by Bailey Cates
I could tell by his expression he had no idea what I was talking about.
“Wow,” I said. “Your friend—at least I assume he’s your friend if you saw fit to ask him to give us these”—I gestured toward my neck—“took advantage of your request to drag us even further into Lawrence Eastmore’s murder investigation.”
Anger flickered behind Steve’s eyes. “I should have known better than to trust him. Listen, can we get out of here? I need to hear the rest of this.”
I snorted. “What about your date?”
His forehead wrinkled. “What date?”
“Ms. Blond Bombshell with the Italian shoes. I saw her, you know.”
His lips parted briefly, and delight played across his features. “Katie Lightfoot, you’re jealous!”
“I am not.”
“You are.” His self-satisfied smile continued to curl up one side of his mouth.
I wanted to swipe it off. Instead I felt my face growing hot.
“I’m covering the opening for my column. Modern art in old Savannah, that kind of thing. Though the food fight does put a twist on things.” He grinned. “And I don’t bring dates along when I’m working, FYI.”
“Oh.” I looked down at my feet. Why should I be upset if he was dating that woman? How many times had I told myself I didn’t want to get involved with Steve? Still, he’d pursued me so steadfastly…
Perhaps I shouldn’t take that for granted. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Time enough to think about such things later.
“I don’t want to leave quite yet,” I said. “I’m hoping I can find out more about where Brandon was the night before we…I…found Eastmore dead.”
He ignored my oblique reference to Declan. “Well, I can tell you that.”
I felt my eyebrows climb my forehead.
“Brandon was at Father’s house.”
“What? Why?”
“Some confab about a big piece of installation art Brandon wants to do on the Talmadge Bridge. Father’s helping him get permissions from the city. He ended up staying.”
“All night?”
“All night.”
“How do you know?”
“I stayed in the guesthouse.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
He shrugged. “I was tired, and I’d had a couple of drinks. So had Brandon. That’s why he stayed overnight.”
“But not in the guesthouse.”
“No, but I saw him leave the next morning.”
“What about your mother?”
“What about her? She was home, but went to bed early. She’s not interested in Father’s business dealings.”
“So your mom doesn’t know about the Drag—” I cut myself short as a woman rounded the partition closest to us, saw Steve, and made a beeline our way.
He shook his head, though whether in answer to my question about his mother or as a warning, I didn’t know.
“Stevie Dawes, as I live and breathe. You have turned into quite the fine-looking young man.” She looked familiar, and then I recognized her as the woman who had filled out the job application at the Honeybee. She’d replaced the denim jumper and Birkenstocks with a flowing red caftan that would have made a gypsy proud. Her gray hair, still braided, was now coiled in a crown on top of her head. Given the fine lines that fanned from her smiling dark blue eyes. I judged her to be in her mid-fifties.
“Stevie?” I couldn’t help repeating with a wide grin.
He rolled his eyes. “Katie, this is Nel Sandstrom. How long has it been?”
“Hi, again,” Nel said to me, and when Steve looked surprised she explained. “I’ve been looking for a job, and stopped into the bakery where your friend works.”
“She more than works there,” Steve said. “Katie and her aunt and uncle own the Honeybee.”
“So are you the one I should thank for that burnt toffee biscotti?”
I nodded. “It’s my personal recipe.”
“Scrumptious,” she declared. Then to Steve. “It’s been at least fifteen years since I’ve seen you, darlin’.”
“Well, you look just the same, Miss Nel.” He could turn on the charm like you switch on the bathroom light in the middle of the night. “And if you’re job hunting I assume you’re back in town for good?”
“For a while, at least. You know I had to come back to…” She glanced at me. “To take care of Daddy’s affairs.”
He nodded. “Of course. I’m surprised I haven’t run into you before now.”
“Well, I came for the funeral, of course. You weren’t there, I noticed. Then I had to return to settle some things in Athens. Now I’m back for good.”
“I am sorry about missing your father’s memorial,” he said. “I was out of town.”
