by Bailey Cates
It took a moment for what he’d said to register. “You dated?”
“For almost a year, when we were juniors.”
I whistled. “That’s hard to believe. How did you stand it?”
He laughed. “She wasn’t like she is … was … Well, anyway, she used to be a lot of fun—happy, lighthearted, almost silly at times. But she hardened over the years. Became bitter.” His voice softened. “That bitterness sapped all her joy and left her a shell of the girl I knew, brittle with anger and disappointment.”
“She was bitter, yes. But hardly brittle, Uncle Ben. That woman was made of oak, not balsawood.”
Silence as I remembered how someone had snapped her neck as if it had been exactly that: balsawood. One glance at Ben and I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I cleared my throat, feeling awkward. “I’m glad she was happy once.”
Knuckles rapped on the front window, making me jump. Steve Dawes peered through the slats in the blind, trying to see into the relative darkness.
“Darn him.” I launched myself to my feet. “He just wants a story about what happened yesterday.”
Ben rose and strode to the door. “Actually, Steve called me this morning. Wants to talk to me about the face of business here in the historic district. He’s talking to Croft Barrow in the bookstore and Annette Lander, who owns the knitting shop next door. It’s for his column.”
His last words accompanied Dawes’ entrance into the bakery. The reporter’s teeth flashed as he said, “Yes. For a column about the changing and the not-so-changing aspects of this fair city.”
He knew I’d suspected his motives.
Wincing inwardly, I said, “Come in, Mr. Dawes.”
“Steve, please.”
I nodded my agreement and muttered, “Steve it is.”
Ben gestured toward a blue-and-chrome chair. “I bet we could talk you into one of the cupcakes Katie just took out of the oven.”
The corners of Steve’s eyes crinkled, and his lips parted to reveal those teeth again. “Is that what smells so great? Talk about savvy marketing.”
My heart went thumpa. I scowled.
“Katie,” Ben said, the word gentle but insistent.
“I suppose you’d like coffee with that,” I grumped.
The smile never faltered. “If you insist. Cappuccino. Dry, please.”
“Dry. Right.”
As I moved to the espresso machine, he sat down and pulled out a notebook. “Ben, tell me about your vision for this newfangled bakery in old Savannah. Are you going for tradition or pushing for progress?”
The screech of the espresso machine drowned out the rest of his question and my uncle’s answer as well. I topped the cappuccino with dry foam, plopped a warm cupcake on a small plate and took both, along with a napkin, to Steve. Setting them in front of him, I met his eyes. He stopped talking.
We looked at each other for a few years before I tore my gaze away. Ben’s expression held mild amusement.
Steve reached toward the notebook of recipes that sat on the table in front of him. Before he could open it, I snatched it out of his hand.
“Proprietary information. I’ll let you get back to your interview.”
I took the notebook behind the register and bent to search under the counter for the colored chalk we’d use to list menu items on the giant blackboard. The whole time, I was intensely aware of the two-inch strip of skin on the side of my hand where Steve’s finger had rested for a nanosecond when I’d taken the notebook away.
There was no reason on earth for it to tingle like that.
None.
After a few moments the two men began speaking again, in tones low enough for me to ignore with a little effort. Which I did, studiously concentrating on roughing out the menu design on a blank sheet of paper. Glancing back and forth at the colors of chalk in the box, I tried to imagine what they’d best represent on the board behind the register.
Coffee drinks in white.
Cookies in light blue.
Biscotti in yellow.
Muffins and sweet confections like the cherry-chocolate cupcakes in light pink. Or maybe—
“That was delicious.”
I jumped and turned to find the columnist leaning one hip against the counter beside the register.
Thumpa.
“Um, thanks.”
“I’m not here to make your uncle look bad.”
“Thanks,” I said again.
“In fact, I hope the Honeybee will be a big success.”
“Th—” I bit my lip.
“Because then you’ll be around for a while. And I’d like to get to know you better.”
