Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  “Albert Hill,” I breathed. Shaken, I leaned against the brick facade. “Twice in one day. It’s a good thing we didn’t run into him inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Ben didn’t tell you? That’s Mrs. Templeton’s nephew. He’s threatening to sue Ben, the bakery, Lucy, me, the DBA and maybe God himself.”

  “Pffft. That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  I could only hope he was right.

  We walked around the corner and found a door leading into a central hallway in the middle of the end wall. I held both hands up to the glass pane that made up the top half, on either side of my face to try to cut the glare from the sun. But even then the glass was too dirty to see through.

  Taking a deep breath, I yanked on the handle and the door swung open with a creak worthy of a horror movie. Declan caught the door and held it, entering right behind me. We squinted in the darkness until our eyes adjusted.

  The eight-by-five arrangement seemed to be reflected on both sides of the building. So unless there was a secret penthouse, this ramshackle edifice contained eighty miserable dwellings.

  No wonder Mimsey had identified it as a nexus of hatred toward Mrs. Templeton. I would have guessed that after one glance.

  Never mind that Mimsey had never seen the place.

  Pushing the thought away, I blinked in the low-wattage light and peered down the hallway. Mustard-colored carpet crawled the length of it, stained in the middle and pulling away from the edges in places. I met Declan’s eyes, their bright color dimmed in the perpetual twilight of this place, and saw pity in them for the people who lived here.

  He took my hand. Warm and dry, his hand completely enveloped mine. I instantly felt better.

  “Let’s see if we can find the manager,” he said.

  I nodded my agreement. As we continued down the hallway I had the sense of being in a fun house or a Tim Burton film. Declan paused in front of a door. MANAGER was written in black Magic Marker on a piece of cardboard and taped slightly above my eye level. As if of its own volition, my fist rose and knocked on the hollow wood below the sign.

  We waited. No sound came from inside.

  “He’s not in. Don’t know when he’ll be back, neither.” A stooped black man with a puff of bone white hair stood in the doorway across the hall.

  “The manager?”

  His confirming nod was elaborate, slightly sarcastic. “Yes, the manager. Who else’s gonna put a sign on their door that says Manager?”

  “What’s his name?” Declan asked.

  “Ridge is his name. Ethan Ridge. He’s probably off seein’ his parole officer.”

  My ears perked up. “Is that so?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. Just got himself in some trouble back a ways, is all. We got a couple openings here if you’re looking for a place, I can tell you that, but I can’t show you none of them.”

  I tried to nonchalantly see into the apartment behind our font of knowledge. Unfortunately, nonchalance was not my strong suit. He noticed.

  So I stuck out my hand. “I’m Katie Lightfoot.”

  He took it. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Katie Lightfoot. And is this Mr. Lightfoot?”

  I blushed so hard my follicles tingled. What was wrong with me? It was an innocent assumption.

  “Oh! Lookie there. She’s turning the same color as her hair, almost!” He grinned at Declan. “You two living in sin, then? That it? Well, that’s no never mind to me. Can’t judge. I let folks be. My name’s James Sparr.”

  “Nice to meet you, James. We’ll come back later. Thank you.” I turned and strode outside, determined to shake off my embarrassment.

  By the time Declan opened the passenger door for me I was thinking about Albert Hill again. Had he stopped by to see Ethan Ridge and left in a huff because the manager wasn’t there?

  Or had something else deepened Albert’s bad mood?

  Chapter 10

  Declan and I wrangled the sofa through the front door and set it against the wall opposite the entry. The contrast of dark purple against the peach walls translated to a kind of cheerful elegance. And the old trunk would make a perfect coffee table.

  He folded his arms and gave one decisive nod. “Looks good.” His gaze took in the rest of the living room: plank floors, built-in bookcases, the hall leading down to my bedroom, the stairs to the open loft above, French doors that opened to the backyard. “This is a great little place.”

  “As soon as I saw it I knew it was right for me.” I opened the back door.

