Spirits and Sourdough, page 7
Mimsey said, “That’s the home that’s been in the family for generations. She must be living there.”
“I wonder if Leigh was as well,” I said.
Cookie typed some more. “No, she has a house in Midtown.”
We heard a flurry of voices out in the Honeybee proper. Apparently, the spell Mimsey and Bianca had placed on the barrier worked both ways, because we couldn’t make out a single word being said. Lucy jumped up and looked around the edge of the curtain.
“Tour group,” she exclaimed, and that was all it took.
The curtain slid back and was pinned to the wall, and Lucy and I hurried out to help Ben and Iris with the rush. The other members of the spellbook club said goodbye to Cookie and Isabella, brought our dishes back to the kitchen, and removed the reserved sign. Soon customers drifted in to peruse books and lounge on the comfy furniture.
The members of the spellbook club left, beginning with Mimsey. Jaida was next, and I waved to her as I saw her moving toward the door. She started to wave goodbye but then realized I wanted to talk to her. I held up two fingers, and she gave a nod and gestured toward the street. I also nodded, and two minutes later had left my coworkers to deal with the last of the customers while I slipped out to the sidewalk.
Jaida was next door, looking at the offerings in the window of the Fox and Hound Bookshop. When she saw me, she sauntered back, and we met halfway.
“I was just going to get back to the office to do an online check on Walker Stokes,” she said.
“Thanks for doing that. I didn’t like the way Iris described him.”
“I didn’t either, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“True.” I fell quiet.
“Katie?” She waited.
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “So, you know about how Connell is, well, missing.”
“Yeah.”
“And we all talked about how Nonna told me we needed help to get him back, right? But then there was the wedding, and Declan’s sister was a suspect in killing her ex, and finding Connell kind of fell by the wayside.”
Her gaze softened. “It did. I’m sorry. We didn’t forget. We just don’t know what to do next.”
“Oh, I know. It’s not anyone’s fault.” I licked my lips. “Jaida, Declan needs Connell. I need him to have Connell. He serves as Declan’s intuition, the red flag when there’s danger. After my dear husband is finished with his paramedic training, can you imagine the situations he’s going to find himself in?”
Slowly, she nodded. I could tell she was thinking. I barreled on.
“The help we need is a tether. It has to be someone who can straddle both sides of the veil, who has access to both worlds.”
I watched the realization dawn on her face.
“Do you think Teddy could serve as that tether?” I asked. “I mean, she’s kind of the perfect person to do it. She regularly sees spirits on the other side, and if we perform the ritual at midnight on Halloween, it should be extra easy for her to help us find Connell and bring him . . .” My growing hope died as I saw the look on Jaida’s face.
“I don’t know, Katie. Teddy’s special, as you well know. But she’s fragile. Skittish. I don’t know all the details, but I don’t think it’s been easy growing up with her ability, and I don’t think it’s easy to walk around with it day in and day out, either.”
I bit my lip. “She does make a living from it, though.”
Jaida didn’t say anything.
“Do I have your permission to ask her?”
My friend stepped in and wrapped me in a hug. “You don’t need my permission. She’s a grown woman and so are you. I’d be glad if she can help bring Connell back to Declan. I just don’t want you to count on it.”
I gave her a squeeze and stepped back. “Right. I won’t put all my eggs in that basket. But Connell wouldn’t be gone if he hadn’t stepped in to save my magic for me. I’m going to try anything I can to fix this for Declan—and Connell. He can’t be happy stuck in whatever between-world he’s in.”
“I’m behind you all the way, honey.” She smiled. “Let me know what Teddy says.”
Her words were encouraging, but as she turned to leave, I saw the worry pinching the skin around her eyes. I tried to remain hopeful as I went back inside the Honeybee.
Half an hour later, the traffic had dwindled to normal. Bianca had stuck around, helping out as she could. Lucy was in the kitchen, and Ben moved among the tables, tidying and pushing in the chairs. I had begun to restock the pastry case in preparation for the lunch crowd starting to trickle in when I heard Bianca on the phone.
“Hello, Paisley? Bianca Devereaux here.” I noticed her Southern accent was strong. Paisley was in for the gentlest hard sell around. “I was wondering what time the gallery will open today. I have a friend in town who might be interested in that Hanta sculpture. It’s such a lovely piece, and I was telling her all about it. The lines! Tell me you still have it.” There was a pause as she listened. “Oh, dear. That’s terrible. Just awful. This morning, you say? No, I haven’t seen the paper yet. Yes, I understand, of course . . . Oh? . . . Well, that’s very kind of you . . . Two o’clock should be fine.” She looked over at me, and I nodded. “I’m so sorry to hear about Leigh. A tragedy indeed.”
She ended the call and came over to where I stood waiting behind fresh rows of assorted muffins. “It was in the Savannah Morning News.”
Juggling two plates and a half-empty mug of coffee, Ben walked by. “I looked. Nothing in there about a murder.”
“It wouldn’t have made the presses for the print paper,” I said over my shoulder as I returned the tray to the kitchen. “It must be online.”
