by Bailey Cates
So I did, sparing nothing. I told her about my feeble attempt at a spell and what I had interpreted as failure. I even told her I’d decided the whole idea of being a witch was stupid and pathetic.
“I’m sorry, Lucy.”
But she shook her head. “That’s okay, honey. You’ve had a lot of new things thrown at you lately. I don’t blame you for resisting. But I can see you’ve changed your mind again. Something happened?”
So as I mixed lemon-nutmeg shortbread dough and she sliced honey-anise biscotti and laid them out on cookie sheets to bake, I told her the rest: remembering the moving boxes, imagining Ethan Ridge in the basement, getting Steve to come with me, and witnessing his spell casting on the door lock.
“Steve Dawes is a witch?” she asked with obvious delight. “That’s wonderful! I had no idea. I wonder if the other ladies know that.”
“He told me Mimsey does,” I said. “And Cookie suspects. He’s figured out what kind of ‘book club’ you have, too.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to figure out if he knows about Mimsey.” Lucy began loading sourdough loaves into the preheated oven. “Go on.”
She wasn’t surprised when I told her Ethan was exactly where I thought he’d be. Of course, she hadn’t doubted my witchiness in the first place. But she stopped working, and worry creased her forehead as I related the whole trying-to-stab-me-before-he-passed-out thing.
Then I told her about saving Ethan’s life, doing my best to describe how it felt to have all that power flowing through me, the strange colors, and the burning smell. “It was almost as if I could see the atoms moving within things. The whole experience convinced me once and for all that there’s real power, real magic in this world, and I’m part of it.”
“Amazing,” she breathed. “And you’re okay?”
“I feel great.”
“That’s unusual after such a large working.”
“I wondered. Have you ever healed someone like that?” I was hoping to compare notes.
“Heavens, no. You’re far more powerful than I am, Katie.”
“I don’t see how. What about when Mimsey did her scrying spell—didn’t she draw power from the rest of the spellbook club to augment her casting?”
“She did, but nothing like what you describe. But that day was also different from when we’ve all worked together before. You remember that loud sound? And how sure Mimsey was about what she’d learned? Usually what she senses is a bit more iffy than that. A bit more open to interpretation.”
I began grating cheese for another batch of cheddar-sage scones. They’d practically flown out the door the day before.
Lucy said, “We’re pretty sure you’re a catalyst. That you stimulate the power of others. Spice it up.”
I stopped grating. “I remember when you said that. So being a catalyst is a good thing?”
“Of course.” But there was something in her eyes.
“But …”
“Well, you have to learn how to control it. So you don’t augment the wrong kind of magic.”
“Black magic, you mean?” The thought terrified me.
She nodded. “You need to start studying right away. Can you come over for dinner tonight?”
“It sounds like I’d better.”
Eight people were waiting on the sidewalk outside when we opened the Honeybee at seven, an auspicious beginning to the second day of business. Lucy propped the door open to allow the heady aroma of freshly baked goods to spill out onto Broughton Street, and soon we were doing a brisk business. Ben joined us at eight, taking over the register so Lucy could concentrate on making coffee drinks, and I restocked the biscotti and scones in between constructing more orange-and-chocolate sandwich cookies and frying up another batch of cornmeal-maple donuts.
The rush settled a little after ten. Six tables were still occupied by customers sipping from half-empty cups. I checked in with the group of students hanging out in the reading area and made the rounds of the tables to collect crumb-dusted plates. I was putting them in the dishwasher when loud voices out front drew my attention. I pushed the rack in and closed the door, then rounded the corner of the refrigerator to find that none other than Albert Hill had decided to grace us with his presence.
Again.
His eyes widened when he saw me. He raised a long, bony finger and sighted down it like it was the barrel of a gun. “How dare you!” he shouted. Spittle sprayed with every word.
I forced myself to stand my ground.
Ben moved from behind the register, raising his palms like a crossing guard. “Now, hold on. What’s this all about?”
An elderly woman came in, took one look at the tableau, turned around and went right back outside.
Great.
Ben dropped his hands and parted his lips as if he wanted to call her back.
Albert didn’t even notice. His finger shook with rage, and his already flushed face deepened to crimson. “That … that girl. She sicced the police on me. I’ve been down at the barracks all morning, answering questions and accounting for my whereabouts.” He took a step forward.
So did I, despite quaking in my sensible shoes.
“How dare you,” he repeated. “Telling them I killed my aunt when you know very well it was him.” His accusing finger moved to my uncle and wavered inches from his nose.
“I never said that—,” I began.
“Take your hand out of my face.” Ben’s voice was flat and low.
I heard an intake of breath behind me. Lucy had come out of the office, but I kept my eyes glued to Albert and Ben. Conversations had fallen silent. Everyone was watching the two men. Violence hovered in the air.
After a long moment, Albert’s hand dropped to his side. Lucy pushed past me to stand in front of Ben. “Perhaps you’d like a fresh cornmeal donut?” Whether it was brave or simply rash, I admired her guts.
I moved to her side as Albert sputtered, “No! I don’t want a donut, you stupid little woman.”