My brain shouted, Too slick! Don’t trust him! But something considerably south of my brain couldn’t have cared less.
“How much do you know about the haunted side of Savannah?” he asked.
“Not much,” I managed to get out.
“Want to know more? Not the tourist traps, mind you. The real deal. I could show—”
“Yoo-hoo!” Mimsey Carmichael’s distinctive Southern tones echoed from the kitchen, followed immediately by the lady herself. Today’s color of choice was turquoise, from the beads around her neck to the surprising blush of blue-green on the toenails peeping out of her sandals. The only incongruity was a tiny blob of white on her shoulder.
“Lord love a duck, what have y’all been getting yourselves involved with? When Jaida told me what happened yesterday you could have knocked me over with a feather! Thank goodness Lucille called.” When she saw Steve, her mouth snapped shut. Twinkling eyes moved rapidly between us as if we were batting a tennis ball back and forth. Finally they rested on me—and one closed in a conspiratorial wink.
I was sure he’d seen. Crawling under the counter seemed like a good idea, but there wasn’t room. If I’d been a real witch I would have made myself disappear.
“Why, Mrs. Carmichael. What a nice surprise,” Steve said.
Sheesh—did everyone here know everyone else?
Mimsey’s responding titter was tight with nervousness, which surprised me. The older woman struck me as unflappable.
“Another of your book club meetings?” His eyebrows rose and fell a mere fraction.
Mimsey cut a sidelong look in my direction. “Oh, we’re just being supportive friends,” she said. “Lucille called and wanted us to stop by, you see.”
Steve leaned forward.
“We’re going to see what we can do about—”
I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her—and discovered the white blob on her shoulder was slightly sticky.
What the … bird poop? Really?
“Do you have any more questions for me?” Ben said.
“What?” Distracted from Mimsey’s near revelation, Steve turned. “Oh. No, I don’t think so.”
My uncle opened the front door. “We sure do appreciate you including us in your column.”
Steve took the hint, albeit with reluctance, if the look on his face was any indication. “I’ll check in with you later, okay, Katie?”
I nodded mutely, ignoring the grin on Mimsey’s face, and reached for a napkin to wipe my hand.
She noticed and twisted to look down at her jacket. “Oh, dear. Heckle’s usually so good when he’s on my shoulder. I had no idea he’d gone and made a mess.” Shrugging her jacket off, she said, “Heckle’s my parrot, you see.”
Her parrot. Of course.
Chapter 7
Lucy leaned forward on the poufy brocade sofa and clasped her hands in her lap. “I told Katie this morning.”
Four sets of eyes lasered to where I perched on the arm beside her. I met their curious gazes one by one.
“She’s still getting used to the idea, though.”
“I bet,” Jaida said. Her smile was rueful but kind, as if she really did understand how strange it would be to learn out of the blue that you’re a witch. Or at least that a dear member of your family believes you possess magical powers.
&n
bsp; Bianca said, “Of course you’re still a little surprised, Katie. But you’ll soon tap back into the heritage deep inside you.”
“How do you know that?” I didn’t mean to sound so snarky.
Lucy answered. “Because all of us except Bianca were lucky enough to bring our magic into adulthood with us, encouraged by our families.”
Unruffled, Bianca nodded. “I became a witch as an adult.”
I looked down at Lucy. “You said something before about Grandma.”
Slowly, she nodded. “And her mother before her. You’re a hereditary witch. It’s in your blood—and not only on your mother’s side. Your father’s as well. He’s quite powerful himself.”
I remembered she’d mentioned something about him earlier. But now the idea of my father practicing magic shifted my perspective with an almost physical wrench. Dizziness swooped over me, and then I felt a visceral click, as if something had finally slid into place.
Mimsey threw up her hands, turquoise and silver flashing from the rings on her fingers. “All that will sort itself out. You can still help us while you come to terms with your magical abilities. We have to help your uncle. Lucille?”
