Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561)

by Cates, Bailey

  Despite the adrenaline rush of nearly losing our lives a few hours earlier, or perhaps because of it, Declan and I had decided we still wanted our steak supper. He’d gone to the market to pick up the ingredients, and I’d dropped by Moon Grapes to update Bianca and get some wine.

  Now we sat in the early gloaming of the late-spring evening with the remains of perfectly seared filet mignons, creamy potato au gratin, and a mélange of grilled tomatoes, peppers, and sweet onions on the table between us. Mungo lay at his full length on the grass off the edge of the tiny patio with his eyes squeezed shut in post-feed-bag bliss. A soft snore rose from his throat as the first of the lightning bugs blinked on by the gazebo.

  “Did Peter tell you they found the empty bottle of Côtes du Rhône in the recycle bin at the house?” I asked.

  Declan nodded. “Nice luck, that. They found Glade’s thumbprint upside down on the neck.”

  I pictured the bespectacled Owen using the wine bottle like a club on Simon’s head, then shuddered as I remembered what he’d done next.

  “He’d apparently tried to wipe the rest clean,” Declan went on. “Not even Bianca’s prints were on it. Just that thumbprint and some prints from Althea and Ursula.”

  “Right,” I said, thinking back. “That must have been the wine Althea was drinking at the séance. Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose. I’d heard Ursula tell Quinn that she’d cleaned up afterward. If she’d thrown the empty away instead of recycling it, that piece of evidence against Owen would have been picked up with the garbage the next morning.

  Silence descended between us as we each ruminated over the events surrounding Love in Revolution and Simon’s death. My contribution had been the envelope with the newspaper clippings and photos. It was a small thing, but at least the photo of Simon and Owen’s mother would confirm their connection. However, Owen’s confession in front of five witnesses would be the strongest element of the case against him.

  I glanced up to see Declan regarding me with unsmiling speculation.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You glowed,” he said.

  I licked my lips, unsure of how to respond.

  “Like a lightbulb. Did you know that?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “It’s happened before, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Just a couple of times,” I protested.

  “So other people already know this about you?”

  “Some.” I shrugged it off.

  “Steve?”

  I looked at Mungo, still sleeping heavily, and didn’t answer.

  After a few moments, Declan said, “You saved my life.”

  My eyes came up to meet his. “We deflected Owen’s bullet. You and me.”

  “And Connell,” he added.

  “And Connell,” I agreed, examining his face. “You seem okay with that. Or if not okay, at least better than when your long-lost leprechaun uncle first showed up at the séance.”

  He ignored my leprechaun reference, tapping his fingers on the glass tabletop and staring at nothing.

  I waited.

  “It was kind of cool in a way,” he finally ventured. “The way we connected, you and me? Doing that thing we did. It was like harnessing raw power out of thin air.”

  I began to smile, but Declan held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I still think it’s pretty weird. Unsettling. Okay—terrifying. And the business about being a medium? I don’t know how to even start figuring out what that means.”

  “That has me stumped, too,” I said.

  He didn’t seem to hear me, thumping the front legs of the chair on the stamped concrete of the patio as he leaned forward. “And why now? When I’m thirty-three? Doesn’t ability like that usually show up when you’re a kid?” He shook his head and repeated, “Why now?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “It might be my fault.”

  Declan frowned; then his face cleared as he worked it out. “You mean because you’re a catalyst?”

  I bit my lower lip. “It’s possible. But even if being around me somehow triggered your ability as a medium, or at least your connection to Connell, it was something you already had within yourself.”

  “Latent talent, you mean.”

  “Uh-huh. Are you okay with it now that it’s surfaced?” I asked the question casually, but my heart was pounding. The future of our relationship might depend on his answer.

  “Are you okay with being a lightwitch?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it, considering. Then, “I guess I have to be.”

  Taking a deep breath, he said, “Then I guess I have to be okay with this ability, or curse or whatever it is that I have.” He reached over and took my hand in his. Our fingers intertwined. I felt his strong pulse and the physical power in his gentle grasp. “I’m really glad about one thing that came out of all this craziness,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I know you better than ever. I thought I did before, but I didn’t. Not really. Not when it came to the magic stuff.”

  I smiled.

  “But now that’s different. And, Katie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  Standing, I leaned over and put my arms around his neck. He pulled me onto his lap. It was a while before we got to dessert.

  * * *

  Later, in the dark of my bedroom, Declan’s voice drifted through the cooling night air. “Katie? Are you awake?”

  I inhaled the fragrance of the night-blooming nicotiana growing under the open window. “Yes.”

  “About the whole talking to dead people thing . . .”

  “Dead person,” I said. “Singular, and possibly not even a person.”

  “Yeah, whatever. You really do have to let go of the notion Connell is a leprechaun. Anyway, do you think we could kind of keep it under wraps?”

  “The spellbook club already knows. So does Ben.”

  “Will the ladies tell anyone?”

