by Morgana Best
Ruprecht studied the inside of his cup. He was unusually quiet as we chattered on. I wondered what was going on in his mind.
“Well, is there anything we can do?” I looked around the table for inspiration.
“We could make a small casserole and make sure she knows she is in our thoughts.” Mint tapped her finger on the hardwood table in contemplation.
“No. I mean, anything we can do. With, you know.” I felt weird, trying to request a spellcasting on Dianne’s behalf. However, if they could use magic to spy on suspects and make magic love-muffins, well, surely they could be of some use in the situation.
“It’s not that simple,” Camino said cautiously. “We could do a truth spell, I suppose, to make the truth come to light. And a protection spell over Dianne, too.”
“If we had some sort of evidence to work with, maybe we could achieve a better result,” Thyme mused.
“So if there was some sort of evidence to work with, we might be able to clear her name?” I prompted the group.
Ruprecht stroked his chin. “There’s nothing to say that we couldn’t.”
“Nothing guarantees it, either,” Camino added.
“We could still do a spell of clarity.” Thyme waved a cracker to emphasize her point, but Mint shook her head.
“But clarity for what?” Mint wagged a finger in denial. “There are plenty of things we could accidentally bring clarity to that are better left unknown. We could easily cause more harm than good.”
“True.” Thyme chewed her bottom lip as she mulled over the problem. “Clarity as to who killed him? That seems pretty much to the point.”
“Agreed,” Ruprecht said as he tilted his cup from side to side, studying its bottom with interest, and then set it down. “But we will lend aid when our part becomes clear. For now, let us simply enjoy each other’s company.”
“But how will we know?” I asked. I desperately wanted to help Dianne. After all, I knew what it was like to have the community turn on me over a false assumption. But what could I possibly do? I knew even less about magic than I did about baking. I didn’t even know spells were real until shortly after I’d moved to Bayberry Creek.
“It will come to you, my dear.” Camino gave my hand a reassuring pat. “Sometimes just believing in someone is all the magic you need to help them through hard times. There isn’t a spell in existence that makes better medicine.”
“Though spells can be very useful when they work the way you want them to.” Thyme grinned at me. “You’re from a powerful bloodline. Maybe you’re accidentally hexing your cooking?”
“Very funny!” I pretended to toss a grape at her.
“Well, think about it!” Thyme laughed. “Your one and only success was a super deluxe, love potion infused cake. Maybe you’re unconsciously trying to spell your cakes to be tasty and it gets lost in magic-translation somewhere.”
“I’d settle for edible!” I said, and my remark was met by scattered laughter from the others. I noticed that they did seem oddly thoughtful over the idea. Surely they weren’t seriously putting stock into that tease? I barely knew what magic was, so I could hardly see myself subconsciously putting hocus pocus type stuff onto my cooking. If I did, surely they’d be less like toxic waste.
“Edible to whom?” Thyme pressed. “Maybe your cooking is a delicacy on another planet. You might be the next iron chef on Mars.”
“I think we’d have to look outside the solar system,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. I was a terrible cook, but I was certain that I wasn’t hexing food.
Thankfully, attention was soon diverted from the sorry subject of my cooking and turned to chatter about recent events. Mint and Thyme were bickering lightly with each other, and Ruprecht appeared to be completely focused on his tea as he stayed out of it. Camino was busying herself with tidying up the snacks as she interjected from time to time like a mother hen, clucking at their behavior. The scene felt warm, comforting, and secure. I had never felt so comfortable at my own family gatherings.
Ruprecht was right. Magic couldn’t beat good company, not by a mile.
Chapter 8
“Darn it,” I said sleepily to no one in particular. There was no one in my room, not even the cats, although of course, the house itself was alive in a way. I rolled over onto my stomach and felt along the floor for the phone.
“Hello, Thyme?” I said groggily. “It’s early.”
“I know,” Thyme said. “I’m sorry.”
I could tell at once, even in my half-awake and caffeine deficient state, that Thyme was not herself. Her voice was nasal. It dawned on me what Thyme was calling to say before the words even left her mouth.
“No!” I said, loudly. “No, no, no!”
“I know,” Thyme said. “I’m sick. I’m sorry.” She sounded congested and tired.
“I could just close for the day,” I said. “If I cook, we won’t have any cash, ever.”
Thyme laughed weakly. “What about hiring someone for the day?”
“Who?”
Thyme didn’t have an answer for that.
I wondered why a witch was sick at all. Wasn’t there a spell she could do? I had no idea. I really did to need to read up a lot more on the subject. I also needed to look for extra staff members I could call on in such a situation.
I didn’t speak to Thyme again until later that morning when she called to ask how I was doing. I had stupidly decided to try to bake, and at the very moment Thyme called, smoke was billowing out of the oven, slipping through the small crack at the edges of the door.
“Hi Amelia, how’s it all going?” Thyme asked.
“I have to call you back!” I screeched, hanging up and throwing the phone on the countertop in one fluid motion. I ran to the sink at the back of the room, and pulled a small red extinguisher from the cupboard. I ran back to the oven. When I pulled the door open, the flames leaped at me. Within seconds, the towels on the counter next to the oven were burning.
