Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (13 page)

“To protect Andrew? Good heavens, why? I was the one who got dumped.”

“So much of magic comes from intention. You were hurt and angry and it was possible you could have inadvertently done … something.”

“That’s absurd. Something like what?”

“If you’d wanted to, you could have harmed him.”

I began to protest again, but the truth was I had been angry, furious even, in addition to feeling betrayed, sad and humiliated.

“Daddy really did that?” I asked in a small voice. “He thought I’d hurt Andrew?”

“Not on purpose. You didn’t know what you are.”

I needed to digest the conversation about my parents, and figured I might as well digest some comfort food,
too. The salad had been healthy to an almost holy degree, and now it was time for sweet goodness. First I stirred up some simple brownies using the old trick of adding boiling water to the batter to make them extra moist. Then came the best part: chunky peanut butter mixed with soft butter, confectioners’ sugar and vanilla and dolloped on top of the brownie batter. I drew a knife through the combination to create a chunky marbled effect and popped the pan into a hot oven.

Mungo looked on with great interest.

“No chocolate for you, buddy. Sorry.” But I couldn’t help giving in to those soft brown eyes. I sat down on the floor beside him and offered the spoon I’d used to scoop peanut butter from the jar. Soon it was sparkling clean, and he was licking the roof of his mouth like crazy.

He frowned at my laughter and trotted over to his water dish.

I spent most of the rest of the night immersed in Mimsey’s books on witchcraft, munching on peanut butter brownies and learning about spells and charms, Wiccans, druids and voodoo. About altars and elements and archangels. I even made a rudimentary list of supplies. Other than the candles, I was surprised to learn, I already had many items I might need: dried herbs, essential oils, even the stones I gravitated to in jewelry.

All the information was introductory, but clearly Lucy was right about how magic worked. It was all about intention and the power that came from belief. One book even likened it to quantum physics, in which the expectation of the scientist affects the outcome of
her experiment. According to what I read, everyone has magic in them. But there are some people who possess the innate ability to focus their intention more effectively.

More powerfully.

Finally I closed the books and grabbed an hour of sleep before dawn.

As I ran, I listened to the pounding of my feet on the pavement and pushed thoughts of witches and magic aside. We needed to find Mrs. Templeton’s murderer, and fast. Now that Albert had entered the picture, there was yet another threat to Ben—and the rest of us. So I wanted more than ever to talk to the manager at Mrs. Templeton’s apartment building and see what he could tell me about her tenants. And about her. Everyone seemed to have a story about that woman.

I also had to track down Frank Pullman. I could only hope he’d be willing to talk to me about Mrs. Templeton and what she did to him. Questioning two men I’d never met. One with a murder motive.

My mother would have had a fit if she’d known.

I ran until I was a sweaty mess, but the clean, open feeling that usually accompanied the endorphins eluded me. I couldn’t stop worrying about Ben, the Honeybee and my future. Steve Dawes entered my thoughts more than a few times, and so did Declan McCarthy. Then I started feeling guilty about what Declan had said about someone missing Mungo. I should have looked harder for his owner. Taking him to the pound now was out of the question; he’d wiggled his furry little self right into my heart.

Then I turned to obsessing about the details of the Honeybee’s opening, running over and over in my mind the things we might not have thought of. But my job at the bakery in Akron, hard and thankless work though it was, had provided me with a wealth of experience, not only in the particulars of baking but also in how to run that kind of business.

The practicalities of getting the Honeybee up and running were really the least of our worries. Maybe another protection spell would help, though. And something to encourage success and abundance. The thought came to me so easily I almost didn’t notice how strange it was.

After showering and dressing in my usual skirt and T-shirt, I fed Mungo bacon and eggs and took my coffee out to the back patio. We sat on the grass, and I watched the dragonflies patrolling the yard. Another name for them was mosquito hawks, and given the abundance of the little flying vampires, I was glad to have that particular kind of hawk as my friend.

