My day improved considerably from there. The actual plumber showed up and fixed the broken commode in record time. I worked on the marketing and accounting tasks for our B&B, which I got done quickly and easily for once. That gave me a ton of extra time to work on an intricate cookie recipe I’d been perfecting for months—lemon macarons filled with strawberry buttercream. We always served light refreshments in the early afternoon for our guests and for the excited children who came to see the real gem of Pulaski Square—Papa Sal’s daily magic show.
After I set out my cheerful yellow and pink macarons and a pitcher of sweet tea on the sideboard in the dining room, I went and stood in the doorway to the parlor to look out over the crowded room. Adults and children alike had their rapt attention focused on Papa Sal.
“I need an ear. Any ear will do. You, there. Do you have an ear I can borrow?” Papa Sal said to a giggling little girl sitting on the floor at his feet. He reached down and pulled out a small red ball from behind the girl’s ear, which he then showed the audience. “Would you look at that? Look at what was hiding behind her ear.” As the children gasped, he walked over to a boy sitting near the wall. “Can you hold this ball for me?”
The boy took the ball from him, but after a moment, a puzzled expression crossed his face, and he opened his hand. It was empty. “It’s gone.”
Papa Sal slapped his forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry. These balls have a mind of their own sometimes. Let’s try again.” He walked back over to the little girl and pulled another red ball from behind her ear, which sent her into another fit of giggles, then he gave that ball to the boy. “Hold this one tight, okay? Make a strong fist around the ball.” Papa Sal waved his hands over the boy’s fist. “Abracadabra. Open your hand.”
The boy uncurled his fingers one at a time, and his jaw dropped as four red balls poured out of his outstretched hand and fell to the floor. The room exploded in applause, and Sal the Magnificent, totally in his element, took a sweeping bow.
I smiled. Sal the Magnificent was a Savannah legend. As young men, he and his brother, Frank the Great, had traveled the country as the circus act, “The Amazing Bellandini Brothers.” They’d stopped once in Savannah, and Papa Sal fell in love at first sight with a beautiful young woman named Hattie. Much to Uncle Frank’s disappointment, Papa Sal stayed behind in Savannah, effectively ending their illustrious career together. Uncle Frank went on without him, and the two didn’t speak for decades. The brothers finally reconciled, and Uncle Frank retired from the circus and settled in Savannah. The Amazing Bellandini Brothers resumed their act here at the B&B until Uncle Frank passed when Delilah and I were in high school. Lucky for us and our guests, Papa Sal had kept on performing.
Late that evening, the B&B was quiet. Most of our guests were out on the town, soaking up the atmosphere. Delilah was at the theater with one of her fellow community troupe members (Tucker had impolitely declined), and Papa Sal was already in bed. I took the opportunity to sit on the back porch and play my guitar and sing, which was pretty much my favorite thing in the world to do. I wasn’t nearly good enough to make a career out of it, but my friends and I had formed an all-girl band in high school called Sister Wildfire, and we still played at small venues around town a couple of times a week. It was a great release for me to do something so different from my real job.
A little before ten, I set my guitar aside, unable to continue concentrating with what was gnawing at me. I had come up with my half-cocked idea of having Delilah give me the skinny on the play because I hadn’t wanted to tell Drew I’d given his tickets away after everything that had happened this morning. But I couldn’t go through with it. I felt like that lie would loom over my head when we hung out, and I didn’t want that. Best to put my pride aside, come clean about the entire situation (including my gross misunderstanding of his intentions), and hope we could laugh about it.
“Aw, are you stopping?” a voice called, startling me so much I jumped.
I got up and walked over to the side of the porch. Tucker Heyward was leaning lazily against the porch railing of the home across Harris Street, next door to the house where he’d grown up. His parents, Charlotte and Jed Heyward, owned the four connected houses on that block plus several other properties in the area. After Dr. Heyward had retired from his medical practice, they’d started buying up real estate around town and turning the places into vacation rentals. They had a nice little empire and had since moved to a larger historic home closer to downtown. Evidently they were letting their son stay in one of their properties now that he was back in town. In my mind, that was only a step above living in their basement.
“Were you eavesdropping on my practice session?” I asked, irritated by Tucker’s blatant lack of respect for my privacy.
He at least had the grace to look embarrassed. Ducking his head, he said, “I have to admit something here, Quinn. I’ve eavesdropped on your outdoor practice sessions ever since we were in high school.”
My eyes widened. I didn’t know what to say to that.
When I didn’t respond, he said, “I’m not trying to be a creeper or anything. I just…I really enjoy your music. I’ve missed hearing it all the years I’ve been gone.”
I still had no words. Tucker Heyward, superjock, liked my music. Me. Quinn Bellandini, the younger half of the “Loco Bellandinis.” (The idiots I went to high school with couldn’t even get their ethnic slurs right, evidently unable to recognize the difference between Spanish and Italian.) There was no other explanation for his supposed interest in my music—he had to have been making fun of me, just like his group of friends had ridiculed Delilah and me when we were teenagers.
I faked a smile, but my tone was frosty. “Well, I’m so happy to be able to provide you with amusement again, Tucker. Please excuse me. I have to go.” I grabbed my guitar and stalked into the house.
Armed with a plate of leftover macarons as a peace offering, I walked the couple of blocks to Green. It was a little after ten o’clock, and since Green closed at nine, I figured the employees would be mostly gone, except Drew. He was always the last one out. I certainly didn’t want to admit to my mistakes in front of an audience.
This part of town wasn’t too busy this time of night, since it was largely residential, but a slight chill crept up my spine as I got the eerie feeling I was being watched. Savannah was a safe place, but there was still enough crime to keep the police busy. I shrugged off my worry, thinking if I told anyone (especially my sister or my grandfather) that I’d had that kind of feeling, they would have immediately attributed it to the large population of ghosts that supposedly haunted our old town. I personally didn’t buy into it. However, ghost stories were great for tourism, so I played along when our guests brought it up.
The backyard gate behind Green was unlocked, and the rear door was again standing open, just like it had been this morning.
I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe and called out, “Drew? It’s Quinn. Are you here?”
Hearing no response, I felt a bit of déjà vu as I let myself into the restaurant, entering the kitchen that was much less immaculate than it had been earlier in the day. I was appalled to find food strewn along the preparation surfaces. Chef Jason would have the head of whoever had done this. I hoped it wasn’t Drew. No, that was a silly thought. Drew would never have left his own kitchen in such a state.
As I walked farther into it, I called, “Drew?” After more silence, I added, “Anyone here?”
I walked toward the center island, picking my way across a floor peppered with cut vegetables and splattered with red sauce. It looked like someone had had a humdinger of a food fight in here. When I rounded the corner of the island and looked down, I sucked in a gasp of air. The plate of macarons slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor at my feet.
That was not red sauce.
Jason Green was lying on the floor, a large silver knife stuck in his back and his normally pristine white chef’s coat covered in blood, his lifeless eyes staring dead ahead.