Potions and Pastries

by Bailey Cates

  Mungo leaning against her leg, the girl looked shyly at Lucy and me when Fern told her about the egg-dyeing party.

  “We have all sorts of glitter and stickers and ribbons, plus other stuff,” I said.

  Finally, she looked at her mother, then offered a little smile. “It sounds like fun.”

  Lucy gave Ginnie the details as I gestured Mungo into the tote and stood. “By the way,” I said to Fern, “your mother ordered another book from Croft over at the Fox and Hound. I think she prepaid for it. You might want to check with him.”

  “For Nuala?” Fern asked.

  Shaking my head, I said, “No. I think it was some kind of travel guide? No, not a guide. The Best Places to Live in California or something like that.”

  The door opened, and John Black stood on the threshold. A huge bullmastiff filled the rest of the space. Fern’s husband, Taber, hovered behind him.

  When John saw me, his eyebrows rose just a fraction, but the rest of his face remained impassive. Fern scrambled to her feet and introduced us.

  “You’re the one who was asking questions down at the riverfront yesterday,” he said without so much as a hi-how-are-you. The bullmastiff bared his considerable teeth. In the tote beside me, a low grumble issued from the back of Mungo’s throat.

  Putting my hand on my familiar’s back to calm him, I tried to keep my voice casual. “I don’t know about questions. But yes, that was me at the jewelry booth.”

  His lips twisted, and he turned to Fern. “We have a whole backyard for Nuala to play in. Why is everyone out here on the street?”

  Fern’s jaw set, but Ginnie stepped forward and said cheerfully, “We wanted to draw with chalk. There’s no sidewalk in the back.”

  “Want to see what we made?” Nuala asked. She tugged at his hand.

  John’s face softened. “Sure.” He looked down at his dog. “Sit. Stay.”

  The dog sat, right there in the doorway. Taber had to maneuver around it to come out on the step.

  “Hi. I’m Taber,” he said to Lucy and me. I could tell from his expression he was trying to place us.

  “We’ve met,” I said. “Down at the riverfront.”

  He snapped his fingers and smiled. Then the smile dropped, and he put his arm around his wife. “The night before Orla left us. If only we’d known. Let me tell you, ladies. Hold those you love close, because you never know what might happen.”

  Fern put her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder.

  We took that as our cue to leave. After offering to help with anything if we could, Lucy, Mungo, and I went back to the car.

  “What did you think?” I asked my aunt as I drove to her house.

  “Hm. Ginnie is nice. One of those open-book sorts, you know.”

  I nodded. “More than the others.”

  “They’re grieving Orla’s loss. Besides, didn’t Mimsey say it would be difficult to get the family to talk to you?”

  “She wasn’t wrong. They didn’t even ask us inside.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Lucy admonished.

  “Then why do I have the feeling that if we hadn’t caught them out in the yard, no one would have answered the door when we knocked?”

  One side of Lucy’s mouth pulled back in a half grimace. “And I bet you’re not wrong about that.”

  “Do you think any of them could have killed Orla—or somehow arranged for her death?”

  My aunt looked sorrowful. “I hope not.”

  “Well, I hope not, too. But every one of the beneficiaries of Orla’s life insurance policies was right in front of us today, except for John’s son, Aiden. Greed is an awfully good motive for murder.”

  She frowned. “And blood is thicker than water, Katie. Maybe you should be looking for someone besides Orla’s family.”

  “Who? Vera Smythe, the woman who was so mad about the fortune Orla gave her?” I’d told Lucy about encountering her at Vase Value. “Spud the juggler? Really? The guy . . . huh. Maybe he is someone to follow up on.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “The man who was driving the car. Maybe he did it on purpose.” I pulled up in front of her house. Inside, Honeybee disappeared from the window, leaving the curtain swinging in her wake.

  “Why would he hit her on purpose?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m not sure. What if they had some kind of connection? Or . . . what if someone hired him to kill her!”

