by Bailey Cates
She moved toward their back door.
“Mungo,” I called, stooping to pick up the harvest basket. “C’mon.” The JJs waved and turned to clamber up the bright plastic play structure in the middle of their yard.
Mungo ran to the fence and followed me along the other side as I made my way toward the front of the house. I let him out of Margie’s yard and together we approached the Bug. The smell of spicy pork and seafood reached us before we got to the car. Bracing, I opened the passenger door.
“Yuck.”
Yip!
Sighing, I went in the front door, put the veggies on the counter, and gathered rags and paper towels. I laced a bucket of warm water with a dose of white vinegar and dish soap and grabbed a couple of plastic bags. Back outside, Mungo grinned at me from a prone position in the grass as I scooped bits of shrimp and sausage into the take-out container.
“A lot of help you are,” I grumbled.
Out came the floor mat, which I dosed liberally with the vinegar-and-soap solution and then sprayed off with the hose in the driveway. Then I set to soaking and scrubbing and wiping down the hard surfaces. By the time I was done, I was pretty sure I never needed to eat any kind of sausage again, but at least the smell was largely gone from the car. A few sprigs of parsley in the Bug’s built-in vase might look funny, but they would act as a deodorizer overnight.
I, however, desperately needed a shower. Bundling the used cleaning materials into a plastic bag, I grabbed my empty bucket as a car pulled up to the curb in front of the carriage house.
Not just any car. A Lincoln Town Car. As I watched, a man got out from behind the wheel and moved to the rear door. He opened it, and a tall man unfolded himself from the backseat and stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. His driver closed the door behind him and returned to sit behind the wheel.
His driver.
Why the heck was someone with a driver standing in front of my house?
Chapter 6
The man spotted me gawking at him and began walking my way. His precision-cut hair was the color of caramel but heavily streaked with gray. That coincided with the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth. He stopped in front of me, and I looked into those eyes. They were gray, so light as to be almost colorless, with a charcoal-colored ring around the irises. They were eerie, indeed, but the feature that really threw me was the newcomer’s mouth.
It was very familiar. Lord knew, I’d spent more time than I should have thinking about Steve Dawes’ mouth. About the way the upper lip curved, about how smooth the lower lip was. About how it felt on mine.
The gentleman’s lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth and then quirked up in a wry smile. That was all I needed to know for sure. This man had to be Steve’s father.
What in blazes? Steve drove a nice car, sure, but this guy was rich. He wore a suit the same dark gray as the ring around his irises. I’m no expert on sartorial elegance, but it looked plenty expensive.
“Ms. Lightfoot, it’s about time we met. I’m Heinrich Dawes.”
I put the empty bucket down on the ground. “Um, nice to meet you.” It sounded almost like a question.
He held out his hand. I glanced down and saw that the cuff of his crisp blue shirt was fastened with actual silver cuff links. Who wore cuff links anymore? And not silver. Of course not. They’d be platinum.
Half stunned, I transferred the bundle of plastic-wrapped cleaning rags to my left hand and began to reach out to shake his hand with my right. A soggy hunk of sausage meat dropped onto my foot and bounced wetly to the pavement of the driveway. I jerked my hand back, realizing it was still sticky with a combination of soap and soup, and heard Mungo slurping up the sausage next to my flip-flop. The faint scent of shrimp drifted into my nose.
If I could have crawled inside that bucket, I would have.
“Sorry. Just cleaning up a little accident. Would you like to come inside?” I heard the coolness in my tone regardless of my flushed face, and it made me feel a little better.
He dropped his hand, emanating ease. “That would probably be best.”
Best for what?
He followed me up the walk and into the house. As soon as we entered the enclosed space I could feel his power. It was like a live thing accompanying him. Some of it was the simple secular power that came from the kind of wealth Heinrich Dawes obviously enjoyed, but there was something else. Something more. Something from another plane. I was disconcerted to realize it felt familiar, as if it shared a signature, a scent even.
The scent of leather and cloves that I associated with his son.
Heinrich’s gaze flicked around the living room, up to the loft above, down the hallway to my bedroom, and beyond the French doors to the yard and gardens.
Examining and assessing.
Judging.
“Excuse me while I dispose of this. Please make yourself comfortable.” I nodded toward the purple fainting couch and went toward the kitchen. “May I get you something to drink, Mr. Dawes?”
“Heinrich, please. No, thank you, Katie. If I may call you that?”
“Sure,” I called over the sound of water running as I scrubbed my hands clean. A movement in my peripheral vision reminded me that Mungo had followed us in. Now he sat in the corner, eyes boring into me. I raised my eyebrows in question, and his little doggy forehead wrinkled.
When I returned to the other room he followed me as far as the doorway. He seemed to be as intrigued by our visitor as I was—but also leery.
Heinrich had settled into one of my two leather wingback chairs, so I sat on the couch, with the Civil War–era trunk that served as a coffee table between us. After a few seconds of hesitation, Mungo trotted over and joined me. I smiled at Steve’s dad and waited.
What do you want?
As if he read my mind, he said, “Naturally you’re wondering why I’ve so rudely dropped by unannounced.”
