by Bailey Cates
“Hmm. Fair point. Anyway, I stopped by for another reason.” I put my hand into my bag to fish out the agreement Mrs. Templeton had made for the DBA brunch and was surprised to find Mungo positively vibrating. I felt terrible. He probably didn’t like knives, either, and here I’d made him ride around right beside one. I rested my hand along his back for a moment, and he quieted.
Jenkins watched me expectantly. I put the paper on the counter, and he leaned forward to take a look.
“I don’t know whether Mrs. Templeton has been replaced as treasurer of the DBA yet, but we never received full payment for the brunch. This is the contract she and my Uncle Ben drew up. And this is what she tried to pay us.”
“Oh, my. Isn’t this what they were fighting about directly before her life was cut short?”
I pressed my lips together. “There was a small disagreement after she tried to break the contract, yes.”
“I see. Well, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will attend to it and get a check to your uncle as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” I looked at my watch. “I need to be getting back to the bakery. Still a lot to do before the grand opening tomorrow. I hope you’ll stop by.”
He waved his hand through the air. “I assure you, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Here. I made these up while you were gone.” Lucy held out a plastic container. “Eat one tonight as a bedtime snack. It’ll help you sleep.”
“What are they?” I asked.
“Seven-layer bars.”
I gave her a look. “You mean the kind that are sometimes called magic bars?”
Lucy grinned. “Trust me.”
I opened the lid and peered in. A multitude of scents curled up from the container, and I almost swooned on the spot. “They smell delicious. What’s in them?” I recognized the chocolate chips, coconut, graham crackers and walnuts from the traditional recipe Mama used to make, but there weren’t any butterscotch or white chocolate chips, and their smell was different from that of the seven-layer bars I’d eaten as a child.
“All sorts of good things,” she said with a smile. “And a pinch of agrimony. I know you haven’t been sleeping well lately, and you need your rest if you’ll be hitting the kitchen at five every morning.”
For a moment I considered telling her about my sleep disorder, but I just said, “True enough,” and sniffed the contents once more before snapping the lid back on. “Thanks, Lucy.”
She grinned. “Plus, you’re not nearly as grumpy when you get a good night’s sleep.”
I rolled my eyes. If she only knew.
* * *
We’d renovated and designed and arranged the space. We’d developed the recipes. And tomorrow we would throw open the door of Honeybee Bakery to the public. In addition to hitting the kitchen at five a.m. to start the day’s baking, I would be baking on and off until each afternoon, with Lucy’s help. And besides the trios of cookies, biscotti, muffins and scones, each day there’d be a special. The grand opening special would be individual peach-and-pecan pies.
I added flour, water and salt to the giant glop of sourdough starter in the big mixer and set it to churning on low. After the mixture had grown and burbled for a few hours, I would put the wet sponge into baking pans and those into the refrigerator to slow-rise overnight. In the morning the loaves would be ready to bake, with no kneading and without my having to start work at three o’clock in the morning.
Yes, that crappy job in Akron had taught me a few things.
The back door opened and Steve Dawes walked in without even bothering to knock. I folded my arms and raised my eyebrows at his entrance. Was he simply confident or downright arrogant? At least I didn’t get the girlie shivers this time. This time my blood surged like a tide responding to the proximity of the moon.
Great.
“Hey there. All ready for the big day?” he asked.
“We’re set to go. Now we just need the customers to show up.” I flipped the switch on the mixer, lifted the beater, and draped a towel over the bowl.
“Oh, you’ll get those. There’s a buzz about this place, you know.”
A smile crept onto my face. So word had already spread. Excellent.
“People will want to see where Mavis Templeton was killed.”
My smile slid away. “Terrific.”
He laughed. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?”
“Hmm. I guess.” It would be nice if people came to the Honeybee because of the fabulous baked goods, though. I reminded myself we had to give it time.
“So, I barged in for a reason,” Steve said.
“Really? Do tell.”
“I’m looking for Ben. Got a couple follow-up questions for my column. You know, the one about the changing face of business.”
“Right. Sorry, but he’s not here right now.” He’d looked so ragged Lucy and I had insisted that he try to get a little rest. Lucy had sent some seven-layer bars home with him to encourage a nice nap.
“When will he be back?”
I shrugged. “I know he’ll be here tomorrow, manning the counter and charming customers.”
“I’d sure like to get the column in. I’ll give him a call.”
“I’m sure he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.”
“Hmm.” Steve peered at my face. “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”
I frowned. “I look that bad, huh?” What was with all the concern about my sleeping habits?
“Not at all. I can just … tell. Okay, I’ll let you get back to work. But don’t forget dinner. I’m going to keep at it until you give in.”
And now I was nodding, just like I did when Lucy had asked me if we could do the DBA brunch for Mrs. Templeton: against my will.
“Good. And soon.” He turned to go. “See you.”
“Wait a second.”
He looked back at me. “Change your mind?” The hope on his face was disconcerting and charming at the same time.
“I was wondering if you’d had a chance to talk to any of your pals on the police force about the murder.”
The hope turned into a wry smile. “Of course you were.”
