Cookies and Clairvoyance

by Bailey Cates

  The nail gun sounded again from the direction of the master bedroom. We could call it that now that it opened into the expanded bathroom, which also retained the original entrance from the hallway. As we crossed the newly laid wooden floor in the living room, I imagined I could still smell the charred odor of the original wooden planks that had been burned to ash, the singed remains of the Civil War–era trunk that had functioned as the coffee table, and the charred upholstery from the purple fainting couch I’d found on Craigslist.

  I really missed that couch.

  That unexpected solution to our housing problem that I mentioned? A Molotov cocktail thrown through the front window.

  Talk about lemons to lemonade.

  Of course, the scents from the burned living room were long gone. The floor was hand-scraped teak now, and the ruined furnishings had been hauled to the dump. All that remained was the lamp with the tasseled shade in the corner over by the French doors that led to the backyard and gardens.

  In the kitchen, Declan pointed to the sink. It wasn’t particularly fancy, simply a standard-sized white porcelain unit snugged into the gray granite countertop, but both of those were more than we’d had before. The previous sink had been almost too small to wash a dinner plate in, and the counter hadn’t been long enough for two people to stand side by side. Since Declan loved to cook, and I loved to cook with him, that had been a problem. In fact, the entire kitchen had been expanded to twice its original size. Unfortunately, the new back wall was still open to the studs.

  “I love it,” I said, and kissed his cheek. “But shouldn’t the walls be finished before the fixtures go in?”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said, tugging on my hand and moving toward the bedroom. “Come on. They’re almost done framing the closet.”

  Closet.

  It was about time. Declan had been keeping his clothes in a bag under the bed for months before we had to make the temporary move to his apartment. Still, I felt a pang at the idea of giving up the twin armoires that had housed my wardrobe for two years.

  It was a small pang, though. Especially when I saw the big ol’ walk-in closet with the opening for the skylight in the slanted ceiling above.

  * * *

  * * *

  I followed Declan’s pickup to his apartment building and parked on the street. Mungo walked me around the block, then we headed up the stairs to join my fiancé. The smells of warm tomatoes, basil, and lemon greeted our entrance, and my mouth immediately began to water. Declan was in the kitchen chopping zucchini, peppers, and eggplant to make what we’d come to call pasta ratatouille—a summer version of the classic primavera.

  After changing into yoga pants and a tank top, I put on some low music and opened a bottle of dry rosé. Tendrils of steam began to rise from the water that was heating for pasta as I set the table and retrieved ingredients for a simple salad from the refrigerator. Mungo sat in front of his food bowl, watching our activities with avid eyes. Pasta ratatouille was one of his favorite dishes.

  Declan and I moved through our supper preparations in a comfortable dance. He handed me the knife he’d been using just as I needed it for the scallions. I automatically moved my hips to the side so he could get out the pasta strainer. The olive oil was in my hand the moment he reached out to receive it. I took over grating a fluffy mound of fresh Parmesan as he began to lightly sauté the vegetables.

  As we worked, we talked more about what was left to do at the carriage house before the wedding. After we’d finally received the right tile for the shower, the man who was installing it had flaked out on us in the middle of the job. Declan had tracked down a woman with good references. The problem was, she was booked for three weeks before she’d be able to start, which would be cutting it awfully close. The floor and paint could be done in the meantime, but of course, the fixtures we wanted had been back-ordered. That meant we had to find other ones if we wanted the guests at our wedding to have use of facilities other than the portable toilets that the construction folks had been using.

  Which, of course, was not an option at all.

  “I have a forty-eight starting day after tomorrow,” Declan said. “By then we’ll have talked with your dad about priorities.” He made a face. “I can handle pretty much any emergency scenario you throw at me, you know? I mean, I’m trained for it.”

  I nodded, knowing where he was going. “But dealing with contractors is a whole different thing,” I said.

  “Right. I wish I was better at it.” He fished out a tube of penne from the boiling pot and bit it to test for doneness. Shaking his head, he tossed it in the garbage. “Needs a couple more minutes.”

  Reaching over and squeezing his arm, I said, “I’m glad Dad will be here, too. And not only because of how that kind of thing is completely in his wheelhouse, but because I miss him.”

  He glanced over at me and smiled. “I know. Watching you with your dad is so different than the way you are with your mother.”

  I retrieved our plates from the table. “No kidding. But you know how mothers and daughters are.”

  Rolling his eyes, he gave the vegetables he’d added to the tomatoes a stir and tossed in lemon zest and basil. “Do I ever.” Since he had two older sisters and two younger ones, no brothers, and his father had died when he was quite young, he was more than familiar with the mother-daughter dynamic.

  We plated up in the kitchen and sat down to supper at the small table we’d moved in front of the sliding door leading to the balcony. It was too hot and muggy to sit outside, but it was nice to have a bit of a view, even if it was just the courtyard. Mungo snarfed up his portion of pasta in seconds, then lay down to gnaw at his carrot sticks at leisure. I could hear him crunching, but he was hidden by the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

  As I ate, I looked around the apartment. Declan didn’t seem upset about moving from his place to mine. Heck, he’d practically been living at the carriage house for months before the fire.

