by Bailey Cates
I became aware of what I was wearing and looked down at my tank and knit shorts. Great. Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “Deck—”
He held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it. You’ve made your choice.”
“No, wait. You don’t understand. And I do need your help.”
Incredulity infused his features. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What favor?” Steve asked me, his gaze running over my body.
“I wanted him to go with me to see Greer Eastmore.”
“You don’t need him for that,” Steve said. “I’ll go with you.”
“It’s none of your business, Dawes,” Declan said.
“It’s more my business than yours,” Steve countered.
“Katie and I found that man in the square, not you.”
“There’s more going on than you know, McCarthy, more than you’re equipped to deal with.”
The muscles along Declan’s jawline flexed dangerously.
“Will you two stop it?” I said.
Declan turned to face me. “Yes. I will. You’re on your own. Good luck with this guy, Katie. I’m done playing your game.” And he strode out the door. It slammed behind him. I heard his pickup start up out front and the squeal of tires as he accelerated away.
A low whine issued from the back of Mungo’s throat.
Margie would be asking all sorts of questions about the screeching comings and goings in the last twelve hours. With a sigh, I pushed the thought out of my mind. Enough time to think about that later.
“You stayed here all night?” I asked Steve.
“Did you really think I’d leave you alone?”
“I was too tired to think anything,” I said with a grimace. “But thank you.”
“Sure got you in trouble with your firefighter.”
“He’s not—” I started to protest, then saw him grinning. “Stop it.”
Steve shrugged and changed the subject. “I called Lucy around five this morning—luckily she was up and heading out the door to the bakery already—and told her you weren’t feeling well. She said she’d call your new employee in to cover for you.”
My shoulders relaxed a fraction, then tensed again. “You didn’t tell her about last night?”
“No. I thought that should be your decision.”
“And she knew you were here.”
“Yes.” Amused.
Great. More explanations. Though knowing Lucy, she would applaud any forward momentum in my love life.
“Katie, go shower and put on some clothes, will you? You’re driving me crazy in that getup. I’ll throw together something to eat, and we can discuss Greer Eastmore.”
* * *
Despite the after-midnight nosh, Mungo and I both wolfed down the breakfast Steve had set out on the back patio: bowls of my homemade granola topped with yogurt and fresh strawberries from the garden. A couple cups of strong, steaming coffee didn’t hurt, either. As we ate, Steve played with my amulet, running it over and through his fingers like a Las Vegas showman.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I don’t want it anymore,” I said.
He paused in his machinations, considering, then nodded. He reached back and unwrapped the leather braid from his ponytail. His hair swung forward, obscuring his face as he worked something out of the plait. It flashed in a wayward ray of sunlight that had found its way under the patio roof. When he held it up, I saw a thin silver wire circle.
It was one of the Dragoh rings.
“Steve, no.”
“Hush.” He removed the ruined amulet Lucy had given me, and slipped the thin ring onto the chain instead. Then he stood and fastened it around my neck. His fingers ran lightly across my jawline, just once, and he sat down again.
The thin metal felt cool against my warm skin. I watched him tie his hair back once more.
“This is your protection, isn’t it? But aren’t these to repel Dragoh magic?”
“It’s supposed to fend off all potentially harmful magic, actually. Father gave one to me and one to Arnie when we were children.”
“You can’t give this to me,” I protested again.
“I just did. Besides, I don’t know how much good these really do, you know? The one Andersen gave you didn’t help much last night.”
“We don’t know that,” I said. “It might have been part of what saved me.”
“Well, Arnie’s sure didn’t do him much good.”
I knew by now it wouldn’t do any good to point out that his brother had perished as a result of bad judgment, not magic. So all I said was, “Thank you.”
* * *
Half an hour later my big, powerful wolf from the night before was sitting in my tote bag as Steve drove us to the Honeybee. I’d insisted that we stop by and put Lucy’s and Ben’s worries to rest. Besides, Nel was still brand-new, and it seemed like a lot to ask her to cover for me on her very first full day as an employee. Even though Steve suggested I check in via telephone, I knew I wouldn’t feel right until I’d stopped by and made sure everything was okay. Besides, it was only blocks from the Eastmore home.
After breakfast, I’d showered, and now I wore sedate khaki capris, a short-sleeved camp shirt, and flip-flops—unsexy and mundane. Still, I kept catching Steve’s eyes cutting to where I sat in the passenger seat, looking at me in a way that reminded me of how Mungo looked at steak sizzling on the hibachi.
I remembered the break in my resolve the night before, how I’d clung to him. The feel of his hands on my back, his lips on my neck…
“Whatcha thinking about?” he asked.
I realized I’d been staring straight at him without speaking for over a minute. A deep blush crept up my neck and flared in my cheeks. “Nothing. So what do you know about Greer Eastmore?”