I refused to feel sheepish. A girl’s got to keep her priorities straight.
“And?”
“And nothing. Yet. Give me your number, and I’ll call if I find out anything.”
“Oh. Um, okay.”
“Now, come on. I won’t bite.” His grin was awfully toothy, though.
I recited my phone number, and he tapped it into his cell phone, then looked up. “There. You’re officially on my list.” Surprise registered on his face. “Don’t look like that! You act like I’m some stalker. Here.” He took out a business card and gave it to me. “That’s my number. Now we’re even, right?”
Hardly.
Donning my best poker face, I asked, “How would you go about finding out what someone went to jail for?”
“Someone who?”
“Ethan Ridge.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You know him?”
“Of him. When I worked the crime beat for the Morning News, it was common knowledge that eighty percent of the people law enforcement deals with are folks they’ve run into before. Ridge was one of those repeat customers. Then he went away for a while, and it was common knowledge when he came back.”
“He’s the manager of the Peachtree Arms.”
Steve’s response was a blank look.
“That’s Mrs. Templeton’s apartment complex. Now her nephew’s, I guess.”
He took out a pen and his ever handy notebook. “Ethan Ridge. Like I said, I know he was in prison, but I don’t know what landed him there. I’ll see what I can come up with, okay?”
“That’d be great,” I said with a big smile.
“’Bye, Katie-girl.” He walked out without looking back.
The door latch clicked behind him. “’Bye,” I said to empty air.
Chapter 1
5
Ethan Ridge wasn’t the only one who’d had problems with dear Mavis. Now that Steve was looking into his nefarious past I wanted to find out what had happened to Redding Coopersmith’s friend before we got too busy at the bakery. I’d related Margie’s story to Lucy and Bianca, who came in soon after Steve left,
“I’d sure like to track down Frank Pullman before the grand opening tomorrow,” I said now. “We’ve heard Mrs. Templeton made a lot of threats, and we even witnessed some right here in the Honeybee, but it seems she actually destroyed Pullman’s life.”
Bianca slid into the chair across from me. “He lives a few miles away. We could go see him right now.” She recited an address.
“You know him?” I asked. A sense of urgency settled on my shoulders.
She shrugged. “Never heard of the gentleman before you told us about him.”
“Then how did … Is there an address location spell or something?”
Her lips quirked. “Yes. It’s called a telephone book. Very old school.”
Lucy laughed. I ducked my head, feeling my face redden. I had to stop thinking everything these ladies did involved witchcraft.
“I have some time right now. Can you leave?” Bianca asked.
I glanced at Lucy. “I think we should. What else is there to do to get ready for the opening? Other than the baking I’ll do in the morning.” The bakery was scheduled to open at seven o’clock the next morning. Because we wanted everything to be perfect, I’d be at the Honeybee bright and early at four a.m. I’d already prepped everything I could.
My aunt waved her hand. “We’re all set, hon. You go ahead with Bianca and see what Mr. Pullman has to say. I’ll take care of anything that comes up.”
Standing, I said, “We shouldn’t be long.”
Bianca offered to drive. When I saw the red Jaguar convertible I was sorry we had to go only a few miles.
In no time we pulled up behind a battered pickup parked at the curb in front of a white bungalow centered on a small lot. The porch sported an elaborate wooden railing, and the low cedar pickets surrounding the yard stood out in contrast to the neighbors’ wrought-iron fences. The gate was open, as was the front door. Several cardboard boxes emblazoned with the NEW START MOVING logo filled the back of the truck, along with a Naugahyde recliner and two large suitcases.
As we approached the gate, a tall bearded man wearing black-framed glasses carried another suitcase out of the house and shut the door behind him. He jingled the keys in his hand and regarded us from the shade of the porch. Exchanging glances, Bianca and I entered the yard and walked up the sidewalk.
“You from the bank?” Anger flared in his eyes as we came nearer.
“Um, no, sir,” I said.
“Don’t tell me those bastards put the house on the market already.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that. Are you Frank Pullman?”
The heat in his glare diminished a fraction. “Who wants to know?”
I climbed the stairs and stepped onto the porch. “Katie Lightfoot.” I gestured at Bianca, who stopped halfway up the steps and leaned against the scrolled railing. “And this is Bianca Devereaux.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she drawled. “Assuming you are indeed Mr. Pullman?”
A couple of beats passed and then his shoulders slumped. He looked down at the painted floorboards and muttered, “Yeah. That’s me.”
On the brief drive over I’d racked my brain for the best way to ask him about Mrs. Templeton. Nothing terribly clever had occurred to me. Now I blurted, “My next-door neighbor is Margie Coopersmith. She told me about your trouble with Mavis Templeton, but that you’re a good carpenter. I just moved here and I need a little work done on my house, so my friend and I thought we’d stop by and introduce ourselves.” It was partly true. I did need someone to build my dream gazebo in the backyard.
Bianca stared at me. I couldn’t blame her. I’d more or less invited a possible murderer to come work on my house. Even told him right where I lived.
Dumb move, Katie.
