by Bailey Cates
“What was the murder weapon?”
“A statue thingy,” I said. After all, Quinn hadn’t made me promise not to tell Declan, only not to show him the pictures I took of it. “But I don’t know what it is. Something Native American. I’m going to ask my dad.”
Declan nodded as he stopped the truck at a red light. “Good idea.” Then he let out a whoosh of relief. “Boy, am I glad that’s all it was. I was afraid you were going to get dragged into tracking down Bosworth’s killer right in the middle of all the other stuff we have going on.”
I didn’t say anything.
He half turned in his seat and gave me a sharp look. “Katie?”
I made a face. “There’s one tiny complication.”
He waited.
“Quinn already has a suspect. Bosworth’s secretary said there was an argument between him and the victim and that he seemed to have a special interest in what turned out to be the murder weapon.” I licked my lips. “Also, the security alarm was turned off even though Bosworth always armed it. Since the suspect installed it, he might have been able to disable it.”
Realization gradually dawned on my fiancé’s face. “He thinks Randy killed Bosworth?”
I nodded.
The light turned green, and Declan slowly accelerated. “Well, we have to prove Quinn wrong then! Randy’s a stand-up guy. He’d never kill anyone over money—or anything else.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “I don’t know how, but we’ll figure out how to help him.”
So much for not getting dragged into this one.
Back home, I texted the picture of the murder weapon to my dad. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t respond, though. He had an early flight and then a layover in Atlanta in the morning, so he’d probably already gone to bed. I considered texting Mama to make sure but decided against it. The mood I was in, the last thing I wanted was to explain to her that I seemed to have landed in yet another murder case—and no, I still didn’t want my bridesmaids to wear tiaras during the wedding ceremony.
I did, however, call Lucy and tell her what had happened to Kensington Bosworth.
“Oh my,” she said when I’d finished. “And Peter Quinn asked you to come to the house? That’s unusual.”
“I’ll say. But he thought I could help. Who knows? Maybe I can. There’s some kind of magic involved, for sure. The house was surrounded by a serious protection spell.”
She tsked. “I can’t believe we just saw Kensington this afternoon, and now he’s been killed. Terrible. Just terrible.” Lucy had the tenderest heart of anyone I knew. “Do you know anything about his family?”
“Not a thing,” I said.
“Well, Mimsey will know something. She knows all the old families here in Savannah. I’ll give her a call and mobilize the ladies. We can meet in the morning.”
“Okay, but my bet is that Bianca either already knows or will know soon.”
There was silence for several seconds, and then my aunt sighed. “Oh, dear. There’s something you haven’t told me, isn’t there?”
“Afraid so,” I said, and filled her in on what Bosworth’s secretary had said about Randy.
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Lucy said. “That boy didn’t kill anyone.”
“I know. For now, all we can do is wait and see what Quinn does.” A part of me hoped the detective would find another suspect, and fast. After all, he’d only begun his investigation. “Let’s wait until we’re all together to tell the ladies about Randy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right, honey,” she said. “And don’t worry. It will all work out.”
I hung up and plugged in my phone on the kitchen counter. Declan had already gone into the bedroom, but Mungo trotted over and sat by my foot. I leaned down and gave him a scratch behind the ears.
“Lucy says it will all work out,” I said. “I sure hope she’s right.”
He grinned a doggy grin. Yip!
Chapter 5
I’d never been one to sleep much. It wasn’t insomnia, or at least not the enervating, debilitating version I knew some unfortunates suffered from. I went through my days with plenty of energy. By the time I moved to Savannah, I slept only a couple of hours a night. This was awesome for a baker, of course, as we regularly hit the kitchen at o’dark thirty. However, since I had learned I was a witch and began practicing my own spell work, the amount of sleep I managed had increased to three, sometimes even four, hours a night.
Most nights, that was.
