Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  I grimaced. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll take you up on it.” Not because I felt a need to rest and recuperate, but because there was a kind of bond that forms when you cook with someone, a bond that could serve to help mend my mother’s relationship with her sister.

  Lucy insisted that I keep the leftovers—not that there were many—and she and Ben went out to the Thunderbird. While we were on the sidewalk that wound from the house to the street, my mother put both hands on my shoulders and held me at arm’s length, searching my eyes as if trying to read my mind.

  “I’m sorry for the last year. I’m glad your grandmother—” She glanced over my shoulder to where Declan waited in the doorway. “I’m glad I decided to come.”

  “I am, too,” I said quietly. “Daddy tried to explain why you kept your secrets, why you were so upset about my embracing the Craft, but I didn’t really understand until this afternoon.”

  “You forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  We embraced, a nice long mother-daughter hug, and when I backed away, I saw tears in her eyes. I felt them in my own, too.

  “Take care of her,” she called to Declan.

  “I will,” was the deep-voiced response.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said.

  She got in the backseat, and Ben drove off. I looked down at Mungo, who was leaning against my ankle. “So that’s my mother. What do you think?”

  Yip!

  • • •

  Declan helped me put the food away and do the dishes. There wasn’t room for a dishwasher in my modest kitchen, so we stood side by side at the sink, washing and drying. I bumped his hip with mine. Ow. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Mungo perched on a kitchen chair, watching us.

  The very picture of domesticity. It was nice.

  “You don’t seem very worried about this bat thing,” Declan said. “Should you be? Should I be more worried for you?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I mean, I don’t have anything to do with the bats or the real estate purchase personally, but who knows how someone demented enough to kill Autumn might connect me with either or both. It could be enough that I volunteer at Georgia Wild. Or maybe the maroon bats are really red herrings.”

  Mungo groaned.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I talked to Autumn’s ex, Skip, this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon? After the hit-and-run?” He sounded downright scandalized.

  “I needed to unwind a little. Besides, Mama was with me.”

  That seemed to slightly mollify him, but he still didn’t look very happy.

  “Anyway, I don’t think he had anything to do with Autumn’s murder. He was awfully broken up—he’s been missing work, drinking all the time. It’s bad. I’d like to help him.” Mama had neatly sidestepped the idea of helping me with a healing spell. Perhaps tomorrow I’d approach her again—or Lucy and the spellbook club. Perhaps my mother wasn’t quite ready to cast again.

  Perhaps she never would be. The thought made me sad. At least we’d had an honest conversation about why she had kept my witchy heritage a secret.

  Honest conversation.

  “Deck, I think there’s something you should know.”

  He dried his hands on a dish towel and draped it over the edge of the old-fashioned enameled cast-iron sink. “Sounds ominous. Maybe we should go into the living room.”

  After we’d arranged ourselves—him leaning against the high corner of the fainting couch at an angle and me leaning my back against his chest while classic rock played low on the stereo, I told him I’d gone to see Steve after he’d dropped by the Honeybee.

  “I was simply trying to find out more about the sale of Fagen Swamp, and he had the information I needed,” I said. “Well, his dad probably has more, but I don’t think he’d tell me.”

  Declan was silent, and I realized I’d misjudged my position; I couldn’t see his face, so now I didn’t know how he was reacting.

  “But Steve would,” he said. “Tell you, I mean. Of course he would. He’s still in love with you.”

  “That’s not true. In fact, I don’t think that he was ever in love with me. But it doesn’t matter. He asked if we could be friends, and I said yes.”

  More silence, then, “Okay.”

  I sat up and turned to look at him. “Okay?”

  He shrugged, resignation on his face. “I can’t tell you who to see. And I have to believe you. Trust you. Otherwise, where are we?”

  My arms snaked around his neck. “You’re kind of awesome, you know?”

  His answer was lost as our lips met.

  Mungo jumped up on the couch and wiggled between us. Declan laughed. “Sometimes I think you’re jealous, little guy.”

  “No. He adores you. It’s just that he’d rather he was the center of attention.”

  If a dog could give a withering look, I was on the receiving end of one.

  Deck lifted Mungo onto his lap. “I know a guy who can fix your car. He’ll do a good job for a decent price. We can take it by the insurance adjuster’s first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Can we wait? I have a few errands to run tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want me to take you?”

  I sighed. “As long as I have the time off, I thought I’d stop by Georgia Wild and clean the place up a bit. It’s a real mess—fingerprint dust everywhere, and the police went through everything.”

  He pressed his lips together and looked at the floor. I realized he had been hoping we could spend the next day together. Dang it. Of course I wanted to spend a whole day with my sweetie. But I also felt drawn to help Wren any way that I could, and that whole figure-out-who-killed-Autumn effort wasn’t going so well.

  “Okay,” he said. “I have to catch up on laundry and errands myself. We can reconnect later in the day.”

  This one’s a keeper.

