Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  “Lucy told me that story,” I said.

  “Did she tell you our mother was naked as a jaybird?”

  “She was . . . what?”

  My mother grinned. “Oh, yes. Your nonna practiced old school.”

  I giggled for the second time that day. “Old Mr. Osborn must have been downright scandalized.”

  The smile dropped from her face. “All of Fillmore was scandalized. Small town like that, news travels fast. There was a meeting at the city hall, and they even talked about arresting your grandmother for public indecency. But it was the incantation that really set things off. She was ostracized, ridiculed, and you can bet everyone looked at us sideways as well.”

  “I had no idea,” I said quietly. “It must have been awful.”

  “It was a conservative little town,” she said, turning right at a stop sign when I pointed. “Still is. Your dad and I talked about moving, starting fresh, but it was my home and I didn’t really want to. Mother completely refused to be bullied out of town, and I couldn’t leave her there alone. Your dad said to ride it out, that people would forget. I don’t know if they ever did. Your nonna was considered a crazy old witch until the day she died a few years later, but people seemed okay with Skylar and me.” She looked over at me, then back at the road. “And you. I wasn’t going to risk that. I thought we did the right thing, not telling you about your abilities.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “On the right.”

  She pulled to the curb a half block past the address I pointed out and shut off the engine. Turning to face me, she said, “I don’t know that it was right, especially given the degree of ability you possess. If I was wrong, I’m sorry. I never, ever wanted to hurt you or cause you unhappiness. I was just doing the best I could.”

  My throat worked, so tight I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say anyway. “Oh, Mama,” I finally managed.

  She blinked away tears and reached over to give me an awkward hug. Clearing her throat, she said, “Enough drama. Let’s go see a dentist.”

  • • •

  Dr. Thorsen’s practice was in a building that also housed a real estate agent, a CPA, an orthopedist, and a dermatologist. A sterile hallway led to a closed door with a melamine placard on it. I pushed the handle down and went in, Mama on my heels.

  The waiting room held six chairs upholstered in tough, dark-colored fabric, two small tables displaying neat stacks of magazines, and a large marine tank full of brightly colored fish. Recessed lighting shone down from above, a cool light that didn’t make up for the lack of windows. In one corner a pile of plush pillows was surrounded by toys ranging from building blocks to a cast metal fire engine to handheld electronic games. A reception counter ran along one wall. Behind it, shelves of charts and files stood at attention, and a closed door no doubt led into the inner sanctum of reclining chairs, drills, spit sinks, and all the rest.

  The waiting room was completely empty, as was reception, but I could hear the sound of quick keyboard strokes from around the corner.

  I rang the bell on the desk. Moments later a petite woman leaned around the partition. Her blue-black hair was gathered into a bun high on her head, and she peered at me over a pair of zebra-striped reading glasses. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Thorsen,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. He’s not seeing any patients for a few—”

  “The doctor isn’t taking any new patients,” interrupted another woman as she joined her. The newcomer was older, with a mannish chin and an assured demeanor. Her name tag said CHARLY.

  “So he’s not in?”

  “Not today,” Charly said. The bespectacled receptionist faded back, and I heard the typing begin again.

  “That’s too bad.” I took a leap. “How is Skip doing?”

  Her expression softened. “You’re a friend?”

  For some reason I didn’t want to lie, which was funny because I was usually pretty good at it when I needed to be. So I simply smiled and said, “I’ll track him down.” That wasn’t a lie, either, not if I could help it.

  “All right,” she said.

  “Thanks anyway,” I said, and then to Mama, “Let’s go.”

  We had turned to leave when Charly said, “If you’re really his friend, maybe you can help. He’s not doing well at all since her death.”

  “Poor Autumn,” my mother said.

  I kept the surprise off my face, but it wasn’t easy.

  Charly grimaced. “Tragic, wasn’t it? Skip has cancelled all his appointments for the next few days.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “He appears hell-bent on spending all his time at the Old Familiar.”

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “Thanks for letting us know,” Mama said.

  Outside, she asked, “Is the Old Familiar what I think it is?”

  I nodded confirmation. “It’s a bar.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  We began walking. I looked up and down the street but didn’t see anything like the vehicle that had nearly killed Wren and me. It had to have been pretty smashed up, too, and whoever had been behind the wheel was unlikely to just leave it in his usual parking spot.

  “The driver of the SUV could have been drinking,” I said. “Might explain a lot, actually. I mean, it was very sudden, but I didn’t feel any blatant malevolence from the inside of the vehicle. On the other hand, I could have missed it. There was a lot going on at once.”

  “Blatant malevolence,” she repeated.

  “I wonder if he’s at the Old Familiar now—and if so, whether he was there earlier this afternoon.”

  We’d reached the Bug, and Mama unlocked it. Fingers on the door handle, she said, “Well, I for one could use a drink.”

  I blinked. “Well, okay then.”

  • • •

  The Old Familiar was a takeoff on an English pub except for the menu, which was distinctly Southern. Along with your ale, stout, or porter, you could snack on boiled peanuts or chow down on a full Low Country boil complete with spicy shrimp, corn on the cob, sausages, and red potatoes. As we approached, the smell of garlic, onions, vinegar, and beer seeped out around the door.

