Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Denied it, of course. Called me crazy. I told him I’d give him another day to think about it and give him a call back. You know, let him get used to the idea.”

  “Oh, Ethan.”

  “I thought I could get a stake so I could move and start a new life someplace else. Someplace where no one knows me, where I could be anyone I wanted.”

  He sounded so hopeful, relating his dreams of a new life. It sounded familiar, actually. But one thing I knew even though I was a few years younger than Ridge: No matter where you go, there you are.

  I took another bite of donut. “But he knew who you were and came after you rather than paying up.”

  “But I didn’t tell him who I was when I called. I’m not stupid, you know.” Sullen.

  “Maybe he had caller ID,” I said, my tone wry.

  Ethan looked smug. “I called from the pay phone at the convenience store.”

  Hmm. “Did you happen to mention his fiancée?”

  The look on his face told me he had.

  “Then he probably figured out it was you.”

  His face fell. “Yeah, maybe. ’Cuz he showed up at my place yesterday, and he was really mad.”

  “You let him in?”

  “I thought it was James from across the hall.”

  I grimaced. No peepholes.

  “I told him it wasn’t me who called, but he didn’t believe me. He went kinda crazy, started yelling at me and waving some old knife around. He sliced me pretty good, too. But I managed to get to my buck knife, and all of a sudden he wasn’t so brave. Ran off like a scared girl.”

  I let the chauvinism pass. “And you didn’t call anyone?”

  He shrugged.

  “Ethan, you almost died!”

  “I feel pretty good, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

  Thanks to Steve and me. But I couldn’t exactly explain that, could I?

  “He kept going on and on about how I didn’t have any right to talk about Gwen. He was really mad.”

  “Were you hiding from him in the basement?”

  “Naw. I’d already quit the job at the Peachtree and was packing up to leave. I thought with Jenkins on the warpath it would be a good idea to get the rest of my stuff together and hightail it out of there. I guess I must’ve passed out or something for a few minutes downstairs.”

  “More like a few hours. And you didn’t tell Detective Quinn anything about Jack Jenkins?”

  Ethan looked at me like I’d suggested he eat a live mouse. “Are you nuts?”

  “Are you? Why wouldn’t you turn in a man who tried to kill you?”

  “You mean a man I tried to blackmail? Jeez, you think that might be a parole violation?”

  “He killed a helpless old woman and almost killed you, but you’re not going to tell the police because you might get into trouble for blackmailing him?”

  “I don’t want to go back to jail,” he whined.

  “No wonder Mrs. Templeton could keep you in a job you hated. Your own fear did the job for her.”

  “I’m not a coward!”

  I stood and looked down at him. “Prove it.”

  We glared at each other for a long moment.

  This time he didn’t look away. “Okay. I’ll tell that detective. But only if you don’t tell them I asked Jenkins for money.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  Detective Quinn answered his phone on the second ring. He said he was nearby and would be right over. Ethan and I waited for his arrival, sharing the donuts while he watched a basketball game on television and I watched him. No way was I going to leave until he had told the authorities everything he knew.

  A calm settled over me. Finally, it looked like Uncle Ben was off the hook. Once the police had arrested Jack Jenkins, Albert Hill would have to give up any notion of a civil suit. Even if he was crazy enough to try suing me for defamation of character, he wouldn’t win. I could concentrate on the everyday business of supplying Honeybee customers with the best baked goods around, study witchcraft, and stop the nonsense of a murder investigation.

  “Mr. Ridge, you have something you want to add to your statement?” Detective Quinn said from the doorway.

  Ethan jumped at the words, and if he hadn’t been hooked up to the IVs he might have rabbited right then. But there was no place to go, so he just sat in his hospital bed and looked terrified. I had to feel for a guy who was so scared all the time.

  “Go ahead,” I said as gently as I could.

  “Perhaps you’d better wait in the hall,” Quinn said.

  “Uh-uh. No way. She stays,” Ethan insisted.