Ben’s eyes glittered behind the lenses of his glasses. Lucy put her hand on his chest. He covered it with his own, but his gaze never left the man who had just insulted his wife.
My uncle was about to blow, and however much Mrs. Templeton’s nephew deserved it, I couldn’t think of anything that could make an already bad situation even worse.
“Mr. Hill, I never told the police you killed your aunt.” I leaned toward him, doing my best to ignore his weird, wormlike lips. “If they questioned you, it wasn’t because I told them to.” Hmm. Not quite as soothing as I’d intended.
“You told them I paid her apartment manager to kill her!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said. Which wasn’t exactly denying the accusation. I tried to remember exactly what I had told Detective Quinn. “If you have a problem with the police, or with Ethan Ridge, you should take it up with them.”
If he hadn’t already, at least in Ethan’s case.
“You know he’s in the hospital, right?”
“Of course I know,” he said. “They think I attacked him, too.”
“Did you?” The words slipped out and hung in the air.
The flush drained from his face, leaving his complexion mottled and doughy. “I am filing another lawsuit, Miss Lightfoot. Oh, yes, Detective Quinn let your name slip when he tried to get me to say something incriminating. I am going to sue you for defamation of character. For libel, slander and anything else I can think of.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed. Fear arrowed through me. “I’d have to libel you in print.”
The finger came up again, and he shook it at me just like his aunt had. Her manicure had been much better, though. “We’ll just see about that.” And he turned and stomped out to the sidewalk.
“Kind of a weak exit,” I observed, trying to lighten the mood. One look at Lucy and Ben told me I’d failed. Two customers hurriedly packed up their laptops and left. I sank into a chair and covered my face with my hands.
Ben squeezed my shoulder. “
You didn’t tell me any of this.”
“I’m sorry. It happened last night and I haven’t had a chance to talk to you today. Lucy knew because she came in early to help get the baking done.”
“You didn’t tell me, either, Luce.”
She patted his arm. “It has been kind of hard to talk, dear.”
“Katie, you shouldn’t be mixed up in this thing.”
Lucy said, “None of us should be mixed up in it.”
I looked up at both of them. “But we are, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it except find the truth.”
Whispers erupted from the reading area as the students reacted to what they’d just witnessed.
“See?” said a scantily clad girl with long blond hair and an upturned nose. “I told you more weird stuff would happen in this place.”
I exchanged glances with my aunt and uncle. “And we’d better find that truth pretty darn soon, too.”
That afternoon I packed up half a dozen cornmeal-maple donuts to take to the hospital. Ethan Ridge might want a treat even if his buddy Albert hadn’t.
Before I left, I called Steve. He picked up on the third ring. “Why’d you leave without even saying good-bye last night?” he demanded.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Well?”
I sighed. “Because I needed to get home and … No, the truth is I hate seeing how much you and Declan despise each other. I hate it even more when I end up in the middle of it.”
He was quiet for a few moments. When he spoke again his voice had lowered. “You know, what we did last night was very … intimate.”
I paused. “Um, yeah. I know.” Even Lucy had thought I’d been involved in something untoward when I walked in the Honeybee that morning.
“And you didn’t even say good-bye.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And furthermore, you don’t know the story between Declan and me,” he said.
“Actually, I do.”
The silence stretched out, then snapped.
“Steve?”
“Maybe you think you do, but that’s only one side of things.”
“That’s possible,” I replied. “Is this really a conversation you want to have on the phone, though?”
“No. It’s not.”
“Then do you want to come to the hospital with me this afternoon? I’m going to drop in on Ethan and see if he can shed any light on what happened. I called early this morning, and it sounds like he’s doing quite well after our little, er, intervention last night.”
He muttered, “Wish we’d stopped sooner, then.”
“Steve! That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Only because it took so much out of us. I don’t know how you got up and went to work so early.”
Ah. No wonder he’d sounded tired and cranky. Apparently working magic had the opposite effect on him than on me.
“So do you want to come?”
“Can’t. I’m on deadline. But let me know what he says.”
“Will do.”
Leaving Mungo to supervise things from his perch in the bakery office, I drove to Candler Hospital, on Reynolds Street in Midtown, and parked. Inside, I inquired about what room Ethan Ridge was in, found the elevator, and rode up to the third floor. I stopped at the nurses’ station and asked the scrubs-clad woman on duty if it was all right to bring food to the patient in room 303, offering her a culinary bribe for good measure. She said it was fine, and waved toward an open door just down the hall.
Ethan leaned against the pillows, staring at the television blaring down from the ceiling mount at the end of the bed. The other bed was unoccupied. His neck was swathed in white bandages beneath several days’ growth of beard. His scraggly hair spread in a dark halo on the white pillowcase. The tough-guy swagger had been swallowed up by a generic hospital gown and the acrid scent of disinfectant.
I knocked lightly and stepped into the room. Ethan slightly turned his head to look at me and winced. I moved into his direct line of sight to lessen his discomfort.
“Whaddaya want?” Despite the greeting, most of his bravado had vanished.
“You remember me, then. Good. But you should be nicer to the person who saved your life,” I said. “Besides, I brought donuts.”
