Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (18 page)

But first: a quick run to get the endorphins going. I went into the bedroom, took running clothes out of the armoire, and stripped down.

Of course that would be when the doorbell rang.

Hurriedly, I yanked on shorts and a T-shirt, ran my fingers through my hair and went to see who it was.

Mungo barked and bounced around the living room like a furry maniac. He hadn’t reacted that way when Margie had come by the day before, but I didn’t know who else it could be. A quick peek around the corner of the window shutter provided the answer.

What the heck was Steve Dawes doing on my front step?

I threw open the door. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and he’d let his hair down—literally. It was the color of honey and fell nearly to his shoulders. I hate it when a
guy has prettier hair than I do, but Steve Dawes had prettier hair than most women. I resisted the urge to touch it, instead waiting in silence for him to speak.

His smile faltered when he saw my expression. “Now don’t get mad, okay?” He waved a white paper bag at me like a flag of surrender. His other hand held a bunch of yellow roses. “I know you wanted to wait to go out, but you have to eat. So I brought supper to you. No fuss, no muss, no bother, and no need for a grill.”

“How did you know where I live?” I demanded.

“Oh, I have my ways,” he said. “Are you going to let me in? This bag contains she-crab soup, bourbon-pulled pork, and a nice big salad to round things out if you’re one of those girlie eaters.”

My eyes narrowed.

“Plus …” He lingered over the word. “I have information about Ethan Ridge.”

Behind me, Mungo growled.

Surprised, I whirled to look down at him. “What’s the matter?”

Completely still, he stared at Steve. Baffled, I turned back—and saw that three dragonflies had landed on his right shoulder. He looked down at them, then back up at me. Flashed those pearly whites. “Looks like I need to make friends with your canine companion there. But don’t worry. I’ll bring him around.”

Strange though I found it, Mungo’s reaction to Steve was the least of my worries. Was Cookie right? Was this guy a witch? Was he capable of using magic on me? Why else would I get that flutter in my stomach every time I saw him?

I hesitated, but the smell emanating from the bag made my decision for me. “Okay. Come in. But you’re really pushing it, you know?”

“Oh, trust me. I know.”

I tend not to trust anyone who tells me to trust them. Mr. Dawes was no exception.

The dragonflies zoomed off, and Mungo backed slowly away from the door as our visitor entered. Steve knelt in front of my familiar and held his hand out. “I brought enough for you, too, buddy. We’re going to be friends. You’ll see.”

“Mungo,” I said, “it’s okay.”

The little dog threw me a look of disgruntled disagreement. How did he do that?

“He’s just protective. That’s good. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.” He stood and walked the few steps to the kitchen door.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to eat in there. The patio in back is shaded, but I don’t have anyplace to sit out there yet.”

“I bet the mosquitoes are terrible, too.”

I shrugged. “They’re not so bad.”

Steve held my gaze for a few beats, then inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You’ve already solved that problem, then. Good.”

“It’s just that there seem to be a lot of mosquito hawks around here.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

He went into the kitchen, and before I could stop him he picked up Mimsey’s
Spellwork for Dummies
, which I had planned to review again while I ate my
chicken salad. His eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he held up the book. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, trying hard for casual. Maybe a little too hard. “Just one of the books from the Honeybee shelves. It looked amusing.”

“Amusing, huh.” He flipped through the pages. Frowned. Blinked. “Well, there is some good basic information here.” He put the book on the counter and moved back to where I stood in the doorway.

I realized I’d never been this close to him before. The space between us thrummed with energy. Nervous, I licked my lips.

“Are you really just learning?” he asked.

“What?” I managed.

He moved even closer. “Oh, yes. You have power indeed. But am I wrong in thinking you’ve only recently become aware of it?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but managed only a small croaking sound.

“Oh, my. Oh, Katie-girl. That’s delightful.”

“Don’t call me Katie-girl.” There: actual words.

“But you are a girl. A maiden, still wet behind the ears. I have a feeling you’ll mature quickly, though.”

Bewilderment vied with irritation, all flavored with a significant dollop of physical attraction that belied any notion of girlhood.

“How do you know … Are you … ?” How could I come right out and ask without sounding like an idiot?

