Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (8 page)

Well,
that
didn’t sound good. “Does your father know you feel this way?”

He sighed. “Yes. Having met him, however briefly, you can imagine how he reacted when
I expressed my reservations. Considered it an abdication, as if I were refusing some
kind of royal mantle that he was passing on. Which, in a way, I guess he was. It caused
a deep rift between us. He didn’t speak to me for several years.” He paused. Licking
his lips, he gave a little nod, as if to himself, and met my eyes again. His gaze
seemed to go straight to my toes, and after a few beats I realized I’d stopped breathing.

“Luckily, my brother was willing to join the society in my place,” he said. “Despite
how much Father disapproved of his becoming a firefighter, once Arnold agreed to inherit
the membership, he became the preferred son. In some ways, the only son. Father didn’t
formally disown me, mind you. Mother, who knows nothing of the society, wouldn’t allow
that. But he might as well have.”

The sadness in his voice twisted around my heart.

“Then Arnie died.” He held up his hand. “I know you’ve heard the story before, at
least from Declan’s point of view. But there are two sides to every story, at
least
two, and we’ll never hear Arnie’s side. All I know is, as his partner and his best
friend, Declan McCarthy should have saved him.”

“But the rules—”

“Rules be damned.”

Poor Steve. From what Uncle Ben had told me, if Declan had broken the rules that governed
firefighting the only result would have been two dead men instead of just one. But
this man sitting next to me couldn’t hear that right now. For the first time I felt
like I understood why he despised Declan so much for being involved in the accident
that had taken away Arnie—his younger brother, but also his chance to avoid becoming
a member of his father’s archaic magical club.

I put my hand on his arm. He turned, sliding away from my touch. “Old news. But it
also means I’ll have to try to change the Dragohs from the inside, whether I like
it or not. At least the relationship with my father is mending.”

Because you’re doing what he wants, not what you want. What kind of a father is that?
Then I thought of my relationship with my own parents since I’d learned that they’d
hidden my magical heritage from me. Perhaps it would be better not to judge.

I was seeing Steve in a new light. I’d always thought of him as arrogant and pushy…and
hot. But now
he’d revealed a new facet of himself. What else didn’t I know about this guy?

“Perhaps a whole new generation of Dragohs will help you make the changes you envision,”
I said.

He looked worried. “Unless the group falls apart completely. There have been other
membership issues, and now with Eastmore dead there’s going to be another one.”

My ears perked up, but I kept my voice calm. “Eastmore?”

“Lawrence—” Steve’s eyes widened. “Father didn’t tell you?”

“He said he would tell Peter Quinn about the tattoo to help identify the man I found.
He also said he didn’t know all the members of the society. Made it sound like there
was a huge roster.”

Steve looked disgusted. “You said he told you all about the Dragohs.”

“Yeah, well, I was being a tad facetious.”

“Now you definitely know more than you should. That’s not good.”

I ignored that. “Your dad’s not going to the police, is he?”

“Nope.”

“I guess I’ll just have to, then.”

“You can’t!”

Mungo barked. I looked up to see Margie looking over at us from her back porch. The
JJs continued to play, oblivious.

“Will you keep your voice down?” I said. “Of course I can.”

He leaned forward and spoke intensely. “No. You can’t. What would you say? How could
you know
what you know about the tattoo? Besides, if Lawrence’s death is related to the Dragohs,
bringing the police into the loop would be useless. No one will talk to the authorities.
You really think you can convince Detective Quinn that the Dragohs even exist? And
wouldn’t you rather he didn’t find out about your little spellbook club?”

I glared at him. Little spellbook club indeed.

He caught my meaning, and looked down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But
you see my point, don’t you?”

“What if magic had nothing to do with that poor man’s death?”

“Then Quinn will find the killer without any help from us.”

“But—”

“No.
Please
, Katie. You can’t.”

We sat for a long moment, eyes locked. “I don’t like it,” I said.

“I understand. I don’t like it, either. But I need to talk to Father again. Perhaps
he knows something else by now.” He stood abruptly and stalked out of the gazebo.
Turning his back to the house—and to Margie—he stood for a long moment with his hands
on his hips, breathing hard.

