Spells and Scones (9 page)

Yip!

Normally that would have brought a smile to my face, if not everyone else's, but not this time.

“The relationship between witch and familiar is like a marriage,” Lucy said in a low voice.

A few beats, and then we all smiled. Not because she was right, but because we all knew that our connections with our familiars were stronger than marriage. They were a part of us. I couldn't imagine in a gazillion years what it would feel like to lose Mungo. It would be like losing an arm, or a piece of my soul.

And Angie had just given him up.

“So . . . now what?” Jaida asked, ever the practical one.

“Mungo assures me Angie Kissel is innocent. Quinn thinks she's guilty and told me to stay out of this one.”

Lucy and Mimsey exchanged glances. “Like when he was going to arrest Ben for killing Mrs. Templeton?” my aunt asked.

Bianca said, “Peter Quinn dismisses anything at all paranormal as ‘woo-woo nonsense.' It's a blind spot.” She looked at me. “A blind spot you can see.”

“Mungo wants me to help Angie,” I said. “He made that pretty clear.”

In confirmation, he jumped up on the sofa with me. Normally, he wouldn't dream of doing that, since I'd explained that there were people who were allergic to dog hair. But right now I needed the comfort of my little dog in my arms, and he knew it. Heck, he might have needed a little comfort himself. It was a pretty awful situation we were talking about, after all.

The other witches were looking around at one another again, troubled.

Mimsey, though, nodded emphatically. “Of course.
There is a reason you were there when it happened. Ever since you've learned you are a lightwitch with a calling to the light, you've done the right thing.”

“That's because I felt like I had to.” My former mentor, Franklin Taite, had told me I had no choice but to serve the light. Recently, I'd learned he had greatly exaggerated that obligation.

Exaggerated
as in
lied
.

“But I thought if it happened again I'd have a choice. That I could walk away from the darkness of murder.”

Mimsey made a rude noise. “My dear, dear Katie. You need to pull your head out of the sand. Of course you have a choice. Everyone has choices, for heaven's sake. But just because those choices are there for the making doesn't mean there isn't a right one
to
make.”

Well, that gave me pause.

“Why don't you think of it as helping Peter Quinn,” Lucy said in that utterly reasonable tone of hers. “In the end, you want justice—and so does he. If Angie is innocent, you're probably one of the best people to prove that. Besides, you've already started, what with following the victim's sister into Croft's and questioning her.”

“Hey, I wasn't . . .” I trailed off.

Jaida snorted a laugh. “Oh, I saw you hightail it out of here as soon as you saw her. You might as well admit it. Even if you think you don't want to investigate, you probably couldn't help yourself in the long run.”

I sighed. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”

Mungo jumped up and licked my chin. I laughed and pushed him down. He ran back to his bed on the bottom bookshelf, and in doing so he dislodged a thin volume from the shelf.

I reached over to pick it up and paused. Then I held it up for them all to see.

It was one of the coloring books designed for adults that had become all the rage. Every single picture in it was of a dragonfly.

Cookie swung her legs to the floor. “All right, then. That's settled. Now—what do we do first?”

I shook my head. “I'm not sure. Do you have any ideas?”

“The radio station manager,” Mimsey said with authority. “His name is Bing Hawkins, and I've known him for years. Old Savannah family. His grandmama and I went to school together, and before he managed the station he was their advertising manager. He still handles my account.” Mimsey still worked at her flower shop most days. She said it kept her vital. Since Lucy assured me she didn't use magic to keep her youthful vigor, I was prone to believe her claim.

“I'll give him a jingle tomorrow,” she went on, “and tell him you might be in the market for some radio advertising.”

“Oh, Ben won't like that,” Lucy said. “He's the one who handles all the marketing for the Honeybee, and he thinks radio is too expensive.”

Mimsey shrugged. “It works for me, especially around the holidays. And it won't hurt to talk to Bing. You don't have to buy anything, honey. Just get in the door.”

“And find out about those letters Angie wrote,” I said.

She pointed her finger. “Exactly.”

“Want some company?” Jaida asked.

I grinned at her. “I'd love some.”

“My schedule is busy, but a lot of it's paperwork right now. Let me know when you want to go, and I'll see if I can get away.”

“Deal.” I turned to Cookie. “Do you happen to know anything about the sale of that commercial building on the corner of Victory and Bull?”

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. “That was before I started working in the business. I don't even know if my company handled it. Why?”

“Because Mrs. Standish told me Dr. Dana's husband bought it, but he hasn't moved forward with leasing spaces,” I said.

Mimsey and Lucy exchanged a look.

An ironic smile curved Cookie's lips. “I can tell you why, but it has nothing to do with my job. Oscar told me.”

I frowned. Her husband worked for a company that tested for environmental hazards. Things like . . .

“Asbestos?” I breathed.

“Nothing so dire,” she said. “Not so great, either, though. Black mold. It's expensive to fix, and afterward there will likely need to be significant repairs to the affected areas.”

