Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561)

by Cates, Bailey

  He straightened and stroked his short beard. “The knife. Not the . . . ?”

  “That, too,” I croaked. Though, honestly, I’d seen a dead body—or four—since moving to Savannah, and not once had I felt in danger of fainting. But knives gave me the super heebie-jeebies. Outside of the kitchen, that was. It was a strange phobia for someone who used them in a professional capacity every day, I had to admit.

  The spike-haired blond woman had approached and now stood behind Uncle Ben, waiting. I deliberately didn’t look up at her, unsure of what she wanted with me. Besides, that whole shimmery thing kind of gave me the creeps.

  If it had even been real. My synapses were a little overheated, after all.

  Something outside the tent area caught Ben’s attention. “Hey, get back on the other side of that rope!” he thundered and took off. Declan took a step, then stopped and turned.

  “Go,” I urged. Giving in to his training as a first responder, he didn’t wait for me to say it twice.

  I watched my uncle shoo a bystander back onto the sidewalk and heard his raised voice. Ben was not one to yell—at least not under normal circumstances.

  The blond woman stepped forward, and I finally looked up at her.

  “I’m Ursula Banford,” she said. A blue dragonfly drifted by her shoulder, the iridescent wings flashing. I blinked as a second one followed, and then a third, gliding smoothly along as if they were riding sunshine itself.

  Uh-oh. The dragonfly was my totem, and while they sure were handy for keeping Savannah’s rampant mosquito population at bay, they also served as a kind of metaphysical tap on my shoulder.

  I stood, on guard but glad to feel the muscles in my legs working properly again. “Um, hi.” A few beats as I struggled to get some kind of intuitive hit off this Ursula Banford. “I’m Katie Lightfoot.”

  She inclined her chin slightly and slowly held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Was it? I couldn’t read her at all. I reached out, ready to flinch when our fingers touched. But there was nothing. Not a hint of anything, even with the physical contact. Her gaze lifted, looking into a distance that wasn’t there for a few seconds before her attention returned to me.

  She released my hand and smiled. ”You’re special, Katie Lightfoot. You know that, right? And you know why you’re here.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Oh, don’t be modest. I’ve heard on good authority that you will be the one to bring Simon Knapp’s killer to justice.”

  Mind racing, I felt my jaw slacken. Was this woman a witch like me? Or more pointedly, not like me? Because I sure couldn’t make any predictions like that.

  I was about to ask when I heard a voice mutter, “Well, that’s just what I wanted to hear.”

  With a sinking feeling, I turned to see Detective Peter Quinn had arrived, accompanied by Ben and Declan. He wore tan slacks and a linen sports coat. His thick gray hair fell in a wave across his forehead, and he was already summer-tan.

  I tried a smile, but it slid off my face. “Oh. Hey, Quinn.”

  He shook his head and held up his palm to me. “Stay right there.”

  Worry pinched the skin around Ben’s eyes, Declan had donned a smooth poker face, and Ursula regarded me with unabashed interest. I clamped my lower lip between my teeth and watched Quinn move to where Simon lay, squat down, and take a long look without touching the body. He stood, pulled his notebook from an inside pocket, and made a few notes before returning to where the four of us waited in silence.

  Mungo ran to him and gently touched his front paws to the detective’s pant leg in greeting before assuming the sit position. Quinn glanced down at him and his narrow lips twitched in a smile—a smile that vanished by the time his gray eyes found mine. “I can hardly wait for you to tell me why you’re here.”

  “We’re feeding these fine people.” I tried not to sound defensive.

  “The Honeybee doesn’t cater.” His tone was flat.

  “We do today,” I answered. “Special circumstances.” It was true, but not a good enough answer for Quinn. This was the fourth time he’d come to investigate a suspicious death and I’d already been on the scene.

