by Bailey Cates
Wait a minute. “Wren?”
She still sat in the desk chair where I’d deposited her earlier, a dazed look on her face. Quinn had asked her a few questions, but she’d answered only in whispered monosyllables. He’d soon given up and begun to quiz me. Now she turned her head and blinked at me slowly.
“Honey, do you know what kind of car Hunter drives?” I wanted to be sure before saying anything.
It took her a moment as her mind engaged. She licked her lips. “It’s a Jeep. Square-looking thing.”
“Like a Wrangler?”
She nodded.
Detective Quinn watched the brief exchange with interest.
I hesitated, then made a decision. “A vehicle like that was leaving just as I got here. In fact I took its parking space out front.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Not really.”
“Male or female?”
“Sorry. I only saw a vague figure.”
“Don’t suppose you noticed the license plate.”
I shook my head. “But the driver did seem to be in a hurry. Still, like I said, I don’t know that it was Hunter.”
“Yes, you’ve made that clear,” Quinn said with a slightly puzzled look.
“I just don’t want . . . Well, you remember the witness who said she saw Ben . . .” I trailed off, unwilling to point out that Quinn had almost arrested my uncle based on her word.
His lips thinned. “I understand. Just let me check in with the crime scene techs before you go.” Frowning, he strode down the hallway toward the sound of clicking cameras and murmuring voices.
“Wren, honey? Shall I call Mimsey?”
She shook her head. “When we’re done here.”
Detective Quinn returned with a plastic bag in his hand. He held it out to me. Without thinking, I recoiled. Forcing myself to step forward, I peered down at what was obviously some kind of evidence. After a few seconds I recognized the dark red paper Autumn had been clutching in her hand. That she’d presumably been holding this when she died was bad enough. Worse was the energy it gave off—a sickly sense of decay, a deep-rooted rot. I imagined I could actually smell it over the burnt-coffee stink that still permeated the air.
“Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.
With considerable effort, I leaned close enough to examine the crumpled form. “It looks like origami. A bird, maybe? No, a bat. Even crumpled up like that I’m pretty sure.”
My words apparently pierced Wren’s fog, because she got up and made her way over to where we stood.
“It is a bat,” she breathed. “A maroon bat.”
Quinn turned the bag in his hand. “Maroon, burgundy, whichever. But it does look like a bat.”
Wren reached for the bag. Frowning, Quinn pulled it back so she couldn’t grab it. “No,” she said. “It’s a maroon bat. A subspecies of bat that was native to this area. Lasiuris marrona. The coloration of the fur is somewhat darker than the red bat’s, and there is a distinctive kink to the third metacarpal.” As she spoke, her voice became stronger.
“What do you mean ‘was native’?” he asked.
“The maroon bat has supposedly been extinct for over a decade.” She blinked at him. “Except six months ago a small number were sighted in Fagen Swamp. They were reported to us shortly after I came to work for Georgia Wild. What else could this be?” Wren’s teeth clamped onto her lower lip.
“I think Autumn had been trying to prevent the sale of that swamp to developers until we could verify the existence of the bats,” I said to Quinn. Most of my work at Georgia Wild was grunt work—keeping the donor database up-to-date, filing, and general administrative tasks. I’d heard mention of the Fagen Swamp project, but not for a while.
“Who would want to develop swampland?” he asked. “Sounds like it would be more trouble than it’s worth.”
Wren’s eyes cleared as she explained that a group of investors intended to completely drain the swamp and rebuild it into a world-class golf course. “Autumn was an environmental lawyer who devoted her life to the preservation of unique habitats in order to save the species of both flora and fauna found within them. That was why she founded Georgia Wild. Since learning of the maroon bat sightings, she’d been in contact with the land purchasers’ lawyer.”
“Who is?” Quinn’s pen scratched in the small notebook he’d pulled from his pocket.
“His name is Logan Seward. He works for the investors and the landowner, so he’s hardly a friend to us,” she said.
“That sounds like a conflict of interest,” Quinn said. “Who’s the landowner?”
“A man named Gart Fagen. Hence ‘Fagen Swamp.’ It’s been in his family for generations.” She frowned. “And now he’s willing to sell it off to some faceless group that plans to raze it completely.”
“I remember filing some documents about Fagen Swamp with the EPA,” I said.
Wren nodded. “We’ve tried to get the Environmental Protection Agency involved for a while. They’ve shown a mild interest in saving that particular habitat because it’s the perfect place for gray bats to thrive. They’re endangered, but there’s already significant protection in the Savannah Wildlife Refuge. However, the maroon bat is considered extinct. If there really are some in that swamp, it might light a fire under the EPA.”
Quinn looked down at the crumpled paper encased in plastic. “Interesting.”
“There are so many places to save, and we have limited resources. Autumn told me she was getting ready to give up on the project.” Wren sounded angry.
His eyes narrowed, and I wondered how that might sound to Quinn. Could Wren, in her fervent desire to keep the swamp habitat whole for maroon bats and, presumably, all the other species that thrived there, possibly be considered a suspect in her friend’s murder? Quinn had jumped to conclusions about Uncle Ben after all.
