Play That Funky Music White Koi (A Lemon Layne Mystery Book 2) Page 17

  My eyes narrowed. If Win had put him up to something—like, say, I dunno…elephants arriving at any second—I’d kill him. He and Win were always in cahoots these days.

  “Bel…” I said with clear warning.

  But he flapped his wings. “Go! Shoo. Put that snazzy dress on and I’ll talk.”

  I set him back on Whiskey’s fur and grabbed my amazing dress. Even if it had cost the earth, and I hadn’t hunted it down myself, it was gorgeous. A long-sleeved turtle neck of glittering red, it cinched at the waist and had a flared skirt that just grazed the middle of my thighs. Paired with silver-strapped heels and shiny silver hoop earrings, I fell in love with it the minute Win pointed it out in an expensive boutique in Seattle.

  I made my way into my equally fabulous bathroom with a real cast-iron claw-foot tub and said, “Okay, Bel. What’s on your mind?”

  “Are you near the soap dish?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want you to throw it at me.”

  I couldn’t hold back my laughter. “Just spit it out.”

  “My parents are coming.”

  Sweet Pete on a carousel.

  I pulled my dress over my head and let it fall to my waist, brushing it past my hips without saying a word.

  “Boss? You still upright?”

  Grabbing the brush, I ran it through my hair, happy with the caramel highlights I’d had added just yesterday. My chestnut hair was rather drab, in my opinion, and now that it was growing out, I needed a change.

  “Boss?” Bel repeated with a tentative tone.

  “I’m still upright. When?”

  “Well, that’s the thing…”

  “When, Bel?”

  “Tonight. Oh, crud, I might as well just spit it all out. They’re bringing—”

  “Not Com and Wom. Please say the twins are off in familiar boot camp or something.” I almost moaned, biting the inside of my cheek. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

  Bel snorted. “You’re joking, right? What witch in even her half-right mind would want one of those two hooligans for a familiar? They couldn’t guide a pet rock, let alone a fully grown witch with fully grown powers.”

  I loved Belfry. He was my family, always—but his family?

  The Bats (yes. That’s really their last name. Bat) were a firestorm of crashing, sticky fruit drippings and mayhem.

  His twin brothers Com and Wom were like toddlers on a continual sugar rush, always into something. And Mom Bat? Mostly as adorable as Bel but not exactly on top of things, if you know what I mean. She turned a blind eye to her sons’ shenanigans more often than not.

  And Dad Bat, well, he was of the mind that boys will be boys. The translation of that? Win’s house and all the beautiful things he’d filled it with were going to crumble around our ears by the time they left.

  But wait…

  I gripped the white porcelain sink and closed my eyes as a shiver of dread slithered up my spine.

  “Belfry? Is Uncle Ding coming, too?” Then I winced and said a silent prayer.

  “Yes…?” he replied in a hesitant squeak.

  My head fell to my chest and I took deep breaths. Uncle Ding Bat (again, yes. That’s his real name) was a feisty senior—all wings and snout in all the wrong places. Mostly my wrong places.

  But okay. I could do this. If I could handle a houseful of two hundred guests or so, people spinning from sheets in the living room, and a testy French chef in the kitchen, I could handle the Bats coming for a visit. They deserved to see their son as much as the next parents.

  “Are we still speaking?” he asked, flying into the bathroom as I quickly applied some lipstick and mascara.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course we are. Just remember to keep them away from Dita. You know how much she loathes the twins.”

  He settled on my loofah on the sink. “I’m on it, Boss. By the way, have I told ya how proud I am of you for inviting Momster?”

  Nodding, I jabbed my earrings into the holes in my ears and slipped on my sandals. “You have. She’d have found out about the party anyway, because she and Bart are traveling through Seattle to Ebenezer Falls to pick up some things she has in storage. So it was an easy decision.”

  In truth, it wasn’t an easy decision. Sharing my life and all the new things in it with my mother wasn’t something I was doing lightly. I’d thought a lot about this. But over the last couple of months, I’d seen people torn apart who’d never be able to make things right. Not until they met somewhere else again—if they met somewhere else at all.

