Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery (17 page)

“Mornin’, darling,” Declan murmured into my hair before sitting down across the table and reaching for a section of the paper.

“Morning.”

The paper dropped to the table as he examined my face. “What’s wrong?”

Gesturing at the pages still gripped in his fingers, I said, “Autumn’s murder barely made page four, but the hit-and-run yesterday is on the bottom of the front page. Someone took a picture of me lying on the sidewalk after I managed to get out of the way, and there’s one of Wren, too, crying as she’s getting in the ambulance.”

“A reporter was there when it happened?”

“I can’t imagine there was. Some looky-loo with a cell phone camera probably sent it—or more likely sold it—to the
News
.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “Look—the Honeybee is right there in the background. It’s terrible publicity.”

Declan took a sip of coffee and said in an easy tone, “Katie, there is no such thing as bad publicity. I mean, other than the health department shutting you down or something like that, any mention in the paper will pique the interest of locals and tourists alike.”

I harrumphed. “They found the SUV, too. It was a BMW. Apparently it was stolen right before the—well, I have to call it an attack now, don’t you think? Anyway, the owner didn’t even know it was gone.”

He was skimming the article. “It doesn’t say who the owner is, though.”

“Right. They put our names front and center, not to mention a couple of really unflattering photographs, but they don’t say who owns the BMW. I wonder if Detective Quinn would tell me.”

“Probably. He seems to be pretty open to communicating with you regarding this case.” Declan was staring at my picture, brow furrowed.

“Only because someone keeps shoving those stupid paper bats under doors and we don’t know if they’re a threat or . . . Well, what else could they be?” I reached for the French press to refill my cup, then thought better of it. More than three cups and my teeth would start to chatter. “Declan?”

“Hmm?” He finally looked up. The tenderness in his face arrowed through all my anger and frustration. “I guess I didn’t realize until right now, seeing this picture, how close you came to being seriously hurt.” He took a deep but shaky breath. “Or killed. Katie, I know you’re tough, and God knows you’re smart, but I couldn’t take it if something really happened to you. I know it’s not your fault that it was someone you knew who died and that you happened into the middle of the situation, but I don’t like it.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and then his hands dropped into his lap. “Tell me again why you think this stuff happens to you?”

I traced a coffee circle on the tabletop with my index finger. “Remember what I told you about being a catalyst?” I asked. I hadn’t told him about the whole lightwitch thing because Franklin Taite had left without informing me about any of the particulars other than I was a good witch—and apparently gave off flashes of light when under duress.

Declan nodded. “You said things tend to happen around you, that you cause them or attract them or something. Like when we found the body in Johnson Square. Are you saying that’s what happened here?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Kind of a coincidence for me to volunteer for Georgia Wild for less than three months and then someone gets killed.”

“Makes it sound kind of dangerous to hang around you.”

The words hit me hard.

“Oh, Katie,” he exclaimed when he saw my face. “I was trying to make a joke. A bad joke, a terrible joke. Please don’t think I feel that way.”

I stood, shaken more by the thought that what he had just said might be true than I had been by someone shoving a maroon bat under my door. “How about some eggs? I have thick-cut pepper bacon and English muffins from the Honeybee.”

“Katie.” He stood and put his arms around me from behind as I stood at the stove, cast-iron skillet dangling from my hand. “Please don’t turn away.”

Leaning my head back, I smiled at him. “Get the eggs out of the fridge?”

He let go, apparently satisfied.

I, on the other hand, was anything but.

Deck left after agreeing to call me later and making me promise to be hyperaware of my surroundings. Mungo polished off the extra bacon and eggs even though he’d eaten at the same time we had. Like a Hobbit, my familiar was a big fan of second breakfast.

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was late enough to call and so punched Mimsey’s number into my phone. She picked up on the second ring.

“She’s been up for hours,” she said when I asked after her granddaughter. “The arm is very painful, but she doesn’t like the idea of taking painkillers.”

Maybe she’d give a few to me, then.

