A Fatal Twist of Lemon (32 page)

H
ere is where Miss Manners failed me. I should have turned around and left, but not wanting to be rude, I stepped in. Vince pushed the door closed behind me.

“Wow, you've made a lot of changes,” I said, the cheeriness in my voice sounding a bit tinny to my ear.

“Yeah.”

Desperate for a distraction, I gestured toward the crates, which were large and flat. “Is that some of the artwork you'll be showing?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, may I see? Unless it's too much trouble,” I added.

“I've got a couple open.”

He walked over to the crates, which leaned against the wall by the fireplace in what had been the front room and was now part of the whole huge gallery space, forming the short foot of a long “L.” Vince picked up a pair of latex gloves from the mantel.

“Been painting,” he said, looking at me as he put them on.

He pulled a large canvas out of one of the crates and stood it against the stack, then turned for my reaction. The piece was very modern, abstract smears of paint flung across the canvas in what to me seemed random abandon. I confess, modern art is usually not to my taste. This piece looked liked it belonged on Donna Carruthers's living room wall.

“Hmm,” I said, nodding. “Very interesting. Not a local artist, I gather.”

“No.”

“It reminds me of some pieces I saw at Donna Carruthers's house. By the way, I wonder if you saw her leave the tearoom last Wednesday, after the tea?”

“No.”

“I see. Well,” I said, glancing around the room again. “You're busy. I'll get out of your way.”

I started toward the door and Vince followed. I paused to set the plate down on the corner of the work table I'd seen on my last visit.

It was covered with a clutter of hand tools and the boom box weighing down blueprints—I assumed the same plans Vince had been reviewing a few days before. The top one was a drawing of the long room Vince had made by knocking down walls. It showed additional changes—skylights and clerestory windows—the sort of thing I was certain was in violation of his preservation easement.

That was the moment I realized how dangerous Vince was. He could be sued by the Trust for making these changes, but he'd done it anyway, probably assuming they wouldn't put up much of a fight once the damage was done. He'd done it fast, too. So fast Claudia hadn't even found out about his plans. That was the act of a ruthless man.

My brother has always said that I have a terrible poker face. When I looked up at Vince he must have seen exactly what I was thinking.

He grabbed me so fast I didn't have time to fight back. I tried to kick, but he got my arm pinned behind my back and all I could do was squirm. I started to yell for help.

“Shut up!” he shouted, twisting my arm harder. Pain shot through my shoulder and I gasped.

With his free hand he turned on the boom box and cranked the volume. Hard rock music screamed through the house.

He pushed me toward the long room. I stumbled and he pushed me again, knocking me sprawling onto the plastic-covered floor and jerking my arm so hard I was stunned with pain for a moment. I heard the ripping sound of tape being pulled free, then the plastic drop cloth covered my head and a heavy weight fell on my back.

I struggled as much as I could, which wasn't very much. Oddly, I held my breath, as if instinct warned me to conserve air. I got one hand in front of my face and was able to keep a small space within the drop cloth that way, but I knew it wouldn't last long.

Vince was pulling it tighter over my head. I tried to claw a hole in the plastic with my fingernails, wishing I had Gina's long nails instead of my short and practical manicure. My breath made it hot and humid in the tiny space. Part of me was terrified, and another part was thinking, “This is a really stupid way to die.”

I was starting to feel dizzy. The loud music was muffled by the plastic to a dull rhythmic thumping. More thumps joined it, then the music abruptly shut off. Yelling, indistinct. The pressure on my face suddenly eased, and the weight came off my back.

I struggled free of the dropcloth, gasping for breath. Just as I got clear I was grabbed again. I fought back, then realized it was Tony, telling me, “Shh, it's all right, you're safe now.”

Not Shakespeare, but at that moment they were the most beautiful words I could hear. I turned into a disgusting puddle of jelly, shivering and clinging to Tony.

There were other cops in the room, a lot of them. I didn't see Vince. I was glad. I never wanted to see him again.

“You're an idiot, you know,” Tony said after I'd calmed down a little.

“I know. Spare me the lecture.”

“You're damned lucky I checked my voicemail.”

I looked into his eyes—those dark, intense Latino eyes—and felt a flood of relief wash through me, along with something more intimate that I shied away from examining. I hiccupped.

“Thank you, Tony,” I said in a shaky voice.

For an instant his brow creased and he seemed almost as scared as I was. Then he glanced up at the cops moving around the room and transformed into a cop himself.

“Paramedics are here,” said one of the uniform cops.

“Good, send them in,” Tony said.

“I'm all right,” I said, sitting up as Tony released me.

“They'll check you over. Standard procedure. Just sit tight.”

He stood up and walked away, joining a couple of the uniformed cops and talking in low voices. I felt excluded and rather let down, but perhaps that was just the aftermath of an adrenaline rush.

Two nice paramedics—a girl with tufty dark hair and a freckled, redheaded farm-boy type—came and spoke gently and kindly to me while they took my vitals. They checked out my arm, which was starting to ache rather badly, and declared the shoulder was not dislocated but that I might have strained a tendon.

“Ibuprofen and a heating pad,” said the tufty-haired girl with a businesslike nod. “If it's still sore in a couple days, go see your doctor. You need a ride home?”

