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

content to be just Ellen instead of Ms. Rosings, the Tearoom Proprietress.
    We reached Tony’s bike and he handed me his helmet. I shifted my purse strap to lie across me before putting it on.
    â€œAren’t there helmet laws in this city, Mr. Detective, sir?”
    â€œYeah. I’ll have to buy you one of your own, I guess.”
    â€œI don’t know that it’s worth that investment.” I looked at the bike, having second thoughts.
    â€œDon’t worry. There isn’t a cop in town who’ll stop me for helmet violation when I’ve got a hot babe on the back of my bike.”
    I felt myself blushing, so I pulled on the helmet. Tony swung his leg over the bike and invited me to sit behind him. I swallowed, telling the butterflies in my stomach to go away, and climbed on.
    The ride to Del Charro was tame compared to my first motorcycle adventure with Tony. I was pretty sure he’d been testing me on that occasion. Today he seemed more interested in reaching his destination. Even so, I held tight to him, both arms around his waist as he negotiated Santa Fe traffic.
    He parked the bike and we walked into the bar, which was pleasant with dark wood everywhere and already crowded. Luck got us a table by one of the open windows overlooking Alameda Street, windows that went almost to the ground and perpetually stood open, making me wonder how often patrons simply stepped through.
    Across the street was the little park where the Santa Fe River runs through its arroyo whenever there’s rain, and a bridge where Don Gaspar Avenue crosses the river. People were strolling along the sidewalk, enjoying the summer evening. A couple of kids stood on the bridge, peering over the edge in a vain attempt to spot water in the riverbed below.
    Tony ordered margaritas, giving the waiter precise instructions on what should go into them. I was amused to discover that he was an aficionado, even if it was of tequila. We nibbled on chips and salsa while we waited for the drinks.
    â€œAny news?” I asked.
    â€œNews?”
    â€œAbout Maria Garcia.”
    â€œOh. Yeah, a little. The M.E. ruled out stroke. Thinks it might have been, uh—Somebody’s Syndrome.”
    â€œWhat about the food?”
    â€œIt was delicious.”
    â€œHa, ha.”
    He grinned at me. “It’s in cold storage at the lab. No need to test it unless something suspicious turns up. We’ll just hold it a couple of days until there’s a solid diagnosis, then you’ll get your china back.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Talking about Mrs. Garcia, even tangentially, had brought back the sadness of the day. I caught myself wondering how Rosa and Julio were doing, and gazed out the window at the people in the park. Life going on, as it always did, though somewhere a family was grieving.
    The margaritas arrived in two metal shakers, with tequila-marinated lime halves in each glass. Tony made a ceremony out of squeezing the lime into the glass, then pouring margarita over it. I did the same, and he raised his glass, offering a toast.
    â€œHere’s to the weekend.”
    â€œAmen,” I said, lifting my own glass. I licked the salty rim and sipped. Cold, sweet and tart, with a powerful underlying punch of alcohol.
    â€œMmm, this is good. What kind of tequila is it?”
    â€œEl Tesoro añejo. Get the silver if you’re drinking it straight.”
    â€œOh, I won’t be, don’t worry.” I took another sip and sighed with pleasure. “My weekend doesn’t start for another day, actually.”
    Tony shrugged. “I don’t really have weekends.”
    â€œReally? You just work all the time, like the cops on TV?”
    â€œPretty much. I’ve got so much vacation and sick leave piled up it’s not funny.”
    â€œHow come you don’t take some time off now and then?”
    He shrugged again. “Don’t know what I’d do with it.”
    I watched him take