Spells and Scones (5 page)

I shook my head, feeling confused.

Margie pressed her lips together and blinked slowly. “I guess you're right about the alley door.” She didn't sound convinced, though.

However, I wasn't trying to convince her. I was only playing devil's advocate, right? For all I knew Angie Kissel had indeed murdered Dr. Dana.

But the former witch's voice echoed in my mind.
I didn't kill anyone.

I pulled into my driveway. It ran between my little carriage house and the Coopersmiths' far larger home. Margie got out at the same time that her front door opened, and Redding's substantial figure filled the frame. I let Mungo scramble down to the asphalt and grabbed my tote bag from the backseat. Margie's husband came down the steps, backlit from inside. He had Baby Bart on one hip and a glass of Margie's favorite pink wine in his other hand.

Now,
that
was a good husband.

I gave Margie a big hug. “Detective Quinn will figure it all out.”

She stepped back. “Or you will. After all, if that Kissel woman didn't kill Dr. Dana, then I certainly don't want her to go to jail.” Her expression hardened. “I still think she did it, though. And whatever happens now? Well, that's not going to bring back Dr. Dana, now, is it?”

I shook my head sadly.

Redding ambled across their lawn and handed his wife the wine. She took a gulp before tipping her face up for a kiss.

“Thanks, hon.”

“Lordy, sweet pea. What'd you get yourself into?” he asked.

Bart blinked up at his mother with wet eyes, then down at Mungo. His face brightened. “Puppy!”

“Oh, golly. It was awful,” Margie said. Then her mom instincts kicked in, and everything else fell away. “Why's the little one up?” She handed me the wine and the books and reached for her son. Redding handed him over, and I handed the wine and books to him. He did a double take when he saw the titles.

“What's this nonsense?” he asked. “I thought she was a talk show host.”

Margie's face crumpled at the mention of Dr. Dana. “She was. On the radio.” Then she gathered herself and looked back at Bart. “Wha's a matter, baby?”

“Mamamamamama,” he intoned in a sleepy voice and laid his head on her shoulder.

“Just fussy,” Redding said. “Doesn't seem to be sick or anything. Misses you, I expect.”

“Oh, go on with you. He's probably getting a tooth.” She started to walk away, then stopped and called over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride home, Katie.”

“Yeah, we appreciate it,” Redding echoed, and then I heard him ask his wife if she was really all right.

I didn't hear her response, but being with her family seemed to be the best medicine for Margie.

“Come on, little guy,” I said to
Mungo.

Mungo trotted across the grass to the tiny porch of the carriage house. I'd found it while helping Lucy and Ben get ready to open the Honeybee and had jumped at the chance to live in such a cute place. It had once been part of a large estate, all the rest of which was long gone and the land subdivided for residential homes. My lot was the same size as those on either side, but because my house was so small that meant both my front and back yards were expansive.

Good thing, too, because a significant part of hedgewitchery takes place in the garden as well as the kitchen.

Trailing my fingers along the wrought-iron railing of the porch, I inhaled the night smells of sweet Daphne and the mustiness of fallen leaves beginning to rot. At a little after nine, the temperature had dipped a few degrees below sixty. The air was soft with cool humidity. The magnolia by the corner of the house cast crazy shadows in the moonlight as I unlocked the door and reached inside to flip the light switch.

The living room bloomed into view: peach walls, worn wooden planks beneath my feet, built-in bookshelves to the right, and beyond that the short hallway that led to
the bedroom and bathroom. Straight ahead, my vintage purple fainting couch backed against the far wall. To the left of it, French doors opened out to the small covered patio and extensive gardens beyond. Narrow stairs led to the loft above, where a futon served as guest quarters and a drop-lid secretary's desk kept my altar tidy—and hidden from general view.

I loved coming home to this place. Even though Declan spent a lot of his time here, it was mine, bought and paid for with the money I'd so carefully saved for the house my fiancé and I had planned to move into after our marriage. But shortly before our wedding day, Andrew had gotten cold feet and called everything off.

Very shortly before.

His fear of commitment had been the best thing that had ever happened to me. Sure, there was rejection, heartbreak, and anger. But in the end I'd moved to Savannah, which I absolutely loved, opened my dream business, and bought this adorable house—not to mention discovering my true witchy nature and finally understanding why I'd always felt so different from everyone else. And if it hadn't been for Andrew canceling our wedding, I'd never have met Declan, and I wouldn't have the amazing group of friends I had now.

I wasn't usually one to think that absolutely everything happens for a reason. However, many things seem to, and when it came to getting married versus moving to Savannah, the trade had been worth all of the pain of the journey.

Mungo barked, bringing me back from my wandering thoughts. He ran to the kitchen and looked back at me expectantly.