  Not my place. Ours.

  But did that mean he’d want to hang the unframed Guinness poster on his wall in our living room? And even though the purple fainting couch was gone, no way were we going to move the old brown sofa he’d rescued from the firehouse into the new place.

  That red rocking chair, though. That might work with the furniture I have my eye on.

  “You’re quiet.” Declan speared a bite of eggplant. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.”

  “Mmm,” I murmured, and took a sip of wine. “I just hope I can get everything else done in time for the wedding. Mimsey is handling the flowers, of course.”

  Mimsey Carmichael was the charming octogenarian who was the de facto leader of the spellbook club. Our high priestess, if we’d been formal enough to have such a thing. She was also the owner of Vase Value, the best flower shop in Savannah. She’d handled the flowers for countless weddings, from antebellum reenactments to goth ceremonies with vampire themes.

  I groaned. “But I still can’t decide on the cake.” As a baker, I wanted my wedding cake to be something extra special. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Declan, wise man that he was, responded with only a gentle smile.

  “There’s just over a month before we get hitched,” I said.

  “Believe me, I’m well aware.” He started to say something else but stopped.

  “I know, I know. I made things difficult by choosing August seventeenth. But—”

  “It’s okay,” he broke in. “I get it. And I think it’s nice you want to get married on your nonna’s birthday.”

  Never mind that she’d been gone since I was nine years old. Well, sort of gone. She still showed up every now and then to help me out when things got dicey.

  I smiled and put down my fork, stuffed to the gills. I was a lucky woman to have a man who liked to cook as much as Declan did. Better yet, with so many da
ughters, his mother had no more than a polite interest in our wedding plans. She would come early to help with the wedding itself, but other than that had left us to our own devices.

  Unlike my own mother. Sometimes being an only child came with a price.

  I rose and carried our dishes to the sink. “At least I don’t have to worry about planning Cookie’s baby shower.” Cookie Rios’ first child was due in October, and the way everyone was acting, we were all having a baby.

  Declan followed me and began putting away leftovers.

  “It’ll be the week after the wedding, and Lucy and the other spellbook club members are handling it. It’ll be at the Honeybee, of course. And Lucy has some cute games for us to play.” I saw the look on his face and grinned. “Why, honey. You look a little bored. I thought you wanted babies.”

  His eyes widened. “Eventually, sure. But that has nothing to do with girly parties.”

  “But you’re invited,” I teased. “Baby showers aren’t just for the women anymore. Don’t you want to play the games? See all the cool gifts she’ll get? Diaper bags and onesies and bibs, oh my? There might even be a breast pump.”

  He looked alarmed. “Do I have to go?”

  I was about to let him off the hook when Mungo let out a yip!, ran to the coffee table, and looked up at where my phone sat. A split second later, it rang. Side-eyeing my familiar, I snagged the phone off the table and checked the screen.

  When I saw who the caller was, my stomach did a slow turn around my lovely supper.

  “Katie?” Declan asked. “Who is it?”

  I took a deep breath and tapped the ANSWER button. “Hello, Detective Quinn.”

  Chapter 3

  “Hello, Katie,” Detective Peter Quinn said.

  The memory of the dragonfly balloon bobbing past the bakery window flared in my mind. A feeling of dread spread across my shoulders.

  No. No, no, no.

  “I hope you’re well,” he said. “I’m calling because . . .” He cleared his throat.

  “Did someone die?” I asked in a low voice.

  There was a moment of surprised hesitation on the other end of the line. Mungo let out a small canine groan. Declan stared at me from across the room.

  I plunged ahead. “Tell me it wasn’t Edna Standish or Skipper Dean.” After all, that was who Lucy, Ben, and I had been talking with when I’d seen the dragonfly, and Peter Quinn was a homicide detective.

  “No. . . .” He drew the word out slowly.

  Then I remembered who else had been nearby when I’d seen my totem. “Is it Kensington Bosworth?”

  Another slight pause, then he let out a loud expletive that made me jump. “So, you do know something about this.” Another expletive. More of a vulgarity, actually. “Get over here.” He hung up.

  My hand was shaking as I stared down at the phone.

  “What’s going on?” Declan asked as he came to stand beside me. Next to my ankle, Mungo peered up and whined low in his throat.

  I closed my eyes. Dang it. “I don’t know, but it’s not good.” I opened my eyes again and dialed Quinn back.

  “I mean it, Katie,” he said without benefit of greeting. “I want you to drop what you’re doing and—”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “What?” he answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “At Bosworth’s . . . so you’ve never been here?”

  I shook my head, realized he couldn’t see me, and said, “No.”

  He reeled off an address in the Victorian District. Battling everything that told me not to get involved this time, I agreed to come over right away. After we hung up, I turned to Declan.

  “Apparently Kensington Bosworth is dead.”

  Declan frowned, then his face cleared. “Didn’t Randy do some work for him?”

  “Yep. That’s the guy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Quinn wasn’t exactly overflowing with details.” I headed into the bedroom to exchange my tank for a T-shirt. “Mr. Bosworth is a regular at the Honeybee.”

