by Bailey Cates
“My family has a similar statue that was handed down for generations, but we don’t know where it came from.”
“It’s probably a family totem,” Bianca said. “Katie’s dad says the name probably comes from the Chippewa words for fox and snake, kind of mashed together.”
Randy looked intrigued. “Is that so? Huh. I have some Chippewa blood, that’s for sure. Our statue is a fox with a beaver tail.”
“You should ask Dad about that,” I said. “He’s going to be in town for a week. He’ll know the significance of the beaver in your family totem. He told me the fox represents cleverness and strength.”
“Your dad is Chippewa?”
“Shawnee. A fourth, I think.” I tried to steer the conversation back. “You touched the statue?”
“Yeah. I handled it, all right. Just while we were talking about it in Bosworth’s office, but unless his housekeeper is really diligent, my prints are still on it.”
I exhaled. “Well, maybe yours aren’t the only ones.”
He didn’t look encouraged by that.
“Okay, tell me about the argument you had with Bosworth,” I said.
“It was about payment for the security system. See, the company I work with sells the system and then arranges for a freelance installer like me to put it in. I set my own rate for each job, and I invoice it myself. Well, Bosworth had paid for the system already, but he didn’t think I spent as much time putting it in as he’d expected, so he didn’t want to pay all of my bill. He got pretty upset about it.” Randy grimaced. “And loud. I’m sure his secretary heard us. It didn’t help that I lost my temper and threatened to sue him if he didn’t pay up.” He sighed, and Bianca squeezed his hand. “I don’t generally have much of a temper, but I was tired, and well, he just made me so mad.”
“It sounds perfectly understandable to me,” I said. “This was a standard security system?”
“Sure. I’ve put in dozens of them. No big deal.”
“And from what I understand, there’s some kind of master code that you use to turn it on and off while you’re working with it.”
He nodded. “And then I have the customer create their own code. After that, I can’t use the master. Bosworth had been using his own code for almost two weeks.”
“So, it automatically goes away when the new owner creates their own code?”
“Yup.”
“Then why are the police all het up about you using the master code to get inside the house?”
His lips twisted in discouragement. “They think there’s some kind of back door the company knows about to get in if they need to. Which might be true. But if so, they don’t give that code to me.”
“So how else could the killer get in?” But even as I wondered out loud, I had a few ideas.
As did Randy. “Easy. Either they knew the code, or Bosworth simply turned off the system and let them in.”
“In which case, it was probably someone he knew,” I said slowly. “Or . . . who else would he have given the code to?”
“Well, the housekeeper and the secretary both had it. . . .” He trailed off, looking thoughtful.
I leaned forward. “Do you think either of them had a reason to want Mr. Bosworth dead?”
Randy took a deep breath and gave a little shake of his head. “Really, I’d have no clue. How could I? I was in and out of there in two days.”
“And during that time, you saw them both interact with their boss?”
“Sure, a few times. And with each other. Everything seemed copacetic.”
One side of my mouth pulled back as I thought about that. Something could have been going on within the household that no one knew about.
“Malcolm Cardwell doesn’t live on site. And I assume the housekeeper doesn’t, either.” I was thinking out loud.
“Olivia? No. Her daughter lives with her. Divorced. Dropped by once when I was working. She’s around your age, Katie. Pretty. Nice, too.”
I looked at Bianca, but she didn’t seem to mind her beau calling another woman pretty or nice. Rather, she emanated a quiet confidence sitting there beside Randy, who was several years younger than she was. My friend had always been confident, but this was different. This was confidence in them as a couple.
In love.
The realization warmed my heart. It also made finding the real killer feel even more urgent.
Continuing to think through what I knew already, I said, “So, Olivia Gleason found the body. She called the police, and then she called Malcolm Cardwell. The alarm was off when she got there. Malcom Cardwell thought that was odd because his boss was religious about keeping the system armed. However, either or both of them could be lying.”
Randy shrugged. “I suppose. I can tell you that Mr. Bosworth seemed very relieved to have the protection.”
I remembered the energy that had surrounded the house, how strong the spell had felt as I moved through the front door. Magical protection in addition to a practical security system.
What had Kensington Bosworth been so afraid of?
Chapter 9
We left Randy to take a shower, and Bianca dropped me at the Honeybee before going to pick up her daughter. It was nearly four thirty when I got back to work.
I went into the office to store my tote bag but stopped in the doorway when I saw Mungo. He glared at me from his club chair and managed to infuse his obvious displeasure about my tardy return with a sense of betrayal.
“How do you do that?” I entered the room and dumped the tote, then knelt in front of him. “I’m sorry. You probably would have loved running through the sprinkler with the Cardwell kids.”
His mouth turned down in a doggy frown.
“I’m late because I went to Bianca’s to talk to Randy.”
He made a little moaning noise in the back of his throat. He loved going to Bianca’s house. She kept a supply of organic, grass-fed jerky on hand just for the canine familiars in the spellbook club.