  We stood just inside, blinking against the sudden dimness after the bright sunshine. The space was small, with only enough room for thirty or so people if some were willing to stand. Six dark wooden booths lined the wall to the left, and a heavy mahogany bar curved along the wall opposite, studded with tall stools and complete with a brass railing to rest your feet on. A mirror behind glass shelves reflected glittering bottles of liquor and their colorful contents. Rockabilly played over the sound system.

  On a Monday afternoon there were few customers and one bartender to tend to them. A couple sat in the booth farthest from the entrance, jammed together on one hard bench and completely immersed in each other. A large man with a magnificent head of blond hair sat slumped at one end of the bar with a pint of something dark in front of him. He didn’t look around, either, but if anyone in the place was Dr. Skip Thorsen, it was him.

  I wiggled onto the bar stool one seat away, and Mama sat on the other side of me. Her tweed suit was out of place in the joint, but at least she didn’t look like a tourist. The big guy’s gaze wandered over to my bright green high-tops and stayed there, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed.

  Yeah. This was the guy.

  The bartender, short and caramel-skinned, came toward us, swishing a towel over the counter more from habit than a need to clean up. “Getchoo?”

  “I beg your pardon,” my mother said.

  “What. Can. I. Get. You?” he repeated.

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’ll have a glass of your house Cabernet Sauvignon, please.” Proper, cosmopolitan Mary Jane Lightfoot. Never mind that she had been born and bred in a town of fewer than six hundred people.

  �
�I’ll have a Guinness,” I said. On top of the adrenaline that had recently whipped through my vitals, I hadn’t eaten any lunch. Something substantial was in order. “And some buttermilk hush puppies and fried green tomatoes if the kitchen’s open.”

  “Sure,” he said, writing down the order and taking it through a door to the back.

  I heard a pan clang from the other side of the wall. The bartender returned and poured our drinks. My mother’s nose wrinkled after her first sip of wine, but she didn’t say anything. We made small talk about the bakery and her plans for the bake sale until our food came, then dug in.

  The fried green tomatoes crunched when I bit through the crispy coating, their sour flavor combining perfectly with the sweet cornmeal and garlic aioli dip. Suddenly I wasn’t just hungry; I was ravenous. I plowed through my portion and started in on the hush puppies—tangy with buttermilk and rich with onion and whole kernels of corn, crisp on the outside and fluffy tender inside.

  Mama nibbled on one of each but urged the rest on me.

  I took her up on the offer, eating until only crumbs remained and two inches of Guinness were left in my glass. If I’d felt okay before, I felt pretty darn good now. The guy two seats down watched my snarf fest with mild interest.

  “Say, aren’t you Skip Thorsen?” I asked pretty much out of the blue.

  The big blond guy’s head snapped up. “What’s it to you?”

  I widened my eyes. “Nothing. Gosh. Sorry.”

  He took a sip from the pint glass. At least he wasn’t pounding it back. “No. I’m sorry. You’re a patient? I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “Not at all. I work at Georgia Wild, with Autumn.”

  His eyes filled. “Autumn’s dead,” he said. Grief flowed off the poor man, so raw that it was hard to be in the same room with him. But I’d asked for this, and I’d see it through. I felt rather than heard Mama slip off the stool next to me.

  “I know. I’m so sorry. You must have loved her very much.”

  He barked a humorless laugh. “Oh, I did. Still do, for that matter. Doesn’t matter whether she divorced me or is gone, I still feel the same.” It was obvious he’d been drinking, but he wasn’t sloppy, only very open to conversation. There would be no need to use my Voice.

  Not that I would have anyway, of course.

  I felt bad taking advantage of the situation. On the other hand, love was a powerful emotion, and complicated. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had been killed because they rejected someone who loved them.

  “I heard about your divorce,” I said.

  “Her idea, not mine. Kept trying to get back together, but she wasn’t having any of it.” He wove a little on the stool, then took another pull at his beer.

  “The situation at Fagen Swamp must have been a sticking point between you.”

  He looked confused. “What the blazes is Fagen Swamp?”

  “It’s the land Heinrich Dawes and his group of investors are buying to turn into a golf course.”

  The confusion stayed right where it was. “What does that have to do with Autumn?”

  Now I was puzzled. “She—through Georgia Wild—was trying to save that land. It’s habitat to a huge number of species of animals and plants.” No need to go into the whole maroon bat thing.

  His face cleared. “I didn’t know she had any interest in that land at all. I hadn’t talked to her for months. She blocked my calls.” The tears welled again, but he blinked them away. “God. I wanted to invest in that stupid project. I wonder if she knew.”

  “I don’t think she did,” I said truthfully. “So you’re part of the investment group?”

  “Nuh-uh. I didn’t have the money. Though now I do—or will.” He rubbed both hands over his face, the very picture of defeat and sadness. “But I’m not going to spend that money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want it. When the check comes, I’m giving it all away.” He slumped down, elbows on the bar, and stared at the bottles on the shelves. “Giving it all away.”

  Mama slid back onto her stool. “Something is buzzing in your bag.”