He shrugged. “Not much since I was a boy. He’s in his late forties, and he left to live in Europe when I was about fourteen. So he would have been in his twenties still. I remember him as a pretty cool guy, actually. He’d toss a ball around with me—something my father never had the time or inclination to do. Greer took me hiking right before he left, on the Tupelo Trail in the wildlife refuge. We made a fire and cooked our lunch over it. Fried baloney on a stick.” His laugh held bitterness. “Can you believe that? But wow, did I feel like a real Boy Scout.”
I thought of fourteen-year-old Steve, poor little rich boy, thrilled with the experience of eating baloney toasted over a fire in the woods.
“Then he went away,” he continued. “And he ended all contact with his father for decades. I missed him, but it broke Lawrence’s heart.”
“That’s what Andersen said.” The fear I’d been successfully keeping at bay suddenly swooped through me. “Do you think Greer attacked me?”
“I don’t know.” He sounded almost angry.
“Does he practice magic at all? Or did he turn his back on it altogether when he broke off contact with his father?”
He lifted one shoulder and let it drop.
“We really don’t know anything about him. Maybe he needed money.” I was thinking out loud. “He obviously wasn’t close to his father. What if the murder didn’t have anything to do with the Dragohs or the Spell of Necretius? Maybe he killed his father out of old-fashioned family greed.”
“Then why is the spell for summoning Zesh gone?” Steve asked.
My throat tightened at the name. “Right. I don’t know. Maybe someone else took it? What does Greer do, anyway? Is he obsessed with worldly success?”
“Not unless he’s changed a lot. He used to be kind of a Bohemian, actually. The family money was part of the problem between him and his father.”
“Heck.” I thought for a moment. “Who knows? Perhaps Eastmore Junior will turn out to be another ally in this investigation. At least be able to shed some light on what happened. Seems like we could use all the help we can get, you know. Tomorrow is Samhain.”
“Just be careful when you’re talking to
him.”
I put up a hand. “I’m not going to spill the beans. Andersen suggested I ask to borrow another book from Dr. Eastmore’s collection for our book club.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Right.”
“No, really. He wants me to get a copy of The 33 Curses for the counterspell he’s working on in case the killer tries to summon this Zesh character.” But something had been bothering me ever since I’d talked to Andersen the day before. I waited, allowing the thought to gel. “Steve, do you think…Could Andersen have asked me to help him in order to divert attention from himself? He’s the only druid who doesn’t have an alibi. He told me he got into Dr. Eastmore’s collection and took a couple of books to help with the counterspell, but what if he didn’t? What if he wants me to get this other book because he can’t get in? I mean, something called The 33 Curses doesn’t exactly sound like it’s full of nice fluffy magic.”
Steve’s expression was grim as he pulled to the curb a few doors down from the Honeybee.
“But we have to do something,” I said. “If whoever came after me last night has the additional power of this Zesh character behind them, things are going to get really bad really fast.”
Chapter 23
I slowed as we approached the entrance. “You might not want to mention going to see Greer in front of our new employee,” I said.
Steve looked at me in surprise. “Okay.”
“Not that you would anyway, but I rather suspect she knows him. She sure knew you, ‘Stevie.’”
He stopped. “You’re kidding. Nel?”
I nodded. “Cookie roped her in after we left the gallery the other night. As her replacement. She’d already filled out an application, and it turns out the early-morning hours of a bakery are a bit much for Ms. Rios.”
He snorted. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“It also turns out your old friend has plenty of experience working in a bakery, a portfolio of cake decorating, and her arrival dovetailed perfectly with Cookie’s plans. Andersen said she didn’t know anything about her father’s druidic activities, but she told Lucy that she’s a practicing Wiccan. Lucy was so relieved that the spellbook club wouldn’t have to sneak around and that we could continue to practice our hedgewitchery at the bakery.”
He shook his finger slowly in my face. “I knew you hexed your baked goods.” His voice was triumphant.
“We don’t hex! We…help.”
“Whatever. Still, I’m glad it worked out with Nel. Like Greer, she’s quite a bit older than us, but she was awfully nice to Arnie and me and the other kids.”
“So you all socialized?” I said, opening the door. The bell tinkled over our heads.
“All our families have been friends for a long time. Oh. My. God.”
As I followed him inside I saw what he meant. Our adorable, homemade, kitschy Halloween decorations still festooned the bakery, but there were a few additions.
“Katie! You’re okay! Thank goodness!” Nel bustled toward us. Her skirt was cotton today, bright orange and covered with black cats. She wore a tall black witch hat with the top bent over, and a pair of false buckteeth jutted over her lower lip. Boots with long, curled toes adorned her feet, and she wore striped stockings like something out of The Wizard of Oz.
So much for perpetuating the witchy stereotype. Still, she looked both dorky and adorable, and it was hard not to laugh. She looked tired, though, and I felt bad for making her come in early after she’d worked until closing time the evening before.
Ben waved at me from the register. “Glad you’re feeling better, Katie! How do you like what we’ve done? Nel had all sorts of suggestions.”
“And supplies,” she said in a low tone. “I must say, Halloween is my favorite holiday—you can guess why, of course—and my dear father had lots of decorations stowed away in a back closet. I’m so glad to have a chance to bring them out and dust them off.”
