Spells and Scones (6 page)

After dinner, we'd started watching
Tremors
for the umpteenth time to let the day wind away. Declan had dropped off in the middle of the movie, but it had taken me a long time to get to sleep. The events at the Fox and Hound kept rolling over and over in my mind. It also didn't help that I could sense Mungo staring at me in the dark.

My entire life I'd had a kind of sleep disorder that kept me from sleeping more than an hour or two most nights. It didn't affect my energy level, and it wasn't a bad thing for a baker who had to hit the ovens at o'dark thirty most mornings. So Sunday morning I woke up bright-eyed and ready to go, but Declan was still snoring through his requisite seven hours at four a.m. I'd quietly showered and dressed, bundled Mungo into my tote bag, and sneaked out in the cool of the predawn morning.

Two and a half hours later, Iris Grant and I were finishing up the cream cheese frosting on a batch of pumpkin spice cookies in the Honeybee kitchen as the sun began to glint off east-facing car windows out on Broughton Street. Ben was off playing his weekly round of golf, so it was Lucy who opened the blinds and tidied the poufy chairs and sofa that were arranged around the coffee
table in the reading area. Light jazz came on the stereo system, right before my aunt opened up the front door at seven. A couple of weekend regulars were waiting outside for their Honeybee fix, and a few moments later I heard my aunt revving up the espresso machine.

“Katie?” she called.

I looked up and saw a customer at the register. I stripped off my plastic gloves as I hurried out from the open kitchen to ring up one of the daily specials: a delicate miniquiche packed with onions caramelized in balsamic vinegar and flecked with fresh thyme. I'd already set one aside for my own breakfast.

Once the customer had gone, I grabbed a cup of drip and leaned my hip against the counter to drink it. Lucy had returned to the reading area and was rearranging books on the shelves. The volumes were roughly organized by subject, but the reason to it varied on who was doing the organizing. There was fiction and nonfiction, a fair amount of self-help, poetry, and inspirational fodder, as well as the occasional magazine. Regardless of the contents, most of our selection had been chosen by the ladies of the spellbook club, each witch somehow knowing that a particular book might help a Honeybee customer. A few had even helped me, though not always in the way one might think a book helpful. Other books had been supplied by Honeybee customers who wanted to share what they'd been reading. I'd wondered at first whether Croft would view a super-informal lending library like ours, right next to his bookstore, as competition. He'd taken one look at the eclectic contents and assured me with a small laugh that there was no overlap.

The amber walls around me reached to high ceilings. Fans suspended from the dark beams kept the air moving. The single burnt orange wall behind the register held
the tall blackboard where we listed the rotating menu items. I loved the color combination with the blue-and-chrome tables and the shiny kitchen mostly open to public view so patrons could see us making the pastries they loved.

Of course, that open design also meant any hedgewitchery had to be performed with discretion.

I returned to where Iris bent her head over a cookie, pastry bag in hand. The tip of her tongue protruded from the corner of her mouth in concentration. I smiled at her earnestness. We'd hired her a few months before, a Goth girl with spiked black hair, black clothes, and black fingernail polish. Or so we thought. Since then she'd gone natural with her makeup and grown her hair out enough to form a stubby ponytail for work. The month before, she'd dyed it flamingo pink in honor of National Breast Cancer Awareness.

She inhaled deeply and a grin broke across her face. “Mmm. The allspice is so intense, but I can still detect the milder taste of ginger, too.”

“Remember that allspice is uplifting and healing,” I said.

The first time I'd met Iris I'd known she had power, and it hadn't been long after she came to work for us that Lucy and I revealed the special elements we added to our baked goods. She'd asked us to train her in kitchen magic, and, delighted that the universe had sent her to us, we'd happily complied.

Now she nodded. “And ginger speeds and intensifies any spell. Do you have an incantation?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. Why don't you make one up?” In truth, Lucy and I didn't use incantations all the time, instead simply directing our intention into the food as we mixed and formed and baked, with the knowledge
that we were triggering and intensifying the natural magical elements of the herbs. It couldn't hurt, though, and Iris needed the practice.

