Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561)

by Cates, Bailey

  I put those aside and removed the second paper clip from a dozen photos. I didn’t recognize most of the people in them, but paused at the one of Van Grayson smiling up from where he sat cross-legged on a carpet, surrounded by the grinning, cherubic faces of his young fans. Another was of Simon himself, standing with an attractive woman in her late forties in front of a sign that read, BOULDER CREEK LIBRARY. His arm was around her, and they were both smiling into the camera.

  Hard-copy photographs. Pretty rare in this digital age. And meaning . . . what?

  Handling the items gingerly, I slid everything back into the envelope to give to Quinn. Who knew if he could do anything with them, but at least I’d teased them out of their hiding place.

  Then I paused. If I took the photos, I’d be disturbing evidence. The best thing would be to return them to the file drawer and tell Quinn about them. Then he could come find them in situ.

  “Get those lights packed up!” a male voice shouted outside the tent. Niklas had said they were getting ready to break down the set and pack things up, and it sounded like it had already begun.

  If the photos and clippings could help Quinn, I couldn’t take the chance that they’d be taken away before I could get ahold of him. I’d take them with me.

  I was sliding the drawer back into the cabinet when light from the open doorway brightened a scrap of blue velvet at the bottom. Digging through the detritus, I pulled out a bag tied with a cord made of woven gold silk. Certainly Quinn’s people had already looked inside. Still, I worked the knot open and poured the contents out onto the canvas floor of the tent.

  A small silver goblet laced with embossed ivy leaves shone up at me. Next to it fell a finely carved wooden stick that looked almost like a miniature totem pole, a tarnished brass sheriff’s star, and finally, a short, thin dagger in a leather sheath. I removed a fine silk scarf that swirled with all the colors of the rainbow and set it next to the other pieces.

  Chalice, wand, pentacle, athame—and a ritual cloth to set them all up on.

  This was an altar—portable and innocent-looking among this mishmash of movie props.

  With trepidation, I slowly slid the blade of the dagger out of the sheath. It flashed wickedly, and I knew without touching the blade that it was razor-sharp.

  An athame was a ritual blade, not a functional one. Unless, of course, whoever this altar belonged to practiced darker magic than what I was used to.

  Whoever.

  My mind staggered through the possibilities. Shuddering, I slid the blade carefully back into its leather covering.

  That’s when I saw the tiny, curved inscription on the metal next to the handle: SK.

  This was Simon’s altar.

  Which suddenly made an enormous amount of sense. No wonder Simon had been so good at fixing things! He was a witch or some other kind of sorcerer. And no wonder he’d known Heinrich Dawes, head of the druid clan that had been in Savannah before the time Love in Revolution was set.

  However, did Simon’s magical practice—good, bad, or ugly—account for why I’d become involved in his murder investigation? Because it didn’t explain a motive for his murder.

  Unless perhaps he was killed simply because he practiced magic?

  A shiver ran through me at the thought.

  Or perhaps it was because he practiced dark magic. Oddly, that made me feel better. The spellbook club believed in the Rule of Three. It informed all our magical workings. If Simon had cast dark magic to fix a problem for someone, it was possible the boomerang effect could have resulted in his death.

  His death through human action, though, to be sure. And a death that as a lightwitch, even a white witch, I was still obligated to bring to justice.

  * * *

  Back at the Honeybee, Lucy was on her own.

  “Where’s Mimsey?” I asked.

  My aunt waved her hand in the general direction of Vase Value. “A floral delivery went awry, and the customer came into the shop in person to complain. Her manager called, and Mims headed right over there to put out the fire.”

  I tied on the first apron that came to hand, a frilly French maid affair. “Has it been busy?”

  “Not too bad. We had a run on the goat cheese éclairs, though. They’re so popular, I think we should make twice as many tomorrow.”

  I grinned. “That’s the kind of problem I like to have.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. Did you find out anything?”

  I joined her behind the register, talking low so the dozen or so customers ensconced around the bakery wouldn’t hear. “Get this, Lucy. Simon was a witch.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh!”

  “Or at least some kind of sorcerer. Maybe even a druid.” I told her the items I’d found hidden in the prop tent. “I can’t think of any other reason for them to be there.”

  “Are you sure they belonged to him?”

  A young couple came in the door and headed straight for the register. I waited while she chose a molasses cookie and he selected a coconut bar cookie. Lucy rang them up, and they took their treats with them back out to the street.

  When the door closed, I said, “Simon’s initials were engraved on the athame.”

  A decisive nod from my aunt. “Well, that settles it, then. Do you think that’s why he was killed?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not directly. But it certainly makes it easier to understand why he was so good at fixing things. Plus, Steve told me Simon contacted Heinrich before coming to Savannah, to help find Robin Bonner for Althea. So if there’s some kind of good ol’ boy druid network, Simon was probably part of it, or at least knew about it.”

