Cookies and Clairvoyance

by Bailey Cates

  “Well, you certainly won’t need to moonlight at that caterer if you come work for me. I adore that you are willing to cook for the skipper and me as well,” Mrs. Standish was saying. “Katie, come meet Olivia. Olivia, this is the woman who suggested that I contact you.”

  I looked at Mrs. Standish with alarm but saw her eyes were twinkling and realized where she must be going.

  Olivia looked interested. “I’m so sorry. You look familiar, but . . . ?”

  Perching on the edge of one of the wingbacks, I inclined my head. “I knew your former boss, and when Mrs. Standish mentioned she was looking for some help, I thought of you.”

  Her expression cleared. “That’s where I’ve seen you before. You were helping the police after Mr. Bosworth—” The muscles in her throat worked. “After he died.” Her distress appeared quite genuine. “Poor Mr. Bosworth.”

  “Yes. It must have been awful, finding him like that.”

  Wide-eyed, she nodded.

  “Detective Quinn said the security system was turned off when you got there?”

  She looked over at Mrs. Standish. “I wouldn’t want to gossip about my employer.”

  Mrs. Standish leaned forward. “Of course not, dear. I certainly wouldn’t want you to go around gossiping about me, should we come to an agreement. But this isn’t gossip. Katie is helping the police. You saw her there, didn’t you?”

  Olivia’s head bobbed.

  “I knew Kensington, my dear,” Mrs. Standish said. “And I admire your loyalty, especially as I doubt he was the easiest man to work for—nor the most generous.”

  “He was, well . . . different.” She trailed off. Licked her lips. “But I really liked him.”

  I sat back and tried to sound casual. “He was a regular customer here. I agree. He was different, but nice.”

  “He loved the bread from this place. Always insisted on buying it and bringing it home himself.” She swallowed audibly.

  Regretting her obvious pain, I nonetheless soldiered on. “That collection of his was pretty interesting. It must have been a pain to clean all those knickknacks.”

  “Oh, I had nothing to do with that.” She gave a little shudder. “Which was fine with me. Some of those things were really weird.”

  Great. So no way would she have cleaned off the Ginegosh statue after Randy touched it. No wonder his prints were still on it.

  The question was, why hadn’t the murderer’s been, too?

  Gloves, of course.

  “Did you like working with Malcolm Cardwell?” I asked. “He seems like an okay guy.”

  “Oh, he was. Is, I mean. I hope he finds another job soon.”

  “Right. He has a large family, doesn’t he? Mr. Bosworth must have paid him well.”

  She smiled thinly.

  “Were there any problems between them that you knew of?”

  “Oh, gosh, no. They were very, um, professional.” She leaned forward and looked between us. “I think Mr. Bosworth was a music lover, you know? That by employing Malcolm he felt as if he was acting like an old-school patron.”

  Given that Mr. Bosworth had been old-school in so many other ways, that made sense.

  Mrs. Standish had fallen silent as Olivia and I chatted, but now she asked, “Olivia, dear? How on earth did you come to work for Kensington in the first place?”

  It was a good question. If Olivia’s references were as good as Mrs. Standish had made it sound, working for Mr. Bosworth for so few hours that she had to moonlight must have been a step down.

  Her answer was straightforward. “I was between jobs and needed the work.”

  I changed tack. “Did you know his nephew, Dante Bundy?”

  Mrs. Standish sat a little straighter.

  “Sure. He was at the house all the time,” Olivia said.

  “They got along?”

  She shrugged. “To the best of my knowledge.”

  “And his sister?”

  “Dante’s?”

  “No, Mr. Bosworth’s sister. Florinda. Did she or her husband ever come to the house?”

  “Never.”

  Apparently, brother and sister had been estranged for a very long time, indeed. But I had a hard time seeing that as a real motive for murder after so long.

  “You were there when the security system went in, right?”

  She nodded. “Detective Quinn asked me about that, too.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, allowing her to continue to believe that I was asking all these questions because I was working with Quinn.

  Then I almost asked whether she’d witnessed any problems between Randy and Mr. Bosworth, but decided that might be leading the witness, so to speak. So I changed my question to, “What were your impressions of the man who installed the security system?”

  “Randy? Oh, I liked him. Nice guy. I can’t believe they think he killed Mr. Bosworth.”

  I forced a smile. “Where did you hear that?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. Um, from Mr. Cardwell.”

  “I see. So, do you have any ideas about who might have done it?” I asked, still smiling encouragingly.

  Mrs. Standish shifted in her seat, her curiosity almost palpable.

  “Did he have any enemies that you know of? Anyone he was fearful of?”

  Olivia slowly shook her head, but her expression had become speculative. “No, nothing like that. No threats or anything. There was that time, though . . .”

  I waited. Miracle of miracles, Mrs. Standish kept quiet, too.

  After a few seconds of hesitation, Olivia said, “I did see him badly frightened one time.”

  “Recently?”

  She nodded. “A car pulled up in front of the house. I couldn’t see who was inside of it.”

  “Was it a BMW?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “No, it was a red car, actually darker than that. Wine-colored. It had a funny front grille like a smile between the headlights. A convertible.”

