Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (12 page)

“Hmm. Well, that fits more with what I heard from two other friends. Hill loves to take people to court—in fact, one guy called it his hobby. He does not, however, appear to be interested in working at any actual job. His aunt gave him an allowance. They also said he was cheap, greedy and had stepped on the other side of the law a couple of times to make a few extra bucks.”

I digested this. “Albert sounds like a sociopath. Someone who can manipulate people when he wants to but who doesn’t really care about anyone.”

“That,” Bianca said, “is exactly what I thought. Do you have any other assignments for me, Chief Investigator Lightfoot?”

“Ha, ha. Not at the moment.”

“Seriously, let me know if you think of any way I can help.”

“I will. And thank you.”

Minutes after I arrived home, a white delivery van pulled into the driveway behind my car. Two teenaged boys jumped out, unloaded my new-to-me trunk and deposited it in front of the purple fainting couch. Though I’d bought it on impulse, it made an attractive coffee table and would serve as much-needed storage in my tiny dwelling.

Speaking of impulse, I didn’t even know what it looked like inside. Unbuckling the leather straps, I flipped the catch and lifted the lid. The inside was polished wood and smelled of fresh varnish. I ran my hand over it, relishing the smooth texture before lowering the lid.

Something caught my eye, and I opened it again. Strapped to the inside of the flat trunk lid was a knife.

My first instinct was to slam the trunk shut. Knives of any kind gave me the creeps unless they were whacking food into pieces on a cutting board. This one looked worn and old. I carefully loosened the band that held the weapon snug against the wood and removed it from the tattered brown leather sheath. The dull metal barely reflected the light, and tiny pits dotted the one-sided cutting edge. The blade was a good ten inches long, quite wide, maybe three inches, and separated from the handle by a brass hand guard. The end curved into a wicked point.

I was holding an old bowie knife. I knew this because
Daddy had one, only his was newer, with a shiny blade and a polished wooden handle. He used it for … What did he use it for? He didn’t hunt. He didn’t whittle—heck, you wouldn’t use a knife like that to whittle, anyway. But I could clearly picture it in his hands. I’d been quite young, no older than seven or eight. No memories of the knife surfaced that were later than that.

This one looked old enough to be from the Civil War. That would make sense, considering how old the trunk was, except the trunk had been refurbished. Baffled, I set the knife on the top shelf of the bookcase, where I didn’t have to look at it. It obviously wasn’t part of the deal when I’d purchased the trunk that morning. Tomorrow I’d return it to Johnny Reb’s.

Still sated from the big meal earlier, I poured a tumbler half full of chilled Chablis and, inspired by Declan’s offer to rototill, went out to the backyard. Mungo trotted along as I paced off the edges of each garden bed and imagined how they’d look once planted. Valerian and fuzzy mullein would tower among frothy dill and fennel fronds. Lower, the delicate blue shooting stars of borage flowers would mingle with pink chive blossoms and variegated lemon thyme. Purple varieties of sage and basil would look stunning against the gray-green spikes of lavender and dark green rosemary topiaries.

Which reminded me of the rosemary Lucy had planted by my front steps. She’d insisted that I leave it there, and now I suspected there was some magical reason. Back inside, I flipped through the books Mimsey had given me until I found an entry for rosemary. It
had all kinds of magical uses, from improving memory and concentration to purification and protection. Planting rosemary by the front door was supposed to protect the inhabitants from evil, as well as asserting the strength of the woman who lived there.

Well, wouldn’t you know.

Perhaps it was irrational, but the knowledge that Lucy had intended the rosemary to protect me actually made me feel safer.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from jumping when the doorbell rang. Mungo didn’t bark, though; he just looked at me with expectant eyes.

“Some watchdog you are,” I said. I could have sworn he grinned at me.

Peering through the single pane of glass high in the door, I saw Margie Coopersmith standing on the front porch, baby on hip.

I swung the door open, and she handed me a potted geranium. “Hi, Katie! Thought maybe you’d like a bit of green on your kitchen windowsill.”

“First the cookies and now this? Margie, you’re spoiling me.”

