Read Online A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn by Patrice Greenwood - Free Book Online Page B

was pretty much out of my system. Warm summer evening and Santa Fe was hopping, more with local kids than with tourists at this point. They liked to cruise, and when the cops cracked down on them for cruising one street they simply moved to another.
    I turned onto Marcy Street and passed a candy-apple green low-rider with its speakers booming so loud they throbbed in my gut. The car was stuffed full of Hispanic teenagers and one lone blonde girl. I smiled to myself as the boom faded behind me, remembering my own not-so-distant days of hanging out.
    As I turned into the alley that ran behind the tearoom I glimpsed movement among the lilac bushes at the side of the house. I slowed, and considered driving past, but decided that would serve no purpose. It might have been a dog, but if it was a person, driving past would just give him a chance to get away.
    I checked to make sure my doors were locked, then shut off my headlights and eased into my usual parking place. I sat for a minute, watching the lilac bushes, keeping an eye on my mirrors, alert to any movement. It was dark, and after a moment I realized the dining parlor lights were off.
    Break-in? Or just Captain Dusenberry playing games with me?
    I fought down an urge to call Tony. He wasn’t my private security service, and I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp. I didn’t know anything was going on, I just had a feeling.
    I took a flashlight out of the glove compartment, aimed it at the lilac bushes, and turned it on. Two dark shapes crouching there jumped and ran, heading toward the street out front.
    I got out of the car and hurried after them, trying to get a better look. Heard giggling and caught a glimpse as they turned up the street and disappeared beyond the neighboring building. Kids, dressed in black, a boy and a girl—and the girl’s striped stockings looked Goth.
    I put the flashlight back in the glove box and collected my purse and my tiramisu. Fumbled at the back door with my keys, then the dining parlor chandelier came on, flooding the portal with soft light.
    â€œOh! Um, thanks,” I said, unlocking the door and stepping in.
    I was talking to a ghost.
    I locked the door behind me and stood for a minute, just listening to the house. It was quiet, calm. On impulse I opened the door to the dining parlor.
    The room was in order, the table covered with a fresh lace cloth and a teapot filled with roses in the center, ready to be set in the morning. I glanced up at the chandelier. One crystal was swinging gently back and forth.
    I remembered the chandelier blinking earlier. Right before Rosa had come crying down the hall.
    I pulled the door closed.
    It was weird, sharing the house with a ghost. Hard to talk about. If I mentioned Captain Dusenberry, even just trying to be funny, people gave me odd looks. There were a few who didn’t, but as I thought most of them were nuts, they weren’t much comfort.
    I went upstairs and crashed. In the morning I rose early, took a long, hot shower, dressed and carried my tiramisu downstairs.
    Salsa music greeted me from the kitchen. Julio was already hard at work. He had three trays of round, meringue wafers on the work table and was piping lemon mousse onto one set of them.
    â€œMorning,” I said. “Can you take a break?”
    Julio glanced up at me, wary. “What for?”
    â€œTiramisu. I’ll trade you some for a cup of coffee.”
    â€œWhere’s it from?”
    â€œMy friend Gina made it.”
    â€œOK. Let me finish this tray.”
    I went to the break table in the far corner of the kitchen while he finished making meringue-mousse sandwiches. The table sits by the kitchen’s original fireplace, which I seldom use. Usually it’s quite warm enough in there, even in winter.
    The fireplace is picturesque, though, and I like it. Larger than the fireplaces in the parlors, because it was originally used for cooking. I’d found a couple of antique cooking