Excerpt
The first day my tearoom opened was wonderful—mostly. Funny how life can go swimmingly one moment, and fall to pieces the next.
The sun was starting to dip toward the west, filtered by the wisteria vines on the front porch, as I bade my guests farewell. My thank-you tea party had been a success, and the butterflies in my stomach had mostly settled down. After months of hard work, the Wisteria Tearoom was ready for its official grand opening celebration in two days.
"The tea was marvelous, Ellen! Come for dinner tomorrow," said my aunt Nat, giving me a big hug.
"Oh...I've got so much to do—"
"And you won't get it done if you don't take a rest now and then. Say 'Yes, thank you,' like a good girl."
"Yes, thank you," I said meekly.
Nat smiled. "Six o'clock."
I waved farewell to her and her perennial beau Manny Salazar, whose produce business was one of my suppliers. With a grateful sigh, I went inside and started toward the kitchen.
Claudia Pearson—a tall, older woman with snowy hair drawn into a tight bun and an aristocratic Roman nose, who always reminded me of Georgia O'Keeffe—stood in the hall putting on her gloves. She and Sylvia Carruthers, both from the Santa Fe Preservation Trust, were my most important guests at the thank-you tea. In fact, I'd come up with the party as a way of acknowledging them. Without their help, I wouldn't have been able to open the tearoom.
"Did Mrs. Carruthers go already?" I asked Claudia, who seemed in no hurry to leave.
"No, she hasn't come out."
We both looked toward the private dining parlor at the back of the tearoom, which doubled as a conference room and was where the tea had taken place. Vi, one of my servers, a stunning Juno of a girl with a tumble of flaming curls barely confined by a lavender ribbon, stepped out of the pantry across the hall, carrying an empty tray.
"Maybe she forgot something," I said to Claudia. "I'll go and see."
I went to the dining parlor door with Vi close on my heels. Dusk gathered at the windows and French doors, pushed back by the golden pool of light from the chandelier. I stopped short just inside the doorway.
Sylvia Carruthers lay sprawled on the floor beside the table, her huge heishi necklace tight around her throat, eyes bulging and her face a livid purple.