by Bailey Cates
“The reason . . . why?”
“I’m only relieved that I’m not being too coldhearted by coming here so soon after your brother’s death. You see, I was interested in his very eclectic collection of paranormal items from around the world. I was wondering if that collection would be yours now, and if you might be interested in selling all or part of it.”
Smooth, Dad. I didn’t know you were so expert at lying.
After a few seconds of hesitation, she said, “Perhaps this is a discussion better had over drinks in the cool shade.”
She led us to the front steps, then we followed her along the wraparound porch to the more spacious covered porch at the back of the house. There, three fans hung from the ceiling, which I noticed was painted the same haint blue as Kensington Bosworth’s house. Florinda waved us toward wooden Adirondack chairs softened with plump pillows.
“I’ll be right back with some tea.”
“Thank you,” we murmured in unison.
When she returned with a pitcher and three glasses on a tray, we were sitting and looking out at the rolling green pasture and the meadow speckled with wildflowers beyond. Jackson the retriever had taken a position at my dad’s feet, resting his chin on the toe of his boot.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said as she handed me a glass.
Her face brightened, and she softly said, “And peaceful. I love it here. All my life I’d been waiting to find a place that felt like home, and I knew the moment I stepped into the yard out front that this was it. Not exactly what I was brought up to prefer, but there you go.” She sat down and turned her attention to my dad. “Jackson really likes you. That goes a long way with me. So, tell me, Sky. You’ve heard about that ridiculous collection the men in my family have been obsessed with for generations.”
He nodded but didn’t elaborate.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t sell it to you. Believe me, if I could, I would. The whole kit and kaboodle. However, my brother didn’t leave it to me. In fact, he didn’t leave me anything at all.” An undertone of bitterness threaded her words. “Not that I care for myself, you understand. But my husband works so hard, and while we’re doing fine, I think he might have been counting on my brother leaving us some money. It would make life easier to know there was a nice nest egg to retire on.”
She passed her hand over her eyes and turned to look out toward the horses. “My son never really forgave me for losing the money I inherited when Papa died, but I only really found happiness after it was gone.” She turned back to my father. “That’s who you need to talk to, Sky. That’s who Kenny left the collection to. Dante always wanted more money, lots more money, and now he’s got it. Kenny paid for a fancy boarding school and after that, Dante’s college education, but he’s never done anything with it. I blame the friends he made at the university. Those boys came from deep pockets, indeed. Entitled, you know? I certainly do. I was just like them growing up. Heinrich Dawes was even more indulgent than my father was, though.”
I blinked. “Your son went to school with Steve and Arnie Dawes?”
She looked sardonic. “You know of them, then. Well, of course you do. Family like that. And that Powers boy.”
“Victor Powers’s son?”
He was, among other things, a Georgia politician on the rise.
“The very one.” Her gaze returned to the grazing horses. “Dante so wanted to be part of their little clique, but he never really fit in. He blamed it on not having a trust fund like they did, but I’m not so sure. Maybe that was why he was drawn to trouble. He had several run-ins with the law back then. The police were at my door far too often during those years.” Her shoulders hunched. “They still make me nervous.”
Which explained her reaction to Detective Quinn when he came to see her.
Florinda continued. “My son was prelaw, you know, and Kenny would no doubt have paid for law school, but Dante chose not to continue his education. Now he drifts from job to job. In truth, he just doesn’t like to work.” She sighed. “And now, depending on how much Kenny left him and whether he sells that bunch of occult nonsense, maybe he won’t have to.”
Suddenly she drew in a breath and looked back at us. “Oh, my heavens. I’ve been going on and on. How rude! I’m so very sorry.” Then she smiled at my dad. “You are simply too easy to talk to, Sky.”
My lips twitched.
Dad smiled back at her. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She batted her eyelashes. I’d never actually seen anyone do that in real life.
“Oh, it’s meant as one, believe me.” Her smile widened. “If you’ll leave me your phone number, I’ll let Dante know you’re interested in Kenny’s collection.” Suddenly, she frowned. “Of course, I don’t know how much of it was stolen when he was killed. I always told Kenny that having all those things right there in the house was an invitation to thieves, and now look what happened. Murdered for what are essentially just trinkets.”
Dad and I exchanged glances.
“Oh, dear. Is that what happened?” I asked, even though Quinn had said nothing was missing from Bosworth’s collection.
She stood. “Well, it must have been robbery. My brother wasn’t my favorite person, nor I his, but he didn’t run around making enemies.” She made a face. “Or at least not enemies who would kill him, you know?”
We rose as well. “Thank you very much for speaking with us, Flo,” my dad said.
“Of course. Why don’t you just text me your number, and I’ll get back to you.” Dad pulled out his phone, and she rattled off her own number.
Florinda walked us out to the truck. She turned to Dad. “I’ll be in touch, Sky.”
“Excellent,” he said, and climbed behind the wheel.
Florinda watched us go, arms crossed. A plume of dust followed us out to the main road. Dad turned onto the asphalt. “Do you have time to stop by the carriage house before getting back to the bakery?”