  I raised an eyebrow at Quinn, and he relented. “All right.”

  Voice shaking, the apartment manager related the tale he’d told me, leaving out his feeble attempt to blackmail the killer. Instead, he said he confronted Jenkins because he was trying to get a confession from him that he’d killed Mrs. Templeton. Puzzlement descended on Quinn’s face at that, but he let it go, scribbling notes and asking questions to clarify what Ethan was telling him.

  When he was done, Quinn asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about Mr. Jenkins this morning?”

  “I was, uh, I was afraid I’d get in trouble for not telling someone I thought he was the murderer.”

  Weak.

  “But then Katie here convinced me I could still be in danger, you know? So I thought you’d better know about him after all.”

  “And what about Albert Hill? Are you associated with him in any way?”

  Ethan blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”

  “I understand you and he were kind enough to help a woman named Mrs. Standish when her husband died.”

  “I, uh, that was just Albert.”

  “Sounds very much like the kind of ‘help’ you used to provide before you assaulted one of your marks and ended up in prison.”

  Ethan started to shake his head and winced. His hand went to the dressing on his neck. “No, no. I didn’t do anything wrong. Albert was the one who helped that lady. I only met her once. If he did anything he wasn’t supposed to, I didn’t help.”

  “Is that what Albert will say when I ask him?”

  “How should I know what he’ll say? We’re not best buddies or anything. We have a beer once in a while is all. But I will tell you one thing.” Ethan leaned forward conspiratorially. Quinn and I echoed the motion. “Albert Hill has been stealing from his aunt for years and years. If Jack Jenkins hadn’t killed her, someday Albert would have.”

  Leaving the rest of the donuts with Ethan, I walked out with Quinn. Outside, he turned to me and said, “I guess I ought to thank you.”

  I ducked my head.

  “This information is huge. Really. We’ll pick up Jenkins next, get to the bottom of it,” he said. “And take a closer look at how much access Hill had to his aunt’s finances, too.”

  “Neither of them matches the description your witness gave. Are you willing to give up on her story yet?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Jenkins attacked Ridge with a knife. Something provoked that—fear, guilt, I don’t know. Why did Ridge really contact Jenkins again? His story struck me as a little thin.”

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  “Blackmail?” he guessed.

  “He doesn’t want to get in trouble.”

  Quinn looked skyward. “What a piece of work. I hope he knows how lucky he is that you found him.”

  “Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.”

  * * *

  I called Steve on the way to the Honeybee. When he heard what Ethan had told me, he whistled quietly.

  “Now, Jenkins is one guy I’d never have suspected.”

  “Me, too. Quinn, three. It’s a good thing we saved Ethan Ridge, or we might never have known the truth.”

  “And your uncle might have actually ended up in jail.”

  “I’m still trying not to think about that.”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

&nbs
p; “Sorry. I have supper plans with my aunt and uncle.”

  “I wasn’t asking you out.”

  “Oh.”

  “Because tonight my plans include takeout and sleep. Lots of both. But don’t worry—I’m not giving up. Good night, Katie-girl.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to call me that anymore.”

  But he’d already hung up.

  I got to the Honeybee just as Lucy and Ben were locking up. In the office, Lucy transferred Mungo into my arms. “Since you’re coming over tonight, I thought I’d bring him home. But now that you’re here …”

  “Hi, sweetie.” I nuzzled his neck, then looked up. “Don’t go yet. I have to tell you my good news. Ben!”

  My uncle came into the office. “You don’t have to yell, honey.”

  “You’re off the hook.” I couldn’t keep the broad grin off my face.

  My aunt and uncle looked at each other. Mungo wiggled.

  “I know you were upset about all the questions I was asking, but it paid off. Today we—and by ‘we’ I mean Detective Quinn and me—found out who killed Mrs. Templeton.”

  “Who?” Lucy breathed.

  “Jack Jenkins.”

  Ben jerked back in surprise. “Why would Jack kill her?”