A smile split her face. “I’m afraid I’m re-gifting. Margie Brown Thumb, that’s me. I’d kill it within a week. Figured it would be a good excuse to come over and see your new sofa, though. I saw you and that yummy guy unloading it this afternoon.” She lingered over the word
yummy
.

“Well, come on in and try it out.” I stepped back.

She entered the living room and made a beeline for the couch. “This is so unique. Elegant, like it came from a palace or a bordello or something.” She sat and gently
bounced up and down. The baby laughed in her arms. “Comfy, too.”

“Bordello?” I cocked my head to the side. “Yeah, I can see that. Can I get you a glass of wine? I’m afraid I don’t have any stemware yet.” Casually, I gathered Mimsey’s spellbooks off the floor and laid them flat on the bookshelf, spines to the wall.

Leaning back against the tall end of the couch, Margie sighed. “I would dearly love some wine, let me tell you. Those kids have been running me ragged all day. But I’d better not.”

“The JJs? Where are they now?”

“Playdate,
finally
. At my sister’s. She’ll bring them back pretty soon, but in the meantime little Bart and I are available for visiting. If you have the time, of course. Or did I catch you in the middle of something?”

I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, calling over my shoulder, “I was just out back, dreaming of the garden I want to plant. How about some iced tea?”

“Tea would be great. A garden! Well, I’m downright jealous. I swear, I can even kill kudzu.”

Back in the living room I handed her the tea and settled myself at the other end of the sofa. “I know you’re exaggerating.”

“Not a whit! Now tell me, was the man who helped you with the sofa your boyfriend, by any chance?”

“No boyfriends for me, not for a while at least.”

She grimaced. “Bad breakup?”

I nodded but didn’t explain about Andrew. “Declan is a friend of my aunt and uncle’s. He used to work with Ben when he was fire chief.”

“Oooh, a fireman. Well, he’s a cutie, even if you are on hiatus from the male gender.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “What does your husband do?”

“He’s a long-haul truck driver, so he’s gone a lot.”

“Does it get lonely?”

“Honey, I’m so busy I don’t have time to get lonely. Besides, now you’re here. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have someone friendly living next door.”

Margie told me bits and pieces about the neighborhood and the people who lived in it. She wanted to know more about Lucy and Ben and the bakery, so I filled her in on how everything had come about and how I’d come to live in Savannah. She was funny and smart and seemed genuinely interested in just about everything. She put Bart down on the floor, and he contentedly inched around on the hardwood for a while. Mungo sat at my feet and watched him. As we reached the dregs of wine and tea, I found myself telling Margie about Mrs. Templeton’s murder in front of the Honeybee.

“Oh, I heard about that on the news. Had no idea it was so close to you. You actually saw her?”

I grimaced as I remembered. “From several feet away, but yes. It was pretty awful. And now it seems the police are running around in circles.” I couldn’t bring myself to say my uncle was a murder suspect. As much as I liked Margie, I didn’t know her well enough to share that information. “Apparently Mavis Templeton had quite a few enemies.”

She nodded. “I’ve heard stories. She was a bad one to cross.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, a friend of my husband’s lost his job because of her.”

A little shiver ran across my shoulders despite the April heat, but I kept my voice casual. “Good heavens. What happened?”

“Well, let’s see here. I don’t know Frank very well, but I do know he’s a carpenter by trade. Specialty stuff. Craftsman, you know?”

I nodded.

“I’ve only met his wife once, but she’s a sweet little thing, a real Georgia peach, so to speak. They have a little girl who’s just cute as the dickens. Anyway, Frank did some job for Mavis Templeton, but something he did made her mad as a wet hen.”

“What kind of job?”

“No idea. Redding—that’s my husband—told me about it. In fact, I haven’t seen Frank since it happened. All I know is Redding said Frank is a real hard worker and very skilled. But whatever happened, Mavis Templeton got him fired from his job.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it. She also got him blackballed from working for other companies. I guess he’s tried to start up his own business, working for himself, you know? But that didn’t work out so well, either. He blamed her for that, too. Redding said he’s been getting by on odd jobs for the last eight months or so.”

Margie’s story made me feel a little sick. I couldn’t help but remember how Mrs. Templeton had threatened the Honeybee. No wonder Detective Quinn was
willing to entertain the idea that his old friend Ben Eagel might actually have killed her.

