Spells and Scones (15 page)

But I'd stopped listening at the word
cyanide
.

“What kind of cyanide?” I asked.

Iris' eyes grew wide. “Oh. Gosh. That lady who was killed next door . . .”

I exchanged a look with Cookie. “Detective Quinn said it's highly regulated and really hard to get ahold of.”

Our teen helper shook her head. “It might be for some people, but I can tell you it's used in at least two of the classes I'm taking.”

“Which ones?” I asked, stunned.

“Metalsmithing, like I said. And it's in some photographic chemicals, too.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that normal people actually develop film anymore. I read about it in a textbook. They used to use it in printmaking, too. Something about blue dye.”

“Wait a second. You can get cyanide at
school
?” I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea.

“Well, I can't just go in and pick it up. I wouldn't even know where to look. Maybe I could find out, though.” She looked eager at the prospect.

But I shook my head. “That's okay, hon. I don't want you to get in any trouble.” Besides, classes wouldn't be resuming until the next week.

She looked disappointed, but it was short-lived. Soon she and Cookie were exchanging fashion tips, and Iris was back to her cheery self.

Quinn had made it sound like cyanide was some kind of biohazard, under lock and key by the powers that be. But it was starting to sound like it wasn't that hard to find after all.

I finished rolling out the piecrusts for the next day, and we wiped down the kitchen. Cookie left to meet with a client, and Lucy set Iris to tidying the library area. I took Mungo a snack of leftover quiche for his elevenses. I'd called Angie Kissel, and she'd agreed to meet with Bianca and me at noon. The morning's work had gone swiftly with Cookie's help, so I had an hour to fill before then. I was heading over to the coffee counter to brew up some peppermint tea when my cell buzzed in my apron pocket.

I recognized the number as Ronnie Lake's.

Whirling around, I went back into the office and shut the door. “Hello?”

“Ms. Lightfoot? I have a message to call you?” Her voice was deep for a woman's, but it fit the image of the woman I remembered from Dr. Dana's signing.

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for returning my call.”

Mungo blinked at me with sleepy eyes, tummy full and ready for his second nap of the day.

“Do I know you?”

“No, we haven't met. At least not formally. I was at Dana Dobbs' signing on Saturday night.”

“Oh . . . I'm sorry, but I can't comment—”

I broke in. “Actually, I'm calling for Croft Barrow, the owner of the Fox and Hound.”

He
had
said he'd do what he could to help me investigate Dr. Dana's murder, so I hoped Croft wouldn't mind my little prevarication in his name. “Since you were Dr. Dobbs' agent, he was wondering whether . . .”

“No, I wasn't, actually. Dana fired me right before that signing.” Ms. Lake didn't sound all that sorry about her former client's demise.

“I see.” I really didn't want to have to use my Voice if I didn't have to. Treading with caution, I said, “I'd heard Dr. Dana could be difficult to work with.”

Ronnie blew out a breath. “She started out great, but then she hit the big time and became a total prima donna.”

I made a sympathetic noise.

“But you didn't call to hear about all that.”

Darn.
She wasn't a gossipy sort. Come to think of it, gossip about clients, current or former, was likely frowned upon in her business. Unfortunately, that left me no choice. I carefully feathered a little Voice into my next words.

“Tell me more.”

Yip! Yip!

Mungo was on his feet and looked at me expectantly. With alarm, I realized he was responding to what I'd said. My own familiar!

Oh, no! This is exactly why I shouldn't use my Voice. It never turns out the way I think it will.

I held the phone away and patted the chair. “Shh. Sorry, little guy.”

He looked bewildered but lay back down.

Ronnie Lake was talking when I put the phone to
my ear again. “It was pretty simple. She wanted to renegotiate my commission. I said no, we had a contract. So she terminated it.”

Motive?

“I'm very sorry,” I said.

“Meh. Good riddance, I thought at the time. Then she was killed, of course. That's no good.” Her words came out in a tumble, as if she'd had one too many margaritas.

But since she was under my influence anyway . . . “Why did you go to the signing, then?”
And did you have any cyanide on you?

“I'm fairly good friends with her sister. Phoebe. She felt terrible about what Dana had done. I wanted her to know there were no hard feelings between us. Poor thing. She's devastated.” Another long pause. “Why did you say you were calling?” Her tone was frightened now.

I plunged on. “What did you say to Dana before you left?”

A laugh. “I wished her good luck in finding another agent who could do as much for her as I had.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.

“I don't suppose you have any ideas about who killed her,” I said.