Bianca was already tapping on her phone. By the time I returned she was scanning the screen. “Not much info here. They found her body in her car in the parking garage behind the Marshall House. Nothing about how she died, only that it’s being investigated as a homicide. Reference to her family roots here in Savannah and the gallery, but not much else.” She looked up. “Pretty spare reporting, really. For Steve Dawes.”
I sighed. “Quinn must have put a damper on the story. Usually, Steve is quite thorough.”
“Maybe they just don’t know much yet.”
“At least not that they’re telling anyone at this point.”
“I’ll be back to pick you up at one forty-five. I can drive us to the gallery.” She grinned.
I grinned back. I’d never refused a ride in Bianca’s car yet. “See you then.”
Chapter 9
I leaned back against the leather upholstery and sighed. Sitting in Bianca’s cherry red convertible Jaguar was first class in every way—lush and plush, wood trimmed, the soft purr of the engine as it idled at the light.
Then the light turned green, and I was gripping the edge of my seat, adrenaline surging, breathless and trying not to smile stupidly. The Jag had been one of her first big purchases after she’d found her calling in the stock market. She kept it in perfect condition and drove it as if we were at Le Mans, even though we were just tooling down Bull Street.
The Markes Gallery was on a side street off Whitaker. The exterior eschewed the antebellum architecture of the historic district, instead embracing a modern look with clean lines, an asymmetrical roofline, and double metal doors at the entrance. We’d left early in case parking was hard to find but lucked out with a spot right in front of the gallery. Bianca pulled into it, and we got out and paused on the sidewalk in front.
“What am I supposed to be looking at again?” I asked.
“It’s a sculpture of spirit or love or transcendence. Something like that. I don’t really remember. All her work is conceptually representational. The artist is named Hanta, just one name. Actually, I think you’ll like it.”
“Well, I should have brought my checkbook, then.”
Bianca side-eyed me. “Funny.”
“Too spendy for the likes of me, eh?” I grinned.
She shook her head. “No one uses checks anymore, silly.”
The door handles were massive isosceles triangles painted lime green. A closed sign hung in the tall, narrow window above the right one. I stopped in front of it and looked at my watch. Bianca rolled her eyes at my Luddite tendencies and pulled out her phone to check the time.
“We’re early,” I said.
“Well, I have to pick up Colette, and I’ll be cutting it close. Let’s knock.”
Instead, I reached out and pulled on the door. It opened, smooth and silent, and the cool interior beckoned.
“Or we could just go right in.” I gestured for her to precede me.
We entered a room with displays of postcards, books, jewelry, posters, and artistic knickknacks along with a few Savannah-centric souvenirs. It looked more like a museum gift shop than a gallery entrance. A small reception desk sat on the far side of the room next to a large archway that led into the gallery proper. I could see bright, framed prints hanging on butter-colored walls. The overhead lights hadn’t been turned on, but enough natural light spilled in from the other room that we could make our way between the tables and cases.
I opened my mouth to call out, when a woman in the gallery said, “Oh, Aldo. It’s not right.”
My mouth closed as I looked over at Bianca. She froze in her tracks, and her eyes moved to meet mine. It was a woman’s voice, clear and high, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps.
The footsteps stopped. “Why not?” a man answered in a deep baritone.
I raised one eyebrow at Bianca. Were we interrupting a tryst?
“Now there’s no reason to cancel my show,” he said. “And you promised.”
“I just don’t feel good about it, that’s all,” the woman answered.
“We had an agreement! At least until she messed things up.” I could hear the pout in his voice.
“But she’s dead,” she said.
“Exactly!”
“Aldo—”
“That means she never had a chance to cancel the publicity. The ads are going to run. The public will expect my art to be on display when they visit the gallery. As they should. She never should have refused to show my work.”
“Oh, wow. That is cold.” She sighed. “Really cold. And for all I know, the gallery won’t open for a while. If ever.”
“Listen, hon.” Wheedling. “Simply go ahead and have the show. There’s no one to stop you. You’ve been running this whole place for a year. You’ve shown a profit. You’re getting a reputation in the arts community. No one will question you, Paisley.”
“Her ex-husband is coming here tomorrow. He wants to take over the gallery himself. Says he still has a legal stake in it, but I’m not sure.”
He cut her off. “Let him. Just tell him Leigh wanted my show, and you’re honoring her memory.”
“When it’s exactly the opposite?”
“Who cares? She’s dead. She’ll never know. And no one else needs to, either. You were already going to defy her when she was distracted by her dad.”
“Well . . .”
“So stick with the plan, hon. Because this could really make it for both of us.”
She snorted. “I think outsider art is important, and I wanted to bring it into the gallery, but if you think having a single show will guarantee success, you have another think coming, mister.”
“I promise it will be a success. The show will sell out. And that’s after I jack up some of the prices, too.”
“Oh, please. You can’t possibly promise something like that.”
“But I can. And I do.”
“Well, I don’t see how. Listen, you need to go. I have a client coming in for a private look-see at a piece.”
The footsteps started up again, coming toward us.
Bianca sucked her breath in. Quickly, I pulled her toward the front door, then turned back with my hand on it.
