by Bailey Cates
As we approached Vase Value, the smell of gardenias filled the air. My footsteps slowed as I probed my surroundings. Then I saw several of the glossy-leaved plants sat in stair-stepping pots outside the open door. Both relieved and disappointed that the fragrance came from actual blooms rather than my dead nonna’s signature perfume, I continued to the shop.
A canvas canopy shaded a plethora of galvanized tubs filled with choose-your-own stems on the sidewalk. Next to them, wooden produce crates were arranged in tiers. Houseplants, blooming tropicals, miniature roses, hydrangeas, and arrangements of succulents marched along the rustic shelves and tumbled down the edges. I breathed in the verdant atmosphere and felt my muscles loosen. Together, Mungo and I went inside.
More potted plants lined the shelves along the interior walls. Displayed among them were garden- and floral-themed gifts. I spied a birdhouse that would have been a perfect addition to the gazebo behind the carriage house, and two cutwork lanterns that would have looked great on my back patio. I stopped to examine a set of the cutest stained-glass plant markers, sorely tempted to buy them even though I shouldn’t until I knew what kind of garden I’d have.
Reluctantly, I returned them to their place and led Mungo to the back counter. On the far side, Mimsey’s assistant, Ryan, stood at a wide table. He was working on an arrangement of white lilies, ferns, and stems of burgundy-colored grasses. Behind him, floral foam, wires, tapes, vases in various shapes and sizes, decorative ribbons, and cutting tools were neatly arranged in cubbyholes. At the very rear of the store, Mimsey worked at the desk in her glass-walled office.
Ryan saw me and smiled. “Katie Lightfoot. Haven’t seen you for a while.”
He was in his midtwenties, with a shock of yellow hair, laughing brown eyes, and skill working with flowers that Mimsey claimed was supernatural. When she’d hinted to him about it, though, he’d made it clear that he found such an idea to be nonsense. She was content to let that lie, counting herself lucky to have him working for her.
“There’s too much temptation to buy out the place when I come in,” I said with a grin.
“I know, right? I swear I spend a third of my paycheck in here.”
I handed him the bakery bag. “A few goodies to get you through to lunch.”
His eyes lit up. “You really should come by more often.” He reached under the counter and brought out a low-rimmed dish like the ones that held succulent gardens outside. It looked clean, but he laid a couple of paper towels on the bottom before reaching into the bag and arranging the muffins I’d brought. “You here to see the boss lady?”
“If she’s not too busy,” I said, nodding toward the office. Mimsey was intent on her computer screen and hadn’t seen me yet.
“Just going over outstanding accounts receivable. She’ll welcome the interruption, believe me.” He stepped over and knocked on the door.
She looked up, then jumped to her feet and motioned me in. Mungo and I went around the counter as she opened the door. “You’re doing a lovely job with that arrangement, Ryan. They will be so pleased,” she said to her assistant before shutting the door behind me. “Funeral pieces can be quite tricky.”
I grimaced.
“Sit down, dear.”
I sat in the chair across from her. Today Mimsey wore flowing slacks and a tunic the color of moss. Green was one of her favorite colors to wear to work, as it represented money as well as plant magic. It could also be used to counteract jealousy and greed.
She hadn’t stopped with employing a little color magic to help Vase Value’s bottom line. A pot of bamboo—again, to attract money and good fortune—sat on her desk next to the computer, and next to it a fluffy arrangement of pink peonies encouraged abundance and gratitude. A huge chunk of amber-colored citrine hunkered on a pedestal in the corner, so well-known to promote prosperity that it had been dubbed the shopkeeper’s stone. On the wall behind her, blackberry brambles had been twisted and woven into an attractive star that was actually a pentacle of protection.
Mimsey peered at me over the top of her half-glasses. “I’m guessing you weren’t just in my neighborhood in the middle of a workday.”
I shook my head. “No, ma’am. Though we do need to order some deep red roses and dark purple lilac blooms for a cake next week.”
She made a note, then sat back. “Done.” Her eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“Thanks,” I said. “The other reason I stopped by is because you mentioned that Orla belonged to a group of Irish travelers. I read through the book she bought for her granddaughter, and it’s about a young Irish Gypsy who emigrates from Ireland to the U.S. I was wondering what you might know about that aspect of Orla’s life.”
Mimsey removed her glasses. “Well, first off, Irish travelers aren’t exactly Gypsies. I mean, some have Romany heritage, but most are ethnically Irish.”
“Do they dislike being called Gypsies?”
“Let’s just say it’s inaccurate. The Rom, or Romany Gypsies, are descended from peoples in India. No one knows for sure how the Irish travelers came to live the nomadic lifestyle they do, but Orla told me it was probably a combination of things that pushed folks out of their homes and made them into wanderers. Cromwell’s policies in England in the 1650s and people being discriminated against for their religion—the flip-flopping between whether Protestantism or Catholicism was the accepted religion of the land was dangerous for a lot of citizens of Britain for centuries. The Potato Famine forced many people onto the road as well.”
“That was in the 1800s, though,” I said. “From what I understand, there are still groups of travelers in Ireland—and apparently in the U.S. as well.”