  My words tumbling over each other, I related everything Ethan had told me and then Detective Quinn. Lucy’s eyes searched my face as I spoke, and Ben’s expression was sober as he listened.

  “I’d bet anything he ducked away from his shop that morning, came over to kill her and went back with no one the wiser,” I concluded.

  “And no one saw him?” Ben said.

  “Remember, most of the DBA members had already left by the time Mrs. Templeton tried to stiff us. The ones who hadn’t were still in the bakery. And it’s possible someone else did see him, but didn’t realize what he’d done. It wouldn’t have taken very long to break her neck.”

  Lucy’s hand flew to her own neck at my words. “That poor man.”

  Ben gave her a hug. “You’re right. It’s a sad business.”

  She came over and kissed me on the cheek. “You did a really good job, Katie. Thank you for helping Ben. We’ll see you in a little while?”

  “As soon as I get the sourdough going, I’ll be right behind you.”

  As I slid the loaves into the refrigerator to slow-rise, I thought about what Ben had said. It was indeed a sad business, and I felt bad for Jack Jenkins. It would be bad enough if someone you loved were injured the way his fiancée had been, and even worse for her to refuse to see you because she didn’t want to be a burden.

  But I was still glad we’d discovered the truth.

  Potted herbs and flowers crammed the front entryway at my aunt and uncle’s town house in Ardsley Park. The neighborhood echoed Lucy’s abundant roof garden where I’d spent so much time when I stayed with them before buying my carriage house. The scent of sautéing garlic and onions wafted out to the front step as I knocked on the front door. Mungo sniffed the air enthusiastically.

  Lucy called for us to come in, and I opened the door into the living room. Vaulted ceilings rose above, making the space feel larger than it was. Skylights and lots of big windows gave their home a light, airy feeling. Hanging ferns reached out toward the light, and ivy crept up the brick wall behind the fireplace. Rugs with geometric patterns set off the rich, cherrywood floors, and white-upholstered furniture clustered in casual seating areas that welcomed all who entered.

  My aunt’s orange tabby walked languidly out of the kitchen to greet us.

  “Hello, Honeybee.” I looked at her with a new attitude now that I knew she was Lucy’s familiar.

  The cat slowly squinted her eyes in greeting.

  I sneezed. Familiar or not, I was still allergic to her.

  Mungo bounced up and down in my tote bag.

  “Okay, okay.” I lifted him out and put him on the floor. “Honeybee, this is Mungo the Magnificent. Mungo, meet Miss Honeybee.”

  The terrier wagged his tail and trotted to the cat. She touched her nose to his for a long moment, then ducked her head and rubbed it against his chin. Together they turned and went into the solarium.

  I sneezed again, sighed, and followed the sounds of pots and pans into the kitchen. Lucy stood stirring something in a big cast-iron Dutch oven on the stove. Ben sat at the kitchen table, thumbing through the newspaper. The aromas of cooking tomatoes, basil, oregano and onion joined the pungent garlic.

  “Supper will be ready soon. We’re having pasta.”

  “With your homemade sauce? Yum.”

  She smiled and wiped her hands on a towel. “That can simmer for a bit. I want to show you something.”

  Curious, I followed my aunt to her workroom. Dried lavender, mint and sage hung from a rack on the ceiling. Their fragrances teased my nose, along with that of the pasta sauce. A table ran along one wall, covered with Mason jars full of dried herbs, a mortar and pestle and a digital scale.

  “Most of this wasn’t here the last time I visited,” I said. Not that I’d spent much time in this room, but I’d had the impression it was more of a sewing room than anything.

  “I … tidied it up before. But now there’s no need to hide anything from you. Including this.” She opened a door at the other end of the room that I didn’t remember being there.

  I approached and looked inside. A table took up most of the space. A black-and-white batik scarf covered with depictions of Celtic knots was draped over the surface. Red, blue, yellow and black candles were placed at each corner, and in the middle sat a blue glass bowl, a pentagram-shaped brooch, a feather and a letter opener.

  “This is your altar?”