Sure enough, he asked, “Ms. Knowles, when did you arrive here?”
“Right before Katie got here. About quarter after five or so. Does that sound right?” She looked at me, oblivious to where Quinn was so obviously going with his questions.
“I got here about five twenty.” I glanced at my watch. It was only a little after six, though it felt like I’d been at Georgia Wild for hours.
“And where were you two the rest of the day?” Quinn persisted.
“I was at the Honeybee, of course. You can’t possibly think—,” I began.
She put her hand on top of mine and squeezed, finally understanding. “It’s okay. I was at Savannah State University all day after having breakfast with my grandparents at J. Christopher’s. First I participated in a panel about habitat restoration ecology and then visited two classes to speak with students. It’s easy enough to check. I went straight from there to Georgia Wild, and Katie came in right after I’d found . . . well, you know.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.
I moved to put an arm around her shoulders. “She doesn’t have to talk about any more of this right now, does she?” Grief came off her in waves, and I wanted nothing more than to hug her tightly and tell her it was all going to be okay.
Except, of course, it wasn’t.
Quinn slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Knowles, but I’m afraid we really do need to know everything you can tell us as soon as possible.”
She took a deep breath and dropped her hands. “I understand.” Patting my shoulder, she said, “I’m okay, Katie. All I was going to say is that Autumn had one last ace up her sleeve regarding Fagen Swamp. She decided to talk to one of the investors in the land deal. She thought perhaps Seward wasn’t sharing information about the maroon bats with all the members of the investment group, and while they’re scattered all over the country, there’s one who lives right here in Savannah.”
“I didn’t know she was going to do that,” I said. “Who i
s it?”
“The CEO of the Dawes Corporation, Heinrich Dawes.”
My arm dropped from her shoulders.
Great.
Chapter 4
Detective Quinn directed a skeptical look my way. “You didn’t know Dawes was involved with this golf course venture?”
I shook my head. “Had no idea.”
Quinn knew I had a history with Heinrich’s son, Steve. I sighed. Declan would not be happy if Steve came back into my life right now. My jaw set. I’d made my choice between them, and I could make a choice now. I could walk away from this.
I would walk away from this.
Gathering Mungo in my arms, I grabbed my tote. “I’m sorry. I have to go. If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a call. Wren, do you need a ride home?”
“I have my car.”
“You okay to drive?” I wanted to inquire about her Imbolc plans but not in front of Quinn.
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
Of course, she wasn’t, not really. Neither was I. Still, I could function, and talking about the thing she was most passionate about had seemed to right Wren somewhat. “Okay. I’ll talk to you soon,” I said.
Detective Quinn didn’t try to stop me as I turned on my heel and marched outside. He came to stand in the doorway as I unlocked my car and got inside. When I looked back at him, he raised his hand, a rather friendly gesture under the circumstances. He was probably delighted that I was staying out of his way.
Good. I didn’t want to get on his bad side.
“Perhaps this has nothing to do with dark magic,” I said to Mungo as I steered the Bug away from the curb. Never mind the dragonfly. Never mind the shiver that always told me to be on alert, that something important was going on.
“Isn’t death bad enough without magic being involved?”
Mungo sighed.
On the way home I broke my own rule about not talking on my cell phone while driving in order to call Mimsey. Wren’s mother lived in northern California, and Mimsey was her closest family in town. I tracked her down in her flower shop, Vase Value.
“Oh, my heavens,” Mimsey exclaimed after I’d given her a brief rundown on what had happened at Georgia Wild. “I’ll call her right away. Poor thing, finding her friend who passed on like that.” She made a tsking sound, and I imagined her white pageboy swinging as she shook her head. “And how are you?”
“Oh, I’m . . .” How was I really? “Actually I’m kind of numb.”
“Of course you are, dear. That’s to be expected.”
“I suppose we should cancel the Imbolc celebration tonight.”
Her response was immediate and emphatic. “Absolutely not, Katie! We need this celebration of the coming of the light, especially given the darkness you’ve witnessed today. But would you rather we had it at my house?”
I was relieved to hear she thought we should continue. I’d been looking forward to it for days.
“Not at all,” I said. “I have everything ready. Just have to cook up the bannock cakes and reheat the mulled cider.”
“Excellent,” Mimsey said. “Do you mind if I invite Wren when I talk to her?”
“That’s a great idea. Do you think she’ll come?”
“She usually prefers to celebrate by herself, but after what happened today, she might not want to be alone. We’ll see.”
We ended the call as I was pulling into the driveway of the carriage house. Headlights rounded the corner as I let Mungo out to run in the yard, and a familiar black pickup pulled to the curb. I got out of the Bug and approached as Declan McCarthy stepped to the sidewalk. Despite the chill air he didn’t wear a jacket over his PROUD TO BE A FIRST RESPONDER T-shirt and jeans. Tall and muscular, Deck possessed classic good looks: dark wavy hair cut short to meet fire department regulation, a solid planed face, and bright blue eyes. The man even had a dimple when he smiled, for Pete’s sake. Looks like that usually came with an ego to match, but being raised by a strong mother in a houseful of four sisters had apparently humbled him.
