Win had insisted we utilize the talents of some of the food truck owners, and the Bustamantes were high on his list, as was Carlito, now an honorary Bustamante, according to Maggie and her boys. Her daughter Bianca was still warming to him.
Long story short, Tito Bustamante was murdered last month, and he’d owned a taco truck—the best-ever taco truck. My favorite dining experience in all of Ebenezer Falls. Tito’s son, Carlito—a son he went to his grave unaware of—had come to town to locate his biological father in the middle of the investigation into Tito’s death.
Tito’s adopted sons, Mateo and Juan Felipe, now ran the taco truck in their father’s stead, and they’d included Carlito in every way possible.
But I didn’t even have time to consider how proud Tito would have been if he could see his adopted children, born to Maggie from her first marriage, and his newly found biological son working so well together, before Win said, “Oh, definitely tell her the dessert table. Dragons breathe fire—we don’t want to evoke images of heartburn mixed with our Mexican food, do we?”
Clearly he’d read my lack of focus, and likely the blank expression on my face, the way he always does. And he always knows exactly what to do.
I nodded distractedly. I don’t know why I hadn’t made the correlation between fire and spicy tacos. Duh. It was so obvious.
Not.
“The Mexican table. So we don’t inspire an OD on antacids—or something. Does that work, Petula?”
Petula clapped her work-worn hands. “Of course. You’re so clever! And now I’m off. The quartet should arrive at any second and I’d like them warmed up and playing before the guests begin to arrive, which should be in about twenty minutes.”
She hopped down the wide front steps of the house in her sensible shoes, all energy and motion, and threw herself into the fray of activity, leaving me to continue staring blankly, unable to move.
“Stevie?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Maybe you should take a moment?” Win suggested.
“Or a lot of moments,” I mumbled as the lights, strategically mapped out by Win, began to turn on, turning my front yard into a twinkling mint-green and soft white fairy garden. The evening was cool, but not uncomfortably so, and the chance we’d taken by having an outdoor party in May, in Seattle, looked like it wouldn’t end up the risk I’d envisioned.
The newly planted hydrangeas in blue and white, their fat blooms drooping from their stems, added to the aura of an English cottage garden. Lavender and purple salvia surrounded them, accented by pink tea roses, the flowers all aglow with specifically chosen lighting to best accent their beauty.
Chester, the man I secretly considered my surrogate grandfather—and the real grandfather of the man I was dating casually—had helped me meticulously plan this particular garden, and it was as beautiful as I’d hoped.
But I couldn’t enjoy it right now, or take pride in it, because my father, Hugh Granite, was somewhere inside my house, certain I was thrilled to bits he’d made an appearance after almost thirty-three years.
How did I even know he was telling the truth?
“Dove, please take a moment to gather your thoughts.”
“Do you really think he’s…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. It sounded ludicrous in my head. I couldn’t imagine what it would sound like out loud.
“Your father? I will admit, there’s a resemblance. It’s in the line of your jaw and the set of your pretty eyes. What I’d like to know is how and why?”
“Why now and how did he find me?”
“Exactly. We must protect you from frauds, Stevie. You’re a very rich woman. Now, I’m going to stress once again, please take a moment to gather your thoughts. Have a glass of wine. I want this to be an enjoyable evening for you. As good as it possibly can be, after Hugh’s admission. I don’t want you frazzled and upset. I’ll have Belfry call Petula, if need be, and give him instructions to pass on to her if we run into any more problems.”
Petula, as well as Liza, the college student and friend I’d hired to handle the Madam Zoltar shop in town, both thought Belfry was my virtual assistant from Connecticut. It helped tremendously to fall back on Bel and Win.
But I shook my head. If I didn’t think about what had just happened, I could compartmentalize it for now. But there was just one thing I had to ask myself.
If Hugh Granite, international star in Asia or wherever, really was my father, how had two such vain people made me? Given, Hugh was certainly sweetly egotistical, but my mother? Not so much.
