Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery Page 12

  “Come on, Mungo. Help me pick out something to wear.”

  He stood and stretched into a wide yawn that showed his startling pink tongue.

  In my bedroom, I stared at the items hanging in the two matching armoires that served as my closet. Lots of skirts and T-shirts for work, and my nonwork wardrobe was just as casual. But there, in the back. I pulled it out and nodded to myself. A floor-length, silk tiered skirt, tie-dyed brown and orange and gold. Lucy had given it to me because it was too large for her tiny frame. I added a shimmery brown tank top and a nice pair of sandals. I should be set for the Bohemian crowd.

  The glint of the thin ring on my thumb caught my eye. No reason to advertise anything given me by a Dragoh. I slipped it off and, unhooking my dragonfly amulet, slid the ring onto the chain. It hung perfectly hidden behind the O of the necklace, slightly cold against my skin.

  In the bathroom my reflected eyes gazed back at me, assessing my features for a moment before I shrugged and reached for the hairbrush. I liked my face well enough to leave it out there bare of makeup most of the time, but my short hair needed help tonight. First I tried to slick it down, but hated that, so I loaded it with styling product and ruffled it up all over until I thought it looked, well, artsy.

  I checked the time. It would have to do, or else I’d be late picking Cookie up. I slipped into the skirt and tank, grabbed a little sweater, and glanced over my shoulder into the full-length mirror one last time. Lucy had been right: The color combination complemented my auburn hair and set off my eyes.

  Even if I did say so myself.

  Chapter 16

  The gallery opened at seven thirty, and Cookie and I arrived at eight fifteen. It was not fashionably late by any means, but we figured Brandon Sikes would be there for his whole show in order to meet and greet as many potential buyers as possible. The fewer competitors for his attention, the better.

  Of course, we were wrong.

  Inside, the air-conditioning was going full blast, and I was happy for the small amount of warmth my sweater offered. Black track lights hung from the high ceilings, focused on the oversized artwork on walls and partitions painted the color of roasted red peppers. The spotlights left the areas between in relative shadow. Several knots of people murmured amongst themselves. A group of high school students huddled together uncomfortably in a back corner, and I wondered if Sikes’ opening might be an art class assignment. A hint of something savory in the air—bacon?—snagged my notice for a moment before it was overcome by a whiff of expensive perfume.

  “Welcome to Xana Do! Gallery.”

  Cookie and I turned to find a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a sleek black sheath that hugged her every curve until it widened below her knees and fell in a dark chiffon froth to the tops of her very shiny and very pointy shoes. Her hair, streaked too many shades of blond to list, was gathered in a sleek French twist at the back of her head. The updo accentuated the diamonds glittering at her ears and diving down to a respectable cleavage.

  I suddenly felt like something Mungo had dug up in the backyard.

  “I’m Xana Smythe. So very happy you could come! Are you fans of Brandon’s?” Her smile revealed a small gap between her front teeth, and her eager-puppy demeanor was at odds with the crusty British accent. I found myself utterly charmed, and forgave her for being so well put together.

  Cookie wore a cobalt blue minidress that barely covered her posterior and heels so high it was hard for me to imagine her taking more than three steps in them. Her dark, eggplant-tinted hair flowed straight down her back, accented with only a single orchid. She was supremely comfortable in her own skin, and frankly, of the two of them, she looked more at ease in the red-tinged light. She marched up to Xana and embraced her like an old friend. “I’m Cookie, and this is Katie.”

  A startled look crossed the gallery owner’s face, but then she relaxed into another smile.

  “I adore Brandon’s work,” Cookie said. “Always have. Katie has not been exposed to his talent before, however.” She let go of Xana and searched the room. “I don’t see him anywhere…”

  “Brandon darling will be here soon.” Xana’s eyes darted toward the entrance, though, and as they did, stress rolled off her in waves.

  Brandon darling was late.

  “Please help yourself to some hors d’oeuvres and take a look around. Oh! Mrs. Cisco, welcome!” And she was off to talk to a new arrival.

  My companion looked at me with raised eyebrows. “I wonder where he is.”

  “I wonder where he was when Lawrence Eastmore was killed.” I took a step in the direction Xana had indicated. “Are you hungry?”

  But Cookie stood riveted in front of one of Brandon Sikes’ masterpieces.

  Moving to her side, I leaned my head back in order to see the whole thing. “That is one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen on a wall. Or a floor, for that matter.” Then I saw the price on the placard that stated the title of the work: Afternoon Destiny. “Good Lord, Cookie! How could anyone pay that much for this?”

  “Shh!” she hissed. “Someone might hear you.”

  “Why is he so famous, again?” I whispered.

  “Can’t you see?” She spread her arms out in a wide gesture. “His unique use of media, how he mixes paper and wood and paint in with the images?”

  Squinting, I ticked my head to the side. She was certainly right about his mix-and-match method, but the piece left me cold. Though modern art wasn’t generally my thing, I had to admit that much of it left an emotional impression, or at least an aesthetic one—for good or bad. But this was devoid of effect. Empty and dull.

  Yet, somewhere deep down I had a curious desire to purchase it. What the…“Oh, Cookie.” Looking around to make sure no one was standing nearby, I leaned toward her ear and spoke in a low voice. “This piece is glamoured.”

  She blinked. Took a step back. After a few moments she turned and looked at me with wide eyes. “I feel so stupid. How could you tell?” She didn’t come right out and say anything about my being a newbie to magic, but I knew that’s what she was thinking.

  I shrugged. “Not sure. But it’s a good job, don’t you think? Subtle.”

  “I’ll say.” She moved to the next piece on display. “This one feels the same way. And even though I can tell it’s charmed, I still want it.”

  “No wonder he’s so successful,” I said, glancing around at the thickening crowd. Xana was posting a SOLD sign next to a piece near the front door, looking pleased.

  “Cookie!” A goth vision approached, dripping black leather and metal buckles and sporting black lipstick and hair spiked straight up. The voice and the five o’clock shadow identified the newcomer as male despite the heavy eyeliner.

  “Damien,” Cookie responded, hugging him. “It’s so good to see you. This is Katie.”

  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 in
to 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?”