A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) by Patrice Greenwood
Authors: Patrice Greenwood
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tea. Halfway through drying them I realized what I was humming: a mariachi tune.
“Aargh!”
I turned on the stereo in the butler’s pantry, filling the house with Beethoven. For breakfast, I treated myself to a couple of Julio’s empanadas , which I hadn’t had a chance to try the day before. They were delicious: flaky crust and tangy fillings, apple with just a touch of cinnamon in one, and cherry in the other.
By then, it was time to leave. I changed into jeans and a nice sweater, donned my wool coat and a hat, and stepped out the front door.
The thunder had stopped, and the rain was now little more than a drizzle. I didn’t bother with the umbrella. The storm had knocked a lot of leaves down, turning the sidewalk into a pretty fall mosaic. Someone had a fire going, and the aroma of piñon smoke teased me as I walked north to the corner and crossed the street.
The Santa Fe Community Convention Center was hopping. Much expanded from Sweeney Center, the humble community auditorium it had been during my childhood, it was now a true convention center, tastefully designed in pueblo revival style. A banner reading “SANTA FE AUTUMN ART EXHIBITION” graced the front entrance. I went in and paid my admission.
“There she is!”
I turned and saw Loren and Shelly approaching, bundled in coats and scarves over jeans. Loren smiled. “How was the walk?”
I glanced toward the street with a bemused look. I’d walked perhaps fifty paces to get here; if it weren’t for the height of the building next to my house, I could have thrown a rock into my yard from the sidewalk outside the convention center.
“Very refreshing,” I said, smiling.
“You were smart. It took us five minutes to find a parking place.”
I laughed. “Shall we go in?”
The main hall was like any big convention space, presently filled with booths of artwork. The door-keeper, an older woman with silver hair up in a bun and a festive, colored shawl, handed each of us a badge-holder on a lanyard, containing a diagram of the ballroom laid out with booths. “Here’s your guide.”
“Oh, that’s clever,” I said, looking at the map of numbered booths. “So I don’t lose it.”
“Right. The index is in your program.” She gave each of us a folded page. We stepped aside to look them over.
The exhibition was a juried show. The index listed Gabriel Rhodes in a booth at the back of the hall. I started off in that direction.
“Don’t you want to see the ones in front?” Shelly asked.
“I do, but I’m looking for a particular artist. I’d like to see his work first, then I’ll go through the whole hall.”
“We can keep you company,” Loren offered.
“Up to you.”
They followed, apparently by silent consent. The booths we passed contained everything from oil paintings to photography to textiles and pottery. Artists looked out eagerly, ready to sell.
The booth designated as Gabriel’s was unattended, though a security guard nearby was keeping an eye on the entire row. I stood looking at the paintings, which impressed me more than I expected. They were stark and rich at the same time. Color was used sparingly, but what color was there was striking.
One painting, mostly white, was of a beautiful young woman looking forlornly downward while a dark, faceless figure in black robes with black feathered wings loomed behind her. The model for the woman must have been Gwyneth; the nose and hair were hers, and the ethereal, filmy garment was just the sort of thing she’d probably wear. But the look of hopelessness in her eyes was unfamiliar. I assumed that was the artist’s interpretation. I glanced at the title: “Resignation.”
I suspected Gwyneth had also modeled for an odalisque all in tones of gray—although her face was turned away in that piece—and for a very dark painting titled “Harpy” that was the most sensually attractive harpy I’d ever seen. Remembering Kris’s assertion that Gabriel had slept with all of the
“Aargh!”
I turned on the stereo in the butler’s pantry, filling the house with Beethoven. For breakfast, I treated myself to a couple of Julio’s empanadas , which I hadn’t had a chance to try the day before. They were delicious: flaky crust and tangy fillings, apple with just a touch of cinnamon in one, and cherry in the other.
By then, it was time to leave. I changed into jeans and a nice sweater, donned my wool coat and a hat, and stepped out the front door.
The thunder had stopped, and the rain was now little more than a drizzle. I didn’t bother with the umbrella. The storm had knocked a lot of leaves down, turning the sidewalk into a pretty fall mosaic. Someone had a fire going, and the aroma of piñon smoke teased me as I walked north to the corner and crossed the street.
The Santa Fe Community Convention Center was hopping. Much expanded from Sweeney Center, the humble community auditorium it had been during my childhood, it was now a true convention center, tastefully designed in pueblo revival style. A banner reading “SANTA FE AUTUMN ART EXHIBITION” graced the front entrance. I went in and paid my admission.
“There she is!”
I turned and saw Loren and Shelly approaching, bundled in coats and scarves over jeans. Loren smiled. “How was the walk?”
I glanced toward the street with a bemused look. I’d walked perhaps fifty paces to get here; if it weren’t for the height of the building next to my house, I could have thrown a rock into my yard from the sidewalk outside the convention center.
“Very refreshing,” I said, smiling.
“You were smart. It took us five minutes to find a parking place.”
I laughed. “Shall we go in?”
The main hall was like any big convention space, presently filled with booths of artwork. The door-keeper, an older woman with silver hair up in a bun and a festive, colored shawl, handed each of us a badge-holder on a lanyard, containing a diagram of the ballroom laid out with booths. “Here’s your guide.”
“Oh, that’s clever,” I said, looking at the map of numbered booths. “So I don’t lose it.”
“Right. The index is in your program.” She gave each of us a folded page. We stepped aside to look them over.
The exhibition was a juried show. The index listed Gabriel Rhodes in a booth at the back of the hall. I started off in that direction.
“Don’t you want to see the ones in front?” Shelly asked.
“I do, but I’m looking for a particular artist. I’d like to see his work first, then I’ll go through the whole hall.”
“We can keep you company,” Loren offered.
“Up to you.”
They followed, apparently by silent consent. The booths we passed contained everything from oil paintings to photography to textiles and pottery. Artists looked out eagerly, ready to sell.
The booth designated as Gabriel’s was unattended, though a security guard nearby was keeping an eye on the entire row. I stood looking at the paintings, which impressed me more than I expected. They were stark and rich at the same time. Color was used sparingly, but what color was there was striking.
One painting, mostly white, was of a beautiful young woman looking forlornly downward while a dark, faceless figure in black robes with black feathered wings loomed behind her. The model for the woman must have been Gwyneth; the nose and hair were hers, and the ethereal, filmy garment was just the sort of thing she’d probably wear. But the look of hopelessness in her eyes was unfamiliar. I assumed that was the artist’s interpretation. I glanced at the title: “Resignation.”
I suspected Gwyneth had also modeled for an odalisque all in tones of gray—although her face was turned away in that piece—and for a very dark painting titled “Harpy” that was the most sensually attractive harpy I’d ever seen. Remembering Kris’s assertion that Gabriel had slept with all of the
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