Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (16 page)

I wondered what his real name was as I shook his hand. His grip was firm, and he nodded
at me with intelligent eyes. “Cookie has mentioned you. It’s nice to finally meet
you.”

My mouth opened in surprise, and he smiled. “We met when she worked at SCAD and dated
for a while after that.” If anything, my surprise deepened, though it shouldn’t have,
given Cookie’s diverse interests in men.

“There are a bunch of us here from the college,” he said. “Come say hello.”

“You go ahead,” I urged Cookie. “I want to look around a little more.”

“Okay. I’ll find you.” She moved off with Damien.

I, of course, headed toward the table of food set up against the back wall.

It was a larger spread than I had expected, but unfortunately not very original. Hummus
and pita chips, rumaki, pallid shrimp with a standard red cocktail sauce for dipping,
bowls of chilled crudités and spinach dip. My thoughts turned to what I might have
made for the event—sausage-stuffed mushrooms, tiny balls of fresh mozzarella marinated
in sherry vinaigrette, bruschetta slathered with olive tapenade, slow-roasted tomatoes
or walnut pesto, a rustic caramelized onion tart cut into thin wedges, and artichoke
Parmesan dip loaded with grated horseradish and a dash of Worcestershire sauce.

All items that would travel well, could be eaten at room temperature, and easily done
in the Honeybee kitchen. But then, we had catered only one event, and that had ended
badly enough that I put the idea of expanding operations firmly out of my head.

I loaded my plate with rumaki and prosciutto-wrapped melon tidbits, grabbed a glass
of red wine, and stepped into a nearby corner to people-watch. One man was talking
to his four companions with exaggerated seriousness, and I couldn’t help but wonder
what he was saying. As he gesticulated, his friends’ faces took on stricken expressions.
After a few moments the group disbanded, each going to another group of people. I
watched as faces fell throughout the room in a kind of domino effect. The level of
energy in the gallery lowered.

Then I saw the man who had started it all come to the buffet table. Trying to be surreptitious,
I stepped over and snagged a cocktail shrimp in time to hear him say to a lanky young
man, “Have you heard?”

The other man shook his head. “Heard what?”

“Larry Eastmore was found dead in Johnson Square yesterday morning.”

Ah. Of course. As an art historian and professor at the Savannah College of Art and
Design, Dr. Eastmore would be well known by many, even most, of the people at Xana
Do! tonight. News of his death was only now beginning to circulate.

“Holy cow,” was the response. “What happened?”

“No one seems to know for sure, but the police are involved. Two detectives questioned
several of us this afternoon at the school.”

“Katie.”

I turned away from the gossipy guys to find Cookie standing next to a man, her arm
twined through his. He wore faded jeans, a red and orange dashiki, and a worn leather
messenger bag strapped across his chest. His dark skin stretched over high cheekbones
and his hairline dipped in an exaggerated widow’s peak centered above a proud nose
and bright green eyes. He exuded “hip” and “cool.”

“I want to introduce you to Brandon Sikes,” Cookie said.

“The genius himself,” I said.

A broad smile lit up his face. “If you say so.”

I smiled back, not sure what to say to an artist who imbued his work with more magic
than creativity. I decided on, “Great turnout this evening.”

Scanning the room, he nodded. “I’m quite pleased.
Xana has already sold several pieces.” He met my eyes. “Are you a patron of the arts
like Cookie here?”

“Well,
patron
might be a bit strong, but I do like to support artists in the community.” I shifted
my weight to the other foot. “If I can afford to, of course.”

He laughed. After a couple of seconds, Cookie joined in. I didn’t think it was particularly
funny, especially if Sikes’ spell work resulted in someone’s buying something they
couldn’t really afford. On the other hand, people did that all the time, with no magic
involved beyond good advertising and the human desire to keep up with the Joneses.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t get a chance to meet you, Mr. Sikes.”

“Brandon, please. Yeah, I was a bit late. Prior engagement and all. Busy life of an
artist.”

“Do tell,” I said. “What the life of an artist entails, I mean.”

“Creating art is a full-time job.”

I allowed my skepticism to show.

“I donate a lot of my time, too.” Now he sounded defensive.

