Witches and Wedding Cake

by Bailey Cates

  “Hey, Katie. All ready for your big day?”

  “I sure hope so.”

  He rang up my purchase, and I slid it into the side pocket of my tote.

  “Say, aren’t you guys worried that someone might take off with one of those plants out front?” I asked.

  He offered a facial shrug. “Right? But oddly, that’s never happened. Mimsey says not to worry. She’s got it handled.”

  Protection spells galore, I bet.

  “And she’s the boss. I just do what I’m told.”

  “Speaking of the boss lady, is she available? I think she’s expecting me.”

  He gestured toward her office, where she was standing behind her desk talking on the phone. “Feel free. But be warned. Our supplier tried to overcharge for those white rose petals for your wedding, and she’s setting him straight.”

  Mimsey firmly returned her phone to the cradle then, and I knew I wouldn’t want to be the person who’d been on the other end of the line. She looked up and saw me. A smile transformed her face, and she waved me in.

  “Katie!” She bustled around the desk and threw her arms around me and at the same time Mungo, still in the tote, as far as they would go.

  Which wasn’t that far, since her arms were so short. Today, she wore linen slacks the color of lime sherbet and a gauzy top in the same color trimmed with strawberry pink. Green being the color of both money and plant magic, she wore some shade of it to work several days a week.

  “Sit down, sit down.” She pointed to the guest chair.

  I put my tote on the floor and sank onto the seat. Mungo hopped out and went to sit by Heckle’s perch in the corner. The huge multicolored parrot had been Mimsey’s familiar since she was a teenager. He still looked as bright-eyed as she did, peering down at his canine visitor and then tipping his head to the side to look at me.

  Squaaaawk! Katie’s gettin’ hitched! Squaaaawk!

  “Yes, she is,” Mimsey said cheerfully. “Now, let’s take a final look to make sure we’re on the same page.” She pulled a file out of her desk drawer and extracted a series of photographs. “I’ve already ordered the white rose petals, and plenty of them, to create the carpet for you to walk down to the gazebo.”

  “Ryan said there was an issue with the price?”

  “Not anymore there isn’t. Cheeky man thought he could pull one over on me. But we’re all set there. And you were very sure about the casual arrangements on the tables, which made it easier to tailor them to add a bit of flower magic here and there. Here’s what I had in mind for the small vases of flax and apple blossoms.”

  “Flax for domesticity and apples because we’ve chosen each other.”

  “Right. Apples mean ‘you’re the one for me’ in essence. And I’ll add sprigs of fern to augment the magic all around.” She beamed, truly in her element.

  “Sounds good. What about the sunflowers?”

  “For devotion and adoration. Yes, I love them, but really, they’ll clash with the fancy roses, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “So let’s put big ol’ bunches of sunflowers all over the inside of the carriage house. They’re cheery, and they really pop in a small space. You won’t need anything else.”

  “I like it!”

  “Oh, good. Because there’s a reason roses are so popular at weddings. With your permission, I’d like to add a few more red roses on the gazebo, for love, honey! Love and respect. I mean, the white petals are necessary to show up in the twilight of evening against the lawn, but you simply must have plenty of red roses at your wedding.”

  I grinned. “Well, if you say so.”

  “I do. Now, your wedding bouquet. That has to be perfect.”

  “I think the one we already designed is perfect,” I said with a frown.

  She shuffled some pictures around and found the one she wanted. Brightening, she said, “Why yes. This is just right. I’d forgotten Ryan made a sample after we talked last time. Here’s the photo.”

  It was a simple arrangement of two kinds of lavender and baby’s breath with a single giant red rose smack dab in the middle. The whole of it was twined with the tiniest possible leaves of bird’s foot ivy. Just looking at the picture made me happy.

  Mimsey replaced the photos in their folder and sat back, clearly satisfied. “Good. Now that that’s taken care of, tell me about the murder.” Her bright blue eyes glittered with interest.

  “Didn’t Lucy fill you in?”

  “Yes, last night after Ben told her. I’m sure some information was lost as it traveled down the grapevine. It always is.”

  “Oh, gosh, Mims. Rori is Declan’s sister, and—”

  She held up her hand. “Yes, I know all that. What I really want to know is what you’re doing about finding this killer.”

  I gave her a wry look. “So far I’ve asked a bunch of questions. You know I’m kind of busy right now, don’t you?”

  “Busy schmizzy. You have a calling, Katie. You must follow it.”

  Mimsey, who was truly the leader of the spellbook club even if no one actually said it out loud, deeply believed that I could not outrun my calling to right wrongs in the magical world. I’d thought the same thing when I was first told I was a lightwitch but, as a result, felt more trapped than “called.” Then I’d learned I did have a choice. Of course I did. We all have choices. So far, I’d chosen to follow the calling, even though it was touch-and-go sometimes. Knowing I could say no made saying yes feel better.