“Can I make it up to you with a ham and cheese sandwich?”
His eyes brightened.
“I suppose you want it grilled.”
Yip!
“Shh. Okay, I’ll be right back.”
Shaking my head, I went out to the kitchen to make the world’s tiniest grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Then I cut it up into bite-sized pieces—terrier bites, that was—and took it back to him on a plate.
Instant forgiveness.
While he ate, I pulled out my phone and texted Quinn with a question that had occurred to me on the way back from Bianca’s.
Didn’t want to wake you again, but was wondering if there was anything missing from Bosworth’s collection? As in, could robbery have been the motive?
I sent it and returned to the kitchen with Mungo’s plate, which was already licked clean.
“You let him push you around,” Lucy said from where she was wiping down the counter.
“I do,” I admitted. “Of course, Honeybee never bosses you, does she?”
Lucy made a face but didn’t answer. She didn’t need to, because we both knew her familiar could be a bit of a princess at times.
Iris had already mixed up the sourdough levain for the next day’s bread and put it into pans to rise overnight. Now she was mixing up the dough for the spice cookies Lucy and I had recently developed. I would come in the next morning and bake up the cookies first thing for the daily special. We often tested out new recipes as daily specials, and I was hoping the spice cookies would prove popular with the customers.
The scent of allspice filled the atmosphere around where she worked. It was one of my favorite spices not only because of its complex flavor, but because it could be magically tapped to attract money, love, energy, and luck.
“I saw that you added the calendula cookies to the menu board,” Iris said happily, and did h
er little two-step. She had developed that one on her own after she found out that the flowers, sometimes known as pot marigold, were not only edible, but magically promoted happiness and harmony.
“They were a big hit,” I said. “Delicious, and the flecks of golden petals dusted with vanilla sugar are a work of art.”
She grinned. “Thanks.”
“Feel free to come up with more recipes that incorporate flowers,” Lucy said. “I can see a whole table covered with plates of colorful, flower-infused cookies at the next event we cater.”
Iris started the big standing mixer, licked a bit of molasses off her finger, and came over to where Lucy and I stood. “Can I ask a question?”
“Of course, honey,” my aunt said. “What is it?”
“You’re investigating another murder, aren’t you, Katie? You and the others?”
I gave Iris a hesitant nod as I considered how much to tell her.
However, she continued before I had a chance. “Why don’t you just use your, you know, powers to solve crime? I mean, you’re witches, right? I know I’m just learning, but you’re, like, the real thing. Can’t you just—” She waved her hand in the air. “Make the bad guys turn themselves in or something?”
Lucy and I looked at each other.
“Well,” I said. “I asked that once, too. Right after I found out I was a hereditary witch. And you know what Mimsey told me?”
Iris shook her head.
“She said that real magic isn’t like that. You can’t just wiggle your nose like they do on television and—poof!—something disappears. See, our kind of magic is a tool we can use along with our brains and our intuition and good old hard work in order to track down the truth.” I laughed. “And then she told me, and I think these were her exact words, ‘There is no abracadabra cure-all to crime solving. If there were, every law enforcement agency in the world would be clamoring to use our skills.’”
Iris quirked her mouth to one side, obviously unimpressed with my answer. “I’m not that silly, Katie. I don’t think you’re going to snap your fingers and some bad guy will appear in a puff of smoke. But that detective is using your skills, isn’t he? And you know how to do spells that would tell you who killed someone, don’t you?”
I grinned. “Tell me who killed someone? Um, not really.”
There was, of course, good old-fashioned divination à la Mimsey’s pink shew stone or by another method. However, no one in the spellbook club was particularly good at it—especially me. And even when I had managed to make a divination spell work, the results had been hazy at best.
“What about tarot cards?” Iris asked.
“Yeah, I get what you’re saying, but a tarot spread isn’t exactly like a police lineup.”
“Okay, whatever. It just seems like you ought to be able to do something magical to find the killer.” She turned back and started putting the last batch of baking pans into the dishwasher.
I looked at Lucy, who shrugged. “Mimsey’s right.” She went back to wiping down the counter.
Of course, Mimsey is right, I thought. But what if Iris is, too? The universe seemed to hand me the opportunity to find justice in cases that involved magic. Was there more I could bring to those situations now that I more or less knew what I was doing as a witch?
Everything seemed to be under control in the kitchen, so I went out to check the display case. Lucy followed me. The bakery was nearly empty, and we would officially close in about fifteen minutes. Ben had already tidied the coffee counter for the next day and was tugging the café curtains closed over in the reading area.
“Those green tomato corn muffins flew out the door,” she said. “We might have to add them to the regular roster.”
“We need to take something else off the menu, then,” I said, eyeing the tray where the muffins had been.
She sighed. “I know. I just want to offer people everything we can.”