I shook my head. “Not if we go talk to Steve Dawes, which is exactly what we need to do now.”
“I saw the look on your face when she said his name. Who’s Arnie?”
“Steve’s little brother. Or he was. Arnie and Declan were roommates and went through training together. From what I’ve heard, Heinrich Dawes had a fit when his son decided to be a firefighter instead of joining the family business. Maybe he was right. Early in their careers, Declan and Arnie were at a fire where Arnie broke protocol, going in alone and without a safety line. He got lost, and he died that day. Steve has blamed Declan ever since.”
Dad whistled. “Rough.”
“Yeah. It was. I was surprised that Dante Bundy went to school with Steve and Arnie, but the look on my face might have been when she mentioned Victor Powers. Remember when I told you about the Dragohs? The druid clan Steve belongs to?”
He nodded.
“Victor Powers is their leader, and his son will eventually take his father’s place in the clan. I want to ask Steve what he knows about Dante Bundy and whether he has connections to any real magic.”
“And about the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon.”
“That, too.”
“Well, I must admit I’m a little curious about this reporter friend of yours, and the carriage house will still be there in another couple of hours,” Dad said. “Just point me in the right direction.”
Chapter 13
The Savannah Morning News building boasted an impressive central rotunda. As we approached from the parking lot, I noticed how it combined with the brick pavers, divided windows, and the wrought-iron fence to give the relatively new edifice the feel of old Savannah. Inside, the classical architecture continued. Above, the balustrade-lined walkway looked down on the main entrance. Dad paused to admire the huge compass rose set into the terrazzo floor—a hint at Savannah’s nautical history—while I approached t
he reception desk and asked the young man sitting there for directions to Steve’s office. I’d seen his Audi when we parked, so I was pretty sure he was on the premises.
The receptionist frowned and picked up the phone. After a hushed conversation, he directed us to what turned out to be a conference room. Steve was waiting for us inside. He wore cargo shorts and a LIFE IS GOOD T-shirt with flip-flops.
“Hey, Katie-girl.”
I grimaced.
He grinned. “About time you stopped by. My cubicle isn’t exactly private, so I thought talking here might be better.” He stepped forward to give me a hug, then appeared to change his mind when Dad followed me into the room.
I closed the door. “Steve, this is my dad, Sky Lightfoot. Dad, this is Steve Dawes.”
Steve stepped forward and enthusiastically pumped my father’s hand up and down. “Very glad to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Dad gave him a small, speculative smile. “Mmm. I’ve heard a bit about you, too.”
Steve appeared flustered for a moment, then quickly regained his composure. “Well! To what do I owe this surprise visit?”
“Let’s sit,” I said.
“Sure.” He stepped to the other side of the conference table in the middle of the room and turned a chair around backward. Straddling it, he leaned his forearms across the back.
“What do you have for me?” he asked.
“Actually, the question is, what do you have for me?” I slid onto a chair across from him, and Dad sat down next to me.
Steve frowned. “Seriously?”
“What do you know about Dante Bundy?” I asked.
His expression didn’t change a whit. Not so much as a blink.
“Come on,” I said. “I know you went to school with him.”
The skin seemed to tighten across his face. “I did. But I’m not going to tell you a darn thing unless you give me something first. I know you. I know you have information about this case, and I want it.” He shrugged, and his expression relaxed. “Or at least some of it.”
I tipped my head to the side and smiled at him. “You know I’m trying to get to the truth behind a tragic death. You said it yourself the other night: You’ve always helped me when I needed it.”
His lips twitched. “Katie Lightfoot, are you flirting with me?”
“No!” I stole a look at my dad, who did not appear in the least amused. “But you know darn well why I’m asking about Dante Bundy. He was Kensington Bosworth’s nephew. I assume that’s not news to you.”
“Hardly. The guy never shut up about it. I mean—” He stopped. Shook his head. “Come on. Give me something. Anything. Does Quinn have his sights on any suspects?”
That meant he didn’t know about Randy being picked up and questioned by the police. Interesting. Well, I sure as heck wasn’t going to be the one who told him. However, I didn’t feel bad telling him something that was already public record.
“Dante Bundy inherited a bunch of money from his uncle Kensington.” I paused, then plunged ahead. “And that whole collection I told you about. Which, come to think of it, you probably already knew about. Right?”
Steve didn’t answer the question. “Are you saying Dante is a suspect?”
“Not officially,” I hedged. “That’s why I want more information about him.”
He sighed and looked at my dad. “Was she like this growing up?”
Dad nodded. “Pretty much.”
Steve looked briefly at the ceiling, then back at me. “Okay, okay. Yes, I went to school with him. He hung out with me and my friends for a few months, but it didn’t last.”
“Why not?”
“He was a wannabe.”
“Wannabe rich kid?”
“Yeah, that was part of it. But he wanted to join another group that I’m a member of. I wasn’t then, of course. Arnie was still alive then and had agreed to take on the family, er, obligations in that group.”
