“And he doesn’t actually like children,” I said, thinking out loud. “Yet that career move gained him enough recognition to get the lead actor role in Love in Revolution. He’s savvy that way, but he doesn’t seem quite comfortable as a star—at least not yet.” I was remembering how different his attitude seemed from Althea’s. Or maybe he was just a nicer person.
Except he dealt drugs to high school students.
“With his career on the upswing, he certainly wouldn’t have wanted his former identity to come to light,” Jaida said.
“Do you think Simon knew?” I asked.
“The double name change is clever, and he could have been involved with that, but Grayson could have done that on his own easily enough. However, there was a rather convenient restraining order placed on that tabloid the Inquisitor a while back, and the rumor was that it involved a story about Mr. Grayson.”
I felt my forehead scrunch. “Wait a sec. You can’t stop a story that way, can you? Freedom of the press and all that, even if the Inquisitor will print anything they feel like to make sure people will grab their rag in the checkout line. I’ve heard of people suing after a story runs, but a restraining order?”
Jaida held up her hand. “It wasn’t for a story per se. It was on the publisher, and the details were sketchy. I’m betting Simon was involved.”
I whistled. “Wow. That would take a lot of juice.”
She nodded. “I had to dig pretty far, but I’m still a little surprised Detective Quinn hasn’t already discovered this.”
“Maybe he has,” I pointed out. “If so, he wouldn’t feel any obligation to tell me. But he might not have because there’s another factor you don’t know about yet.”
She uncrossed her ankles and leaned forward. “What’s that?”
“Simon was some kind of sorcerer—a witch, I suspect, given the altar items he had hidden in the prop tent.” I told her how I’d come to find the blue velvet bag and its contents. “But he could have been druidic or something else altogether. The point is, I think he used magic to enhance his ability to get things to go his way—or the way of whomever he was ‘fixing’ a situation for.”
Jaida slapped her leg with her palm. “Well, I’m not surprised at all if Quinn doesn’t know about Grayson’s past, then. Simon would have cast a cloaking spell.”
“Which didn’t stop you,” I pointed out.
She grinned. “That’s because I’m a witch, too.”
“You used magic?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. Jaida had admitted to sometimes using her tarot skills on behalf of her unknowing clients, but that was all.
“Sort of,” she said. “As a matter of course, whenever I go looking for information, I do a quick clarifying spell with the Star, High Priestess, and Hermit cards to clear the way. I perform a lot of my own investigation since many of my clients can’t afford for me to hire an outside investigator, and I need to be able to quickly weed through the unimportant stuff.”
“Lucky for me,” I said.
Mungo made a noise of agreement in the back of his throat.
Jaida stood. “Speaking of unimportant stuff, I have a pile of paperwork I’ve been putting off on my desk. Keep me in the loop, and let me know if you need me to look into anything else, okay?”
I hugged her, breathing in cinnamon and caramel. “Okay. Thanks again. You’re the best.”
* * *
I left a message on Quinn’s voice mail that I had information about Van Grayson he might be interested in. As I hung up, I debated whether to tell him that Robin Bonner was Althea Cole’s son. Given that Simon had fired Bonner Catering, my cookies had been laced with a prescription emetic, and someone had ended up in the hospital, it was probably best that he know.
Lucy answered the Honeybee phone an hour later, mouthing to me that it was Quinn. She put the phone on hold and turned back to her customer. I slipped the last apple-fennel muffin out of the tin and onto a cooling rack and went back to the office to take the call. Collapsing into the chair, I swiveled to the desk and hit the speaker button.
“Hey, Quinn. Thanks for calling back.”
Mungo sat up from his nap to listen.
“Katie, it’s been too long since we’ve spoken. An entire day, if I’m counting correctly.” His tone wasn’t as sarcastic as his words, however.
