“A half biscuit is plenty,” I admonished. “Save the rest for tomorrow’s breakfast.”
He huffed a sigh for effect before digging in.
Declan shook his head and took a seat in one of the thrift store chairs I’d put in the gazebo. Truth be told, the mishmash of seating in the small space looked more like my boyfriend had been in charge of it. However, I’d wanted kitschy casual, and the other, more important touches he was probably unaware of.
I’d had the structure built shortly after moving into the carriage house—and shortly after learning I was a green witch. It was my sacred space for gardening, for casting outdoors, and the bare cedar of the walls, the bundles of angelica tucked into the five corners of the ceiling, and the crudely painted white star in the middle of the floor outlined in purple all added to its power. Even the broom leaning against the wall was really a besom, a tool I’d made myself from willow branches and an ash handle. I used it to ritualistically clear the space before casting a circle.
Never mind that we witches were supposed to be able to ride brooms like those. I hoped that bit of lore never came true; I’m not that fond of heights.
As the sun went down, we joined my familiar in filling our bellies, sipping beer, and chatting about anything except murder or magic. As we finished, the crickets started to chirp and the fireflies came out to play with Mungo. He raced to the lawn, chasing them for a while before rolling onto his back and looking at us upside down.
“Yes,” I assured him from where we sat watching. “You are well and truly adorable.”
He licked his nose and, belly full of biscuits and gravy, his eyes drifted shut in the gloaming. The fireflies drifted down to form a circle in the grass around him.
Declan pointed. “He’s the only dog I’ve ever seen attract lightning bugs like that. It’s downright weird.”
So much for staying on neutral subjects.
“Not really,” I said. “It’s a familiar thing. They’re his totem.”
“Totem?”
“Mine are dragonflies.”
He turned to look at me, his eyes catching the last of the light so they glowed ice-blue in his handsome face. “What else am I going to learn about you and this hedgewitch business?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I’m still learning myself.”
We sat in silence for a moment, thinking about that.
“And it doesn’t sound like I’m going to learn anything more from Detective Taite if he’s passed on,” I said. “But Quinn doesn’t seem to know anything about him. Including that he’s likely dead.”
“You don’t know that for sure, either.”
“Do you have another explanation for why someone named Franklin would contact a psychic with a message for me?” Deep down I knew the little detective was gone.
Deck made a face. “Not really.”
“I didn’t think so.” I took a sip of beer and ran my gaze over the vegetables arranged in trios along the fence. Squash, corn, and beans were classic combinations from the Southwest Indians that also worked together in my garden. The heirloom tomatoes were planted in threes, supported by sturdy square cages I’d painted bright magenta, periwinkle, and green. The attractive spikes of onions and garlic delineated the curves of the garden edge, warding away pests.
“I wanted to get Ursula to contact him again the other night. After the séance.”
He looked at me sideways. “And?”
I shrugged. “It was too late. She was too tired, and the other spirits in the house would have interfered. I don’t know which.”
“You could ask her again.”
“Yeah. I might, if I could do it without Althea finding out. She’s remarkably stingy with her psychic.”
“I’d think a psychic wouldn’t be so easily controlled,” Declan said.
“Hmm. I don’t know that Ursula is really being controlled. I know she likes the pay, but sometimes I’ve had the feeling she’s not being controlled so much as managing Althea. Steve is doing the same thing, it turns out. And heaven knows Althea could use it.”
“Steve,” Declan said.
“You saw me speaking with him on the set today,” I said in a light tone.
But a sour atmosphere settled into the gazebo. Not wanting our evening to be spoiled, I jumped to my feet and began gathering plates and leftovers.
“Let’s watch a movie,” I suggested.
“Good idea,” he said, as willing as I was to change the subject.
He helped me take everything back inside and put things away while I changed into a spaghetti tank and yoga pants. I popped some corn, dosed it with plenty of butter and salt, and we headed up to the loft. Declan sifted through my abbreviated collection of DVDs and selected an old Pink Panther film.