That night wasn’t one of them. My mind was awhirl with thoughts about Kensington Bosworth’s murder, Randy being Quinn’s prime suspect, and what the motive for killing the fussy old gentleman could possibly have been. Greed? Love? Revenge? Those were the classics. Or could it be magically motivated? I had a hard time imagining Mr. Bosworth as a sorcerer extraordinaire, but someone had cast that protection spell.
Whatever the reason, I was positive Randy was innocent. Along with the rest of the ladies in the spellbook club, I’d gotten to know him since he and Bianca had begun to date, and Declan knew him even better as a coworker. Randy Post was a good guy.
I finally gave up trying to get back to sleep around four o’clock and slipped out to the living room. There I donned shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes. Mungo watched from the sofa as I quietly filled a water bottle at the sink and tiptoed to the door. He didn’t try to follow. A walk in the park was one thing, but he loathed running as much as he did dry doggy kibble.
After stretching at the bottom of the stairs outside, I swigged some water and took off toward the river. After a few blocks, my muscles loosened and my breath steadied. There were only a few vehicles on the streets at this hour and even less foot traffic. Night-lights glowed orange behind curtained windows, while the setting moon was a pale beacon in the mercury sky. The summer air, heavy with humidity and the scents of wisteria and night-blooming nicotiana, caressed my limbs as I moved through it.
Gradually, the rhythmic sound of my footfalls jostled my thoughts and concerns into some kind of order. I could count on my dad and Declan to deal with the carriage house renovation. My worrying about it wouldn’t help a thing and would make what I had on my own plate more difficult. I simply had to try to let that go.
Sure. I could do that.
I hoped.
Cookie’s baby shower was coming up, but the truth was Lucy was having a great time putting it all together. She didn’t need my help at all. I’d still be available and would check in with her but could completely take that off my mental to-do list as well.
The wedding was pretty much in hand, other than getting the actual venue in shape—which I had just decided not to worry about. We had a few details yet to tend to. I still wanted to find the perfect gifts for my bridesmaids—the members of the spellbook club, naturally—and I still hadn’t decided on what flavor of wedding cake I wanted. But I had a month, and I’d figure that out.
Somehow.
By the time I headed back to the apartment, I felt better about looking into Kensington Bosworth’s murder. Of course, I wanted justice, and of course I wanted to clear Randy’s name, but I also felt a strange urgency about the case that stemmed from the feeling I’d had in Bosworth’s house. Why had it been surrounded by a protection spell? What was up with the collection of magical items? I’d felt a lot of power in that outer office, and the office beyond it. Some of it had to be latent energy from the items themselves, but there had been something beyond that. A force more than the sum of those parts.
And not all of that energy had been good, either.
The horizon brightened as I ran, the dawn bruising the sky deep purple, then fading to violet and red, and finally brilliant peach fingers of cirrus clouds reached toward me from the west. The sight energized me and gave me hope.
I’d talk to Randy. He would be able to shed some light on the supposed a
ltercation between him and the murder victim, not to mention how someone might breach the security system. And Dad should be able to help us with the significance of the murder weapon. What was it called? Ginegosh? I’d never heard the term and made a mental note to look that up on the Internet.
What else?
Well, Mimsey would have some information about Kensington Bosworth. Mrs. Standish might be willing to fill in more of those details. No, strike that. I’d have a hard time stopping her from telling us more about him.
With the beginnings of a plan, I let myself back into the apartment. I was surprised to find Declan in the kitchen making coffee. The fragrance of freshly ground beans hit my nose and I nearly swooned.
“How was it?” he asked as I kissed him on the cheek and bent to untie my shoes.
“Good. It’s always good. Clears my head. You should try it.”
“No, thanks. I’ll head to the gym before I pick up your dad,” he said, blinking at me with sleepy eyes. It was quarter to five.
“What are you doing up so early?” I asked.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Randy?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded. “A lot of that going around. I’m going to hit the shower.”
