by Bailey Cates
What’s with her obsession with nurseries? Let us get hitched before we start talking about babies.
I looked at Declan with eyebrows raised. “Gosh, hon. Cookie’s thought of everything.”
“Darn straight,” she muttered as she turned to go up the stairs again.
We went out on the rooftop. The view was of stately mansions mixed in with Craftsman bungalows, punctuated by a sea of green lawns and leafy treetops. The owners had installed Astroturf and a putting green on the roof. Mungo ran out and sat by one of the tiny flags, tipping his head to the side as if to fetch any balls that came his way.
“Now, Ben would love this,” I said with a grin.
“It would be easy enough to take out,” Cookie said, knowing neither Declan nor I golfed. “You could replace it with rows of raised beds relatively inexpensively.”
“That’s true,” I agreed.
Back downstairs, I dutifully checked out the details in the kitchen and the brand-new bath. The front door had been open as we looked around, and Mungo was waiting on the step when we went back outside.
“You’re not going to buy it, are you?” Cookie’s voice was heavy with disappointment.
“Oh, sweetie,” I said, “I’m sorry. We’re the worst clients ever, aren’t we?”
She laughed. “Of course not. But you’re a challenge—that’s for sure. I’ll find something you love, though. Don’t worry.”
We got into the car. She started the engine and pulled away from the curb—in the opposite direction from home.
“There another place for sale in this neighborhood. As long as we’re here, let’s do a quick drive-by.”
“Sure,” I agreed, and Declan nodded his head.
After a few turns, she slowed in front of a three-story brick house complete with antebellum-style columns, gabled windows, a three-car garage, and a sprawling lawn. “What do you think?”
“I think we could never afford this. It’s enormous, Cookie!” I said.
She stopped smack-dab in the middle of the street and turned around in her seat so she could see both Declan and me. “Tell me again exactly what you’re looking for.”
“More space,” I said. “But not nearly this much. A yard, but not like this.”
“Garage?”
I shrugged at the same time Declan said, “That would be great.”
She listed another dozen items, and we did our best to answer. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry, Cookie. I’m still a little distracted by what happened at the bakery today.”
“Oh, gosh. Of course you are. Let’s table the house hunting for a couple of days and come back to it fresh.”
She started driving again. I looked out the window in time to see the sign for Paulsen Street going by.
“Hey, hold on,” I said.
“What is it?” Cookie asked, slowing the car.
I pulled out of my skirt pocket the receipt from the Fox and Hound that Orla had given me. I’d glanced at it after she jotted her address on the back, and sure enough, her house was less than a block away. If she hadn’t died that afternoon, I would have been there at that very moment finding out what the heck she’d seen in my future.
“Do you mind going by this address?” I read the street number.
“Oh . . .” Cookie said as she whipped a U-turn. “Remember those town houses I told you the Black family owns? That sounds like it’s one of them.”
“It’s Orla’s,” I said. “I was supposed to go see her tonight.”
Oops. But Cookie didn’t appear to put it together that I had been going to cancel our showing.
Declan frowned. “You didn’t mention that.”
“We made the arrangements right before she was killed,” I said.
“Oh.” He ran his hand over his face.
“This is it,” Cookie said, and stopped across the street. “There are six of them, connected in a row. They share a common space in the back. There’s a nice swimming pool.”
“How do you know all that?” Declan asked.
Her white teeth flashed in a smile. “I sold a house on the street behind them. There’s a fence, but it was easy enough to take a peek over the top.”
I suppressed a laugh. Sheesh. She’s getting to be as nosy as me.
The Black compound took up a whole block. The three-story town houses were constructed of gray brick, and each had a veranda rimmed with an elaborate wrought-iron railing on the top floor. Ivy crawled up the corners and spread like fingers to the middle units. The front doors on the ends were red, and in between them, bright orange-, blue-, green-, and yellow-painted doors brightened the otherwise somber building.