Talk of Althea had derailed me from the question I’d been leading up to, and as we settled onto the futon with Mungo, I ventured, “Do you think you might be able to contact Taite?”
His head whipped around. “What do you mean?”
I held up my palms. “Well, since you obviously have a, er, knack for the whole, you know, medium thing . . .” I trailed off as his jaw set and his eyes blazed.
“I do not have a knack, as you put it, for the medium thing. That was a fluke, a onetime event. I have no idea how to contact the other side. It will never, ever happen again.”
“But, Deck—”
“Absolutely not! Why would you even ask me that? Do you have even the slightest notion how weird it was to be possessed? And now you want me to voluntarily let some dead guy use me to talk to you?” He was definitely angry, but I could see the fear behind his eyes.
I bit my lower lip. “I’m sorry.”
“Good.” He settled against the back of the futon and crossed his arms over his chest.
“But you do have the ability, you know. It might help you to explore it.”
He clicked on the movie and the theme song swelled. “Talk about boundary issues, Katie. Let it drop.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, then.”
It was a pretty good movie. We made small talk, commented on the acting, crunched through popcorn, laughed at the funny parts.
But the elephant in the room was so big that sometimes it was hard to breathe.
* * *
An unseasonably warm wind blew through our part of Georgia the next morning. I’d awoken in a cloud of thoughts about the secrets people keep, and those thoughts stayed with me as I drank my morning coffee on the back patio while Mungo ate maple oatmeal sprinkled with crushed peanuts. They followed me inside as I got ready for work as quietly as possible. Declan’s snores echoed from the bedroom as I showered and dressed in a denim skort and gauzy blouse.
The morning baking went smoothly and quickly, and at around nine Mimsey came into the Honeybee, fanning her face with a newspaper and announcing, “It’s going to be a hot one today, girls!”
When I asked if she’d mind helping Lucy yet again, she beamed. “I’d be tickled pink, sugar,” she assured me. I gave her a quick hug, admonished Mungo to stay in the office while I was gone, and beelined over to Reynolds Square on foot.
There was one person whose secrets I hadn’t thought to explore yet: Simon Knapp himself.
A new guy was working security when I got to the set. I’d never met him before, and his sharp eyes and dour expression did not bode well for my entry this time around. Nonetheless, I waved him over with a big, friendly smile.
“Where’s Declan?” I asked when he approached my position on the looky-loo side of the barricade.
His eyebrow cocked as he looked me up and down. “You know Declan?”
“Pretty well, actually,” I said, managing not to waggle my eyebrows.
The sternness drained from his face, and he returned my smile. “You must be his girlfriend, Katie.”
<
br /> Relieved, I inclined my head. “Guilty as charged. Ben’s niece, too.”
“Visiting?”
“Hoping to,” I said. “Niklas Egan knows who I am, too.” I didn’t mention anything about catering, but I didn’t need to.
“I’m Tyler.” He lifted the heavy rope and I ducked underneath. “Ben asked me to help out for a few hours. Declan had to go to a training session at Five House.”
I nodded. Declan hadn’t mentioned it, but he’d still been fast asleep when Mungo and I had left for the Honeybee at o’dark thirty.
I said, “So you haven’t been working security here the whole time?”
“Filling in,” Tyler said. “Just a few times. Ben’s over there with the director.”
We began walking toward my uncle. “So how well have you gotten to know these people?” I asked.
“Not very. I know about the production coordinator’s murder, of course. Hard to believe. He seemed like a decent enough sort.”
“I thought so, too,” I said.
Ben and Niklas saw me at the same time, and my uncle’s face lit up.
“I’ll leave you here,” my escort said and headed back to patrol the perimeter of the square.
“Katie!” Ben said.
Niklas blinked slowly at me and then turned to Ben. “So we’ll start breaking down today and be out of the city sometime tomorrow. Thanks for all your help.”
