Bianca dropped me off in front of the Honeybee, and I hurried inside. Sure enough, the place was hopping. A line had formed at the register, and Iris was taking orders while Lucy filled pastry bags and Ben filled drink requests. The murmur of conversation rose and fell, punctuated by the squeal of hot steam foaming milk for lattes and cappuccinos.
One of those cappuccinos was already sitting on a bistro table in the far corner. Steve Dawes lifted it to his lips and took a sip, observing the room over the rim of the mug. His eyes caught mine and lit up as he lowered his drink. He gestured me over. I shook my head, pointing at the register and mouthing, After this rush. He nodded and pulled out his cell phone.
I assessed what needed to be stocked in the pastry case and ducked into the kitchen. Lucy and I swerved to miss each other, a dance that was automatic after working together for so long. A fresh batch of molasses cookies was cooling on a rack. I scooped several of the still-warm goodies onto a tray, along with muffins and our standard cheddar sage scones that seemed to sell out every day. As I stocked the display case, I watched Steve.
He was reading something on his smartphone, scrolling with one thumb, brown eyes flicking over the screen. His honey-colored hair had grown long enough to pull back and fasten with a leather cord. He wore a weathered blue T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals, looking for all the world as if he belonged on a beach or a mountain trail, but I was used to how he dressed when he was working.
And today he was definitely working. I could tell by the set of his shoulders and the way his jaw worked. He was a crime reporter, a crime had been committed, and I was already involved. He often turned up at the nexus of those circumstances, and I was glad enough to see him because I’d already planned to call him and pump him for information about Detective Quinn’s murder investigation. I simply hadn’t had the chance yet. So how had Steve known to come see me? I mean, he was a member of the oldest druid clan in Savannah and a powerful sorcerer in his own right, but I didn’t see how that came into play. Maybe there was something else going on? Or . . .
Quinn. He would have been up in Detective Quinn’s grill as soon as he learned they’d found Leigh’s body. And Quinn had foisted him off on me.
It just fit.
Smiling at a customer and turning back to help Lucy fill an order, I spied a familiar face on the other side of the bakery, way over in the reading area.
Teddy.
She sat with her hands folded on her lap, still as a cat, radiating anxiety, her eyes glued to me. I glanced at Steve, saw he wasn’t looking, and smiled at her. I indicated the line, and she nodded her understanding. She’d wait.
Great. I needed to keep Steve away from her. She didn’t need him to find out she was in contact with Leigh’s ghost. He’d feel compelled to interrogate her, which wouldn’t even help him in the end. It wasn’t as if he could put in the paper that the murder victim had contacted a medium of sorts when she’d been killed.
Then a horrible thought occurred to me. What if he did report such a thing? It was salacious and might gain readers, however cruel it might be. Steve and I had been good friends—more than that for a short while when I’d first moved to Savannah—and over the years I’d learned more and more about him. He could be kind and helpful and sweet. He was a good journalist, even though his very wealthy father wanted him to ditch the newspaper business altogether and come back to work at Dawes Corporation.
But.
Steve was also a member of that druid clan, and they were not always nice people. Not at all. He’d done a few things to me personally, too. Things that had betrayed my trust in him. It had been in the name of love, supposedly, but still. It was a stretch, but I could see him exploiting Teddy for a good story.
The need to keep them apart hummed under my skin as the crowd quieted and customers drifted out of the bakery laden with treats and caffeine. When Lucy reached for a towel and tray to bus tables, I held out my hands to take them.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Oh, hon. I’ve got it!” Her bright smile faded when I shook my head.
“Teddy’s over there.” I gestured with my chin. “And Steve’s over there. I need to check in with her without him knowing.”
My aunt looked momentarily puzzled, but then understanding dawned. “Right. You want me to go talk to her?”
“Oh, that would be even better. See if she can stick around for a while. I want to find out what Steve wants, but I need to talk to her, too.”
“On it,” Lucy said with a decisive nod.
I moved around the counter, still wiping my hands on a dishtowel, and went out to where Steve was waiting. I slid into the seat across from him and tipped my head to the side.
“Nice to see you,” I said.
That was true. We hadn’t seen much of each other since Declan and I had gotten married. Steve had come to the wedding after one last-ditch effort to get me to marry him instead. Our few encounters since then had been slightly strained.
“Nice to see you, too, Katie-girl.”
I frowned.
“Sorry. I forgot you don’t want me to call you that.”
I stopped frowning but didn’t smile. Instead, I leaned against the back of the chair and regarded him silently.
“So,” he began. Then he shrugged and gave a little laugh. “You probably know why I’m here.”
“Hm. Maybe.”
“There was a murder last night. Not far from here.”
“Not far indeed. I saw your story in the News. I suppose there will be a follow-up in tomorrow’s paper?”
“I hope so,” he said. “If you can help me out.”
“And why do you think I can help you out?”
“Oh, come on, Katie . . .”
