A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn

 

A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn

 

 

 

Patrice Greenwood

 

 

 

 

Evennight Books/Book View Caf
é

Cedar Crest, New Mexico

 

 

A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn

copyright
©
2013 by Patrice Greenwood

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

 

ISBN: 978-1-61138-271-6

Published by Evennight Books, Cedar Crest, New Mexico, an affiliate of Book View Caf
é

 

Publication team:  Sherwood Smith, Nancy Jane Moore, Chris Krohn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

 

in loving memory of

Rita A. Krohn

 

 

 

 

My heartfelt thanks to the following people for their invaluable assistance with this novel:  to my publication team, Sherwood Smith, Nancy Jane Moore, and 
Chris Krohn
; to Ken and Marilyn Dusenberry, Sally Gwylan, Kathy Kitts, Pari Noskin, D. Lynn Smith, and Jerry Weinberg for their thoughtful input, and to Chris Krohn for his untiring support. Thanks also to the members of Book View Caf
é for their help with a thousand little details of bringing out a book, and to the founders and staff of the St. James Tearoom for inspiring me to write this series.

From the white-blossom'd sloe my dear Chloris requested
A sprig, her fair breast to adorn:
No, by Heavens! I exclaim'd, let me perish, if ever
I plant in that bosom a thorn!

—Robert Burns, “On Chloris requesting a sprig of blossom'd thorn”

 

 

1

“W
as Captain Dusenberry married?” I asked as I filled Willow's cup with Keemun tea.

My guest used the silver tongs to pick up a lump of turbinado sugar and drop it carefully into her cup, then leaned back in her wing chair, stirring. “Oh, no. He died a bachelor. Very sad.”

“I was wondering if he planted the wisterias.”

“I doubt it, Ellen. They'd be gigantic after a hundred and fifty years.”

“True. I hadn't thought of that.”

She smiled slightly and sipped her tea. She was dressed in ivory silk, almost the same color as her hair, which was caught up in a French twist. She looked ethereal against the blue velvet of the chair, the opposite of the way I usually pictured her.

When I'd first met Willow Lane, owner of Spirit Tours of Santa Fe, the weather had been colder and she'd been dressed à la Santa Fe lady: black broomstick skirt, turtleneck, and boots, accented with a tasteful necklace of tiny bird fetishes. I'd been wary of her business and of the advice she'd offered, but in fact both had proved advantageous for me.

She had added Captain Dusenberry—the first occupant of the Victorian house that was now my Wisteria Tearoom—to her spirit tour, which meant that three times a week she brought a handful of curious visitors to the tearoom. Enough of them came back for tea that I could only be grateful to Willow. I'd invited her to have afternoon tea with me as a thank-you, and also because I wanted to pick her brain.

I offered her a plate of scones and lemon-thyme tea cakes. “I checked with the Preservation Trust, but their file doesn't have much about him. Will you tell me his story, or must I sign up for a tour?”

She laughed, a little musical chuckle, and added a tea cake to her plate. “I won't make you take the tour. I know you're a skeptic.”

“I'm just not sure....”

“After almost three months? I assume the activity hasn't stopped.”

I shrugged a shoulder and broke open a scone. “No, but there could be other explanations.”

She didn't answer. I slathered clotted cream and lemon curd on my scone, ignoring her steady gaze. At last she set down her teacup and took a bite of the cake. “Mmm. Delicious.”

“Thank you. The thyme is from my garden.”

“I saw that you had planted herbs among the roses. Very charming.”

“I like old traditions.”

“So do I.” She finished the little cake in one more bite and picked up her cup and saucer. “All right. The Dusenberry talk.”

Willow took a sip of tea, then shifted in her chair, drawing herself up to speak. She was always poised—possibly a habit from her vocation—and her voice was soft and rich.

“Captain Samuel Dusenberry was the quartermaster at Fort Marcy Post from 1849 until April 5th of 1855, when he was murdered in his study.”

In this house
, I could hear her add, but she spared me.

“He was originally from Brooklyn, New York, and had been in the army since receiving his commission at the age of twenty in 1834. He was an exemplary officer and was buried with honors in the military cemetery north of Santa Fe.”

I nodded. I'd visited his grave on more than one occasion. It was becoming one of the places I went when I needed to get away and think.