  Lucy looked skeptical. “That seems a little far-fetched.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” I snapped. “Because I’m starting to wonder why I’m investigating this at all. No one else seems to think Orla was murdered.”

  She smiled at me. “The spellbook club does, honey. I know it’s frustrating. Is there any way I can help?”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, feeling like a heel. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

  “Good.” She nodded and went inside to retrieve her feline familiar.

  • • •

  We were halfway back to the bakery when the sneezing started. First, it was just once, then twice in a row. Within minutes, I was snorting and sneezing and sniffling like crazy. We rolled down all the windows, and I soldiered on.

  Mew.

  The plaintive sound broke my heart. I looked in the rearview mirror through watery eyes and saw Honeybee crammed into the corner of the backseat as far away from me as possible. She regarded me with a worried expression furrowing her striped brow.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her, and sneezed again. “I’ll be okay. I have some medication at the bakery that’ll clear this right up.”

  “Have you been taking your potion?” Lucy asked, looking as concerned as her cat.

  I shook my head and pulled into a parking space. “I ran out. Was going to make more tonight.” Opening my door, I staggered out.

  Lucy exited more gracefully. She picked up Honeybee, who crawled up to drape around her shoulders. I reached in and pulled out my tote, with Mungo inside.

  “The perfect night for it,” my aunt said as she strode toward the bakery with her tabby stole. “Full moon and all. The full Pink Moon, at that.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, and sneezed.

  • • •

  Back in the office, I rummaged through the desk drawer to find my over-the-counter allergy medication. I popped a couple of pills and dropped the bottle into my tote bag so I could access it whenever I needed it. Then I settled in at the computer while I waited for the drug to take effect. Everything had been copacetic out front when Lucy and I had walked in, and it wouldn’t do for customers to see me sneezing and sniffling in the kitchen. They’d think I was ill or, worse, assume I’d sneezed in their food.

  I checked e-mail, paid a few invoices online, and ordered some bulk spices. And sneezed. Twice. The worst was over, but I still had an excuse to hole up with Mungo for a few more minutes. So I typed “John Black” into the search engine and waited.

  And got approximately sixty thousand suggestions. It was a common name. Trying again, I typed in “John Black, concrete, Savannah, GA.” That resulted in a link to the Web site for Black and Sons Concrete. The Web site itself was just as boring as one might expect from a construction contractor. There were testimonials from customers extolling the skill with which their foundations or driveways or patios had been poured. Sighing, I scrolled down through the other offerings.

  Most didn’t have anything to do with the John Black I was interested in. Then I saw a reference to a lawsuit against the company. There was only the one, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more instances of disgruntled customers who had settled. Aiden Black wasn’t named personally, but Jaida had mentioned that he’d been the one in court.

  Still, no matter how I tried, I couldn’t see how it could have anything to do with Orla’s death.

  I flipped
over to the image results for John Black. There was only one that showed the man Lucy and I had encountered an hour earlier. Grinning widely, he had his arm thrown around another man with similar features. I clicked on the image, and it took me to another site.

  It was almost exclusively photos, but I could cobble together some sense from their content and captions. Someone had created the Web site to chronicle a gathering in Florida eight years before. There were ancient Winnebagos and shiny Airstream trailers along with a few high-end RVs. Scattered among them were caravans much like in the pictures in the book Maeve, Traveler Girl. They could have come from centuries before. There was even a photo of a makeshift paddock with milling horses and donkeys.

  It was, for lack of a better term, an Irish traveler convention at Lake Kissimmee State Park campground. In general, the people looked like any other campers. The shocking thing was that John Black looked really happy, his head thrown back in laughter. According to the caption, his arm was around his younger brother, Mike.

  Orla’s husband.

  But as interesting as that was, it didn’t give me any new information about Orla’s death. Frustrated, I clicked through a few more pictures.