  Ursula had taken a step back when Quinn arrived but continued to watch me. I itched to find out more about her—and why she’d made that bold statement about me bringing Simon’s killer to justice. After all, I’d never met the woman before. Who the heck was her “good authority”? When I’d touched her hand, there had hadn’t been so much as a tickle of energy, which surprised me if she possessed real power. Of course, I’d been fooled before, more than once, by people who were very powerful indeed.

  More than one had intended me harm.

  Yet her words resonated. The spellbook club had concluded early on that I was a catalyst of some kind, but according to Peter Quinn’s former partner, Detective Franklin Taite, I was more than that. He’d called me a lightwitch, a candela. Told me I was drawn to circumstances that involved black magic but was unable to practice it myself—as if I wanted to dabble in the dark arts anyway. Still, during the short time I’d been a witch, I’d found the definition of dark and light magic, like any moral framework, involved a lot of gray that depended on intention and circumstances and abilities and who knew what else.

  That had never been as evident as when I’d nearly killed Declan by accident a few months before.

  I’d worried about the whole light/dark thing for months, but I’d finally determined to simply do my best and keep in mind the Rule of Three, the part of the Wiccan Rede which states that everything we do comes back to us threefold—kind of like the Golden Rule on steroids. What else could I do? Still, that was a lot easier to say when no one had been murdered.

  Now Simon had been. Was I here because there was a magical element to his death?

  “Oh, and of course, you’re right in the thick of things, too.” Quinn narrowed his eyes at Declan.

  Before Declan could respond, Ben said, “Security, Peter. Most of the crew is made up of firefighters on their days off.”

  He’d known Detective Quinn on a professional level for many years. Not that their long-standing working relationship had stopped Quinn from suspecting Ben of murder right after we’d opened the Honeybee. That was water under the bridge now, and Ben was quite willing to forgive and forget. Me? I liked Peter Quinn a lot, but I could never forget how he’d accused my uncle.

  The detective nodded. “I guess that makes sense. Makes sense you’d be in the middle of the bunch of them, too, Ben.”

  “He’s head of security,” I said and was surprised to see my uncle’s face redden. Why . . . ? Then I realized the hard truth: A man had been killed on his watch. Of course he felt responsible.

  Not that it was his fault, I felt sure. Still, I knew Ben would torture himself about it to no end. My heart went out to my gentle uncle, a man of great strength but also great pride. This would be hard on him.

  It already was.

  “Okay, okay,” Quinn said. “Enough meet and greet. We have a murder to investigate. What do you know about it?” He looked at me when he said it. Behind him, a van pulled to the curb. Three crime scene specialists exited and began pulling cameras and other equipment from the back of it.

  “Simon was dead when I got here,” I said. “Which was only a few minutes ago.”

  “More like fifteen,” Declan said. “You lost a few minutes when you almost passed out.”

  Quinn looked suspicious. “You almost fainted when you saw a dead body?”

  “Um, sort of.” I carefully ignored Ursula’s curious gaze. “I don’t really care for knives.”

  He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he settled for, “You knew the victim.” It was a statement, not a question.

  I shrugged. “Not really. I only met him today at the Honeybee. Apparently, he fired the regula
r caterer this morning, and Mimsey suggested Lucy and I step in. We did our best, and—”

  He cut me off. “Mimsey Carmichael.” Again, not a question.

  “Yes, Mimsey Carmichael. She met Simon when he came into Vase Value looking for passionflowers for Althea Cole.” I gestured with my chin toward the actress, who now huddled like a frightened child in the crook of Steve’s arm. As I watched, she leaned up and murmured into his ear.

  Quinn took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll talk with you more in a little bit. Right now we need to clear this area so the crime techs can get in here. Ben, why don’t you gather everyone in that tent over there, and I’ll get started on interviews.”

  “All right, folks,” Ben called. “Everyone needs to come with me.”

  Althea stepped away from Steve’s side. “This”—she indicated the body lying fifteen feet from her quaint shoes—“is unfortunate, but I really don’t have any information for you about what happened.”

  “We’d like to talk with you anyway, Ms. Cole,” Detective Quinn said.