  “Oh! My phone. Excuse me,” I said.

  Skip waved his hand absently in the air.

  It was Margie. What the heck?

  “Hi there,” I said into the phone.

  My next-door neighbor spoke so fast her words tumbled over one another, making it hard to understand her. “Oh, thank goodness you answered. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but I don’t have a key to your house and you lock everything down so tightly I couldn’t figure out a way to get in.”

  My heart beat faster. “Slow down, slow down. Now what happened?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong!” Margie almost wailed. “He just keeps howling.”

  Fear stabbed through me. “Mungo?”

  “Yes! It’s been over an hour, and he won’t hush. I’m sure something’s wrong, but I can’t see him through the window. He sounds like he’s right by the door.”

  Slapping a bill on the bar, I said, “Thanks for calling. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 17

  Mama didn’t argue when I asked for my keys, and in minutes we were buzzing toward the carriage house. Seat belt clenched in one hand and the other gripping the inside of the door, she stammered out, “I t-talked to the bartender when you were speaking with the dentist.”

  “Will you relax? I’m not even going over the limit.” I eyeballed the speedometer. “At least not much.”

  She ignored me. “He said Dr. Thorsen had been in the Old Familiar since ten o’clock.”

  I slowed for a turn. “Ten in the morning? Oh, dear. That’s not good at all. That poor man is utterly devastated by Autumn’s murder.”

  “Tragic,” she said, loosening her death grip on the oh-my-God handle an iota.

  “I’d like to help him,” I said. “Maybe you could show me a healing spell?”

  “We’ll see,” she answered as I pulled into my driveway.

  Margie came running out of the house, Baby Bart bouncing on her hip. She’d been watching for my car, of course. I boiled out of the driver’s seat. Sure enough, a mournful canine cry pierced the air.

  “Mungo!” I called, and ran for the door. He fell silent as soon as he heard my voice.

  “I can’t imagine what’s wrong with the little guy,” Margie panted as she climbed the porch step. My mother came up right behind her, concern furrowing her brow. I slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

  Mungo ran out and, dancing on his hind legs, planted his front paws firmly on my knee. Earnest brown eyes bored into mine. I picked him up and ran my hands over him. “Does something hurt?” I asked.

  He frantically sniffed my face and neck, huffing into my ear as he surveyed me for damage. My familiar was as worried about me as I was about him. Maybe more.

  I looked at Mama. One side of her mouth turned up. “So this is the famous Mungo.”

  Squeezing him tighter, I said, “More like infamous. Thank you so much for calling, Margie. For trying to get to him. I don’t know what happened, but he seems fine now.” His pink tongue darted out and lapped at my chin.

  “Maybe something sad happened on one of those soaps he likes to watch,” Margie joked.

  The baleful look he directed her way was completely lost on her.

  “Margie Coopersmith, this is my mother, Mary Jane Lightfoot.”

  Margie held out her hand. “Well, I’ll be darned. So nice to meet you! Katie didn’t mention that you were planning a visit.”

  My mother smiled and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, too. It was a . . . spontaneous decision to come see my daughter.”

  “Make sure she shows you all around Savannah. We’re pretty proud of the place.” She was already moving back toward her
house. “I have to run. Better see what the JJs have managed to get into the two minutes I was gone.”

  We waved good-bye, and still clutching my dog as if he were going to disappear into thin air, I went inside. When I looked back, Mama was bent over by the rosemary star topiary by the front steps. She saw me waiting and straightened to join me without commenting. Lucy had planted it the day I’d moved south for protection, good luck, and assurance I would always remain in power in my own home—all this before I’d ever even heard the term hedgewitch.

  I snuggled my nose into my familiar’s neck. “I’m so sorry. Of course you knew something was wrong. It was an SUV . . . Oh, never mind, my little wolf. Just know I’m fine, just fine.”

  My mother laughed. “You were always particular to dogs.”

  “Were Sookie and Barnaby your familiars?” I asked. They were the Labrador retrievers we’d had when I was a child.

  “Not mine. I’ve never had a familiar.” My mother sounded sad, and I wondered if Cookie minded being the only one of the spellbook club without a familiar now that Bianca had Puck. “Sookie was your father’s, though. And Barnaby—well, I always suspected he was yours.”

  “Really?” I liked the idea. Mungo apparently did not—his nostrils flared. “Barnaby has been gone for over a decade,” I said. “There’s no reason to be jealous.” I glanced down and saw the frantic scratch marks on the bottom of the wood door. Poor little guy. I turned him around to face my mother. “Listen, I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Mama leaned forward and took his furry face in her hands. “It’s very nice to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Katie’s mom.”

  His nose quivered, and then his mouth opened in a big doggy grin.

  Yip!

  “You little flirt.” I set him down on the wooden floorboards.

  Mama put her hands on her hips and surveyed the small space. Her eyes traveled over the sparse furnishings.

  “You really did start over here, didn’t you?”

  I’d sold or given away pretty much everything I owned before I left Akron to start the Honeybee with Lucy and Ben. The only things I’d brought with me had been clothes, a few books, and my favorite cookware.