I grumbled under my breath and turned back to the classic Southern spread. It looked exactly like the fare Simon had described.
“I thought he fired Bonner Catering,” I mused to my familiar while I mentally scrambled. He made a low noise in the back of his throat.
“I hired them back,” a high-pitched voice said behind me. Simon’s assistant, the one who had arrived so soon after his death laden with fresh cheese and an air of utter bewilderment, entered the canopy. He still looked bewildered, blinking at me from behind his round glasses, head bobbing on his long neck.
“You might have alerted us of that fact, Mr. . . . ?”
“Glade,” he reminded me. “Owen Glade. I’m the new production coordinator.”
“Right. Of course you are. But even though he’s, um, gone, Simon Knapp hired us to provide lunch to your crew today.”
Owen put his bony fists on his hips and tried a glare. I felt bad for the guy, but we’d spent a lot of money and a lot of time to put together a small feast for what was left of the cast and crew. Not to mention we’d determined to do the same for as long as the filming was going on.
“Well, he never told me that,” the former assistant said. “I don’t even know who you are, other than seeing you and that dog on the set last night.”
In my sweaty running clothes. Great. I tipped my head. “I’m Katie Lightfoot from the Honeybee Bakery. How exactly do you think your lunch showed up yesterday?”
He started to stick out his lower lip, then seemed to realize what he was doing. “How should I know? Simon never told me anything, just ordered me around. Owen, do this. Owen, find so-and-so, Owen, pick up the dry cleaning, blah, blah, blah.”
“Er . . . isn’t that your job?” I asked in as neutral a tone as I could manage.
Owen’s face colored, and his eyes flashed behind the round lenses. “Well, it’s not anymore.”
“So there’s a new assistant, then?” I asked.
His nostrils flared in what I took as a negative. I could only imagine what Niklas Egan thought about Owen taking over for Simon. Given what he’d said to Quinn about needing Simon’s special skill at getting things done, I doubted Owen would hold the doer-and-shaker position for long.
In the meantime, though, I stood my ground. “I’m very sorry your boss didn’t inform you about hiring us, and I’m sorrier than I can say that he’s gone now. However, we had an agreement and had to go out of our way to accommodate his request.”
Owen’s feet shifted, and uncertainty flickered across his features. I straightened my shoulders and opened my mouth to speak again when Althea Cole swept in. Literally. Unlike the day before, when her costume had screamed “simple country girl,” today she wore a peach satin brocade gown with full bustle and dripping with lace that swished along the ground with each step. The frothy hat I’d tried on in the wardrobe tent the day before was firmly tied over her cascading red curls, and long fake eyelashes gave her a doelike demeanor.
Until she opened her mouth. “Well, isn’t that too bad. Do you have a signed contract with Simon?”
My heart sank, but I raised my chin. “We had a verbal agreement.”
“Which he can no longer confirm. Did he prepay you?”
I shook my head, feeling like an idiot.
Althea sniffed. “Well, it looks like you’re out of luck, Miss Lightfoot.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice when she said my name.
What’s this woman’s problem?
At my feet, Mungo emitted a low growl.
Althea’s eyes cut to him. “And you’d better get that little beast out of here. I’m terribly allergic to dogs.”
I swore my familiar rolled his eyes. I couldn’t blame him—the catering tent was open on one side, and even my violent allergies to Lucy’s Honeybee wouldn’t have been triggered in those circumstances.
“Where is Mr. Egan?” I asked.
“Oh, no, you don’t. You haven’t got a leg to stand on, so you just take your little bakery stuff and go on home.” Althea could do imperious better than most. I was pretty sure she wasn’t acting, though.
My jaw set, and I struggled to keep from using my Voice. “Where is Mr. Egan?” I asked Owen this time.
Althea crossed her arms and glared at me, but I ignored her and focused on Simon’s replacement. He nervously licked his lips. “I rehired Bonner Catering. That’s all there is to it.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll find Mr. Egan myself. Because I have no intention of letting you stiff the Honeybee just because Simon didn’t keep you in the loop.” I strode away, Mungo trotting at my side. Althea’s lip curled up as I passed her.
“Wait,” Owen said.
I paused and looked over my shoulder.
He made a vague gesture. “This appears to be a simple misunderstanding. Go ahead and set up the food you brought, and I’ll cut you a check.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Owen,” Althea said. “Don’t be such a wimp.”
He visibly flinched at her words. “This one time,” he said to me. “But then that’s it.”
Slowly, I said, “Okay.” Reaching into my tote bag, I retrieved the invoice I’d printed out before leaving the bakery.
Owen took it and nodded. “Fine.” He stalked off, and I began unloading lunch from the trolley.
Althea watched me, her lip slightly curled as she took in the different kinds of skewers and kabobs.
After several seconds, I stopped arranging the shrimp on their bed of ice and looked her in the eye. “It must be quite gratifying to everyone working on this movie to know how concerned you are with the day-to-day workings of craft services.”
She held my gaze; then her eyes narrowed before she whirled around and left without a word.