“You can tease all you want, Peter, but you did tell me to call if I happened to find anything out. Well, I found something out about Van Grayson. Did you know he used to be—”
Peter cut in. “I should tell you that I already know that Van Grayson used to be Vance Gray. He probably changed his name because ‘Van’ is easier for little kids to say—and remember.”
“I bet you’re right,” I said. “But did you know that first he changed his name from Grant Vanders to Vance Gray?”
A long silence then, “That’s news to me.”
“And as Grant Vanders, he went to jail for five months for selling drugs near a high school.”
Quinn swore under his breath, and beside me Mungo cocked his head. “How did you find that out?”
“Well, I know you told me not to do any actual, um, investigation, but you did agree there was a good chance that Simon’s ‘fixing’ could have gotten him killed. So I asked Jaida to do a little digging.”
I heard typing. “The officer who is helping me with background investigations didn’t get that far. I’ll have a talk with her.”
“Oh, gosh. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Jaida said the double name change was pretty buried. She just happened onto it.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to put anything in her file.” He sighed. “I swear, Katie, sometimes the way you and your friends find things out is like magic.”
My breath caught in my throat before I managed to force a laugh. Unfortunately, the noise that came out sounded more like a camel sneezing than an expression of mirth. Mungo looked at the ceiling, but I ignored him.
“Anyway,” I said in a voice that hopefully didn’t sound too strangled. “Someone else might have found out, you know? Maybe Simon fixed it so that Grayson wouldn’t be revealed as a drug-dealing fraud.”
“Right. We’ll look into that. Thanks, Katie.”
“Um,” I said.
“Yes?” He drew the word out.
“It also came to my attention that Robin Bonner of Bonner Catering is Althea Cole’s son. She gave him up for adoption when she was sixteen, and Simon helped her track him down here in Savannah and then hired him to cater for the movie.”
“What?”
“What’s that, Lucy?” I called. “Okay, be right there. Quinn, I have to go. Talk to you later!” And I hung up.
Dang it. I didn’t have a chance to tell him about the photos. Maybe I can drop them by his office this afternoon.
If dogs could laugh, that was what Mungo did as I hurried out to the kitchen.
* * *
The lunch rush was over, tables bussed, and the early-afternoon baking cooling on the counter before going into the display case. Even the espresso counter was gleaming. Eight people were scattered among the tables, most of them regulars who settled in a few afternoons a week with their laptops. Some were telecommuting, a few were students at the Savannah College of Art and Design or Savannah State University, and one unassuming gentleman was an author working on his latest spy novel.
The door opened to admit Mimsey for the second time that day. She was clad entirely in white except for the bright blue bow in her hair. Quickly, she shut the door behind her. “Land sakes, it’s hot out there! You’d think I’d be used to it after living my whole life here, but May is simply not supposed to feel like July.” Fanning her face, she plopped down on a chair near the register and put her shopping bag on the floor. I suspected her color choice for the day had less to do with magic than with keeping cool, regardless
of the old rule about not wearing white before Memorial Day.
“Here you go,” Lucy said, a tall, sweating glass of sweet tea already in hand. “Drink this and cool down. Did you walk all the way from your shop?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I do not intend to walk back to my car until the sun goes down.”
My aunt laughed. “Well, don’t worry. If you want to hang out here for the afternoon, I’ll give you a ride.”
Mimsey’s head bobbed in agreement. “I was hoping you’d say that. I brought a few new books for the library, and while I’m at it, I’ll cull what needs to go.”
“That’s sweet of you,” I said.
“Bah. Not sweet. Necessary. Some of those volumes have served their purpose. Must make way for the new!” She pulled out a half-dozen volumes from the bag at her feet and set them on the table before taking a rather unladylike gulp of tea.
Walking over, I picked up the top two. One was a thin volume of poetry by Rainer Maria Rilke and the other was a spy novel by none other than our resident author. After a quick glance his way, I checked out the other titles: How to Train Your New Puppy, Great Expectations, Windowsill Gardening, The Creative Woman’s Guide to Authentic Recovery, and Your Stylish Six-Year-Old.