I lifted my eyebrows.
“You know, and I know, that you get involved in certain kinds of . . . crimes . . .” He trailed off with a chagrined look on his face.
“If you’re referencing how I’ve contributed to police investigations of homicides with a paranormal element, well, you’re right.” I leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Are you saying there was something magical related to Leigh Markes’ death?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Well, no. Not that they could tell right away, I mean. It’s just that—”
“Just that what?” I asked, unable to keep a twinkle out of my eye.
“Quinn said you called him.”
“Did he also tell you I had a premonition?”
“He did.”
I held my hands up, palms to the ceiling. “Well, there you go!”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “As I recall, you aren’t given to premonitions.”
I smiled apologetically and shrugged. Of course, he was right. I’d never had a premonition in my life, but I couldn’t tell him the truth.
“Where were you, exactly, when you received this premonition?” he asked.
“Um, here.” I knew I sounded lame.
“At the Honeybee?”
I nodded.
“At one in the morning?”
“Nooo. It was earlier than that.”
“Well, that was the time of death.” He sat back and considered me. “I guess you could be telling me the truth. Quinn did say you’d called him last evening, not this morning.” He gave a little half frown as he worked it out. “So you called him before Leigh was actually dead.” He leaned over the table so fast I jumped. “How did this premonition come to you?”
“I’m sorry, Steve. I can’t tell you any more about that. I’m asking you to trust me.” My voice was quiet. “You called the victim by her first name. Did you know her?”
He held my gaze for a long time before his shoulders slumped. “I did, in passing. She gave Brandon a showing before he went international.” Brandon was a member of his druid clan and a very successful artist. Also, one of Cookie’s many old boyfriends. “And you know I used to cover the downtown arts and business scene.”
“Do you know Leigh’s family?” I asked.
“Again, in passing. Her father and my father knew each other. James Markes recently passed away, though. He was very ill.” He took a sip of his cappuccino, then asked, “Do you know how she died?”
“Well, Quinn called me this morning. You know, to let me know I’d been right last night. He told me she was strangled. With a scarf, I think?”
“A scarf,” he confirmed. “I saw it.”
I tried to look curious but then realized that might seem callous—was, in fact, callous given that a woman we both knew was dead. “That’s awful.”
“It wasn’t pleasant, that’s for sure. Especially given that they were moving the body from her car to the medical examiner’s van at the time.”
I shuddered.
“It had an interesting pattern on it,” he said.
I felt the confused look on my face. “The body?”
“No, the scarf.”
I sighed. He knew about my dragonfly totem. “I have to get back to work, Steve. I’ve told you what I know.” And I had. Sort of. And he wasn’t exactly proving to be a font of information.
He drained the dregs of his cappuccino. “If you say so.” However, I knew he wouldn’t let it go for long.
I started to rise, then sat back down. “Do you know anything about outsider art?”
He tucked his phone back into his shorts pocket. “A little. Why?”
Should I come clean about where I’d been that morning? It would invite a whole bunch of questions I didn’t want to answer.
So I fudged. “I recently heard of an artist who creates outsider art. His name is Aldo Bracket. Do you know him from when you worked that beat?”
He shook his head, then stopped mid-shake. “Hang on. Aldo Bracket? I know an Alessandro Bracket from back in high school. Aldo is sometimes short for Alessandro. Is he about my age?”
“Yeah, mid-thirties sounds about right.” I went on to describe the man I’d met that morning in the Markes Gallery.
He laughed. “That’s him. What a dufus. I haven’t seen him in forever. I heard he moved out of town. He didn’t get along with his father.” He shrugged. “Of course, his father is a lot like mine.”
“Difficult,” I said.
“Mm.”
“And wealthy.”
“Quite. Not Dawes wealthy, but very well off.” He wasn’t bragging, just stating a fact.
I thought of the man I’d met that morning and how the combination of old clothes and nice watch and soft hands had seemed off.
Steve said, “I’ll ask Father if he knows anything about Alessandro being back in town and suddenly taking up art.” He rolled his eyes. “Are you thinking of buying one of his pieces?”
“God, no. They’re terrible.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“I’d never heard of outsider art. I was just curious.”
“Outsider art is typically created by someone without formal training and no real association with the mainstream art world. It’s unconventional, but some of it is quite evocative and interesting. What does Aldo’s art look like?”
“Like someone threw up a bunch of garbage and framed it. Here. See for yourself.” I reached into my apron pocket and took out my phone. In seconds I had the pictures I’d taken of Aldo’s collages on the screen.
Steve flipped through the photos, then went back and did it again. “Yikes. I’d say that’s an unfortunately accurate description.” He handed the phone back to me.
“Maybe you can buy one for your father to put on his office wall.” Steve’s father was more the type to have an original Constable behind his desk.
He laughed and rose to his feet.
“I’ll see you soon, Katie-girl.”
I frowned.
He laughed again. “Oops. Sorry.”