Ben’s lips thinned at what could have been sarcasm. It was hard to tell with the director, but I knew my uncle was still smarting from Simon’s murder on his watch.
I put my hand on Ben’s arm as Niklas strutted away. “Don’t mind him. And honestly? I’m going to be really glad when they shut everything down and go away. It’ll be nice to be able to come straight down Abercorn to get to work, and there are certain members of that cast I won’t miss one little bit.”
“Althea Cole?”
“Althea Cole,” I confirmed. “Lucy told you about her visit to the Honeybee yesterday?” We hadn’t had a chance to talk about it when we’d met after hours.
“God. What a spectacle,” he said. “At least Quinn is on our side.” He narrowed his eyes. “So what brings you back here? I went through everything I could think of when we moved the tents away from the crime scene area and again whenever I had a spare moment to snoop. Not to mention that Quinn’s crime techs were awfully thorough.” He looked thoughtful. “Of course, I couldn’t get into the private dressing trailers.”
“I’m afraid those are probably off-limits,” I said. “But can you tell me where Simon worked? He had to have some kind of office or something.”
Ben grimaced. “No office for Simon.”
“So where did he work?” I asked.
“Nowhere. Everywhere. His phone and computer were his office. He had them with him all the time.” His expression brightened. “Peter Quinn confiscated them both. The laptop was a fancy thing, light and small. He carried it with him everywhere. Maybe there’s something incriminating on it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m sure they’re checking it out in the crime lab.” But I didn’t have great hopes. Simon seemed awfully savvy, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if that extended to hiding things electronically.
“If he didn’t have a workspace, then where did Simon rest?” I asked.
Ben barked a laugh. “Simon? He never rested. Always on the go.” He snapped his fingers. “You know, he did go into the prop tent sometimes when he needed a little privacy, like to make phone calls or to talk one-on-one with someone.”
“One-on-one? Like with who?”
He shrugged. “Niklas, most often. Althea once that I remember. And his assistant, of course.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Like I said, the police have already gone through it.” He pointed to the one tent I hadn’t explored yet. “But be my guest.”
That was all the invitation I needed. Skirting around the back of the catering canopy—without even looking inside to see what culinary travesty Robin Bonner had visited upon the remaining Love in Revolution cast and crew—I avoided Niklas’ attention and slipped inside the property tent.
Unlike the wardrobe tent, this one held mostly vintage furnishings as well as an impressive array of muskets and bayonets slotted into a wooden cabinet. They had to be worth a good amount of money. Ben’s security detail was only partly to keep the paparazzi and curious in their place. Even if most of the filming equipment was removed from the set at night or locked up in one of the RVs, between what was left, the antiques, and the elaborate costumes, there were a lot of valuable items for his teams to guard.
Walking the perimeter of the tent, I peered into crevices and trailed my fingers along items in search of any kind of energy signature. Other than the dusty sense of age that surrounded some of the firearms and a few pieces of furniture, nothing grabbed me. I breathed in the smell of wood polish and straw and soldiered on without any idea what I might be looking for.
I reached a large brown canvas tent collapsed in the corner next to cots and stacks of bedding. Teetering on top of it was a box about two feet high and a foot and a half wide. The front was covered with a hinged lid. The whole thing was pretty light when I lifted it and placed it on a battered table. Sliding the hook on top, I lowered the front to discover a delightful portable desk, much like my own secretary’s desk, only suited for camping—or a military campaign. I could easily imagine a scene in which a general penned a missive on that desk, lit only by one of the pseudo-kerosene lanterns nearby. There were other tables and lamps, and another corner held tack—saddles, bridles, and the fancy carriage harness I’d seen on the horse when I’d arrived at the movie set for the first time.