  I paused at the one of Ginnie Black standing on the edge of a clearing, surrounded by children about the age that she taught at Gould Elementary. She had on a silly hat with a funny striped flower springing out of the side, and her eyes were dramatically wide as she held out a bouquet of flowers toward her audience.

  I zoomed in. Correction. A bouquet of paper flowers.

  Okay, so she was putting on a show. Apparently, they all had their skills in that regard. A few more clicks confirmed it, as the camera had caught Taber and his ventriloquist’s dummy. What was its name? Cobby, Fern had called it. And there was Orla in her fortune-telling regalia—only with the grandma bun and no fancy fedora. She looked like our Orla, all dressed up. I wondered whether she told the fortunes of her own tribe. There was a picture of Finn on his unicycle, and a woman in mime makeup who I thought must have been Fern. Finally, another picture of John Black, this time in tails and a top hat. He was swinging a pocket watch in front of a woman’s face, and his other hand was splayed wide in a theatrical gesture. The woman was laughing, her hand out as if to playfully push him away.

  A few more clicks revealed another picture of the woman, this time with “in memoriam” in the caption beneath.

  Like Orla, John Black had lost his spouse.

  I sighed, starting to feel like I was no better than a stalker. I shut down the computer and went out to help the others.

  Chapter 13

  As soon as I stepped out to gather the tubs of dirty dishes from the busing station by the reading area, I heard a familiar voice and looked up.

  Steve Dawes and Angie Kissel were standing by the coffee counter. They’d been dating ever since I’d cleared her of murder in November. I’d met both Steve and Declan within days of moving to Savannah, and I had to admit that for a while I’d been very attracted to the blond-haired, brown-eyed reporter for the Savannah Morning News. Not to mention, he was a druid and still maintained that he’d known I was a witch even before I did. Maybe he was right. Either way, he’d pursued me for months, even after I’d chosen to date Declan exclusively. Indeed, Steve had crossed a few lines to try to get his way, and while I was willing to forgive, I wasn’t dumb enough to forget.

  His excuse was that we were supposed to be together because we both practiced magic. Well, it turned out Angie did, too. In fact, she’d been Mungo’s former witch before he’d become my familiar. It made for some complicated emotions when she and Steve were around, but mostly I was just glad that Steve and Angie had found each other.

  Ben started up the espresso machine, and I knew he was making Steve’s dry cappuccino. I’d never seen him drink anything else. It looked like Angie had opted for a simple Americano and a raspberry muffin.

  With her elfish features, petite build, and dark spiked hair, Angie wouldn’t have looked out of place in The Lord of the Rings. Steve gazed down at her with warm adoration. I remembered being on the receiving end of that look, and a slight pang went through my sternum at seeing it directed at her. Funny, I hadn’t been upset when Steve had been engaged for a short time. I’d been concerned, of course. Samantha had obviously been wrong for him. I mean, I knew something was off about her. And I’d been right.

  But Steve hadn’t ever looked at her like that, I realized with a jolt. He and Angie were the real deal.

  Good. It’ll keep them both out of my hair. Steve’s persistence was nice for the ol’ ego, but remember that it was a pain in the patootie, too.

  Besides, I’d chosen Declan. And I was happy that I had. More than happy.

  I heard Cookie’s voice in my mind. Choice always comes with sacrifice. It’s the way of the world.

  Well, that was one sacrifice I’d make over and over again. Even now, a year and a half after Declan and I had been together, hearing the sound of his voice or seeing him walk into a room made my pulse quicken and my heart smile. It was one of the reasons I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

  I could only hope I’d feel half as good about the sacrifice Orla had predicted.

  Angie looked up and saw me. “Oh my! Katie, are you all right? We heard what happened. Have you been crying?” A worried frown creased her face.

  I smiled. “It’s just allergies. The medication has kicked in, though. I’ll stop sniffling any minute.”

  “You sure?” Steve asked, his voice deep with concern.