  Declan came to stand in the doorway. “And that’s enough for Quinn to call you?”

  I paused, one trail runner on and its mate dangling from my hand. “Of course not.”

  He looked up at the ceiling. “Let me guess. Bosworth was murdered.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I bent to put on the other shoe. “As I said, Quinn didn’t give me any details, but that would be my guess. After all, homicide is his bread and butter.”

  “And there’s magic involved.”

  I stood and met his eyes. Ran my fingers through my auburn pixie cut, dropped my hand, and sighed. “That would also be my guess.”

  “Well, I’m going with you.”

  A little of my tension seeped away. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Mungo waited by the front door.

  I grabbed my tote. “Sorry, buddy, but you should stay here. I don’t know what we’re going to find, and I don’t want to worry about you.”

  He whined.

  “Mungo, honey, please.”

  He glared at me and sat down smack in front of the door.

  Declan gave a little laugh. “I don’t think you’re going to win this one, Katie.” He tipped his head to one side and regarded the dog. “Maybe it would be better if he did come with us.”

  He meant because the terrier was my familiar. And Quinn had probably called me because I was a witch. A lightwitch. Even if he didn’t exactly know what that meant.

  I sighed. “Yeah, okay. Come on.” I waved Mungo out the door, and we all trooped down to Declan’s truck.

  As he drove, Declan glanced over at me. “Are you and Detective Quinn okay these days?”

  I didn’t answer right away, and when I did it was noncommittal. “We’ll see.”

  He looked like he wanted to say something more, but let it drop.

  It was true that I was a bit nervous. Peter Quinn and I had had a tortured relationship since before the Honeybee had even opened. It had started off when Uncle Ben had been Quinn’s primary suspect in the murder of Mavis Templeton, and I’d stepped in and cleared his name. Since then, I’d been involved in several of the detective’s other murder cases—but only the ones that had a magical element. In fact, I’d learned that I was a lightwitch from none other than Quinn’s erstwhile partner, Franklin Taite, who happened to investigate black magic on the side, unbeknownst to Quinn. Taite was dead now, a murder victim himself, and Quinn worked alone.

  He’d always pooh-poohed the idea that some of his cases might involve real magic until he’d seen me deflect a weapon right in front of him. Not that I made a habit of that or anything. It had been an emergency, and when I’m under sudden stress like that, my lightwitch powers seem to kick into overdrive.

  Oh, and I also sort of glow when that happens. Quinn had witnessed that, too. He’d steered clear of me for a while after that. However, he’d approached me after I’d solved a murder that had looked like an accident the previous April, and I’d come clean with him about at least some of what I was. He’d been nonplussed, to say the least, but his own eyes didn’t lie. Also, he had to admit I’d helped bring several killers to justice. We’d reached a kind of truce, but his visits to the Honeybee for the occasional pastry over the last few months had been strained nonetheless.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Victorian District was south of Savannah’s famous historic squares and considered to be the city’s first suburb. Some areas of the neighborhood were nicer than others. Kensington Bosworth’s home was definitely in a nicer bit. The street in front was full of flashing lights and a gathering crowd. Uniformed officers were stringing police tape around the yard. Declan drove slowly past, then pulled to the curb a block away, and we got out. Mungo agreed to stay in the truck, for which I was grateful
. I suspected the police wouldn’t appreciate a small dog at their crime scene. Not that he would have disturbed anything if I’d asked him to sit-stay, but they wouldn’t know that.

  As we walked toward the melee, Declan gestured toward a wine-colored convertible across the street. The top was up, the windows were dark, and the engine was running.

  “Someone you know?” I asked.

  “Nah. But it’s a Thunderbird, like Lucy’s. A 2005. Last year they made them. Hers is a ’64. You’d never know they were the same model.”

  I rolled my eyes. This was totally not the time for his car obsession to kick in. But because I was looking at it when it slowly pulled away, I did notice the custom license plate on the BMW parked behind it.

  DANTE.

  Welcome to the Divine Comedy, I thought as an official-looking van double-parked next to a police cruiser in front of the house and a white-haired gentleman got out and headed toward the house.

  As we passed it, I saw the car behind the BMW was a familiar-looking Audi. I scanned the crowd but didn’t see its owner.

  Good.

  Still, I had no doubt its owner was nearby—Steve Dawes, reporter for the Savannah Morning News.

  Mr. Bosworth’s home was close to Forsyth Park and larger than the houses around it, with three stories, an impressive turret, and more layers of decorative scrollwork, curlicues, and gingerbread trim than the most elaborate wedding cake I’d ever seen. Somewhat atypical of that style of architecture but very typical of the South, columns supported a sprawling veranda in front, and smaller Juliet balconies were bordered by wrought-iron railings on each of the two floors above. Unlike the elaborate, multicolored schemes often found on Victorian homes, Bosworth’s was painted Savannah haint blue with the trim pieces soft white and smoky red. It wasn’t a combination I would have chosen, but for some reason it worked. Usually, that shade of blue was reserved for ceilings and porches in the South, the idea being that it fooled spirits, or haints, into thinking it was water and they’d move along. I’d never seen an entire house painted so . . . defensively.