She patted him on the arm. “Oh, that’s all right. There was quite the turnout for the judge, though. It was nice to see.”
“Father told me.”
I’d been listening with a bit of impatience, frankly, wanting to track down Cookie and head home. It was getting late, and I felt like I’d learned all I could about Brandon Sikes for the evening. But then Steve’s gaze snagged mine, and something in his eyes gave me pause.
Dead father of a fiftysomething woman who lived in Athens. A judge.
I quirked an eyebrow and asked, “Your father was Judge Sandstrom?” Dragoh number six, who had died without male issue.
Steve winced.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I said, ignoring his dramatic shoulder slump. “A friend of mine is a lawyer, and she’d mentioned him as someone she respected a great deal.”
“Thank you.”
“So, any luck with the job hunt so far?”
“Not yet, but something will turn up soon. It always does.” Her words made me think of Cookie’s laissez-faire attitude. “I don’t really need the money, but I like to keep busy, love to bake, and would like to meet some new people. As you heard me tell your boyfriend here, I’ve been gone from Savannah for quite some time.”
Steve stepped to my side. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find the right thing, Nel. You’ve always been lucky that way.”
I cocked my head. What did he mean by that?
“You’ve seen Brandon?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. After the food fight.” Her laugh was strained. “That man could certainly charm the ladies, couldn’t he?”
“Brandon Sikes?” I asked, wondering if he glamoured more than his paintings.
“Oh, no. Though he does just fine. Has a new little filly just tonight.”
My heart sank. Cookie had better not do anything stupid.
“No, I meant the man who started that food fight from beyond the grave,” Nel said. “Lawrence Eastmore. He always had more ladies flocking around him than seemed justified to me. Quite the player, for an old guy.” She winked.
My smile in return felt weak.
Chapter 17
“I’m going to kill Cookie.” I shook my head in frustration and leaned one hip against the hood of the Bug.
In the aftermath of the food fight I’d seen her talking animatedly with Nel, and then a few minutes later she’d hustled over to me and said, “Just wanted to let you know Brandon is giving me a ride home, Katie. No worries.”
But I was worried. When Steve and I had left the party she’d been draped over Brandon Sikes’ arm all gooey-eyed. I had to admit he’d looked pretty smitten, too. I just hoped he drove her to her home, not his, and that she kept her head on straight.
Nel had walked out of the gallery with us and driven away in a bright red MINI Cooper. Steve and I had walked on, half a block farther, to where I’d parked, and now he put his elbows on the roof of my car. “Well, you wanted to find out more about Brandon,” he said. “If anyone can do that it’ll be Cookie.”
“I’m not afraid of what she’ll find out about him. I’m afraid of what he’ll find out about her. I should have known better. She was so excited to meet him.” I banged my hand on the metal. “Ow. B
ut I should have known better,” I repeated.
Steve laughed. His Land Rover was parked the next block down.
As we strolled to my car, I quickly filled Steve in on what Andersen Lane had told us about the Spell of Necretius.
“I don’t know what he was thinking, getting your spellbook club involved with something like that,” he said, forehead creased with worry.
“Now who’s being sexist?”
“That’s not it at all. I know how formidable you ladies can be. But why didn’t he tell me?”
I shrugged, unwilling to point out the obvious: Andersen might suspect Heinrich of killing Eastmore in order to get the spell. If so, he would hardly involve Steve.
“What time did Brandon Sikes arrive at your father’s house?” I asked. In the gallery, Nel Sandstrom had interrupted our conversation before I’d had the chance to ask whether the double alibi Steve had offered for his father and Sikes covered the entire window of time from five p.m. until two a.m.
“About eight. But we’d been at a function with him since four.”
Well, that answered that.
“Get in,” I said, pulling my sweater close around my shoulders. The night had turned cool. “I’ll give you a ride down to where you’re parked.”
He opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. I settled behind the wheel. “I’m not being a prude, you know. Cookie has been running her own life for a long time without my help. But Sikes could be dangerous.” I waited for a Prius to pass by, then pulled out of the parking space.