Cookie laughed again, and I shot her a look. She was giddy as a schoolgirl. Had Sikes
charmed her, too? Or was she just flirting, Cookie-style? Whatever was going on, she
wasn’t picking up on the fact that I was trying to find out more about his schedule.
Or maybe she was. I couldn’t tell.

And worse, I couldn’t get any kind of solid hit off Sikes himself. He didn’t seem
terribly trustworthy, but I was basing that on his creative dishonesty, which I found
mildly offensive. But other than that, I couldn’t tell what kind of person he was
at all. He knew
Eastmore was dead, I was sure of that. Was his easy demeanor a cover for his grief,
or did he really not care that a friend and colleague had died? Or had they even been
friends? I couldn’t imagine being in a coven with people who weren’t my friends, but
maybe it was different for men. For druids.

Or for a murderer.

It took only a few seconds for those thoughts to race through my mind. Conversation
flowed around us, and I saw Cookie lean toward him and point at Xana Smythe posting
another
SOLD
sign next to one of his paintings. He nodded as if that was the most normal thing
in the world. Andersen Lane had said whoever stole the Spell of Necretius wanted to
summon Zesh to bring great success on this plane. How much success did Brandon Sikes
need?

A pointless question, perhaps. Some people were simply never satisfied, and he was
obviously willing to employ magic to increase both fame and fortune. But to the point
of summoning a dangerous spirit? He didn’t emanate power like Heinrich Dawes had,
that was for sure. Like his artwork, Sikes struck me as more dull than driven.

A movement over Sikes’ shoulder drew my attention, and I glanced up to find Steve
Dawes staring at me from across the room. A stunning young blond woman spoke to him,
head tipped back to gaze into his face with great earnestness. She wore nearly as
much jewelry as Xana, and her dress looked expensive. As I watched, her hand rose
and she stroked his bare forearm with her fingertips. Unexpected jealousy arrowed
through my solar plexus.

I blinked and looked back at Sikes.

His eyes had narrowed. “What’s your name again? Katie?”

Silently willing Cookie to keep her mouth shut, I smiled. “It was wonderful meeting
you. Wonderful work you do.” I sidled to the left and waved to a nonexistent friend.
“I just saw someone I need to say hello to. Best of luck with the show, Brandon!”
I strode toward the middle of the gallery with a welcoming smile directed at no one
in particular.

Darn it! What a waste this whole evening had been. If Brandon Sikes was the murderer,
I was no closer to proving it, and now he seemed suspicious of me. Great. At least
I’d had the pleasure of seeing Steve out with a beautiful woman.

My attention flickered around the gallery, desperately seeking the restroom. I needed
to take a breath, regroup, figure out if there was any way to salvage something from
this venture.

“No-o-o!” A tall, rail-thin woman wailed, and I turned back toward the buffet table.
“How can you say that? Larry loved
me
!” Even from fifty feet away, I could see that her tears had melted through several
layers of mascara and dribbled in black streaks down her face. She pointed at another
woman, with short blond hair and a dozen silver studs running up the outside of each
ear, also crying near the wine station. “You’re lying.”

The murmurs of individual conversations quieted as all heads turned their way.

The blonde made a sound deep in the back of her throat, took two steps, picked up
a piece of bacon-wrapped chicken liver from a platter, and threw it at the other woman.
It bounced off her collarbone, leaving
a greasy smear visible even in the low light. A collective intake of breath echoed
through the crowd.

We watched slack-jawed as Tall-and-Skinny scooped up a handful of sun-dried tomato
hummus and threw it at Silver Studs—who ducked. It hit Brandon Sikes in the messenger
bag. Cookie skipped aside with a look of surprise. Sikes’ eyes blazed and his mouth
opened in protest. But neither woman paid any attention to the artiste. They were
busy flinging pita chips and shrimp cocktail at each other between shrieking accusations
and swear words. A glob of spinach dip sailed through the air and splattered on a
painting. I watched, fascinated, as it oozed between the metal rivets attached randomly
to the piece.

Silver Studs shrieked as a sploosh of red wine hit her square in the face. Xana Smythe
and two men stepped in as she growled and reached for the full platter of rumaki.

Then Sikes started yammering about suing them, and both women, now restrained, burst
into tears again.

“Come on,” Steve said in my ear. “Let’s get you out of here.” His fingers closed on
my elbow as I turned to look.

I pulled away. “I’m fine.”

