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

women at Friday’s meeting—or had she meant the women and the men both?—I felt uncomfortably informed about his relationship with Gwyneth.
    What had happened to make Gwyneth transfer her affections to Roberto? Had Gabriel simply moved on?
    Not that any of it was my business. I gave myself a shake and returned to admiring the artwork.
    There were a couple of abstract pieces in Gabriel’s display, and two small sculptures. His paintings were far more moving. My attention was caught by one titled “The Seventh Chamber.” It was dark, with two asymmetrical patches of mottled red at the sides. At first I thought they were merely abstract, but then I realized they were windows: red windows, lit from behind by fires on pedestals.
    That tickled my memory and I looked at the central figure of the painting, a man dressed as a Renaissance nobleman, illuminated by the red light from the windows. He stood in an attitude of despair, mouth agape beneath an elaborate, silver-trimmed mask, one hand drooping with a dagger about to slip from its grasp. Almost invisible against the dark background, a shadowy form robed in black stood opposing him. A tall, standing clock stood in the figure’s shadow, its hands just discernible, pointing to twelve.
    It was the climax of Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death.”
    So Gabriel’s fascination with the story was not just about the Halloween party. The painting was surely Prince Prospero realizing he was about to die in the moment before the Red Death took him.
    I moved on, looking for comfort in some other picture. I didn’t really find it. Gabriel’s work was not about comfort.
    On the last panel was a single painting of a nude—Gwyneth again, I was pretty sure, but her face was obscured by her hair—crouched amid the shattered remains of something that had been made of red glass. There was no blood, but the implication that blood would flow the moment she tried to move out of the disaster zone was strong. Her bare feet would surely be cut by some tiny unseen shard, or her hands if she used them to sweep an escape path. If she tried to jump clear of the glass, she might land on a piece with painful results. The painting was titled “Calculation.”
    “Interesting work,” said Loren beside me. “Is the artist a friend of yours?”
    “A friend of a friend. I just met him a couple of days ago.”
    “Ah.”
    Shelly joined us, gazing at “Calculation” with troubled eyes. “Kind of disturbing,” she said.
    I nodded. “Yes.”
    “It’s meant to be,” said a smooth voice behind us.
    I turned and saw Gabriel smiling with satisfaction, dressed in cream silk and linen, his ankh just peeking out of his neckline. Kris was beside him, in a clinging black chenille sweater over spiderweb tights, more overtly Goth than anything she wore to work.
    “Glad you could make it,” Gabriel said to me.
    “Me, too, but I just got here, so I haven’t seen much yet. I came looking for you first.”
    “Merci du compliment.”
    “Your work is striking. I see why you were accepted into the White Iris. Allow me to congratulate you again.”
    He gave me a small, gracious bow. “Thank you.”
    I introduced the Jacksons, and Gabriel made Shelly giggle by bowing gallantly over her hand. As we stood chatting, Dale Whittier and a familiar-looking woman approached. For a second my mind dressed her as Lolita.
    Right! One of Kris’s friends. Martha, or Margaret? She’d been at the Halloween planning party.
    “Hi, Dale,” I said, then smiled at the woman. “Hello, again.”
    “Hi,” she returned absently, looking at Gabriel.
    He turned at the sound of her voice. “Margo! Thank you for coming.”
    Her face transformed with pleasure. “I wanted to see your latest stuff.”
    Gabriel welcomed her into the booth with a sweep of his arm. Margo stepped up to “Calculation.”
    “I haven’t seen this one,” she said.
    “It’s new.”
    Margo nodded, slowly smiling. Dale joined her.
    “Have you any