Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  Back home, I showered and donned a floral skort, tank top and sandals. After returning the rented trailer, I drove downtown on Abercorn Street, wending my way around the one-way parklike squares in the historic district as I neared my destination. Walkers strode purposefully, some pushing strollers, some arm in arm. A ponytailed man lugged an easel toward the riverfront. Camera-wielding tourists intermixed with suited professionals, everyone getting an early start. The air winging in through my car window already held heat as I turned left onto Broughton just after Oglethorpe Square and looked for a parking spot.

  I rubbed cold butter into flour, baking powder and salt, sensing with my fingertips when to add the finely grated sharp cheddar and a bit of cream to the scone dough.

  Finally, a commercial kitchen of my own. It was really happening.

  Lucy and Honeybee the cat had greeted me at the door with a plate of lavender-laced biscotti.

  “Is our mascot going to stick around and charm the customers once we open?” I’d asked with trepidation, backing away from the orange-striped feline. I adored her, I really did, right down to the bright white tip of her swirly tail. It wasn’t my fault I was so allergic to cats. I’d practically lived on antihistamines while staying with Ben and Lucy before I bought the carriage house.

  Honeybee did that squinty-eyed thing and started to purr.

  Lucy laughed. “Don’t worry. She just wanted to check the place out. I’ll run her back home after we have a bite.”

  Well, the place was named after her.

  Lucy and I’d both chosen vanilla lattes for dunking the biscotti. The combination was heavenly. The flavor of the dried flower buds was light, the aroma enticing. My aunt had excellent instincts when it came to cooking.

  My nervousness about the move had evaporated. Not only was I in my element, but it was impossible to be anxious when surrounded by the color scheme we’d selected for the Honeybee. Light amber walls on three sides offset the burnt orange wall behind the counter. A huge blackboard above and behind the register listed the menu items: We would alter them as we learned what our customers liked best. In front of the display case, bright blue tablecloths covered fifteen small tables. The dark blue vinyl chairs on sturdy chrome legs had been chosen for maximum comfort. The array of stainless-steel appliances in the kitchen, visible from the seating area, mirrored their silvery tone. A large bookshelf sat against one wall, waiting for the reading material Lucy wanted to provide for our customers. In front of it, two overstuffed sofas covered in jewel-toned brocade offered more casual seating.

  Now, an hour later, the scent of the cheddar tantalized my nose as I worked. “We’re going to sell a ton of these,” I said to Lucy as she came back into the kitchen, fuzzy feline safely ensconced back at her and Ben’s town house.

  She peered over my shoulder and breathed deep. “Don’t I know it. But let’s add a little something to ensure that.”

  “Maybe some bacon?” I laughed. “Because everything’s better with bacon, right?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of this.” She retrieved a Mason jar full of dried greenery from a shelf in the overflowing pantry. “Sage. From my garden.”

  “Sage and cheddar are a great combination,” I agreed. “We should try that.”

  The front door jingled open. Quickly, I wiped my hands on a towel and walked out front. Behind me, Lucy said something. I stopped and turned.

  She stood over my scone dough, crumbling dried sage from the Mason jar into it and muttering under her breath.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  My aunt didn’t look up. “Oh, nothing, hon.”

  The sound of clicking footsteps caught my attention, and I looked back toward the newcomer. A gray-haired, precisely coiffed woman in her mid-sixties strode into the bakery on three-inch heels.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re not open for business yet. We’ll be opening next week, though, and would love for you to stop back by. There will be daily specials and—”

  “I know you’re not open for business, missy. I’m not stupid and I can read the sign in the window.” Deep frown lines defined her face from forehead to jowl. Her dark eyes snapped like a hawk’s.

  Startled, I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

  Lucy came up behind me.

  “Good morning, Mavis,” she said. “What can we do for you?”

  She pointed a vermilion-tipped finger at me. “Mrs. Templeton to you.”

  I nodded my understanding in stunned silence.

  Her gaze homed in on Lucy. “I want to know what your intentions are.”

  “Our intentions?” my aunt asked.

