by Bailey Cates
Oh, brother. Like that somehow made it better?
“Katie is only worried about you,” Lucy said from beside the display case.
We both turned in surprise. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear you two fighting. Now stop it. It makes my stomach hurt to watch you.”
I went over and gave her a hug. “Hear that, Cookie? We’ve made Lucy sick.”
After a moment Cookie laughed. “I’m sorry. I get kind of cranky when I don’t get enough sleep.”
“You’re not the only one,” Lucy said with a meaningful look at me.
“Moi?” I said.
“Actually, we need to talk about that,” Cookie said, her expression serious again.
Uh-oh.
“What’s up?” my aunt asked.
Cookie licked her lips. “Well, you know I’ve been working at the Honeybee for four months, right?”
Lucy and I exchanged glances.
“And I’m not that great at these early mornings…Oh, heck. The truth is I really hate getting up this early.”
“And besides, four months is about your limit at most jobs, isn’t it?” Lucy’s voice was kind. “We understand.”
Cookie looked over at me, and I nodded. “We’ve kind of been expecting this. Can you stay for a few more days, while we find someone else?”
She wagged her finger at me. “Ah. You see, I found someone last night.”
“Last night?”
“At the gallery. Brandon introduced us. Her name is Nel. And she’s already filled out an application—kismet!”
“Nel Sandstrom?” I asked, thinking hard.
“You met her, too, then.” Cookie looked pleased.
“Briefly. And I saw her here when she came in looking for a job. But, Cookie, you know who she is, don’t you?”
“Her father is a druid,” Lucy breathed.
“Was a druid,” I said.
“Does it matter?” Cookie asked. “She’s no druid, she’s looking for a job, and her background is in baking. She worked at a bakery in Athens for a long time, and—get this, Lucy—she’s a cake decorator!”
Lucy’s lips turned down in thought. “We could sure use someone else who likes to decorate cakes. It’s good business.”
“Yeah…” I trailed off. I loved experimenting with flavor combinations and trying new baking techniques a lot more than the intricacies of piping and working with fondant. Maybe I just wasn’t artistic enough, but cake decorating had been the only pastry course that brought me to tears.
Cookie continued. “When I told her there might be an opening here because I was quitting, she became very excited. She says she’s a real early bird, too.”
“All right,” Lucy said with a decisive nod. “If you think she would be a good fit, the least we can do is interview her.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Cookie said, lifting the jar of biscotti and sashaying out to the front counter with it. “She’ll be here this afternoon to talk to you.”
“First she went directly against the spellbook club’s request not to get involved with Brandon Sikes by spending most of the night baring her soul to him,” I whispered to Lucy as Cookie began opening the front blinds.
“Presumably only her soul, though.” She smiled.
“And then she had the audacity to arrange for her own replacement by asking a total stranger,” I finished.
“I’m sure she felt that she was doing us a favor,” my good-natured aunt said in Cookie’s defense. “And she does have terrific instincts about jobs, not only for herself but for others.”
I harrumphed.
“Everything happens for a reason, Katie. You know that.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely. Cookie,” she called.
The younger witch turned with a quizzical expression.
“What will you do once you’re not working here?”
“I’m not sure yet. Something will turn up.”
“It always does,” I muttered.
“I heard that,” she sang out, her good humor completely restored. “Oh, and Katie? You can cross Brandon off your list of suspects in Dr. Eastmore’s murder.”
“Why? Do you know where he was?” Wondering if her new beau’s story would match Steve’s, I followed her to the reading area, where she had started tidying the volumes on the shelf.
“Well, I couldn’t very well come right out and ask that, now could I? Not without giving away our interest. But if it’s true that whoever killed the professor did it because they wanted that spell to bring them worldly power, well, then, it just couldn’t have been Brandon. See, he’s not interested in material success, only in bringing beauty into the world.”
Not interested in material success, my patootie. And as for bringing beauty into the world, if that was Sikes’ goal he needed to take some more art lessons.
But I just nodded and smiled and went back to the kitchen to pull the sourdough loaves out of the oven.
Chapter 18
At seven forty I took off my apron and went into the office to change clothes. The fund-raiser breakfast didn’t begin until nine, but Bianca and I wanted to get there early. Perhaps we’d have a chance to chat with some of Victor Powers’ staff, his wife, or at least the sponsor of the breakfast. Anyone who was running for a senatorial seat should have a verifiable schedule—if you had a good reason to know. I considered how I might be able to involve Detective Quinn in the investigation without letting Franklin Taite know what was going on. It didn’t seem like much of a possibility, though. Besides, how could I get Quinn to listen to me unless I actually told him the truth?
Not only would that be foolish, but he’d think I was crazy. Not to mention his bad attitude about my poking my nose into murder cases.
In the restroom, I fluffed my hair with my fingers, applied eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss, and called it good. When I emerged, I discovered Bianca waiting for me at one of the bistro tables, her fingers curled around a to-go cup that no doubt contained her usual mocha. She wore a formfitting linen sheath the color of ripe plums. The polish on her toenails matched the dress, and a small Coach bag lay casually on the table beside her.
