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

you.”
    She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as she addressed the skull. “And why here, instead of my place? What do you say, Yorick? Is it because they didn’t know my mailing address?”
    I took a deep breath. “I need tea.”
    Escaping into my office, I poured myself a cup of Oolong from the pot on my credenza. Kris trailed after me.
    “Don’t worry about it, Ellen. It’s just drama.”
    “Do Goths often send each other skulls?”
    She grinned. “Probably more often than you think.”
    I took a swallow of tea, then gestured to the pot, offering to pour for Kris. She shook her head.
    “Thanks. I’ve had my quota for the day.”
    “Let me ask Tony about that skull.”
    She gave me a skeptical look. “He’s a homicide detective.”
    “Yes, but he might have some advice.”
    Kris didn’t quite roll her eyes. “Don’t bother him. If it makes you feel better, I’ll keep the box. Then when I turn up dead, you can have it checked for fingerprints.”
    “Not funny.”
    She smiled. “Sorry. Really, it’s OK. This isn’t a threat.”
    “If you say so.”
    “Let’s put away the rest of that merchandise,” she said.
    We did, but I couldn’t help glancing at the skull on Kris’s desk now and then.

    Friday arrived on the wings of a howling wind storm. I half-expected a call from Willow, canceling her tour for that day, but I had apparently underestimated the determination of the spirit-watching crowd. When four o’clock came they arrived, with cold-reddened noses, bundled in coats, scarves, and hats which they shed on their way down the hall to the dining parlor.
    The group included the Bird Woman, back for her third time on the tour. I put on a friendly smile for her and the others as they shuffled into the parlor.
    As Willow passed, I touched her arm. “I’d like to talk to you afterward, if you have time.”
    She nodded and followed her charges in to tea while I went upstairs to alert Mr. Quentin, the reenactor who gave a talk about Captain Dusenberry as part of the tour. He waited quietly in the sitting area by the front window, a slightly stocky gentleman in his mid-forties, rusty-colored hair and beard with a few threads of silver, reading a book by the light of a mica-shaded table lamp. His Union army uniform, spectacles, even the book in his hands were authentic recreations and looked well-used, not donned merely for the occasion, but lived in.
    I paused, watching him for a moment before intruding. Captain Dusenberry had probably looked very much like he did. Though Mr. Quentin was not here to portray the captain, he did help people understand what that 19th-century gentleman’s life had been like.
    “They’re here,” I said, stepping forward.
    Mr. Quentin nodded, consulted a pocket watch on the end of a chain, then resumed reading. The group would have twenty minutes to enjoy their tea before he went down to address them.
    I retreated to check on the tearoom, and met Iz carrying an empty firewood sling. “Didn’t Mick fill the rack?” I asked.
    “Yes, but we’ve gone through it all, and now he’s backed up.”
    “Let me get it,” I said, reaching for the sling. “You don’t want to smudge your apron.”
    The firewood was stacked out back, against the fence that ran along the driveway. I put on my coat and brought in two loads of wood, one for the main parlor and one for the south parlor, where four smaller alcoves shared the back-to-back fireplaces.
    Peeking into Dahlia, I saw that both it and Violet were empty. I filled the firewood rack, then paused to look at Vi’s portrait.
    Yes, it definitely needed better illumination, although there was a candle again, casting flickering shadows on the painting. I noticed a small card propped up behind the candle and picked it up. On the front was a picture of Jesus surrounded by sheep and doves. On the back was a prayer titled “Comfort for those who Mourn.”
    This must be the offering Rosa had wanted to leave. Prayer cards were mostly