Dewitched (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 3) (3 page)

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.

“
Y
our 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?”

Win had insisted we utilize the talents of some of the food truck owners, and the Bustamantes were high on his list, as was Carlito, now an honorary Bustamante, according to Maggie and her boys. Her daughter Bianca was still warming to him.

Long story short, Tito Bustamante was murdered last month, and he’d owned a taco truck—the best-ever taco truck. My favorite dining experience in all of Ebenezer Falls. Tito’s son, Carlito—a son he went to his grave unaware of—had come to town to locate his biological father in the middle of the investigation into Tito’s death.

Tito’s adopted sons, Mateo and Juan Felipe, now ran the taco truck in their father’s stead, and they’d included Carlito in every way possible.

But I didn’t even have time to consider how proud Tito would have been if he could see his adopted children, born to Maggie from her first marriage, and his newly found biological son working so well together, before Win said, “Oh, definitely tell her the dessert table. Dragons breathe fire—we don’t want to evoke images of heartburn mixed with our Mexican food, do we?”

Clearly he’d read my lack of focus, and likely the blank expression on my face, the way he always does. And he always knows exactly what to do.

I nodded distractedly. I don’t know why I hadn’t made the correlation between fire and spicy tacos. Duh. It was so obvious.

Not.

“The Mexican table. So we don’t inspire an OD on antacids—or something. Does that work, Petula?”

Petula clapped her work-worn hands. “Of course. You’re so clever! And now I’m off. The quartet should arrive at any second and I’d like them warmed up and playing before the guests begin to arrive, which should be in about twenty minutes.”

She hopped down the wide front steps of the house in her sensible shoes, all energy and motion, and threw herself into the fray of activity, leaving me to continue staring blankly, unable to move.

“Stevie?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Maybe you should take a moment?” Win suggested.

“Or a lot of moments,” I mumbled as the lights, strategically mapped out by Win, began to turn on, turning my front yard into a twinkling mint-green and soft white fairy garden. The evening was cool, but not uncomfortably so, and the chance we’d taken by having an outdoor party in May, in Seattle, looked like it wouldn’t end up the risk I’d envisioned.

The newly planted hydrangeas in blue and white, their fat blooms drooping from their stems, added to the aura of an English cottage garden. Lavender and purple salvia surrounded them, accented by pink tea roses, the flowers all aglow with specifically chosen lighting to best accent their beauty.

Chester, the man I secretly considered my surrogate grandfather—and the real grandfather of the man I was dating casually—had helped me meticulously plan this particular garden, and it was as beautiful as I’d hoped.

But I couldn’t enjoy it right now, or take pride in it, because my
father
, Hugh Granite, was somewhere inside my house, certain I was thrilled to bits he’d made an appearance after almost thirty-three years.

How did I even know he was telling the truth?

“Dove, please take a moment to gather your thoughts.”

“Do you really think he’s…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. It sounded ludicrous in my head. I couldn’t imagine what it would sound like out loud.

“Your father? I will admit, there’s a resemblance. It’s in the line of your jaw and the set of your pretty eyes. What I’d like to know is how and why?”

“Why now and how did he find me?”

“Exactly. We must protect you from frauds, Stevie. You’re a very rich woman. Now, I’m going to stress once again, please take a moment to gather your thoughts. Have a glass of wine. I want this to be an enjoyable evening for you. As good as it possibly can be, after Hugh’s admission. I don’t want you frazzled and upset. I’ll have Belfry call Petula, if need be, and give him instructions to pass on to her if we run into any more problems.”

Petula, as well as Liza, the college student and friend I’d hired to handle the Madam Zoltar shop in town, both thought Belfry was my virtual assistant from Connecticut. It helped tremendously to fall back on Bel and Win.

But I shook my head. If I didn’t think about what had just happened, I could compartmentalize it for now. But there was just one thing I had to ask myself.

If Hugh Granite, international star in Asia or wherever, really was my father, how had two such vain people made
me
? Given, Hugh was certainly sweetly egotistical, but my mother? Not so much.

Maybe I should ask him to leave and come back another day when I was more prepared to find out if he was just messing with my head? Was he dangerous? He sure didn’t look dangerous. But there were plenty of madmen out there who looked as gentle as newborn kittens. I didn’t know what to do. So many decisions, so few brain cells not already eaten up by party matters.

Yes. Wine. I needed wine. Maybe that would help me loosen up enough to parse through all this new information.

“Stevie? Wow! You look beautiful,” Forrest called before he let a whistle go, thus, ending my dilemma.