I winced. “Sounds horrible. I'll have to tell Mrs. Standish she lucked out on that deal.”

But as I rose to clear away the dishes, I had to wonder what Dr. Dana had thought of her husband's business dealings. Something told me she wouldn't have approved.

*   *   *

The ladies left, and Lucy and I shut off the lights. She locked the door that led to the alley and put the cash bag into the safe in the office, while I checked the pans
of sourdough that were slowly rising in the industrial fridge. As I came back out with Mungo firmly ensconced in my tote bag, I saw someone silhouetted in the light coming through the front window.

Someone very short.

“Hi, Katie.”

I flipped the lights back on to see that we'd neglected to lock the front door after the spellbook club had left, and Angie Kissel had let herself in. Mungo wiggled and grinned at her. Lucy came out of the office and joined me, her brow wrinkled.

“I saw the closed sign, but it looked like you were having some kind of a meeting.”

Yeah. About you.

“I didn't want to disturb you, but then those other women left so I thought maybe . . . well, I wondered . . .”

“If Katie could help you?” my aunt asked.

I stifled a groan.

Surprise flickered across Angie's face. “Help me? How would . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Ah, perhaps that's it.”

Lucy shot me a look, then turned her attention back to our visitor. “Why don't you two sit down? I forgot something in the back.”

Angie sank into a bistro chair. She wore an above-the-knee skirt with tights and boots and a light cabled sweater—all in brown. According to Mimsey, brown was the color of grounding, protection of familiars, and special favors.

Is she invoking color magic? Or does she just like earth tones?

“Why don't you tell us why you're here?” I asked, taking another chair and lowering Mungo down to the floor.

He peered up at me with a question in his eyes, and then hesitantly padded over to Angie.

Her face broke out in a grin, and she actually laughed as she reached down to scratch under his chin. “I came to see Mungo.”

That horrible feeling of jealousy pierced through me. I set my jaw against it and reached down to pat my familiar's back. As I touched him, I felt a
zip!
of electric energy hiss through me. Angie and I jerked our hands back at the same time.

Eyes wide, I raised my head to see Angie had the same expression on her face that I imagined was on mine. As one, we looked back down at Mungo. He distributed an impish grin between us.

“Why, you little dickens,” she said.

I tipped my head to the side. “Yeah?” I asked him.

Yeah,
his look said.

“He says you're innocent,” I said. Because along with the electric rush had come a deep knowledge that Angie was not a murderer. It hadn't exactly come
from
Mungo, but
through
him—as if he was a conduit between us.

“He ‘says'?” Angie seemed confused.

Perhaps whatever had happened hadn't worked both ways. Or perhaps they'd never been as deeply connected as Mungo and I were—and had been from the beginning of our relationship.

“Just trust me,” I said.

She sat back. “You know? I do. I can't explain it, but I feel like we met for a reason. I assumed it was because of Mungo here. But perhaps there's something else. The other woman—your aunt?—said something about help.” She blew her bangs off her forehead. “And Lord knows, I could use some help. That detective seems pretty determined to pin Dr. Dana's murder on me. He's already called my parents and my ex-husband, trying to see if I have any access to cyanide.”

“Do you?” I asked.

She glared at me. “No.”

“Good.” I saw Lucy coming back. “I don't think you were really introduced last night. This is my aunt, Lucy Eagel.”

The nodded at each other.

“Do you mind if I ask you another question?” I asked.

“Go ahead.”

“What kind of witch were you before you stopped practicing?”

She inclined her head toward Lucy. “You're one, too. Of course. Hereditary.” And then to me, “That was a coven meeting, wasn't it?”

I didn't answer.

“Fair enough. I was a green witch. I still work at Chatham Garden Center.”

Lucy and I exchanged a glance. Once again, my aunt was right. Green witch was another term for hedgewitch. And for once, it was a good thing that Quinn didn't know about any of it, because if he'd known Angie could squeeze cyanide from a peach pit, so to speak, she'd be awaiting trial.

“Do you know what a lightwitch is?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Well, to put it simply, it's someone called to right wrongs, and in my case to work against evil. That might be secular, but it's sometimes the evil of dark magic.”

“In your case. You mean . . .” She whistled. “Mungo sure found himself a powerful witch.” She bit her lip. “So do you think you can help me?”

I took a deep breath. “I don't know. But I'm going to try.”

*   *   *

I meant to go straight home, I really did, but I still couldn't resist a side trip on the way. Instead of taking my usual
route toward Midtown on Abercorn, I turned left and then right, and soon the Bug was crawling down Bull Street toward Ardsley Park. It was an older neighborhood, more upscale than some, but still quintessentially Savannah. Green expanses of lawns sprawled in front of stately homes, which were interspersed with more modest 1920s bungalows. Live oaks arched overhead, dripping with the Spanish moss ubiquitous to the area.