“Poor thing. I hope she feels better. Will you tell her Detective Quinn released the crime scene at Georgia Wild, and I’m planning to go over there to clean up this morning? Mama is filling in for me at the bakery.”

“That’s nice of you, darlin’, but you tell her yourself. She’s right here.”

Wren came on the phone. Her voice was quiet, and I thought I detected a tremble. I couldn’t help wondering how much of that was from pain and how much from fear and worry.

When I told her I was going to the Georgia Wild offices she asked, “Oh, Katie, would you mind picking up the file on major donors? There should be copies of the donor contract in there as well as information on the current ones and the local businesses Autumn had been cultivating. Grandma is nervous about me leaving the house—and frankly, I don’t want to—but if I don’t have something constructive to do, I’m going to go nuts.”

“You got it,” I said. “I’ll drop all that by when I’m done spiffing up the place for your return.”

She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to go back there.”

I knew how she felt. “Well, now don’t you worry about that yet. Just get to feeling better, okay? I’ll see you later.”

•   •   •

A few large drops splatted down on the windshield on the way to Georgia Wild, then stopped. Inside the nonprofit office I was happy to find that the smell of burnt coffee had completely dissipated. After lugging in the cleaning supplies I’d brought, I locked the door and opened the blinds all the way. The gray light outside barely made a dent in the gloom, so I flipped on all the lamps and the overhead light as well. Extracting a large white lavender-scented candle from my bag, I placed it on the small table next to the guest chair and lit it.

“Archangel Michael, I bid you lend your will to the flame, removing negative vibrations in this physical environment and on all surrounding dimensions. May the fire purify and cleanse. Let it be and thanks be.”

It wasn’t the most poetic incantation but one the spellbook club had used to effect before. At some point we’d have to get all the ladies together to smudge the whole building, but at least I could make a start.

Now that I’d begun tackling the metaphysical dirt, it was time to get busy cleaning up the physical mess.

Mungo settled into the chair by the candle to watch me work.

“It’s too bad you don’t have opposable thumbs,” I muttered.

He didn’t offer any comment.

It looked like the police had made yet another pass through the offices, because things were even more out of place than when Officer Feherty had let Wren and me in. First I cleaned up the broken glass still littering the carpet, toting the shards out to the trash in an extra-thick bag and then vacuuming. Then I tackled the fingerprint dust. It was as if someone had sprinkled printer toner all over the room. Even after I vacuumed, there were smudges of it on the light-colored carpet, which had already seen better days. Did the crime scene techs always make such a mess?

I swiped and wiped down everything on the desks and the coffee station, taking the coffeepot into the kitchenette to soak in the sink. Even that tiny room had been dusted, and I wondered whether the police had even checked for fingerprints on the toilet. Probably. I should be glad they were so thorough, but I’d save that for the next cleaning session.

Autumn’s office, too. Wren wasn’t ready to come to Georgia Wild at all, and I wasn’t quite ready to spend a significant amount of time in the murder victim’s office.

However, I was determined to do what I could. Back in the main office, I began working around the periphery of the room, using microfiber dusting cloths to smooth away the dark powder from the items tacked to the walls, the bookshelves, and door frames. Then I tackled the long, low desk return stacked with grant application materials and the printer table. Next to the printer was the file cabinet with the photos still scattered on top.

I’d forgotten about the satellite picture of Fagen Swamp. There was Evanston Rickers’ cabin in the middle of the clearing, which I now knew was an island itself. Carefully, I wiped at the starburst pattern of fingerprint powder.

Most of it came off on the cloth, but the raylike design faintly remained, each strand slightly lighter than the rest of the photo, ghost fingers reaching out from a central point slightly higher and to the right of the cabin.

What the heck?

I carried the photo to the halogen desk lamp in order to see it better. The starburst appeared to be part of the picture, or at least the paper it was on. Could it have gotten wet? Or perhaps the printer was faulty?