* * *
* * *
I was pouring the batter for gooseberry muffins into tins when Dad texted me a bit after six. The loaves of sourdough had just come out of the ovens, and their thick crusts crackled as they cooled on their racks. Lemon cornmeal cookies filled another rack, and below them were black-and-white cookies, though I hadn’t yet dipped them in their dark chocolate jackets. The scent of the maple scones in the oven joined the other good baking smells in the air.
Dad’s text read:
An evidence bag? And is that blood? Good Lord, Katie—what have you gotten yourself into this time? But yes, that figurine looks like a totem of some kind. Algonquin, maybe Chippewa. We’ll talk when I get there.
A totem. Of course.
Not like the big totem poles common in the Northwest, but a smaller version that still represented the animal qualities of a tribe or an individual. For example, my dragonflies represented adaptability and metamorphosis. Dad would know what qualities the fox and snake represented.
I was pouring buttermilk pound-cake batter into loaf pans when Lucy and Ben came in the back door of the Honeybee several minutes later. My aunt’s feline familiar sauntered out of her designer leather carrier and took up her spot in the window of the reading area. Lucy went into the office to drop her things, and I heard her greet Mungo with affection before she bustled back out to don a blue-and-yellow chintz apron from the vintage collection that hung along the back wall of the kitchen.
The sound of the espresso machine signaled Ben’s desire for more caffeine. I already felt jittery enough and declined when he called out to ask if I wanted a cup. This might be a long day, but after drinking Declan’s brew, I wouldn’t dip into the really strong stuff until I needed it midday.
Lucy was already making the ganache for the black-and-whites when Ben joined us. He put his wife’s green tea by her elbow and leaned against the door of the industrial refrigerator.
My aunt gave him a grateful glance, took a sip from the steaming cup, then looked at me. “The spellbook club will be here this morning.”
“Thanks for calling them,” I said. “I’m hoping Randy—”
The loud chirping of crickets erupted from Ben’s pocket. He pulled out his phone and frowned. “It’s Scott,” he said, then, “Hello?”
Lucy and I exchanged glances. Uncle Ben had been Savannah’s fire chief until his retirement three years before. That was when he and Lucy had brainstormed the idea of opening the Honeybee Bakery and had convinced me to quit my low-paying and utterly dull job as an assistant bakery manager in Akron and move south. Scott had taken Randy under his wing much the same way Ben had with Declan years earlier.
“You’re kidding! In cuffs? That’s just overkill.” Ben pushed away from the fridge and went to stand by the window overlooking the alley. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Right. And she was there the whole time?” And then, “Well, that’s good news, I guess. Did he go home?” He listened for a few seconds. “Good man. Okay. Thanks for calling. I’ll be in touch.”
He hung up and turned to face us. “Detective Quinn picked Randy up last night and took him down to the precinct. In handcuffs.”
Lucy’s fingers crept to her lips. “Surely that wasn’t necessary.”
“Damn straight, it wasn’t necessary. I don’t know what Quinn’s trying to prove but treating one of my firefighters like that . . .” He trailed off as he realized what he’d said. “Okay, not my firefighter, not anymore, but it wasn’t like Randy was going to resist arrest.”
“They arrested him?” I asked. Things were moving far too quickly and in the wrong direction.
Ben shook his head. “They questioned him for a few hours and then let him go.”
Alarmed, I asked, “For a few hours? In the middle of the night? Without a lawyer?”
“He’s no dope,” my uncle said. “He called Scott, who called Jaida. She was there the whole time.”
I let out a breath of relief.
A knocking on the front door drew our attention.
“Speak of the devil,” Lucy said as she hurried to let Jaida in. Ben and I were right behind her.
