Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (3 page)

When I was little, going to the opera had been a magical evening, not only for the performance, but for the opera house and grounds, and the audience as well. In those days (long gone, alas), people dressed up to go to the opera. I remembered goggling at beautiful and astonishing attire: a gorgeous blonde in a white full-length gown with a spray of roses in her hair and a feather boa; a young man in a morning coat with a waterfall of black hair down his back, carrying a walking stick and top hat; numerous gentlemen in formal kilts for a performance of
Lucia di Lammermoor
.

Nowadays, opera-goers could be seen wearing tee-shirts and shorts. I was certain Miss Manners must share my opinion that this was a travesty.

The Santa Fe Opera performed in an open-air theatre perched on top of a hill north of Santa Fe, with a view of the Jemez Mountains behind the stage so splendid that the sets were usually constructed so as to leave it visible. Sometimes a lightning storm would add atmosphere to the performance.

I was too young to have seen the first opera house, which burned down in 1967. The Opera of my memory was the second building, with its distinctive, swooping roof extensions that failed to completely protect the center rows of the audience from rain, and gave the house its famous architectural silhouette. The front courtyard featured a long, curving flower bed planted entirely with white petunias that glowed in the dusk as the audience gathered before the performances.

I cried when that second opera house was demolished to make way for the third structure. The change had been necessary, but despite the many improvements of the new theatre (not the least of which was complete overhead protection for the audience), I still missed the old building, where my love for the opera had been formed.

That love filled my heart as I sat gazing at the tickets in my hands. What a wonderful gift from a beloved aunt and a new friend. Now that I was alone, I could think about who to invite.

Tony Aragón came into my thoughts. He’d been hovering at the edge of them since Mr. Ingraham had given me the tickets, but I wasn’t sure I had the courage to ask him to join the opera party.

Would he accept? Or would he think opera was one of those activities reserved for a privileged few that did not include him? An Anglo thing?

There were plenty of Hispanics who attended the opera, but they weren’t from Tony’s class. He was a detective, definitely working-class, more a football guy than a fine arts guy. I could picture the narrowing of his dark eyes, the pinching of his nose in the hint of a sneer.

I wanted to share this treat with him, but I wasn’t sure he would see it as a treat.

Sighing, I laid the tickets down on my desk. Detective Aragón was a perpetual question mark in my life. I liked him; he’d done me some favors.

Well all right—he’d saved my life. That was more than a favor.

And he was … very attractive. I couldn’t deny that. It was one of the things that made thinking about him uncomfortable.

Footsteps in the hallway preceded Kris’s entrance through the entrance that our offices shared. She looked in at me with a smile, her black hair and kohl-dark eyes making her look Cleopatra-esque.

“Bird Woman spent a hundred dollars in the gift shop.”

“God bless her,” I said.

“Everyone loved the event. Heard lots of good comments.”

“Thanks. What did you think?”

“I thought it went very well.”

“No, I mean Vi’s singing. Did you like it?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “I liked the second number better.”

That was no surprise. Kris had excellent taste, but she was also a Goth, so her preferences ran toward darker themes. Her work clothes were always elegant, and the décor she had chosen for her office was, too, but the lovely print of Millais’s Ophelia she had on the wall was still a picture of a dying woman.

She headed into her office, and I looked back at my opera tickets.

I could play it safe and invite Gina. She wasn’t an opera buff, but she was always up for a party.

Coward.

I hated it when the little voice in my head talked to me like that. Especially when it was right.

I grabbed my phone, and before I could chicken out completely, I sent a text to Tony Aragón.

PLEASE DROP BY THE TEAROOM WHEN YOU GET A CHANCE.

I refuse to use shorthand when texting. I know it’s faster, but I grew up with a respect for proper English. Yes, I know it’s a losing battle. Still, I endeavor.

I put the phone down, then went downstairs so that I wouldn’t stare at it. The girls had the parlor rearranged already, restored to its normal configuration of four smaller seating areas separated by a combination of pocket doors and strategically placed furniture. My mother’s upright piano was back in its normal place against the wall.

