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 into 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?”
I could tell by his expression he had no idea what I was talking about.
“Wow,” I said. “Your friend—at least I assume he’s your friend if you saw fit to ask him to give us these”—I gestured toward my neck—“took advantage of your request to drag us even further into Lawrence Eastmore’s murder investigation.”
Anger flickered behind Steve’s eyes. “I should have known better than to trust him. Listen, can we get out of here? I need to hear the rest of this.”
I snorted. “What about your date?”
His forehead wrinkled. “What date?”
“Ms. Blond Bombshell with the Italian shoes. I saw her, you know.”
His lips parted briefly, and delight played across his features. “Katie Lightfoot, you’re jealous!”
“I am not.”
“You are.” His self-satisfied smile continued to curl up one side of his mouth.
I wanted to swipe it off. Instead I felt my face growing hot.
“I’m covering the opening for my column. Modern art in old Savannah, that kind of thing. Though the food fight does put a twist on things.” He grinned. “And I don’t bring dates along when I’m working, FYI.”
“Oh.” I looked down at my feet. Why should I be upset if he was dating that woman? How many times had I told myself I didn’t want to get involved with Steve? Still, he’d pursued me so steadfastly…
Perhaps I shouldn’t take that for granted. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Time enough to think about such things later.
“I don’t want to leave quite yet,” I said. “I’m hoping I can find out more about where Brandon was the night before we…I…found Eastmore dead.”
He ignored my oblique reference to Declan. “Well, I can tell you that.”
I felt my eyebrows climb my forehead.
“Brandon was at Father’s house.”
“What? Why?”
“Some confab about a big piece of installation art Brandon wants to do on the Talmadge Bridge. Father’s helping him get permissions from the city. He ended up staying.”
“All night?”
“All night.”
“How do you know?”
“I stayed in the guesthouse.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
He shrugged. “I was tired, and I’d had a couple of drinks. So had Brandon. That’s why he stayed overnight.”
“But not in the guesthouse.”
“No, but I saw him leave the next morning.”
“What about your mother?”
“What about her? She was home, but went to bed early. She’s not interested in Father’s business dealings.”
“So your mom doesn’t know about the Drag—” I cut myself short as a woman rounded the partition closest to us, saw Steve, and made a beeline our way.
He shook his head, though whether in answer to my question about his mother or as a warning, I didn’t know.
“Stevie Dawes, as I live and breathe. You have turned into quite the fine-looking young man.” She looked familiar, and then I recognized her as the woman who had filled out the job application at the Honeybee. She’d replaced the denim jumper and Birkenstocks with a flowing red caftan that would have made a gypsy proud. Her gray hair, still braided, was now coiled in a crown on top of her head. Given the fine lines that fanned from her smiling dark blue eyes. I judged her to be in her mid-fifties.
“Stevie?” I couldn’t help repeating with a wide grin.
He rolled his eyes. “Katie, this is Nel Sandstrom. How long has it been?”
“Hi, again,” Nel said to me, and when Steve looked surprised she explained. “I’ve been looking for a job, and stopped into the bakery where your friend works.”
“She more than works there,” Steve said. “Katie and her aunt and uncle own the Honeybee.”
“So are you the one I should thank for that burnt toffee biscotti?”
I nodded. “It’s my personal recipe.”
“Scrumptious,” she declared. Then to Steve. “It’s been at least fifteen years since I’ve seen you, darlin’.”
“Well, you look just the same, Miss Nel.” He could turn on the charm like you switch on the bathroom light in the middle of the night. “And if you’re job hunting I assume you’re back in town for good?”
“For a while, at least. You know I had to come back to…” She glanced at me. “To take care of Daddy’s affairs.”
He nodded. “Of course. I’m surprised I haven’t run into you before now.”
“Well, I came for the funeral, of course. You weren’t there, I noticed. Then I had to return to settle some things in Athens. Now I’m back for good.”
“I am sorry about missing your father’s memorial,” he said. “I was out of town.”
She patted him on the arm. “Oh, that’s all right. There was quite the turnout for the judge, though. It was nice to see.”
I’d been listening with a bit of impatience, frankly, wanting to track down Cookie and head home. It was getting late, and I felt like I’d learned all I could about Brandon Sikes for the evening. But then Steve’s gaze snagged mine, and something in his eyes gave me pause.
Dead father of a fiftysomething woman who lived in Athens. A judge.
I quirked an eyebrow and asked, “Your father was Judge Sandstrom?” Dragoh number six, who had died without male issue.
Steve winced.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I said, ignoring his dramatic shoulder slump. “A friend of mine is a lawyer, and she’d mentioned him as someone she respected a great deal.”
“Thank you.”
“So, any luck with the job hunt so far?”
“Not yet, but something will turn up soon. It always does.” Her words made me think of Cookie’s laissez-faire attitude. “I don’t really need the money, but I like to keep busy, love to bake, and would like to meet some new people. As you heard me tell your boyfriend here, I’ve been gone from Savannah for quite some time.”
Steve stepped to my side. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find the right thing, Nel. You’ve always been lucky that way.”
I cocked my head. What did he mean by that?
“You’ve seen Brandon?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. After the food fight.” Her laugh was strained. “That man could certainly charm the ladies, couldn’t he?”
“Brandon Sikes?” I asked, wondering if he glamoured more than his paintings.
“Oh, no. Though he does just fine. Has a new little filly just tonight.”
My heart sank. Cookie had better not do anything stupid.
“No, I meant the man who started that food fight from beyond the grave,” Nel said. “Lawrence Eastmore. He always had more ladies flocking around him than seemed justified to me. Quite the player, for an old guy.” She winked.
My smile in return felt weak.