by Bailey Cates
I raised my eyebrows at Lucy, who shook her head. Mimsey hadn’t found out about Randy being a suspect from her.
Mimsey went on. “Don’t look so surprised, Katie. News like this travels fast. Bianca called me on her way over here.”
“Cookie, too,” Bianca said.
“Good,” the older witch said. Now, let’s move into the library and discuss next steps.”
The door opened, and three customers came in and headed toward the register. Cookie Rios was right behind them, talking animatedly on her cell phone.
Lucy jumped up. “It appears we’re all here. You all go stake a claim in the reading area. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
Bianca, Jaida, and I stood as Lucy went to stock the display case with the baked goods that had been cooling in the kitchen and help Ben with the customers. Mimsey led the way to the Honeybee library. Lined with shelves that held all manner of titles for our patrons to peruse at their leisure, it also boasted a big poufy sofa and matching chairs upholstered in jewel-toned brocade.
Cookie trailed behind, still on the phone.
“All right, then. Eleven it is. Thanks for being flexible.” She hung up and looked at me. “I was supposed to show a house this morning, but my client’s pretty easygoing. I just hope we don’t lose our chance at this one.”
“Sorry.” I grabbed the RESERVED sign and hung it by the entrance to the reading area, so we’d have a modicum of privacy.
Her jade-colored eyes widened. “No, no! That’s not what I meant. There’s always something, you know? And if the spellbook club needs me, I’m here.”
Though she’d moved to Savannah from Haiti when still a child, a slight accent still flavored her words. The youngest member of the spellbook club at twenty-six, she practiced Wiccan magic with the rest of us but had lately begun to delve back into her family’s voodoo traditions. She was recently married, and even more recently pregnant. In her second trimester, she was still slender beneath her yellow sundress except for her healthily expanding middle. Her dark hair fell in thick waves around her shoulders, and brightly colored plastic bangles were stacked on her wrists.
As we settled in the reading area, Lucy brought in peppermint tea for Cookie and cups of plain black coffee for Mimsey and Bianca. I shook my head in response to her questioning look, and she returned to help Ben with the early customers.
Mimsey folded her hands on her lap and turned to me. “Katie, Lucille shared the information you gave her on the phone last night, so we know the situation. Is there any more news?”
I nodded. “The police picked Randy up for questioning last night. Jaida stepped in to help.”
“Right,” Jaida said, apparently feeling better after getting some food and caffeine in her system. She filled the others in on what she’d told us.
When she was finished, Mimsey nodded again. “Well, it could be worse. I do wish Detective Quinn would just take our word that he needs to look elsewhere, but soon enough we’ll have a better suspect for him.”
I made a noise.
“Now, Katie,” she said. “You know darn well you’ve been called again.” No matter what I said, she believed I would always step up to my calling as a lightwitch.
Oh, who was I fooling? Even Peter Quinn had called me. Literally. And I’d already decided to do what I could.
So instead of protesting, I said to Mimsey, “Lucy said you knew Kensington Bosworth. What can you tell us about him?”
She took a sip from her mug and settled back on her chair. Her feet didn’t quite reach the floor. “I didn’t know Kensington terribly well. He was quite a bit younger than me, you know. At least fifteen years. My youngest sister went to school with his sister, though, and I know a bit about the family. Fifth generation, old Savannahians. His grandfather traveled a great deal, and rumor was he collected odd things from around the world. Kensington’s father apparently continued the tradition.”
Things had slowed down at the register, and Lucy came over and sat next to me on the sofa.
I took my phone out of my apron pocket. “His collection might strike a little closer to home once you see it.” I found the video I’d taken while Quinn had been talking to the crime scene technician. I held it out and everyone leaned forward. “These things were displayed in his outer office, and apparently there were more in his personal office. I didn’t see those, because, well . . . he was still in there.”
There were sober looks all around.
“So, he collected magical items,” Jaida said thoughtfully. “Is that why Quinn called you?”
“I’m sure of it. I mean, there was also a Honeybee Bakery bag in the kitchen, but I think he saw this stuff on display and thought, Gee, do I know any witches? Why yes, yes, I do!”
“Even though many of these items were probably inherited,” Cookie said, taking the phone and watching the video again. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve never run into Mr. Bosworth in any of our magical circles.”
We all shook our heads and murmured agreement.
“Quinn specifically wanted me to look at the murder weapon,” I said.
Jaida gave me a sharp look. “You’ve seen it?”
“In an evidence bag, yes. And I took a picture to show my dad. He texted me this morning and confirmed it’s a piece, maybe from the Chippewa tribe. Specifically, a totem.”
Bianca’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t say anything.
“Where’s the picture you took of it?” Cookie asked, beginning to scroll through my photos.
Gently, I took the phone away from her. “I promised not to show anyone.”
“Why?” Jaida demanded.
“Because Quinn asked me to promise.”
“Because he thought Randy was involved,” Jaida said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, he’s already talked to Randy about it, so I don’t think he’d care if you showed us now.”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “A promise is a promise. Remember the Rule of Three. I don’t need any blowback if I break it.”
Bianca glared at me.