“Okay, okay. I'll get the pasta going.” I tossed my tote on one of the two wingbacks that sat across from
the purple couch and turned back to close the wooden shutters over the front windows.

In no time a pot of salted water was heating on the stove, and I'd laid out asparagus, lemon, garlic, tarragon, and mustard for an easy sauce. I'd make a quick salad after Declan got there, but first I wanted to have a little chat.

With my dog.

“Come in here, Mungo.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat and looked at his place mat in the corner of the kitchen.

“You can eat later. With us.” I turned and walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. A few minutes later he followed, only once glancing back at the kitchen and its treasure trove of people food.

I patted the seat beside me. He jumped up and put his front paws on my lap, his brown eyes now riveted on mine.

“That Angie woman told me you used to be her familiar.”

He licked my chin.

“Is that true?”

Yip!

“And . . . you ran away?”

Yip!

I slumped against the sloping back of the couch. My day had started at four thirty a.m. I'd baked and served customers and then baked some more. I'd set up for a book signing and witnessed bad behavior on many fronts, and once again a dead body had turned up on my watch. But here I was in my living room, having a rather emotional talk with my canine companion, and my stomach was tied in worse knots than I'd felt all day.

Apparently, meeting your familiar's . . . ex trumped murder on the anxiety scale.

Mungo's forehead scrunched, and he climbed all the
way onto my lap. He dipped his head and pushed it into my hand. I stroked his soft ears, and he looked up at me from beneath his doggy eyebrows with such sweetness that my heart melted.

“And you picked me,” I whispered.

He grinned.
Yip.

“Is your real name supposed to be Mongo?” I asked around the lump in my throat.

He sneezed and shook his head vigorously.

“So it's really Mungo?”

Yip!

I didn't know how that was supposed to work, but I was willing to go with it.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “I got the feeling tonight at the bookstore that you still, um, like Angie.”

He blinked, as if surprised that I'd even ask that question.
Of course he does.

“She's a murder suspect, you know.”

His lips pulled back to expose his teeth in a fierce look. I knew it wasn't directed at me. Then he dropped the snarl and gave me a look I knew well.

I want something, and I want it now. Right now. I need it now.

Usually that look was about peanut butter or sausage gravy or carrot cake. But this time I knew it was about something else.

“You want me to help her.”

Yip!

I kept the expletive that came to mind to myself.

Little mind reader that he was, Mungo frowned at me anyway.

Suddenly the little dog's ears perked up, and he shot off the couch, skittering across the wooden planks to meet Declan as he came through the door.

“Hey!” he greeted the wee beast wiggling at his feet, and reached down to pet him. “Settle down, son. You're acting like you haven't see me all day.” He straightened and regarded me. “You look like you could use some TLC.”

I got off the couch and met him halfway across the room. Folding into his arms, I muttered, “I look that bad, huh.”

“Nah. You're always gorgeous. But I'm right, aren't I?”

I nodded into his shoulder, inhaling the smell of the dryer sheets they used at the firehouse and relishing his solid muscles as my form melted into his. My hand moved up to run through his dark curls.

“Water should be ready for the pasta,” I murmured.

He laughed. “I'll cook.”

“That's not fair. You cooked breakfast.”

“You cooked all day.”

We separated and headed toward the kitchen, Mungo practically dancing now that supper would be arriving in his bowl soon.

“I'll make the salad,” I said. “I harvested a few things from the garden yesterday.”

“Deal.”

Declan chopped asparagus and sautéed it in butter and olive oil with minced garlic. I rinsed baby spinach and sliced a yellow tomato, scallions, and baby carrots. He zested a lemon and tossed that in the pan, along with lemon juice, mustard, and a bit of cream. I added an avocado to the salad, along with a handful of walnuts and a few sprinkles of blue cheese, then dressed it with a quick vinaigrette of olive oil and vinegar cut with a drizzle of honey, salt, and lots of black pepper. Within fifteen minutes we were taking plates of pasta and salad out to the patio table. Declan carried Mungo's dish—no salad for him, just a few sliced carrots—and a bottle of
wine under his arm, while I grabbed the wineglasses. He turned the radio in the corner to an oldies station, and soon we were tucking into our repast.

“I hadn't realized how hungry I was,” I said after plowing through half my meal.

“Sure hits the spot.” He sat back with a satisfied sigh and took a sip of wine. Eyed me speculatively. “So Ben told me that Lucy thinks Dr. Dana was poisoned with cyanide.”

“Honey, we're eating.”

He shrugged. “I was just wondering.”

“She said she smelled something like almonds, and she told Quinn.” I paused.

His eyes narrowed. “And?”

I sighed. “And a stuffed dragonfly fell on my head right after she told me.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “Ah. I see.”