“How could I not know? Didn’t you realize we were the same the first time we saw each other?”

I found myself nodding.

“That sense of familiarity, of having met before. But we hadn’t, had we? No, but in a sense, we are kin. Of the same family. Though I must admit I’ve never had quite this reaction to another witch.”

“You are a witch.” Stating it, I knew it was true. And I knew I’d known all along, just as I’d known I had special abilities.

Steve was like me.

He was very close now, our bodies almost touching. Deliberately, I breathed him in. He smelled like cloves and leather. For a moment, I closed my eyes, savoring his presence like a sip of fine wine.

A small shift in his position, and my eyelids flew open. I ducked to the side, almost escaping the kiss. Our lips barely brushed, but it felt like fire shot out of my toes.

Trying not to gasp, I stumbled to the counter and opened the bag. “She-crab soup, you say.”

He laughed. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”

Taking a few deep breaths, I unloaded the food and put plates and flatware on the card table. I put the roses in a glass of water and placed them on the trunk in the living room, since there wasn’t room for them on the kitchen table. We sat, staring across the table at each other.

“May I serve?” Steve asked.

At first awkwardness threatened to overcome my appetite, but that faded. After sampling the soup—laced with plenty of cream and dry sherry—we piled the bourbon-pulled pork on asiago-and-basil buns. Steve gave Mungo a bit of everything, and the terrier
dove right in. Apparently gourmet Southern cooking did a lot to earn favor with us both.

“Do you have any siblings?” Steve asked.

“Talk to me about Ethan Ridge,” I responded.

“God, you’re prickly.” He took a bite and regarded me while he chewed and swallowed. “Okay. I talked to a friend of mine who’s a parole officer. Not Ridge’s, mind you, but he did me a favor and checked some records. The guy was in for fraud and assault.”

I cocked my head. “Really.” So Ethan officially had a violent background. “What kind of assault?”

“The kind involving fists and boots.”

“Hands-on, then.” I grimaced. Breaking someone’s neck was pretty much a hands-on situation, too. “Let me guess—bar fight?”

“Oh, no. Much better.” Steve grinned.

I raised my eyebrows.

“The reason he went after his victim was because the man threatened to turn him in for the fraud. See, Ridge sold a lot of people funeral plots that didn’t technically exist. The same ones, over and over, at Greenwich Cemetery.”

“So he’s a con man who tried to solve a problem by attacking someone. And from what he told me, he had a heck of a problem with his employer, too. An unsolvable problem, at least to his way of thinking. Maybe he fell back into old habits.”

“Could be. Are you the only one poking your nose into the murder, or is the coven helping?”

“Er …”

“I mean, the ‘book club,’” he said. “I’m pretty fair at
sniffing out other practitioners of magic and, darlin’, those ladies definitely fit the bill.”

“Do they know you know?” I didn’t think so. Cookie had only been guessing when she suggested Steve might be a witch.

“Mrs. Carmichael does. We’ve had … dealings … in the past.”

Come to think of it, Mimsey had acted kind of funny around Steve. “What sort of dealings?”

“I’ll tell you when you stop pushing me away.”

“Guess I’ll have to wait, then.”

He looked plaintively at the ceiling, as if pleading with the gods. I ignored his theatrics.

We ate in silence for a few more minutes. My thoughts darted from Steve-as-witch to Ethan the con man. The manager of the Peachtree Arms didn’t look anything like Uncle Ben, though. But the witness hadn’t actually seen the murder, only someone hanging around Mrs. Templeton’s Cadillac. I wondered whether Quinn was pursuing Ethan Ridge as a possible suspect.

Finally, I sat back in my chair and dabbed at the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “This is insanely good, you know. So much for going for a run.”

“You’re a runner?” Steve asked. “Of course you are. I should have guessed from your lean and lithe physique.”

I gave him a look.

“I’m serious. Listen, I run, too. There’s a great trail through the wildlife refuge. We should go sometime.”

Mungo yipped and ran into the living room, saving me from having to answer. Seconds later, the doorbell
rang again. Half glad for an excuse to delay more caloric intake, I rose to answer it. But when I saw who it was, my stomach fluttered all over again—this time from apprehension.

