A Fatal Twist of Lemon (28 page)

“No, it's okay,” I said, plumping my pillows. “You've got me, you might as well tell me what you need.”

“Um.”

I waited, leaning back against my pillows and stifling a yawn. I wasn't going to be much good for problem-solving this late at night.

He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me.”

 

 

 

 

15 

I
was suddenly wide awake, and suddenly conscious of having a conversation with Detective Aragón while lying in bed. I sat up, feeling a blush creep up my face.

“Lunch?” I said. “Oh. Ah—sure, I guess. When?”

“Would tomorrow be good?”

“Yes, actually, because we're closed Mondays. Where?”

I sounded like a prosecutor, snapping off questions. I couldn't help it. I was nervous.

“You like the Shed?” he asked.

“Love it.”

“I can give you a ride, if you don't mind motorcycles.”

I detested motorcycles. “Actually, I think I'll walk, if that's okay with you. I could use the exercise.”

“Okay,” he said. “Meet you at the Shed at eleven-thirty.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

He hung up. I listened to the nothing of the airwaves for a moment, then closed my phone.

“Bye,” I said softly, wondering what the heck he meant by calling at midnight to ask for a date and then not even saying goodbye.

Not a date, I told myself as I got up to put away the phone. Lunch. Lunch is not a date. Dinner and the symphony is a date.

My mind leapt forward to picture me and Tony Aragón double-dating with Gina and Ted. I guffawed. That would be the day!

No, he probably just wanted to talk over something about the murder case. I slid back into bed and lay there wondering what it could be until I finally dozed off.

In the morning I got up and busied myself with chores around the tearoom. With Bach merrily pouring from the stereo I spent a pleasant couple of hours finishing some bits of decorating that hadn't quite been done the previous week, watering all the flowers and removing the faded blooms, and restocking items in the gift shop. The girls had put together more tea samplers on Saturday, so I put price tags on them and refilled the big basket display.

By then it was ten-thirty, time to get ready to meet Detective Aragón. I went upstairs to change.

The dress I'd been thinking about wearing, a pretty, springtime floral, wouldn't work with any of my shoes that were comfortable enough for walking to the Shed, about half a mile away. In fact, my walking shoes were all pretty rustic—more sturdy than lovely.

Well, why was I worrying so much about it? I was having lunch with a cop. Big deal. He'd be wearing his motorcycle duds.

I glanced down at the jeans and green velour sweater I was wearing, decided they were good enough, and kicked off my flats so I could put on walking shoes. Brushed my hair, touch of makeup, and a pair of gold hoop earrings and I was ready.

The day was sunny, so I put on a big straw sun hat and sunglasses before heading toward the Plaza. Tourist season was getting into gear, and the vendors at the Palace of the Governors were so thronged I had to walk down the street instead of the crowded
portal
. That was fine because the street was blocked off along the Plaza. Palace Avenue is closed to cars at the Plaza a lot of the year now. Too many tourists getting run over by impatient drivers. I crossed Washington Avenue and continued east to the Shed.

A wonderful little restaurant at the back of an old
plazuela
, the Shed has been around for decades and is a local favorite. Purple paint on the door heralds the splashes of color inside. Giant flowers and vines twine around windows and doorways on the thick adobe walls in purple, turquoise, pink, and green with metallic gold embellishments. The designs are reminiscent of the sixties, which was about when the Shed moved to this location.

I was early, so I sat in the sunny
plazuela
, basking in the warmth of a mild morning. Tourists meandered in and out of the shops on either side of the little courtyard, or poked their heads in from the passage to the street and stared at the restaurant, debating whether to try it. I took out my phone to make some notes on menu ideas. I definitely wanted to talk to Julio about French onion soup. Welsh rarebit might have possibilities, too, if it could be made unmessy enough to be eaten like cheese toast, and easy to prep.

“Wow, I almost didn't recognize you.”

I looked up at Detective Aragón, standing before me in his leather motorcycle jacket and black jeans, black shades. He grinned.

“Didn't know a fancy tea lady was allowed to wear jeans.”

I put away my phone. “What is it with everyone? Yes, I wear jeans, yes, I drink coffee. Give me credit for a little dimension.”

He laughed as I stood up, then gestured for me to precede him through the Shed's very narrow door. Despite the crowds of tourists, we were early enough to get a table right away, a tiny one beside a window looking out on the
plazuela
.

He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, revealing a long-sleeved, red and gray striped shirt with a bosun neckline. I propped my hat and purse on the windowsill. The window was open a crack, letting in the cool breeze and a murmur of voices from the tourists milling around outside.

A waiter appeared, a young man dressed all in black, which made me look twice. I thought he might be one of Kris's crowd, but there was really no way to tell. He didn't look extraordinarily gothy, though he did have a silver cross dangling from one ear.

I ordered my usual, the number four enchilada plate, with iced tea. Detective Aragón ordered a number five, same dish but with beans and posole on the side. The waiter bustled off, leaving us gazing at each other in a momentary awkward silence. For my part, I was wondering what kind of lunch this would be—business (i.e. discussing the murder case), social, or a little of both.

