On the way home, I headed back downtown to Bianca’s wine shop on Factors Walk for a nice bottle of wine to go with Declan’s supper. We had fallen into a routine, with him taking over supper duties three nights a week when he was off shift, and I loved it. Partly because I worked in a kitchen all day, but also because my husband was a fantastic cook.
Bianca, who concentrated on finding amazing wines and running the business side of things, had already left. Her knowledgeable clerk suggested a pinot noir since the salmon would be grilled. I also grabbed a bottle of rosé to share with Margie when we finally got the chance.
On impulse, I turned toward Whitaker Street on my way home. There was plenty of parking by the Markes Gallery so late in the day. I’d been hoping to ask Paisley if the gallery would be opening soon and perhaps ply her with a few casual questions about Leigh’s ex-husband. The door was locked, but there was a sign on the door: under new management.
And below that the information that the gallery would be open to the public again as of tomorrow.
New management. Ugh.
I was more curious than ever to meet Walker Stokes.
As I pulled away from the curb, another car going in the opposite direction slowed to a crawl. I turned my head to look at the driver, and there was Detective Peter Quinn peering into my eyes.
He didn’t look happy.
Declan had glazed the salmon with hoisin and soy sauce and grilled it on our little hibachi on the back patio. Sitting at the small table outside, we ate it with fragrant jasmine rice cooked with lime, a marinated tomato and cucumber salad, and the pinot noir I’d picked up at Moon Grapes. Mungo had already finished his own unseasoned salmon and rice and was making his rounds in the backyard, sniffing here and there to see if there were any updates.
“The way Jo talked about Leigh made me sad. I didn’t know her well, but the way her friend—her best friend, mind you—made her sound, Leigh must have been quite unhappy.”
He put his fork down and took a sip of wine. “She was a very successful woman.”
“There are a lot of ways to define success.”
“True. She did take off work to care for her father, though.”
“There’s that,” I said. “Mimsey said James Markes didn’t approve of her marriage to Walker Stokes. I wish I could have met him when we took Zoe to his house.”
“You don’t know where he works?”
“He doesn’t, according to Zoe. He’s taking over managing the trust her grandfather left her, it sounds like, and Bianca and I heard Leigh’s assistant say Walker wanted to reopen the Markes Gallery. I went by this evening and saw it’s ‘under new management,’ which I assume means his management.”
“Can he do that?”
“Jaida said he had a financial interest in the business. Now, maybe he’s the full owner.”
“Hmm. Leigh is killed and suddenly her husband owns her successful art gallery and has access to his daughter’s money. A lot of money, I imagine.”
“It’s a motive, for sure,” I agreed. “Say, what time do you have to go to work tomorrow?”
“Not until three.”
“Do you want to take a look at a sculpture?”
His eyebrows lifted. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“Yep, I think you do. If I can swing it. When Bianca and I went to the gallery to check out Leigh’s assistant, the idea was that Bianca wanted me to see a sculpture. Turns out it’s kind of amazing.”
He tipped his head to the side. “And you want to buy it?”
“Nah. It’s way too expensive. I took pictures, but the assistant, Paisley Long, said my husband should see it in person. And the gallery is reopening tomorrow.”
It took him a minute, but he put it together. “And you think Walker Stokes might be at the gallery.”
I nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Okay. Set it up, and I’ll be there.”
That night I tried to contact Nonna. When I’d done it before, it had been through a lucid dream. However, try as I might, I couldn’t drift off enough to dream. Instead, I spent the night in a fitful, half-awake state that provided little rest. I gave up at four a.m.
It was officially Halloween. Tonight, we’d finally try to get Connell back.
No. Tonight we would get Connell back.
Normally I would have gone for a run to energize myself after a poor night’s sleep. Instead, I quickly showered and dressed, then silently went up the stairs to the loft and turned on a lamp. I opened the cupboard where Declan kept some of the sentimental items from his past. Reaching past the baseball trophies and ticket stubs, I grasped the thick photo album full of old family photos his mother had given him. Opening it, I found what I was looking for. After several seconds of hesitation, I slipped the photo out of the corners that held it in place. Turning on the printer, I scanned the picture and printed it out on photo paper. I tucked the copy in the front of the album, closed it, and returned it to the shelf. Rummaging through the desk, I found an empty envelope and put the original photo inside, then headed back downstairs.