“I know he comes across as kind of a skirt-chaser,” Steve said, “but I’m certain she can handle him.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. “For all our sakes.”
“You know, I’m kind of glad you know about the society,” he said. “I don’t like keeping secrets from you.”
My eyes cut toward him, then returned to the street ahead. “Do you have any other secrets you feel like sharing?”
He laughed.
I slowed for a pedestrian. “That’s not exactly an answer.”
Still smiling, he shook his head. “No. No other secrets. My life is an open book.”
“Right.”
“Seriously. You can ask me anything. But you know most of my life is totally normal, even boring. Just like yours is. Practicing magic is just part of it.”
“I like my life,” I said. “And I love learning about magic. But you’re right—normal and boring can be awful nice.”
I double-parked next to his car. It gleamed black and shiny in the moonlight, reminding me of how much money Steve came from.
He reached for the door handle, then paused. Turning, he leaned close. “Katie-girl.” His warm breath against my skin gave me instant quivers. “Things are crazier than I ever thought they’d get. It makes me regret the time we’ve wasted.”
“Oh, Steve. I don’t think—”
“You need to stop playing around. You know we’re supposed to be together.”
I felt my jaw slacken.
“Think about it. Seriously.” He got out of the car and shut the door. Leaned down and spoke through the open window. “Please? That’s all I ask.”
Stunned, I watched him get into his Land Rover. Then I tromped on the accelerator and drove away.
We’re supposed to be together? What did that even mean?
Had that been a declaration of love?
Did I want it to be?
* * *
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep great that night. Still, I dipped into my stash of Lucy’s seven-layer bars, the ones she laced with agrimony, and managed to eke out a few hours.
Early the next morning I awoke feeling a bit foggy. Normally I would have shaken it off with a run, but venturing alone into the dark predawn felt dangerous now. I hated that, resented that someone could make me feel that way.
Half an hour of yoga and a nice long shower did wonders for both body and mind, though. As I slipped into my work clothes I eyed the tie-dyed skirt and glittery tank from the night before, now laid over the back of the chair in the bedroom. For this morning’s investigative adventure I decided not to pull any punches. Forget casual Bohemian. I had the perfect suit to wear to a late October breakfast with Savannah’s political bigwigs.
At least I thought it was perfect. And that was what counted.
“I’m going to be at the fund-raiser with Bianca for most of the morning,” I reminded Mungo. “You don’t mind staying here today, do you?”
He knew I didn’t like to leave him at the bakery when I wasn’t there. It was enough that we were breaking all sorts of food police rules by letting him stay in the office so much. But, heck, it wasn’t like he was out in the kitchen romping in the cookie dough or anything.
Yip!
“Good. You want me to have Margie bring the JJs over to play?”
He looked disinterested, which I took for, well, disinterest. He loved playing with the kids, but sometimes they could be a bit much for his sensibilities.
“You want the TV on, I suppose?”
Yip!
Looking at the ceiling, I shook my head. “Okay.”
I climbed up to the loft that overlooked the living room, and he bounded up the narrow stairs behind me. Once he was settled into the pillows on the small settee, I turned on the TV and flipped to his favorite channel: the Soap Opera Network. “I’ll leave your lunch downstairs, okay?”
He ignored me. I’d discovered over the past few months that my familiar really liked soap operas. It was like a sickness.
Leaving him to his newfound addiction, I opened the secretary desk Lucy had given me. The folding desk fit in the tight quarters of the carriage house and perfectly hid my makeshift altar. A lace shawl Nonna Sheffield had knitted covered the wooden surface and provided the backdrop for my chalice (a small, swirly glass bowl from the flea market), a worn vintage paring knife that suited this baker’s idea of a ritual athame, a collection of stones gathered by rivers and on lakeshores, an Indian arrowhead my dad had given me, and a brilliant blue feather that had drifted into the gazebo only weeks before.
