Friday night when dinner rolled around, Liz had no problem filling in as server for the Indialantic’s housekeeper Greta. Aunt Amelia was at rehearsals for Melbourne Beach Theatre’s production of The Sea Witch, where she had the leading role. Liz had promised to make sure everything went smoothly and was thrilled she wasn’t invited to dine with the motley crew, who, as she glanced around, looked more like a group of mourners than wedding celebrants. Glancing to the other side of the dining room, she saw Dorian and Julian seated at a table for two near French doors opening to a moonlit ocean view.
The hotel’s original dining room had been double what it was now, but it was still big enough to seat sixty people. There were fifteen square tables topped with white Irish linen tablecloths dating from the hotel’s opening, personally ironed by Aunt Amelia, who thought ironing was a therapeutic activity when rehearsing lines for her latest play. Liz had helped prep the meal after finding the menu on Pierre’s desk in the butler’s pantry. The dish was one of Liz’s favorites, lemony salmon and spiced chickpeas with arugula. The lemon came from one of the Indialantic’s trees and the arugula and herbs from Pierre’s kitchen garden. Greta had stayed in the kitchen with Pierre assisting him with the cleanup. Even though the chef’s memory was improving with his new medication, Greta and Liz tended to hover over him.
Minutes before dinner, Susannah, Aunt Amelia’s sometime assistant manager, depending of the workload, had conveniently gotten one of her migraines. Her myriad of ailments appeared whenever grunt work was involved or there wasn’t anyone around important enough to praise her expertise and poise. However, she was always on the ready to give her “expert” advice on any situation. After what had happened last January, she and Susannah had grown closer. But that didn’t mean Susannah had changed when it came to her sense of entitlement. Liz was happy that after the scene in the lobby and Susannah’s cryptic need to see her, she’d immediately sought her out.
What Susannah had told her still echoed in her head. The only thing was, Liz didn’t know what to do about it. Susannah was sure she’d seen some unidentified figure in dark clothing and a baseball hat creeping around the grounds. More specifically, in Aunt Amelia’s cutting garden, the future site of the Rhodes-Starwood wedding, lurking near the altar that Julian Rhodes had brought from his Wiccan society.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a gardener?” Liz had asked her.
She had put both hands on her hips. “Do you know who you’re talking to? Every person who works on the Indialantic’s grounds has to come through me. I deliver their checks. But only after I’m sure they did an exceptional job.” Susannah hadn’t known if it was a man or a woman that she’d seen, but she knew one thing, they didn’t belong on the grounds bordering the south side of the hotel. Liz decided to store the information away. Likely, it was just someone from the emporium who wanted to view the Indialantic’s gardens; a stop every year on the barrier island’s garden and orchid tour.
Glancing toward Dorian and Julian’s table, Liz was happy to see that their water glasses needed filling. It would be the perfect opportunity for a little eavesdropping, as she was curious as to why the pair were sitting so solemnly with nary a grin on their faces. She tucked an errant section of long, wavy strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear, then went to the sideboard where she grabbed a Baccarat crystal pitcher filled with water and floating lemon slices. She advanced toward Dorian and Julian’s table, thinking by the looks on their faces, they might as well have been sitting next to the dumpster in the hotel’s back parking lot instead of a million-dollar view. Could it be a case of cold tootsies on Dorian’s part? Had she found out that Wren wasn’t Julian’s cousin?
Halfway to their table, Liz heard Julian say under his breath in a throaty growl, “What’s the meaning of this!” He looked straight at her. “First the hotel staff brings out seafood, after I specifically said on our preference sheet that I am seafood allergic, then they come to serve bacteria filled tap water, when I said we specifically only drink the bottled artisanal water from SWS.”
Liz knew there was no such thing as a preference sheet. Unless Chef Pierre had received it and forgotten to tell anyone. Dorian seemed mortified by his outburst and Liz’s hand shook, causing water to spill on the Spanish tile. There was something commanding about Julian Rhodes. For his small stature, he sure could get your attention with just a few words and his piercing stare. She wondered if his hypnotic ice-blue eyes ever warmed. She didn’t fancy getting on his bad side.
When she reached their table, she said, “I overheard you say you’re seafood allergic. Let me whip up something for you in the kitchen.” Julian seemed mollified after she asked how he liked his steak prepared. She left the dining room before he could demand anything else.
In the kitchen, she found Pierre with his feet up on a chair, his chef’s toque askew as usual, and the new e-reader Liz had bought him on his lap. At first, he’d protested at the thought of an e-reader, not wanting to give up his beloved books, but after she’d set the type to a large font and told him he could even read in the sun, along with the amount of trees he’d be saving—he was off to the races, finishing a book, usually a mystery, in two days tops.