Jaida French was a vivacious black woman in her middle forties, but this morning she looked about ten years older. She’d obviously had very little sleep, wore no makeup, and rather than her usual lawyerly attire, she wore jeans and a loose T-shirt that I suspected belonged to her partner—in law and in life—Gregory. She was one of Savannah’s best defense attorneys, who also happened to be a member of the spellbook club. She specialized in all things tarot and had taught me a lot about how to use the cards for divination and in spell work. Her familiar, a Great Dane named Anubis, would be at home this morning.
“Coffee,” she rasped, collapsing onto a bistro chair.
Ben hurried to the espresso counter to fill her request.
“Have you eaten?” Lucy asked at the same time I asked, “How’s Randy?”
“No, I’m starving,” she said. “And they let Randy go about an hour ago. I take it you heard what happened?”
“Ben just got off the phone with his boss,” I said.
“His captain,” Ben corrected me, followed by the screech of the steamer as he concocted Jaida’s usual mocha latte.
I sat down across from her. “How bad is it?”
Lucy came back with a still-warm maple scone on a plate. She set it in front of our friend and pulled over a chair for herself.
“Not good,” Jaida said. “But it could be worse. They don’t have enough of a case to arrest him at this point, but forensics haven’t come back yet. From what Randy told me, his prints very well might be on the murder weapon. Apparently, it’s some kind of Native American figurine, and he’d asked the victim if he could look at it when he was there putting in the security system.” She took a bite and rolled her eyes. “This is fantastic. Thank you.” She swallowed. “The security system is another problem. There was a master code Randy used when he was working on it. You’re supposed to wipe that when the installation is complete, which he insists he did. But he can’t prove whether he did that right after the installation as he claims or after killing Bosworth, which is what Detective Quinn is positing.”
“Great,” I said.
She took another bite and nodded. “I know.”
There was a pounding on the door, and we looked up to see Bianca standing on the sidewalk. I moved to let her in as Ben brought Jaida her coffee.
Out of all the members of the spellbook club, Bianca looked the most like the stereotypical version of a witch. She practiced traditional Wiccan spell casting and had an avid interest in moon magic. Tall and
willowy, she had jet black hair that reached most of the way down her back, and translucently pale skin. This morning, however, her brilliant green eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Like Jaida, Bianca’s usual fashion sense had been eclipsed by circumstances. I’d never seen her wear yoga pants in public, and I was pretty sure that was an orange juice stain on her far-too-warm-for-July sweatshirt. However, she still carried a Coach handbag, and a little white face with a black Zorro mask peeked out of it when she set it on a chair: her ferret familiar, Puck.
Lucy sprang up to give her a hug. “Oh, honey.”
“You okay?” I asked.
Bianca’s jaw set in a determined line. “So you’ve heard.”
“From Scott,” I said. “How’s Colette?” I asked, referring to her eight-year-old daughter, who absolutely adored her mother’s boyfriend.
“At a friend’s house for the night,” Bianca and Jaida responded at the same time. “She doesn’t know anything about what’s going on yet,” Bianca went on.
Ben brought her a cup of coffee, and there was another knock. This time it was Mimsey Carmichael. My uncle glanced at the big clock on the wall as he went to let her in.
“It’s nearly seven. Might as well open up,” he said.
Mimsey bustled in as soon as he unlocked the front door. Short, pleasingly plump, and looking nowhere near her actual age of eighty-one, the spellbook club’s informal leader had owned Vase Value for decades. So, it wasn’t surprising that she focused on flower magic, along with color magic and dabbling in a bit of divination with her pink crystal shew stone. Today she wore a sensible skirt and matching top in light blue, and a light blue bow perched on the side of her white pageboy haircut. I knew she’d deliberately chosen that color because it represented tranquillity and protection. Her familiar was an obnoxious parrot named Heckle who, thank goodness, usually preferred his perch in the flower shop to coming to the Honeybee.
She took one look at the four of us huddled around the little bistro table and shook her head. “Now, ladies. We simply mustn’t despair. Kensington Bosworth has passed through the veil to the next plane, and we cannot help him anymore. However, Bianca’s beau is another matter.”