It had also made him a pretty good cook. I eyed the Tupperware containers in his hand. “What’s that?”
“Chili con carne,” he mumbled before he pulled me close and his lips found mine.
“Mmm. Nice,” I said a few moments later. “The chili, too.”
He turned, sliding his arm around my shoulders. I inhaled his scent of newly mown grass and peppermint as we walked across the yard. Mungo jumped around us, wagging his tail in greeting. Declan was one of his favorite people.
“I made a big batch for the guys and thought you might want some, too. Even made up a batch without any onions for the little guy here.” His sorghum-laced voice reflected that he was a born-and-bred Savannahian.
I laughed. “Mungo, you are one lucky puppy to have this guy around.” My familiar was such a little oink that he’d eat anything, including onions and chocolate and other things that were bad for dogs. When he did get into such things, they didn’t seem to affect him, but better safe than sorry.
“Besides,” Declan said, “you’re having your party tonight, and knowing you, you’ll get everything ready for them and forget to eat any supper.”
Your party. He knew all about Lucy and the spellbook club. And me. When I’d finally told him the truth, I’d been relieved at his relatively mild reaction. After all, Bianca’s husband had left her when he found out she was Wiccan. But Declan had seemed amused that I’d been so nervous about telling him. As time went on, though, I was coming to realize that he really didn’t get what magic was all about. I’d tried to explain the idea of manifesting a desired outcome through focused intention, but he continued to think being a witch was more of a hobby like knitting or scrapbooking. Then again, Ben probably didn’t get Lucy all the time, either. It didn’t matter. He’d once told me he’d love her if she went bald or turned orange, so learning she was a witch wasn’t a big deal.
Like Ben, Declan was a genuinely good guy. I always felt relaxed and safe when he was around. He was funny and smart and often gave me a break from cooking at home after baking all day at the Honeybee.
Like now. “Thanks for thinking of me,” I said.
He squeezed me. “Silly goose. I can hardly think of anything else. And speaking of thinking, have you thought any more about going to Boston?”
For the past couple of weeks, Declan had been urging me to go to Massachusetts with him so I could meet his family. I unlocked the door and we went inside. “I have, actually—”
My cell phone rang, cutting off my words. Saved by the bell.
It was my aunt. “I just got a call from Mimsey, and she told me about Autumn. Oh, my gosh, Katie, are you okay? Why didn’t you phone me? Are you sure you don’t want to cancel tonight?”
“Lucy,” I tried, but she kept talking.
“Or maybe I should come over early to help you.”
“Lucy!”
“Yes, honey, I’m sorry. Just tell me what I can do.”
“I’m fine, really. I mean, it was awful, but I’m okay. Declan is here right now. On the way to his forty-eight hours at the firehouse.” I looked at him for confirmation.
He nodded, curiosity practically oozing from his pores.
“Oh, that’s good. Have him stay until I can get there,” she said.
“He has to get going. And Lucy, I still have to make up the bannock cakes for tonight.” Truthfully, I wanted a little space to process having seen my fourth dead body in less than a year. That had to be some kind of record for a mild-mannered baker, and I needed to figure out how I felt about it.
And what to do about it.
So now I said, “I could use a couple of hours to get myself together.”
Lucy was quiet for a moment, and I wondered whether I’d insulted her. But when she spoke, her tone was warm. “Of course. I understand. I’ll show
up at eight thirty as planned. If you change your mind and want me to come over earlier after all, just give me a jingle.”
“Thanks, Luce.”
“Say hello to Declan for me, okay?”
“All righty.”
But when I hung up, I had to say a lot more than hello. He wanted to know why Lucy had been so worried, and the more I told him, the more his eyes widened. By the time I was done, he had me enveloped in his arms again.
Which, frankly, was an awfully nice place to be.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded.
Gently, I pushed away. “Deck, I just got home. I haven’t had time to call anyone—except Mimsey from the car to let her know about Wren.”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” he almost grumbled. He liked to be needed. Suddenly leaning forward, he stared into my eyes. “Are you really okay?”
I nodded and tried a smile.
“You are not! Katie, how did this happen? What the heck is going on?”
Waving my hand, I said, “Bad luck, I guess. Worse luck for Autumn—let’s be clear. Now listen—I really am okay. And you have to get going, or you’ll be late.”
“But, Katie—”
“And I promise not to worry about you every single second while you’re on duty, obsessing about whether you’ll be called out to a fire or a horrible car wreck or some other tragedy. After all, it’s what you do, and I have every confidence in your ability to handle whatever comes up.”
He gave me a wry look and put his hand on my shoulder. “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re tough. But you need to know you don’t have to be. Not all the time.” His kiss was light and tender.