“Grand-Pierre, did anyone give you a paper saying that Mr. Rhodes was allergic to seafood?”
He twirled one end of his Hercule Poirot mustache and looked pensively toward his desk in the butler’s pantry. “I don’t believe so, ma cherie.”
Liz went into the pantry. There was nothing on Pierre’s desk. Under the window in the corner of the room were stacked cases of bottled water. She opened the top case and pulled out a cobalt-blue bottle. Pictured on the label was a sun in front of a pentagram with “SWS Artisanal Water” printed beneath, and in even smaller print, “sweetened with organic orange juice, bottled at the source and consecrated.” Dorian had explained to Liz and Aunt Amelia that each bottle was filled with water from a bubbling mineral spring on Julian’s Jacksonville property, then infused with juice from his own trees. She’d also explained, that after the bottling process, some kind of pagan ritual was performed where the entire Sunshine Wiccan Society blessed the bottles at the exact moment the sun rose up from the Atlantic. Dorian had gone on about the water’s numerous benefits, which must have been the reason why there were five cases of the stuff.
She took a bottle with her and stepped out of the pantry at the same time Greta came into the kitchen from the back hallway that led to her father’s law office and apartment. “Hey, Greta.” She put the bottle in the fridge, then asked Greta about the supposed preference sheet.
“Never saw anything of the kind.” Greta was tall and thin, in her late seventies with long white hair she wore in a French braid. When Liz had first met Greta, she’d looked fifteen years older than the woman who stood before her now. “Ms. Starwood is the only one who’s come into the kitchen and she never mentioned anything, only talked about the wedding cake. Right, Chef?” Greta went and stood next to Pierre.
“Yes, Uhm, sounds familiar.”
“I’m going to make Mr. Rhodes a filet. Not the end of the world,” Liz said, wanting to banish the confused look in Pierre’s eyes. She grabbed a tenderloin from the fridge, cut off a good-sized piece and dusted it with the chef’s special spice rub mix, then cooked it in an iron skillet where she’d added a generous amount of butter and minced garlic. In the pantry she grabbed one of the hotel’s plates and put it in the oven. When the filet passed the touch test, she removed it and put it on the warmed plate, pouring the pan’s juices over the top. The aroma wafting off the top reminded her she hadn’t eaten dinner, and neither had her kitten Bronte. Before leaving the kitchen, Liz added a few sprigs of fresh rosemary. Who said the Indialantic couldn’t be accommodating?
Back in the dining room she stood at Julian and Dorian’s table, and asked, “Mr. Rhodes, would you like me to pick out your side dish from the buffet or would you prefer to get them yourself?”
Dorian took a furtive glance at her fiancé then shot up from her chair. “I’ll get them, I know what my Julian likes.” She said it more like a mother would to her son, instead of a lover to her betrothed. “And please call him Julian, Lizzy. I’ve told him that you, your great-aunt and father are like family to me.”
He didn’t look at Liz, instead addressed his fiancée, “No starchy carbs, Dearest.”
Liz handed Dorian the plate and Dorian scurried to the sideboard.
After checking everyone had what they needed and wanting to keep in earshot of the future bride and groom, Liz turned around and grabbed the water pitcher from the buffet. She sidled up to Wren and Garrett’s table. “Water, anyone?”
“Not for me,” Wren chirped. “I already have my drink.” More like drinks, plural, Liz thought, as the girl raised her glass in the air for proof. Wren was on her third umbrella drink, looking bored, occasionally glancing over to Dorian and smiling with a twisted grin when Dorian caught her eye. Her grin was like the one Liz imagined Barnacle Bob having after he played one of his dirty tricks. An example being the time BB kept meowing when Ryan’s pup Blackbeard was visiting, causing the dog to chase Betty’s innocent feline Caro through the hotel until she climbed the thirty foot palm in the hotel’s interior courtyard. Ryan had to get an extension ladder to get her down in true firefighter style.
Garrett smiled politely but said in a serious voice, “When hell freezes over, I’ll drink that witchcraft H20.”
Liz explained that it wasn’t the Sunshine Wiccan Society’s bottled water.
“In that case,” Garrett said, “fill her up!” He held out his glass.
Earlier, when everyone had met for drinks in the lobby, Garrett, who Dorian had explained was not only her accountant but also a quasi-agent, seemed gregarious and outgoing. Now that he was seated with Wren, he nervously fingered the gold nugget at his neck. Perhaps he thought of the charm as a lucky rabbit’s foot as he glanced in Dorian’s direction with lovesick cow eyes. It seemed obvious he was smitten.