  “For this place,” the older woman said. “The Sassafras Bakery on Lincoln Street closed down six months ago. You would know that, of course, if you have any head for business. I found that bakery quite pleasing, overall. They managed quite a decent brioche.”

  Lucy spoke carefully. “We are aware the Sassafras closed. The Honeybee will be a bit different, however.”

  Mrs. Templeton glared, first at my aunt, then at me and then at her surroundings. Her eyes flicked from the richly colored walls to the open kitchen to the empty bookcase. She sniffed when she saw the sofas, made a harrumphing sound as she took in the espresso counter.

  “I suppose you’ll allow people to bring in those horrible laptop computers and stay all day if they want to.”

  “Yes, and we’ll offer free access to the Internet,” Lucy replied.

  The red-tipped claw came out again, shaking at us like we were naughty twelve-year-olds. “You’ll get all kinds of riffraff in here, ruin the neighborhood.”

  “We just don’t believe that, Mavis.” Lucy smiled and put her hand on my shoulder. “Everyone will be welcome here, and after people taste Katie’s baking the word will spread like wildfire.”

  Mrs. Templeton curled her lip and turned those bird eyes on me.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight,” I said, slightly terrified.

  “Too young. Good business requires experience, not nepotism. You’ll be closed in six months.”

  I felt my face redden as I struggled not to say something we’d all regret later. Who did this woman think she was, anyway?

  “Despite that, I’m going to give you an opportunity. This month’s brunch meeting of the Downtown Business Association shall be here at the Honeybee Bakery.” Sarcasm dripped from the last two words.

  “When is the meeting?” Lucy asked.

  “Wednesday.”

  “This Wednesday? But we’re not open yet,” I protested.

  “I’m not asking you to be open. The meeting is a private affair, anyway. Can you do it or not?”

  I shook my head, but Lucy stepped forward. “Let me talk to Ben, and we’ll call you.”

  Mrs. Templeton peered at the diamond-encrusted watch on her bony wrist. “I need to know within two hours.”

  “Why the last-minute rush?” I asked.

  She distributed an angry look between us. “The venue I had booked proved to be unsatisfactory at the last moment. Please be assured that if you take on this job the entire future of this establishment will be on the line. There will be thirty to thirty-five attending.” And with that she turned on her spiked heel and marched out the door.

  I let out a whoosh of air. “Who was that?”

  “That,” Lucy said, “was Mavis Templeton. Savannah mover and shaker extraordinaire and one of the unhappiest women I’ve ever met.”

  “She’s horrible.”

  “Her husband is dead.” She sighed. “Died about fifteen years ago and left her all alone. She was unable to have children, though I understand she wanted them desperately. She’s grown lonely and bitter.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “In other words, exactly the sort of person who could use a bit of sugar in her life. A cookie here, a brownie there.”

  Oh, brother. Sometimes Lucy went a little too far with all the sweetness-and-light stuff. “We’re not really go
ing to cater that meeting for her, are we? I mean, we never intended to be that kind of business.”

  A speculative expression settled on my aunt’s face. “It would be a terrific way to jump-start awareness about the bakery and a perfect showcase for your cooking talents.” Her gaze caught mine, and I found myself unable to look away. “Can you do it?”

  Why was my head nodding? No, no, no.

  And yet, while my head nodded, my mind raced through menu choices, discarding one after another but settling on a few possibilities.

  “Whole eggs in brioche, muffins, scones and a baked strata with Italian bread, spinach and sausage as the savory option. Serve a citrus cooler along with their choice of coffee drinks, and plenty of fruit.”

  Lucy raised her palms to the ceiling and beamed. “See? Easy as pie.”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  Chapter 2

  A flurry of phone calls later it was official: The Honeybee Bakery would be hosting Savannah’s Downtown Business Association brunch meeting in two days. I began sketching out a shopping list and a schedule. I’d bake the Italian bread for the strata tomorrow, as well as mixing the dough for the brioche. Then Lucy and I could make the muffins and the scones first thing the next morning, before the egg dishes took up all the oven space.