Declan greeted me with a big grin. “Hey, there. I brought you a present.” He gestured to his truck, now parked behind the Bug in my driveway. Black iron scrollwork poked up from the bed.

“A present? That’s so nice. What is it?”

But Declan didn’t answer. He was looking over my shoulder, into the living room. He looked less than pleased.

I winced.

“What’s he doing here?” Declan asked.

I stepped back to let him in. Steve stood in the middle of the living room, arms held slightly out from his sides. And there I was, caught in a crossfire of glares.

“All right, that’s enough, you two,” I said. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I wish you’d try to get along while you’re in my home.”

A moment of silence stretched out long and thin, then snapped. “Don’t worry, Katie-
girl
,” Steve said. “I have no intention of remaining in your house as long as this guy is here.” He pushed past me.

I stumbled.

Declan’s hand shot out and grabbed Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t touch her.”

I watched red fury pass through Steve. He shrugged Declan’s hand off. “I’m not the dangerous one, McCarthy. I’m not the one who lets people die.”

My jaw dropped. Steve stalked down the front walkway
without another word, climbed into a black Land Rover parked across the street, started the engine and roared off.

Shocked, I raised my palms toward Declan. “What the heck is he talking about?”

“It’s kind of a long story.” Declan took a sip of wine and settled back in one of the chairs he’d brought over. Mungo lay down and rested his chin on Declan’s foot.

Funny that I’d been talking about not having any patio furniture, because that was exactly what Declan had in the back of his truck. His neighbor wanted to get rid of the bistro set, and my new fireman friend offered to take it off his hands—and put it into mine. He also brought a two-burner hibachi, a bottle of lovely Cabernet Sauvignon and two stemmed wineglasses.

“Then I guess you’d better get started telling it,” I said. A bit blunt, perhaps, but I was determined to get to the bottom of the enmity between Mr. Dawes and Mr. McCarthy. I wasn’t above plying my guest with some of his own wine to get the story, either.

“It’s nice out here.” His gaze took in the expanse of green lawn, the tidy wooden fence around it all. Somewhere nearby, honeysuckle had started to bloom, the fragrance barely teasing through the air. We could hear
the water in the little stream, and crickets chirped in the bushes.

“You’re lucky.”

I nodded my thanks to the iridescent dragonflies patrolling the edges of the property, grazing on their prey while creating a zone free of biting insects for yours truly.

“Yes, very lucky,” I said. “You know, I thought you two might actually mix it up in there.”

Declan sighed. “Yeah. Sorry about that. We usually manage to avoid each other, but since your arrival that’s been kind of difficult.” He stopped and licked his lips. “Is he … Are you, um, interested in him?”

“Honestly? I recently had a bad breakup, and it doesn’t seem like a good idea to date anyone right now.” My answer was automatic, though I wasn’t convinced it was true anymore.

“What, exactly, do you call having supper with Steve Dawes, then?”

“An accident—at least on my part. He asked me out, I said I couldn’t, so he showed up with takeout.”

“That’s pretty pushy.”

I nodded. “Sure was.” Never mind how sexy his confidence was, or my own purely physical reaction. “But it wasn’t a date.”

Relief played across the planes of Declan’s face. “Well, that’s good news, at least. I’d hate to see you get mixed up with him.”

I poked the bear. “Still, he seems nice enough. You know, after my dating hiatus is up and all.”

“He’s a player, Katie. If your heart is still bruised from your last boyfriend—or if you simply don’t want
to be hurt—you should stay away from him. Please. I’m telling you that from the perspective of someone who knows him pretty well, not because of any problem we have with each other.”

“You were friends once, then?”

“Not really, but his brother, Arnie, and I were best friends. We trained to be firefighters together, were roommates for a while even. We went through our first year as rookies pretty much joined at the hip.”

Alarm bells sounded in the far recesses of my brain.

“What happened to him?” I forced myself to ask. But I knew the answer from Uncle Ben already.

Declan’s head dropped, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “He died.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He raised his head. Unshed tears blurred the intense blue of his eyes. “I didn’t kill him. But I couldn’t help him. I miss him, and yet I still get so darn angry when I think about what he did!”