  Mungo barreled in and right up to Declan. He stooped and picked up the dog. “Who’s this?” Mungo wiggled and licked his chin.

  “That’s Mungo the Magnificent.”

  Declan laughed. “He is magnificent. Did you bring him from Akron?”

  “Nope. He showed up when I arrived. My neighbor says he doesn’t belong to anyone around here.”

  “It’s nice that you took him in.”

  “Oh, I don’t know …” I trailed off.

  Those blue eyes met mine. “No tags? Have you checked the paper for lost dogs? Or taken him to check for a microchip?”

  Silent, I shook my head. I should have done all those things, but I realized I didn’t really want to discover that the terrier had another owner. No matter what I’d been telling myself, I wanted to keep him.

  He handed Mungo to me, and the little guy immediately snuggled up under my chin. I could feel his heart beating against my chest.

  “Maybe I’ll take him to the vet tomorrow and have him scanned.”

  Declan grinned. “Sure you will.” He peered out the open door. “Mind if I check out your yard?”

  “Of course not.” I followed him out. “I’m planning a garden along that back fence. See the narrow stream that runs across the corner of the property? In the opposite corner I’d like a little gazebo, maybe with a ceiling fan for hot evenings. In between I want to have a landscape-type bed full of all kinds of herbs, with an eye for beauty as well as utility. Same with the vegetable garden that’ll go in after the herb garden is done.”

  “Like a French potager,” Declan said. “Brilliant.”

  “You’re a gardener!”

  “I have a little vegetable patch. Tomatoes, melons, cucumbers, that kind of stuff. But my mother’s an avid gardener. I learned a lot from her.”

  Mungo wiggled. I set him down and bent over to say, “I’ll be home again in a little bit, okay?”

  Yip.

  Declan’s laugh followed me through the house as we returned to the front door. “You are so not getting rid of that puppy.”

  “Hush,” I said, and locked the door behind us. “Thanks for the help with the sofa. I really do appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” He opened the passenger door and put his hand on my elbow as I hoisted myself in from the running board. “In fact, let me know if you need any help with those gardens you have planned. I happen to be pretty good with a rototiller.”

  “Oh, you sweet-talker, you.” Oddly content, I buckled my seat belt.

  The feeling lasted all the way back to the Honeybee but vanished the instant I stepped down from Declan’s truck and saw Steve Dawes standing in the doorway. He shot a quick glare at my companion and stalked away down the sidewalk.

  A pang of guilt stabbed through me. “Steve,” I called.

  He either didn’t hear or was ignoring me. Well, what did I care? And why should I feel at all defensive just because these two men seemed to have a problem with each other?

  I whirled to look at Declan, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Slamming the truck door, he stepped past me toward the still-open door of the bakery. “Hey. What the heck is the deal with you two?” I demanded.

  He paused, but didn’t turn around. “It’s a long story.” His words were so low I had to strain to hear them.

  I softened my tone. “Will you tell me sometime?”

  A long pause, then “Maybe.” And he went inside.

  I followed slowly behind him.
r />   After he’d left I rested my chin on my hand and blinked across the table at my uncle. “Declan seems nice. Did you two work together much?” Leading the witness, trying not to be too obvious.

  “We’ve been through a lot together. Life-and-death stuff.”

  I sat up and leaned forward in my chair. “Sounds heavy.”

  “Unfortunately, firefighting is too often about tragedy. Early in his career, we almost lost Declan. We did lose another man.”

  My fingers crept to my mouth. “Oh, no.”

  “It was right before I became chief. I was still a commander and Deck was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie. Smart, though. Took his training seriously, did things by the book. That’s important because that’s how you stay alive in that business. The rules are there to keep you safe.”

  He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. Gazing out the window as if the past lay on the other side of the glass, he continued. “A multilevel office complex was on fire. Dispatch sent us out as soon as they got the call, but the flames had already spread to several parts of the building. Deck and another rookie went in with the hose line.”