  • • •

  It was dark when I woke up the next morning. Without thinking, I swung my feet to the floor and reached for my robe as usual, completely unprepared for the pain—sharp pain by my elbow, dull throbbing pain in my hip, and a thump, thump, thump in my head that nearly brought me to my knees.

  How could that have happened overnight?

  Four ibuprofen, three cups of coffee, two hours, and one good slathering of arnica cream later, I felt better. For a brief moment, I even considered going for a run, but that seemed doubly foolish. My poor battered body deserved a break, and running in the early-morning dark could be dangerous if there really was someone out there who meant me harm.

  I checked the protections already in the carriage house: willow broom leaning in the corner by the door, the rune Algiz carved near the locks on the windows, basil in a pot on the kitchen table, a silk bag stuffed with guardian herbs and sealed with beeswax placed on the built-in bookshelf in the living room. All were in place.

  I gathered four white candles and tried a little scrying with a bowl of water from the stream in back.

  Divination was Mimsey’s bailiwick, but I kept trying despite the usually confusing results. This time all I perceived was a jumble of green. Green could indicate something to do with money or love, but since I had set the intention of the spell to identify whether I was in danger and from whom, neither made any sense.

  I heard the sound of the shower starting and looked out the kitchen window to see the sun had crept over the horizon. My boyfriend could very well have walked in on me divining. It dawned on me as I put the bowl and candle away that I didn’t really care. The divination had turned out to be a divi-no-tion anyway, and I wondered how he would have reacted.

  Did Ben ever happen upon Lucy when she was casting?

  I’d brought in the paper and was flipping through it when Declan came into the kitchen, yawning and reaching for the fresh batch of French press coffee I’d made when I heard hi
m in the shower. Mungo was in the backyard, stalking the fence line for his second morning constitutional.

  “Mornin’, darling,” Declan murmured into my hair before sitting down across the table and reaching for a section of the paper.

  “Morning.”

  The paper dropped to the table as he examined my face. “What’s wrong?”

  Gesturing at the pages still gripped in his fingers, I said, “Autumn’s murder barely made page four, but the hit-and-run yesterday is on the bottom of the front page. Someone took a picture of me lying on the sidewalk after I managed to get out of the way, and there’s one of Wren, too, crying as she’s getting in the ambulance.”

  “A reporter was there when it happened?”

  “I can’t imagine there was. Some looky-loo with a cell phone camera probably sent it—or more likely sold it—to the News.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “Look—the Honeybee is right there in the background. It’s terrible publicity.”

  Declan took a sip of coffee and said in an easy tone, “Katie, there is no such thing as bad publicity. I mean, other than the health department shutting you down or something like that, any mention in the paper will pique the interest of locals and tourists alike.”

  I harrumphed. “They found the SUV, too. It was a BMW. Apparently it was stolen right before the—well, I have to call it an attack now, don’t you think? Anyway, the owner didn’t even know it was gone.”

  He was skimming the article. “It doesn’t say who the owner is, though.”

  “Right. They put our names front and center, not to mention a couple of really unflattering photographs, but they don’t say who owns the BMW. I wonder if Detective Quinn would tell me.”

  “Probably. He seems to be pretty open to communicating with you regarding this case.” Declan was staring at my picture, brow furrowed.

  “Only because someone keeps shoving those stupid paper bats under doors and we don’t know if they’re a threat or . . . Well, what else could they be?” I reached for the French press to refill my cup, then thought better of it. More than three cups and my teeth would start to chatter. “Declan?”

  “Hmm?” He finally looked up. The tenderness in his face arrowed through all my anger and frustration. “I guess I didn’t realize until right now, seeing this picture, how close you came to being seriously hurt.” He took a deep but shaky breath. “Or killed. Katie, I know you’re tough, and God knows you’re smart, but I couldn’t take it if something really happened to you. I know it’s not your fault that it was someone you knew who died and that you happened into the middle of the situation, but I don’t like it.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and then his hands dropped into his lap. “Tell me again why you think this stuff happens to you?”

  I traced a coffee circle on the tabletop with my index finger. “Remember what I told you about being a catalyst?” I asked. I hadn’t told him about the whole lightwitch thing because Franklin Taite had left without informing me about any of the particulars other than I was a good witch—and apparently gave off flashes of light when under duress.

  Declan nodded. “You said things tend to happen around you, that you cause them or attract them or something. Like when we found the body in Johnson Square. Are you saying that’s what happened here?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. Kind of a coincidence for me to volunteer for Georgia Wild for less than three months and then someone gets killed.”

  “Makes it sound kind of dangerous to hang around you.”

  The words hit me hard.

  “Oh, Katie,” he exclaimed when he saw my face. “I was trying to make a joke. A bad joke, a terrible joke. Please don’t think I feel that way.”

  I stood, shaken more by the thought that what he had just said might be true than I had been by someone shoving a maroon bat under my door. “How about some eggs? I have thick-cut pepper bacon and English muffins from the Honeybee.”

  “Katie.” He stood and put his arms around me from behind as I stood at the stove, cast-iron skillet dangling from my hand. “Please don’t turn away.”