He frowned. “I’m not worried about you.”

“What?”

“You don’t think you had anything to do with that?” he indicated the mess of spilled
food and wine.

I stared at him. “I don’t even know those people.”

Everyone seemed focused on what had just happened. A couple of people made halfhearted
attempts to wipe the spinach dip off Sikes’ painting. A shame,
really. The culinary addition was a definite improvement to the aesthetics of the
artwork.

Steve tugged at my arm again, and I let him lead me to the front of the gallery. “Your
very presence can exacerbate a situation. You know that.”

“Oh, come on,” I protested.

“Why are you here, anyway?”

“What did you expect after you sent your buddy Andersen to Lucy’s—to her
home
, Steve?”

He looked down at my hand. Grabbed it and lifted it. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The ring,” he hissed.

“Oh. Right here.” I turned my dragonfly necklace around so he could see how I’d attached
the ring to the chain in back.

Relief flooded his face. “I asked Andersen to come see you all, for your protection.”

“Well, I didn’t think it would be very smart to let another Dragoh know I had it.
Luckily, Cookie’s fits on her toe…” I trailed off, seeing his expression.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know Brandon is a member of the society?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Andersen told us who all of them are, after he asked for our
help.”

He looked confused. “Help? Help with what?”

“Oooh.” I lowered my voice even more, and Steve leaned closer. “Are you going to tell
me you don’t know about the Spell of Necretius?”

I could tell by his expression he had no idea what I was talking about.

“Wow,” I said. “Your friend—at least I assume he’s your friend if you saw fit to ask
him to give us these”—
I gestured toward my neck—“took advantage of your request to drag us even further
into Lawrence Eastmore’s murder investigation.”

Anger flickered behind Steve’s eyes. “I should have known better than to trust him.
Listen, can we get out of here? I need to hear the rest of this.”

I snorted. “What about your date?”

His forehead wrinkled. “What date?”

“Ms. Blond Bombshell with the Italian shoes. I saw her, you know.”

His lips parted briefly, and delight played across his features. “Katie Lightfoot,
you’re jealous!”

“I am not.”

“You are.” His self-satisfied smile continued to curl up one side of his mouth.

I wanted to swipe it off. Instead I felt my face growing hot.

“I’m covering the opening for my column. Modern art in old Savannah, that kind of
thing. Though the food fight does put a twist on things.” He grinned. “And I don’t
bring dates along when I’m working, FYI.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my feet. Why should I be upset if he was dating that woman?
How many times had I told myself I didn’t want to get involved with Steve? Still,
he’d pursued me so steadfastly…

Perhaps I shouldn’t take that for granted. I pushed the thought to the back of my
mind. Time enough to think about such things later.

“I don’t want to leave quite yet,” I said. “I’m hoping I can find out more about where
Brandon was the night before we…I…found Eastmore dead.”

He ignored my oblique reference to Declan. “Well, I can tell you that.”

I felt my eyebrows climb my forehead.

“Brandon was at Father’s house.”

“What? Why?”

“Some confab about a big piece of installation art Brandon wants to do on the Talmadge
Bridge. Father’s helping him get permissions from the city. He ended up staying.”

“All night?”

“All night.”

“How do you know?”

“I stayed in the guesthouse.”

“Why didn’t you go home?”

He shrugged. “I was tired, and I’d had a couple of drinks. So had Brandon. That’s
why he stayed overnight.”

“But not in the guesthouse.”

“No, but I saw him leave the next morning.”

“What about your mother?”

“What about her? She was home, but went to bed early. She’s not interested in Father’s
business dealings.”

“So your mom doesn’t know about the Drag—” I cut myself short as a woman rounded the
partition closest to us, saw Steve, and made a beeline our way.

He shook his head, though whether in answer to my question about his mother or as
a warning, I didn’t know.

“Stevie Dawes, as I live and breathe. You have turned into quite the fine-looking
young man.” She looked familiar, and then I recognized her as the woman who had filled
out the job application at the Honeybee. She’d replaced the denim jumper and Birkenstocks
with a flowing red caftan that would have made a gypsy proud. Her gray hair, still
braided, was now coiled in a
crown on top of her head. Given the fine lines that fanned from her smiling dark blue
eyes. I judged her to be in her mid-fifties.