The blue door opened, and a stocky, dark-haired man came out. He looked to be about sixty. Two younger men followed behind. They appeared to be arguing. The older man pointed to a flatbed truck parked at the end of the block, and the taller of the others scowled but took a set of keys out of his pocket. He walked down, got into the truck, and drove away. As the other one turned to go inside with the older man, I saw it was Orla’s son-in-law, Taber.
Then the orange door opened, and a woman came out. I recognized Fern by the way she moved and the color of her hair. A girl who looked to be about ten years old ran out and took her hand. Fern ruffled the child’s brunette locks and led her over to the two men.
Right then, the older man looked over at Cookie’s car and frowned. He put his arm around Fern, gestured toward us with his chin, and led her back to the door she’d come out of. Taber followed behind. Moments later, everyone was inside, and we were left staring at curtained windows.
“Any idea who those guys were?” I asked Cookie.
She shook her head. “I don’t know any of them.”
“The woman is Orla’s daughter,” Declan said, catching my eye.
“She’s quite beautiful,” Cookie said, putting the car in gear and pulling away.
“And that must have been Orla’s granddaughter, Nuala,” I mused.
Silence descended in the car on the way home, each of us thinking our own thoughts. Mine kept going back to the book Orla had bought at the Fox and Hound. I turned over the receipt I still held in my hand and scanned the front. Beside me, Mungo leaned over to take a look, too. I shifted the paper so he could see, then mentally chided myself. Still, I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if my familiar could read.
Apparently, Orla had asked Croft to order another book for her and had prepaid for it when she’d picked up the book for Nuala. It was a guide to the best places to live in northern California. Had Orla planned to move away from Savannah? Or was it a gift for someone else?
Back at the carriage house, I invited Cookie in to share our light supper.
“No, thanks. Oscar made up a mess of Dominican braised chicken and stewed beans. I need to get going.”
“Sounds delish,” I said, and got out of the Lexus. “See you soon.”
She waved out the window as she drove away. Declan and I headed inside for our own meal and an early night. At least for one of us.
• • •
Declan snored quietly in the bedroom. Not quite ready for sleep, I settled on the couch near the floor lamp. I picked up the first of two books on the cushion beside me.
Maeve, Traveler Girl was aimed at middle-grade readers and was an easy skim. It told the tale of an eleven-year-old girl who was born into a family of travelers in Connemara, Ireland. She grew up moving from place to place in a caravan, discriminated against by the “settled,” and being educated by her mother and older sister. Then the family made the move to the United States, and themselves “settled” in northern Florida.
I’d heard of Irish Gypsies, and Maeve’s fictional journey made me want to know more. However, the story focused on her family relationships and having to overcome the difficulty of getting used to a new country after a very rural ex
istence in 1950s Ireland, rather than the history and details of her subculture.
Mimsey seemed to know about Orla’s connection to the travelers. Perhaps she can tell me more.
I put that book aside to take to Fern later and picked up the volume that one of the spellbook club members had brought into the Honeybee library, Telling Fortunes for Fun and Profit. A quick look at the table of contents revealed an extensive list of possible methods of divination, including tarot, runes, palm reading, pendulums, dowsing, dreams, dice, tea leaves, and crystal balls.
The sections on tarot and scrying with a crystal ball made me think of the cards Orla’s client had furiously swept to the ground and the clear glass sphere the fortune-teller had pushed aside to do her reading. They also reminded me of Jaida’s expertise in tarot reading and Mimsey’s shew stone. Jaida preferred the classic Rider-Waite deck for spell work but had a collection of unique and beautiful decks for her own use. And Mimsey’s shew stone looked like something out of a bad movie, but it did the job. It was a polished pink quartz sphere atop a rather gaudy bronze stand studded with what looked like glass jewels but were real precious gems.