I kept smiling. “It’s nice to finally meet you, whatever the circumstances.” Did that sound rude?
Nah.
Yeah, maybe. But he had indeed shown up without the slightest warning.
He sat back. “My son thinks a great deal of you.”
Surely this wasn’t some kind of matchmaking mission? I cocked my head to one side, choosing my words carefully. “I’m quite fond of Steve as well.”
“He’s told me quite a bit about you.”
Like what? Steve had hardly even mentioned to me that he had a father.
But…mental palm slap to forehead. He’d said he had to talk to someone before telling me more about the tattooed wreath sigil. Was this the someone? Why else would Heinrich Dawes suddenly feel the need to meet me?
My stomach tightened.
Heinrich’s sweeping gesture encompassed the whole dwelling. “I see you are discreet about your practices, even in private.”
The fist in my solar plexus clenched harder. “Practices?”
“Please. The five-pointed rosemary topiary by the front door would be enough of a giveaway, even if I didn’t already know you’re a witch.” He settled his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “And yes, my son is indeed correct. You have tangible power.”
Takes one to know one, I thought in silence. I wanted to hear what else he would say before I offered him anything.
“For a woman, of course.”
“Excuse me?”
He waved his hand in the air as if my words were nothing more than a tendril of smoke. “The fact that you don’t put yourself on display with odd clothing choices or some silly altar in plain view confirms what Steve told me about your ability to keep things to yourself.”
I carefully did not look up to where my altar was hidden in the closed secretary desk in the loft above. “I see,” I grated out. Steve’s dad or not, in only a few sentences this man had cast aspersions on me personally and my gender as a whole.
He smiled, revealing those straight white Dawes teeth again. But now I saw the naked arro
gance come through, which made his smile more feral than friendly.
“Steve tells me you happened upon an unfortunate this morning.”
I inclined my head a fraction. “That’s one way of putting it.” Now we were getting to the meat of why this man was in my living room.
“That must have been quite alarming.”
“It was…unpleasant,” I agreed, downplaying my reaction.
“I understand. But you handled yourself with aplomb, and I expect you to do the same regarding the tattoo on the man’s arm which has so aroused your curiosity.”
Arrogant and a chauvinist. Fine. I could work with that. Allowing my lips to curve up in a demure smile, I looked down at the floor and waited for him to say more.
Instead, he stood up. “So glad we got that straightened out. And of course it’s gratifying to get to know Steve’s new lady.”
I came to my feet, too, dumping Mungo on the couch cushion with a thump. “Hang on.”
His eyebrows raised an infinitesimal amount.
“First off, I’m no one’s ‘lady’ and certainly not your son’s. Secondly, what do you mean we have this straightened out? Because by ‘this’ I assume you mean the tattoo, and the, uh, group it implies membership in. Since you haven’t told me anything about it, I don’t really see a need for any of that discretion and aplomb you seem to assume I possess.”
Heinrich looked down his nose at me. With an effort, I stood my ground and willed cool confidence into my own expression.
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I see I may have been misled.”
Only by your own prejudices.
“All right,” he said. “Steve told me that Carmichael woman filled your head with a bunch of ridiculous nonsense. You need to put her fairy tales out of your mind. The tattoo you saw indicates membership in a very exclusive Savannah men’s club.” He licked his lips. “The Dragoh Society. If you must think of it at all, think of the club as a kind of Sons of the American Revolution.”
I considered him. “Really. So this Dragoh Society does the same kinds of things that the SAR does? You’re all about education and patriotism and the preservation of history, then? Pretty dull men’s club.”
His lips turned up, but you couldn’t really call it a smile. He inclined his head.
“You’re obviously a member,” I said.
A slight hesitation before he said, “I am.”
“So who did I find in Johnson Square this morning?”
“Ms. Lightfoot, I assure you I don’t have the slightest idea. There are many members, and we don’t all know each other.”
So much for Heinrich and me being on a first-name basis. I didn’t believe him, either. He knew who the dead man was.
I said, “Now that you’re aware the dead man had the club tattoo, you’ll naturally pass the information about this Dragoh Society on to the police.”
He frowned. “Why would—”
“To help them identify the body, of course.”
“Of course.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll make that my next stop.”
“Detective Peter Quinn,” I said.
He stopped in midstride and half turned back. “Who?”
“Peter Quinn. One of the detectives on the case. He’s a friend of mine.”
Now facing me, Heinrich slowly raised one finger. “Do not threaten me, Katie.”
“I wasn’t.”
The finger waggled slowly back and forth. “Not ever. You are now aware of the existence of a well-established men’s club that has been around for a very long time. That’s more than most women—people—know. Be happy with that, because you would be well advised to keep out of the society’s business.”
I heard the Command in the last sentence. It rolled off me like rain on polished glass, but I nodded as if it had worked as Heinrich Dawes intended. He’d told me all he was going to, and suddenly it felt imperative to get him out of my home.
“Okay,” I said, injecting a little sweetness into my tone. “Thank you. Say hello to Steve for me. It was lovely to finally meet you.” I smiled big and bright.