I pulled the silver pin on the extinguisher and aimed it at the fire, but by the time the extinguisher was empty, the fire was still going, albeit far more weakly. I ran back to the phone and called triple zero.
After the call, I went back to the sink. I filled a large mixing bowl with water, and threw it on the flames. That did the trick, but as I stood in the somewhat blackened kitchen, I heard the faint roar of a siren.
Within minutes, Craig and the other firefighters were in the kitchen. “I put it out just before you got here,” I said lamely.
“Well, we rushed here for nothing then,” one of the men said to me. “Always the best kind of call—it means everyone is safe.”
Craig came over to me. He looked as hot as usual, his muscles seemingly bulging through his uniform. “There isn’t any damage here,” he said. “Just make sure that oven’s working properly before you use it again. You’d better get it checked out. Otherwise, there’s nothing that a good clean up wouldn’t fix.”
I smiled my gratitude. “No more baking for me, seriously.”
When Craig and the other firefighters left, I spent the morning scrubbing the kitchen. After all, I was experienced with removing smoke and ash from surfaces.
I shut the shop at lunchtime and headed to a local café to buy soup for Thyme.
The woman who answered the door only vaguely resembled Thyme. Her face was pale, her eyes red, and her hair limp and stringy.
“You look terrible,” I said.
“Thanks for the compliment,” Thyme said dryly.
“I brought you soup.” I carefully held up a paper bag.
“Come in, but don’t get too close.” Thyme threw herself down on her couch. “So what are you doing here? You didn’t burn down the bakery, did you?”
I pulled a face. “Well…”
Thyme’s mouth dropped open. “I was kidding! Did you? Another fire?”
“Another fire,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Sorry? It’s your shop. If you want to burn it down so bad
ly, go ahead.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. I thought I’d try to bake, but then there were flames. Craig came and put it out. I spent ages scrubbing the soot.”
“Oh, your boyfriend showed up? Now it all makes sense,” Thyme teased me.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said defensively, “and what makes sense?”
“Why you keep setting all of these fires. You want to see the firefighter Ken doll.”
I laughed. “I’m not setting fires on purpose, and don’t be mean. He has way more muscles than a Ken doll.”
“That’s a fair point,” Thyme said. “Anyway, I still can’t believe you set the place on fire again.”
I put my head in my hands. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m an optimist—I think that one day I’ll be fine with baking, but perhaps I’ll never be able to bake. Anyway, I don’t know about Craig. I like him, but I don’t really feel a spark there. Do you know what I mean? He’s awfully good looking, but there’s no chemistry. Still, the Millionaire Matchmaker says chemistry needs time to grow. What do you think?”
I looked back up and saw that Thyme had fallen asleep. Her mouth was open and she was snoring softly. I let myself out and drove back to the cake store, all the while thinking about Craig. He hadn’t even asked me out, but what would I do if he did?
When I got back, I left the ‘Back in 1 hour’ sign hanging on the doorway. There hadn’t been many customers that morning, and I figured I was safe to have a few more minutes to clean up before I opened for the afternoon. I threw away the burned towels, and then tried to clean the charcoal from the cake pan. It proved awfully persistent, so I scrubbed at it with salt.
I jumped when I heard the bell above the door to the front of the store. I was sure I had locked the door.
I stepped through the swinging doors, and to my shock, Alder Vervain was standing in the store.
“We’re actually closed. I thought that door was locked,” I said. I hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt, but the man made me nervous. He was dark and brooding, albeit in an attractive sort of way. And how did he get in? There was something mysterious about him, and I’d had an over supply of mysterious since I’d moved to Bayberry Creek.
“Hello to you, too.” He looked amused, which annoyed me for some reason.
“Excuse me?”
“Thomas Hale died in your house, did he not?” His gaze was unwavering.
I shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Well, no,” I said defensively. “He was on my porch, not in my house. Anyway, why do you ask? Was he a friend of yours, or something?”
“I’m a private detective.”
I gasped at the disclosure. Sure, and I’d never make a poker player, but I had not the faintest clue that he was a private detective.
“Do you find it strange that one man died in your shop, and then a man died at your house?”
“What are you saying?” I didn’t like where he was going with this. “They found Brant McCallum’s murderer.”
“You have to admit it’s a strange coincidence,” Alder said. “Why you?”
“I don’t have a clue. Look, I’m sorry, but we’re closed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Alder nodded. “All right. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
I crossed my arms. “If you’d like to buy something, then by all means come back tomorrow.”
Alder smiled, a thin smile that I imagined a storybook wizard would smile, as if he knew something I didn’t, something important.
Alder left swiftly. There was a strange stillness to the air after he’d gone, and it made me uneasy.
Chapter 9
When I arrived at work the following morning, Alder Vervain was already there. Part of me was pleased to see him, and that in itself annoyed me.
“You’re tenacious,” I said. I held the door open for him with my foot after I stepped inside.