“Indeed, there are. There was a massive influx of Irish immigrants into the U.S. back then. They weren’t exactly welcomed with open arms, either. The travelers certainly suffered as much here as they did in their native land. Still, they retained their culture. And I think ‘families’ is more accurate than ‘groups.’”
“And the Blacks are one of those families? Orla seemed pretty normal,” I said. “I mean, other than when she was all dressed up to tell fortunes.”
Mimsey shrugged. “What’s ‘normal’? She functioned in the mainstream quite successfully, but make no mistake, the Blacks live by many of their own rules. Like other cultural groups—Mennonites, Hutterites, the Amish—they have retained what they can of their cultural identity by keeping to themselves. However, unlike those other groups, their primary identity isn’t related to religion.”
“What’s it related to, then?” I asked.
She tipped her head to the side. “Other traditions. Other skills.”
Seeing the twinkle in her eye, I asked, “Magical skills?”
“Could be,” Mimsey acquiesced. “Different groups live differently. The Black clan is insular and almost secretive. For all I know, they still speak the traveler patois, called Cant or sometimes Gammon. It won’t be easy to find out about Orla’s personal life. She spoke out more than the others about their lifestyle and beliefs, especially after her husband died, but she still didn’t tell me much.”
“Well, you sure seem to know a lot.”
Her eyes danced. “I am a born and bred Savannahian, darlin’. Some things just soak in by osmosis over eighty years.”
The sound of a raised voice reached us through the glass wall, and we turned to see what was going on out front. Ryan was speaking to someone. When he moved to the side, I was surprised that I’d seen his customer before.
“Oh, dear,” Mimsey said as she stood up and moved toward the office door. “I was afraid this might happen.”
“Wait,” I said.
She gave me an impatient look.
“Do you know that woman?”
“Vera Smythe. She’s a regular customer.”
“Can you introduce me?” I asked.
Glancing out at the disgr
untled woman, Mimsey asked, “Whatever for?”
“Because she’s one of the last people whose fortune Orla told before she died. We saw her down on the riverfront, and Vera was one unhappy camper.”
The older witch shot me a frown and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Vera, dear!” she called as she breezed out to the front of her store. “Whatever is the problem?”
I followed behind her, sending out tendrils of intuition to see if I could get any kind of a hit from the blonde. Whether it was from intuition or deduction, I couldn’t know for sure, but Vera Smythe struck me as nervous and sad. Her shiny hair was in a simple ponytail today, and her pale face and red-rimmed eyes gave the impression she’d been crying. She wore black ponte pants, a drop-shouldered T-shirt, and ballet flats.
“Mrs. Carmichael. Thank heavens. Your so-called assistant here can’t seem to locate my weekly bouquet of carnations.”
Mimsey smiled easily. “Let’s take a look. Ryan, perhaps you could check for the order on the computer?”
“But—” he started, until she cut him off with a pointed glance.
He smiled a tight smile. “Sure.” He went into the office and sat down in Mimsey’s chair.
“In the meantime, let me whip up a quick arrangement for you to take with you.” Mimsey bustled over to the refrigerator and lifted out a bucket of white carnations and one of red.
“Can I help with those?” I asked, moving out from behind the counter.
“Thank you, hon, but work like this keeps me fit. Vera, this is my friend Katie Lightfoot.”
“Hello,” she said, her displeasure apparently smoothed by Mimsey’s deft touch.
“Katie, Vera has a salon. You were mentioning that you were thinking about changing your hair, weren’t you?” As she spoke, she began pulling out stems and putting them in a clear vase.
Vera’s expression became less pained as she focused her attention on me. She gestured. “Come over here. Let me look at you.”
Feeling slightly foolish, I complied.
She looked me over with an expert eye. “Excellent bone structure. Beautiful skin tone.”
“Um, thanks,” I said.
“Have you ever tried to do anything about those freckles?”
“I like my freckles,” I said, trying to keep from sounding defensive. “They’re from my mother’s side.”
“Good for you,” she said, reaching up and fluffing my short hair. “Who dyes your hair?”
“No one,” I said. “It’s my natural color.”
She looked surprised. “Really. Well, that’s an unusual shade of red.” She laughed. “Don’t scowl. It’s gorgeous. You’re a very lucky woman.”
“Thank you,” I said, mollified. And then, because I really had no interest in changing my hair, I said, “You look familiar.”
Vera stepped back. “Hmm. I wonder why.”
I snapped my fingers. “The other night. Down by the riverfront. Didn’t I see you at that fortune-teller’s booth?” I braced for an angry response, mentally apologizing to Mimsey.
Her expression turned hard; then she looked like she was about to start crying. “Fortune-teller. Ha.” The words dripped with dread. “She’s a charlatan. I’m going to report her to somebody. The Better Business Bureau or maybe the Downtown Business Association.”
I frowned, debating internally. When I spoke, I watched her carefully. “I don’t know if she was a charlatan or not, but she was in an accident yesterday. She didn’t survive.”
Vera blanched. “That’s horrible. I didn’t like what she told me about my husband, but I’d never want . . .” Her hand flew to her cheek.
