of which showed off her curvaceous figure. Her thick, curly, shoulder-length hair was tousled.

“Why aren't you out on a date on this fine Friday evening?” I asked.

“Why aren't you?” she retorted, chopping celery.

“I sort of almost was, but it got interrupted.”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “Do tell!”

I explained about Tony inviting me for a drink and then getting called away. She listened, nodding sympathetically.

“He's that cute detective, right? You poor thing. You need a glass of wine.” She took down a large, globe-shaped red wineglass and half filled it from a bottle that was already open on the kitchen counter.

“On top of a margarita? I don't know—”

“You're going to be here for a couple of hours, right? You'll be fine.”

“I think I should eat something first.”

“Good, because dinner's almost ready. Here.” She handed me the glass. “Take those olives and the bread out to the table. I'll be right behind you.”

I left my purse in the phone nook and carried the food out to her dining room. Gina brought out the salad and a bowl of fresh-grated Romano cheese and went back to the kitchen. I wandered after her to fetch my wine, then returned to the dining room and stood sipping while I gazed out of the picture window at a peach-colored western sky. The sun was down, and a couple of small scraps of cloud caught its last bright gold gleams of light.

“I keep forgetting what a fantastic view you have,” I said, turning as I heard Gina's steps.

“Yeah, me too.” She set a huge bowl of pasta drenched in sauce in the middle of the table. “You see it every day, you start to take it for granted. Here's to remembering our blessings.”

She raised her wineglass, and I joined the toast. “Remembering our blessings.”

“Let's eat.”

We sat down and didn't talk for a few minutes until we'd taken the edge off our hunger. I ate a piece of Gina's killer garlic bread and helped myself to a second, rationalizing that I needed it to counter the alcohol I'd consumed. I dished up a huge helping of salad to atone for the bread.

“So, I told you why I'm not on a date,” I said, sprinkling cheese over my pasta. “Your turn.”

“Oh, Alan had to work tonight.”

I glanced up. “Alan? What happened to Ted?”

“Ted's history. Didn't I tell you about Alan? He's the catering manager at the Hilton. I met him when he came into the office a couple of weeks ago. Don't look at me like that! The Hilton isn't my account, so it's fine.”

Gina went through boyfriends—if they could even be graced with the term—like a kid through a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. One right after another.

I sipped my wine. “So, Alan had to work.”

“Some big event at the hotel, and he's short on staff.”

“I know the feeling.”

She gave me a curious look, so I told her about Mrs. Garcia and all of the chaos that had` followed. Her eyes widened as I talked.

“God, not again!” she said. “Did the press show up?”

“Not a peep from them, thank heaven, though Tony said she was pretty important in her own circles.”

Gina frowned thoughtfully. “Garcia, you said?”

“Maria Garcia.”

She nodded. “Yes, I've heard of her. She does a lot of charity work through the church. We're not in the same congregation, but I see her name in the newsletters. What a shame!”

“Yes.”

I twirled some pasta on my fork, feeling a little down after recounting the day's woes. I'd probably be asked to attend a memorial service, I realized. And for Rosa and Julio's sake, I should go, if I could get enough staff in to cover the tearoom.

Staff—I'd have to sit down with the schedule tomorrow. With Rosa gone I'd probably have to redo the whole thing.

“Yoo-hoo. Earth to Ellen.”

I glanced up at Gina. “Sorry. Thinking about work.”

“Ah-ah, that's not allowed! Girls' night in, no work-think. Tonight is about fun and distraction.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

Gina grinned as she stabbed at her salad. “Speaking of which, I got a flyer from the Santa Fe Institute. They're starting a new lecture series. First one's next Wednesday, want to go?”

“If I can. What's the topic?”

“Something about microbiology, I think.”

“Hmm.”

Microbiology didn't sound thrilling, but from past experience I knew that the Santa Fe Institute's lectures were always fascinating. They brought in great speakers from all over the country, and the house was always packed. Even Gina, who was not what I'd call deeply intellectual, enjoyed the talks, though I suspected it was partly as a chance to scope the crowd for potential future ex-boyfriends.

“So, the usual?” she said. “Lecture and dinner after?”

“If I'm free. I'll have to look at my schedule.”

“OK, Miss Cautious. Hey, why don't you ask your detective friend, and I'll ask Alan?”

I took a sip of wine. “I'm not sure Tony'd be interested.”

“Never know until you ask.”

“True.”

And I'd been mistaken about Tony before. I really shouldn't make assumptions about his interests.

My heart gave a flutter as I remembered his surprise kiss. He was interested in me, that much was clear. Would we get along despite our rather different backgrounds? Was it worth the effort to find out?

Miss Cautious. I deserved it, I admitted. It would be a dreadful shame, though, to let Miss Cautious become Miss Chicken. I might miss out on something really good.