Maybe I should ask him to leave and come back another day when I was more prepared to find out if he was just messing with my head? Was he dangerous? He sure didn’t look dangerous. But there were plenty of madmen out there who looked as gentle as newborn kittens. I didn’t know what to do. So many decisions, so few brain cells not already eaten up by party matters.
Yes. Wine. I needed wine. Maybe that would help me loosen up enough to parse through all this new information.
“Stevie? Wow! You look beautiful,” Forrest called before he let a whistle go, thus, ending my dilemma.
As he climbed the porch steps, I had to admit, he looked pretty impressive, too. He’d worn a tux, the crisp lines and smooth material accentuating his chiseled face and sandy-brown hair.
I reached up and tweaked his bow tie with a grin. I liked Forrest. I liked him a great deal. He was easy to talk to, made killer coffee at his shop, the Strange Brew, and he was even easier on the eyes.
We’d had a few dates now, coffee, dinner, sometimes lunch. But nothing serious.
I forced myself to look as relaxed as possible even as my eyes scanned the lawn for Hugh. “You look pretty great yourself. I was just going to grab a glass of wine. You want one, too?”
“Sure,” he said with one of his devastatingly handsome smiles. “The house looks amazing, Stevie. I can’t believe you pulled this and a housewarming party together in so little time.” Putting his hand at my waist, he ushered me back inside the house.
“Me either, but we did it.”
“We?”
“Oh, I meant me and Enzo and his crack team of subcontractors. Never could have done it without him. He’s a miracle worker for sure.”
Forrest stopped just as we stepped into the entryway, where I gave a cautious peek around for Hugh.
“Did you hear that?”
I paused to listen. “Hear what? The string quartet? They’re warming up.”
He shook his head and cocked his ear. “No, that wasn’t the sound of violins I heard.”
And then I heard it, too.
A shrill scream.
Turning back toward the wide-open front door, I shot Forrest an apologetic smile before I ran to see what was going on.
It was one of the Cirque du Soleil members. I’d name-dropped Win’s name in order to entice her to come perform. Of course, after I’d done all my name-dropping, I asked Win how a spy comes to know an entire troupe of acrobats. To which he answered, who doesn’t appreciate women who could twist themselves into every position in the Kama Sutra without a single grunt?
Short answer to my question? None of your beeswax, lady.
Anyway, the long-limbed, graceful goddess in a soft-pink leotard was screaming and swatting at her hair.
“Get eet off!” she screamed in a pretty French accent. “Eet’s in my haaair!”
And that’s when I saw it—a tiny white bat wing poking out from the troupe member’s long blonde locks.
Aw, heck. The Bats had arrived. Let the games begin.
I zipped down the steps as fast as my heels would allow, making a dash across the lawn as the petite woman screamed in terror again. “Kill eet! Get eet out!”
A crowd had begun to form and someone, also in a leotard, with a pair of scissors, pushed their way through the gathering performers.
“Noooo!” I bellowed, diving into the throng of people, pushing my way past them to get to the acrobat. “Wait! I can help!”
The slender woman trembled, her hair a nest of tangles as she shook her arms out, bouncing oh so gracefully in a circle. “Get eet out! Get zis beast out of my hair!”
I latched onto her arm and turned her to face me before eyeing the man with the scissors. “You! Put the scissors away, please. Now, just hold still. It’s probably just a bat, as scared as you are. They’re common in these parts, and I know it’s freaking you out, but we need bats as part of our ecosystem so please try not to hurt it. I promise, if you just hold still…er, what’s your name?”
“K,” she said on a violent shiver. “Just the letter, notheeng else.”
“Just one letter?” I asked for the sake of Win, because I couldn’t stop laughing over their one-letter names.
“Oui, mademoiselle,” she said on another shiver
“Before you say anything else, mostly everyone in the troupe does have one-letter names, Stevie. Save the crass jokes for later,” Win chastised before I’d even had the chance to crack a joke.
I fought a smirk and gripped K’s arm. “Right, K. Just hold still and I promise I can get him out of your hair without you losing any.”
I began to spread her lush locks and ramble on about the plusses of bats, plucking until I identified Ding, Bel’s uncle. Of course it was Ding. The old adage “blind as a bat” definitely applied in his case.