Pullman shuffled his feet. “That was nice of Margie. Redding’s a good buddy of mine, one of the few who didn’t pay any attention to that whole hullabaloo.”
“You mean losing your job?”
He froze. Then his eyes flicked up to meet mine. “What did Margie tell you?”
“Not much.”
“Good.”
“I’d like to know what happened, though. If I’m going to hire you, I mean.”
“I thought you believed Margie.”
“Well, I do, of course. As far as that goes, but she didn’t know any details. I’d at least like to understand who I might be working with.”
Bianca stirred behind me.
Frank’s head swung back and forth in an exaggerated negative. “Sorry, lady. That old bat ruined my entire life, and I’m not inclined to revisit the details. I’m planning to move in with my sister over in Pooler, anyway. My brother-in-law may have a line on some work for me there.”
Margie had mentioned a wife and daughter. Where were they?
Bianca stepped up next to me. “Mr. Pullman, painful as the entire situation must have been, surely you don’t mind telling Katie a few details in exchange for paid work. After all, Mavis Templeton is dead now.”
He froze, searching her face. His attention returned to me. “Dead? How?”
Watching his reaction carefully, I said, “She was murdered.”
Pullman blinked. He seemed more stunned than anything else.
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” Bianca said. “It’s been all over the news.”
“I’ve had too much on my mind to read the paper. And my wife took the television when she left with Ellie.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.
Distracted, he ran his hand over the smooth wood of the railing. “After I lost my job, I couldn’t get regular work anywhere in town. Someone—either Templeton herself or someone doing it for her—contacted all the companies who hire specialty carpenters like me and told them not to. Hire me, I mean. I found a few projects here and there, but most people wouldn’t even talk to me. All in all, it wasn’t enough to make the house payments. And when we were served with the foreclosure notice, my wife had had enough. She took my little girl and went to live with her parents in Atlanta.”
“Mrs. Templeton really had that kind of power?” I asked.
He ran a shaky hand over his face. “She did. Oh, my, yes, she did.”
“Why on earth was she so angry with you?” Bianca asked. Blunt, but effective.
“She said I left too much of a mess when I was done fixing a big fancy stair railing in that old house of hers.”
“A mess,” I repeated in a flat tone.
“Well, there might have been some sawdust, but that’s all. She refused to pay for the work, even though it had taken me two days to refit and fix that banister. When it was finished, you couldn’t even tell it had been restored. But that wasn’t good enough for her. I think she was just too cheap to pay for my skill.”
“Sawdust on the floor,” I said. “Surely that’s not enough to ruin someone’s life over.”
“I sure didn’t think so.”
“Why would anyone listen to her?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Everyone did, though.” Slowly, his expression brightened. “But you say she’s dead now. Really gone?”
Bianca and I nodded.
A huge grin of relief split his face. “That’s great!”
Bianca’s eyebrows knitted.
Suddenly, Frank Pullman let loose a big whoop! and leaped over the railing. We watched slack-jawed as he raced to the truck and climbed inside. The engine roared to life and he sped away.
I wondered how long it would take him to realize he’d left his suitcase on the porch.
Bianca let out a whoosh of air. “Well, he certainly seemed surprised by the news.”
Still somewhat stunned by his reac
tion, I said, “Yes. And, uh, gleeful.”
“Do you think he could have been faking it?” she asked.
“That seemed like a heartfelt, if utterly inappropriate, reaction.”
Our eyes met, and we struggled not to laugh.
“Come on. Let’s go back and let the others know Frank Pullman, though he might have liked to murder Mrs. Templeton, doesn’t appear to have done so,” she said.
“Well, let’s not count him out entirely,” I said.
“Why?”
“Wouldn’t you say he and Uncle Ben look awfully similar, what with the beards and the glasses?”
Her eyes widened. “Now that you mention it, they look very much alike if those things are all you’re paying attention to.”
“Beards and glasses stick out. A witness might not notice much else.”
And perhaps Mr. Pullman was a very good actor indeed.
On the way back to the Honeybee I asked Bianca if she had used any magic to get Pullman to talk to us.
“Of course not!” She looked scandalized. My confusion must have shown on my face, because she continued. “Good witches never use magic to infringe on the rights of other people. We don’t make people do anything.”
“But Cookie—” I stopped myself.
Bianca blew a very unladylike raspberry. “Cookie Rios does not take the Rule of Three seriously. Did she do something to make Ethan Ridge talk?”
“Um. Yeah. She used her Voice.”
“Katie, I want you to know right now that you should question any instruction you receive from Cookie. She’s a member of our coven, but her magical background is, frankly, a little sketchy. And she sees the line between white and black as being a little more flexible than you or I might.”
Be careful what you wish for. That was what Daddy had said after I’d inadvertently used what must have been my own nine-year-old Voice on the playground during fourth-grade recess. We were climbing the monkey bars, and Monty Night had asked if Daddy was an Indian chief. The question hadn’t been mean, and it hadn’t been inaccurate, either. Daddy was part Shawnee, after all, and there actually were a few chiefs among his ancestors.
But another kid had heard Monty and yelled, “Katie Lightfoot thinks she’s an Indian princess!”