After a few sips of coffee, I slid open the door to the patio and slipped out with a bag of supplies. Mungo followed, and I closed the door behind us. The sun was still below the horizon, and there was a crisp bite to the air. It carried the scent of the Cherokee roses, even this late in the year, along with mint, sage, and lavender from the herb garden.
Soon after I’d purchased the carriage house, Declan had helped me to carve out flowing garden beds along the edges of the yard. There was one for vegetables, another with herbs, and one exclusively devoted to magical plants and gardening spells. A small rowan grew in the middle of that one, along with the witch hazel from which I’d made my wand. Of course, all the herbs were magical, too. I’d tucked flowers in all the gardens, chosen so there would be something blooming all year. As I went out to the small stream that ran diagonally across the very back corner of the lot—natural running water was invaluable to the spell work of a hedgewitch—I noticed the fuzzy blooms of blue mistflower mixed in with purple false foxglove and white boneset.
A flicker drew my attention, and I turned to see Mungo lying in the lush grass, chin down and staring at a very unseasonal firefly glowing right in front of his nose. Shaking my head and smiling, I filled a large plastic jug with water from the stream and twisted the cap on. Fireflies seemed to be attracted to Mungo the same way dragonflies were to me, and I was always amazed when they appeared out of nowhere when he was around, even in the dead of winter. During the early summer there were so many in the yard and surrounding trees that Declan joked we could read by their light.
In the middle of the yard stood a cedar gazebo, and nearby was the firepit. I checked the wood supply and found Declan had filled the rack after our last fire. I retrieved the rough straw broom, or besom in witch talk, from the gazebo and carefully swept the three-foot-wide circle of rocks around the pit, clearing it of dried leaves and debris while chanting a cleansing spell.
Usually, I did solo spell work inside the gazebo, but there would be too many of us, and I wanted to be able to move around. We’d cast the salt circle around the outside of the rock ring, with a small fire burning in the center. To the neighbors it would look like an autumn backyard gathering, albeit rather late at night. I could only hope Margie and the kids would be fast asleep by then.
I put the jug of water on the small table in the center of the gazebo, along with a canister of salt, four white candles, and four black candles in holders. Satisfied with the preparations for tonight’s spell so far, I sat on the top step of the gazebo and scratched Mungo’s ears while considering what else we’d need. I stood, and he gamboled after me, his firefly forgotten, as I went back inside. Sipping coffee, I composed a quick email to the others in the spellbook club to confirm what they’d be bringing that evening and when we’d meet.
Minutes later, my familiar and I were buzzing toward the Savannah River in the Bug. There was one more thing I wanted to do before going to work.
On Bay Street, I parked and reached for Mungo’s leash. He graciously allowed me to put it on him, then scrambled over to the driver’s seat and jumped to the ground when I got out. I locked the car, and we headed toward Rousakis Plaza.
The sun wouldn’t even start to rise for more than an hour, so we navigated by streetlights until we got to River Street. We saw few others out that early—a couple of runners, a slow-moving police car half a block away, drivers on their way to early work shifts, and another dog walker. Reflected light from the imposing Westin Hotel and Golf Resort on the other side of the river painted the water with multicolored streaks that reached nearly to where Mungo and I stood on the shore. Without the smells of restaurant food and car exhaust tainting the air, the slight smell of sulfur from the river reached my nose. The sound of a boat horn drifted toward where we stood.
Shaking myself out of my reverie, we continued to Rousakis Plaza and Echo Square. Mungo padded beside me as I walked to the center of the red and black bricks laid out in a circle in the center of the square and paused.
Echo Square was a favorite destination of tourists because it possessed a unique quality. It functioned as an echo chamber. If you spoke while standing inside it, people outside the square couldn’t hear you, but your own voice reverberated in your own ears. It was in all the guidebooks and a favorite feature of many tours. However, I had stumbled upon another feature of Echo Square quite by accident.