“It's just across the street.”

“I'll walk you over.”

She helped me to my feet. I glanced at Tony, who was still huddled with the other cops. Evidence techs were coming in. I recognized the blond, blue-eyed guy with the wire-framed glasses. He gave me a friendly nod as he carried in a bulky equipment case.

The paramedic walked outside with me into an alien universe. Birds were singing in the late afternoon sunshine. Iris were blooming in Katie's garden next door. People who would never dream of murdering each other were walking up and down the street.

We waited for a lull in traffic, then crossed the street, passing Tony's motorcycle parked at the curb. The paramedic came all the way to the door with me. I opened it, setting off a merry tinkle of bells.

“Thanks,” I said, giving her my best Miss Manners smile.

She nodded and left. I squared my shoulders, hoping I didn't look too disheveled, and went into the tearoom.

Vi came out of the gift shop. “Oh, Ellen! We saw all the cops. Are you okay?”

“Ah … fine,” I said, glancing toward the south parlor.

“No customers,” Vi said. “The last one left just after you went across the street. So what happened?”

Her blue eyes were wide with curiosity. I heard the roar of a motorcycle and glanced through the window in time to see Tony's bike turn the corner. Heading for the police station, no doubt. Probably looking forward to an interview with Vince.

I shivered, then looked at the clock behind the hostess station, which read five forty-five. I locked the front door and turned around the “Closed” sign.

“We're closing early,” I said. “Make us a big pot of Irish Breakfast, then get everyone together in the kitchen and I'll fill you in.”

 

 

 

 

18 

“N
o, Gina! Absolutely not. I had enough of that the first time.”

“But it's even more important now!”

She leaned against the counter in the butler's pantry, watching me arrange fresh flowers in vases for the parlors, her sleeveless turquoise dress hinting at summertime. The flowers had arrived late Tuesday afternoon, and I hadn't had the chance to get to them until Wednesday morning.

“My face has already been all over the news,” I said, tucking another rose into a crystal vase along with a spray of blue mist. “Why do it all over again?”

“Because this time you're a hero! And anyway, people have to see you at least three times before they'll remember you.”

“Gina, it's not an advertising campaign!”

“You're right. Like I said, you can't buy this kind of publicity.”

I shook my head and picked up the vase, carrying it out into the hall. Gina followed me to the south parlor.

“Remember how worried you were that Sylvia's murder would keep people away from the tearoom?” she said. “Well, this is just the opposite! People who don't even care about tea will come just to see the lady who caught the murderer. Hello,” she added, smiling at a pair of middle-aged women who were just leaving the Rose alcove. They exchanged a glance, then bustled out to the gift shop.

I placed the roses on the sideboard that divided Jonquil from Lily. “But I didn't catch him. The police caught him. If they hadn't arrived in time I'd have been in deep—trouble,” I said, smiling belatedly at a trio of elderly ladies who had followed Dee into the parlor.

She showed them to Jonquil, where two of them made themselves comfortable at once in chintz-covered chairs. The third hung back to speak to me. Her face was half-hidden beneath a hat buried in silk hydrangeas, but there was no mistaking the stentorian tone of her voice.

“Ms. Rosings, I'm so glad to hear they've caught the man who killed Sylvia Carruthers,” said the woman I'd come to think of as the bird lady.

I put on a polite smile. “Yes, so am I.”

“Now you can open up the murder room again,” she boomed, “because her spirit will be appeased.”

“Will it?” I said weakly.

“That's what Willow Lane told us. Right, girls?” Her two friends nodded and twittered agreement. “We took her tour of all the haunted places in town,” the bird woman continued. “Very informative. We're going to go again after she's added the tearoom to the tour.”

She beamed at me. All I could do was try to keep smiling.

“How nice,” I said, thinking I was going to have a stern discussion with Willow in the near future.

“Well, we'd better sit down, or we won't get our tea, ha ha. Don't forget, we have the murder room reserved for Friday afternoon at four!”

“Oh, I couldn't forget,” I said. “You ladies enjoy your tea, now.”

“See?” Gina hissed as she followed me out of the parlor. “They love it! They want to hear about it!”

Kris stepped out of the gift shop. “There you are. Messages,” she said, handing me a fat bundle. “Mostly from the press.”

“You didn't have to bring them down,” I told her.

“I was coming down anyway, with revised reservation sheets for this afternoon. Business is booming,” she said, flashing me a dark smile as the turned toward the stairs.

“I'll take care of these,” Gina said, taking the messages out of my hand. “I'll set you up for appointments between two and three-thirty. First come first served, the rest will have to wait.”

“Gina—”

“Ms. Rosings?” said Iz, stepping toward me from the hostess station. She still hadn't adjusted to calling me by my first name.

I took a deep breath. Gina had already darted upstairs after Kris, no doubt to use my office to play talent agent.

“Yes, Iz?” I said, struggling to hold onto my patience.

“There's someone here to see you. Out on the porch.”

“The porch?” I glanced toward the front door. “Why didn't you show them in?”

She gave a little shrug. “He wouldn't come in. Said he wasn't dressed right.”