My neighbor glanced at her watch. “Oh, Lord. I’d better get going. The JJs are due back any minute, and my sister will have a hissy fit if she has to wait. Thanks for the tea.” She scooped Bart up off the floor and dangled him high in the air. He shrieked with laughter. Then she settled him back in the familiar curve of her hip.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the company. I’ve been pretty caught up in getting the bakery open. It was nice to chat for a while.”

“Well, we’ll do it again real soon, okay?”

“Sounds good.” I walked her to the door. “Say, do you know Frank’s last name?”

“It’s Pullman. Frank Pullman.”

“Thanks for the geranium. I’ll try not to kill it.” Fat chance. I couldn’t kill it if I tried.

She laughed. “Better you than me.”

I turned back from the closed door to find that Mungo had moved into the kitchen. He sat by the stove, an expectant look on his face.

“Ready for dinner?”

He voted in the affirmative with one sharp bark. I replaced his stale kibble with fresh. He sniffed it, and his brown eyes conveyed deep disappointment. He went back to the stove and sat down.

I was planning on a light salad for supper, and omnivore or not, I didn’t think Mungo would get very excited about a bowl full of greens. “I brought home some leftover mac and cheese and a piece of fried chicken. Could I interest you in that?”

Another yip of approval.

I made my salad and dished up his dinner, only halfway paying attention. Frank Pullman sounded like yet another good candidate for murder suspect. But I knew only what Margie told me Redding had told her. Too much like a game of telephone for my comfort.

I needed to talk to Mr. Pullman myself.

I kept thinking about that knife sitting on the bookshelf. And about Daddy’s bowie knife. I should simply call him and ask about it. I mean, it was no big deal, right? But other than giving them a quick safe-arrival call, I hadn’t talked with Mama and Daddy since I’d gotten to Savannah. After Lucy’s revelation about our family, I was confused and angry. What was I supposed to say to them? Ask them why they didn’t tell me I was a witch? Sarcastically thank them for letting me feel like an outsider my whole life?

No, I wasn’t ready to start a conversation like that. Not yet.

So I called Lucy instead.

“Do you remember Daddy’s bowie knife?”

After a moment she said, “I do.”

“What did he use it for? I can’t seem to remember.”

This time the silence went on a lot longer. Then, “It was his athame. It’s a knife used in magic. Sort of a combination wand and sword. We use it in rituals and spell work, to cast circles, and some use it to project
power. Usually they’re black and sharp on both sides, but your father always liked to be a little different.”

His athame.

Of course.

Not that I’d known the name for it then, but I’d seen him use it. I swallowed, not sure what to say. More evidence that I really was a bona fide witch.

“Katie? You okay?”

I cleared my throat. “Tell me more about Mama and Daddy.”

“Perhaps they should do that.”

“They should have done it already, but they didn’t. Now I don’t trust them to tell me the truth.”

“Your parents love you very much, you know.”

“I know,” I grumbled. “But still.”

My aunt took a deep breath. “Your mother was always a little reluctant to use her abilities after what happened between your grandmother and old Luke Godry. That’s who happened upon her casting the fertility spell I told you about. Mary Jane didn’t want to be labeled and whispered about in little Fillmore, but she didn’t completely turn her back on witchcraft until she and Skylar had you.”

“You’re saying it was my fault?”

“No. I’m saying that two hereditary witches had one powerful little offspring. Mary Jane was leery about practicing magic in that small town already, but when she realized what could happen to you if people found out what you were, she convinced Skylar to hide the truth from you.”

“And he agreed?” A part of me listened to all this with the full knowledge that having a conversation
about my magical heritage was ridiculous, if not altogether insane. But a bigger part totally believed and wanted to yell in frustration at what my parents had done to me.

“He was never as afraid as your mother, but he loved her very much, and she was downright terrified for you. He told me once that he knew you would discover your abilities in time. He was happy to see you working with plants and cooking, instinctively interested in herbalism and aromatherapy. And when you wanted to go to pastry school your mother fought against it much harder than you know. I think she might have broken her own taboo on practicing magic to try to get you to stay closer to home, but Skylar put his foot down. Your father has had your back all along. When Andrew and you split, he even cast a spell to protect him.”