He took a bite of tomato from the salad and chewed slowly. “Hmm.”

“What?” I asked.

“I'm just wondering if Dr. Dana was some kind of a witch. She sure seemed to have some of her fans under her spell.”

“Declan! That wouldn't be ethical.”

“Well, duh. But neither is stalking your partner.
Radical Trust
.” He started to blow a raspberry but stopped himself. “Sorry. Respect for the dead and all. But isn't there usually some kind of magical aspect to these, er, situations you get caught up in?”

Situations.
That was one way to put it.

“I don't think Dr. Dana had any connection to the Craft,” I fudged, not quite able to bring myself to talk about Angie's link to Mungo. “But you never know.”

“Yet you're still involved.”

“Who said I'm involved?”

He looked skyward. “Oh, let's see. You were there when someone was killed . . .”

“Deck—”

“. . . again. And given how that's worked out in the past, I'm pretty sure you'll be up to your neck in suspects and magic in no time.”

I put down my fork. “Hey, I know you don't like it when I get involved with this kind of thing, but I can't help it if I'm a lightwitch. Just like you can't help, well, you know.”

His look sharpened.

My jaw set. If he was going to be like that . . . “Connell. You can't help the spirit of your leprechaun great-great-whatever-uncle from borrowing your body every once in a while.” So there. And Lord knew, it was disconcerting when it happened.

He sat back and crossed his arms. “For the record, when is the last time that happened?” he asked.

“It's been a while,” I admitted.

“It's been months, and you know it. I told you after the last time it happened that I confronted him. I explained how much the prospect of waking up next to him instead of me upset you, and he agreed to keep to himself.” He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Didn't you believe me?”

“It's not that . . .” I trailed off.

“What, then? Connell might be a strange character, but he gets it. He likes you. A lot.”

That was what I was afraid of . . .

“Does he still watch over you, though?” I asked.

A rueful look descended on Declan's features. “No way he'll stop that. But it's kind of nice, you know. To have met your guardian angel, in a way.”

I was quiet for a long moment. “I'm sorry. It was nice of you to do that for me.”

“I did it for me, too. The point is, I know the lightwitch thing is part of who you are. An important part.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Not necessarily. One of the lessons I've learned about being a lightwitch is that I have a choice.” I smiled. “Maybe I'll just choose not to jump into the middle of things this time.”

Mungo bounded to his feet and glared at me.

Declan followed my gaze. “What was the deal with him tonight? He seemed to have some kind of problem with that woman. The one who found the psychologist.” His eyes widened. “The one who Margie accused of killing her. He's a smart pup. Do you think he knew what she planned ahead of time?”

I bit my lip. Could that be true? But my Mungo,
my
familiar, would have alerted me if he'd known a murder was about to take place. Then again, how would he know, even if Angie used to belong to him? He was, as Declan said, “a clever pup,” and I sometimes joked that he was a mind reader, but he couldn't actually . . . could he?

I looked over and saw him blink at me from the shadows.

“Earth calling Katie,” Declan said.

I rubbed my hand over my face and met his eye. “Angie Kissel was Mungo's former owner.”

My boyfriend looked nonplussed. “Oh. Well, I didn't expect that. Is that the weird news you mentioned at the bookstore tonight?”

Bless his heart. Declan might occasionally channel his not-quite-dead ancestor, but he didn't practice magic and didn't have a familiar. So he didn't make the connection.

“He was her familiar,” I said. As I heard the words,
a pang shot through me. With horror, I identified it as jealousy.

That was what I'd been feeling ever since Angie had told me about Mungo. Mongo. Whatever.

Jealousy.

It was an awful feeling. I'd never felt it over a man, including Andrew, probably because he hadn't taken up with his new girlfriend until after I'd moved to Savannah.

And, I realized, it was clouding my judgment about whether to help Angie or not.

Declan was watching me with a wary expression. “So she's a witch. And she just showed up out of the woodwork, publicly denounced the good doctor at her book signing, and then Dr. Dana is murdered.” He whistled. “Well, I guess that explains the magical element.”

“Former witch,” I muttered.

“What?”

“She doesn't practice anymore. That's why Mungo left her.” I shoved aside my plate, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Can we change the subject?”

He blinked. “Sure. But I just want you to know I'm on your side. I admire your abilities, and all that magic stuff you do.” He grinned. “Even if you did almost kill me.”

My mouth dropped open. He'd never brought that up, not once, since it happened. And now he was teasing me about it?

I stood and said airily, “Only the one time, dear.” And then I gave him my own mischievous grin. “So far.”

His laugh was tinged with a tad of uncertainty.

“Oh, please.” I ruffled his hair. “Like you have to worry about me doing you any harm.”

Still, his smile in response seemed the tiniest bit
strained.