Still, the idea that you could simply look at a spread of cards or into a chunk of crystal and see your future, or anyone else’s, wasn’t exactly how it worked in real magical divination. It was more like murky hints and hazy visions ripe for interpretation. Being able to accurately make those interpretations turned out to be as much a part of the Craft as invoking elemental forces in the course of casting a spell. The others in the spellbook club had been schooling me for two years, but I was still lousy at it. I’d had a little luck with a dowsing rod Lucy had given me, but I didn’t know how to use it to find out what Orla had been going to tell me about my own future.
But I have tarot cards. I can at least see what they say.
Chapter 7
Leaving Mungo to snooze on his favorite wingback chair, I quietly climbed the stairs to the loft that overlooked the living room. Opening the secretary’s desk that Lucy had given me revealed my small altar—always ready and yet out of view most of the time.
Nonna, who’d also been a hedgewitch, had knit the lace shawl that served as my altar cloth. I liked to think of her energy and love being intertwined in the stitches, supporting my own magical intentions. The items arranged on it were my personal versions of classic tools of magic, each reflecting one of the four elements. For water, my chalice was a small, swirly glass bowl I’d unearthed at the flea market. For air, an antique kitchen knife served as a ritual athame, nestled next to a bright azure feather I’d found in the gazebo. For earth, a small tumble of smooth stones gathered over the years, as well as an Indian arrowhead my father had given me. And for fire, a garnet necklace from Declan twined around the wand I’d made from the witch hazel bush in the backyard.
From one of the cubbyholes above the drop lid, I removed a deck of cards wrapped in a silken cloth. Taking them over to the futon in front of the television, I moved aside a few cushions and considered my options. Despite its listing in the book on fortune-telling, Jaida had explained to me that the purpose of tarot wasn’t really to tell the future. It was rather to indicate how things were currently going, and the possible general outcomes if your life continued on the same course. But life is changeable, and a day later the same spread would have different results. The cards held power when a person infused them with intention and were useful in spell work, especially burning magic. However, when it came to prediction, the cards were best at pointing out things a person might not have noticed, or for interpreting the past, present, and future in ways one hadn’t thought of.
I didn’t know of a spread I could do that would tell me the exact sacrifice that Orla had said I’d have to face. Nonetheless, I decided on a quick three-card spread to try to gain a little perspective.
With a question held firmly in my mind, I unwrapped my cards. The Kitchen Tarot by Shie and Fairchild, which I’d gravitated toward, was abbreviated, but still contained cards that echoed the major arcana of more traditional decks, as well as some unique additions. I liked it because the artwork was fantastic, it reflected my love of cooking and food, and the thoughtful messages were affirming and helpful. After shuffling, I laid three cards down.
In the position of the past, I turned over the Kitchen Timer—postponements, delays, second thoughts, secrets, and decisions. Well, that made sense. Deciding to marry Declan had certainly taken me a while, to everyone’s chagrin. And me being a witch, secrets were a part of my everyday life.
The card representing the present was the Food Scales. The interpretations for that one included accountability and poetic justice, cause and effect, being true to yourself, favorable outcomes with legal issues, and objectivity.
And maybe more than mere poetic justice. That one certainly is a nudge toward finding out exactly how—or why—Orla died.
I hesitated before flipping the future card. Taking a deep breath, I laid it on the futon.
The Silverware Drawer.
I smiled. That was encouraging. It predicted my faith and perseverance would be rewarded, that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and that by justified means and ends, problems would be resolved.
There was nothing in those cards about sacrifice. Maybe Declan and I would find a new home that wouldn’t make me feel like I was giving up a part of myself by selling the carriage house. Maybe Orla had gotten her signals crossed.
Either way, I felt even more urgency to solve the puzzle of why she’d suddenly stopped talking midsentence to step in front of a car.
• • •
The next day, Declan would start his forty-eight-hour shift at the firehouse at seven, but as often happened in our close quarters, my predawn showering and breakfasting woke him. He rarely complained, but I knew that he fell back to sleep only half the time, and I felt guilty for robbing him of much-needed rest—especially right before he went to work. It was yet another reason we needed to find a place where the rooms weren’t practically on top of one another.