I should get out some music and come down and play it after hours. I hadn’t touched the piano since the move. Granted, it had been out of tune, but I hated to think I might lose my music from being too busy with other things.

I smiled, looking at the polished, dark wood. I’d learned to play on that piano. I wasn’t great, but I could play a few pieces competently, and I so loved it.

Nothing like the soaring music that had filled the room that afternoon. Remembering Vi’s wonderful voice, I smiled.

The day was ending. Apart from one couple in the Iris seating, the tearoom was empty of guests. I strolled down to the butler’s pantry and found Iz arranging scones on a tray for them.

“Is there any tea brewed for staff?”

She nodded and gestured to a cozy-covered pot. Iz, a native of Tesuque Pueblo, is quiet and shy, but steady as a rock. Staying out of her way, I collected a cup and saucer and poured myself some tea—Keemun, it smelled like—then went into the kitchen.

Julio had left the place tidy, as always. Mick was in the alcove with the industrial dish-washing station, finishing up the china from the event. His long, blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and he wore a Pearl Jam tee-shirt. His face, very like his sister Dee’s, was slightly flushed from the steam.

I headed for the fridge. As I’d hoped, a tray of Aria Cakes sat inside. I took it out and put a cake on a plate.

“Mick? Did you get to try an Aria Cake?”

He turned off the water and took out his earbuds. “Sorry, what?”

I held out the plate toward him. “Cake. Did you get a piece?”

“No, not yet. Thanks!”

I fetched him a fork, and another for myself, then served up my own piece of cake before putting the tray back in the fridge. Picking up my tea, I went across the hall to the dining parlor and sat in the middle of the table, looking out through the gauze-draped French doors at the back garden.

With a small sigh of satisfaction, I sipped my tea and took a bite of cake. Almond and butter and assam, sweet with a little crunch. Perfection.

Soft strains of music played over the house sound system—a Chopin nocturne. I relaxed as I listened, happy with the result of all the work that had led up to Vi’s event.

This room was one of my favorites in the house. It had been the study of the original owner, Captain Dusenberry, for whom the house was built in the mid-19th century. He had also been killed in the room, as had Sylvia Carruthers, the woman without whose help I would not have been able to acquire the building for my tearoom.

Sighing, I reminded myself there was nothing I could do about the murders. In fact, they had attracted a certain amount of business from Kris’s goth friends, and had made the tearoom a regular stop on a local ghost tour. I really should try to find out more about Captain Dusenberry, considering that he apparently was still around.

I took another bite of cake. I had never believed in ghosts, but I had no explanation for some of the strange things that happened in the tearoom. Lights turning on or off, music likewise. I glanced up at the chandelier over the table, but the crystals were all still, though I’d often seen a single drop swinging back and forth.

Willow Lane, the owner of Spirit Tours of Santa Fe, had assured me that Captain Dusenberry could do all of that. If he actually understood the stereo system, he was possibly more competent with electronics than I.

Tony Aragón suspected that someone had meddled with my ancient wiring. But why would anyone do that? Why go to so much trouble for a prank, when they weren’t even around to witness its effects? In a fit of paranoia I had checked every corner of the dining parlor and every object and fixture in it for hidden cameras or microphones, and found nothing.

And besides, I sometimes felt Captain Dusenberry’s presence. Not in a frightening way—in fact, I found it comforting. I had a benevolent, invisible roommate.

Dee stepped into the doorway, knocking on the open door. “Sorry to bother you, but Detective Aragón is here. He said you asked him to come.”

“Yes, send him in.”

“He’s waiting on the front
portal
. He said you wouldn’t want him to come in.”

Oh. Yes, the gun.

We were still negotiating about the gun. I’d asked him not to bring it into the tearoom. He’d been pretty indignant.

“All right, tell him I’ll be right out. Did you offer him tea?”

“Yes. He said no thanks.”

“Thank you, Dee.”

I stepped across to the kitchen and put another Aria Cake on a plate. Armed with this and a fork, I went down the hall to the front doors and out onto the
portal
.