After filling his glass, Liz lingered near the busboy—or in this case—busgirl station, stacking dirty dishes, wanting to overhear any conversation between Garrett and Wren. She hoped to get a handle on Wren’s true relationship with Dorian’s fiancé. However, Wren remained quiet, her gaze glued to Julian’s back. No titillating conversation to overhear. Which was just as well seeing Liz should have learned long ago to “mind her own beeswax,” an expression Aunt Amelia always used when gossiping about someone.
At the end of the meal, Phoebe pulled a chair next to her mother’s and Julian’s table and sat, her lower lip in a pout. “Why can’t I be your maid of honor and Branson Julian’s best man?” She put her hand on Julian’s wrist, and matched his glowering stare. “I don’t understand, it’s not like you have any of your best friends or followers here to fill the spot. If you really cared for my mother…” Phoebe’s droning voice reached a crescendo, “you would let her have a bigger wedding.”
Julian took her hand off his wrist and dropped it like it had been infected with the plague. “Enough of you and your whining! You’re upsetting your mother.”
Dorian didn’t look upset, it seemed she also wanted an answer.
Phoebe only paused for a second, not about to give up, she said, “Why, Stepdaddy Julian? Why can’t Branson be your best man? He told me he introduced you to Mama. Aren’t you old pals?”
Julian snapped, “For God’s sake, Dorian. I thought you explained things to her?”
Branson sat alone and seemed amused by Phoebe’s behavior.
“Phoebe!” Dorian chastised. “What’s wrong with you? Ever since coming home from Paris, you’ve seemed changed.”
“Well, losing a father changes you. But I guess it didn’t affect Branson, he didn’t even bother coming for the funeral.”
“That’s enough,” Dorian told her daughter, firmly. “The restaurant had just opened. Your father was okay with it. They saw each other over the holidays. Please, can we just get along?”
Two tables over, Branson shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at Wren, like he was embarrassed by his sister’s behavior.
Wren returned his gaze and smiled.
“You’re an idiot, Phoebe,” Branson said. “Will you ever learn to think before you speak?”
When Dorian turned her attention back to Julian, Phoebe stuck her tongue out at Branson. He responded with the middle finger. Liz saw Wren smile and give Branson a thumbs-up.
It seemed they had a long weekend ahead. Liz couldn’t wait until it was over. Heck, she couldn’t wait until this meal was over. She turned to go back to the kitchen where she knew everything was safe and cozy. No witches or warlocks allowed. When she went to push one side of the swinging doors open, something scampered by, then shot like a rocket to the dining room’s sideboard. Dorian’s ferret leapt on top, grabbed a crab claw from a slab of ice, and took off toward the open doorway into the hallway leading to the lobby.
“Farrah, come back with that!” Dorian chastised, her lips upturned in a smile.
Her smile faded when Julian said softly, but sternly, “What have I told you, Dorian?”
She slunk back down in her chair.
Liz came to her rescue. “I’ll try to find her for you.”
But she didn’t have to because Captain Netherton came trotting in from the kitchen followed by Killer, his huge Great Dane, whose temperament was the opposite of what his name inferred. Killer would probably lick the ferret to death before anything else. The elderly, distinguished captain paused for a second, “That little thief stole one of my U.S. Coast Guard gold cufflinks I got at my retirement. Come Killer, just sniff her out for me.” He sped past them with a slight limp.
Dorian called after him, “Her cage is in the Oceana Suite, I’m positive I secured the latch.”
Julian gave her another chastising look.
“I did, I remember. I wouldn’t put it past one of my darling children to let her out as a prank. In fact, I think I’m sensing which one. Over the years, they’ve always been jealous of my precious ferrets. You know, darling, without my ermines, I would lose half of my psychic powers when it comes to channeling the dead. Just like your sect with their cats and owls. Farrah doesn’t assist me in reading the tarot or someone’s palm, but for some reason when one of my pet ferrets is in the room, it’s easier to connect with those that have passed to the other side. Plus, they’re snuggly companions, just like you my darling. Did you know Cleopatra was buried with her ferret? Wish you’d give Farrah another chance. She did find your father’s tiepin that he gave you. She deserves kudos for that.”
Julian snorted. “You’re stereotyping witches again, Dory. What have I told you? Our new millennium ways are quite different from everyone’s vision of witchcraft in seventeenth-century Salem.”
Dorian once again looked beaten. She didn’t seem the same person Liz had known over the years. Her great-aunt’s psychic friend had always seemed upbeat—if anything—too upbeat.
Having had enough drama, for the time being, Liz left the dining room for the sanctity of the Indialantic’s kitchen. The same place she ran to as a child when she had a boo-boo and needed Grand-Pierre to apply one of his magic, herbal poultices. She believed in the power of nature’s alchemy, so why was it so hard for her to believe white witch Julian Rhodes was all he professed to be? She’d try to be more open-minded. “Try” being the key word. The verdict was still out.