A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn (6 page)

“That's what the sirens were.”

“Yes.”

“Is she dead?”

I swallowed the sudden tightness in my throat, and nodded.

He stood very still, blinking. I found my voice.

“I'm so sorry, Julio. They said it might be a stroke.”

He nodded.

“You don't have to come in tomorrow.”

“Yes I do. You need me.”

“We can manage, if...”

“I'll be here.”

He went into action suddenly, grabbing his music player, his thermos, jacket. I watched him head for the back door like he needed to escape.

“I'll be here,” he said again over his shoulder. The screen door banged behind him.

I took a deep breath, then went upstairs and found Rosa in the hall, sitting by the front window where I had placed a couple of chairs overlooking the garden. She stood up as I approached.

“I heard the sirens...”

“Rosa, I'm so sorry.”

“She's dead, isn't she?”

I nodded. Rosa nodded, too, and raised my handkerchief—which was quite soggy by now—to her eyes. She dabbed at her face, then broke into fresh sobs. I gathered her into my arms and let her cry.

“Take the rest of today off, and tomorrow, too,” I told her when the bout of tears had subsided. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“N-no, I can manage.”

“Would you like me to call your father and let him know?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “If you don't mind.”

“Of course not,” I said, though it wasn't a call I looked forward to making. “Go on home, then. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, Ms. R.”

I walked downstairs with her and saw her off. Kris was straightening Lily, and together we returned the pedestal with the flower urn to its normal place. I walked into the alcove and stood looking around.

All trace of the tragedy was gone. Fresh place settings already gleamed on the table, awaiting the next customers. The fragrance of the peace roses hung in the air.

On impulse I stepped to the window and opened it a little, letting in a warm breeze, letting out the spirit of the departed, if indeed she was still here. I didn't remember where I had heard of that, but it seemed to make sense at the moment.

I said a silent prayer for poor Mrs. Garcia, and for Julio and Rosa and all their family. A sad day for them.

For me, the day was still full of obligations. I closed the doors to Lily and went out to meet them.

First order of business was the call to Rosa's father. I went up to my office for that, and fortified myself with a cup of tea before calling El Vaquero. I spent a couple of minutes on hold until Mr. Garcia came to the phone.

“This is Rick.”

His voice sounded brusque, the voice of a restaurant manager whose hands were full. I wasted no time, getting straight to the point of my call.

“Mr. Garcia, it's Ellen Rosings, from the Wisteria Tearoom. I'm afraid I have bad news for you. Mrs. Garcia took ill during her visit here this morning.”

“Mama's sick?”

“I called emergency, but the paramedics weren't able to help her. I'm afraid she died. I'm terribly sorry.”

“Died?” He sounded stunned.

“Yes. The paramedics said it might have been a stroke. They left a number for you to call.”

I read it to him and offered to help in any way I could. The silence on the line was heartbreaking. I knew I had ruined his day.

“I sent Rosa home,” I told him. “She can take as much time off as she needs.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Garcia.”

“Thanks. Thanks for calling.”

His voice sounded broken as he said goodbye and hung up. I put down the phone and finished my tea, wishing I could have offered more comfort, but of course, nothing could change the awfulness of losing a parent, as I knew all too well.

I went back downstairs, and remained there the rest of the day. With Rosa gone I was shorthanded, and it being a Friday, we were booked solid until closing time at six. Kris stayed late to help, bless her. By the time the last customers left with their take-away boxes in hand, I was exhausted.

Kris came downstairs, carrying her black shoulder bag and a small shipping box. I looked up from locking the front door.

“Is that the samples from Empire?”

Kris glanced at the box and shifted it, tucking it more tightly under her arm. “No, it's something I ordered for myself. You said it was OK to have things sent here.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “Thanks for staying, Kris. You were a huge help today.”

She smiled back. “No problem. Do you need me tomorrow?”

“Yes, if you don't mind. I told Rosa to stay home.”

As she turned away I started for the gift shop to cash out the day's receipts from the register. The sound of a heavy tread on the front
portal
stopped me. Someone tried the front door, then a moment later pounded on it.

The front door is solid oak, surrounded on the top and sides by the small, single-paned windows called lights that one finds in older houses. I opened it to Tony Aragón, his jacket slung over one shoulder. His black t-shirt had a bosun neckline that showed a nice glimpse of his shoulders.

He smiled and gave an upward jerk of his head. “Hi. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd just stop by instead of calling.”

“Come in.”

I opened the door wider and he stepped inside. Kris had wandered back, but now she turned away again.

“What's in the box?” Tony said.

Kris paused and glanced back at him. “Just something I ordered.”

“Can I see?”

She turned and faced him square on, holding the box protectively. “Not unless you have a warrant.”

 

 

 7 

M
y heart gave the little lurch that hits me whenever I'm in hostess mode and disaster threatens. I stepped between Tony and Kris.

“It's been a long day. Would you like some coffee, Detective?”

Tony shifted his gaze to me. “Thought coffee wasn't allowed in this joint.”

“You know very well that it is, I just don't brew it during business hours.”