Tony was sitting at one of the small tables in the shade of the wisteria vines, watching the traffic, a slight scowl on his face. The lines of his profile made me catch my breath—he really was quite handsome in a classically Latin way. He was dressed in jeans and a motorcycle jacket, open over a plain black shirt on this hot afternoon. His bike was parked on the street past the white picket fence that bordered my garden.

I sat across from him and pushed the plate of cake across the table. “Thank you for coming. Would you like to try Julio’s latest creation?”

He looked surprised, and the scowl disappeared as he took off his shades and picked up the fork. “Thanks! What’s up? I’ve only got a few minutes.”

I discovered I didn’t know how to phrase my invitation. I should have rehearsed. I cleared my throat.

“I was wondering if you’d like to join me … I’ve been given a gift of opera tickets.”

He paused with a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth. “Opera? You’re kidding, right?”

I shook my head, my heart sinking a little. “Do you dislike opera?”

“Don’t know anything about it.” He ate the cake. “Mmm! Oh, man. That’s fantastic.”

“Thank you.” I watched him chop another bite with the fork. “Julio created it in honor of Violetta. She’s an apprentice at the Santa Fe Opera this summer. You remember Vi?”

He frowned, then gave a nod and swallowed. “The tall one, right? Redhead?”

“Yes. She’ll be in the opera I’m going to,
Tosca
. Mr. Ingraham and my aunt gave me two tickets, so I can bring a guest. And Mr. Ingraham has invited us to his tailgate supper beforehand.”

I was babbling. I clasped my hands in my lap, trying to organize my thoughts.

Tony chewed meditatively, then focused on cutting another bite of cake. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that. Opera tailgating. Candelabras and wine.”

Candelabra, whispered my little voice. I ignored it.

“It’s a lot of fun,” I said. “If you’ve never been to the Santa Fe Opera, it’s worth going once, even if you’re not an opera fan.”

He scraped frosting from the plate with the edge of his fork. “I don’t have anything to wear. It’s tuxedos, right?”

“Not necessarily. In recent years it’s become a lot less formal.”

I was fudging, because I strongly suspected that Mr. Ingraham, and probably Manny, would dress. I also suspected that Tony didn’t own a tux.

“The suit you wore when you took me to dinner would be fine,” I added. “You’ll be better dressed than a lot of the men in the audience. Some of them won’t even wear jackets.”

“Yeah, but your friends will.”

“True.”

I watched him eat the last bite of cake, still without meeting my gaze. “Why me?”

My little voice started gibbering. My heart was beating rather fast. I took a deep breath.

“Honestly? You’re the first person I thought of. I’d love it if you’d escort me to the opera.”

He set down the fork. The small click filled the awkward silence.

“You know it’s not my …” He laughed softly. “… cup of tea.”

“I know, but I thought you might enjoy the novelty.”

He looked up at me, his warm brown eyes causing an uncomfortable stir in my chest. “Tell you what. I’ll go to the opera with you if you’ll go to a movie with me.”

“Deal.”

“You can even pick the movie. Doesn’t have to be violent.”

I thought about
Tosca
, in which Scarpia reveled in the prospect of his “violent conquest” of Tosca, and in torturing her lover. Well, it would be in Italian. Though of course, there were the captioning screens on the backs of the seats…

Truth was, it was a dark opera and not what I would have chosen for Tony’s introduction to the art form, but it was what I had. Tickets were expensive enough that I doubted Tony would let me buy him one for a different production.

“OK,” I said, and smiled. “It’s the 20th. I’ll let you know the details about dinner once I get them from Mr. Ingraham.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Ingraham. The food critic?”

“Yes, you remember him?”

“Yeah.” The scowl flicked back on his face. Must be remembering the murder at the tearoom on opening day. Mr. Ingraham had been at the tearoom, and Tony had interviewed him.

Was it work, then, that made Tony scowl like that?

He checked his watch. “Gotta go. Talk to you later.”

We both stood, and he came around the table to kiss my cheek. “Thanks for the cake.”

I blinked, recovering from the electric shock that had just gone through me. “You’re welcome.”

Watching him jog down my path to the street, I remembered belatedly to breathe. He swung onto his bike, started the engine with a roar, and cruised down the street toward the plaza. When he was out of sight I picked up the plate and took it back to the kitchen.