Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  “Of course.” Bianca nibbled at a bit of chocolate on the corner of her gingerbread. I swore, it took that woman all day to eat a single pastry. I slid onto the chair beside her.

  “What about Cookie?” I asked.

  Jaida looked up from the business section of the paper. “Job interview.” She said it as though I should have known.

  “Really? She didn’t say anything about it last night.”

  “She did to us. Said she wanted to have something lined up before the gallery closed,” Bianca said. “Perhaps you were inside.”

  “I guess.” But now that I thought about it, Cookie hadn’t been hanging out at Honeybee like she used to, and it had been weeks since I’d had any real one-on-one conversation with her. I racked my brain, trying to think if I’d done something to offend her. “What’s the job?”

  “Data entry at a medical office.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Cookie at all.” It wasn’t like her to “line things up” ahead of time, either. She always happened into whatever she needed exactly when she needed it.

  Jaida nodded. “I know. Wonder what’s up with that.” She grabbed the main section of the paper and flipped it open. “Hey, did you see this?”

  I knew she was referring to the article about Autumn’s death on page four. “Yeah,” I said. “It mentions Georgia Wild but no details, and they left out my name. Wren’s, too, thank goodness.”

  The sound of the espresso machine flared, and I looked up. A woman dressed in khaki corduroys and a bright green sweater handed a bill to Lucy. Croft had finished his double espresso and left, so besides us, she was the only one in the bakery.

  “I hope business picks up soon,” I said in a low voice as the woman took her small drip coffee and left. When the bell over the door tinkled again, I looked up hopefully.

  Steve Dawes sauntered into the Honeybee as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Which, of course, it was. After all, we were a bakery and open to the public, for heaven’s sake. It was just that he hadn’t been in since Declan and I started dating. In fact, I’d seen Steve only a couple of times since I’d broken the news to him in November, and then only in passing.

  He waved to us as he walked to the display case, and Bianca began to raise her arm in automatic greeting before she glanced at me and suddenly clasped her hands on the table in front of her. Jaida’s eyes cut my way, then returned to Steve. He turned to look at me with a grin that revealed blazing white teeth and emphasized the wicked curve of his lips. He had dark brown eyes and a sharp nose, and wore a half-zipped microfleece, deliciously tight jeans, and brown hiking boots. His long blond hair was pulled straight back off his forehead into its customary ponytail. I wondered if he’d replaced the charm in the leather cord that held it. My fingers crept to the wire-thin platinum circle I wore on a chain around my neck. It had been woven into that leather tie until Steve, a druid like his father, insisted that I take it. The only time Declan had asked me about it, I’d told him it was a protection charm—which was true. I simply hadn’t mentioned who’d given it to me.

  “What looks good today?” Steve asked.

  You do. I blinked and looked away. Declan is so much better for me, though. Really, he is.

  “Try the gingerbread,” Lucy said. “Or we have maple bacon scones, apple fritters, mocha shortbread, peach thumbprints, cherry pinwheels—or if you want something savory, how about a piece of rosemary shortbread? It’s marvelous with chai tea.”

  “Gingerbread sounds great,” he said.

  Jaida reached for one of the books on the table and became instantly engrossed. Lucy shot a look at me from behind the register.

  “Anything to drink?” my aunt asked.

  Cappuccino. Dry.

  “How about a dry cappuccino,” he said.

  Lucy spurred the espresso machine into action.

  Steve paid and brought the mug and his gingerbread over to the table next to where Jaida, Bianca, and I were sitting. He sat down in the chair nearest mine.

  “Katie.”

  “Steve.”

  “I heard about Autumn Boles.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “It’s right there in the paper.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Frowning, I asked, “Did I miss something? I wasn’t mentioned in the News article.”

  “No, but you were involved with Georgia Wild.”

  I shifted to face him, leaning my forearm on the back of the bistro chair. “And how do you know that?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Katie. Of course I keep track of you. Just because you decided you don’t want me in your life doesn’t mean I stopped caring for you.”

  “I never said I didn’t want you in my life. Only that I didn’t think we should be, you know, romantically involved.”

  Jaida and Bianca gave up any pretense of not listening. Lucy moved closer, industriously polishing the glass of the pastry display that she’d already finished cleaning. Not exactly subtle.

  His eyebrow arched. “My mistake. Either way, you do have a tendency to attract trouble. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.” I could hear the strain in my voice, though.

  He leaned back and looked at me speculatively. “You found her, didn’t you?”

  I hesitated a few seconds before shaking my head. “Wren did.”

  “Wren?” He took a bite of gingerbread. Pleasure flickered across his face as he chewed the tender spicy cake filled with crunchy candied ginger and dark cacao chips.

  “Wren Knowles. Mimsey’s granddaughter.”

  He took a slow sip of cappuccino, eyes locked with mine. “There’s more. Tell me.”

  I breathed out a sigh. “I came in immediately afterward. I was the one who called the police.”

  “Darn it. I knew it.”

  “What else do you know?” Heck, as long as he was here I might as well ask.

  “About what?”

  “About the Fagen Swamp deal your father’s investing in,” I said. “You’re working with your father now that you two are so tight, right?”