Someone whistled as I walked by, and I frowned until I saw it was Annette Lander from the knitting shop next door, getting her first caffeine fix of the day.
Bianca looked me up and down with approval. “Very nice. Is that Evan Picone?”
I nodded, oddly happy that she’d noticed. “Vintage.” I left out that I’d stumbled across it in a thrift store where I was trolling for aprons to add to my collection. I loved the pencil skirt that fell below my knees and the short jacket with a stand-up collar. This was the first opportunity I’d had to wear it.
“That olive green really sets off your eyes.”
“Thanks.”
“And your hair,” Lucy said. “You look positively stunning, dear.”
“You should have seen her last night,” Cookie chimed in from the register. “Chic Bohemian. Steve Dawes certainly appreciated it.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows. “You saw Steve last night?”
I waved my hand dismissively. “For a few minutes. He was working.”
“Well, let’s get going,” Bianca said.
“Let me get my other sandals,” I said. As often as I wore heels—or rather didn’t wear them—I’d break a leg if I tried to walk on Savannah sidewalks from Broughton Street to the ferry dock down on the river.
“No need. I brought my car. We can park by Moon Grapes and walk from there.”
Moon Grapes was on Factors Walk. I nodded, willing to risk the cobblestones and oyster-laden tabby walkways from there to the river. Besides, I rarely passed up a chance to ride in her red Jaguar, even if it was for only a few blocks.
It had turned gray and blustery outside, though, and Bianca kept the top up on the car. We parked in front of Moon Grapes, and she quickly checked in with her assistant before we headed toward the stone stairway lea
ding to the riverfront. The wind held a hint of warning, and during the brief walk the sky began to roil with dark clouds.
Bianca looked upward with concern. “I hope the weather holds off.”
“I’ll say. We don’t want to show up at some fancy fund-raiser looking like bedraggled puppies.”
Her glance held amusement. “We wouldn’t be the only ones.”
I’d been to the Westin Hotel on the other side of the Savannah River only once during the six months I’d lived in Georgia—one day when Lucy and I had met Ben for lunch after he’d played golf on the hotel’s championship course. Now the Westin’s green and yellow water taxi chugged toward the dock as we approached the ramp.
We joined two nicely dressed couples who I imagined were going to the same function we were. Or maybe not. The Westin had a reputation of attracting moneyed visitors to Savannah, whether they were in town for business or pleasure. Soon two gentlemen carrying golf bags lumbered up to where we stood. Moments later three giggling college-aged girls showing a lot of skin and tossing around flirtatious come-hither looks more from habit than intent tripped down the ramp.
The ferry nudged up to the dock and several passengers disembarked. A few minutes later we all made our way on board, most passengers ducking inside to get out of the wind. Hair streaming back from her face, Bianca looked over at me, and in unspoken agreement we headed for the railing. No harm in a bit of moving air as long as the rain held off. In fact, it felt cool and welcome.
The engine emitted a low growl as folks got settled, then rumbled to life and the ferry began moving back across the river. On the other side, the Westin rose like a pale modern castle. The water below reflected the mercurial sky above, splashing against the hull as we cut across the current. The faint smell of the paper mill made me wrinkle my nose.
I clasped my amulet in my chilly fingers. The thin ring hanging behind it felt insubstantial, and I wondered whether Andersen Lane really had our best interests at heart. Other than Cookie’s finding a new boyfriend, last night had been a bust. Well, that wasn’t entirely true: Steve had provided alibis for Brandon Sikes and his father. Still, we were no closer to finding the killer. Would this morning change that? Because if it didn’t, I didn’t know what the next step was.
A political fund-raiser was so not my thing. I didn’t care for politicians in general, and while I did do my homework come election time, often it felt as if I was simply voting for the lesser of two evils. It was early in the current election cycle, though, and I’d largely ignored the ads and pontification, so I knew very little about Victor Powers other than the sound-bite rhetoric I’d found when I looked up his Web site after learning he was a Dragoh. Yet here I was, helping him raise money while trying to figure out whether he was a killer who wanted to unleash a great evil in the world simply to further his own agenda.
Raise money. I leaned over to Bianca and spoke loudly to be heard over the wind. “How much do I owe you for the ticket to this event?”
She waved the question away without even looking my way. “Don’t worry about it. I know one of the organizers and was able to get us in at the last minute.”
“So they were free?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” she said. “They were, shall we say, discounted.”
“Tell me,” I insisted.
She sighed. “Twelve hundred dollars each.”
“Oh, Bianca. Why didn’t you say something?” It would take some financial scrambling for me to pay her back.
“Because this is a way that I can contribute. I’m not that happy that we’re involved in some strange druid’s problem, but we are. So I’m committed to helping. You know how I feel about the Rule of Three.”
I shook my head. “But—”
“Oh, give it a rest, darlin’. You know I can afford it, so just let it go. Please?”