  “Do you think Steve knew Simon practiced magic?” Lucy asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. He said Simon contacted Heinrich, and when I asked how Simon knew to do that, he simply said Heinrich had lots of connections.” I paused, remembering Steve’s reluctance to tell me about Althea when before he’d always been willing to give me any information he might have. “On the other hand,” I said slowly, “he might have known all along. Those druids are a tight-knit lot, and if that’s what Simon was, then I could see Steve closing ranks with the others in the Dragoh Society. The Dragohs only have a few members, all in Savannah, but there have to be other groups like them out there—and they’d all be likely to protect one another, right?”

  Lucy looked as unhappy as I felt about the idea that Steve would keep secrets like that from me.

  We both looked up as the door opened again and Mrs. Standish entered. She wore a zebra-print tunic over wide flowing slacks accented by silver metallic leather flats. Her iron-gray hair curled fetchingly around her earlobes, and her lips shone hot pink rather than her usual raptor red.

  Lucy greeted her. “Hello, my dear. Need more éclairs?”

  Mrs. Standish’s laugh in response held giddy delight as a man who had apparently entered behind her stepped out of her shadow. He removed his straw hat to reveal a smooth, bald head that reached almost to his companion’s chin. His build was so slender, his gray trousers and button-down Oxford hung on him like a scarecrow, but his dark eyes were kind and the lines time had carved into his face suggested a man who smiled often.

  “Perhaps later, Mrs. Eagel!” she said. “Right now we were hoping for something a bit more substantial. Picnic fare, if you will.” Her eyes twinkled.

  My aunt and I exchanged amused glances.

  “We should be able to come up with something you’ll enjoy,” Lucy said.

  “Wonderful! I knew I could count on you.”

  I smiled pointedly at the gentleman beside her. “Welcome to the Honeybee.”

  “This is Mr. Dean!” Mrs. Standish said. Her voice softened. “Skipper.” She gazed fondly down at him. “I call him Skipper because he’s the caption of his own ship.”

  For a moment I wondered if she was being metaphorica
l, but then he smiled back at her. “Now, Edna. It’s just a little boat.”

  Edna? Mrs. Standish had been one of the Honeybee’s first customers and had been spreading the good word about our baked goods ever since, but I now realized I’d never heard her first name.

  “That doesn’t matter a whit,” she said. “It’s delightful.” And to Lucy and me, “We’re going out on it this evening for a lovely romantic supper, but until then I’m going to show Skipper a bit of Savannah. He’s new here, you see. Purchased the house next to mine only last week.”

  He nodded his agreement, letting her take the conversational lead. Wise man.

  She leaned toward us and hissed, “A widower, don’t you know.”

  Skipper Dean heard, of course, yet didn’t seem in the least nonplussed by Mrs. Standish. I instantly deemed him worthy of her attention. Time would tell, of course, but I’d never seen her so happy.

  Lucy invented a couple of new picnic-friendly items for them on the spot: sandwiches made from our giant biscuits typically referred to as catheads—because that was how big they were—layered with slabs of smoky Tasso ham, a thick slather of sweet mango chutney, and a thin layer of sour pickled okra. Just watching her assemble them made me hungry, and Mrs. Standish was over the moon with delight.

  “Oh, you are a genius,” she boomed. “A culinary genius. I really must have you cater my next party!”

  Lucy shot me a look. I stepped forward. “You have a wonderful time today, you hear?”

  “Oh, we plan on it, my dear,” she sang and, taking Mr. Dean’s arm, floated out of the bakery as if her silver shoes were made of feathers.

  “Well,” Lucy said with her hands on her hips and one eye still on the door, “at least we know the vanilla éclairs had the desired effect. But I don’t understand why everyone seems to want us to cater for them.”

  I shrugged. “We don’t have to. It is flattering, though, to know she likes our food so much she wants to share it with her guests.”

  The expression on my aunt’s face became speculative. “If we could find some good help, it might be a viable way to expand our business. If we want to expand, that is.”

  “We can talk about it with Ben,” I said. “You’re right that we’d need some help. A lot of it, really, since we are relying far too much on the kindness of our friends as it is.”

  She sighed. “It was so nice when Cookie worked for us. I miss her.”

  “Me too. I hope she comes home soon.”

  “But she won’t come back to work here, will she?”

  One side of my face squinched in a kind of facial shrug. “Probably not.” Cookie Rios was a witch with a talent for moving forward. She also hated early mornings, and bakery work was unforgiving in that regard.

  Changing the subject, I said, “Listen, I want to make Declan a special supper tonight. Any suggestions?”

  Lucy waggled her eyebrows. “Special occasion?”

  I grimaced. “More like a combination of ‘thanks for being such a good sport the last few days’ and an apology.”

  “Apology?”

  “I asked him to try to contact Franklin Taite last night.”

  “Contact . . . You mean you asked him to channel a spirit again?” My aunt sounded almost as outraged as he had.

  I looked down. “Yeah.” I stubbed the toe of my shoe into the floor. “Pretty stupid, huh?” My head came up. “I try, but I can’t seem to let it go.”

  “I know,” she said with sympathy, then briskly, “But I can see why an apology might be in order, and a delectable meal is a good start. Now, let’s see. . . .” Her eyes clouded with thought. “Fried chicken?”