  Angie gave him a sharp look, and Ben gave me one. Always Declan’s advocate, he didn’t care for Steve.

  “Yup. Just fine.” I changed the subject. “How’re things with you guys?”

  Steve ignored the question. “So, this accident out front—as Angie said, we heard what happened. Then I learned that the victim was a fortune-teller.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you at it again?”

  I debated for a moment, then moved closer. “The police are calling it an accident.”

  Steve and Angie exchanged a look. “That doesn’t exactly answer his question,” she said.

  I licked my lips. At least I didn’t have to explain myself to these two. “There are a few aspects to what happened that make me think it wasn’t an accident at all.”

  Angie’s eyes grew round. “Murder?” she whispered.

  “It’s possible. I’m trying to find out.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” Steve asked.

  I thought for a moment. “Don’t suppose you know anything about Black and Sons Concrete.”

  Steve grinned. “Not yet.”

  I couldn’t help grinning back as Ben handed him his drink.

  The two lovebirds went to find a seat, and I turned toward the reading area again. A woman sat curled in one of the poufy brocade chairs, a steaming cup in her hand and a half-eaten blackberry thyme muffin on a plate beside her. Her head was bent over the book in her lap, but when she raised it to take another bite, I recognized Vera Smythe.

  Surprised, I went over to her. “Hi there. Looks like you enjoyed that muffin enough to stop in and get another.”

  She blinked, then recognized me. “Oh, they’re delicious.”

  I saw the book that had captured her attention. What to Expect When You’re Expecting a Divorce. My heart sank.

  She saw me looking and tucked the book down in the cushion next to another one, whose title I couldn’t make out. A wan smile played on her lips. “This place is lovely. I’m so glad you told me about it. And all these books are really here for the taking?”

  “Absolutely.” I nodded. “If you have something you want to donate, that’s fine, but it’s not required.”

  “What a handy thing to have in a bakery. I’ll certainly be back.”

  That loud voice I knew so well came floating over from the register.
“I forgot to ask when I was in before! When is Cookie’s little darlin’ due?” Mrs. Standish boomed.

  “I’ll leave you to your reading,” I said to Vera before hurrying over to help Lucy.

  “Mrs. Standish!” I exclaimed. “Fancy seeing you here twice in one day!”

  “Oh, Lord, Katie. I couldn’t stay away. I simply must have another half dozen of those chocolate chip cookies I picked up this morning. They are something else! So good that I finished off the first six before Skipper Dean even got a taste.” She was referring to her paramour, a short, slight man who managed her excesses with remarkable aplomb. She waggled her eyebrows. “And I wouldn’t want to deny the skipper such a treat.”

  “Let me wrap them up for you.” Lucy reached for a bag with the Honeybee logo of a stylized tabby cat on the side.

  “Now,” Mrs. Standish said to me. “I understand the other day there was an accident out front.”

  I made a face and nodded.

  “Did you see it?”

  Lucy frowned and silently began retrieving Mrs. Standish’s cookies from the display case.

  Mrs. Standish was nice as pie, but she did have a salacious streak. Over her shoulder, I saw Steve and Angie watching. Wisely, they were staying out of the conversation.

  “It was tragic,” I said flatly.

  “Oh, heavens. Yes, tragic. Horrible, horrible.”

  “I’d just seen the woman who was killed the evening before,” Vera said from behind me.

  I turned to see her clutching the two books she’d chosen.

  “She had a booth down on River Street,” she said. “She read my fortune.”

  “Really! Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Standish exclaimed. “Do you think it will come true?”

  For a moment, I thought Vera was going to cry. Then she rallied. “It already has.”

  Ugh. Poor thing.

  “Well, I must be going,” Vera said. “I’ll be back, though.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said.

  She began to leave but stopped herself. Digging in her purse, she extracted a card and handed it to me. “Give the salon a call next time you’re looking for a haircut. We can help with those eyebrows, too. See you later.” She walked to the door and pushed it open.