“Dante wanted to be a Dragoh?” I asked in surprise.
Steve’s eyes flashed.
I waved my hand in the air. “Dad already knows about your druid clan. The question is, how did Dante know? And did he know specifics?”
“Some,” Steve answered in a tight voice. “Not everything.”
“How did he find out about you?”
“Not from me or any of my friends. Someone else told him.”
“Is Dante trained in magic?”
“Why?”
“Well, there was a pretty powerful protection spell around Mr. Bosworth’s house. Or didn’t you notice when you were there?”
He sighed. “I noticed. But I have no idea whether Dante currently practices anything besides his golf swing. We pretty much cut him off after he brought up joining the clan.” He looked at Dad. “One does not join the Dragohs. One is born into the Dragohs.”
“Mmm. So I understand,” he said drily. “But back in the day, Dante apparently didn’t know that.”
“Maybe,” Steve said. “It’s not like we talked to him about it.”
“What about the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon?” I asked.
He stared at me. “What do you know about that?”
“Mr. Bosworth had some kind of connection to it.”
Suddenly, he stood and began pacing back and forth. “That’s impossible. What kind of connection? For how long?”
I leaned back in my chair and regarded him. “I don’t know the answers to any of those questions. In fact, I don’t even know what the Order is, other than it’s some kind of foundation Kensington Bosworth left money to.”
He stopped. “Foundation! Where did you get that crazy idea?”
“From Quinn. But there’s very little information available about it.”
Dropping into his chair, he stared out the window. “No kidding.”
“Steve, please. What is the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon?” I pleaded.
Turning back, he distributed a look between us. “I could be wrong. I mean, maybe there is a genuine group with that name, though how that could be, I can’t fathom. But the Order I’ve heard of, and I’ve only heard rumors, used to be a druidic clan here in town.”
“Geez. How many of them are there?” I asked.
“Only one now,” he said tightly. “The Silver Moon druids and the Dragohs were, shall we say, rivals. We’re still here. They aren’t.”
“You make it sound like the Jets and the Sharks,” I said.
He didn’t smile. “You’re not far off.”
“Huh. And now they’re . . . oh, good heavens. You’re not going to tell me the Dragohs actually, you know, eliminated the Silver Moon druids.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say the word killed.
Steve shook his head. “No, nothing like that. We, um, discouraged potential new members from joining their clan. That was back in the 1950s. The Order died from attrition.”
“Was Kensington Bosworth’s father a member?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But my father might know.”
“If he was, then maybe Kensington was also a druid.” The idea was a little hard to imagine, but not impossible. I’d learned that power flowed behind some of the most mundane appearances. “In fact, I wonder if the Silver Moon druids ever really went away,” I said slowly. “Maybe they were just good at keeping a low profile.”
“The Dragohs would know if there were still any Silver Moon druids around.” Steve’s mouth turned up in a small smile I found disturbing.
“Are you sure?” I insisted.
The smile remained for a few more seconds, then his lips thinned, and he abruptly stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.”
Dad and I rose, and I opened the door.
Steve followed us out to the hallway. “I’ll get back to you if I find anything
out. Sky, nice to meet you.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and went back into the conference room and closed the door behind him, his cell phone already in his hand.
“What do you think?” I asked Dad as he drove out of the parking lot.
“I think if there are rival druid gangs involved in this case, I want you out of it.”
“Yeah. Well, if things go well tonight, I’ll be able to identify the killer and Quinn can take it from there.”
“Yes, but will he?” he asked.
I rubbed my eyes, suddenly tired. “I can only hope so.”
* * *
* * *
It was nearly three when we got back to the Honeybee. Dad dropped me off in front, then left to check on the progress at the carriage house. I hurried inside, full of apologies for being gone for so long, but Lucy waved them away.
“We managed just fine,” my aunt said in a mild tone, then glanced toward the kitchen. “In fact, Iris is nearly done with tomorrow’s prep.”
I followed her gaze and saw our employee madly chopping dried apricots for the marmalade scones that would be the next day’s special. She finished and scooped them into a lidded bowl, swaying her hips in a dance shuffle as she stowed the bowl on a back counter.
“She’s in a good mood,” I said.
Lucy nodded. “She’s got a date tonight.”
“Ooh.” I grinned. “Details?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
I went back to the office and stowed my tote bag, gave Mungo a scritch and a kiss between his ears, then joined Iris. She had moved on to scrubbing down the appliances, still doing her little two-step as she moved from the range to the industrial sink.
“I love it when you do that,” I said.
She grew still and looked up at me with a puzzled expression. “Clean?”
“No. That dance thing.” I pointed to the floor at her feet.
Her face reddened. “Oh, God. How embarrassing.”
“Really? You always look so happy when you do it. It makes things cheery around here.”
Her blush deepened. “I didn’t realize I did it.” She bit her lip, then seemed to make a decision. “See, my dad taught me how to dance when I was little. I mean, really little. At first, I stood on his feet, and he held my hands.”