Slowly, I got up and walked to his side.

He gestured at the gardens. “You’re doing a great job here.”

“Thanks.”

The sound of running water from the stream mingled with the scent of someone starting
up their charcoal grill.

“Do you know how much I care about you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

I tried a nod, suddenly terrified of where he might be going.

He let out a short laugh, and I looked at his face. “Relax, Katie-girl. I know you’re
still getting your bearings in Savannah. In magic. I’ve never met anyone like you.
We’re connected. I know you feel it, too. We have a destiny. But in the meantime,
you need to know I’m trying to keep you safe when I warn you away from the Dragoh
Society.”

I nodded again, curiously unable to speak.

“I have to go now,” he said.

“Okay,” I managed to croak.

Together we walked around to the front of the house.

Stopping by the Land Rover, I put my hand on his arm again, gratified that he didn’t
pull away like he had in the gazebo. “Steve? Who are the other Dragohs?”

He closed his eyes and sighed

I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. His eyes flew open and he looked at me with
surprise. “I’m still not going to tell you,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. I turned and went up my front walk. Behind me the Land Rover’s engine
started. On the porch I paused and looked back, sketched a quick wave.

As he returned it I could see the skepticism on his face.

Good. I liked that I could keep that one guessing.

Or so I told myself.

After Steve left, I went into the kitchen and eyed the two rounds of yellow cake I’d
made that morning before leaving to meet Declan. Since I’d been living in the South
I’d learned about several regional specialties, and one had recently snagged my interest—caramel
cake. The caramel actually had nothing to do with the cake itself; it was about the
frosting. I’d decided to experiment with it at home to see if I could get it right.

I stirred butter and brown sugar together in a saucepan over medium heat until tiny
bubbles formed and the smell of caramel drifted up to my nose. I whisked in heavy
cream, heated the mixture a little longer, then transferred it all to my trusty standing
mixer, where I added confectioners’ sugar and vanilla. I let it run on medium for
a couple of minutes, whipping air into the frosting, then added a little more soft
butter at the end.

Working quickly, before the luscious goo hardened, as caramel tends to, I slathered
frosting on one of the rounds, placed the other on top, and covered the two layers
with pale brown sugary goodness.

“There.” I sank into a kitchen chair and surveyed my
handiwork, still holding the spatula. It looked pretty much plain-Jane, but I was
sure it would taste heavenly. I looked at Mungo. “At the bakery I’ll just make a sheet
cake, and the frosting hardening too fast won’t be a problem. We’ll sell it in precut
squares.”

He ignored me, staring a hole in the spatula.

“What? You want some?”

Yip!

I grinned and put a little dollop of frosting in his empty bowl. I could swear that
dog ate more than I did and didn’t even weigh fifteen pounds. Maybe I’d grab a snack
later, but it had been a crazy day. I needed to clear my head and stretch my body.
I needed endorphins swishing through my system.

That meant a nice hour-long run.

The clock read five thirty, which left me enough time to work up a good sweat before
sunset. Of course, now that I’m a Southern gal I don’t sweat; I glow. I changed into
running shorts, a sports bra, and a T-shirt, and laced up my trusty trail runners.
No trails today, though. The placid streets of Midtown Savannah would suit me just
fine. I began to unclasp my dragonfly necklace so it wouldn’t bounce in my face as
I ran. Then I remembered Mimsey’s insistence that I wear it and tucked it inside my
shirt instead.

Better safe than sorry.

“Sorry, buddy,” I said to Mungo when he looked up from his bowl. “I plan to run hard,
and you’re too little to keep up.”

He gave me a baleful look. If a dog could shrug, he did before turning back to his
bowl. Deep down, I suspected he didn’t enjoy running as much as I did. Mungo could
be a bit prissy at times. And lazy.

“You have frosting on your nose,” I tossed over my shoulder on my way out.

Margie’s voice drifted through the evening air as I stretched my hamstrings on the
front porch. “Come on inside and get your mac ’n’ weenies, kids.” I shuddered at the
thought, then reminded myself to stop being such a snob. And I knew for a fact that
her mother-in-law cooked all sorts of good things for those kids—and for Margie and
Redding, too.