Lordy. That seemed like ages ago, but it had been only a few days. Since then, Simon Knapp had been killed, I’d learned Franklin Taite was probably dead, someone had poisoned Owen Glade with a Honeybee cookie, and my very nonmagical boyfriend had proven that he could channel the spirits of the dead while positing he might be indirectly related to a leprechaun from the Old Country.
Whew!
Glancing around, I noticed the props were in a bit of disarray. This wasn’t the original setup, however, since everything had been moved from the first location near where Simon’s body had been found to this, the other side of Reynolds Square. Since Niklas had decided to cut short A. Dendum’s stay in Savannah, there probably hadn’t been a need for a lot of neatness for only a few days.
Or maybe the property manager wasn’t an organized kind of guy. Either way, the police—and probably my uncle—had certainly gone through everything in here. What on earth did I hope to find?
I didn’t know, but I was still going to try.
The portable secretary’s desk had a built-in drawer. It was stuck and took a bit of wiggling to get open. Inside there was a sheaf of yellowed but blank paper, a quill pen, and an inkpot. The image of the military man hunched over an important letter flashed through my imagination again. I shook the inkpot and heard the sloshing of liquid. Opening it, I peered inside.
And gagged at the smell. Did real old-fashioned ink actually smell that bad?
Dipping the pen in, I discovered the liquid was clear.
Clear ink? Invisible ink? I fingered the papers, wondering. One by one, I lifted them to the light that streamed in from the doorway, but discerned only a modern watermark. It was expensive paper, all right, but aged with something—tea, perhaps—to look like it had been carried through the travails of war. Still, I couldn’t get the notion of a secret note written with invisible ink out of my mind.
You read too much Nancy Drew as a girl.
I started to put the paper and inkwell back, then paused with them both still in my hand. Niklas had said they were almost done. Surely they wouldn’t need these two obscure props today, right? Feeling like a thief, I capped t
he inkwell tightly and slipped it and the papers into my pocket to check out later.
Moving on.
I opened the drawers in tables and end tables, checked inside rolled-up rugs, and tested the blades of the bayonets only to approve of how remarkably dull they were. A chair sat to one side, and I could imagine Simon sitting there with his computer open on the folding table next to it, or pacing back and forth in the middle of tent, rapidly speaking into his cell phone. But unless the canvas walls had ears, I wasn’t going to learn any secrets about Simon here.
Sitting in the chair, I took one last look around. From that vantage, I spied a piece that looked out of place in its modernity. It was a plain, metal two-drawer filing cabinet. Nothing special, yet there was something about it. The slightest shimmer of . . . power shining from the painted steel surface.
Chapter 19
I hurried to the file cabinet and opened the top drawer. Empty. Slipping my hand inside, I felt along the inside of the top of the cabinet. Nothing.
The second drawer was not empty, but the contents were a jumble of small props—old-fashioned pens, papier-mâché musket balls, a set of epaulets, a lady’s pair of combs with a matching brush and mirror set, and a sheaf of mismatched paper that turned out to be hard-copy receipts from Atlanta for vintage clothing stores, antiques dealers, tailors, and an army surplus store. Simon had been gathering props for the movie. Some of the receipts were signed by Owen Glade. None of that was surprising.
Again, I ran my hand lightly over the bottom of the drawer above to no avail.
Until one fingertip touched something rough.
I reached farther back and felt paper crackle. Pulling the drawer all the way out, I reached in and pulled away the manila envelope that was taped to the back panel of the cabinet.
Folding onto the floor, I eagerly opened it and pulled out two sets of paper clipped together.
One set was of newspaper clippings from the Savannah Morning News. I scanned a column by Steve Dawes about a flurry of food trucks starting up business in town. One of them was the Waffle Baron, Robin Bonner’s mobile restaurant that featured specialty waffles twenty-four-seven. Sure enough, the other clippings were ads, first for the Waffle Baron with a Twitter address so fans could find out where the truck was at any given time, and the second for Bonner Catering.
Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) Page 18
