A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) by Patrice Greenwood

kiss, then he reached for the door. I followed him out to watch him stride down the path to the gate, and shivered a little in the chill.
    “Bye,” I said softly.
    He got onto his bike with the unconscious grace of a lifelong horseman. The engine started up on a low growl. Tony made a U-turn in the empty street, then cruised to the intersection at Palace Avenue and turned the corner out of sight.

 
     
8
    T he next few days passed quickly. A thousand small tasks needed attention, many of which had been on hold while I dealt with the wedding. In addition, the holiday season loomed.
    I called Tony’s sister, Angela, and got her voicemail. She was in college, I knew, and also cared for their grandmother. I left a message inviting her to come decorate sugar skulls on Sunday, then double-checked with Julio (yes, belatedly) that it was all right to ask a friend.
    “Hey, it’s your house,” Julio said as he kneaded a mound of pan de muerto dough. “Sure, ask whoever you want. I’m just glad you’re giving us the space.”
    “Should we have some snacks? I could make tea...”
    “No, no, no. Not on your day off. You leave the snacks to me. I put it at one o’clock so people would have lunch before coming.”
    The first shipment of holiday merchandise arrived on Tuesday. I was not in the mood for Christmas; in fact, I resented its intrusion into autumn, which was my favorite season. Business demanded that I attend to it, though. I helped Kris sort through the goods and get them ready for sale, but I insisted that we would not put out holiday merchandise until after Thanksgiving.
    “People like to shop early,” Kris said, glancing up at me under sculpted, dark brows as we stood among stacks of boxes in the storage closet behind her desk.
    “We have plenty of things they can buy. I just don’t want holly and candy canes all over the place for two months.”
    She resumed checking off inventory on packing slips. Sometimes Kris’s silences shouted louder than a dozen howler monkeys.
    “This is our first Christmas,” I said. “Let’s see how it goes. If it’s a mistake, we’ll reconsider for next year.”
    Having put my foot down on the merchandise issue, I then caved on the subject of advertising. Our first holiday ad—tastefully designed by my pal Gina’s advertising firm—would appear the week before Thanksgiving, announcing extended hours for December and encouraging early reservations.
    Three more boxes arrived in Wednesday’s mail. The smallest was addressed to Kris, so I put it on her desk and took the others into the storage closet. As I opened one and examined the ornaments inside, I became aware of a weighted silence in the outer office.
    Looking out, I saw the small box standing open and Kris regarding a life-sized skull sitting on her desk. I put down a china teacup ornament and stepped out to join her.
    “Is that something for the party?”
    “Search me,” Kris said. “I didn’t order it.”
    “Is there a packing slip?” I leaned forward to peer into the box, but all I saw were wads of black tissue paper.
    “No. The cancellation is from the Santa Fe post office.”
    The back of my neck prickled. “Maybe we should contact the police.”
    She shook her head and picked up the skull, turning it in her hands. “It isn’t real. It’s resin.”
    “It could be construed as a threat.”
    Kris swiveled her chair to face me. “No, it’s an insult.” She held the skull out toward me. “No lower jaw, see? It’s a Death’s Head. In Shakespearean times, that was a symbol for a bawd or a rake.”
    “I don’t get it.”
    She shot me a wry glance. “Someone is calling me a whore.”
    I couldn’t help a small gasp of outrage.
    “Probably one of Gabriel’s exes, is my guess,” Kris added. She held it at arm’s length. “It’ll make a nice paperweight.”
    “Kris, I don’t like this.”
    “If it bothers you I’ll take it home.”
    “I mean I don’t like that someone sent it to