My sleep disorder was ideal for a baker, because we keep crazy hours. But I didn’t have to be at the Honeybee early today, so I forced myself to putter around the little house for a bit, doing dishes and making the bed, wiping down the bathroom and running a dustcloth over the few surfaces. Mungo encouraged my tidying up by following me everywhere. Finally, I scooped him up and carried him out back. The soulful expression in those doggy eyes looking through the glass as I closed the French door almost broke my heart. Sighing, I grabbed the bowie knife off the bookshelf, slung my tote bag over my shoulder and headed out the door.

Steering the Bug around Lafayette Square, I glanced in the rearview mirror and almost swerved into a Bermuda-shorts-clad couple taking pictures.

Mungo sat looking back at me with a happy grin on his face.

“How did you manage that, you little stowaway?”

He licked his nose.

I bent the mirror down and saw he was sitting smack-dab in the middle of my open tote bag. Now what was I supposed to do? Drive all the way back home? I sighed. The Honeybee wasn’t officially open, so I could probably sneak him into the office for a few hours without the food police closing us down.

The operative word being
sneak
.

It didn’t surprise me when he burrowed into the bottom of my bag, not even poking his twitching nose out as I carried him down the street and into the bakery. He was a very smart puppy, after all. Maybe too smart.

Ben and Lucy were already inside, sitting at a table. When I saw the looks on their faces, inexplicable dread settled into my stomach.

“Is everything okay?” I asked without preamble, sinking onto another chair and putting my tote on the floor. Mungo popped his head out, but they didn’t notice.

“Detective Quinn just left. He stopped by to talk to Ben.”

The dread intensified.

“Stopped by? So it wasn’t official? What did he want?”

“Slow down.” Lucy put her hand on my wrist. “It was official, all right. He made Ben go over everything
that happened that day, from the minute we got to the bakery. Everything that happened at the DBA meeting, exact times, where he stood in the alley, what people said to each other. They’ve talked to everyone who attended the brunch, but no one was able to shed any light on what happened. They’ve got nothing but that woman who saw someone who looks like Ben by Mavis’ Cadillac around when she was killed. No one saw Ben in the alley behind the bakery.”

I rubbed my hand over my face and stared unseeing at the empty display case. “The police have talked to people who could have looked out and seen him, then?”

“They’ve talked to everyone in the area. In fact, the detective said he wanted to talk to you. Go over what you told the policewomen who interviewed us that day.”

“Well, that’s fine, but I won’t be able to add anything helpful.” Frustration leaked into my voice. “What about you, Ben? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” But his tone said he wasn’t fine at all. “Peter Quinn was just covering all his bases.”

I took a deep breath. “You’re still a suspect, though. The main suspect. Am I right?”

A pause, then, “It does look that way.”

“Oh, Ben.” Silence fell between us for a long moment.

Ben roused himself. “I talked to Declan last night. He said you two went to the Peachtree Arms yesterday. I don’t like it.”

I frowned. “But you knew we were going to try to find the killer. After this latest encounter with Detective Quinn I’d think you’d be doubly on board.”

“I knew Lucy’s spellbook club included you in their magical workings. I never expected you to go out and play private eye.”

“But it’s the only way to prove your innocence. Witches or not, we need concrete evidence.”

“I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Does that mean you’ll stop nosing around?”

I smiled and patted his arm.

Fat chance.

Lucy stood, hands on hips, and gazed down at Mungo. He sat pertly on the office chair, mouth open and tongue lolling as if laughing at us both.

“I don’t know how he got into my car. The windows were up. I’d say he crept into my tote bag, and I ended up carrying him out. But I would have noticed, right? Besides, he was in the backyard. How could he have gotten back inside?”

“You are a clever one, aren’t you?” She leaned down until they were almost nose to nose. “Don’t want to let her out of your sight right now?”

Yip!

I stared.

My aunt turned to me. “You know what he is, don’t you?”

“He’s a Cairn terrier.”

“He’s your familiar.”

I looked down at him.

Yip!
And more of the laughing.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Aren’t you taking this whole magic thing a little too far now?” After all my reading
the night before, I was even more convinced that magic was real. Heck, maybe it was science we hadn’t discovered yet. But familiars? Come on.