  Lucy nodded. “Yes. I meditate, make offerings and sometimes cast here.” She closed the door. “And it’s mine. Totally private.”

  I thought of my little house. “Not much chance of that for me if I have anyone over. I don’t even have a proper closet.”

  She held up a finger. “You don’t have to keep an altar all the time. You can make anything an altar when you need it—a cloth on the kitchen table, a rug on the floor. But I have something for you.”

  Now I followed her back through the living room to the solarium. Mungo and Honeybee looked up from where they were sitting together on a chaise lounge.

  “Getting to know each other?” Lucy asked.

  They touched noses again.

  “Good. Katie, come over here.” She indicated a desk in the corner.

  I complied.

  “This secretary desk is for you.” It was made of oak, buffed to a rich patina. The front of it opened on hinges to reveal a writing surface and a series of compartments, letter slots and wee drawers. “This was my first altar, when I didn’t have much space and wanted a little privacy.” And when she flipped up the fold-down writing surface again, I could see how perfectly it would work for that purpose.

  “You can put it up in the loft.”

  Wrapping my arms around her, I said, “Thank you.”

  Yip!

  Honeybee gave Mungo a reproachful look.

  “Oh, darlin’, you are welcome as can be. There’s one more thing, though.” She pushed on the side of the secretary and released a hidden panel.

  “Cool!”

  Smiling, she drew out a red leather book with silver leaves embossed on the cover. “This is your grimoire.”

  “My … ?”

  “Think of it as a recipe book. Only the recipes are for spells instead of cookies and brownies. As you learn and develop spells, you need to keep track of them. I’ve added two basic spells, one for banishing fatigue and another for getting rid of aphids, to get you started. But remember: Your personal spellbook is something to keep very private.”

  I took the book from her, admiring the Italian leather and running my fingertips over the smooth paper. “Thank you. Again.”

  “Ben will bring the secretary over in the Thunderbird this week. You should take the grimoire tonight, though. Make notes in it and record yo
ur spell work as you learn the Craft.”

  Hugging her again, I said, “I can’t think of a better teacher than you.”

  She blinked away tears and took my hand. We returned to the kitchen, to Uncle Ben and the burbling sauce on the stove.

  Chapter 25

  The next morning Ben unlocked the front door to let in a few customers I was already coming to think of as our regulars. Detective Quinn followed them in.

  “Peter!” Ben held out his hand with a smile, and Quinn shook it.

  “Can I interest you in a cranberry-walnut turnover, Detective?” I asked as Ben slipped behind the register and started taking orders. “You must work twenty-four-seven.”

  “I do when I’m on a case. Any chance I could get you to call me Peter, too?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Well, to tell you the truth, I think of you more often as Quinn.”

  “I like that better anyway … Katie?”

  I nodded. “Of course. The turnover?”

  His expression sobered. “I’m afraid I’m not here to socialize. May I talk to you in the kitchen? Ben, come on back when you can.”

  “Of course.”

  I led him to a spot by the industrial mixer. It provided a view of the front so Ben would still be able to see customer comings and goings when he left the register. Plus, I didn’t want Quinn to find Mungo napping in the office.

  “He shouldn’t be long,” I said.

  But Quinn didn’t wait for Ben. “We went to pick up Jack Jenkins late yesterday afternoon, but he wasn’t home. His neighbors say he hasn’t been there for a couple days. The mail’s piling up, and his car’s gone. His brother on Tybee Island hasn’t heard from him, and his parents, who live in Baton Rouge, claim the same thing.”

  Oh, brother. Were we going to have to cast another location spell? Slumping against the wall, I folded my arms over my chest.

  “So we did some more checking yesterday, but no luck. This morning I stopped by his store and ran into a guy who says he’s worked at Johnny Reb’s for two years. He’s been off for a week—Jenkins gave him a paid vacation right after Mavis Templeton’s murder—and he just got back from Myrtle Beach. Turns out he was working the morning of the DBA brunch.”