I laughed. “Me, too. But even with Iris’ help, we can only do so much. Let’s add the muffins while green tomatoes are plentiful—I’ll put them on the produce order from the farm—and take the gingersnaps off the menu until fall. That’s when people will want something that warms from the inside.”
“You’re perfectly right,” she said. “Let’s do that.” Then she leaned close and asked in a low voice, “Did you find anything out?”
“Lots of things, but I don’t know if any of them are helpful,” I said. “It turns out—” The door opened, and I fell silent when I saw who had come in the bakery.
“Peter,” Ben said, his hand outstretched as he approached Detective Quinn. Not one to hold a grudge, he seemed to have completely forgiven Quinn for once trying to convict him of murder.
Quinn shook my uncle’s hand. “Ben, how are you?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he asked, “Is Katie around?”
Ben nodded to where I was already walking toward the reading area. It was empty, and there was only one customer sitting on the other side of the bakery, so we’d have some privacy. Quinn nodded and joined me. He sank into one of the overstuffed chairs and regarded me as I perched on the edge of the sofa.
“You look like you feel better,” I said.
His eyes shone clear gray, and the shadows below them were gone. Even the silver in his hair appeared to gleam a little more brightly.
“I do. A little shut-eye will do wonders.” He tipped his head to the side. “I got your text and was in the neighborhood.”
Since his precinct was only five blocks away, that was likely true.
“I see,” I said in a neutral tone. I couldn’t tell whether he was peeved or not.
He held my gaze for several seconds, then seemed to make a decision. “The victim’s secretary provided us with a list of items in the collection you saw, a list that Bosworth himself put together for insurance purposes. He says it’s up to date. I’ve had someone at the house most of the day, checking to see if anything is missing. So far they haven’t found anything.”
“That’s very efficient,” I ventured.
One eyebrow slowly rose. “Yes. We sometimes manage that.”
“I didn’t mean—”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “I also spoke with the victim’s lawyer. He felt it would be a breach of trust to tell me who benefited from Bosworth’s death, but he also wants justice for his client. To that end, he put everything else aside and filed for probate today so that we could get access to that information without his betraying attorney-client privilege.”
“Because it’s now public record,” I said eagerly. “And? Or are you going to make me go find out for myself?”
He looked amused. “No. I’ll tell you.”
I blinked but had the good sense to keep my mouth shut. Quinn wasn’t often in a sharing mood.
“You’re right—Bosworth’s sister didn’t get anything, but her son does inherit, and quite a lot. Plus, he inherits the entire collection of paranormal items. Other than the chunk of change that goes to Dante Bundy—that’s the nephew—several philanthropic organizations around town receive the rest of the money.”
“Hang on. Dante Bundy?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because last night when I obeyed your abrupt summons to the murder victim’s home, I saw a car parked on the street a few houses down. It had a custom license plate that read ‘Dante.’”
The corners of his mouth turned up, and he pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “You don’t say. What kind of car was it?”
I squinted as I tried to remember. “A BMW. I couldn’t tell you what kind, though. It was dark blue, I think.”
“Anyone in the car?”
“Honestly, I was distracted and didn’t notice. Dang it.” Could I have seen the murderer and not realized it?
Nah. He wouldn’t stick around for hours after killing his uncle. Would he? But t
hen why was his car there?
“Don’t worry. I’ll look into it,” Quinn said. “We collected the license plate numbers on vehicles that were parked on the street within a two-block area.”
Feeling somewhat encouraged, I said, “The philanthropic organizations that Bosworth left money to—animal welfare, Native American heritage groups, and a group that restores stolen Middle Eastern artifacts?”
He looked surprised but nodded. “You have good sources. But more money goes to another group—the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon.”
I stared at him. “I saw that name in his datebook.”
Quinn frowned. “You snooped through Bosworth’s datebook?”
“No, I did not. I simply saw it when I was taking the pictures of the Ginegosh statue. At least I assumed it was Bosworth’s. It was on his secretary’s desk, though. Could it have been Cardwell’s? Wouldn’t Mr. Bosworth have kept his datebook on his own desk?”
And that would mean Malcolm Cardwell had something to do with the Hermetic Order—
Quinn cut off my line of thought with, “That was Bosworth’s datebook on the secretary’s desk, all right. I checked.” He made a note, then sat back with a thoughtful expression.
“Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon had a line drawn through it,” I said slowly. “Do you think that could mean he’d changed his mind about leaving them money?”
One shoulder lifted then dropped. “Hard to tell. His lawyer did mention that Bosworth had an appointment to see him next week. Katie, do you know what the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon is?”
I shook my head. “Do you?”
“They don’t have a website. There is one mention of it on the Internet, and that states that it’s a charitable foundation. However, we couldn’t find any evidence that they actually give money away, and they aren’t registered with the state of Georgia as a nonprofit. There’s no information about where they’re located or who works there or who they benefit.”
“How can that be? How much did Mr. Bosworth leave them?”
Quinn gave me a figure.
I whistled. “And only one mention of them on the Internet.”