Mimsey nodded. “Of course, dear. We understand.”
But I wasn’t so sure Bianca did.
Chapter 6
“What else can you tell us?” I asked Mimsey.
“Not a lot. He had money, of course. I assume his sister does, too. If she’s still with us. I don’t know what happened to her. I’ll call Marcella and ask if she knows.”
“Is Marcella your younger sister? The one who went to school with Kensington’s sister?” I asked.
“Yes. She’s the youngest of the three. Mimsey, Nessarose, and Marcella. Nessarose is two years younger than me. Lives in one of those RV communities near Sedona. Marcella was a bit of a surprise to Mummy and Daddy, though. She’s only sixty-three,” she said.
“All witches?” I asked.
“To varying degrees.” She made a face. “Nessarose has more flair than talent, but certainly likes to dress the part down there in Arizona.”
I felt a twinge of envy. My mother and father had kept my gifts from me, and as a child I’d never known why I felt so different. I would never regain the time I could have spent learning about the Craft and herbal magic.
A speculative expression settled on Cookie’s face. “I wonder who gets all that lovely, lovely money.”
“Mr. Bosworth’s attorney should know,” Jaida said. “Though it’s doubtful a lawyer would divulge that information to anyone prior to filing for probate.”
“Whoever it is might tell the police, and Quinn might tell me,” I said, then shrugged. “Or not. I’m not sure.”
Jaida took a deep breath. “Okay, Mimsey is going to call her sister about Bosworth’s sister. Katie can check with Quinn about his attorney, and I’ll put out feelers among my colleagues as well.” She looked at me. “What else?�
�
“I thought I’d go see Mrs. Standish,” I said. “She seemed well acquainted with him. In fact, she was right on the edge of divulging some gossip about Mr. Bosworth yesterday. Remember, Lucy?”
My aunt nodded. “She’s bound to know something, and she loves to dish. I’ll go with you to see her this morning after Iris comes in for her shift.”
“Excellent,” Mimsey said.
“I’d like to talk to Randy, too,” I said. “See what he can tell me about the security system.”
“I already asked him a ton of questions along those lines,” Jaida said.
“Still, we need to talk with him. He might tell us something he didn’t tell the police.”
Bianca’s eyes filled with tears.
I put my hand on her arm. “It’s going to be okay.”
She pulled her arm away. “You can’t know that.”
I withdrew my hand and looked down. She was right, of course. Just because I’d successfully investigated some crimes in the past didn’t mean I’d be able to do it again this time. Meeting her eyes again, I said, “Well, we’re going to do the best we can.”
“What about this secretary of Bosworth’s?” Bianca asked. “What’s his name?”
“Malcolm Cardwell,” I said.
“I’m going to go see him after I drop Colette off at summer art camp this afternoon.”
“Um, he struck me as a bit . . . difficult,” I began. “I don’t think—”
“I want to talk to the man who accused Randy of murder,” she insisted.
“Now, honey,” Mimsey said.
Bianca glowered at the older woman.
Mimsey gave her a gentle smile in return.
“Listen, y’all,” Bianca drawled. Suddenly, despite the orange-juice-stained sweatshirt, she was all elegant Southern charm. It was as if she’d flipped a switch. “I promise I’ll behave myself. I simply wish to ask the gentleman a few questions.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “He’s kind of a stuffed shirt. I bet he’d respond to that Southern belle thing of yours.”
“Thing? Bless your heart, darlin’, but I haven’t a clue what you mean.”
“Uh-huh.” I looked at my watch. “My dad will be here around ten, but then he and Declan will head over to the carriage house this afternoon. Let’s try to track down Mr. Cardwell’s address and drop by around two o’clock or so. If you don’t mind my coming with you, of course.”
Actually, Bianca looked relieved. “Thanks.”
Cookie was typing on her phone. “Six-eighteen Fallow Road,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“I remember the name. Malcolm and Suzanne Cardwell recently bought a four-bedroom house. I didn’t sell it to them, but my colleague did. I just checked our internal database at the office to get the address. It’s faster than looking it up online or going over to the courthouse.”
Mimsey grinned. “Nice work, dear.” She beamed around at all of us. “It sounds like we have our action items all lined up.”
I stood. “I’d better get a little more baking done before we start, then.”
* * *
* * *
At eight, Iris came in and got right to work making breakfast sandwiches for a group of four tourists. At eight thirty, Lucy phoned Mrs. Standish, apologizing for breaching etiquette with such an early call. We were both crowded into the office, me in front of the computer, looking up Ginegosh, and Lucy perched next to Mungo on his club chair. Though she wasn’t on speaker, I could hear every word Mrs. Standish said.
“Please, think nothing of it! Skipper and I would be delighted for you to come by the house. Anytime. Right now, in fact. I’ll be able to give you a treat for once!” Then her voice lowered, but not so much that I couldn’t still hear her. “Now, tell me, Lucy. Does this have anything to do with Kensington’s death?”
“You know about that already?” Lucy asked.
Sighing, I shut off the monitor and swiveled the desk chair to face her. There was nothing remotely related to the term Ginegosh on the Internet. I could only hope Dad would have an idea what the name meant.