  “He had chicken and waffles last night from The 5 Spot.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s awful warm out, so why not grill up a couple of nice filet mignons?”

  “Hmm. Simple, special and one of his favorite cuts.” I closed my eyes, imagining. “Served with spicy red-and-black pepper sauce and creamy potatoes au gratin with chanterelles.”

  “And Spanish tomatoes with your heirloom tomatoes, peppers, and some nice Vidalia onion.”

  My eyes popped open. “Yum. Oh, and I want to end with cheese and poached pears. Maybe some of that butterscotchy Mimolette Althea had at the séance and a nice port wine. I’m sure Bianca can suggest something.”

  Lucy grinned wide. “A meal like that would make up for anything.”

  The more I thought about it, the more I was looking forward to it. We’d sit at the patio table Declan had brought me soon after we met, back when I’d barely had any furniture in the carriage house at all, he could grill on the hibachi he’d also given me, and I wouldn’t say a single word about magic or ghosts or murder.

  Not one.

  * * *

  I was bussing the reading area, where a pack of college kids had just finished an intense study session, when Jaida came in. She wore simple white slacks and a violet silk blouse, which told me it was an office day but not a court day. I raised the dish towel in my hand in welcome. Her response was a short jab of her finger toward the kitchen. Lucy saw and gestured with her chin for me to go ahead and follow. Our friend obviously had something on her mind that she didn’t want to talk about in front of customers.

  She beat me to the office, and I found her leaning over Mungo and massaging his ears. His eyes were squeezed shut with pleasure, and he didn’t bother to open them when I walked in.

  I perched on the stool by the tall file cabinet, and Jaida slid onto the swivel desk chair. Mungo grunted, turned around three times, and resettled on his club chair.

  “I found some information on your suspects,” she said.

  My eyebrows shot up. “Do tell.”

  Leaning back, she crossed her legs. She wore open-toed pumps, and her toenails were painted the same violet as her blouse. “Okay, regarding Niklas Egan, what you heard him tell Detective Quinn appears true. That is, I couldn’t find any record of a payoff to his paramour’s husband, but Egan went through a very nasty divorce and his ex-wife was not at all shy about blaming his philandering for the breakup.”

  “That fits with what we already know. Anything about who he was seeing?”

  “There was mention of a woman named Chrissa Stuvelle in a gossip rag online after the divorce. Looked like she was heading for a divorce as a result of playing around with Egan, too.”

  “Online. I guess I could have looked that up.”

  She waved that away. “We’re a team. Anyway, I didn’t find evidence in public records that hinted at anything else Simon’s unique skills would have been called upon to remedy for Egan. I didn’t find anything particularly interesting about the assistant, Owen Glade, either. He’s pretty much the dweeb you described.”

  Jaida hadn’t met Owen, since he’d been in the hospital the night of the séance.

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually call him a dweeb,” I protested.

  “Maybe not, but that’s still what he sounds like. He’s from Boulder Creek, a little town in northern California. Only child, graduated in the middle of his class, went to a community college and then onto San Jose for a degree in theater arts. Then he went back home and worked with the local theater. Lived with his mother, a librarian, until hired by A. Dendum Productions. His father is deceased.”

  Wait a minute. “Boulder Creek? I guess he told me that. But I didn’t know his mother was a librarian.” I held up my finger and extracted the manila envelope I’d found in the file cabinet from my tote. I shuffled the photos until I found the one of Simon and the woman in front of the Boulder Creek Library and handed it to Jaida.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “I wonder if that’s her with Simon?”

  “Owen told me Simon was working for a production company that was filming in his hometown, and he convinced Simon to mentor him as a production coordinator,” I said.

  Jaida narrowed
her eyes. “Do you think he was involved with Simon’s . . . other activities?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “You know, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy Simon would trust with sensitive information. He just doesn’t come across as that competent. You never know, though, so I came right out and asked him when he paid me for lunch the day after Simon was killed.”

  Jaida smiled. “And?”

  “He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. Mostly he seemed resentful that his duties were not more glamorous. He was Simon’s boy Friday.”

  “Otherwise known as an assistant. Seems like it would beat living with your mom, though. Glade is twenty-five.”

  The same age as Robin Bonner. Coincidence? Probably.

  “Well, thanks for taking a closer look,” I said.

  “I saved the best for last, m’dear. Mr. Grayson does indeed have a secret or two.”

  Chapter 20

  “Aha!” I said. “I knew there was something hinky about that guy.”

  Mungo sat up.

  “Indeed,” Jaida said, smoothing the fabric of her white slacks. “In his early career, he was arrested for selling drugs. Not on Hollywood Boulevard, either. It was near a high school.”

  “A children’s comedian who sold drugs to teenagers?” I thought of Margie’s giddy affection for Grayson. “How was that not a scandal?”

  “Ah, but his name was different then. He changed it—twice. From Grant Vanders, who went to jail for five months on the drug charge before being let out on parole, to Vance Gray. Six months later he changed his name again to Van Grayson and developed the super-squeaky-clean image as a kiddy comic. First parties, then shows, and finally videos. For a while he made the rounds on a number of kids’ shows, too.”