Aragón cleared his throat. “Nice earrings.”

“Thanks.”

Miss Manners recommends asking questions to smooth over awkward social moments. I couldn't for the life of me think of one, other than “Why did you invite me to lunch?” which I was able to refrain from blurting.

“Um,” he said, “I wanted to thank you for pointing out that stuff about the earring.”

“Oh. Sure. Glad to help.”

“I was mad about it at first.”

“Because you wanted Katie to be guilty?”

He looked at me and brushed a hand over his hair, a gesture I'd seen before. “Not that, exactly. We want to make an arrest, but not if it's the wrong person.”

I nodded. I could certainly understand the frustration of not being able to pinpoint the killer.

“Anyway, we're kind of stumped on this case for the moment. I've got three other cases working and right now there's not a lot more I can do on this one.”

“You're not dropping it?” I sounded more dismayed than I intended.

“No, no. But it's starting to go cold, I'm afraid.”  He cleared his throat again. “I wanted to ask you if you remember anyone else being at your tearoom that day who was wearing white.”

“White?”

“Yeah. Some of the fibers we can't identify are white.”

“There's white all over the tearoom! The girls' aprons are white, and Julio's chef's jacket—”

He shook his head. “No, we checked what all of them were wearing. Doesn't match.”

Our lunch arrived, putting a temporary end to the discussion. The waiter carefully set hot plates before us, blue corn enchiladas swimming in the Shed's hot red chile sauce, with a basket of garlic bread on the side for mopping up. I took a bite of enchilada and let the spice explode inside my head, then cooled off with a sip of tea.

“Our linens are white, and there's that missing napkin.” I frowned, trying to think why the killer would have a napkin in hand, but Detective Aragón scotched that line of thinking.

“Your napkins and stuff are all cotton, right?”

“Some of it's real linen. That's flax.”

“But it's not wool.” He cut off a forkful of his enchilada and glanced at me before eating it. “The fibers we want are wool.”

“Oh.” I took another bite of my lunch, musing. “White wool.”

I tried to think of anyone I'd seen wearing white wool that day. Not Claudia's gloves, which were white but undoubtedly cotton. Mick had worn a white t-shirt, also cotton. The other customers, ladies, mostly, were a blur of pastel color as far as I could recall.

Donna had worn a beige sleeveless dress. I had a flash of memory—her graceful movements as she removed a white coat and hung it in the hall.

“Donna had a white coat—”

“We're pretty sure it's not Donna.”

“Oh!”

I gazed at him, waiting, but he didn't offer any details. Remembering my own conclusion that Donna would have planned more carefully, I nodded.

“It was a crime of impulse.”

“Exactly.” He looked disappointed.

I bit my lip, then shook my head. “I can't think of anyone in white wool.”

“Okay. If something occurs to you, give me a call.”

“I will.”

A breeze gusted in the window beside us, carrying the smell of cigarettes. Aragón grimaced and pushed the window shut.

“Damn smokers,” he said. “Ban them from the restaurants, and they blow it in from outside.”

“You don't smoke?” I asked.

“No.” He glanced at me and a slow grin crawled onto his face. “Not all cops smoke. Give me credit for some dimension.”

I laughed, then sipped my tea, gazing at him in speculation. I could let it drop, but I decided not to.

“It's just that last night at the station I thought you smelled of cigarettes,” I said.

“Oh. Yeah, I was visiting my grandmother when I got the call about the lab results. She's ninety-two and smokes like a chimney.”

“Wow. Her doctors don't object?”

“Sure they do, but she's ninety-two, for chrissakes. It's one of the few things she enjoys any more.”

“Oh, I see.” I sipped my tea again. “Do you visit her often?”

He shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. “I go once a week. I always feel like I should go through decon afterward.”

I laughed. “Such sacrifice! You must really be fond of her.”

He smiled, then grabbed a piece of garlic bread and started swabbing chile sauce from his plate. I took a piece too and broke it in half.

“Does she live in a retirement place?” I asked.

His eyes snapped to mine, suddenly angry. “No, she lives in a crummy apartment off Cerrillos Road, all right?”

“Sorry! Just making conversation.”

He blinked a couple of times, then took a long pull at his water glass. “I'm sorry. I overreacted. It's just … we can't afford one of those places. And she wouldn't go, anyway. My sister takes care of her.”

“Oh,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say, another question that wouldn't be dangerous. “Has she lived there a long time?”

His mouth curved down in a frown, but he didn't explode again. “Yeah. She and my grandfather moved there in the seventies after they lost their house.” His voice was low and angry, but the anger wasn't directed at me.

“Lost their house?” I said softly. “That's terrible.”

His eyes got a faraway look, as if he was gazing into memory. “Abuelito's house, actually—my great grandfather. They lived with him there, out on East Alameda. A big old rambling adobe. I remember wandering around lost in it when I was real little.”

“Sounds like a nice place.”

He nodded. “It had been in the family forever. When the galleries started moving in and the taxes went sky-high, it started getting tough to pay the bills. Then Abuelito died, and Grandma and Grandpa couldn't afford to pay the estate taxes. They had to sell the house.”