“You are not frightened?” K asked, calmer now as I untangled Ding.
“Nah. It’s just a bat.” I pulled him out and held him up briefly while everyone’s eyes widened and they made horrified faces. “See? Aren’t they cute?”
Pushing her hair from her face, K’s slight body shuddered in revulsion. “Eet’s deesgusting. Ack!”
“You oughtta tell the broad to eat somethin’ before she starts usin’ words like—”
I coughed—loudly, to cover Uncle Ding’s retort. “I’ll just take him out back and set him free. I’m sorry you were frightened.” I tucked Uncle Ding into the palm of my hand as the performers rallied ’round K to soothe her, hoping they hadn’t heard his response.
When I reached the steps, I opened my hand and gave Ding a stern look. “Uncle Ding, what were you told about flying without an escort?” I whisper-yelled.
“Well, hello gorgeous!” he chirped, his sweet aging face a total deception. Uncle Ding was a letch. An utter and total tiny ball of letch. All tiny hands, all the time. “Long time no see, hottie. I had an escort, but I left his butt in my dust somewhere around Eugene, the slowpoke.”
“Oh, you did not,” I admonished, pointing a finger at him. “I know you, Uncle Ding. You sonar-ed her boobs from way up there, didn’t you?”
He shrugged his wings before giving me a guilty look, his wrinkly white face scrunching up. “Okay, so my aim’s a little off.”
“You’re such a fibber. Uncle Ding, you cannot accost the women attending this party. Understand? It’s unacceptable, and if you’ll be staying here, we have to have rules.”
“Fine, fine. Everybody’s always with the rules, so serious and everything. Bats just wanna have fun.”
“But you can’t have fun in an unsuspecting woman’s boobs. Now, I’ll take you up to see Belfry, and you must stay in my bedroom during this party. But above all, behave, please? There are a ton of humans down there who’d become unhinged if they knew you could talk. Hear me?”
“Like you need to ask twice. Who wouldn’t want to stay in your bedroom?”
“Ah, charming old goat, isn’t he?” Win cracked.
Uncle Ding bristled in my hand. “Who the flippity-flop was that?”
I held him at eye-level. “You can hear him? How?”
“Sonar, honey. Yeah, I can hear him.”
How interesting. “That’s my British ghost, Uncle Ding. An ex-spy from the afterlife.”
“Oh yeah?” he croaked. “I thought you couldn’t talk to dead people anymore? Rumors all over the place in Familiar-ville goin’ around about ya. What gives, hot stuff?”
With a sigh, I made my way up the stairs and ran for my bedroom to bring Uncle Ding to Bel. “It’s a long story. Hey, where’s the rest of the family?”
And then I heard another scream from outside, and someone’s panic-riddled yelp. “Look! There’s more of them!”
“Uncle Ding? Rev up the old sonar and tell the family to fly into the open bedroom window on the second floor, please. And you all need to stay hidden. No one knows I’m an ex-witch. This isn’t like Paris, where you can freely fly around wherever you want,” I said, referring to my old hometown in Texas where everyone was paranormal.
“Do ya think I just checked out of the crib at the maternity ward, girlie? I know the score. Keep your fancy dress on, I’ll send ’em a message.”
Carrying him to my bedroom, I set him on the bed next to Whiskey and Bel and ran to the window to open it, just before the rest of the Bats flew inside in a cloud of white.
They tackle-hugged Belfry, rolling him over the surface of the bed and making him squeal with feigned reproach. “Stop, you guys! Com, quit drooling! It hasn’t been that long!”
“You c’mere to mama, my squishy love muffin,” Mom Bat—or Deloris, as I called her—squeaked with warmth.
“Son, good to see you, boy!” Bel’s father, otherwise known as Melvin—or more lovingly, Bat Dad—nudged Belfry.
The twins, Com and Wom, lunged for Belfry again, knocking him over with their roughhousing. A tumble of white cotton rolled across my pillow, making Whiskey groan his displeasure.
