A Fatal Twist of Lemon by Patrice Greenwood

“Oh, I think it’s fascinating! I looked at the parlor on my way up, but it’s hard to tell anything happened.”
    â€œI should hope so. I just want to get back to normal.”
    Her wry look told me she thought this impossible. I went downstairs, conscious of the dining parlor as I passed it on the way to the butler’s pantry.
    By the time I returned, Kris had been through half the messages. I set the tea tray on a credenza, hesitating as I noticed the picture above it, an ebony-framed reproduction of Millais’s “Ophelia.”
    Kris had brought it in while we were decorating and asked my permission to hang it, and I’d had no objection at the time. Now, though, it bothered me a little. Lovely and ethereal as it was, it was still a picture of a woman drowning, and I was feeling a bit sensitive to the idea of death just then.
    I poured tea for us both and carried it to her desk, sitting with my back to “Ophelia.” Kris finished jotting a message, then hung up the phone and read from her notes.
    â€œAll four TV stations, the Journal North and the New Mexican all want to interview you,” she said, “and you have messages from Katie Hutchins, Manny Salazar, someone named Willow, and two from a Detective Aragón.”
    â€œDrat. What did the detective want?”
    â€œDidn’t say. Just left a number for you to call back.” She handed me a bunch of message slips.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œDo you want me to return the calls from the media?”
    I stood up and picked up my teacup. “Not yet. See what else we’ve got. Who knows, there might be a reservation in there.”
    â€œOh, there already was. One.”
    I looked at her in surprise. “Well, that’s good news.”
    She gave an apologetic smile. “And three cancellations.”
    â€œOh. Well, carry on.”
    I carried my tea into my office. As I sat at my desk, something seemed out of place. I put down the cup and saucer and the message slips and looked at the desk. I’d left it clean when I’d given it over to Detective Aragón to use.
    The lower right hand drawer wasn’t quite closed. It tended to stick, and I’d been meaning to wax it but hadn’t gotten around to it.
    I pulled it open. The papers I had stashed in there the previous evening lay in a tidy stack.
    Too tidy. I remembered I hadn’t racked them carefully when I put them away, but they were racked now.
    â€œThat bastard!” I whispered.
    He’d gone through my desk.
    Well, I hadn’t told him not to. I’d left him alone in there. He was a cop investigating a murder, what did I expect?
    I expected a respect for my privacy, and a little common courtesy, that was what. I took a deep breath, struggling to control my anger. It was going to be a difficult day, and I couldn’t let something like this throw me into a bad mood before we even opened.
    The phone rang again and I glanced up. This time it was my private line, so I answered it.
    â€œEllen!” said Aunt Nat. “I’ve been so worried! Didn’t you get my message?”
    â€œOh—sorry, I haven’t checked my cell phone yet. The tearoom’s phone has been ringing off the hook.”
    â€œI can believe that! Why didn’t you call me last night? I’d have come and helped.”
    â€œSorry, I meant to call. There wouldn’t have been anything for you to do, but thanks for thinking of me.”
    â€œWell, what can I do today? Do you need help with the tearoom?”
    â€œAh—maybe. Don’t put off your own plans, but—”
    â€œI have nothing planned today. I’ll come right down.”
    I leaned back in my chair, surprised at how relieved I felt. “Thanks. It’ll be good to have you here. I could use some moral support.”
    â€œYou poor duck. You should forget all about it and go up to the spa and get a massage.”
    I laughed. “Not today.