I dropped Iris at SCAD and got back to the bakery in time to help with prep for the next day. Ben had already left, and Lucy and I were getting things ready to close down when Mrs. Standish and Skipper Dean came in.
“Yoo-hoo! Lucille!” Mrs. Standish called as if my aunt were down the block and not just in the kitchen. “We’re having a fundraiser for the animal shelter next month, and I’m hoping you can provide some yummy treats. Do you have a moment to chat?”
Lucy came out, wiping her hands on a towel. “Sure. Let’s go in here.”
They went into the reading area, and Skipper Dean sauntered over to where I was emptying the tip jar by the register. He was a wiry man, thin and muscular, with thick gray hair and impeccable taste in clothes.
“Are you in the market for a yummy treat yourself?” I asked with a smile.
He returned the smile. “Always. I believe Edna wanted some of your cheddar sage scones to go with our vichyssoise this evening. And I wouldn’t mind a bit of cake for dessert. What do you have?”
I popped into the kitchen to wash my hands, then came back to load the scones into a Honeybee bag. “We don’t have much cake left this late in the day, but I’ve been experimenting with a blood orange and thyme cake, and I think I’ve got it about right.”
His eyes brightened. “That sounds delightful.”
“It’s on the house as long as you give me your honest opinion about it.”
He gave a single, firm nod. “Deal.”
I went back into the kitchen and loaded the cake into a box for him to take. Back at the register, I rang up the scones, and he paid.
“Say, Dean,” I said, “I understand from Mrs. Standish that you’re interested in something called outsider art.”
“Indeed I am.”
“What can you tell me about it?” I asked.
After telling me more or less the same thing Steve had regarding how the form was defined, he went on to tell me why he was so interested in it. “It’s unconventional, but a lot of art could be called that. Outsiders, however, bring to their pieces an honesty, a rawness that transcends tradition and expectation. Sometimes it’s very odd, sometimes whimsical, sometimes folksy. It apparently started among asylum inmates in the early twentieth century, and today outsider art often comes from those who suffer from mental illness. Their art provides a kind of window into their souls, a new twist on creativity.”
I blinked. “Wow. When you put it that way, it really is interesting. The stuff I saw the other day didn’t seem all that creative, though.”
“Oh? Where was this?”
“At the Markes Gallery.”
“Ah. Yes. Poor Leigh.” He paused thoughtfully. “I don’t believe she was much of a fan of outsider art, though. She was quite traditional in that way and believed all artists should have extensive and proper training.”
“I’m not sure she wanted this artist to have a show in her gallery. Have you heard of Aldo Bracket?”
Skipper Dean made a very rude noise in the back of his throat. “I have.”
I waited.
“Aldo Bracket is an ignorant troglodyte.”
“Oh?”
“He does not create art. He does not create anything. He buys things, including favor.”
I leaned forward, remembering how Aldo had guaranteed Paisley his work would sell out if she gave him a show. “Favor, you say. Do you think he’d buy his own work—through someone else, of course? To gain something, a reputation in the art community, maybe?”
Dean made the noise again. “I wouldn’t put it past him. Not that selling his work would gain him anything in the true art community. Especially not that garbage he claims is outsider art. After all, outsider art isn’t about commerce at all, not at its heart. However, his father might take him more seriously. His father is all about money.”
I pushed away from the counter. “If he sold out a show at a reputable place like the Markes Gallery, his dad might respect him more?”
He shrugged. “I’m only speculating.” Puzzlement creased his brow. “I don’t see any way that Leigh would give him a show in her gallery, though.”
Her assistant, Paisley, on the other hand . . .
“Skipper!” Mrs. Standish waved him over to where she and Lucy had stopped by the door. “Are we supplied for the evening?”
“Indeed we are.” He bestowed an indulgent smile on her, then turned to me before going. “Thank you for the cake, Katie, and for the discussion. Let me know if you have any other questions about outsider art.”
I agreed that he’d be the first one I’d call.
Before I started the Bug, I texted Declan.
Will be a little late. Going to drop by Sterling Fitness to return an item Jo Sterling left at the bakery.
He replied immediately.
Okay. Grilling salmon tonight. Grab some wine if you get a chance. Love you.
I replied with a heart emoji, then turned the key in the engine.
Sterling Fitness was on the north side of Savannah and overlooked the river and the Talmadge Memorial Bridge. I parked at the back of the lot and rolled all the windows down for Mungo.
“I won’t be long.”
He stood on his hind legs and looked at the door of the gym, then back at me.
“Believe me, you don’t want to go in there. You don’t even like to go for a run with me. This is a perfect opportunity for you to take a nap.”
Yip!
He sat back down in the passenger seat. I grabbed my tote and headed inside.
The place was beautiful. The entire back wall, which faced the river, was floor-to-ceiling windows. Treadmills, spinning bikes, and the like were arranged to take advantage of the view. The walls and ceiling were painted bright white, and the floor was a rich hardwood. Shelving units against the walls held neat rolls of towels, subtle sconce lighting was tucked into the columns that marched down the center of the space, and weight-lifting equipment stood in a long, tidy row. Off to the right, doorways punctuated the wall at regular intervals. The nearest one was closed and had a sign that read pilates, and I assumed the rest led to activity-specific studios. To the left was a long counter with stools—a juice and oxygen bar to serve the clientele. And everywhere, ferns of all kinds hung from the ceiling and spilled from wall planters, creating a verdant oasis for luxury workouts.