He frowned. “Where’s your friend?”
“You mean the man who also saved your life?”
He was silent, and I realized he’d meant Cookie, not Steve.
“Ethan, don’t you remember? Last night, in the basement?”
“Remember what?” Still trying for cocky, but not quite getting there.
I scooted the vinyl visitor’s chair closer. It squeaked as I settled into it. “Well, for one thing, you tried to stab me.”
Ethan’s swallow was audible. “Last coupla days are kind of a blur.”
“It didn’t really seem like you wanted to hurt me.” He had been pretty out of it. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
I sighed. “Want to hurt me.”
He shrugged. “I don’t even remember, okay? So I’m sorry. What else do you want?” He’d turned sullen. “You gonna press charges, too?” Eyes skittering away.
“Who’s doing that?”
His lips pressed together as if he was determined to keep the answer from escaping.
“Someone you scammed when their loved one died? Maybe someone who bought a nonexistent grave plot from you? Or is Albert Hill threatening to sue you?”
Ethan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “How could you—” His mouth clamped shut.
But I could see his fear and desperation, and without thinking, I patted him on the hand. He jerked away. But when his eyes met mine again, there was a little more openness. A little more relief. Magic didn’t have anything to do with it; Ethan wanted to be able to trust someone.
“I really tried to stab you?”
“Well, you ran at me with a knife.”
“Jeez. I really am sorry.”
“Hmm.”
“What kind of donuts?” he asked.
“Cornmeal and maple.”
“Sounds weird.”
“Suit yourself.” I took one out of the bag and bit into it. Other than the testing nibble I’d had after the first batch, it was the first one I’d allowed myself. I let my pleasure show on my face.
“I guess I’ll try one.” He held out a hand.
I smiled and put a napkin-wrapped donut into it.
He sniffed it. “Smells all right.” Took a bite. “Pretty good. Sure beats the food in here.”
A high compliment indeed. “The police sure asked me a lot of questions,” I said.
Ethan swallowed. “Me, too. Didn’t seem to matter that I was in the hospital, either. That detective wasn’t nice at all.”
“Did you tell them what happened?”
He shrugged. “What I remembered. Like I said, it was all a blur.”
“But you must know who attacked you.”
He looked away again.
“Is there any chance they might try again? Because if that could happen you have to tell someone.”
“He wouldn’t …” Ethan’s voice trailed off as he considered the possibilities. Again his eyes met mine, and he swallowed convulsively. I handed him the glass of water by the bed, and he took a sip.
“You didn’t tell the police everything, then.”
“Don’t like cops,” he muttered.
“Maybe you should tell me.”
“What for?”
“Because you could have hurt me, and I’m not pressing charges. Because the police suspect the wrong man of killing Mrs. Templeton, and I think you know who really did it.”
He licked his lips.
“Because I think you’re scared, and you want to tell someone. Just in case.”
The appeal to self-interest did the trick.
“See, there was this woman,” he said. “At the apartments.”
A woman. Great. The attack on Ethan didn’t have anything to do with Mrs
. Templeton’s murder. It was all about a babe. I struggled to hide my disappointment.
“Her name’s Gwen. She didn’t live there, but she got hurt there. The elevator fell, and she was in it.”
My interest quickened, remembering the story Mrs. Perkins had told Cookie and me in the Peachtree Arms laundry room.
“She broke her neck, see. Paralyzed her. Arms and legs both.”
I nodded encouragement, afraid to speak and at the same time thinking how suddenly a life can be changed forever.
“I sort of knew her, because she came to visit her folks every Sunday for supper. Gwen was nice that way. And sometimes she brought her fiancé. He seemed nice enough, too, though kind of highfalutin.”
Ethan paused for a bite of donut. “I heard that after the accident she broke up with him. Said she couldn’t saddle him with a cripple for the rest of his life. He didn’t take it too well, insisted he wanted to take care of her. But she refused to see him anymore.”
“That’s sad.” I could hear the distraction in my voice, however much I meant the words. Where was this going?
“So when I heard someone had broken the Templeton lady’s neck, I thought of him. A neck for a neck, you know? Poetic justice.”
I stared. “What’s his name?”
There was a long pause as Ethan worked something out in his mind. Then he seemed to make a decision, because he gave a little nod. Ran his tongue over his lips.
“Name’s Jenkins.”
Chapter 24
Seeing my expression, Ethan asked, “Do you know him?”
I nodded, speechless. Jack Jenkins. President of the DBA. Unable to attend the brunch because an employee had called in sick. Mavis Templeton’s tenant. And a man full of loathing for the building that had nearly killed the woman he loved.
Or not so much for the building. For the highly negligent owner of the building.
“Ethan, what did you do when you made the connection between Gwen’s accident and Mrs. Templeton’s murder?” I dreaded the answer, having a good idea what it was.
“I called him and told him I knew it was him that killed the old woman, and that he needed to give me some money to keep quiet.” Now that he’d started telling the story, he seemed compelled to finish it, despite how it made him look. Compelled entirely by his own need to get it off his chest.