He seemed to buy it. “Likewise.”
I closed the door behind him and watched through the slats of the wooden shutter as his driver opened the door of the Town Car and Heinrich Dawes climbed inside. Mungo joined me. I picked him up and together we watched Steve’s dad being driven away.
The dog licked my chin.
“I know. There’s something off about that guy. I don’t know that it’s anything evil. An unfortunate combination of arrogance and power, perhaps.” I put Mungo down and thought about what my aunt did whenever she wanted to rid a space of negative influences. “Whatever it is, let’s dig out the white sage. You know Lucy would tell us to smudge this place from top to bottom.”
Yip!
At least Heinrich had gone back to calling me Katie before he left. I tried to think of that as a good thing.
Chapter 7
Smudging, while effective, can be stinky. Mungo and I used stalks of white sage, the stems tied together with twine. But Heinrich Dawes had unsettled me, and I felt compelled to double-smudge, if you will. So after walking the perimeter of each room with the smoking bundle of sage, I did the same with juniper berry incense. The combination of scents was acrid and heady—and quite frankly a little hard to take. All for the good, though. At least the carriage house was small.
After opening the French doors wide, I went to throw open the windows facing the street to encourage more airflow. It would be just my luck for Margie to pop over unannounced. She did that with remarkable frequency, always when I was up to something witchy. Luckily, most of the time my workings looked like cooking or gardening to my neighbor, and since she avoided doing both she rarely paid attention. Also, for magical rituals that looked odd—or smelled odd—I usually worked late at night, either inside with my windows thoroughly covered or outside where I could draw on the power of the moon. Even so, Margie had interrupted me a few times when she’d sneaked out to her backyard to eat Twinkies and Ding Dongs like a smoker steals an illicit puff.
As I pushed the front windows open, a familiar black Land Rover pulled up right where Heinrich Dawes’ driver had parked by the curb. Steve got out and hurried up to the door, not noticing that I was looking out the window. The sound of his fist pounding on the wood made me jump.
“Katie! Let me in! Katie—” His face showed brief surprise when I yanked the door open.
“Stop yelling and get in here,” I hissed and stepped back so he could enter. “Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear?”
Sure enough, over his shoulder I saw Margie out by her mailbox. I smiled and waved. After a few seconds Margie waved back, but she still looked concerned.
Steve sniffed the air as I shut the door behind him. I flapped my hands, a futile gesture that did nothing to dissipate the smell of smoke. Before I could say anything, he held up his palms.
“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I had no idea Father would come over here like that. Did he frighten you?”
More than his apology, the way he said the word “Father” gave me pause, made me wonder what their relationship might be like. After all, Steve hadn’t told me anything about his father; in fact, he’d dodged my questions about his family the few times I’d asked. I’d assumed it was because of the tragic death of his younger brother and backed off.
“He didn’t frighten me as much as make me angry.”
He sniffed the air again. “Yeah, Father elicits that reaction, too. You seem to have removed any lingering effects, though.”
I looked down at Mungo. “We did our best.”
Steve leaned down and offered the back of his hand for the dog to sniff. Mungo did, then walked over to the French doors and lay across the threshold. Over a period of several months he’d come to accept Steve, but if enthusiastic greetings counted as votes, then Declan had already won the election.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go out back and let the air clear
in here.” I thought about offering him something to eat, but decided against it. If he wanted to walk out of the restaurant before finishing his lunch, that was his problem. Instead, I poured two glasses of plain iced tea and topped them with sprigs of spearmint. No more wine for me. I had a feeling I’d need to be on my toes for the conversation Steve and I were about to have.
He followed me out to the gazebo, Mungo right behind him. It was my sacred garden circle, but it was also a great place to sit and chat. At least Steve was a witch. Or something like a witch. I was about to get some serious clarification on a few things. I set the sweating glasses on the table and we settled into mismatched wooden chairs I’d chosen more for comfort than style. Steve pointed at the floor.
“Subtle.”
I looked down at the star I’d painted in the center. It was purple, outlined in white, and about ten inches in diameter. Shrugging, I said, “It’s not an obvious pentagram.” Noticing white granules on the floor, I hopped up, grabbed the straw broom leaning against the wall, and swept the salt left behind from the last circle I’d cast in the gazebo out of the structure. “Guess I could be a bit tidier about cleaning up after I work in here, though.”
The scents of roses and mint mingled in the air. I flipped a switch on the wall and the ceiling fan began to stir the warm mugginess. A phalanx of dragonflies drifted in to take up station around the gazebo. The sound of a lawn mower droned from a few doors down.
Steve took a long swallow of tea as I returned to my seat. “I never intended to put you in Father’s sights when I spoke with him,” he said. “But I couldn’t tell you anything about that tattoo until I’d checked with him. It’s simply not my secret to tell. Do you understand?” He sounded almost like he was pleading.
I’d never seen him so discombobulated. “Of course.”
“So…what did he say to you?”
Now I took a drink of tea, thinking. “Oh, you know. All that stuff about the Dragoh Society.”
Steve’s jaw dropped.
“How long they’ve been around, what they’re all about.” I kept my tone light.