“Hello?” I called. “Is anyone here?”
A woman came around the corner and flipped a switch on the wall. Light flooded the walls, illuminating the gallery wares with a gentle yellow glow.
“Ms. Devereaux!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting to me and back to my friend again. “Did you just get here?”
Bianca nodded. “I hope you don’t mind that we let ourselves in.”
“Not at all!”
“This is my friend, Katie Lightfoot. Katie, this is Paisley Long. She runs the gallery and agreed to show us that sculpture I was telling you about.”
“No problem,” Paisley said brightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lightfoot. Please follow me, and I’ll show you the Hanta piece Ms. Devereaux wanted you to see.” She turned so quickly that her ponytail flared out before settling between her shoulder blades once again.
Paisley was a tall, slender African American woman clad in blue jeans, a light blue T-shirt, and boots. I hadn’t seen a flicker of suspicion when Bianca told her we’d just arrived, and she strode to the back of the gallery with purpose, looking back at us a couple of times as if to hurry us along. The impression was that she was very busy, but I had to wonder if she didn’t want us to see the man she’d been talking with.
The main gallery had twelve-foot-high ceilings and stretched back at least a hundred feet. It was wide enough to accommodate a series of eight-foot walls at staggered intervals that provided more display space and broke up the space into cozy nooks. The whole room was the same light yellow, except the back wall, which was made up of lovely mottled red bricks. I looked up as we walked and noticed small security cameras mounted in each corner of the room.
As we approached the rear of the building, I heard a noise and looked left to see a man removing a painting from the wall and setting it on the floor next to several framed pieces leaning haphazardly against the bricks.
Paisley saw him, too, because she paused and cleared her throat.
“Let’s wait on that, shall we?” she said to him. He frowned but walked back to a small room that looked like an office with the door ajar.
She smiled and didn’t explain, simply gesturing to a small metal statue on a pillar stand. “Compassion.”
I moved closer and bent to squint at the piece as if I knew anything about what I was looking at. The material looked like steel or maybe pewter. The solid, flat base was roughly a foot in diameter and appeared stained and worn. Tendrils of metal reached up from it in all directions, some of them wide, some narrow, some only beginning to sprout from the base. Their surfaces ranged from smooth and shiny to hash marked and grayed. The longer I examined it, the more I felt the calming effect of the swooping lines, while the disparate surface textures conveyed the transition of fresh newness into wisdom and persistence.
I stood and looked at Bianca. “Wow.”
She nodded. “I thought you’d like it.”
So it hadn’t just been a ruse to get us into the Markes Gallery. Well, it had been, but the bonus was experiencing a truly moving piece of art.
That would look fantastic in our living room.
I began mentally placing it around the room. Perhaps in the center of the built-in shelving? On the end table by the new sofa?
Then I saw the price tag. Any vague notion I’d had of actually purchasing the piece flew out the proverbial window. With a jolt, I pulled my attention back to Paisley Long and our real purpose for being in the gallery.
“This is truly lovely. Do you have any other Hanta pieces?”
Paisley shook her head. “I’m afraid this is the only one left. There were originally three.”
I nodded sagely and tried to look as if I knew what I was talking about. “I see. I’m not surprised Leigh homed in on this artist. She had such impeccable taste and a genius for scouting out talent.”
A soft snort sounded from the direction of the office.
“You knew Leigh?” Paisley asked, her eyes wide.
“We were acquaintances. She frequented my bakery, the Honeybee. Her book club met there . . . recently.”
Paisley looked confused, and I recalled Bianca had said she had a friend in town who wanted to see the Hanta sculpture. That did sound like someone visiting from out of town, but it could also mean someone already in town, so I let it go.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” I said, and wondered if some of the sudden compassion I felt for this young woman who was obviously in distress might be augmented by the sculpture of that name. “You see, I saw the story in the online edition of the News this morning.”
The gallery assistant nodded, her ponytail swinging gently over her shoulder. “Thank you.”
Bianca reached out and touched her arm.
Paisley smiled up at her with a wavery gaze, then seemed to pull herself together and glanced from Bianca to me. “Ahem. Yes. It’s a terrible loss—for the gallery, for her family, and for the whole community.”
“I do hope the gallery will be able to continue as part of Leigh’s legacy,” Bianca said.
The assistant smiled a bright but brittle smile. “Yes, I hope it works out that way, too. I’m hoping to stay on. It’s too early for such discussions, though. I’m still trying to decide whether to open the gallery or not. I need to talk with Leigh’s ex-husband.” She looked troubled at the thought.
“Oh, is he a patron of the arts as well?” I asked.
“Not . . . exactly,” she said.
The phone rang in the office, and a male voice answered, “Markes Gallery.”
The skin tightened across Paisley’s face. “Are you interested in the sculpture, Ms. Lightfoot?”
“I am, but I’d like my husband to see it. Do you mind if I take a photo?”
“Not at all,” she said. “You go ahead, and I’ll be right back.” She smiled again, then hurried into the office and closed the door behind her. We heard her arguing with a man, but this time we couldn’t make out the words.