  A sharp knock on the back door made me jump. “I bet that’s the flour,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Let the ladies in,” Lucy called from out front, where she was washing windows. Ben had gone to buy venetian blinds at the hardware store.

  “Ladies?” Curious, I opened the back door.

  “Oh, my stars and garters, will y’all just look at this darlin’ girl! Lucille told us you were pretty, but my Lord, she didn’t tell us the half of it. That red hair is enough to light up the room all by itself.” This from a short, round woman dressed head to toe in pink. Literally. A pink bow clung to her smooth white pageboy, and magenta pumps peeked out from under the cuffs of her rosy pantsuit. Twinkling blue eyes didn’t miss a detail.

  “Um,” I said. My fingers ran through my short locks. I’d always thought of them as auburn, not red.

  Her gaze shot over my shoulder. “Lucille! We brought the books,” she sang out. “Just like we promised.”

  “Come in, girls,” Lucy called from behind me. “We’ve got fresh scones.”

  “Yum!” the pink lady said and resumed twinkling at me.

  I stepped back from the doorway, and she entered, followed by three other women, all looking me over like I was a horse they were considering placing a bet on. Each carried a fabric shopping bag bulging with books. One by one, they deposited their bags on the counter by the door.

  We shuffled into a rough circle in the middle of the kitchen, and my aunt made the introductions.

  “As you’ve no doubt guessed, this is my niece, Katie.”

  They all nodded.

  “Katie, these are the members of my book club, all dear friends.” With a languid sweep of her arm, she indicated the effusive woman in pink. “Mimsey Carmichael.”

  I smiled. “Ms. Carmichael.”

  She stepped forward and grabbed my hand. “Oh, no, dear. No need to stand on ceremony. We’re all going to be great friends. So I’m Mimsey, plain ol’ little Mimsey, to you.”

  I felt my lips twitch. “Mimsey it is, then. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Well, it is a plumb delight to meet you!”

  “And this is Bianca Devereaux.” Lucy gestured toward the woman who towered over the diminutive Mimsey. Long, straight black hair fell nearly to her waist, and intense emerald eyes gazed at me from her pale face. Her white peasant blouse was cinched with a silver belt over a long, watered-silk skirt in periwinkle blue. Expensive leather sandals revealed blue-painted toenails and a silver ankle bracelet. I placed her in her mid-forties. Between her height and her stark features, she would have been downright intimidating if her gaze hadn’t been so calm.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She put her hand on my arm. “Katie.” Her voice was low and smooth. “We’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to Savannah.”

  “Thank you.”

  The third woman, a little older than Bianca, stepped forward. She also touched me on the arm. “Oh, there’s so much to see here. So much to learn. You’re going to love it. I’m Jaida.” Her words slid over me like warm butter. In fact, everything about her exuded warmth, from her deep brown eyes and mocha skin to the scent of cinnamon that enveloped her. The scarlet blouse worn under a neat gray suit matched her shoes, giving the impression of a business professional with a bit of a wild side.

  “Hi, Jaida. Maybe you can give me some insider suggestions.”

  Her laugh was rich and sunny. “I’d be glad to. And if you’re interested in restaurants, well, I’m definitely your gal.”

  My ears perked right up at that.

  “And last, but never least, this is Cookie Rios,” Lucy said.

  Small and delicate, she’d been standing slightly behind Bianca. Now she moved toward me. The light caught a glint of reddish-purple highlights in her shiny black hair. It was a perfect complement to her olive skin. Her sundress, tied at the shoulders, matched jade-colored eyes. No touch on the arm for her; Cookie marched right up and embraced me. “Katie Lightfoot. Finally, we meet.”

  I couldn’t quite identify her subtle accent.

  She stepped back and laughed. “What you must think of us, fawning over you like this. It’s just that your aunt has been talking about you for months.”

  “Uh-oh.” I smiled at everyone, a bit bowled over by their enthusiasm. “It’s nice to meet all of you.”

  “You must come to our next meeting,” Cookie said. “It’s next week.”

  “The book club, you mean?” I asked. “What are you reading right now?”

