A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn (29 page)

I glanced down, caught a fold of the violet fabric in my hand. “Is that an invitation?”

“Yeah. How about Saturday?”

My heart jumped. “Sounds fun. I'll check my calendar and let you know.”

“Okay.”

He moved a step closer and I drew a sharp breath. “What happened with Cora Young?” I said, struck by a fit of chicken-heartedness.

Tony's face sobered a little. “She's going to be indicted. We got a warrant and searched her house. She had a jar of honey in her kitchen that matched the stuff on the rosebush she cut down. Minus the botulism, but the same honey.”

“And the botulism? Did you find the source?”

“The clinic where she volunteers had a case about two weeks ago. That's where she got it. Someone there saw her slip a Petrie dish into her purse.”

“Oh, how awful! Even though I know how she hated Maria, I can't believe she did it.”

“People do awful things.”

“Like cutting down perfectly good rosebushes.”

“Actually, she did that out of compassion. After we got her to confess, she told us she cut down the rose because she was worried someone else would infect themselves. I guess she'd tried to clean the stuff off—”

“Yes, I watched her do it, though I didn't realize at the time that's what was going on.”

“But she was worried she hadn't gotten it all. And she hadn't—there was enough left for us to identify.”

I shook my head, saddened. “So she cut the rose down out of concern for her fellow human beings.”

“Kind of ironic, since that's what led to her being caught.”

I found the right key and unlocked the door. A yawn took me unawares and I apologized.

“Working too hard?” Tony said.

“I'm a little short-handed. I've been helping downstairs.”

“Oh, yeah. When it rains it pours, eh?”

I shrugged, pushing open the door. “This is my career.”

“Tea is your career?”

“Not just tea. Tea in a beautiful, peaceful place.” I gestured toward the shadowed parlor. “Tea with dear friends, or with a good book, or with someone...”

My throat got tight, suddenly. I drew a sharp breath.

Tony nodded. “I get it. It's the atmosphere.”

“Yes, exactly.”

He stood watching me, and I couldn't decide whether to ask him in or not. If I did, would he expect me to take him upstairs? I wasn't ready for that, but I didn't want to completely discourage him.

“Well,” he said.

I swallowed. Tony moved to step closer.

The hall lights came on. Tony looked up sharply.

“It's just Captain Dusenberry,” I said. “This is a new one, he hasn't turned on the hall light before.”

He frowned. “You don't really believe this place is haunted, do you?”

“Honestly, at this point I'm not sure what to believe.”

Tony's eyes narrowed as he gazed down the hall. “Yeah. Want me to take a look around, just in case?”

“I don't think you'll find anything.”

He gave me a flat look—the cop stare.

“Sure, go ahead,” I said. Easier than arguing.

He stepped into the hall, moving slowly, listening. I followed, tiptoeing.

He edged his way up to the doorway of the main parlor, looking into it from the side. I couldn't help thinking of all the cop shows I'd seen on TV.

The stereo came on, cheerful strains of Mozart filling the tearoom.

“Crap,” Tony muttered. “Where are the controls?”

“In the butler's pantry, but you won't—”

He was already halfway down the hall, moving with surprising silence. I stepped out of my shoes and hurried after him in my stocking feet.

I caught up with him at the door to the pantry, and saw that he had a gun in his hands. I stopped short, suddenly frightened. I hadn't even realized he was carrying a weapon.

He moved sideways along the wall toward the archway that led into the butler's pantry. I held my breath.

In one swift movement, Tony stepped into the pantry and brought his gun to chest height. I stayed where I was, though I could no longer see him.

“There's no one here,” he said.

I let out my breath. “Right.”

He stepped out into the hall, gun pointed at the floor, glaring at me. “If this is a joke—”

“I wouldn't dream of playing a prank like this on you. Honestly, Tony, I don't know what's doing it. I say it's Captain Dusenberry, but I don't know.”

He turned to stare at the stereo. “Someone could rig up a remote control to turn that on.”

“I guess.”

“Same with the lights.”

“Wouldn't they have to mess with the wiring?”

“Yeah.”

“Well...I live here.”

“They could wait until you go out.”

I didn't like what he was suggesting. “There's been no sign of a break-in.”

“Do you have an alarm system?”

“No...”

“Might want to get one.”

I sighed. “I'll think about it.”

“What's your email address? I'll send you some links to good shops.”

I hesitated. Not that I didn't want Tony to have my email address, but it seemed kind of intimate. A friend thing, even though he was really just making a business recommendation.

I liked thinking of him as a friend.

I would have liked it more if he hadn't been holding a gun.

I opened my purse and took out a card, wrote my personal email on the back, and handed it to him. He shoved it in his back pocket, then looked at me, dark eyes concerned.

“Thanks. You going to be OK? Want me to check upstairs.”

“There's no need, but thank you.” I took a deep breath. “Tony, I have a request.”

“Yeah?”

“I'd rather you didn't bring guns into the tearoom.”

He stared at me, incredulous. “I always carry a gun.”

“It's your job, I know. But do you think you could leave it at home when you're off duty?”

A frown settled on his brow. “A cop is never completely off duty. We're always watching.”