I stared after her. Why was the famous star of the movie so worried about who supplied the catering? If she’d asked a single question about the food, I might have understood, but she hadn’t. Furthermore, her figure was so petite, I doubted that she ate even as little as Bianca did.
It seemed to be all about some kind of power play now that Simon was gone. Puzzled, I began setting up a three-tiered tray for the salad kabobs.
* * *
Owen returned with the check and turned to go after depositing it in my hand.
“Hang on,” I said.
He paused, looking at me over his shoulder.
“I really am sorry your boss got, well, you know.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Were you guys close?”
Finally, he faced me. “I guess.” He seemed impatient, or maybe it was simply shyness.
I wished for Ben’s ability to put anyone at ease. “I heard Simon was a guy you could go to, to get things done,” I tried.
Owen peered myopically at me in silence.
“You know what I mean?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said. “You don’t really seem to know what you mean, either.”
Touché.
“How did you come to work for Simon? Are you from around here?”
He hesitated. “No. I’m from Boulder Creek, California. Simon was working there, for another company. I have a background in theater and talked him into giving me a try. It worked out, and he brought me on his next job.”
“You must have learned so much from him.” Like how to “fix” things? I wondered.
“I did what I was told,” he said. “Now I’ll go ahead and do what Simon would have told me to do anyway. It wasn’t like he was supersmart or anything. He liked people to think so, but what he did wasn’t that hard.”
“Oh. Well, okay. Good luck, then,” I said.
As he left, I heard him mutter, “Don’t need luck.”
“Odd little duck,” I murmured to Mungo, who concurred with a slight woof. I finished rearranging Bonner Catering’s food and fitting in the Honeybee of
ferings. Mungo watched from under a folding chair as I gathered up all the boxes, bags, and coolers and stuffed them back onto the book trolley. I made a few last adjustments to the presentation and turned to go.
A figure stood in the opening to the tent. The bright sunlight reflected off her white-blond hair, creating a nimbus around her head and obscuring her features. Then Ursula stepped farther inside and the effect vanished. She wore plain khaki shorts and a sleeveless green shirt that showcased the defined muscles in her arms. In that moment, she looked a lot more like a personal trainer than a woo-woo psychic.
Of course, with my short hair and sensible shoes, I didn’t exactly look like most people’s idea of a witch, either.
“Hi, Katie.” She greeted me as if we were old friends. Then she spied the plates of food on the cloth-covered table and made a beeline for one end. “Yes! I was hoping you’d bring more of these.” She grabbed two of the loaded oatmeal cookies and promptly took a bite out of one of them. “I ate almost all of them yesterday. Ha!”
“Glad you like them,” I ventured.
She reached down with her other hand and scratched Mungo under the chin. He gazed up at her with wide eyes but seemed to enjoy the attention.
“Althea said you were in here,” she said, then lowered her voice. “She doesn’t really care for you, does she?”
“I noticed. Any idea why?”
Ursula shook her head and took another bite. After she swallowed, she said, “Did you want to talk to me?”
I lifted one eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I did. I suppose you knew that from your ‘good authority,’ though.”
She laughed. It was a full, free sound, and she looked genuinely delighted. “Nope. Figured that one out on my own.”
Two men came in and squirted antibacterial gel onto their hands at the sanitation station. They both wore shorts and T-shirts that read A. DENDUM PRODUCTIONS on the back.
Ursula gestured me toward the exit. “This place is about to fill up with hungry cast and crew. Let’s get out of here.”
Quickly, I tucked the book trolley around the corner of the catering tent, and Mungo and I followed her across the square to one of the RVs parked on Abercorn Street. She opened the door on the side and stuck her head inside. I heard her say, “Susie? Lunch is ready. You might want to grab some before the good stuff is gone.”
Susie Little. Her alibi.
Thirty seconds later, a curly-haired woman wearing a loose white jacket over a bright yellow sundress stepped out, nodded at me, and headed for the catering tent. Ursula waved me inside. Picking up Mungo, I went up the steps and ducked through the doorway.
The place reeked of hair spray. A long row of round lightbulbs illuminated the mirrors running down one wall. Deep, comfortable chairs at each of four stations hinted at the long periods of time actors spent being coiffed and made up for their screen time. A shelving unit boasted a dozen wigs perched on plastic forms, ranging from elaborate updos for women to men’s neat ponytails and gray curls. Cases of makeup ranged down the counter, and more peeked out from drawers. Hair-taming implements hung from hooks at regular intervals: dryers, curlers, flatirons, and diffusers.
Ursula plopped into one of the chairs and swiveled it in my direction. “Take a load off. The little dog can wander around. He won’t hurt anything.”
Mungo looked a bit insulted as I set him down and snapped off his lead. “Of course he won’t hurt anything,” I said, and he wagged his tail once in thanks. I sat in the chair next to Ursula and regarded her in silence.
“So . . . ,” she prompted.
“You tell me. After all, you’re the one who came up to me out of the blue and said I’m supposed to find Simon’s killer.”
“Yep, that’s true,” she said with a grin.
“What, exactly, is so funny?”
“Well, you are, to start. That wasn’t news to you. I could tell. There’s something about you.”