  I didn’t want to leave this plane motivated by disharmony and anger.

  “You’re a good egg, Stevie. I know Dita’s not exactly Donna Reed, but maybe you can make lemonade. Or at least martinis. Booze has helped less get through far worse.”

  The moment my mother Dita heard I’d been booted from my coven—after a powerful warlock accused me of meddling with his family and slapped the witch out of me from the great beyond (yep. He literally slapped the witch right out of me)—she’d shut down all communication. Probably for fear our leader, Baba Yaga, would punish her for consorting with the shunned.

  It didn’t matter that when it came to your child, nothing should prevent you from supporting her—short of murder, that is. And even then, you can hate the crime and still love the criminal.

  But my mother wasn’t that sort of mother. She was shallow, vain, and went through boyfriends and husbands like I went through Pop-Tarts. Nurturing wasn’t part of the plan with my mother. Sometimes I wondered how I’d survived my childhood, as distant as she’d been…as caught up in her own life as she’d been.

  But over the past couple of months, with the changes in my life being what they were, I’d realized I’d be in my grave long before her immortality would run out.

  I’d seen a lot of death these past couple of months, and even if we didn’t get along, I didn’t want to leave this world angry with her. Mildly irritated might be the only way, but harboring all this leftover childhood anger with her was not. I was going to accept her for who she was and not hope she’d miraculously turn into Carol Brady.

  Because that would never happen. Plus, The Brady Bunch had way more kids than my mother would ever be able to handle.

  Taking one last look at my reflection, I smoothed my hands over my dress and blew out a breath of pent-up air. Everything would be okay. It was going to be a great night.

  “You look beautiful, Stevie,” Belfry said on a whistle. “Never prettier.”

  I curtsied and smiled, stroking his head with my fingertip. “Why thank you, kind bat.”

  As I headed back into my bedroom, my stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t had the chance to eat all day. Scooping up the blob of cheese and brown stuff, I shoveled it into my mouth.

  I regretted that the moment it hit my tongue. “Oh my goddess!” I spit it out, wiping my tongue with my finger as I gagged. “What is that?”

  “I’ll have you know, it’s goat cheese from the finest stock. A herd raised by monks, thank you. And fig, grown and shipped straight from the trees in California,” Win chided.

  “It tastes like sweat and airplane fuel,” I said, gagging again.

  “You’ve eaten sweat and airplane fuel, I gather?”

  “No. I’m only guessing, but if you’d like, I’ll go drain Sea-Tac before I’ll eat any more of that.”

  “You have the taste buds of a five-year-old, Stevie Cartwright. If it’s not a Pop-Tart or a box of Cheez-its, you can’t process it on that undeveloped palate of yours.”

  I held my hand out to Whiskey and offered him the snack. “Here, buddy. You have airplane fuel and sweat. It’s on me.”

  But Whiskey took one sniff and whined, turning his nose up at it and making me laugh. “See? Not even our dog will eat it. Now, I need to move it because the alarm on my phone is bound to go off any second, telling me something else is arriving. I just can’t remember what. Clowns?”

  “Perish the thought. Mimes, Stevie. We’ve hired m
imes. They’re the silent, refined entertainers.”

  I did my best impression of a mime stuck in a box.

  “Thank goodness we hired professionals,” Win drawled in his uppity British accent. But then he paused just as I started toward the door to join the chaos downstairs.

  “Stevie?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  His aura wrapped me in a warm bubble. “You look stunning tonight. Positively, beautifully glowing,” Win said, his voice husky and silken in my ear.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, unsure why his compliment made me choke up. “Thanks, Win,” I whispered before I scurried back down the hall and toward the stairs.

  As I zoomed down the steps as fast as I could in heels, I inhaled at the sight of that man again, still at the front door. He was smiling his movie-star smile. Chatting amicably with some of the quartet and signing a napkin.

  Curious indeed, but I had no time for investigating.

