A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) by Patrice Greenwood Page B
Authors: Patrice Greenwood
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a Catholic custom, though I’d seen them at a couple of Protestant funerals. I read the card, then replaced it behind the votive. The prayer was pretty generic, so I didn’t think it would offend anyone who happened to be curious.
It did add to the appearance of an altar, though. Well, if anyone complained I’d move the offerings. So far no one had.
Three logs were left in the sling. As I carried them to the dining parlor, bits of the prayer rolled around in my head.
Though invisible to us, our dear dead are not absent.
Hm. Guess I really couldn’t deny that.
As I slipped into the dining parlor, hoping to avoid disrupting the tour group, the Bird Woman’s voice rang out. “But how many times have you seen Julia Staub?”
Willow fielded this with grace. In the role of a chamber-maid, I pretended disinterest as I unloaded the wood into the rack. The fire had died down, so I gave it a poke and added one log, then beat a retreat as Dee came in with a fresh pot of tea.
I looked into the kitchen, where Julio was wrapping up for the day while Mick heroically tackled a mound of used china. “Grocery list for tomorrow?”
“Right there.” Julio pointed to a slip of paper held by a magnet onto a small whiteboard mounted by the door. “I’m out.”
Willow’s tour group had another hour; Mick and Dee were staying to look after them. I headed up to my office and met Mr. Quentin—or Lieutenant Quentin, as he referred to himself in his presentation—on the stairs. He had donned his haversack and ammunition pouch, and carried his replica rifle carefully with the barrel upright. The upstairs chandelier cast a halo around him for a moment as he descended, making me pause.
...our dear dead are not absent.
As I reached the upper landing, I met Kris coming out of her office, also headed home.
“Payroll’s on your desk,” she said over her shoulder.
“Thanks.”
I stepped through the doorway shared by our offices, and couldn’t help glancing toward her desk. The skull was nowhere in evidence.
Retiring to my desk with a cup of tea, I wondered what Captain Dusenberry thought of Mr. Quentin’s presentation. We’d hosted more than a dozen tour groups already. I’d heard the talk myself twice. It was thought-provoking, especially since I knew more about the captain than anyone else.
I opened the lower drawer of my desk where I had stashed Maria’s letters, protected by a carved teak box. I had read them often enough to know them almost by heart, and I knew that handling them risked damaging them, so I left them where they were and locked the drawer.
Soon, I told myself. Soon I’d give them to the museum.
Remembering the lights in Hidalgo Plaza, I turned to my computer and sent off an email to my contact at the State Historical Archives, asking for any information about the plaza’s physical characteristics—maps, inventories, letters—during the late nineteenth century. If I got very lucky, there might be a mention of Maria’s rooms.
I signed the payroll checks and locked them in Kris’s desk, then tidied my own desk, sorting through the stack of papers “to file” that never seemed to go away. It included Gabriel’s diagram of the seven colored chambers for their party, and the lanyard with the map of the art show booths. Interesting juxtaposition. I laid them both in front of me and mused about Gabriel and maps. Maps were so technical and dry, not what I’d expect to be interesting to an artist.
Maybe they weren’t. Maybe the elusive thought tickling at the back of my brain was just the coincidence that Gabriel had touched both of these maps. I was about to toss them, then thought perhaps I should keep the diagram for the party. In the end, I shoved them both to the bottom of the “to file” stack.
I finished my tea, locked my desk, and went downstairs. Mr. Quentin had just concluded his talk and stood in the hall chatting with the guests as they put on their coats. I moved past him, thanking
It did add to the appearance of an altar, though. Well, if anyone complained I’d move the offerings. So far no one had.
Three logs were left in the sling. As I carried them to the dining parlor, bits of the prayer rolled around in my head.
Though invisible to us, our dear dead are not absent.
Hm. Guess I really couldn’t deny that.
As I slipped into the dining parlor, hoping to avoid disrupting the tour group, the Bird Woman’s voice rang out. “But how many times have you seen Julia Staub?”
Willow fielded this with grace. In the role of a chamber-maid, I pretended disinterest as I unloaded the wood into the rack. The fire had died down, so I gave it a poke and added one log, then beat a retreat as Dee came in with a fresh pot of tea.
I looked into the kitchen, where Julio was wrapping up for the day while Mick heroically tackled a mound of used china. “Grocery list for tomorrow?”
“Right there.” Julio pointed to a slip of paper held by a magnet onto a small whiteboard mounted by the door. “I’m out.”
Willow’s tour group had another hour; Mick and Dee were staying to look after them. I headed up to my office and met Mr. Quentin—or Lieutenant Quentin, as he referred to himself in his presentation—on the stairs. He had donned his haversack and ammunition pouch, and carried his replica rifle carefully with the barrel upright. The upstairs chandelier cast a halo around him for a moment as he descended, making me pause.
...our dear dead are not absent.
As I reached the upper landing, I met Kris coming out of her office, also headed home.
“Payroll’s on your desk,” she said over her shoulder.
“Thanks.”
I stepped through the doorway shared by our offices, and couldn’t help glancing toward her desk. The skull was nowhere in evidence.
Retiring to my desk with a cup of tea, I wondered what Captain Dusenberry thought of Mr. Quentin’s presentation. We’d hosted more than a dozen tour groups already. I’d heard the talk myself twice. It was thought-provoking, especially since I knew more about the captain than anyone else.
I opened the lower drawer of my desk where I had stashed Maria’s letters, protected by a carved teak box. I had read them often enough to know them almost by heart, and I knew that handling them risked damaging them, so I left them where they were and locked the drawer.
Soon, I told myself. Soon I’d give them to the museum.
Remembering the lights in Hidalgo Plaza, I turned to my computer and sent off an email to my contact at the State Historical Archives, asking for any information about the plaza’s physical characteristics—maps, inventories, letters—during the late nineteenth century. If I got very lucky, there might be a mention of Maria’s rooms.
I signed the payroll checks and locked them in Kris’s desk, then tidied my own desk, sorting through the stack of papers “to file” that never seemed to go away. It included Gabriel’s diagram of the seven colored chambers for their party, and the lanyard with the map of the art show booths. Interesting juxtaposition. I laid them both in front of me and mused about Gabriel and maps. Maps were so technical and dry, not what I’d expect to be interesting to an artist.
Maybe they weren’t. Maybe the elusive thought tickling at the back of my brain was just the coincidence that Gabriel had touched both of these maps. I was about to toss them, then thought perhaps I should keep the diagram for the party. In the end, I shoved them both to the bottom of the “to file” stack.
I finished my tea, locked my desk, and went downstairs. Mr. Quentin had just concluded his talk and stood in the hall chatting with the guests as they put on their coats. I moved past him, thanking
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