Mimsey carried the vase of flowers out. She’d added baby’s breath and spiky bear grass to the red and white blooms. “Here you go, dear.”
Slowly, the blond woman tore her gaze from mine and settled it on the flower arrangement. She started to reach for it, then stopped. “He didn’t order them this week, did he?”
“Ryan is checking on that,” Mimsey said in a kind voice.
A quick glance revealed the young man still at the computer.
Vera sighed. “He didn’t.”
Mimsey handed her the flowers. “Take them anyway. Oh, and Katie brought some of her special goodies from the Honeybee Bakery. Katie, hon? What do you recommend for Vera here?”
Clever woman.
“I think you might like a blackberry thyme muffin,” I said, hurrying over to retrieve one for her.
She juggled the flowers and her purse to take it. “Sounds unusual.”
“If you like it, you should drop by the Honeybee Bakery for more.”
“Mm. We’ll see.” She was looking sadly at the vase of flowers in her hand.
When Vera had left, Mimsey turned to me. “Blackberry thyme?”
“You know I like a little savory with my sweet,” I said. “Thyme complements blackberry well.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“And,” I continued with a grin, “it’s good for strength and courage. It’s also known to attract the opposite sex.” I sobered. “It seemed like Vera might benefit from those aspects.”
Mimsey nodded. “Her husband used to order carnations for her—red for deep love and white for pure love—every week for three years. He hasn’t ordered them for the last two weeks.”
“Hmm,” I mused. “And Orla told her something about her husband that upset her a great deal.”
Enough for her to kill the fortune-teller, though? And if so, how?
Chapter 8
I glanced at my watch on the way out the door. “Uh-oh. Mungo, we need to hurry. The lunch rush is already in full swing.”
Yip!
We set off for the Honeybee at a brisk pace, dodging pedestrians, dog walkers, strollers, and café tables. As we neared the bakery, I could hear the murmur of voices and the clatter of dishes through the propped-open door. Inside, the tables were all full, and a line had formed at the coffee counter. Lucy stood behind the register, looking harried. When she saw me come in the door, she shot me a grateful look and seemed to relax.
We tried not to let customers—or the food police—see my dog in the kitchen. I hadn’t brought my tote bag, so there was no hope of smuggling Mungo back to the office, where he often spent the afternoon snoozing on the club chair.
“Library,” I murmured to my familiar, who obediently jogged through the crowd and hopped into his comfy bed on the bottom bookshelf. A few people noticed him passing and smiled, and as soon as he’d curled up, a little girl went over to pet him. He half closed his eyes in pleasure, and I left him to his adoring fan.
In the kitchen, I quickly donned my apron again and joined Lucy. “What can I do?”
“There are several tables that need busing,” she said. “And three people have ordered croissant sandwiches that I haven’t gotten to.”
“I’ll make those first,” I said, and grabbed the order slip she held out to me.
Quickly, I assembled a caprese sandwich with homemade mozzarella from the local dairy, tomato from a nearby farm, and basil Lucy had grown. Then I smeared a healthy dose of tangy chicken salad studded with pecans on one croissant and layered thin slices of Tasso ham with sharp cheddar and spicy whole-grain mustard on another. Lucy pointed out the threesome of ladies waiting for their lunch at a table by the window, and I delivered it with an apology for taking so long.
“No worries,” one said before taking a big bite.
“It’s worth the wait to get croissants this light and flaky,” said another with a smile.
“You just made my day,” I said. It was true. A nicely placed compliment went a long way, especially when things were busy.
I grabbed the coffeepot from behind Ben and went out to top off a few cups. Jaida had settled into her usual spot and was typing away on her laptop. I stopped by the table and asked, “How
are you getting anything done with this din?” At that moment, the espresso machine let out a long, shrieking whine.
She looked up at me for a few distracted seconds, then reached up and took out an earplug that I hadn’t noticed. “What?”
Patting her on the shoulder, I said, “Never mind. Sorry I bothered you.”
As I began gathering detritus a few inconsiderate customers had left behind—or, to be fair, they might not have noticed the two self-busing stations—I saw a couple sitting at a table near the front door. She had short graying hair and was dressed in light slacks, oxford shirt, and blazer. He wore black dress pants and a light blue shirt with a sedate tie. His hairline was so crisp he may have visited the barber that very morning, and his heavy-framed glasses gave a geek-is-the-new-hip flavor to his appearance. At first, I thought they might be mother and son, but I revised my assessment as I realized he was well into his thirties, while she was probably still in her forties.
What drew my attention to them among all the other patrons was that, though seated, they weren’t eating or drinking anything. Dodging two teenage girls, I approached their table.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m afraid we don’t have table service, but if you place your order at the counter, I can try to bring it out to you.”
“We’re not here to eat,” the woman said. “Are you Lucy Eagel?”
I blinked. “No. I’m Katie Lightfoot.”
She held out her hand to her companion. “File?”
“Of course.” He picked up a briefcase and opened it on the table. Withdrawing a manila folder, he handed it to her.
Flipping it open, she peered at one of the pages it contained. “You’re the niece, then.” She nodded toward the register. “That must be Ms. Eagel.”
I frowned. “May I ask who you are?”