Then I caught my breath. The center of the pattern, the nexus of the rays, was the giant cypress tree. A shiver ran like a mouse down my back. “Oh, my goddess,” I breathed. “Mungo, do you think that means anything?”

He cocked his head to one side in puzzlement.

“Sorry. You have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll ask Mimsey when we go by there.”

A sudden banging on the door made me jump. It could have been anyone, of course, but Mungo hadn’t barked. Instead, he jumped down from the guest chair, silent as smoke. Hand over my racing heart, I dropped the photo and sidled to the peek hole.

Whoever was knocking stood too far to the side for me to see them.

On purpose?

Edging to the window, I carefully leaned around the frame and peered out. A Jeep Wrangler was parked on the other side of the street. It was dark green.

Hunter green.

Uh-oh.

I remembered the jumbled images of green I’d sensed when attempting my divination spell with the bowl of water earlier that morning. Craning my head a little farther, I could see Hunter Normandy standing on the wraparound porch. He shifted from foot to foot, obviously impatient. As I watched, he raised his arm and banged his fist on the door again.

“I know there’s someone in there.” The doorknob rattled.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I tiptoed over to the phone on the desk. I picked it up, only to realize I didn’t have Quinn’s number memorized. As much as I’d called him lately, it had always been on my cell phone.
Dang it
. I cradled the handset and was reaching for my phone when I heard the sound of metal in the lock.

I froze.
Oh, no
.
Autumn gave him a key.

Hunter opened the door and stepped inside, eyes darting to me and then around the room. Evaluating. Assessing. He’d ditched the funky thrift-store clothes I’d seen him wear before for a Carhartt coat over jeans and hiking boots. His sandy hair was in disarray, and a few days’ worth of stubble darkened his chin. Dark circles under his eyes accented irises so light blue they were almost gray. And unlike the other few times I’d seen Hunter, now I sensed an aura around him. It had the mental flavor of misery and fear. However, I couldn’t know the cause. Autumn’s death, sure—but had he been involved in it? Whatever he felt, it was different than Skip Thorsen’s serious grief.

“Where’s Wren?” His bellicose tone contradicted his dejected appearance.

“I don’t know,” I lied, barely managing to keep my voice from shaking.

His gaze settled on my face. “Is anyone else here?”

I didn’t answer but glanced back toward the kitchenette to give the impression we weren’t alone.

He didn’t seem to buy it. “What’s your name again? Kate? Is that right?” He paused. “I saw your picture in the paper, along with that other woman who works here.”

Great.

“Now listen, Kate. All I need is for you to answer a question for me.” He took a step in my direction.

Mungo shot out from under the desk, barking and snarling, stopping only inches from Hunter’s leg.

Good boy.

“Call it off!” he yelled. “Call your dog off!”

“Maybe give him a little space,” I murmured to my familiar.

Mungo backed off two terrier paces and lowered the volume of his growl a fraction.

“Please ask your question and then go.” I took a couple of steps around a desk, putting it between us. “We’re closed.”

Never taking his eyes off my familiar, Hunter put his hands in his coat pockets. I tensed, and Mungo’s lips curled back in warning. He jerked them back out so we could see them.

With apparent effort, he looked away from the canine threat and up at me. “Of
course
you’re closed. You know Autumn was my girlfriend. My fiancée.”

I felt my eyes go wide.

“She didn’t say anything?”

I quickly shook my head to indicate the negative.

He sighed. “I guess she kept it to herself. I asked her two days before she . . . passed. She hadn’t said yes yet, but she would have.” Something hard entered his voice. “I know it.”

Autumn hadn’t given him an answer right away. I could certainly understand that, but her caution didn’t seem like a very good motive for him to commit murder.

Providing, of course, that Hunter was telling the truth. Either way, he’d still gone to ground and managed to avoid the police for three days. There had to be a reason for that.

“Your question,” I prompted, wanting him to leave me alone as soon as possible.

Hesitating, he glanced down at Mungo who had stopped growling but still held a combative stance closer to Hunter’s leg than the man seemed to enjoy. I sent a jolt of gratitude to my familiar, but he was too intent to respond.