Picking up the last one, I asked, “Really? This looks one of those guides for stage mothers.”
“Don’t judge,” Mimsey said. “Someone needs this book.”
Rolling my eyes affectionately, I returned it to the pile.
“Katie,” Lucy said. “Since Mimsey is back to help, why don’t you run down to Bianca’s and get your wine for dinner tonight? That way you won’t have so much to do before Declan comes over.”
I hugged her. “Thanks. I was wondering how I could get everything done.” I untied my apron. “I’ll be back in a jiffy, ladies.”
* * *
“You don’t mind sticking around here, do you?” I asked my familiar. “I know you don’t care for the heat.”
He curled into a ball and closed his eyes in answer.
I opened my tote to make sure I had my wallet and saw the inkwell and distressed paper I’d found in the prop tent. Removing them, I held the paper up to the light again. There was still no evidence of writing. I remembered writing notes to my best friend in third grade. We’d used toothpicks and lemon juice, let the “ink” dry on the paper, and then held them next to a warm lightbulb to reveal the messages.
Quickly turning the desk lamp on, I touched one of the sheets to the bulb.
The very cool bulb. We didn’t have compact fluorescent lamps when I was in the third grade.
Ah, but the arched reading lamp in the Honeybee library featured a full-spectrum incandescent bulb. Grabbing the paper and ink, I returned to the front of the bakery. Mimsey looked surprised, then followed as I went into the reading area and held the papers up one by one to the hot bulb.
The gentleman sitting on the sofa looked up in chagrin as my machinations dimmed his reading light. “Miss, please.”
I ducked my head. “Sorry.” My shoulders slumped in defeat. There were no messages.
“What on earth are you doing?” Lucy asked, watching with Mimsey nearby.
I gestured them to the kitchen before answering. “I found these in the property tent earlier. The ink seems to be clear, which makes no sense, so I thought it might be, er, invisible ink,” I finished, feeling lame as all get out.
Mimsey held out her hand. “Let me see.”
I handed her the inkwell, and she opened it. Her head reared back as a foul odor boiled out of the tiny container. Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Oh, put the lid on, Mims. That smells absolutely wretched.”
But speculation replaced the disgust on the older witch’s face, and she took another deep whiff before screwing the cap back onto the inkwell.
“What is it?” I asked.
She frowned. “I don’t know. I feel like I should, though. I’ve smelled that someplace before.” She looked up and saw my urgent expression. “Go on, dear. I’ll have your aunt text you if I think of it while you’re out.”
* * *
Mimsey was right: It was land sakes hot out, indeed. Growing up in Ohio, I’d known some hot weather, but my first summer in Savannah had put that to shame. “Hot mayonnaise” weather they called it, a heat laced with thick humidity that never allowed you to feel dry. That was July and August heat, but it had settled down on the city this late May afternoon like a mama hen on her chicks.
I considered walking to Moon Grapes, which, let’s face it, was only six blocks away on Factors Walk. I had almost convinced myself when I spotted the quaint wooden sign hanging over the door of the Welsh Wabbit Cheese Shoppe half a block down. It hung at a perpendicular angle to the door, swinging like an old English alehouse might invite some quiet revelers into the snug. I’d stop there first, pick up the Mimolette and any other cheese that happened to catch my fancy for Declan’s and my party, then move on to Moon Grapes for the wine.
The image on the old-fashioned placard sharpened into a new-fangled graphic as I approached close enough to see it. I’d driven by dozens of times since the small specialty store had opened and never noticed the details. The sign showed a long-eared hare straddling a low-rider Harley. The jackrabbit wore a pudding-basin helmet, leather jacket complete with diagonal zipper and fringe flying out from his narrow shoulder blades, and boots replete with three sets of buckles up the legs. Despite his regalia, he appeared to be peacefully riding through an English countryside that James Herriot himself would have recognized.