Alder walked through the door, tucking a newspaper under his arm. “You don’t happen to make donuts in this place, do you?”
“No, just cakes and cupcakes.” As usual, he was dressed all in black. The scent of cinnamon, and something I couldn’t quite identify, seemed to follow him.
“I don’t think I should eat a cupcake for breakfast,” he said.
I shrugged. “Donuts aren’t really much better.” I walked behind the counter. Of course, he was just a private eye, so he had no jurisdiction anywhere, but there was no harm in answering questions. “Okay, enough of the small talk. What do you want to ask me?”
“Many things.” Alder bent to look in the empty display counter. “Do you make the cakes fresh each day?”
I folded my arms. “Is that what you really wanted to ask me?”
Alder shot me a look of appraisal, or so I assumed. “What happened with Brant McCallum?”
I shifted from one foot to another. “As you well know, his wife was arrested for his murder. She confessed. I had nothing to do with that.”
Alder walked over to the counter. “I heard that you and your friends were investigating. You fancied yourself as detectives.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I have my sources,” he said.
“Look, my friends and I did investigate, but that was only because the death in my shop was affecting the business. I certainly wouldn’t say that we fancied ourselves as detectives or anything like that.”
“I see.” Alder leaned on the counter.
Silence hung in the air between us, making me more and more tense. I was the one to break the silence. “I don’t understand why you’re asking me questions when you know I had nothing to do with it.”
Alder straightened up. “I’m just trying to get a feel for this whole situation. A man is dead—his body shows up on your doorstep. Previously a man dropped dead in your bakery. You have to admit that it sounds rather weird.”
“I suppose it does.”
“And we both know you don’t do the baking here. When exactly does your employee come in?”
Again, I tried not to show surprise on my face. Again, I failed.
“Sources,” Alder said simply. He still seemed to be amused. “My client thinks you have something to do with all the things going on here lately. You show up in town; a man dies in your shop; you get your friends together and you all play Scooby Doo or something like that, but it works out okay. Now another man has died, this time at your house, and you’re going to get the crew back together and solve another mystery. Is that it? My client wonders if there’s more to it than that. I shouldn’t tell you all that, but to be honest, I like you.” He grimaced when he said that, as if liking me was distasteful to him.
I frowned.
“You seem like a nice, normal person,” he continued, “and so do your friends. Well, nice if not normal, in their case.” He chuckled to himself. “It really does seem as if you’re getting caught up in a bad case of wrong time, wrong place. Yet in my experience, that’s not real. If someone’s in the wrong place, it’s because they put themselves there.”
“I assure you, it’s nothing but wrong time, wrong place with me. I didn’t want a man to die in my cake shop or outside my house. Anyway, who is your client?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“So someone can pay you to follow me around, to figure out everything about me, to snoop into my private life, and you won’t even tell me who it is?”
Alder nodded. “Yes.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Alder said smugly.
“Spare me the philosophical musings,” I said. “It annoys people. Remember that Socrates was put to death for annoying people.”
Alder sighed.
I went on. “Well, do you believe I had nothing to do with Thomas Hale’s death?”
Alder tapped his finger on the counter for a while before looking up at me. “I can tell a lot about someone just by watching them. I can tell when they’re lying or nervous, for example.”
&nb
sp; “Oh yes?” I said, interested in spite of myself. “I used to watch that show on TV. I can’t remember what it’s called. Anyway, there was a man who helped the police, and he could tell if someone was lying. He looked for facial ticks, sweating, stuff like that. Apparently when people lie, they look to the left, but look to the right if they’re trying to remember something. Or is it the other way around?”
“It depends whether they’re right or left handed,” Alder said, “but that theory’s been discounted by scientists.”
“But you can tell if someone’s lying?”
Alder smiled at me, and when he spoke, his voice for once dripped with charm. “It’s a sixth sense I have.”
I stared at him to see if he was joking, but his expression did not change. If only I could have such a sixth sense. “Oh,” was I could say.
“I know you had nothing to do with the realtor’s death,” he continued, “and that’s what I’m going to tell my client. I’m not so sure they’ll agree, so I’m also not so sure you won’t be seeing more of me.”
I nodded. I was secretly pleased to be seeing more of him, because I felt a magnetic attraction to him, albeit regretfully. He was the cliché tall, dark and handsome, to be sure, but there was something more. He had an almost otherworldly presence. I looked up to see him watching me, and I fervently hoped that mindreading wasn’t another of his arcane talents.
“But, like I said, I think it’s a waste of time. To tell you the truth, I’ve made a lot of money wasting my time on things that never pan out, and if this is another case of that, then so be it.”
I nodded, because I had no idea how to respond to that. It sounded as if Alder was letting me know he wasn’t going to be a problem for me, but that he would be around, watching. I figured I could live with that.
Alder opened his mouth to speak, but he was forestalled by Thyme’s entrance. “Thyme,” he said stiffly.
She nodded to him. “Alder.” Her voice was filled with tension.
Alder left the shop in a hurry, leaving Thyme wringing her hands.