Now I fingered the delicate stitches my witchy grandmother had knitted and wondered again whether she’d imbued the piece with magic of some kind. Though I suspected she had, I’d probably never know for sure. It probably didn’t matter, either.
My grimoire sat on a shelf above the objects on the altar, reminding me that I hadn’t updated it for a couple of days now. I thought of it as a kind of recipe book for spells. In six months I’d recorded my casting attempts, what worked, what didn’t, refining and honing as I went. I promised myself that when this was all over I’d catch up.
Not that there was much to catch up on. Lawrence Eastmore getting himself killed had thrown a real monkey wrench into my lessons with the spellbook club.
After touching each object on the altar, with a mental nod to the four elements they represented, I closed the desk. Mungo didn’t budge when I ruffled his ears, so I went down and cut up a portion of Steve’s leftover turkey Reuben, complete with sauerkraut and dressing and part of a kosher pickle. It all went into a bowl that then went into a larger bowl of ice to stay fresh for hours until Mungo felt hungry.
Lordy, the things I did for that dog.
Placing the whole shebang on the floor of the kitchen, I called good-bye, then took my change of clothes out to the car. As I locked the front door I wondered what Steve would say about Mungo’s soap opera habit. Or the fact that he wouldn’t eat dog food but loved pickles and raisins.
Then I wondered why I’d bother to wonder such a thing, firmly pushing his vague request the night before to the back of my mind.
Again.
* * *
It was still pitch-black outside when I arrived at the Honeybee, and would be for hours. I tied on a bright orange chef’s apron with the white bones of a skeletal torso appliquéd on the front. I’d bought two—the other one was black—to add to my considerable collection of vintage aprons. After preheating
the ovens, I put the pans of sourdough that had been rising overnight onto the racks to bake and mixed the batter for brown-butter-and-walnut cupcakes, which would be the special for the day. Or were they muffins? Hard to tell the difference when you mixed savory and sweet like that. I added a hefty dose of powdered ginger to the batter, closing my eyes and invoking its influence to increase energy, love, and courage. By the time Cookie arrived, I’d also mixed three kinds of cookie dough and re-baked a batch of cranberry orange biscotti.
“You’re late,” I said, instantly regretting my tone.
She blinked at me with bleary eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep.”
Oh, dear. I rubbed my hand over my face, afraid to ask.
Cookie didn’t seem to notice. “Brandon and I sat down by the river and talked for hours and hours last night. I barely made it home for a nap and a shower.” She twisted up her still-wet hair, pinned it in place, and donned a Honeybee baseball cap. Then she slipped the black skeleton apron over her head and reached behind to fasten it.
“What did you talk about?” My tone was carefully casual as I began stacking biscotti in a large glass jar.
“Oh, gosh. Everything. Absolutely everything. We have so much in common! It’s like we’ve known each other forever.” For being so tired she sure was enthusiastic.
I put the lid on the jar and leaned my hip against the counter. “What did you tell him?”
She stilled. “About what?”
“About the fact that you’re a witch. About the spellbook club. About what you know about him being a druid, the Dragoh Society, Lawrence Eastmore, and the Spell of Necretius.” Frustration blew out on my words. Anger, too, I realized. And fear. Cookie could have jeopardized everything the spellbook club was trying to do to find a killer and keep an evil spirit at bay.
She whirled to face me, hands on her hips. “Just because you’re too afraid to commit to either of the men who are obviously in love with you doesn’t give you the right to judge me.”
“Cookie, I wasn’t—”
“Believe me, we had a lot more interesting things to talk about than your murder investigation.”
“My—?”
“And yes, Brandon knows I practice magic, but he told me about his practice first. The spellbook club and his society didn’t come up. Our childhoods, our lives, our values and beliefs—those were what we talked about. You know what else?” She was practically shouting by now. “He admitted to glamouring his paintings. He doesn’t do it with all of them, just enough to keep the money coming in so he has the freedom to pursue his art.”