The spirit of my deceased grandmother had once answered me as I spoke out loud, trying to parse my thoughts on another paranormal murder case in which I’d been involved.
Now, as I stood there with Mungo, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. I was anxious about the spell I was going to attempt that night. I was basing it on advice she’d given me the last time we’d been in contact, and I had questions.
“Nonna?” I whispered. Then I repeated it louder, even though my voice sounded to me as if I were shouting. “Nonna? Are you there?”
After my question echoed back to me, all I heard was the sound of a light breeze and Mungo panting beside me.
For the most part, Nonna had only been in contact when I was in danger or desperate. I definitely felt desperate, but not in danger.
At least not really. Not yet.
“Nonna, I’m going to do what you told me. I’m going to go after Connell tonight, when the veil is thin. I haven’t found a tether, though. Well, I did, sort of, but she won’t help. Can’t help, I guess. So I’m going to do it myself. Act as the tether, I mean. Will that work?”
Truck tires clattered over a grate in the road several hundred feet away.
“Nonna, please talk to me.” Despair leaked into every word.
Mungo whined low in his throat, and it reverberated back to us, loud and unhappy.
I took a deep breath. “Well, I guess it’s okay, then. Maybe you’ll be around tonight. I hope you will be. I’d love to hear from you.”
And I need all the help I can get.
Sighing, I reached down and ruffled the fur on Mungo’s head. Then we started back to the car.
After the sourdough loaves were in the oven, I started in on the Samhain cakes for that evening’s ritual. As I gathered ingredients, I decided to make them more like scones than regular cakes. Rubbing the butter into the flour and brown sugar, I thought about the spices to use. Cinnamon was useful in love spells, but I wanted to trigger its protective qualities. Ginger was also protective, and helpful in augmenting any magic. The spellbook club often drank ginger tea before casting.
Nutmeg was often used in travel spells, which would be perfect in a ritual to help a lost spirit travel back home. It was also a spice that could be used to promote justice. Getting Connell back could be considered a kind of justice, as I felt it was absolutely the right thing to do. He’d saved my magic and deserved my gratitude and help. I also made a note to myself that perhaps nutmeg would be helpful in a spell to bring justice to Leigh Markes. I felt like I’d gotten almost nowhere trying to find her killer. Casting a spell to try to break that logjam couldn’t hurt.
Tomorrow. Tonight I had to concentrate on Connell.
I brought my attention back to the task at hand, grating fresh nutmeg into pumpkin puree. I reached for the powdered ginger, then stopped. Barmbrack was a traditional Irish Halloween treat, a kind of fruitcake made with dried fruit. Crystalized ginger would have more of that vibe, and besides, it was delicious. I grabbed a jar and chopped the pieces finely before adding them, along with some candied orange peel, to the pumpkin. As I stirred, I whispered under my breath, invoking the ability of pumpkin to protect from evil spirits—a handy thing, it seemed, if someone was planning to visit the next plane.
Not someone. Me. I’m going to be the tether.
And I had no idea how to do it.
I pushed the thought out of my mind. Right now, I needed to concentrate on my intentions for this recipe.
The first batch of customers had come and gone, and I was loading still-warm loaves of sourdough into the pastry case. The door opened, and I looked up in anticipation, as we had come to know most of our early-morning regulars. It turned out to be someone I knew, all right.
“Hello, Detective Quinn,” I said.
“Why, hello, Katie Lightfoot.” The words sounded so friendly, except he wasn’t smiling.
Peter Quinn was fit, boasted a shock of thick gray hair and piercing eyes, and had rather expensive taste in clothing.
“What can I get you, Detective?” I asked.
In the kitchen behind me, Lucy snorted quietly. Despite her respect for law enforcement, after the situation with Ben, she had mixed feelings about Quinn. Luckily, I was pretty sure he hadn’t heard her.
“Some information might be nice.”
I smiled. “Perhaps with a side of sweet tea and a muffin?”