  He glanced at Jaida and shook his head. “God, Katie. You never stop.”

  “Hey—you came to see me, not the other way around.”

  He looked around at the other three women who were watching us with unabashed interest. “Well, maybe you need to come to the office if you want to talk about business.”

  “Do you know Logan Seward?” I asked. “The attorney?”

  “He’s a colleague.” He took a final slug of cappuccino and wiped away the milk-foam mustache with a napkin.

  Jaida tipped her head to one side. “Logan Seward? I recently met him. At the courthouse. New to town, isn’t he?”

  He nodded. “Relatively.”

  She snorted. “Relatively new to Savannah means your parents were born here but your grandparents weren’t. You know that.”

  “Okay.” He grinned at her. “Definitely new to town.”

  “What about Gart Fagen?” I asked Steve.

  “Seriously—come by my office. I’ll be there most of tomorrow. I’ll tell you what I can if you’re looking into this. But right now I have to get going.”

  “I’m not looking into anything,” I said. However, I couldn’t deny the anger that swept over me at the very thought that someone had killed Autumn—anger oddly mingled with curiosity about the weird, icky energy given off by a silly piece of paper.

  “Sure you’re not. Whatever. Say hi to Declan for me.” He stood.

  “There’s no call for sarcasm,” I said. Steve was more likely to send a burning bag of dog poop to Declan than pass along his greetings.

  “No. Really. I don’t want to be a sore loser. I get why you made the decision you did. I know it’s because I decided to join the society and you don’t approve of us.”
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  “It’s not—”

  He held up his hand. “It’s okay. But you’re still going to be stuck with me when you need me. I’m not letting you go altogether.” He picked up his plate and now-empty cup and moved toward the bussing station.

  I followed.

  “See you soon, Katie-girl.” He bent and kissed my cheek. Stunned, I stood there like an idiot as he walked to the door.

  “Don’t call me that!” I said as he left.

  • • •

  Books tidied and new additions on the shelves, Jaida and Bianca were getting ready to leave. They’d both slipped on their jackets when Mimsey burst into the Honeybee. Her breath came shallowly, and her bright blue eyes were wide as she looked back over her shoulder.

  She wore a bright crimson-and-white-striped tunic over white slacks and pumps even though it was well before Memorial Day. The pearl earrings and necklace reflected the smooth white of her hair. Since she always chose the colors of her ensembles with magic in mind, I had to wonder. Red could be for passion, but the square set of her shoulders despite her obvious agitation made me think she was using it for power and determination. White was the color of pure spirit, purification, divination, and protection. After the last twenty-four hours, we all should have been wearing it.

  Lucy and I popped to our feet as the door opened wider and Mimsey gestured at someone on the sidewalk. But it was only Wren following her grandmother.

  She looked terrible. Her eyelids were red-rimmed behind the chunky glasses, and her nose was pink and swollen. Worry, or perhaps sleeplessness, had painted dark half-moons under her eyes. She wore the same clothes she’d had on the night before, and today the black leggings made her look thinner than ever. If she’d been numb during the Imbolc celebration, it seemed her friend’s death had hit her full force today.

  “Oh, honey,” Lucy said as Jaida reached out and gave Wren one of her signature comfort hugs.

  Mimsey’s gaze swept the bakery. “Good, you’re not too busy. We have to talk.” She settled into a nearby chair, more brusque and businesslike than I’d ever seen her. “You have to find out what happened to Autumn.”

  “I’m sure the police—,” I began.

  “Wren, show her.”

  “Show me what?” I sank back onto my seat with a sense of resignation. Jaida and Bianca slipped their coats off and settled on either side of me.

  “Grandma, she’s not going to—”

  “Lord love a duck, will you just show her?” Mimsey insisted.

  Sighing, Wren reached into her backpack. She fished around a little before pulling something out. She stretched her hand out toward me, then opened it.

  I stared down at her palm. Sitting there, pretty as could be, was an origami bat.

  Neatly folded from maroon paper.

  A shiver clawed its way up my spine.

  “Did you make that?” Bianca asked.

  Jaida looked mystified. Maroon bats had not been on the conversational menu during our gathering the previous evening.

  Wren shook her head.

  “Of course not,” Mimsey said. “I took her home this morning and discovered that someone had slipped that, that thing under the front door of her apartment. She told me it’s just like the one Autumn was holding when she found her yesterday.”

  Beside me, Lucy’s quick intake of breath mirrored the alarm that passed between Jaida and Bianca. Mimsey crossed her arms over her ample chest.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “It sure looks the same to me.” At least it didn’t have the same weird energy that the first bat had given off, even through Quinn’s plastic evidence bag.

  Mimsey nodded emphatically. “We came straight over here to tell you. Now you can see why you have to help the police. Wren’s life is in danger!”

  “Grandma, we don’t know that.”

  Mimsey shushed her.

  “I take it you didn’t report this . . . gift . . . to the police?” Of course they hadn’t, or they wouldn’t have the crumpled paper to show me. It would already be in the lab having goddess-knows-what tests done on it.

  Mimsey frowned and looked at the floor.