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll need to do it at the house,” the actress responded with an imperious toss of her head. “I’m tired and hot and in desperate need of a shower.”

  You and me both, sister. I glanced at Steve. His face was impassive. Is he seriously attracted to her?

  “Stevie, will you grab the wine? Where’s the Côtes du Rhône? Oh, never mind. Ursula, get the cheese from Owen.”

  Stevie? I almost laughed out loud. He had an unfortunate propensity to call me “Katie-girl,” or at least he had until I insisted he stop. Our eyes met, and his lips twitched. At least he appreciated the irony.

  Quinn stepped forward. “I’m sorry, but everything remains right where it is, and everyone needs to stay at least until we get through preliminary interviews.”

  “You can’t force us!” Althea took off her white cap and threw it on the ground. One of the crime scene guys hovering at the edge of the group made a noise of consternation. A tendril of long red hair escaped from the elaborate pinning on the actress’s head and snaked slowly down to her shoulder as if it had been scripted.

  Steve leaned toward her and said something. She listened, stone-faced, then gave a curt nod. He straightened. “Detective Quinn, would you be willing to speak with Ms. Cole first?”

  Detective Quinn was.

  Chapter 4

  Racks of eighteenth-century clothing surrounded my chair: fancy dress and plain, red uniforms and brown uniforms, wool coats, breeches, and high boots, all interspersed with shelves of pistols and sabers, muskets and rifles, canteens, bags, funny-looking hats, and worn leather footwear. I was sitting in the wardrobe tent with Mungo, waiting for Quinn to finish with me. After he’d learned that I’d nearly fainted—thanks to Declan’s spilling the beans—he’d insisted that I “rest” while he interviewed some of the others.

  Rest. Sure, Quinn. More like punishment.

  As if it were my fault Simon Knapp had been killed. Or that I’d been Janey-on-the-spot right afterward. I’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time . . .

  Right. Not even I believed that anymore. Yet how could I tell Quinn his own former partner had informed me that I had a calling to remedy evil in the world? Sheesh.

  I still didn’t understand how the whole calling thing was supposed to work. It was beyond frustrating that Franklin Taite had dumped that information on me and then up and left town. Quinn had told me Taite transferred to New Orleans after his short stint working for the Chatham County Metropolitan Police Department. No doubt he’d gone to the Big Easy because he’d tracked down another “hotbed of evil,” as he’d once called Savannah.

  In the brief time I’d know him, Taite had demonstrated quite a flair for the dramatic.

  Yet I had to admit I’d encountered some true darkness since my move south. Murder was bad enough without adding in magic. It was spooky to think about.

  I sighed and shifted in my chair. Mungo looked up from where he was lying on the floor, his soft brown eyes questioning. I reached down and patted his head. “What do you think about that Ursula woman?” I asked. “Do you think she’s like us?”

  He blinked. Not much help, that.

  The side of the tent facing the dead man was open. I was thankful the crime scene folks had erected walls of plastic sheeting to cut off any view of Simon. A bright light flashed behind it, indicating they were still taking pictures.

  Simon Knapp had seemed like a pretty good guy. A little abrupt, maybe, but that was only my first impression. Who knew what he was really like? I’d never find out. Lots of people he would have interacted with in his life would never find out now.

  And what about the people who did know him intimately? Parents, siblings, friends? I hadn’t noticed whether he wore a wedding ring, but he could have been married, had a girlfriend, or had children who would miss him more than I could even imagine.

  Because some jerk had buried a knife in his back.

  Sudden rage broke through the resignation I hadn’t even realized I’d given in to. Quinn was going to ask me how I happened to witness yet another dead body in the less than two years I’d lived in Savannah. I wouldn’t have a good answer for him because I didn’t have a good answer for myself.