Forget the subtlety of glowing in the heat. I was already sweating “like a whore in church,” as I’d overheard someone say in the Honeybee. I headed inside the cheese shop, closed the door, and leaned my back against it as if hordes of Huns were on my tail instead of an overly warm spring day.
What a wimp I’ve turned into. Imagine how summers here might have been before air-conditioning, in the heavy heat all day. Heck, all night, too. And here I walked a whole block and a half. Go, me.
The place was empty save for the woman behind the L of brightly lit display cases similar to those in the Honeybee and a black-haired girl sitting on a high stool by the double swinging doors leading to whatever was in the rear of the shop. The floor looked as if it was made of renovated barn wood, the walls were painted a deep, rich blue, the ten-foot ceiling shone creamy beige, and the afternoon sun was blocked by rattan shades that drew up from the bottom.
Unlike the Honeybee, this was a stop, shop, and buy sort of shop, a place to sample and purchase your cheese but not linger, much like an old-fashioned butcher or fishmonger. The piles of cheese were artfully arranged behind glass, enticing, inviting, and frankly mouthwatering. It was surprising how different they looked from one another given they all started out with the same basic ingredients.
The woman behind the counter looked up, blinking behind dark-framed glasses. She was in her late forties, but wore her corn-silk hair in pigtails that jutted out from either side of her head like Pippi Longstocking all grown up. Her name tag said “Patsy,” and she wore a simple denim sundress that reached past her knees. Her smile felt big enough to encompass eight of me.
I had no choice but to smile in return.
She glided to the counter. “What can we do you for?”
I found myself in front of the plates and plates and plates of cheese displayed behind glass. “Oh,” I said. “This is going to cost me more than I thought.”
Looking up, I saw her nod. “Yeah. It works that way sometimes. But I’m guessing you came in with a mission. At least to start with.”
“The other night I ate a delicious cheese. I think it’s called Mimolette?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching into the case for a cannonball-shaped round. The rind on the outside was pitted and grooved, making it look more like a muskmelon than a chunk of cheese. “French, made from cow’s milk
, and typically aged three to twenty-four months. This”—she held up the ball—“is twenty-four months old. Incredible.”
I could see a slice had been removed, revealing the deep orange color I recognized. “Yes, that’s the one Althea served.”
“Oh! Are you associated with the movie?” the woman asked, leaning forward.
“Not really. My uncle is working security over there.” I scrambled to come up with an explanation. “I guess you know Althea Cole likes to serve your cheese with different wines. I’m friends with Bianca Devereaux over at Moon Grapes.”
“Bianca knows her stuff,” Patsy said. “It’s a pleasure to work with her on pairings.”
“You’re in touch?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Since they began filming, Mr. Glade comes in each day at four thirty, selects the cheese for the evening’s soiree, and then I call Bianca so she can deliver the appropriate wines for whatever he’s selected.”
“Makes sense,” I said, then paused, remembering.
The bottles of wine, though still unopened, had been on the table above Simon’s body before Owen had stumbled onto the scene with his bag of Camembert.
“Um,” I said, glancing at the young girl sitting on the stool. Looking beyond her heavy black eyeliner and black lipstick, I saw she was old enough to be a junior or senior in high school. “You know there was someone killed on the set, right?”
Patsy’s hand went to her throat and she nodded emphatically. “Terrible. Simply terrible.”
“Do you happen to remember when Mr. Glade came in to pick up cheese that day? I believe it was a Camembert.”
“Why, at the same time as always,” she said.
“Was not,” muttered the girl behind her.
“Oh, Iris. Don’t be difficult,” she said. “Of course it was.” She shook her head. “Teenagers. Have to contradict their mothers no matter what.”
Iris’ head came up, and her eyes met mine. They were deep brown, sparked with intelligence, and there was something else.
She has talent. Magical talent. Latent, but she knows she’s different.
Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) Page 20