The aroma of coffee is out of place in a tearoom. I had laid down the law on that early on. Julio always brewed two pots of coffee first thing in the morning and poured one into a thermos to drink during the day.

“Good night, Ellen,” Kris said, and with a defiant glance at Tony, she headed for the back door.

“Good night,” I called after her.

Tony was watching her narrowly. I waited until she was gone before offering a gentle reproof.

“I know it's your job to be inquisitive, but perhaps that should be left to business hours as well.”

He looked at me. “I got no business hours.”

“But is it appropriate to demand to look at someone's personal possessions when she's not suspected of anything?”

He glanced toward the back door again. “I was just curious. Recognized the shipping label.”

That gave me pause, and also aroused my curiosity, but I had no intention of intruding on Kris's privacy. She was gone, so the point was moot in any case.

“Would you like that coffee?”

Tony looked at me. “Actually, I was going to offer to buy you a drink.”

He said it flatly, and stared at me flatly. Had I been unacquainted with him I would have been taken aback, but I knew him well enough to know that this was defensive behavior, caused by a momentary lack of confidence. I smiled.

“That would be lovely. Let me just make sure everything's locked up. It's been a very long day.”

He followed me as I made the rounds, turning off lights and checking doors. “Did the press come and hassle you?” he asked.

“No, thank goodness! I don't suppose they'd be that interested in the quiet death of an elderly woman.”

“Maria Garcia was pretty important, actually. What you'd call a pillar in the Hispanic community. Fairly rich, too.”

I turned off the lights in the butler's pantry and stepped back into the hall. “Was she? I know that she owned El Vaquero.”

“And three other restaurants in town.”

“Goodness! I had no idea.”

I went into the kitchen to make sure the ovens were off. The note Julio had taped to the door of the regular oven said: “Don't Touch! Meringues.” I left it alone and turned out the lights, rejoining Tony in the hall.

“I remember when I was a kid going with my mom to church so she could help decorate the altar,” Tony said. “Maria Garcia would bring armfuls and armfuls of roses. Every Saturday, all summer long. What I can't figure is what she was doing in your tearoom,” he said.

“Why shouldn't she come to tea?”

He smiled wryly. “No offense, but it's such a white lady thing.”

I bristled. “I've had any number of Hispanic customers.”

I knew I was overreacting. The truth was that he was right—most of my customers were Anglos, and most of them women. The exceptions were far in the minority.

“There was an added reason for Mrs. Garcia to come,” I admitted. “Her grandson and granddaughter both work here.”

Tony's brows rose. “Oh. Were they here today?”

“Yes. Her grandson is my chef, and her granddaughter was waiting on her. I'm afraid it was Rosa who discovered she was dead.”

“That's rough.”

“Yes. I sent her home. That's why it was such a long day for me—I had to fill in.”

“Then you definitely need a drink. Got a favorite bar?”

I looked into the dining parlor, now restored to order after the successful bridal shower. I turned out the lights.

They came on again. Giving up, I closed the door and turned to Tony.

“How about the Ore House?”

He made a face. “Touristy.”

“Good margaritas, though.”

“You like margaritas?”

“Sure, when I'm in the mood.”

He grinned. “What about tequila shooters?”

It was my turn to make a face. “No, thanks. I prefer grown-up limeade.”

He laughed, which lit up his face, which gave me a shiver. His eyes are quite beautiful when he's not in cop mode.

“OK, how about Del Charro?” he said.

“Fine. Shall we walk?”

“It's kind of warm. We could go on my bike.”

I glanced down at my lace dress. “I'd have to change.”

To be honest, I wasn't anxious for a motorcycle ride. Not my favorite activity. I was about to suggest that I drive us instead, but was stopped by the long, appraising look Tony gave me.

“I'm in no hurry.” He smiled lazily, and suddenly the thought of sharing the motorcycle seat with him had more appeal.

“OK.”

I looked down the hallway, darkened now except for the evening sun coming in the lights around the front door. I couldn't really ask him to wait in the tearoom. It just seemed awkward to leave him downstairs.

“Um, come on up.”

I led the way up to my suite, which occupies the southern half of the upper floor. The last time Tony had been in my private rooms he'd brought two cops and a search warrant, and had tossed the place pretty thoroughly. Remembering it reawakened my annoyance, and I had to remind myself that he'd only been doing his job.

I gestured to the two chairs and low table that make up what I generously call my living room. “Have a seat. Would you like a glass of water?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Tony looked around as if he hadn't seen the place before. I suppose he hadn't, from an aesthetic point of view. Like the offices across the hall, it had a sloping ceiling and a chimney dividing the space east and west. I'd done my best to make the odd space cozy. The deeper, richer colors of the Renaissance decor in my suite were a departure from the Victorian frou-frou of the tearoom.

Tony nodded toward the brocade draperies caught back with tasseled cords that divided the sitting area from my bedroom. “This is different.”

I stepped over to the kitchenette and fixed him a glass of ice water. “Yes, well—all Victorian all the time would get a little boring.”