  There had been a wine-colored convertible outside the murder victim’s home when Declan and I had answered Quinn’s summons. Declan had pointed it out, which was why I’d noticed Dante’s BMW and Steve’s Audi—after it had pulled away. What had he said about it?

  A Thunderbird. 2005. Last year they made them. Hard to believe it’s the same car as Lucy’s old ’64 model.

  And suddenly, I could hear the sound the engine made as it pulled away from the curb and slowly drove away. The rumble of a big V-8. Declan would have been proud that I knew that.

  The same rumble I’d heard in the alley before the spellbook club had begun the clairvoyance spell?

  Yes. I’d bet my life on it. Or at least my magic.

  Quickly, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and did an Internet search for 2005 Thunderbird convertibles. When I had the image on the small screen, I showed it to Olivia.

  She nodded. “That looks right. Like I said, it was dark red, but yeah. See the front grille?”

  Feeling energized, I returned the phone to my apron. “What did Mr. Bosworth do when he saw the car on the street?”

  “He got really pale, and then he started sweating. I asked if he was okay, and he said he was. That he’d suddenly felt faint, but now he was okay. But I’d seen how he looked at that car, and I could tell it scared him.” She looked at Mrs. Standish. “I hope it’s okay to talk about these things. I mean, I wouldn’t want to speak out of school.”

  The older woman patted her on the hand. “Don’t you worry a bit about that. Now, let’s discuss numbers.”

  I took that as my opportunity to leave. In the office, I texted Quinn. He might be wrapping up another case and sure that he had his man in the Bosworth murder, but he still needed to know about the dark red convertible.

  Because I needed to know who owned it.

  Chapter 21

&
nbsp; Dante Bundy was looking less and less like Mr. Bosworth’s killer, but I was determined to cover all the bases, just in case. I looked up the phone number and address of Associated Lenders. It was in Southside. I entered the information into my phone, then called the number from the Honeybee’s landline.

  A woman answered, sounding bored.

  “Um, hi. Is Dante Bundy available?”

  “Nope. Already left for the day. Take a message?”

  Bingo. The coast was clear for me to stop by and chat with Dante’s coworkers. “No, thanks. I’ll try again tomorrow.” I hung up and turned to Mungo, lounging on his club chair.

  “You want to come on a ride with me?”

  Instead of popping to his feet like usual, he put his head down on his paws and regarded me unenthusiastically.

  I sighed and nodded. Despite my trying to discuss the murder case with him on our way to work that morning, things were anything but normal between us.

  “Okay. I understand.”

  He closed his eyes, though I suspected he was pretending to be asleep.

  I gathered my tote bag and went out to let Lucy and Ben know I was taking off for about an hour.

  “Okay, honey.” Lucy’s voice was calm, but her eyes were worried. “Do you want one of us to come with you?”

  I frowned. “I’m going to an office that’s probably full of people. I think I’ll be okay.”

  She smiled gently. “I only wondered if you wanted some company.”

  “Thanks, Lucy. I hate to take you away, though. It’s bad enough that I’ve been asking you to cover for me so much lately.”

  She patted my arm. “Anything I can do to help. You know that. Ben, too.”

  He nodded his agreement from behind the coffee counter.

  I felt tears threaten and forced them back. What was wrong with me?

  “Thanks.” I swallowed, hard, and went over to Ben. “Caesar Speckman has a special order ready for me, so I’m going to pop by and pick it up.”

  “Oh?” He didn’t say more, but curiosity sparkled behind his brown eyes.

  For the wedding, I mouthed silently while flicking my eyes toward Lucy. She didn’t notice because she was helping a customer now.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Speckman?” Ben shrugged. “Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “He seems to like you.”

  “Yeah. He’s okay.”

  “Hardly a ringing endorsement,” I said.

  Ben came around the counter. “Now, Katie. Don’t make trouble where there isn’t any. Caesar and I would probably be great friends if we only had something in common. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s wearing a shirt with a sports team on it, but it turns out he doesn’t like sports, not even watching them on television. The guy doesn’t even play golf.”

  I grinned.

  He held up his hand. “I know, I know. There are other things.”

  “No, I get it. No connection.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know if he’s married?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” my uncle said.

  “Relationship?”

  He rolled his eyes. “How should I know? Ask him yourself.” Then he paused. “Unless you think he’s a murder suspect. Do you?”

  I hesitated. “Not really. I mean, he lost a good client in Mr. Bosworth, and he doesn’t seem the, er, magical type.”

  You never know, though. I sure wouldn’t have pegged most of the spellbook club members as witches.

  At my car, I threw my tote into the passenger seat and started the engine. The tiny bud vase the Bug featured sat empty and sad. Since learning I was a hedgewitch, I’d always made a point of filling it with fresh herbs and flowers with magical significance to whatever was going on in my life but had completely forgotten to put anything in it the last few days.

  So, what would I select? Basil for protection and clarity. Lavender for peace. Maybe a sprig of rosemary for feminine power.

  At least I still knew how to use the natural magic inherent in plants, even if I couldn’t augment it with my own power. I vowed to fill the vase as soon as I had the chance.