I finished my pasta and eyed the serving bowl. Gina must have noticed. She'd make a great mom someday—she had a mother's sixth sense.

“Tiramisu,” she said. “In the fridge.”

“Right.”

I put down my fork and picked up my wine, sitting back and looking out at the now-blue horizon and the first couple of stars. Lights sprinkled the hills in the foreground.

We sat chatting and watching the night fall for a while, then cleared the table. In the living room, Gina fired up her movie-streaming gizmo. On the wall between two sets of shelves was a gigantic flat-screen TV.

“Wow, when did you get that?”

She pointed a remote control at the screen and pressed a button, causing the screen to glow blue. “Couple weeks ago. What do you want to see?”

“I don't know. Something lighthearted.”

“How about the latest Sandler comedy?”

“Let's give it a whirl.”

I joined her on her black leather couch and she pushed buttons until the movie came on. About ten minutes into the film I looked at her.

“Can we make some popcorn?”

“There's tiramisu.”

“Not to eat, to throw at the screen.”

Gina chortled. “You, too?”

“It's a Big Lie story. I hate those.”

“Hey, you approved it!”

“Yeah, and now I'm sorry.”

Gina picked up the remote and paused the movie. “OK, so we lose it. Something else you want to see?”

“Yeah.
Charade
. Ever seen it?”

“Nope.”

“Can you get it?”

“Let's find out.”

More button-pushing. I got up to use the bathroom. Before I could get back to the couch, my cell phone rang from the kitchen.

“Sorry, I forgot to turn it off!”

I hurried to the phone nook and dug the cell out of my purse. The number on the caller ID looked familiar, though it said “Unavailable.” I flipped it open.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ellen, it's Tony. Got some news and I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else. The M.E. figured out what killed Mrs. Garcia. It wasn't Whoever's Syndrome.”

“Oh? What, then?”

“It was botulism.”

 

 

9

“B
otulism?!”

“Hang on, don't freak out,” Tony said. “Are you listening?”

I was breathing fast, and my gut had clenched with panic at the thought that I'd killed one of my customers. I had to concentrate to keep from dropping the phone. I closed my eyes.

“Yes, I'm listening.”

“OK, I want you to think about it for a minute. Botulism takes hours to build up to fatal levels in the bloodstream. Days, even.”

I took a couple more breaths. My brain seemed to have shut off.

“So she can't have picked it up at the tearoom, right?” Tony said. “She died shortly after she arrived.”

“Oh.” A cold flood of relief washed through me. “Yes, I see.”

“They're testing the food anyway, just to eliminate it as a possible source.”

“OK.”

“You all right?”

I took a shaky breath. “Uh—yeah. Thanks. Thanks for calling me.”

“I figured you'd panic if you heard it in passing.”

I gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah.”

“It's not your fault, OK? You didn't cause this.”

“Right. Thanks.”

A pause followed, during which I was able to collect my wits. I was deeply grateful to Tony for going out of his way to call me.

“Sorry I had to run out on you earlier,” he said.

“It's OK.”

“Any chance you're not busy tomorrow evening? I'd like to make it up to you.”

“Oh ... no. I mean, yes. I—I don't have any plans.”

“How about dinner?”

My stomach clenched again, but for a different reason. “Sounds great,” I said.

“You close at six, right? I can pick you up at, say, seven-thirty?”

“Fine.”

“See you then.”

“Hey, Tony—”

“Yeah?”

“Um, thanks a lot for calling me. I'm grateful.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow night.”

He hung up. I stood there for a moment, still sorting through all the different feelings of the last couple of minutes.

“Bye,” I said softly, though he was long gone.

I turned off the phone and returned to the living room. Gina gave me a curious look.

“Botulism?”

I glanced at her sharply. She shrugged.

“You yelled it. I wasn't eavesdropping.”

I took a long breath. “Yeah, botulism. That's what killed Mrs. Garcia, but it didn't come from the tearoom. She had to have gotten it earlier.”

Gina frowned. “She didn't put honey in her tea, did she? I know you're not supposed to give honey to babies ‘cause they might get botulism. Maybe old ladies are susceptible, too.”

I endured a painful moment of trying to recall how Mrs. Garcia had taken her tea before remembering Tony's reassurance. “It can't have been anything at the tearoom. It takes a long time to build up in the bloodstream, and she was there for less than an hour, poor thing.”

Gina nodded. “Poor thing indeed. Poor you, too.”

“It could have been much worse.”

“Yeah, the Bird Woman could have been there.”

I tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile of laughter. “Actually, she was.”

“No! Was she horrible?”

“Only moderately. At least the press didn't show up.”

I went back to the sofa. The TV now displayed a frozen frame from the opening credits of
Charade
. Gina topped off our wineglasses, and I sat back and let myself get immersed in the movie. Compared to Audrey Hepburn's adventures, my life was positively dull.