  Leaning my head back, I smiled at him. “Get the eggs out of the fridge?”

  He let go, apparently satisfied.

  I, on the other hand, was anything but.

  Chapter 19

  Deck left after agreeing to call me later and making me promise to be hyperaware of my surroundings. Mungo polished off the extra bacon and eggs even though he’d eaten at the same time we had. Like a Hobbit, my familiar was a big fan of second breakfast.

  Glancing at the clock, I saw it was late enough to call and so punched Mimsey’s number into my phone. She picked up on the second ring.

  “She’s been up for hours,” she said when I asked after her granddaughter. “The arm is very painful, but she doesn’t like the idea of taking painkillers.”

  Maybe she’d give a few to me, then.

  “Poor thing. I hope she feels better. Will you tell her Detective Quinn released the crime scene at Georgia Wild, and I’m planning to go over there to clean up this morning? Mama is filling in for me at the bakery.”

  “That’s nice of you, darlin’, but you tell her yourself. She’s right here.”

  Wren came on the phone. Her voice was quiet, and I thought I detected a tremble. I couldn’t help wondering how much of that was from pain and how much from fear and worry.

  When I told her I was going to the Georgia Wild offices she asked, “Oh, Katie, would you mind picking up the file on major donors? There should be copies of the donor contract in there as well as information on the current ones and the local businesses Autumn had been cultivating. Grandma is nervous about me leaving the house—and frankly, I don’t want to—but if I don’t have something constructive to do, I’m going to go nuts.”

  “You got it,” I said. “I’ll drop all that by when I’m done spiffing up the place for your return.”

  She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to go back there.”

  I knew how she felt. “Well, now don’t you worry about that yet. Just get to feeling better, okay? I’ll see you later.”

  • • •

  A few large drops splatted down on the windshield on the way to Georgia Wild, then stopped. Inside the nonprofit office I was happy to find that the smell of burnt coffee had completely dissipated. After lugging in the cleaning supplies I’d brought, I locked the door and opened the blinds all the way. The gray light outside barely made a dent in the gloom, so I flipped on all the lamps and the overhead light as well. Extracting a large white lavender-scented candle from my bag, I placed it on the small table next to the guest chair and lit it.

  “Archangel Michael, I bid you lend your will to the flame, removing negative vibrations in this physical environment and on all surrounding dimensions. May the fire purify and cleanse. Let it be and thanks be.”

  It wasn’t the most poetic incantation but one the spellbook club had used to effect before. At some point we’d have to get all the ladies together to smudge the whole building, but at least I could make a start.

  Now that I’d begun tackling the metaphysical dirt, it was time to get busy cleaning up the physical mess.

  Mungo settled into the chair by the candle to watch me work.

  “It’s too bad you don’t have opposable thumbs,” I muttered.

  He didn’t offer any comment.

  It looked like the police had made yet another pass through the offices, because things were even more out of place than when Officer Feherty had let Wren and me in. First I cleaned up the broken glass still littering the carpet, toting the shards out to the trash in an extra-thick bag and then vacuuming. Then I tackled the fingerprint dust. It was as if someone had sprinkled printer toner all over the room. Even after I vacuumed, there were smudges of it on the light-colored carpet, which had already seen better days. Did t
he crime scene techs always make such a mess?

  I swiped and wiped down everything on the desks and the coffee station, taking the coffeepot into the kitchenette to soak in the sink. Even that tiny room had been dusted, and I wondered whether the police had even checked for fingerprints on the toilet. Probably. I should be glad they were so thorough, but I’d save that for the next cleaning session.

  Autumn’s office, too. Wren wasn’t ready to come to Georgia Wild at all, and I wasn’t quite ready to spend a significant amount of time in the murder victim’s office.

  However, I was determined to do what I could. Back in the main office, I began working around the periphery of the room, using microfiber dusting cloths to smooth away the dark powder from the items tacked to the walls, the bookshelves, and door frames. Then I tackled the long, low desk return stacked with grant application materials and the printer table. Next to the printer was the file cabinet with the photos still scattered on top.

  I’d forgotten about the satellite picture of Fagen Swamp. There was Evanston Rickers’ cabin in the middle of the clearing, which I now knew was an island itself. Carefully, I wiped at the starburst pattern of fingerprint powder.

  Most of it came off on the cloth, but the raylike design faintly remained, each strand slightly lighter than the rest of the photo, ghost fingers reaching out from a central point slightly higher and to the right of the cabin.

  What the heck?

  I carried the photo to the halogen desk lamp in order to see it better. The starburst appeared to be part of the picture, or at least the paper it was on. Could it have gotten wet? Or perhaps the printer was faulty?

  Then I caught my breath. The center of the pattern, the nexus of the rays, was the giant cypress tree. A shiver ran like a mouse down my back. “Oh, my goddess,” I breathed. “Mungo, do you think that means anything?”

  He cocked his head to one side in puzzlement.

  “Sorry. You have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll ask Mimsey when we go by there.”