I tamped down my roiling thoughts and the dozens of questions trying to surface, struggling to focus as my aunt jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth between the sofa and the chair opposite it. The same determination from earlier that morning thrummed in her footsteps. “There has to be a way to use our abilities to help Ben.”
Jaida cocked her head. “Another protection spell, specific to him, might be the first step.”
Inclining her head slowly, Bianca said, “It wouldn’t hurt, I suppose, but isn’t that a bit like closing the proverbial barn door after the horse has bolted?”
“A protection spell could turn aside additional mayhem, or at least keep it from affecting him,” Lucy said.
A sick feeling crept into my solar plexus. I stood. “I do so hope you ladies won’t take offense at what I’m about to say, but I feel I must.”
“Go ahead,” Jaida said.
“Ben needs concrete help.”
No one said anything. Lucy stopped pacing.
“We need a solid, real-world game plan.” I looked around at them. “You realize, of course, that finding out who really killed Mrs. Templeton is the only way we can help Ben. I don’t suppose any of you has a working crystal ball. Though even that wouldn’t hold up very well in court.” I smiled brightly at my lame joke.
They exchanged looks.
For once Mimsey frowned. “Our magic isn’t the kind where we wiggle our noses and make something disappear. Our talents are tools we can access in addition to our brainpower, our connections in the community, and a considerable amount of Southern charm to get at the truth about what happened to Mavis Templeton. There is no abracadabra cure-all to crime solving. If there were, believe me, every law enforcement agency in the world would be willing to use our skills.”
I sat back down, thoroughly chastened.
Cookie said, “Mimsey’s right, of course. So we do need that game plan you mentioned.”
Once again all eyes were on me.
I considered. “Well, then, I suppose the first thing is to figure out who had a motive to kill Mrs. Templeton.”
My aunt bobbed her head and went behind the register. She emerged with a pad of paper and a pen. “All right. Let’s get started.”
“Okay,” I said. “We know she had the good sense to date Uncle Ben back in high school. That she married—just once?”
Mimsey nodded. “Garth Templeton. Made a fortune in heavy equipment.”
“No children.”
“But she has a nephew,” Bianca said. She put her elbow on the sofa arm and propped her chin on her hand. “Albert Hill. Just as charming as his aunt, but not nearly as bright. I’ve met him a few times at society functions. He’s an acquaintance of a friend of mine.”
So Bianca attended society functions. Interesting.
“He’ll likely come into a pile of money from Mrs. Templeton,” Jaida said. “Depending on her will. Though I suppose she could have left her fortune to a charity or foundation or something.”
“That seems unlikely.” Lucy’s tone was wry.
“Sounds like ol’ Albert had a motive,” I said. “I don’t suppose he looks like Uncle Ben, does he?”
Bianca shook her head. “Not so much. I can try to find out more about him.”
“Good idea. What else do we know about her?”
“Ben told me she liquidated most of her assets after her husband’s death rather than pay someone to manage them,” Lucy said.
“I can dig around and find out more about that,” Jaida offered. “Much, if not all, of that information will be public record, and I know the system.”
“Perfect,” I said, feeling better now that a hazy plan began to form.
“Well, I can tell you one thing she still owned,” Mimsey chimed in. “That commercial property where Jack Jenkins has his store.”
“Where do I know that name from?” I asked.
“He’s the president of the DBA,” Lucy said. “But he couldn’t come to the brunch yesterday. He called Ben this morning, apologized and welcomed him to the association.”
“Did he say why he couldn’t make it?”
“He has a little store that specializes in Civil War–era memorabilia. Real touristy, though in truth he’s a bona fide expert. Takes part in the battle reenactments, all that stuff. He said he had to cover for a sick employee yesterday.”
I tapped one finger on the tabletop, considering.