“Do you want to hear the details of the murder?”

I took a swallow of tea. “He was shot, I believe.”

“Yes. In the back, twice, while he was seated at his desk. The killer was never found.”

“Was it a robbery?”

“No. Nothing was taken from the house. The captain's body was found by his servant, Private David Rogers, on the morning of April 6th. The post doctor's report stated that the captain must have been shot the previous evening. The murder weapon was a Colt Navy pistol, a common sidearm at the time. One of the balls was found embedded in the wall of the study.”

“Navy sidearm?”

“Military in general, though lots of civilians had them, too.”

I gave a small sigh. “So there's no clue who killed him.”

“It was probably a man. Probably someone he knew.”

“What could he have done to make someone want to murder him?”

“That, I don't know.” She sipped her tea, watching me over the rim of the cup.

Movement caught my eye and I looked up to see Rosa, my newest server, in the neighboring alcove, petite and pretty in her wisteria-purple dress and lace apron. She picked up a place setting from the low table and carried it to the Lily alcove at the front of the parlor.

“Well, thank you,” I said to Willow. “Can you recommend any books that might mention him?”

“I don't know of any. My information came from the obituary and the post records. I didn't dig into his career before he came to Santa Fe. He'd been at Fort Marcy Post for six years.”

Rosa returned to the Rose alcove next to where we were seated, put the place setting back where it had been, and stood frowning at it. I lifted the cozy from our teapot and freshened our cups.

“Was there a report in the newspaper?”

“Just a couple of lines about the investigation was all I found, other than the obituary. 'Anyone with information please come forward.' You could look through later issues to see if there's any more; I just checked the month after his death.”

“I guess if there'd been more the Trust would have known about it.”

“Not necessarily. It might be worth digging a little deeper. I could help.”

“Would you? I don't really know where to begin.”

“The state archives are a good place to start. The Museum of New Mexico might have something, too—they have a lot of the old records and artifacts from the military post. I can introduce you to one of the curators.”

“Thank you, that would be great.”

“My pleasure. I'm glad you're taking an interest in the captain.”

Rosa picked up the place setting again and carried it back to Lily. I finished my scone and tried to ignore her; I would ask her what was up after my guest departed.

“How is your tour doing?” I asked, offering Willow a plate of sweets.

“Quite well, thanks. Business is up. Captain Dusenberry has brought out some repeat customers.”

We chatted about her tour over strawberry meringue puffs, wisteria-blossom petits fours, and chocolate mousse cups. Willow was interested in offering a combination spirit-tour-and-tea package for the summer tourist season; she'd rearrange her usual tour so that the tearoom was the final stop, and her customers would have afternoon tea in the dining parlor that had once been Captain Dusenberry's study. I agreed to try it for the month of July.

The part of me that wanted to say “no” made a feeble protest, but I swatted it down. Regardless of my personal doubts and discomforts, I couldn't deny that Captain Dusenberry was good for my business, too.

When Willow and I were both sugared out, I flagged down Rosa and asked her to fetch a box for the leftover sweets, which I insisted Willow take home. I walked her to the front door and said goodbye on the
portal
with its wisteria-twined wooden columns.

They might not be over a century old, but the vines were still impressive, climbing up onto the
portal
's roof and nearly reaching the upper-story windows of the old house. They were lush now that summer had arrived, heavy with leaves and the occasional cluster of pale purple blossoms giving off a heady perfume. A couple of bees drifted around the flowers.

“Thank you for a lovely tea,” Willow said. “I'll call you about going to the museum.”

“Yes, thanks. And thank you for the information about the captain.”

“Any time. You know I'm glad to help.” She gazed up at the wisterias as she said that, and I had the feeling she wasn't just talking to me.

I watched her walk down the path between my rosebushes, which were happily blooming in the June sunshine. I had planted them the previous fall, and they seemed to be enjoying their new home.

Going back in, I found Rosa clearing the dishes from the Iris alcove where Willow and I had been sitting. Confusing, having a server with a flower name, since I had named all the alcoves after flowers in a fit of romanticism when I was designing the tearoom's layout. I had needed to hire someone fast, though, and my chef, Julio, had suggested his cousin Rosa.