  “Nah. They aren’t much on gossip, but I’ll ask them not to mention it to anyone if you don’t want them to.”

  “And I know I don’t have to worry about Ben,” he said. “He’d know what kind of crap I’d get from the guys at the firehouse if they caught wind of any of this.”

  I thought of my altar tucked away in the loft. That was my choice because I was a rather private person, but even I could guess at Declan’s buddies’ reaction to his newfound gift.

  “I get it,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later I said, “Declan?”

  His response was a soft snore.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered anyway.

  * * *

  I parked in the alley behind the Honeybee at five a.m. and unlocked the door. Mungo trotted out to his bed in the still-dark reading area and settled in. I stowed my tote bag in the office, grabbed a black-and-red-striped apron, and flipped on the lights in the kitchen. On went the oven and in went the sourdough loaves that had been rising all night. As I consulted the white board on the wall where Lucy and I kept track of the daily specials, a rap sounded on the glass of the front door.

  Thoughts racing through the possible reasons anyone besides Lucy or I would be at the bakery so early, I quickly checked that the back door was locked. Even in the hours before daylight, I’d never felt unsafe in the bakery, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I grabbed the phone off the cradle before making my way to the entrance. My steps faltered when I saw who stood on the sidewalk peering in at me.

  I stopped in front of the door. “Althea?”

  “Please, Katie. Can I come in?” Her voice was barely audible through the thick glass, but I could detect the pleading tone.

 
My hand reached into my apron pocket for the key to the dead bolt, but there it paused.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked through the glass.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Will you please just let me in? I’m here to apologize.” No longer pleading, but she had me hooked. I opened the door.

  Althea entered, briskly rubbing her bare arms. The night had cooled considerably after the high temperatures of the day before. I keyed the lock behind her and turned.

  “Apologize?” I asked.

  “Yes. God, is there any coffee?”

  I pressed my lips together. “I’ll make some.” Returning the phone to its cradle on the way, I moved behind the espresso counter.

  As I set up the drip coffeemaker with a rich Kona blend, Althea wandered around the bakery, trailing her fingers along the tops of the tables, adjusting a vase of anemones on one and briefly standing in front of the empty display case with her hands on her hips before moving into the reading area. I watched every move, glad the glass shelves were still empty. Whatever her stated reason for showing up at the Honeybee at o’dark thirty, I couldn’t afford to trust her.

  She flipped on the lamp by the couch. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Your little dog surprised me.”

  “He likes the books.” I took two steaming mugs and joined her. Roused, Mungo moved to sit under the coffee table near my favorite seat on the couch. “And the people who read them.”

  She reached down and patted him awkwardly on the head, her allergies apparently forgotten. My familiar grinned up at her, and I felt my shoulders relax. If Althea meant harm, I trusted that Mungo would let me know.”

  “Cream or sugar?” I asked.

  “Black’s fine.” She took her mug and folded into one of the brocade chairs.

  “And fewer calories,” I said as I took a seat, then wanted to kick myself.

  This morning she didn’t look like the Althea I’d come to expect. She wore a light cotton sweater, jeans, and tan boat shoes. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a high ponytail, exposing a face devoid of makeup. Her age showed in the tiny lines around her eyes, but at the same time she looked oddly younger.

  “You’re here early,” I ventured.

  She took a sip of coffee and nodded. “I’ve been at the hospital with Ursula all night.”

  “All night?” Alarm threaded my words.

  “For observation,” Althea said. “The doctor suggested it, and I begged her to do as he asked.”

  Begged? Althea?

  “It looks like she’ll be fine,” Althea said. “When she fell asleep, I went to the Hyatt and showered, but I couldn’t sleep.” Her gaze moved to the side; then she blinked and seemed to force herself to look at me. “One of the reasons I couldn’t sleep is because I needed to tell you how sorry I am.” She paused, her internal struggle evident in the slight twist of her lips.

  Setting my mug on the coffee table next to a couple of books we should have put away the night before, I prompted, “Sorry for . . . ?”

  She took a deep breath. “For being so mean to you. For trying to make your bakery look bad. And for putting that stuff on your cookies.”

  I tipped my head to the side, searching for the right words. “Why do you have that ‘stuff’ anyway?”

  Her nostrils flared, and I mentally braced myself. But when she spoke, her words were slow and measured. “I have an eating disorder. I’m going to get help for it. That and some of my other problems.” Her eyes flared with dark humor. “There’s nothing to make you decide to save yourself from yourself like having some nutcase almost kill you.” She took a deep, restorative swallow of coffee. “Ursula said she’ll help me.”

  “Good for her. And good for you,” I said. “But why would you want to make anyone sick with our cookies?”

  She barked a laugh. “Boy, you aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you?”

  “I—”

  “No.” She held her palm up to me. “It’s okay. I have a feeling I’m going to be asked a lot more when I’m in treatment.” Her hand dropped to her lap. She looked down at Mungo, seeming to speak to him when she said, “There were two reasons I did it, I’m ashamed to say. And they were both for Robin Bonner.”