Mimsey got up and withdrew something from the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Unfolding it revealed a large map of Savannah, which she spread out on one of the tables. She stood considering it for a few moments, then looked up at us. “Girls, I’m going to see if I can’t use one of those special talents I was telling Katie about to find someone who hated Mavis Templeton enough to kill her.”
Cookie laughed, then caught herself. “Sorry, Mims. It just seems to me that a lot of people might fit that bill.”
“Can’t hurt to try. I’ll run home and get my scrying crystal. Be back in about half an hour.” She hurried to the kitchen, and we heard the door to the alley open and close.
“That’ll give me time to run by the county clerk’s office,” Jaida said, and she went out the front door to Broughton Street.
“Scrying crystal?” I ventured.
Cookie smiled. “Mimsey’s the best of us at divination, though it’s always a tricky business, full of hint and innuendo to interpret. I can’t do it at all.”
Bianca began closing the blinds. “Lucy, do you have candles?”
“Back in the office,” she said.
“I’ll get them,” Cookie said.
I was curious as the proverbial cat, but I reminded myself to be practical. “Where is Jack Jenkins’ store?” I asked Lucy.
“Over on Bull Street. It’s called Johnny Reb’s.”
Only a few blocks away. “I need some fresh air. Think I’ll run over there and check it out.” I fetched my tote bag and slung it over my shoulder.
“Do you think he’ll be able to help?” Bianca asked.
I shrugged. “No idea. But since Mrs. Templeton was his landlord, he might know her a little better than some people. Like whatever Mimsey’s cooking up”—I nodded my head toward the map—“it can’t hurt to try.”
In the open doorway, I turned back. “Er … don’t start without me.”
They exchanged glances; then Bianca said, “Don’t worry. We won’t.”
Scrying crystal, indeed. If Lucy was “airy-fairy,” what did that make her friends? A bunch of nuts, that’s what.
Except …
As I strode under the ubiquitous Spanish moss that hung from the live oaks overhead, I couldn’t help but think about what Lucy had said about my parents. About how familiar and comfortable her words were even as I scoffed. It would explain so much about my childhood and about
the odd things that had happened to me my entire life if my parents truly did possess some kind of magical ability. Ability they had then passed on to me.
In other words, if I were a witch.
A witch.
My mind railed against the notion. There was no such thing as magic. Impossible.
Except … my heart knew magic was real.
It had always known. Now it felt as if Aunt Lucy had simply reminded me of that.
The door of Johnny Reb’s was propped open to the warm spring air, and I reminded myself to concentrate on the task at hand. What kind of memorabilia might I find inside, and what kind of man made his living selling it? Lucy had said he was an expert, which coming from her probably meant more in the way of a tweed jacket with elbow patches than a gun-totin’ fanatic who flew the Confederate flag from the antenna of his monster truck.
Jack Jenkins, of course, turned out to be neither.
I crossed the threshold and paused to get my bearings. Broad windows in front invited bright light into the small store. Dark wooden counters ran around the perimeter of the single room, with open shelves both above and below. They gleamed from frequent polishing, which explained the strong fragrance of orange oil. Items sprawled in seemingly random fashion, inviting customers to browse. Among worn flags, canteens, musical instruments and books, several display cases housed smaller items—tarnished bullets and cartridges, buttons and currency, coins and faded documents.
A tall man rose from his seat behind the counter near the door. “Welcome to Johnny Reb’s.” All the edges were worn off his gentle drawl, giving the impression of stately gentility in those few words. He wore jeans and a crisp, white oxford shirt open at the neck. A pale strip of skin around his hairline indicated that his brown hair had recently encountered a very precise barber.
“Thank you. May I look around a little?”
A slow, easy smile lit his sharp blue eyes. “Well, of course, darlin’. Look all you want and then some.” His hand swept the air, encompassing the whole interior. “I’ve tracked down every one of these pieces personally. You won’t find a bunch of cheap reproduction gewgaws here, don’t you worry.”