Her eyes lit up. “Just . . . make one up? Really?” She did a little two-step. “What should I say? I mean, I've noticed sometimes yours and Lucy's rhyme, and sometimes not.”

“It doesn't really matter how you say it, or even the specific words you use, as long as you get your point across. Spells focus intention, and the verbal aspect of them simply narrows that focus to intensify their power. Your power.”

She pointed her finger at me. “Right. Okay, let me think about it.”

I nodded with a smile. “Okeydoke. But do it quietly—and don't take too long. I bet customers are going to snarf up those cookies with their morning coffee.”

The phone rang, and I grabbed it off the wall behind the register. “Honeybee Bakery.”

“Katie? Quinn. I tried your cell.”

“I forgot it in the back,” I said, scooting through to the office and shutting the door for a little privacy. Mungo was snoozing on the club chair where he reigned most days. “You're up early.”

“Never made it home.”

“Ouch.” And yet I knew he'd look fresh and cool, no doubt in one of the starched shirts he kept at the office. “Dr. Dana?”

“Yes, though there's only so much I can do during the night on that. There's another case I'm working, too. One where you
weren't
on-site when it happened.”

“It's not like I try to find dead bodies, Quinn. What's the other case?”

He sighed. “Katie, honestly. Over time I've learned
that when you're mixed up in one of my cases, as much as I dislike a civilian sticking her nose into things, I'm probably going to clear it. But that doesn't mean you need to know details about all the homicides in Savannah.”

“Well, gosh. I was just wondering.”

A few seconds of silence. “Sorry. I'm just tired. The other death is pretty cut-and-dried, clear motive and opportunity. Still takes a while to dot my i's and cross my t's.”

“Pulling an all-nighter is no fun.” And Quinn, vital and suave as he appeared, was no youngster, either. He also insisted on working alone ever since his erstwhile partner, Franklin Taite, had gone out of the picture. “So . . . why are you calling? Are you dotting i's and crossing t's on the Dr. Dana case, too?” Meaning: Had he already arrested Angie?

Mungo leaned forward as if trying to hear Quinn on the other end of the line.

“I wish,” he said. “We have our suspect, though, so I hope to be able to wrap up things soon—and without your help. I called to let you know that your aunt was right about the cyanide.”

I sank onto the desk chair. “Ugh.” I hadn't necessarily liked Dr. Dana, or how she treated people, but she sure hadn't deserved to die like that.

But would Angie Kissel agree? I wondered whether she still believed in the Rule of Three from the Wiccan Rede since she no longer considered herself a witch. The Rule basically held that anything you do comes back to you threefold—good or bad. I thought of it as the Golden Rule on steroids.

“Not that cyanide is readily available,” Quinn went on. “It's pretty hard for the average Joe to access anymore. Highly regulated.”

“So there's no chance it was an accident.”

“Zero. It had to be deliberate. There were no traces of poison in either of the water bottles we confiscated, nor in the full, unopened one provided by the sister.”

“Really?” I had been thinking all along that someone had dosed one or the other of them. Then I remembered the other alternative. “What about the food items from the Honeybee?”

“Not there, either. That's the other reason I called.”

Kind of buried the lede, didn't you?

Still, I took a deep, relieved breath. “Thank heavens for that. So how . . . ?”

“That cup of sweet tea. Did you see her take it to the back of the store with her?”

I shook my head, then realized he couldn't see me. “There was a lot going on right then. I didn't notice.”

“The empty was on the floor, and the lab confirms traces of cyanide. The medical examiner will let me know more about stomach contents later today.”

Eww.

He said, “But she had to have drunk it after she went to sign the extra books. So the drink was either dosed with the poison before she went in the back, and she hadn't sampled it yet, or someone came in and put the cyanide in the drink after she was already back there.”

“You said there's a suspect. But really there must be plenty of suspects. I mean, lots of people disliked Dr. Dana,” I said.

“Yet only Ms. Kissel made it her business to try to ruin Ms. Dobbs,” he said. “It wasn't the first time she'd confronted the victim in public. The sister, Phoebe Miller, called the precinct when Kissel showed up last night.”