A booming bwa-ha-ha right by my ear made me jump. I turned to find a full-sized skeleton leering down at me, its eyes flashing green. Apparently it had some kind of movement sensor that prompted it to sound off.
“Sorry! Let’s just turn this guy off until the party tomorrow night, okay? The kids will love him.”
I nodded. “That’s a bit too realistic, though!” I pointed to the big hairy spider, a foot in diameter, which now hugged the wall by the bookshelf. A wide smile split Ben’s face. Maybe Croft had been right: Men like Halloween to be a little spookier.
A scarecrow in prison stripes crowded next to my uncle behind the register, but he didn’t seem to mind. A withered hand lay across the jars of biscotti on top of the display case.
“It certainly does look…festive,” I said.
Lucy came out of the kitchen then. Her forehead cleared when she saw me. “I thought I heard your voice. How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “Still have that little errand I mentioned to you yesterday. Steve’s going with me. Then I’ll come back.”
If I’d expected her to so much as give me a suggestive look at the mention of Steve, I’d been wrong. My aunt obviously wasn’t worried about my love life right now. But she was still worried about me.
Nel hovered nearby.
“I’ll tell you about everything later, okay?”
Lucy inclined her head. “I’ll look forward to that. See you in a few hours, then?”
“If not before.”
Outside, I asked Steve, “You sure you didn’t tell her anything about the attack?”
“Nope. But she’s an intuitive lady, and she loves you very much. She knows something went on. And I don’t mean between us.”
I let that drop, still unwilling to talk about what had happened between us.
Or almost happened.
* * *
Lawrence Eastmore’s house was relatively small, but obviously old. Gray bricks made more than a century earlier from the unique mud on the Hermitage Plantation accented the windows. Those bricks were associated very specifically with the area but had become quite rare and expensive. Iron filigree swooped through the railing that enclosed the small second-story balcony overlooking the street. The top of the railing boasted wickedly sharp spikes. Elaborate gargoyles with large ears and leering expressions peered down from the corner downspouts, and the front door had been painted deep red.
It was the kind of architecture you’d find all over Savannah—and elsewhere in the South, save for the unique gray brick—but I could see how it might strike Detective Franklin Taite, self-appointed hunter of witches and their ilk, as sinister.
In fact, standing in front of the place and knowing that its owner had been murdered made me think it looked a little sinister. Too bad, though, because if Greer Eastmore had been the one who’d invaded my head the night before, I had a bone to pick with him.
“Stay in the car?” I asked Mungo, rolling the window down all the way.
He blinked his acquiescence.
With Steve on my heels, I marched up and whacked the big lion paw knocker against the brass plate. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as we waited. After about a minute, Steve reached around me and tried the knocker again, this time with a little testosterone behind it.
Nothing.
Scanning the area revealed no doorbell. It was the knocker or nothing.
“He’s not here,” Steve said. “Let’s go.”
But now that we were here, on Lawrence Eastmore’s actual property, I didn’t want to go. Not just yet. A cool breeze brushed my cheek, caressing it with elemental fingers. It made me think of the spirit who had recently inhabited the physical shell Declan and I had found Saturday morning.
Only one day until Samhain. The day when the veil between the dead and the living was the thinnest. I wondered how far away Lawrence Eastmore’s spirit really was at that moment. I managed to stop myself before actually looking around to see if it was nearby.
Because that was just silly. Rig
ht?
“Let’s go around to the back, see if maybe Greer is there.” I pulled at Steve’s arm.
He pulled back. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why? He wouldn’t be able to hear the knocker from back there.”
“Didn’t you tell me that Larry was struck in back of his house?”
“In the potting shed, Taite said.”
“You’re curious, aren’t you? You want to see where. Katie, that’s pretty macabre.”
“No, that’s not it at all. You really think I want to look at a murder scene? That’s so icky.” I tipped my head to one side. “It’ll be cleaned up by now, don’t you think? Come on.”
“I hope so, for your sake,” Steve muttered as he followed me around the corner of the house.
Dr. Eastmore’s backyard was anything but spacious. The eight-by-eight potting shed took up most of the far left corner of the garden. A tin roof covered the structure, which had slatted walls open to the rest of the yard. Wisteria had twined muscular branches through the slats, creating a charming organic enclosure. The yellow police tape draped around it looked almost festive.
A tall, spiky hedge accented the back fence and created even more of a barrier between the yard and the alleyway that ran behind. One of the trees teetered in a five-gallon pot near the gap in the hedge where it was obviously meant to go. I went over and found a large hole in the ground.
Lawrence Eastmore had been wearing old gardening clothes, and my bet was that the dirt Declan and I had seen on them was from digging this very hole.
I took another look at the plant. Shiny, waxy leaves ended in spiked scallops. It wasn’t the typical Christmas holly, but it was holly nonetheless.
I felt rather than heard Steve at my side. “Savannah holly,” I said, without looking at him. Like Lawrence Eastmore’s tattoo. “Do you have one?”