The scene made me smile. They might be a handful, but they loved Bel, and he loved them. That was all I really cared about.
Plunking down on the bed, I stroked Whiskey’s fur. “Okay, so guys, I need you to listen, please. Stay put tonight. You can get plenty of exercise once the party’s over, but if I hear another scream of sheer terror because one of you crash-landed in the punch bowl, it’s curtains for you. Got it?”
“I got this, Boss,” Bel assured. “You go enjoy your party and tell me all about it when you’re done.”
I stroked his head and smiled. “Thanks, buddy. Enjoy your visit.”
Scratching Whiskey on the head, I’d turned to make my way out of the bedroom when I heard an all-too-familiar voice call out with enthusiasm, “Stephania! Where’s my girl?”
Ugh. Momster in the house.
Chapter 3
“What was all the commotion with Hardy Clemmons?” Win asked in my ear as I skirted running into my mother for the third time tonight, ducking behind an ice sculpture of a castle and peering around it to see which way she’d gone.
“A commotion? I missed the commotion. Is everything all right?”
“You missed the commotion because you’re hiding. And I imagine everything worked itself out. I only came in on the tail end of Hardy stomping off in a huff. Seems calm enough now. Why do you hide from your mother, Stephania?” Win asked as I crouched lower.
“Why does a chicken hide from a fox? Or a more current analogy, Taylor Swift from Kanye West?”
“Now, Stevie. She can’t be all bad, can she? Stop ducking around corners and trying to make yourself small so she won’t see you, because we can see you. The invisible game doesn’t work in real life like it does when there are monsters under your bed.”
I pressed my finger to my Bluetooth and whispered, “I’m not hiding. I said hello to both she and Bart.”
“Yes. Indeed you did. Then you gave her the warmest air-kiss ever.”
“You hush. Who do you think taught me to air-kiss? My mother. That’s right. She taught me to do that so I wouldn’t muss her hair or her lipstick.”
Or her clothes or whatever else was important to her nab-a-man ensemble.
“You’re still hiding from her,” he accused.
Yeah, I really was. After the good talking to I’d given myself, I still wasn’t able to just pretend nothing had gone wrong with us—I wasn’t able to hide the hurt over her not at least checking on me to see if I was okay after losing my powers. “Well, have you
seen her?”
“Oh, indeed I have. She’s quite lovely. Breathtaking. Just like you.”
I’d warm to that compliment if it meant anything, but Win thought every woman with a pulse was breathtaking. “Yes, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I asked, rising and slipping past the crowd gathered at the Cirque exhibit, where women in tasteful bathing suits were acrobatically slipping in and out of a life-sized champagne glass full of water. “But that’s not what I meant. Or did you miss how she eyeballed every available man on the lawn like they were candy in a candy store?”
“I didn’t see that at all. I saw her glance, maybe even peruse, yes. But eye? No. That’s too strong a word.”
My mother was always on the hunt for a new husband on the off chance the old one died or divorced her. She’d once told me it never hurt to keep your options open.
And she was doing just that, making quite a splash as she wove her way through the partygoers, reintroducing herself, with the handsome Bart on her arm.
I tried to focus on how beautiful everything was, how it was all running like the clockwork Win had said it would. How everyone was dancing and laughing and eating the amazing food. But I felt edgy and snappish while my mother held court.
Some might call that jealousy, but it’s not that at all. I used to be overjoyed with pride when all my little friends said my mother was the prettiest mom ever. Because she was. She still was. Her skin was like peachy porcelain, smooth and creamy, her blue-gray eyes wide and shiny with a thick fringe of lashes that were all hers.
She didn’t look her age, not even a little. Her body was firm beneath her backless gold lamé dress, her tanned legs toned, her arms sculpted. A crown of her gorgeous chestnut hair was strategically placed high on her head, artfully dyed with red lowlights, the rest falling to the middle of her back, which might look ridiculous on some women her age, but not my mother.
Like I said, I was once very proud about having the prettiest mom in Ebenezer Falls.
Play That Funky Music White Koi (A Lemon Layne Mystery Book 2) Page 18