  A few blocks away, I found a prime spot to park on Bay Street and made my way to the stairs that led down to River Street and the alley where How’s Tricks was located. The alley was just as abandoned as when Cookie and I had visited, but when I pushed into the shop, Caesar Speckman was ringing a couple out at the register. He saw me come in and raised his chin in acknowledgment before turning back to count out his customers’ change.

  I browsed for a few minutes while he finished up. Keeping an eye out for anything unusual or suspicious, I moved from display to display. Nothing looked out of place or unexpected for a souvenir shop. I swept my gaze over the brick interior, wondering what tales the old brick walls might tell. I’d done the same in the carriage house right after I’d bought it. It had seen its share of joy and tragedy through the years, and Lucy had helped me to smudge it with burning sage to clear the energy held there, to create a new beginning. It was a common thing to do, a ritual of renewal employed by many, whether you believed in the actual magic behind it or not. Perhaps Caesar Speckman had done the same thing. It might account for the lack of power I’d felt before.

  The couple departed. I smiled and nodded to them as I stepped up to the counter. There was a book tucked next to the register, with a dollar bill serving as a bookmark. The tan leather binding was faded and blotched with water stains, but I could make out the image of a sun embossed in flaking gold. Below it was a title that made me catch my breath.

  Grimoire of the Golden Dawn.

  I craned my neck to see if there was an author when Caesar’s hands suddenly whisked the volume behind the counter.

  “Katie! Great to see you!” Caesar wore a Macon Bacons team shirt today, again with Dockers and white sneakers. If he didn’t like sports, as Ben had said, he must have been amused by the names of some of the local sports teams. I eyed the display of shirts on the wall. Or else he simply wore the T-shirts as a way to advertise his wares.

  “Hi, Caesar. What was that book? It looked like something I might be interested in buying.” I had a feeling I could never afford such a thing, but I itched to take a look inside. From what Dad had said about the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, the organization had spawned much of modern Wiccan practices. There might just be something in that book that would help me, and Anderson Lane, get our magic back.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, but I already have a purchaser. Special request, you see. Took me forever to find it.”

  My heart was pounding, but I managed to keep my voice calm. “Can you tell me who asked you to track it down?”

  “Sorry, darlin’. He likes to play things close to the vest.”

  He. That was a start.

  “Would you tell him I’d like to talk to him?”

  “I can try. Can’t guarantee anything, though.”

  “Maybe I could just take a look at it?”

  He peered at me, and when he spoke his tone was less friendly. “It’s already sold. Why are you so interested in some old spellbook?”

  I managed a thin smile. “Just an interest of mine.”

  “Ah! Well, then. I’ll be sure to let you know when I run into anything I think you might like.” He suddenly beamed at me and reached below the counter to retrieve a half-dozen jewelry boxes. “But today, you have perfect timing. UPS just delivered your lockets an hour ago. I unpacked them right away.”

  Still feeling the pull of the Golden Dawn grimoire, I reached into my tote for my wallet. “Thanks for getting them for me so quickly.”

  One by one, he opened the boxes and pushed them toward me to inspect.

  I fingered them and turned them over, looking for scratches or flaws, but found
none.

  “Six silver lockets,” he said. “I assume they’re not all for you. May I ask . . . ?” He peered at me.

  “Actually, they’re bridesmaid gifts.”

  “And you’re the bride?”

  I nodded.

  “Well! Congratulations!” He began putting the lids back on the boxes.

  “Thank you.”

  “I imagine you’ll need them engraved, then?”

  The idea had occurred to me, but because I’d intended them to contain individualized spells, I had decided it would be better if they were completely unadorned on the outside. Simple silver pockets of magic. Now I wasn’t sure what to do about the spells. Should I have Lucy cast them? She was my maid of honor, and I’d wanted to surprise her, too. But perhaps I should just go ahead and engrave them and let each witch create her own spell to carry.

  Torn, I asked, “Can you do that?”

  “Nope, not here.” He winked. “But I know a guy. He does good work.”

  I smiled weakly. “I’ll keep that in mind. Right now, I’ll just take the lockets.”

  “Okeydoke.” He put them in a bag and rang them up.

  I handed him my credit card.

  “Excellent, excellent.” Then he bent, retrieved another box out from under the counter, and shoved it at me.

  Perplexed, I opened it. Inside was a silver pentagram studded with blue sapphires and tiny diamonds.

  “Um, it’s lovely,” I said.

  “Are you interested?”

  “Oh, gosh. Thanks for thinking of me, but I don’t think I can afford this right now.”

  “I can give you a really good deal.” He named a price.

  I blanched. “Sorry.”

  He sighed and put it away. “No, no. I understand. I got this for Kensington’s collection, but he never had a chance to see it.” Another sigh. “Or pay for it.” His gaze rose to mine. “If any of your friends are in the market for this kind of thing, could you let them know? I’m looking for other clients now.”

  I would have felt sorrier for him if he hadn’t been so stingy about letting me look at the grimoire, but I nodded. “Sure. Say, how well did you know Kensington Bosworth?”