Lucy smiled. “They are a bit old-fashioned. Not everyone has one, but some of us do. Honeybee has been my familiar for almost twenty-five years.”

“Cats live that long?” I asked in a weak voice.

“Oh, yes. Mimsey’s is a parrot.”

“Heckle,” I said, remembering the bird poop on her shoulder.

She nodded. “And Jaida’s Anubis is a Great Dane.”

“Who does not, I take it, hide in her purse.”

That elicited a laugh. “No, he lets her have a longer leash, you might say.”

I rolled my eyes. Mungo groaned.

“As does Honeybee, I suppose?”

“Cats are independent creatures. Dogs like to stick closer. He can come in to work with you some days as long as he promises to stay in the office.” She looked the question at him.

He rolled over, kicked his hind legs in the air, and flipped back onto his stomach.

“Good,” she said.

“What about inspections? They’ll close us down if they find a dog in a bakery.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Lucy said. “It’ll be fine.” She paused in the doorway. “After all, you two need to get to know each other better, don’t you?”

After she left, I said, “You’re not going to start talking or anything weird, are you?”

Mungo looked at me with pity.

“Good morning, Katie.”

Startled, I smeared bright pink chalk through two lines of white writing on the blackboard. I turned and glared down at Steve Dawes from the stepstool I was standing on.

“Darn it! Look what you made me do. I’ll have to erase and rewrite that whole section.”

White teeth flashed. “Sorry.”

Shaking my head, I stepped down. “No, I’m sorry. I’m in a bad mood, but that’s no reason to snap at you.”

“You seem kind of jumpy.”

“That, too.”

“Worried about Ben?”

I sighed. “What do you think?”

“It’s rough, I’m sure. But I know Peter Quinn pretty well from when I was on the crime beat. He’s one of the good ones.”

I cocked my head. “How well?”

“Do I know him? Just professionally. We don’t hang out or anything.”

“Could you ask him what’s going on with his investigation?”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “I doubt that he’d fill me in on the details. I still work for the paper, you know.”

“I don’t need details. I just want to know if they’re planning on charging Ben. Maybe there’s someone else in the department that you could ask?”

“Hmm. I’ll let you know if I think of anyone.”

Right. So much for that.

He changed the subject. “So when are you going to let me show you a few old phantoms of Savannah?”

I remembered his earlier offer, but was still a bit peeved about his reluctance to tap his police contacts to help Ben. Also, if witches were real, then maybe spirits were, too. I wasn’t sure I was ready to go down that road.

“Don’t tell me you lead ghost tours in your off hours.” Kidding, of course, but I’d seen the goofy-looking hearses around the historic district at night, the drivers regaling sightseers with tales of haunting and tragedy.

Steve snorted. “Very funny. I merely thought you’d be interested in a few stories they don’t tell the masses. A lot of Savannah natives don’t even know about what I want to show you.”

“Sounds intriguing, but I can’t commit to a time right now. Things are so busy here at the bakery with the upcoming grand opening, and … well, I have another project I’m working on.”

“With your aunt’s ‘book club.’”

It wasn’t the words that raised the red flag, but the
implied quotes. Steve either knew something about the spellbook club or thought he did. Either way, I wasn’t biting.

I smiled. “Maybe we could do it in a few weeks.”

His smile disappeared. “I had something a little sooner in mind. Along with dinner out?”

The idea of getting to know this guy was enticing. But what about my promise to myself after Andrew dumped me? I still had two months to go before I met my “no rebound” deadline. My completely arbitrarily imposed deadline born of hurt and anger. Funny thing was, during my morning run I’d mentally gnawed at pretty much everything under the sun, and Andrew hadn’t even made the list.

“Mmm. I don’t know when I’ll be available.”

“You have to eat.”

“Eating and going out to dinner are different things.”

“How about if I bring dinner to you? At your house, maybe. Totally casual. We could grill some steaks, maybe drink a beer. What do you say?”

I laughed. “I don’t have a grill.”

The brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “All right. I get it. It’s enough for now that you like the idea. We’ll work something out.”