  Still, I couldn’t get over how good looking he was, and from this distance, maybe even a little familiar? Nah. Where would I know a guy like him from?

  I stopped at the bottom of the steps, my hands wrapped around the thick square of the banister cap, and caught my breath before entering the melee of activity.

  That was when he approached me, his movie-star smile on point. “Stevie? May I speak with you?”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “Privately?” He swept his arm in the direction of the parlor like he was introducing royalty.

  “Well, it’s not exactly private. I mean, there’s a guy hanging from a sheet in there.” I pointed to where, moments ago, the Cirque acrobat had been checking the pulleys the engineers had installed especially for his performance.

  He turned up the wattage on his smile of persuasion. “He’s gone on a quick bathroom break.”

  “Then sure,” I mumbled. What was so important he had to talk to me in private? He was a door greeter—or something fancy Win had given a label to, but I’d never heard of.

  He held out his arm and offered an escort.

  I gave him a strange look but reminded myself, he was older. Chivalry wasn’t dead for him. So I slipped arm through his and let him lead me into the living room, er…parlor. Win called it a parlor.

  White calla lilies and hydrangeas filled tall vases scattered about the room, on end tables and atop a chest of drawers, all created at the local florist shop owned by Adele Perkins. The sheet still hung from a beam spanning the ceiling, the soft silk cascading to the floor in a pool of lavender.

  “So how can I help you?” I looked up at him, drawn by his compelling gaze.

  “My name is Hugh Granite, and—”

  I think my shoulders shook a little with laughter when I heard him say his name, making him stop speaking. I didn’t mean to almost laugh, but c’mon. Hugh Granite? You have to admit, it’s comedy gold.

  Yet, he still gazed down at me as though confused, giving me the impression no one laughed at him or his name, and if they did, they were of no importance.

  So I covered my almost laugh with a cough and rubbed my nose. “Sorry. Allergies. Nice to meet you…er, Hugh…Granite.” I spit his name out, stuttering and coughing some more to hide further snickers.

  Hugh Granite. Priceless, I tell you. I hoped Win was hearing this.

  “Yes. That’s correct. I am the Hugh Granite. International star of stage, screen and film. In Japan, of course.”

  Of course. The Hugh Granite. Big, big star. In Japan.

  I fought another laugh, holding my breath to keep from snorting because his face said he wasn’t joking around. His title meant something to him, and he was looking at me like I was just shy of the cuckoo’s nest for not acknowledging as much.

  But he was so endearing in the most overblown way, I couldn’t mock him. Though, I’m sure Win was having a field day in his head right now.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, but if we could just get to the point? My mother’s coming, and if you knew my mother, you’d want time to gather your wits and put them somewhere you can find them so they’re handy when she starts poking you with her big stick. Mothers, right? Sheesh.”

  Now his face changed, but only for a blip of a second before he was smiling again, catching his reflection in the big picture window to his left and straightening his shoulders. “Of course, I understand. My mother is nothing like yours. Nothing. But still, I understand.” He patted my shoulder with his impeccably manicured fingers as though he were soothing me.

  Okey-doke, then. I bit my lower lip and scrunched my eyebrows together in a frown. I couldn’t help it. I was missing something here. “Okay, so what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Now he nodded again, his dark, perfectly groomed hair never moving. “I, Hugh Granite, have come to tell you something. Something wonderful,” he said in his game-show announcer’s voice, each word over-enunciated.

  Did all stars of stage, screen, and film use third-person narrative when they talked about themselves? Maybe it was a Japanese thing…

  Scratching my head, I sighed and glanced up at him. “Okay. Well could you do that, please? I have tons of guests coming and if you only knew the kind of crazy chaos happening in my kitchen right now, with that wood-fire pizza oven, you’d see why I want to move this along. So, Hugh Granite, talk to me.”

  “As requested, then…” He paused, rather grandly for emphasis, if I do say so myself, and held out two hands to me as though he were offering me a gift.

  But I didn’t take them because this was getting weirder by the second.

  “Mr. Granite, you were saying?”