  “Mims!” I protested. “I can’t investigate a crime instead of the police. I can only help them.”

  She smiled in triumph. Jaida snorted.

  Darn it.

  “I’m not that worried,” Wren said. Of course everything about her belied that statement. Something in my expression must have conveyed my disbelief because she went on. “No, really. At least not about this.”

  “Perhaps you should be,” I said in a quiet voice. “Whoever left this origami model knows where you live, and at the very least it has some connection to Georgia Wild.” I felt my shoulders slump. “Probably something to do with Autumn’s death, too.”

  Wren’s swallow was audible.

  Vindication warred with worry on Mimsey’s face.

  “What do these things mean?” Wren asked in a tight voice. The bat spilled off her palm and landed beside me on the bistro table. Unlike the one Autumn had, it hadn’t been crumpled in a fist, and I wasn’t looking at it through a thick layer of plastic. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the detailed folded sculpture rather adorable.

  “I don’t know.” I felt helpless. “Mimsey, did you try to find out anything about it in your shew stone?” She was the only one of us who used a polished sphere of pink quartz crystal—literally a crystal ball—for purposes of divination.

  “I haven’t been home yet,” she said. “But I can try when I get there.”

  “Katie, the police have declared the G.W. office a crime scene and won’t let me back in,” Wren said. “I can’t work, I can’t pay the bills, and now some nutcase is leaving folded bats under my door. I don’t know what to do.”

  Bianca reached into her purse. “Here. At least I can give you the money for the rent.” She extracted a checkbook and began to write. “You said that you’re expecting a grant to come through soon?”

  “Two,” Wren said. “I can pay you back then.”

  Waving the check in the air, Bianca said, “No, this is a donation. I added in another thousand, but you’re going to need more cash soon to keep things going. What about applying for a short-term loan at my bank? I’d be happy to vouch for you.”

  Wren’s eyes welled. “Thank you. I’m willing to try anything. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow.”

  “Sweetheart!” Mimsey was beside herself. “I know you’re committed to your work, but will you please focus on the matter at hand? You are in danger!” She turned to me. “And you have to help her. You simply have to, Katie. If you won’t do it because you know it’s the right thing and because you know you can, then do it for me. As a personal favor to me. Will you do that? I’m sure the other members of the spellbook club will help out here at the bakery if you need to leave during the day.”

  All eyes lasered to me. Lucy’s gaze was particularly sympathetic but still unyielding.

  “Of course we will,” Jaida said. “Cookie, too, I’m sure.”

  I licked my lips. Mimsey was the senior witch in the spellbook club. If we had been the sort of group to have a high priestess, then she would have been ours. But, more important, she was Mimsey.

  Stifling a groan, I said, “Okay. I can’t make any promises; you know that. But I’ll see what I can find out.”

  She beamed. “Excellent! Now, how shall we start?”

  I sighed. Sometimes destiny sucked, but if I was going do this, I would try to do it right.

  Chapter 7

  We needed to know more about the maroon bats and the golf course land deal. My knowledge of both was pretty much limited to what Wren had told Detective Quinn and the unhelpful information I’d gleaned from my Internet search the night before. Unfortunately, Wren could talk about habitat and mating rituals and birth rates and
food supplies, but she didn’t seem to know any more than I did about Autumn’s legal machinations.

  Now that I was actually asking these questions, though, I was seized with a kind of anxious urgency. “What about the maroon bats, Wren? You said there was an actual sighting that you and Autumn had been basing all of your work in Fagen Swamp on, right? Was it one of the usual suspects?” Many reports of endangered species came from bird-watching clubs, especially the Savannah Avian Society.

  “Not this time,” Wren said. “The sighting—actually two of them—came from a man who lives right there in the swamp. His name is Evanston Rickers.”

  “He lives there? How can you be sure he’s not just some kook who wants to keep living in the swamp?”

  She looked offended. “I went to see him, and he showed me where he’d seen the bats. He’s a zoologist with a focus on herpetology—snakes—and he contacted us out of genuine concern about the bats. He gave me pictures. Unfortunately, they weren’t definitive enough. Since then I’ve gone out several times to follow up.”

  “But you didn’t find anything?” I asked. Pictures could be faked—but what would be the point?

  Her reluctance was evident in the shake of her head. “It doesn’t mean they aren’t there. I’ve only had a couple of months to try to find them, and while maroon bats don’t migrate, they do hibernate in the winter. They’re also solitary creatures—not like gray bats that thrive in large colonies. Often you’ll only find one, or a mother and her pup. I expected to be able to locate them when it warms up.”

  I wondered whether she’d added that wish to the ones we’d burnt in the Imbolc fire.

  She licked her lips, looked around at everyone, and ducked her head. “Autumn said we couldn’t wait until spring, though. She said if we couldn’t find something to give to the EPA in the next month or so, she wanted to devote our time to the flatwoods salamander project.”

  Wren had mentioned that to Detective Quinn. If Georgia Wild was going to give up on the maroon bats—and from the work I’d been doing with them, I’d assumed the project had been a rather minor one to start with—then the sale of the swampland would likely go through. In that case, why kill Autumn over it? Could she have discovered some new information that supported the existence of the bats?