Ben and Lucy lived on the edge of Ardsley Park, in a lovely three-story townhome with a low-maintenance rooftop garden. They shopped downtown and occasionally at the Southside shopping malls, all of which were within easy access. Still, as I pulled up in front of the L-shaped building that I'd passed numerous times on my way to their home, I could see Mrs. Standish's point. The right businesses in this location would attract tons of traffic. The bottom floor would be prime for retail, and possibly a restaurant and bar. The upper level offered a walkway with exterior access to each unit. The space on the long side of the L looked like one big expanse, perfect for the neighborhood fitness center Mrs. Standish had imagined.

A parking lot large enough to accommodate a double row of spaces sat between the curb strip next to where I was parked and the building. Potholes crumpled the asphalt, and the painted stripes delineating the individual spots were faded where they showed at all. Two vehicles sat nose-in at one end of the building. One was a PT Cruiser, and the other obviously a work truck, complete with utility racks and a sign on the side that read
LINCOLN BAR
D, GENERAL CONTRACTOR
.

Checking the rearview mirror to make sure there were no cars coming, I slowly backed up along the curb until I could see the license plate on the passenger car.

DOCDANA.

Well, that seemed pretty clear. Was this the car Phoebe and Nate had moved after the signing so Dana wouldn't have to walk far on her high heels? Honestly, I'd imagined a Caddy or a BMW. For someone who was afraid of being stalked, it seemed like she'd want to keep a lower profile. On the other hand, the murder victim had possessed a rather obvious narcissistic streak.

I turned off my car, thinking. Who was driving her car? Possibly Phoebe, but why would she be here? Was she involved in the Dobbs' real estate venture as well? Either way, it seemed awfully coldhearted to be conducting any kind of business less than twenty-four hours after a loved one's death.

A wide-shouldered man wearing work pants and a canvas jacket came out of a downstairs unit. The angled late-day sun struck his face, highlighting two days' worth of grizzled stubble on his sturdy chin. He carried a flip-top notebook and stopped in the middle of the parking lot to make a note with a short stub of pencil.

“I'll be right back,” I murmured to Mungo. He stood on his back paws and watched out the rear window as I exited my car and approached the man.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He looked up and nodded in a friendly way. “Yes, ma'am? What can I do for you?” His deep drawl curved around the vowels in delicious curlicues, and I couldn't help returning his smile.

I pointed to the truck. “Is that you, or are you the owner?”

Subtle, Katie.

“That's me. Lincoln Bard, at your service.”

“You must be a hardworking man, Mr. Bard. Here on the Sunday before Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He winked. Coming from most men, it would have made me cringe, but the gesture fit him to a tee. “But not as hardworking so's to work on the Sunday
after
Thanksgiving.”

“Good for you. Say, what can you tell me about this place?” I asked, trying for casual.

He shook his head. “Oh, now. You'd need to talk to the owner about that.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, raking the building with a skeptical look. “I know about the black mold. Are you here to, what do they call it?”

“Abatement,” he said with a slow nod. “That's not my business, but I'll be working with the folks who do that. Gonna have to pull out some structural bits—walls and floor and the like. Fixing that up is where I come in.”

“I see.”

“It'll be a good job, nice when it's all done. Took a while to get going on it, but now there's been an influx of money for the project.” He rocked back on his heels, looking the place over. “Yep. Looking forward to this one.”

A door opened on the top floor and Nathan Dobbs came out.

“Well, there's your man if you have questions about leasing, or . . . ?” Lincoln looked at me with pleasant curiosity, but I only smiled.

“Nate!” he called. “You've got a potential customer here.”

Nathan Dobbs came slowly down the stairs, his heavy boots loud on the metal treads. He was just as handsome as I recalled from the signing. Looks don't make the man, but I could see how Dana Dobbs had wanted to hang on to this one. The sun caught the streaks in his chestnut hair, which was longish and delightfully wavy.

He offered me a smile and his hand. “Nate Dobbs. I'm happy for the interest, but you should know it's going to be a while before this place will be ready for renters.”

“Hello again. I don't imagine you remember me,” I said.

He looked at me then, really looked, and took a step back. “You were there. At the bookstore. The caterer. You brought that damn sweet tea.”

Stunned, I blinked. It had never occurred to me that Dr. Dana's family might blame any of us for providing the vehicle that delivered the poison to her. But maybe it should have.

The contractor stared at me, then muttered something about having to go and took off for his truck.

“Mr. Dobbs, th . . . the sweet tea was fine,” I stammered. “Surely the police told you that. Lots of people drank it.” I could hear the defensiveness creeping into my voice.

Nate took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he acquiesced, then looked down at the asphalt rubble at our feet. “Sorry. This has been hard.”

“Of course it has!” Sympathy washed through me.

He looked up at the building with an expression I couldn't read. “This place. God. I thought it would give me something to do, be a way to make some real money and not be so . . . Well, it turned out to have some problems, and the money for the project dried up.”

“And now?” I asked, cringing as I heard the bluntness of my tone.

Nate met my eyes. “And now it's something to keep me busy so I don't spend every single second thinking about my dead wife.”