His lips twitched. “Perhaps with a side of espresso.”
“Nothing sweet?”
“Not today.”
Well, that told me what kind of mood he was in. I asked Ben for an espresso, and he started brewing it with a smile. Unlike Lucy and me, Ben acted as if Quinn had never accused him of murder.
I led Quinn to a table in the corner and sat down. He slid into the seat across from me.
“How’s Mrs. Quinn?” I asked.
He blinked. “She’s fine.”
“I’m so sorry I interrupted your date night with my premonition.”
“Hmm. Not exactly a premonition, it turns out. The time of death was earlier than the medical examiner initially thought.”
“I know.” It came out a bit smug.
He looked surprised. “Oh?”
“I understand the crime scene techs discovered the heater had been on in the victim’s car and the battery had run down.”
Leaning forward, he asked, “And how exactly do you know that? It’s not public knowledge.”
“Sources.” Still too smug.
“So, you’re looking into the murder of Leigh Markes even though I told you not to.”
I wiped the self-satisfied look off my face.
“Is that why you were at the Markes Gallery last evening?” he asked.
“I was checking to see when they’d be opening,” I said. “There’s a sculpture there that I’m interested in.”
His eyes narrowed. “Right. What else have your sources told you?”
I gave in. “Not much. I do have a list of suspects, though. Want to hear them?”
A sigh escaped his lips. “Sure, Katie. Let’s hear your suspects.”
I ticked them off on my fingers. “Leigh’s ex, Walker Stokes. He’s already met with the lawyers who handle the trust James Markes left his granddaughter, Zoe. He’ll have control of it until she’s twenty-one, which isn’t that far away, but still. It’s a lot of money. And the sign on the gallery last night said it’s now under new management. His management, I presume.”
Quinn looked impressed despite himself.
“Does he have an alibi?” I asked. “For the actual time of death, I mean?”
He made a face. “Sort of. His wife.”
I blew a raspberry. “Juliette? She’d lie for him in a heartbeat—likes the idea of him managing Zoe’s money just a bit too much, in my opinion.”
“How on earth do you know that?” he asked.
“It was all over her face when she told us. Iris Grant, who works here—she’s Zoe’s friend, and we picked her up from the airport and took her to her dad’s. He was already at the lawyers.”
“I see,” he said slowly. “Who else is on your list?”
“Aldo Bracket. I think his given name is Alessandro.”
His gaze sharpened. “Why would Alessandro Bracket want to kill Leigh Markes?” He obviously knew who Aldo was.
“He wanted to have a show at her gallery, but she refused. He does something called outsider art, but not really, I guess, because he’s not really an outsider, and it’s not really art.” I ventured a small smile. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
He reached into his pocket and for the first time opened the little notebook he carried. He jotted something down, closed it, put it on the table, and looked at me with an expectant expression.
“Paisley Long was Leigh’s assistant. She’d been running the gallery on her own until Leigh came back after her father’s death. She could have resented losing all the power she’d had.”
“I spoke with Ms. Long,” Quinn said. “She was at her mother’s house that evening, along with her sister and two cousins. It’s been verified. Anyone else?”
“Well, Zoe Stokes probably should be on the list, but I don’t think she had anything to do with her mother’s death.”
“You’re right. We’ve verified that she was on campus at her university when her mother was killed.”
I felt my shoulders relax a little. It was nice to know for sure the police didn’t suspect Zoe. I really liked her.
“Zoe’s staying with her aunt Calista instead of her dad. Calista seems like a viable suspect. She and Leigh had an argument right here in the bakery the afternoon before Leigh was killed.”
“Oh?”
I nodded. “They had a book club meeting.”
“Yes, I’m aware. Jo Sterling told me.” There was something in his eyes.
“Ah! That’s why you came by.”
“That and the fact that you knew Markes was dead before anyone else did.”
“I explained—”
“No, you didn’t. And I can tell you’re not going to.”
“It was a feeling . . .”
He gave a sharp shake of his head. “Stop. Just stop. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you could have killed her.”
My mouth dropped open.