  They looked at each other, and then at Lucy. She said, “I’ll fill you in later. For now, let’s give that espresso machine a whirl and get to work. Bring those books—I want to see what you ladies chose for our little library here.”

  The book club ladies hefted their shopping bags and lugged them out to the seating area by the empty shelves.

  By the time I made my own latte and went to join them, the group was surrounded by piles of books. Some looked ancient, others brand-new. I sat down next to Cookie and picked one up at random.

  Hypnotize Yourself to Stop Smoking Now.

  Really?

  I put it down and picked up another: Self-Defense for Pacifists.

  My eyes raked the titles, flicking from pile to pile. There was plenty of fiction and nonfiction, along with cookbooks, crafts and natural history. Though I considered myself fairly well read, most of these titles I’d never heard of. Almost half the books were how-to and inspirational manuals that ranged from beauty tips to how to parent a difficult child, from installing bathroom tile to exploring the afterlife.

  Across from me, Jaida caught my look. Her eyes laughed. “How do you like our choices?”

  “I … um … well, there certainly is a wide selection.”

  “Honeybee customers’ll read these books, darlin’. Don’t you worry.” The pink bow in Mimsey’s hair bobbed up and down as she emphasized her words. “They just don’t know they need to yet.”

  Everyone nodded their agreement, including Lucy. Amazing. Best to stick with the tried-and-true classics, in my opinion. Oh, well. My purview was the kitchen. My aunt’s was the library. I’d leave it to her.

  “If you ladies will excuse me, I need to finish up my shopping list for an event we’re hosting in two days,” I said.

  “You go right on ahead. Don’t mind us.”

  I took Mimsey at her word, and returned to the tiny office off the kitchen. If Ben could make a run to the warehouse grocer early in the morning, we’d be all right. I finished my list as another knock came on the back door. This time it really was the flour deliveryman. I signed the receipt and directed him to the storeroom.

  When I emerged, the ladies were gone, and Lucy and B
en were installing blinds on the windows.

  I sniffed the air. “I smell gin. And smoke.”

  Ben grinned. “You been tippling, Lucy?”

  She punched him lightly on the arm. “The ladies dropped by to help us get ready.”

  Understanding dawned on his face. “Juniper?” he asked.

  I was still confused.

  “What did you do, burn it?” I joked. “It smells awful.”

  Ben and Lucy exchanged glances.

  My aunt cleared her throat. “Mimsey is putting together some nice flower arrangements for the tables on Wednesday. Little bundles of freesia on each table. She’s a florist, you know.”

  A frown creased my forehead. “No, I didn’t know that. Now what on earth—”

  Lucy interrupted me. “Ben, we’re ahead of schedule. Why don’t you pick up what Katie still needs while I get the rest of these windows shined up?”

  “Sure thing.” He raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. “I bet you have a nice long list for me.”

  My mind filled with all I still had to do to get ready, and I turned toward the kitchen. “Finished it just before the flour was delivered. Let me get it.”

  When I brought the list back to Ben, Lucy was scrubbing furiously at a spot on the window all the way at the end of the bakery. He took it, bussed my cheek heartily and left. I watched Lucy for a few moments, but she didn’t look up.

  I went back into the kitchen and turned on the industrial fan over one of the stoves. In minutes the funny smell was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Late Wednesday morning local business owners began to trickle into the Honeybee. Ben, looking handsome in his linen jacket, greeted each by name at the door, and Lucy seated them. In the center of every chrome-and-blue table a small vase of yellow and white freesia sat beside a sweating pitcher of citrus cooler. Lucy had told me the freesia would promote peaceful, loving feelings. Seemed a lot to demand from a flower. For me it was enough that it was pretty.

  A large glass bowl of chilled melon balls drizzled with balsamic vinegar and sprinkled with cracked black pepper shone like a pastel beacon in the middle of the buffet table we’d erected against the wall opposite the library area. I’d baked like a madwoman the day before and had driven downtown before dawn to start in again. The lemon spice muffins and cheddar-sage scones would be served still warm, the other dishes piping-hot.