“It was right there on the front page of the News!” Mrs. Standish boomed. “Terrible, terrible tragedy, of course. But there was mention of a special consultant to the police, and lo and behold, there was your Katie in the background of the picture.”
I whirled around to turn the monitor back on. In seconds I’d brought up the online version of the Savannah Morning News. Sure enough, Steve’s article was front and center, along with a photo of the house surrounded by police tape and Declan and me on the front porch. It must have been taken right after I’d come back outside after talking with Quinn.
Great.
Lucy finished the call and hung up. “If we leave now, we should get back before Declan and your dad get here.”
“I’ll drive,” I said.
“Deal.” She stood.
Mungo moved to the edge of the chair and tipped his head to the side.
“You want to come?” I asked.
He gave a soft yip! and jumped down to the floor.
Back out front, I set Iris to making up a batch of green tomato muffins that Lucy and I had recently concocted. It was a riff on classic fried green tomatoes with a little thyme sprinkled in to give whoever ate them courage and a positive attitude.
Because really, who couldn’t use a little more of that in their lives?
Thyme could also be used in love and protection spells, to attract money, and to promote intuition and sleep. As we left, I heard Iris muttering over the mixing bowl, “Thyme plus heat in this yummy treat for folks to eat, oh, so sweet . . . no, that’s not quite right. Um . . .”
Grinning, I left her to it. The words didn’t matter so much as the focused intention, and she obviously had that handled.
Outside, Mungo allowed me to attach his leash to his collar, and we set off with Lucy for my car. Once inside the Bug, I blasted the air-conditioning and turned toward Bull Street. I’d never been to Mrs. Standish’s home, but Lucy had delivered food there for an Animal Welfare Society fund-raiser.
In between my aunt’s murmured directions, we chatted about wedding cakes.
“Do you want to go with something more like a handfasting cake than a traditional wedding cake?” Lucy asked. A handfasting was the neo-pagan version of a wedding.
My brow wrinkled. “How would that be different than a traditional wedding cake?”
“Turn left at the next light,” she said. “Handfasting cakes are often less formal, but not always. And they typically have some kind of Celtic or Wiccan imagery on them.”
Most of the guests weren’t remotely pagan, and Declan wasn’t, either, so we’d decided to have a straightforward ceremony presided over by Judge Matthews.
“Well, I like the idea of decorating the cake with Celtic symbols, but I keep coming back to the image of a simple three-tiered cake decorated with fresh flowers. I’m thinking gerbera daisies. So, I have a good idea of how I want it to look. The problem is that I don’t know how I want it to taste.”
“You love carrot cake, and it’s one of the most popular flavors for wedding cakes,” she said.
“I adore carrot cake. And devil’s food cake. And red velvet cake. And German chocolate cake . . .” I trailed off.
“Sometimes tiered cakes have a different flavor for each level,” she pointed out.
“I know,” I grumped. And I did. “But I’m having trouble choosing only three flavors.”
She laughed. “How about coconut? Or a hummingbird cake? Caramel pecan? Strawberry?”
I groaned. “Stop it!”
We crossed into a new block, and Lucy pointed at a stately gray-brick home on the other side of the street. “That’s it.”
I pulled my car to the curb, and we all got out. Mrs. Standish had the door open
before we were halfway up the walk. She wore a brilliant white caftan, a matching white turban, and white sandals with rhinestones. Other than a slash of lipstick the same dark red as her nail polish, her face was free of makeup.
“Hello!” she sang out, waving us in.
“Is it all right that I brought Mungo along?” I asked.
“Of course! Does he eat caviar?”
I blinked. “Um. I don’t see why not.”
“Excellent. Come along, then.”
We hurried inside, and she quickly shut the door behind us. I could see why she wouldn’t want to let in the heat, but after only a few seconds I felt a shiver threaten the back of my neck. The house was like an ice locker.
“Come back to the sunroom,” she said. “Dean is waiting for us there.”
We obediently followed her through a spacious living room with high ceilings and skylights that let in abundant light. I’d assumed Mrs. Standish would furnish her home with antiques and fussy knickknacks, so I was surprised to see the light wood furniture was spare and avant-garde with a Scandinavian flair, and the rugs and pillows had simple patterns and boasted bright, primary colors.
“Here we are, dears!”
She led us into a round, glassed-in room with a view of the swimming pool in the backyard. Here the furniture was white wicker decked with yellow chintz pillows, all surrounded with flowering plants in huge pots. Skipper Dean, wearing white slacks and a blue linen shirt, lounged beneath an arching bougainvillea. In front of him, a table held a sweating pitcher of fresh orange juice, miniature bagels, lox, cream cheese, capers, red onions, minced hard-boiled eggs, and yes, a lovely pot of shimmering black caviar. Mungo immediately went to sit by Dean’s foot and was rewarded with a pet on the head and a nibble of bagel spread with cream cheese.
“Hello, little guy,” Dean said. “Lucy, Katie, please have a seat. We’re so glad you could visit this morning.”
“Thanks for letting us barge in so early.” I settled in a chair flanked by two pygmy orange trees loaded with fruit.