“It's just that I'm trying to make this a place of peace. Guns don't fit into that.”

“Then I guess I don't belong in your tearoom.”

“Don't be angry, please.”

He cast a restless look around the hallway. “I'm not, but you've got to understand. It's part of who I am.”

I was sad at the thought that he couldn't bear to be apart from his weapon, even for a few hours. I swallowed.

“I do understand, but this is part of who
I
am,” I said. “I want this house to be a place of harmony. I try to see the beauty in everyone I meet.”

“I'm trained to see the ugly.”

“I know.”

Our gazes met, and the trouble in his beautiful, dark eyes made my heart ache. Maybe this wouldn't work, after all. Maybe we were too different.

“Just think about it, please,” I whispered. “That's all I ask.”

He sighed and nodded, then looked around the hallway. “All right. Call if you need me. Even if it's just Goths in the bushes.”

I chuckled, relieved that he could still make a joke. “Thanks. Actually, you might be able to help me with that.”

He turned his head toward me as we started toward the front door. “Oh?”

“I need to think about how to handle it. I'll let you know.”

“OK. Oh, and thanks for the lecture,” he said. “It was interesting.”

“I'll email you the topic for the next one.”

“Yeah.”

We were at the door. Tony stood in front of it, glowering at it, then turned to me. “See you.”

“See you.”

A tiny frown creased his brow. With a swiftness that made me catch my breath, he leaned forward to kiss my cheek.

“Be safe.”

He opened the door and went out, shutting it behind him.

“You, too,” I said softly.

 

 

30

C
andles glowed on the table in the dining parlor. I had brought out my mother's antique silver candelabra for the occasion, though I doubted Ramon and his friends appreciated them. Each held six candles, which lit the room fairly well. Tony's giant candle holders flanked the fireplace, and Willow stood in front of it, dressed in her black tour-guide style, talking about Captain Dusenberry to the Goths who were seated around the table.

“This room was the captain's study during his lifetime, and he was sitting at his desk here when he was murdered.”

A flicker of interest showed in the face of the henna-haired girl, whose name was Alison. So far, the kids seemed unimpressed with the captain's history, but that might just be part of their brand of cool.

I glanced up at the chandelier. I had left it off, illuminating the room only with candlelight, both for atmosphere and in the hope that Captain Dusenberry might indulge my guests by turning it on. So far, nothing—not even a wiggling crystal.

“The murderer stood in the doorway and shot the captain twice, hitting him in the back and the head. He was found the next morning by his servant, Private David Rogers. Nothing was taken from the house, and the killer was never caught.”

Thea, an androgynous, painfully thin girl with spiky black hair hanging in her eyes, raised her hand. “How long did he take to die? Did he, like, suffer a lot?”

“Probably not,” Willow said. “He was still in his chair, fallen forward onto his desk, when he was found. It's likely that he was unconscious, if not dead, immediately.”

“So he didn't leave a last message or anything?”

Scrawled in blood, perhaps?
I kept the thought to myself.

“No,” Willow said. “He'd been working on an inventory report. It was found on the desk beneath his body.”

Ramon raised his hand. “What part of the room was the desk in?”

“That's not known, but I would guess that it was about where Ms. Rosings is standing.”

I started, and took a step to one side. Willow was probably right—if I were to use the room as a study, I would place my desk so that I could see both the door and the windows.

“Have you ever seen him?” asked a third girl...Wendy? Mindy?

“I have not, but I do get a sense of his presence in the house, and in this room particularly,” Willow said.

The kids looked around the room, as if to spot Captain Dusenberry hovering in a corner. I wondered if it was time to bring out the tea and scones. Julio had made some blood orange curd especially for this group.

A creak sounded above our heads. Everyone looked up at the ceiling. The chandelier was motionless.

A slow, heavy tread moved across the ceiling, then descended the stairs. The kids exchanged glances, eyes wide with excitement. Their faces turned toward the door as the footsteps came down the hall.

A man appeared in the shadowed doorway, wearing the dark blue uniform of a mid-nineteenth-century army officer. His hat—a forage cap, I'd been told—was pulled down so that the bill hid his eyes.

“Boo,” he said.

The kids laughed.

“You're not a ghost!” Alison accused.

“No, I'm not,” Tony said, stepping into the dining parlor. “But we thought you might like to see the kind of uniform Captain Dusenberry would have worn, and the kind of gun that killed him.”

He took a Colt Navy pistol—a replica, though it looked like an antique—from the holster at his hip. The kids gathered around him.

“Cool!”

“Is it loaded?”

Tony glanced at me. “No. It's a black powder weapon. It gets loaded with a cartridge like this one.”

He took a paper cartridge and a loose bullet from his pocket and showed them to the kids, demonstrating how the gun would be loaded but not actually doing so. We had agreed on that, and he stuck to his word.

The gun was plainly the highlight of the evening for the kids, though Ramon took an interest in the officer's sword Tony also wore. Tony had borrowed the uniform and weapons from a friend on the police force who was a Civil War reenactor.

I suppressed a small sigh as I slipped out to fetch the tea and scones. So much for peace and harmony. These Goth kids wanted murder and mayhem.