Thinking back, I had seen her talking on her cell right about then. “She called the cops on Angie?”

In the pause that followed I realized I'd made it sound like Angie and I were best buddies.

“There was no actual threat made, so Ms. Miller was told she could come in and file a report today.” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his tone was firm. “Katie, Angie Kissel had clear motive and obvious opportunity. I just have to figure out how she got the cyanide.”

“And how she convinced a woman who loathed her to let her close enough to poison her sweet tea,” I said.

He was silent.

“Are you looking at anyone else? Remember the man I told you about who also heckled Dr. Dana?” The one who liked the jalapeño corn pones so much.

“He left well before the victim went in back—”

“Detective Quinn! First off, Ben gave . . . Dr. Dana had the sweet tea beside her the whole time she was signing. People were walking by and milling around, and she was distracted by her adoring fans. Plus, anyone could have come in from the alley before Angie came in and found the body. Including that guy. Do you even know his name?”

Quinn sighed. “No. If he bought something, we'll get around to questioning him. Croft gave us a list.”

“His wife is named Sophie,” I offered. “And what about Dr. Dana's husband and sister? They weren't in the bookstore when she apparently took the poison. One or both of them could have sneaked around back—”

“Now, come on, Katie. I'm not an idiot. I checked on their story about moving the car closer so Dana Dobbs wouldn't have to walk three blocks after the signing. The timing is right, and several patrons who were sitting in the front window of the Chive Restaurant saw them get in the car and go back toward the bookstore.” He paused. “I thought you said you didn't know Kissel.”

“I don't.”

“So what's your stake? You have no reason to fight the obvious like this. You might have been helpful before—somewhat helpful,” he quickly corrected himself. “But now you're just being contrary. I'm disappointed in you, Katie.”

“Quinn, you're not—”

“Seriously. This is one you can leave to the professionals. Good-bye, Katie.”

Mungo tipped his head and looked at me with worried eyes.

“Well, heck.” I thumbed off the phone. “Little guy, maybe Angie did do it.”

His forehead wrinkled.

“I know, I know. But there is a lot of evidence.” I frowned. “But there was against Uncle Ben, too, and we all
knew
he didn't kill Mavis Templeton. Is that how you feel about Angie?”

He responded with a quiet but intense
Yip!

I made a decision. “Okay, then.” I softly stroked his ears. “I'll do what I can.”

When I returned to the kitchen, Iris whirled around from where she was unloading the dishwasher.

“Holy cow, Katie! Lucy just told me about what happened last night in the Fox and Hound. You didn't say a word about it earlier.”

“Sorry. We were pretty busy . . .”

She waved her hand. “Never mind that! She said you were back there talking to a
detective
?”

I nodded. “Detective Quinn. You remember me telling you about him last August.”

“Of course! Are you going to solve the murder like you did then?”

Lucy made her way back from the register. “There are customers out there, and they can hear you, Iris.”

“Oops! Sorry,” she stage-whispered.

“Katie, what did Peter have to say?” my aunt asked in a low tone.

“Well, you were right about the cyanide.”

Iris' eyes widened.

“And our pastries were all untainted,” I said. “So were the water bottles. Someone put it in the sweet tea Ben gave her, and Quinn is sure as anything that Angie Kissel did it.”

Lucy looked thoughtful. “Hmm. She was pretty obnoxious at the signing, and then she came back.” Her eyes cut toward our helper. “But we can talk about all that later this afternoon. After we close.” She didn't refer to the spellbook club, but she'd already told me that everyone would be there by one o'clock.

Iris' face fell.

One of our regulars came in for her weekly loaf of sourdough bread, and I went to help her.

“Hello, Mrs. Standish,” I greeted her. “One loaf or two?”

Edna Standish had been one of the Honeybee's very first customers and continued to support us on an almost-daily basis. A tall and broad-shouldered woman, she wore wide-legged woolen trousers in soft gray and a silken tunic covered with depictions of sailing ships. Her precise gray curls were covered with a pink scarf that wound twice around her neck and then tied at her throat.