“Did you see her, um, after?”

My lips pressed together. “Yes.”

“Was she wearing any rings? I mean—” He seemed to fumble. “She didn’t generally wear much jewelry, so you might have noticed.” His lips twisted, and a surge of pity eddied through me.

Sometimes I couldn’t properly bring to mind the face of my fiancé of just a year before, his visage swamped by feelings of betrayal and anger, but when I thought of Autumn’s body, I saw tawny hair tamed to a precise curl, white blouse, blue bruises, pink toe polish, and long fingers.

Long unadorned fingers, at least on the one hand that had been visible.

And yet—there was the diamond filigree ring I’d found among the mailers. “You gave her an engagement ring,” I guessed.

“She was wearing it?” He looked unaccountably terrified at the thought. Weird.

“Not exactly. I found a ring tucked in with some promotional materials.”

Relief slid onto his face. It was an odd reaction, really. Was the ring more important than the woman he’d hoped to marry?

“It looked really old,” I continued, watching him carefully. “Antique filigree platinum with a diamond set in the middle and two on the outside. Is that it?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it. I looked for it, but—” He ran trembling fingers through his already disheveled hair. “Okay. Okay, I can fix this. I can. Somehow.”

What on earth?

My cell phone gave a good old-fashioned trill. It was sitting on the desk by where Hunter stood. He looked down and sudden fear shone from those eyes the color of water—deep fear mixed with desperation. “Oh, no!”

A low warning rumbled from Mungo’s chest.

Hunter turned and ran outside, down the steps, and across the street.

Fumbling for the cell, I rushed after him. “Hunter! Wait!” It might be the only chance to question him. Glancing down, I saw what had spooked him. The caller ID said
Detective Peter Quinn
. The phone went silent before I could answer.

Hunter looked back over his shoulder but didn’t slow. If anything, the desperation in his eyes had increased, and it scared me. I slammed the door and flipped the deadbolt, though a locked door hadn’t stopped him before. Someone had tried to run Wren down, then given me the same warning she’d received, and I’d promptly gone and isolated myself in a place where I’d be easy to find.
Stupid
.

“Thanks for having my back, little wolf.” I returned the phone call, picking up Mungo so we could both watch the green Jeep Wrangler speed down the street. He snuggled under my chin as if nothing had happened, nosing the phone as Quinn answered.

I told him about Hunter’s visit, his preoccupation with the ring, and which way he’d been driving.

“Hang on,” he said. “I need to alert patrol to watch for him in your area.” He put me on hold.

While I waited, I gathered the cleaning supplies by the door to take out to the Bug. Then I grabbed the satellite photo of Fagen Swamp and tucked it in my bag. Surveying the main office, I was pleased with my work. Next time I’d hit the other rooms.

Including Autumn’s office.

“Katie? You still there?”

“Yes—did you find him?” I asked, sinking into the guest chair by the window.

Mungo stood on his hind legs by the chair. I patted my knee and he jumped up.

“Not yet. Did he threaten you?”

“Not really. He had a key and walked right in. I suspect he may have searched in here already.” I’d blamed the extra mess on the police, but now I had to wonder. “He just wanted that ring.”

“Oh, I bet he did,” Quinn said.

“Meaning?”

“He stole it.”

“Whoa. He stole a ring and then gave it to Autumn? That’s downright rude.”

Quinn made a noise of distracted agreement.

“At least the owner will get her ring back. Or did he take it from a jeweler?” I remembered the chain store box the ring had been in.

“The owner is dead.”

“Hunter
killed
 . . . oh, no. Wait. This is about his job at the mortuary, isn’t it?”

“His supervisor found out about it. Apparently there was a problem another time, but in that case the, uh, client’s missing possession turned up, and they simply thought it had been mislaid. This time they pinpointed Normandy as the culprit. I don’t know how he found out—maybe one of his coworkers warned him—but that’s probably one of the reasons he hasn’t gone into work.”