  Ben paused, remembering. “One of the most important things they teach at the academy is that you never let go of the hose. It’s your lifeline. Between smoke and fire, it’s easy to get disoriented. Sometimes the hose is the only way you can find your way back out. Well, the other rookie broke that rule. When the rescue team went in they found Deck right by the hose line. His air bottle was empty, and he was unconscious. The rescue team dragged him outside to the paramedics and went back in for the other rookie. He’d run out of air, too, only he’d removed his mask.” He looked down at the floor and gave a slight shake of his head. “Died of smoke inhalation.”

  My uncle turned away from the window and sat down again. “That other kid was Declan’s best friend; they’d gone to college together, went through training at the same time, even shared an apartment.”

  I closed my eyes, the scenario playing out in vivid detail in my imagination. I saw a younger Declan, frightened and left alone, wanting to help his friend but knowing better than to go after him.

  “It must have been devastating,” I said.

  “He wanted to quit. But Deck’s good at his job, and despite what happened that day, he truly loves it. I talked him into staying. It’s been nearly a decade, and he’s become one of the best men I’ve ever known in the fire service.”

  He took a deep breath and stood. “Enough sad talk. I’d better go hook up your fancy convection oven so you can give it a test drive before the big day.”

  Bianca called as I was getting ready to go home. “I asked around about Albert Hill. The responses I got were wildly inconsistent.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Well, people seem to either love him or hate him. According to two society matrons I spoke with, he’s the bee’s knees. Helpful, generous to a fault with both time and money, an unfortunate, lonely man who needs a good woman to take care of him.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  She laughed. “These dears had an almost maternal attitude toward him, as if he were a favored son.”

  “Albert stopped in to the Honeybee this afternoon. He’s just awful, Bianca. Mean, spiteful, and I’m pretty sure he was drunk. It’s possible he’s grieving the loss of a close family member, but I don’t think so. He seemed more angry than sad, accusing Uncle Ben of killing Mrs. Templeton and threatening to sue anyone remotely involved.”

  “Hmm. Well, that fits more with what I heard from two other friends. Hill loves to take people to court—in fact, one guy called it his hobby. He does not, however, appear to be interested in working at any actual job. His aunt gave him an allowance. They also said he was cheap, greedy and had stepped on the other side of the law a couple of times to make a few extra bucks.”

  I digested this. “Albert sounds like a sociopath. Someone who can manipulate people when he wants to but who doesn’t really care about anyone.”

  “That,” Bianca said, “is exactly what I thought. Do you have any other assignments for me, Chief Investigator Lightfoot?”

  “Ha, ha. Not at the moment.”

  “Seriously, let me know if you think of any way I can help.”

  “I will. And thank you.”

  Minutes after I arrived home, a white delivery van pulled into the driveway behind my car. Two teenaged boys jumped out, unloaded my new-to-me trunk and deposited it in front of the purple fainting couch. Though I’d bought it on impulse, it made an attractive coffee table and would serve as much-needed storage in my tiny dwelling.

  Speaking of impulse, I didn’t even know what it looked like inside. Unbuckling the leather straps, I flipped the catch and lifted the lid. The inside was polished wood and smelled of fresh varnish. I ran my hand over it, relishing the smooth texture before lowering the lid.

  Something caught my eye, and I opened it again. Strapped to the inside of the flat trunk lid was a knife.

  My first instinct was to slam the trunk shut. Knives of any kind gave me the creeps unless they were whacking food into pieces on a cutting board. This one looked worn and old. I carefully loosened the band that held the weapon snug against the wood and removed it from the tattered brown leather sheath. The dull metal barely reflected the light, and tiny pits dotted the one-sided cutting edge. The blade was a good ten inches long, quite wide, maybe three inches, and separated from the handle by a brass hand guard. The end curved into a wicked point.

  I was holding an old bowie knife. I knew this because Daddy had one, only his was newer, with a shiny blade and a polished wooden handle. He used it for … What did he use it for? He didn’t hunt. He didn’t whittle—heck, you wouldn’t use a knife like that to whittle, anyway. But I could clearly picture it in his hands. I’d been quite young, no older than seven or eight. No memories of the knife surfaced that were later than that.