  And now more than ever I wanted one! This was getting ridiculous. The idea of being a lightwitch had baffled me, worried me, and made me wonder whether I was worthy of such a thing. It had cast a pall over the delight of learning about witchcraft from the ladies of the spellbook club, of finally feeling like I understood why I’d always felt different, of finally feeling like I’d found a place where I belonged. And the spellbook club couldn’t help me, either. Even Mimsey, who would have been our high priestess if our coven had been formal enough to have such a thing, had heard the term only in passing in her youth.

  Now it just made me angry. Franklin Taite owed me an explanation. I deserved to know everything about what it meant to be a lightwitch—including whether it was possible to stop being one.

  A fan in the corner turned lazily back and forth, barely moving the stifling air. I got up and began to pace in the small aisle between racks of costumes. Mungo whined and ran to me, stopping in front of me as I turned at the end of the aisle. I paused. “Sorry, little guy. It’s just that this whole thing is so upsetting.”

  He made a low noise of agreement.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down. An elaborate millinery creation sat at eye level on a shelf, a frothy concoction of lace and peach-colored satin. I grabbed it and plopped in on my head. “What do you think?” I asked my familiar.

  The look he gave me was answer enough.

  “Fine.” I took it off and tried on a three-cornered hat. It swam on my head. More than two centuries ago even men had hair longer than my short, no-fuss do.

  Voices murmured from the other side of the canvas wall. Recognizing one of them as Quinn’s, I moved closer to the sound, hoping he was on his way to interview me.

  “Did you see anything unusual when you were returning?” he asked someone. “Perhaps someone within the roped-off area who you didn’t recognize?”

  “I would have told you that by now.” The voice that answered was deep and impatient. I recognized it as Niklas Egan’s. “I’d volunteer any of the information you’re asking for if I had it. But I don’t. End of story. Sorry.”

  I shuffled up next to the thin wall, listening hard.

  “I see,” Quinn said. “So I’ve been told most of the crew had already gone back to the hotel. The only people still around were Van Grayson, Althea Cole, and Simon’s assistant, Owen Glade, who was actually off-site purchasing cheese for Ms. Cole.”

  “Right. Simon sent him to the Welsh Wabbit every bloody day,” Niklas said.

  “Hmm,” Quinn murmured. Then, “Also on the set were Susie Little, the makeup artist, and Ursula Banford, Ms. Cole’s pe
rsonal trainer—”

  “And personal psychic,” the director broke in.

  So she wasn’t a witch. But a psychic? Like, a real one?

  Quinn’s voice came again. “Right. Psychic and personal trainer.”

  Niklas said, “Then there were the two security guys and that guy Simon talked me into giving a small speaking part to.”

  “Steve Dawes.”

  Steve had an actual part in Love in Revolution? Well, of course he did.

  “And Simon himself, of course,” Niklas continued. “He was setting up the wine and cheese dealio Althea insists on every evening. Usually we have it at the house—Simon found an old place to rent for the major players, including myself, about half a block away. Anyway, even though we were done filming for today, I wanted to run over the scene for tomorrow in situ to make sure everyone knew what I expect before we waste a bunch of time with the cameras rolling. And Althea does not like to wait for her wine in the evening, so she told Simon to set up the after-hours party here.” His voice lowered so that I could barely hear him, but I did make out the words “bit of a lush” and “keep her away from the hard stuff.”

  “And you were returning from the rental house,” Quinn said. I imagined him scribbling in his notebook.

  “I’d gone back to pick up some script changes I made last night. I’d just returned when I heard Althea screaming like a banshee. That sure made me pick up my pace. Lord, that woman can be challenging to direct, but she’s even more difficult when she’s not working.”

  Hmm. He’d been there already when Declan and I entered the cluster of tents after hearing Althea scream. However, I’d also heard him swear, as if surprised, and if he’d approached from the opposite side of the square, I wouldn’t have seen him.

  Not to mention, my memory felt a little fuzzy after I nearly fainted.

  Nearly fainted. Good heavens, Katie.

  Althea said she’d discovered the body ten minutes after leaving Simon alone. That seemed like a pretty small window of opportunity. I remembered the stain spreading on his shirt and blinked rapidly against the mental image.