I hesitated, but I could tell she meant it. “All right. Thank you.” I’d been going to point out that she might have just given money to a murderer, and I wasn’t sure how the Rule of Three worked in relation to that. It was already done, though, and with the best of intentions.
“Save the thanks for after it’s over. I don’t know if we’ll find out anything useful at all. Victor Powers may not even be there—he’s got some kind of scheduling conflict. But I’m sure we’ll be treated to plenty of political posturing.”
“Yay,” I said with a small sarcastic smile. “I can hardly wait.”
She snorted a very unladylike laugh.
On the other side of the river we stepped off the ferry and climbed the concrete ramp to the expansive lawns that surrounded the hotel. No oyster shell–filled tabby mix on this side of the river, just smooth sidewalks, perfectly green grass, and elegant palm trees. The golfers broke off from the group, and the college girls headed for the main lobby. Bianca and I followed the two couples past fragrant flower gardens and a row of lounge chairs. Sure enough, they skirted the teal blue outdoor swimming pool and made their way to the Club Pavilion.
We pushed through the glass doors and paused just inside. Table after table boasted white cloths that echoed the swaths of fabric that swooped in elaborate folds across the ceiling and poised in luscious rolls above the windows. White china place settings reflected the lights from the chandeliers above and the gray daylight coming through the windows. The air swarmed with the welcoming smells of warm food and hot coffee, but I was surprised to see an elaborate buffet table set up at the back of the room. Perhaps white-coated waiters would have disrupted the upcoming speeches.
A woman across the room waved at us and began threading her way through the tables in our direction. Her lipstick was the color of Merlot, matching her dress and shoes. Smooth dark hair swung above her shoulders, and long mascaraed lashes framed her friendly gray eyes.
“Bianca! I’m so glad you called me last night. We’re delighted to have you join Team Powers, even in this small way.”
My companion smiled widely. “Elizabeth Dwyer, I’d like you to meet my friend Kathleen.”
I shot her a grateful look.
“She wants Victor Powers to represent the great state of Georgia in the Senate as much as we do. Kathleen, Liz is the driving force behind this lovely breakfast.”
We shook hands. “Oh, heck,” Elizabeth said. “Just doing my part for the greater good.”
“Good for you,” I said. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I do hope to get a chance to talk with the candidate himself.”
“He has been busy, busy, busy from what I understand. So many people to meet around the state. He’s been out of town for the last four days, shaking hands and kissing babies. Running for office isn’t for wimps!”
“I can only imagine how much work it must be.” But I wasn’t imagining that at all. I was thinking Victor Powers might very well have an alibi for the night Lawrence Eastmore was struck on the head. “Do you happen to know where Mr. Powers was on Friday night?”
Elizabeth looked momentarily puzzled, but recovered quickly. “I’m afraid I don’t have his schedule. However, Carolyn—his wife—will be here soon. It looks like Victor’s running late, so she may be speaking in his stead. She’s very charismatic, you know. Perhaps she could tell you.”
“Oh, it’s not important,” I said. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course.” She turned to Bianca, and as I moved away I heard her ask, “Are you interested in volunteering for the campaign?”
Bianca was a big girl. She could take care of herself.
The place was beginning to fill, and some people were finding seats at the tables. I snagged a couple of seats near the front, but remained standing. I didn’t recognize anyone at first, then saw Mrs. Standish. I had no idea of her political leanings, but that probably didn’t matter. Since she was a mover and shaker in Savannah she might have attended the fund-raiser of an up-and-coming senatorial candidate no matter what his views so as to keep her hand in.
She didn’t see me, though, and I turned to survey the rest of t
he growing crowd. They were a well-dressed bunch, though the level of formality varied. Elizabeth Dwyer hurried toward the buffet tables, smiling and nodding at everyone she passed. Bianca found me a few minutes later.
“What time is it?” I asked.
Glancing at her watch, she said, “Eight forty-five.”
A male voice announced that the buffet was open, and people began filing in that direction.
“Let’s wait for the throng to thin,” I said.
Bianca nodded. We sat down at the table for six, and a young couple and two older gentlemen filled the other chairs. We all exchanged pleasantries. The men had already been through the food line, and I surreptitiously eyed their plates. Shrimp and grits, cheddar biscuits and slabs of ham, piled together with peach pancakes and scrambled eggs. The Westin obviously offered a proper buffet. It was a ridiculous display of food, and I wanted some.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Bianca grinned.
We shuffled down the buffet and returned to the table. My plate had a little dab of everything, while Bianca’s held an assortment of melon and a piece of toast. Poor woman was going to starve, eating like that.
Elizabeth Dwyer went up to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and welcomed us all. Next she started in on the same sound bites I’d already heard. Between the food and the people-watching, I largely tuned her out. Then she introduced Carolyn Powers.
Victor Powers was married to a willowy, tan blonde who spoke in a refined drawl. She welcomed all the attendees as well, and then got down to the business of touting her husband’s credentials.
“He has worked in the financial sector for most of his life. We talk about the economy, but Victor understands economics. He also understands how things get done, both in business and in the world of politics. With your continued support we can bring the Empire State of the South back to greatness!”