  He let his hands fall to his sides and puffed out his chest as though preparing for an important speech. And then he let ’er rip.

  “I’m pleased to announce that I am your father.”

  Then he gave me a thumbs-up sign and grinned wider still—and I’d swear I saw his teeth sparkle.

  Chapter 2

  “Your mouth is open, Dove.” Win whispered the gentle reminder.

  “So you’re not the doorman who works for Petula?” I squeaked.

  “It’s herald, Stevie. If he weren’t an international star of stage, screen and film, he’d be the herald. A herald announces the guests with flourish,” Win admonished on a grating sigh of frustration.

  Right. That was the fancy word Win had used when he’d decided to have each person announced as they arrived.

  But Hugh smiled again, his dark eyes twinkling. “No. But I understand your confusion. I once played a maître d’ in one of my earliest Japanese films. A pivotal role for me, if I do say so myself. A young, handsome devil of a man, seeking his fortune in sushi. That must be where you recognize me from.”

  “Stevie? Close your mouth again, Dove.”

  I did as I was told, but I still wasn’t able to think of a single thing to say.

  “Now answer the Hugh Granite, international star of stage, screen and film, and the man who claims he’s your father, Dove. It’s impolite to ignore a guest.”

  But I couldn’t form words. So I just kept staring at Hugh.

  Hugh sighed, his wide shoulders lifting upward. “You’re in shock. A wonderful shock, I’m sure. This happens to me all the time when people first meet me, and it’s delightful. It isn’t every day you find out Hugh Granite is your father, is it?” he asked, his words bloated like his ego. But I couldn’t even be angry at him for thrusting himself upon me like he was the Gift of The Magi.

  Because he was so dang cute. No, really, aside from his incredible good looks, perfect hair, even more perfect teeth, he was darn well adorable.

  There was no denying his voice was gentle and warm, and matched the look in his eyes as he stared down at me tenderly—almost hesitantly, waiting for me to react.

  “Stevie? We have things to deal with promptly. So for now, say these words,” Win ordered in his concise British take-charge tone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hugh Granite, international star of stage, screen, and film, but as you can
see, I’m very busy right now. Can we have a nice long chat about where you’ve been for the last thirty-two years of my life after I deal with the acrobats and mimes and my party has gone off without a hitch?”

  I frowned, but I attempted to repeat the words anyway, because they sounded like they might get me out of the frying pan for the time being and stall the flaming fire.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr…er, stage, screen, and Japanese film star, but party…and thirty-two years, actually almost thirty-three now. And um, stuff…to do… So, talk later. I mean, you and me. M’kay? Gotta go.” I pointed in the direction of the hall outside the parlor.

  And with that, I pivoted on my heel and ran from the room like the devil himself had shown up for the party.

  I’d hoped to find shelter in the bathroom just off the kitchen so I could process what had just happened, but was intercepted by Petula, who had that needy look on her face. The one that said there was a problem. It didn’t happen often, and she was a stickler for perfection. So when she came running, I asked how high I should jump.

  She raced toward me, her wide hazel eyes glassy, her sandy-blonde hair piled on top of her head in haphazard fashion with a clip. “There you are!” she drawled on a sigh of relief, gripping my arm with her pudgy hand. “We need someone to make a decision about the ice sculpture of the dragon. Apparently there’s been some kind of mix-up on placement. Can you come with me?”

  I liked Petula. She was a crackerjack of sound and motion. Chubby, which—she declared with a warm smile that made her eyes crinkle around the outer corners—was from sampling her vendors’ foods. She was warm and friendly and she always smelled like a pastry store with a hint of sage.

  I let her lead me away mostly because I didn’t have a choice, stumbling in my heels as we headed back down the hallway to the front door and out onto the porch.

  Petula pointed to the amazingly gorgeous round tables covered in pale-pink silk tablecloths that dotted my front lawn, set up in a circular fashion to encourage mingling. “Do you want the sculpture on the dessert table, or the table where the Bustamante boys will make made-to-order fajitas and tacos?”