My footfalls pounding on the cement in time with my heartbeat, I took off slowly to
warm up my muscles. As I built up steam and increased my pace, my mind left my body
to its activity and began gnawing on all the things that had happened since I’d met
Declan for our picnic in Johnson Square that morning. Finding the dead body had been
bad enough, but then there had been the unpleasant Detective Taite and Detective Quinn’s
veiled reference to having done something to make his superior unhappy. I couldn’t
help but wonder what it could have been. Peter Quinn had always struck me as a real
stand-up guy.

I smiled at a bearded man walking a golden retriever and moved toward the curb to
let him pass. He smiled back.

Then there was the tattoo, which led to the Dragoh Society. Mimsey’s frightened expression,
so at odds with her usual twinkly self, loomed large on my mental movie screen. Heinrich
Dawes’ glowering frown soon replaced it as I remembered his condescension and threats.
It
had
been interesting to meet Steve’s father, though, even if he turned out to be kind
of scary. And what about Steve’s revelation that he was a druid and in line for membership
in a very exclusive magical club?

Unbidden, his words came back to me:
I’ve never met anyone like you. We’re connected. I know you feel it, too. We have
a destiny.

I ran harder. Faster.

But there was no escaping what he’d said. I could only push it aside with thoughts
of the dead man. Lawrence Eastmore. His death was none of my business. Everyone kept
telling me that, and I wanted to believe it. But Mimsey’s reference to my being a
catalyst, the way the wreath sigil on Eastmore’s arm had sent shivers down my spine,
and the fact that I was already involved—well, sort of involved—with someone who would
someday be in the same druid…clan?…as Eastmore all felt too coincidental. Not to mention
that Declan and I had discovered the body in the first place.

My breath rasped in and out of my lungs, ragged and harsh. I wiped moisture off my
forehead with the back of my wrist. The scent of sautéing onions drifted from one
of the apartments stacked on both sides of the street.

I couldn’t help being curious. Getting hit over the head in one of the historic squares
of Savannah seemed more secular than magical. How could I tell Quinn who Eastmore
was so he could find the killer? Yes, I was thinking in terms of a murder, but Quinn
was right—it could have been an accident. It was hard to believe that, but I’d only
seen the guy lying under the rhododendron. So it was possible. Either way, the police
couldn’t investigate properly unless they knew the dead man’s identity.

That was silly, though. Quinn was a perfectly capable detective, and he’d said Detective
Taite was smart. They’d have people canvassing the neighborhoods around
Johnson Square, taking fingerprints, looking at video footage, and whatever else they
did to solve their cases. They probably already knew who he was. They didn’t require
any help from me.

I needed to get over myself. Katie Lightfoot simply wasn’t that important to the equation.

Katie! Go left! Now!

Instantly, I veered left between two cars, into the street and oncoming traffic. A
minivan screeched to a halt, and I flung up my hand, as if that would make it stop
faster. The horn blared. A woman screamed.

A sickeningly wet crash behind me made my heart buck in my chest. I sprinted five
more steps as more dull, moist thuds sounded. I stopped and spun around. An amber
projectile streaked down from above, and I instinctively ducked. It exploded on the
pavement where I’d been running, followed immediately by another.

My heartbeat pounded in my ears, my chin jerked up, and I frantically searched the
sky. It was blue and cloudless.

The barrage seemed to have stopped.

The minivan driver got out and joined me. “Wow. They barely missed hitting you.” Her
voice shook.

Hand at my throat, I nodded and gulped air into my lungs. “Yeah,” I managed at last.

Vivid, flame-colored remnants of several pumpkins lay in shreds and chunks on the
sidewalk. Their slimy guts spattered the brick wall of the apartment building, the
ground, and the sides of several cars. Over the years I’d seen the result of kids’
“tossing” jack-o’-lanterns on Halloween, but this was different. Some of the pieces
of pumpkin were recognizable shards, but many had
liquefied when they’d hit the pavement. The seeds and pumpkin goo looked disturbingly
like the insides of something that had once been alive. What might normally have struck
me as mild vandalism instead felt violent and threatening. I shook myself, carefully
avoiding the reason why: Any one of those orange missiles could have killed me with
a direct hit.