“Probably one of her readers or listeners. That whole thing about Radical Trust was complete bunk. Especially since her own marriage was such a shambles. Her husband had been trying to get a divorce for months. Dana had convinced him to wait until after she was done with her marriage-advice book, then until after it was published, and then again until after her promotional tour was over.” Her speech was slowing. “I don't know why I just told you that.” She sounded really scared, almost panicky.

I felt terrible. Should I try to fix what I'd done?
No.
You'll make it worse. The effect will wear off in a few more minutes. No more Voice!

“I'm so sorry,” I said softly.

“What?”

“Croft and I wanted to extend our condolences to you and to her family,” I said in a normal tone, as if she hadn't said anything unusual. “Do you know about the memorial?”

“Yes, Phoebe told me. I imagine it will be quite crowded.”

“We'll send flowers.”

“I believe they are asking for donations to a scholarship fund in lieu of flowers.”

“That's a good idea. Perhaps I'll see you there on Wednesday?”

“Definitely. Even if she was difficult, Dana was a valuable client of mine.”

We said good-bye, and I hung up.

A valuable client indeed. Her books would continue to sell, perhaps at an accelerated rate for a while. Did that mean Ronnie Lake would continue to make money off them, even thought she'd been fired? Probably, if she'd negotiated the original publishing deal. Was that also a motive?

But under the influence of my Voice, she hadn't told me that she'd killed Dr. Dana, even though I'd asked if she had any ideas about who had. I slumped in my chair. Voice was such a slippery thing. Could she have lied? Lied by omission? I hadn't told her not to.

The image of Declan with his heart and breathing stopped because of one word I'd said with my Voice came flooding up from memory.

No. Even though I think I can control it, no more Voice. Ever.

*   *   *

Lucy and Iris were in the kitchen, and I was making my tea and chatting with Mrs. Standish, when Steve came in. Ben looked up from where he sat checking our inventory lists behind the register. He frowned but quickly recovered as Steve approached.

“Ben. Good to see you.”

My uncle nodded. “Steve.”

Steve's lips twitched. He hadn't missed the subtle snub and directed a questioning look at me.

I kept my face neutral. Let him think I'd blabbed about all the things he'd told me the day before.

“Those jalapeño corn pones sure look good,” Steve said.

Ben put one on a plate and handed it to him. “Anything to drink?”

“Dry cappuccino,” I said.

Steve smiled as I turned to fill the order.

“Why, Steven Dawes, as I live and breathe,” brayed Mrs. Standish. She wore a leopard-print caftan with a burnt orange scarf wrapped about a dozen times around her broad shoulders. “I heard you'd left town for a while. Glad to see you're back, my boy.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she kept right on going. “I spoke with your father last month, and he said you were living the life of a beach bum.” She grinned. “Must suit you, because you look healthy as a horse. Honestly, you were looking a little peaked the last time I saw you.”

“Thanks, Edna. I feel great,” he said. “I wasn't exactly being a beach bum, though.” He brought his corn pone over and leaned against the counter. “I've sure missed the Honeybee pastries, though. And I brought Katie a trinket from the Bahamas.”

The steamer shrieked, drowning out his next words. He waited me out and tried again when I turned it off.

“It's just a kitschy souvenir I thought you might like. Nothing fancy.” He handed me a little statue about three inches long. It was heavy, perhaps bronze, and had the body of a large dog, the face of a cat, and a beak like a bird. My hand closed over it automatically, and I savored how perfectly it fit in my palm.

“It's just a little keepsake. I hope you'll think of me when you see it—and I hope you put it someplace where you'll see it a lot.”

This was getting ridiculous. I put the figurine down on the counter. “I can't accept this.”

He looked surprised. So did Mrs. Standish. Lucy came around the corner and stopped when she saw us.

“Gosh, Katie,” he said.

“You have to stop this,” I said, unable to keep my frustration out of my voice. “Declan asked me to marry him last night!” As soon as the words came out, I wanted to shove them right back. I knew what was coming.

“Oh, Katie!” Lucy squealed.

“Holy smokes!” Ben said.

Mrs. Standish reached around and clapped me on the back, nearly sending me sprawling into a rack of mugs. “Congratulations!” she all but shouted. Heads all over the bakery turned our way.

I felt heat in my face, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. The pressure of their approval felt suffocating.

Steve was watching me through all the exclamations. Now his eyes narrowed, and he smiled. “You didn't say yes, though. Did you?”

I was silent.