  “Your . . .”

  “Friend,” she finished.

  A lie on the surface. Then again, maybe they were friends as well as mother and son. Who was I to say? And Steve’s admonition that Althea might be trying to protect her son from the notoriety that would no doubt come simply from being her son still rang true.

  “See, I wanted Robin to be successful in his new venture as a caterer,” she said, finally looking up at me. “He’s a good cook, but he was used to running a food truck for the late-night crowd. That worked well because he’s such a night owl. Not a morning person at all. And it seems he has a few problems with self-discipline.”

  “Which is why he showed up late three days in a row.”

  “I tried to tell Simon—well, it doesn’t matter. Once Simon had his mind made up, that was it. But he didn’t have to fire my . . . friend so publicly!” Even now her distress showed, despite the Botox. She took a sip of coffee, grasping the mug in both hands. “Anyway, I wanted Owen to hire Robin back, so I tried to make sure no one would want to eat any of your food. Plus—” She stopped herself.

  “Plus what?” I asked.

  She put her drink on the table and stood, moving to stand in front of the largest bookshelf with her back to me. Mungo popped to his feet, watching her. Dawn was beginning to creep through the blinds on the windows.

  “You picked those particular cookies for a reason, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Her head bobbed, which made her ponytail swing back and forth. “I knew Ursula would eat at least one of them.”

  The psychic had been right. She’d been the target, not Owen.

  “Owen only ate half a cookie,” I said, hearing my voice rise. “If Ursula—or anyone else—had eaten much more than that, she might still be horribly ill. Or worse.”

  “I know,” Althea whispered and turned to face Mungo and me. “And so does Detective Quinn. I confessed.”

  “Good.” I hoped he would charge her with reckless endangerment at the very least. “Why Ursula?” I asked. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, though. Althea had poisoned the cookies before she even knew about our planned séance with Simon; then she protested having the séance, and finally ruined it in the end.

  She came back to the chair and sank into the cushions. “See, I hadn’t seen Robin for a very long time.”

  I bit my tongue and waited.

  “I found I didn’t really know him that well. But he’s my . . . friend. So if he killed Simon because he’d fired him and embarrassed him, then I wanted to protect him. I believe in Ursula’s powers, you see. Really believe. She’s passed on advice from my own spirit guides.” She looked sheepish. “I don’t always follow that advice, but at least I can get it with her help.”

  “So you protected one friend by poisoning another,” I said.

  Althea reddened. “I’m not proud of my actions. I have some issues. I guess you know that.” She sighed. “Heck, anyone who reads People or watches the news knows that. But like I said, I’m getting help. And Ursula forgives me.”

  Mungo jumped up and put his paws on her knee. Apparently, he forgave her, too.

  “Will you?” she asked, her voice timid. “Forgive me?”

  Thoughts of Aunt Lucy and the Rule of Three crowded into my mind. I nodded. “Of course. And I wish you the best of luck in the future, Althea. I admire what you’ve decided to do.”

  She stood, blinking back tears. “Thanks, Katie. For all that.” She shrugged her shoulders, not in dismissal but as if she were letting go of a great weight. It made me happy to feel like I might have contributed to that. I rose, and she moved toward me. She hesitated. I held out my arms, a
nd she moved into the hug, awkward at first and then giving a good squeeze in return before backing off.

  The rising sun cut through the window, illuminating the hope on her face with golden light. Looking down, she picked up one of those books that shouldn’t have been sitting on the coffee table. “This caught my eye. Do you think I could buy it from you?” Then she seemed to think better of her words and dropped it back. “Never mind. That’s silly. I can find my own copy.”

  I picked up the book and held it out to her. “No, that’s what the books in the Honeybee are for. Everyone can just take what they want, or bring what they want.”

  “Oh!” She smiled. “Thank you!”

  I led her to the door, unlocked it, and sent along my best wishes to Ursula as she left.

  Rarely had I seen anyone so happy to get a free book. How lucky that Mimsey had just happened to bring in that title only days before.

  The Creative Woman’s Guide to Authentic Recovery.

  Chapter 24

  The friendly bell over the entrance to the Honeybee chimed, and I completely ignored it. Once again Lucy was brewing coffee drinks, Ben held reign at the register, chatting up customers, and I could concentrate on developing a new recipe for sweet brioche pizza. Finally, things were back to normal.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Lucy exclaimed, cutting through my internal debate over whether to include toasted coconut as a topping. “Katie! Come out here.”

  I wiped my hands on my orange-and-purple paisley apron and walked around the corner of the refrigerator. When I saw why Lucy had summoned me, I stopped cold.

  “Cookie!”

  She grinned, and I rushed out to throw my arms around her.

  “When did you get in?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? We would have had a welcome-home party. Oh, well, we still can. Come on.” I pulled her toward the empty furniture in the reading area. “I want to hear all about your time in Europe.”