The gym was about a third full, and every single person was trim and thin, lithe, and dressed to the nines in designer athletic clothes. Near the front door, a glassed-off area offered items for sale. I went in and saw where some of the clothing on the well-dressed gymgoers came from. I checked a couple of price tags and nearly gasped out loud before backing out.
I turned to scan the room for Jo but didn’t see her. A man stood behind the juice bar counter, watching me. When I caught his eye, he smiled a brilliant, white-toothed smile that belonged on a magazine cover. As I approached him, I saw all of him belonged on a magazine cover. The man was gorgeous, with sandy hair, hazel eyes that crinkled just enough at the corners to make them spark when he smiled, and even features that were both masculine and boyish. He wore a light blue polo shirt and chino shorts.
“Well, hello there,” he said in a rich baritone. Three words, and I could already tell he was flirting. “Haven’t seen you in here before.” He cocked his head to the side. “Are you interested in joining?”
“Actually, I was hoping—”
The door opened and three women came in and rushed over to the juice bar.
“Oh, Rhett, there you are. You naughty boy. You weren’t here yesterday when we came for spin class.” The speaker was a very well maintained middle-aged woman with perfectly coiffed hair and an impressive amount of eye makeup for a gym workout. Her friends were carbon copies. All of them ignored me completely, focusing their considerable attention on . . . Rhett.
Slowly, I backed away and looked around again. This time I spied Jo. She had exited the Pilates room and stood leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed over her chest. Her straight blonde hair fell over her face as she watched the shenanigans at the juice bar. I walked over and joined her against the wall.
“Quite the show, isn’t it?” she asked, with a glance my way. She wore dark slacks and a white button-down shirt much like what she’d had on during the book club meeting. Maybe it was a kind of uniform to her.
“They seem to really like the guy,” I agreed. “Rhett, is it?”
“Mm. My mother-in-law had a real thing for Gone with the Wind.”
I turned to look at her full-on. “That’s your husband?”
“Mm. Not that you can tell.”
I squinted. “Well, he is wearing a wedding ring.”
She snorted. “Yeah, that holds them off.” Then she sighed. “It’s harmless, though. And he does bring in the paying customers. Lots of them.”
“How much does it cost to join?” I asked.
She told me.
Despite being prepared for a big number, my jaw slackened in surprise.
Jo laughed. “What the market will bear, right? You’re from the bakery, aren’t you?”
Still stunned, my head bobbed in affirmation. Then I mentally gave myself a shake. “Yes. Katie Lightfoot from the Honeybee, where you had your book club meeting. That’s why I’m here.”
Surprise widened her eyes. “You want us to sell your pastries here? Because that’s a terrible idea. I mean, they’re absolutely delicious, but no one would buy them.” She gestured with her chin. “I’m pretty sure those women only eat avocados and almonds.”
I smiled. “No, that’s not why I dropped by.” Fishing in my tote bag, I said, “You left this at the bakery. Calista Markes told me that it’s yours.” I handed her the bookmark.
Relief flooded her face. “Oh! Yes, that was my mother’s. I had no idea where I’d left it, though now that I think about it, of course I must have dropped it at the book club meeting.” She took a deep breath. “It’s been a hard couple of days. If you’ve seen Calista, you’ve heard about Leigh.”
“I have. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” She looked into the distance for a few seconds. “I might be one of the only people who will miss her.”
“Really?”
She blinked and came out of her reverie. “Never mind. Come back to the office.”
Puzzled, I followed her to the far door along the right wall. Inside, a large desk took up most of the room. She sat behind it, opened a drawer, and took out a checkbook.
Ha! And Bianca thinks no one writes checks anymore. Wait . . .
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She looked up at me from under her brows. “Giving you a reward. For returning the bookmark. It’s quite valuable.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. You don’t have to do that.”
“But—”
“No. Seriously. I don’t want anything for returning something you lost.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, okay.” She stood and held out her hand. “Thanks.”
I shook it. “No problem.”
As she came back out from behind the desk, I said, “Can I ask you a question?”
She quirked an eyebrow. “You can try.”
“You said you were the only one who would miss Leigh. It just struck me as, well, as sad mostly. What about her daughter?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and considered me. “Do you know Zoe?”
“We’ve met.” Earlier that same day, but still. “She’s friends with one of the Honeybee employees, Iris Grant.”
Her arms dropped. Even with all my witchy intuition, I found her very difficult to read.
“You’re right. Zoe will miss her mother. They were pretty close, I guess. But Zoe’s part of . . . that family. And that family is all about how things look. Zoe is sturdy. She’ll be okay.”
“And Calista?” I was fishing. From the way she’d talked earlier, I didn’t think Leigh’s sister seemed all that broken up over her death.
Jo made a face. “Nah. Leigh was a thorn in her side her whole life. I mean, she didn’t want her dead or anything. Don’t get me wrong. She won’t have to compete anymore, though. See, Leigh tended to rub people the wrong way. She was blunt, she could be rude, and she could be bossy.”
“You were her friend,” I said.
Tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she swallowed. “We met in high school. We had our differences, for sure, but we’d known each other for such a long time it didn’t matter anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She nodded, swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and opened the door.
“Calista said her sister was seeing someone. Do you know who it was?” I asked.
Jo turned in the doorway. “She told you that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did she know who?”
“No.” I didn’t elaborate.
“Well, she’s right. Leigh was seeing someone.”
“He’ll miss her, then, won’t he?”
“He might. He just might.” She started to walk away but stopped and looked back at me over her shoulder. “I’m not so sure about his wife, though.” She began walking again. “Whoever she was.”