  This one looked old enough to be from the Civil War. That would make sense, considering how old the trunk was, except the trunk had been refurbished. Baffled, I set the knife on the top shelf of the bookcase, where I didn’t have to look at it. It obviously wasn’t part of the deal when I’d purchased the trunk that morning. Tomorrow I’d return it to Johnny Reb’s.

  Still sated from the big meal earlier, I poured a tumbler half full of chilled Chablis and, inspired by Declan’s offer to rototill, went out to the backyard. Mungo trotted along as I paced off the edges of each garden bed and imagined how they’d look once planted. Valerian and fuzzy mullein would tower among frothy dill and fennel fronds. Lower, the delicate blue shooting stars of borage flowers would mingle with pink chive blossoms and variegated lemon thyme. Purple varieties of sage and basil would look stunning against the gray-green spikes of lavender and dark green rosemary topiaries.

  Which reminded me of the rosemary Lucy had planted by my front steps. She’d insisted that I leave it there, and now I suspected there was some magical reason. Back inside, I flipped through the books Mimsey had given me until I found an entry for rosemary. It had all kinds of magical uses, from improving memory and concentration to purification and protection. Planting rosemary by the front door was supposed to protect the inhabitants from evil, as well as asserting the strength of the woman who lived there.

  Well, wouldn’t you know.

  Perhaps it was irrational, but the knowledge that Lucy had intended the rosemary to protect me actually made me feel safer.

  Of course, that didn’t stop me from jumping when the doorbell rang. Mungo didn’t bark, though; he just looked at me with expectant eyes.

  “Some watchdog you are,” I said. I could have sworn he grinned at me.

  Peering through the single pane of glass high in the door, I saw Margie Coopersmith standing on the front porch, baby on hip.

  I swung the door open, and she handed me a potted geranium. “Hi, Katie! Thought maybe you’d like a bit of green on your kitchen windowsill.”

  “First the cookies and now this? Margie, you’re spo
iling me.”

  A smile split her face. “I’m afraid I’m re-gifting. Margie Brown Thumb, that’s me. I’d kill it within a week. Figured it would be a good excuse to come over and see your new sofa, though. I saw you and that yummy guy unloading it this afternoon.” She lingered over the word yummy.

  “Well, come on in and try it out.” I stepped back.

  She entered the living room and made a beeline for the couch. “This is so unique. Elegant, like it came from a palace or a bordello or something.” She sat and gently bounced up and down. The baby laughed in her arms. “Comfy, too.”

  “Bordello?” I cocked my head to the side. “Yeah, I can see that. Can I get you a glass of wine? I’m afraid I don’t have any stemware yet.” Casually, I gathered Mimsey’s spellbooks off the floor and laid them flat on the bookshelf, spines to the wall.

  Leaning back against the tall end of the couch, Margie sighed. “I would dearly love some wine, let me tell you. Those kids have been running me ragged all day. But I’d better not.”

  “The JJs? Where are they now?”

  “Playdate, finally. At my sister’s. She’ll bring them back pretty soon, but in the meantime little Bart and I are available for visiting. If you have the time, of course. Or did I catch you in the middle of something?”

  I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, calling over my shoulder, “I was just out back, dreaming of the garden I want to plant. How about some iced tea?”

  “Tea would be great. A garden! Well, I’m downright jealous. I swear, I can even kill kudzu.”

  Back in the living room I handed her the tea and settled myself at the other end of the sofa. “I know you’re exaggerating.”

  “Not a whit! Now tell me, was the man who helped you with the sofa your boyfriend, by any chance?”

  “No boyfriends for me, not for a while at least.”

  She grimaced. “Bad breakup?”

  I nodded but didn’t explain about Andrew. “Declan is a friend of my aunt and uncle’s. He used to work with Ben when he was fire chief.”