She doesn’t know I’m a witch.
I took a deep breath. On one hand, I liked Ursula’s easy manner. On the other, I wasn’t sure she needed to be so darn amused at my discomfort. Putting my ego aside, I asked, “So? Who told you?”
The humor faded from her expression. “Not one of my usual crew of spirit guides. Someone I’ve never had contact with before.”
“So you’re saying a spirit told you?”
“Well, yeah.” The way she said it made it sound like, well, duh. “You know that’s what I do, right?”
“I heard you were a psychic, but I don’t know how that works.”
A decisive nod. “Right. Okay, so I hear dead people.” She grinned again. “Sort of. Sometimes. I have a crew of three spirits who I have regular access to. But sometimes others come to me unbidden, and I can often call on spirits for others.”
“Like for Althea?”
“Althea—well, that’s probably covered by something like psychic/client privilege, but that’s part of why she keeps me around. The other part is keeping her skinny ass skinny.”
I smiled.
“Anyway, yesterday as I’m standing there with everyone else, staring at poor Simon, I felt a new presence. And it told me about you. That’s all.”
“Do you know who it was?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Someone who knew you in this life, that’s for sure.”
“Nonna,” I breathed.
“Who’s that?” Ursula asked.
“My grandmother. She’s, uh, made herself known before.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Is that so? Interesting. Still, it wasn’t her this time.”
I blinked. “Then who was it?”
She frowned and looked out the window, seeming to hear something I couldn’t. As I watched, a shiver ran down my back. Mungo made a low noise in his throat and trotted back from where he had been exploring to lean against my leg. Another nod and Ursula returned her attention to me.
“My guides say the name started with an F. Francis? Fitz . . . No, I think it’s Frank. Did you know a Frank?”
I started to shake my head, then stopped and stared at her. “Franklin?”
She pointed her finger at me. “Bingo. That’s the guy.”
“But you only communicate with the spirits of those who have passed over, right?”
Realization dawned in her eerie green-blue eyes. “Oh, honey. You didn’t know?”
Thoughts racing, I picked up Mungo and held him close to my throat. Franklin Taite was dead?
Chapter 9
I wanted to ask Ursula what else she knew about Franklin Taite, but the hair and makeup artist returned with Steve Dawes in tow. He looked at me curiously as she settled him into a chair and began working his long hair into a ponytail, complete with a little bow to hold it back.
“Very nice,” I muttered as I carried Mungo to the door where Ursula was waiting. I was still reeling.
He grinned. “Thanks.”
The woman working on his gorgeous tresses didn’t crack a smile, however. Apparently, getting that bow right was serious work.
Then Steve got a good look at my face and drew his eyebrows together. “Katie? Everything okay?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Back on the sidewalk, Ursula said, “So you two know each other pretty well, I take it.”
“We’re friends.” I reattached Mungo’s leash, and we began walking back toward the catering tent.
“Althea seems to like him a lot,” Ursula said.
“Bully for her,” I said, still distracted. I had so many questions I didn’t know where to start. I settled on, “What else can you tell me about Franklin?”
Her grimace carried a note of apology. “Sorry. Only the name and the information he told me to pass on to you. He hasn’t returned since that initial contact.”
“He didn
’t say anything else about me?” Like I’ve been known to glow when under pressure?
She looked curious. “Nope. Anything you want to tell me?”
I sidestepped her question with, “He specifically said to tell me that I’d find Simon’s killer? That wasn’t your idea?”
“Oh, no. I hear things about people all the time, but I usually keep them to myself. Hearing news from a psychic isn’t always . . . welcome.” She looked at me sideways. “He was pretty clear that I needed to pass that message on, though.”
We walked a few steps in silence.
“I’ll help you load up your car if you want,” Ursula offered.
“That would be great.” My biggest question was one I couldn’t very well ask the psychic herself: Should I trust her? She was personable and engaging, and I felt an unexpected kinship with her. Still, conmen—and women—were known to be quite personable, and while I wasn’t exactly naive, I knew I could be fooled. It didn’t seem like it would be that hard to fool Althea Cole, either.
Yet why would Ursula try to deceive me? What would be in it for her? She already had her paying gig with Althea and barely knew me from Eve. Plus, it was hard to be skeptical since I wholeheartedly believed in magic and had actually talked with my dead grandmother on more than one occasion.
So there was that.
I retrieved the wheeled cart, and, Mungo trotting ahead, we pushed out to my Bug on one of the walkways that crisscrossed the square. Niklas Egan hurried past with a sheaf of papers in his hand, heading toward where Van Grayson stood waiting with a cameraman next to the horseless carriage.
“Oh, I have a Volkswagen Bug at home,” Ursula exclaimed when we reached the car. “It’s one of the old ones, though, from the sixties. Red convertible. I adore it.”
“It’s been a good little car, seen me through a lot. Yours sounds like fun, especially the convertible part.” I found myself wondering if she really had a Volkswagen. Could it be a ploy to try to bond with me?
She grimaced. “Not that I get to drive it much. Althea travels a lot, and she always wants me to go with her.”
Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) Page 9