“Uh-huh.” He pushed the figurine toward me, took
the cappuccino I'd set on the counter, and walked toward the door. “See you later, Katie-girl.”

“Don't—” I stopped myself. I'd had a knee-jerk reaction from the very first time he'd called me that. Now he was making a point.

He was still smiling when he left.

“Is that true?” Ben demanded. “You said no?” He sounded incredulous.

I took a deep breath, my eyes scanning the bakery. The customers had gone back to chatting, working, or reading. “I don't think we need to talk about it right now.”

Mrs. Standish started to say something, but a curt shake of my head stopped her. I adored the woman, but she could disseminate news more efficiently than any media outlet in existence.

“Bianca and I have an appointment,” I said. “I need to get going.”

Ben looked surprised, but Lucy's face was placid as she followed me through the kitchen to the office. Of course, I'd already told her of our plans to visit Angie over the lunch hour.

“Honey, are you all right?” she asked as I quickly texted Bianca to see if she was on her way.

“I'm fine.” I stopped and put the phone down. “No, wait. You know what? I'm not okay. Steve has resigned from the Dragohs and stopped working for Dawes Corp. in an attempt to convince me I made the wrong choice when I started dating Declan.”

Her mouth formed an O of surprise.

“The very same day, Declan asks me to marry him when he knows darn well I'm not even sure about moving in together. And now everyone is upset that I haven't
made a decision yet! I get to make my own choices, and not just when it comes to magic.”

“Of course you do, Katie,” Lucy said gently. “And not everyone is upset with you.” She wrinkled her nose. “Ben, yes. And no doubt Declan himself is feeling a bit on edge. I don't even know what to say about Steve. But you stick to your guns, honey, and know I'll support you in whatever you decide.”

My shoulders slumped, and I felt tears prick my eyes. “Thanks, Lucy. I didn't mean to go off on you there.”

She patted my arm. “I'm glad you can talk to me.”

“You're the best.”

My phone buzzed. It was Bianca. She was out front.

I squared my shoulders. “Okay. I'm off to see a witch who is on the verge of being arrested for murder. Let's hope she can shed some light on the victim—and the victim's husband.”

*   *   *

Bianca's red Jaguar was sitting at the curb out front. I got in and we roared away. She had the top down, and the wind made it hard to talk. Nonetheless, I managed to remind her about Angie's experience with her ex-husband.

“Sounds a lot like what happened to me,” Bianca said as she slowed for a turn. “Except my husband might not have been such a jerk if I wasn't practicing the Craft anymore. It was my growing interest in magic that made him decide I wasn't good enough to be his wife. He was such a social climber and was terrified I'd embarrass him.” She snorted. “Good riddance.”

She pushed down on the accelerator, and the force pushed me back into the plush leather of my seat.

“Well, maybe Angie would appreciate hearing your story,” I shouted over the rushing air.

Bianca nodded as she pulled into the parking area in front of Angie Kissel's small apartment building. “I'm happy to commiserate if it comes up.”

We got out of the car and stood looking at the building. It didn't take long to identify the upper unit that was Angie's. The balconies were all surrounded by wrought iron, but hers was lined with planter boxes filled with trailing geraniums and creeping Jennie that spilled over the sides in such profusion that the greenery nearly hid the sturdy metal of the railing.

We walked up the exterior stairway to the entryway, our footsteps loud on the hollow wooden steps. At the top we discovered more pots planted with herbs and flowers, many with magical properties. That didn't mean anything, though. They were also simply pretty—jasmine, verbena, alyssum, and corkscrew reeds, among other things. Anyone could have chosen them for decoration, whether a former green witch or not.

The door flew open before we could knock. Surprised, I stepped back. Then I saw Angie's tear-streaked face.

“Oh, Katie. Thank heavens you're here.” She glanced at Bianca and wiped at her eyes with her fingertips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Bianca said with a mix of curiosity and kindness.

Angie looked fearfully over our shoulders, scanning the parking lot and street as if they held a threat. Alarm bells went off in my brain, and I hurried to introduce the two women.

“Angie, this is Bianca. Bianca, this is Angie. Can we come in?” I moved toward her as I was speaking, and Angie stepped back and opened the door wider.

We stepped into an herbal oasis. There were potted plants on every surface, tucked into corners, lining the windowsills, and even clustered on the counter that
separated the living room from the kitchen. They all boasted verdant health. A skylight above poured indirect light into the space. The air smelled green, and I could sense the live energy thrumming through the atmosphere.