I have to stop putting it off, I thought as I gazed down at his sleepy face, and promised myself that I’d give the next house Cookie showed us a real chance.
Thankful that today appeared to be one of the mornings when Declan would be able to get a little more shut-eye, I kissed his rough cheek, and Mungo and I trundled off to the bakery at five a.m. By the time Lucy arrived a little after six, loaves of fragrant sourdough bread were sitting on racks, the crusts still audibly crackling as they cooled from their high-temperature baking. I’d rustled up the varieties of muffins and cookies currently on offer on the chalkboard menu, and the baguettes left over from the day before were sliced and ready to toast for that day’s rhubarb crostini special. We would top them with the sweet stewed rhubarb that Iris had whipped up the day before, along with a dollop of ricotta cheese and a drizzle of local honey.
“Morning, Lucy!” I said.
Smiling, my aunt returned my greeting, then grabbed a bright yellow hostess apron from the vintage selection hanging on the back wall and tied it around her waist. I wiped my hands on my own skirt apron, a green gingham that I’d chosen to complement my pink skirt and white T-shirt.
“If you want to start filling the tins for the mini-pie special, I’ll get to work on a batch of croissants.”
She nodded briskly. “Better you than me.”
I grinned. The long process of folding and rolling croissant dough over and over again to achieve the delicate, flaky layers could be tedious, but I chose to see it as meditative instead.
Iris came in a bit before seven. Ben arrived right behind her, loaded with supplies from an early-morning run to the bulk grocery. I stored the items while he opened the bakery. Three customers were already waiting. He cheerfully whipped up their morning doses of caffeine and armed them with sweet treats to face the day. People might come in for Lucy’s and my baked goods, but I would have b
et that just as many came in to visit with my gregarious uncle.
The midmorning lull hit about ten thirty. I set Iris to work cleaning out the refrigerator, an unpleasant job that she dove into armed with rubber gloves and a cheerful smile. Then I went into the office to check e-mail. An inquiry about a wedding cake was waiting in the in-box.
“Hey, Lucy,” I called from the desk. “Are you around?”
Moments later, she rounded the corner of a cabinet to stand in the doorway. “What’s up?”
I showed her the e-mail. “What do you think? It’s just over a week away. She wants a simple three-layer red velvet cake with candied roses and lilacs on it.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” my aunt said. “I’ll get Iris to help me. Ever since we did a few for that Christmas party last year, we’re starting to get more and more orders for our candied flower cakes. She needs to learn how to sugar the petals.”
“Sounds good. Say, I was about to run over to Mimsey’s anyway. Since it’s slow and all. I can make sure she’ll have the right blooms for this cake when we need them.”
Lucy cocked her head to the side. “You need to see Mims?”
Shrugging, I said, “I want to talk to her about Orla.”
My aunt’s puzzlement cleared. “Ah . . .”
“She mentioned that the Blacks were Irish travelers. I’m curious. Maybe she can tell me more.”
She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Get going, then. I need you back here before the lunch rush, because Iris has to leave for her creative business class.”
I reached for Mungo’s leash. “Come on, little guy. Let’s go for a walk.”
On the way, I paused to pack some muffins into a waxed paper bag. Out on Broughton Street, there was no evidence of the accident the day before. Cars passed and pedestrians crossed, and I wondered if any of them knew what had happened. There had been a mention of it on page three of the Savannah Morning News, but I’d had to search for it.
We set off for Bull Street at a brisk pace. Mimsey had owned her flower shop, Vase Value, for decades. Even at eighty, she still went in to work most days. She said it kept her young. Lucy had assured me Mimsey did not use glamour spells—or any others—to maintain her sparkle and youth, so I believed that her work kept her spry and interested. It also fit perfectly with her affinity for color and flower magic.