  And like it or not, this time I’d committed again.

  Rather than rehash all that with Mimsey, I leaned forward and asked, “What can you tell me about glamours?”

  Her perfectly shaped eyebrow raised a fraction. “Why do you think I know anything about such things?”

  It took me a couple of moments to catch on, and when I did, I laughed. “Oh, you think I’m asking because that’s why you look about fifteen years younger than you actually are?”

  “You know I don’t . . . I would never . . .” she spluttered.

  “Relax. I’m asking because Tucker Abbott used one. I figured it out the first time I met him. Well, okay, that was also the only time I met him. But it was strong. Over the top, really. He was way too perfect in every way. That’s what alerted me that something was wrong right away. If he’d been a bit more subtle, I might not have noticed as quickly.”

  Maybe that was why Eliza had seen through the façade as well.

  Mimsey’s eyes sparkled. “Ooh, a glamour. Well, isn’t that interesting. And strong, so probably not accidental.”

  “I wondered that, too. I remember you remarking one time after seeing some politician at work that a lot of people in that profession use glamours as part of their personality.”

  “Indeed. See, a lot of people, witches included, think that glamours are all about appearance. That’s part of it, but not all of it. In the end, it’s about charisma. How someone is perceived physically is generally a large part of charisma, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and that is what glamours are about.”

  “Putting beauty in the eye of the beholder?”

  She half shrugged. “That’s as good a way to put it as anything.”

  “Then that would have to depend on the beholder, at least to a degree. Some people make better marks than others?”

  “Absolutely. And certain people use a glamour instinctively.”

  “And if it’s not instinctive? How do you create a glamour?”

  Laughing, she wagged her finger. “First off, I don’t.”

  Squaaaaaaaaawk!

  “You hush, mister,” she said to Heckle, then turned her attention back to me.

  My eyes were narrowed, as if by squinting I would be able to see if she had added a little extra something to how I perceived her.

  “Stop t
hat.” She rolled her eyes. “Now listen, if, if I were to do such a thing, there are a couple of ways to go about it. First, I could cast a circle as we do with so many spells, and then work with a mirror to invoke change in whatever area I thought needed improvement.”

  I made a face. “I hate to put it like this, but that sounds like—forgive me—magical thinking. If it worked, the diet industry would be out of a job.”

  “In most cases, you’d be right. With enough power, a witch could effect change in how she was seen by others using that method. Usually, however, casting a glamour that way affects the spell caster more than anything—changing how they see themselves, boosting confidence, that kind of thing.” She sighed. “True self-acceptance is so much better, and it lasts a lot longer.”

  “I’m having a hard time imagining Tucker pointing to his face and intoning a spell to make it better looking.”

  “There are other kinds of glamour spells. You can confer magical power to scent, perfume or cologne for example. But probably the most common is to use a sigil.”

  My forehead knitted. “You mean a magical symbol?”

  “Right. A written sign, worked into everyday routines like applying makeup or using shaving cream or lotion.”

  “What kind of sigil? Are there specific ones for making yourself appealing?”

  “Not really. The best kind of sigil is created by the witch, male or female, as a personal symbol representing the desired alteration. So the sigil could look like anything. As with any spell, it’s the intent that counts.”

  “I wonder if Tucker did that? Traced some sign on his face in shaving cream every morning or some such.”

  “Declan’s sister was married to him. She might be able to answer that.”

  “I’ll ask her. This morning she said he’d always been handsome and larger than life, but when he came to see her yesterday, he was downright mesmerizing. That makes me wonder if he’s always had a natural glamour and only recently figured out how to up his game.”

  “Was he dating anyone?” Mimsey asked.

  “The motel manager said his girlfriend just broke up with him, and he was trying to get back together with her.”

  Her eyebrows rose, and she grinned. “There you go, Katie. I might be making assumptions, but I bet a recent girlfriend would know a bit about Tucker’s morning rituals.”

  “I only know her first name.” I began to frown, then brightened. “And where she works. She’s a hostess at Belford’s.”

  Mimsey looked at her watch and then waggled her eyebrows at me. “That sounds like the perfect place to have lunch today, don’t you think?”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I can’t take a lunch.”

  “Then you’ve eaten?”

  “No, but I’ve already dumped too much on the others at the bakery lately.”

  “Nonsense.” She stood and picked up her cell phone from the desk. “I’m texting Lucy right now that you’re going to lunch with me at my insistence.”

  “Mims . . .”

  “Hush. Let me do this.” She finished typing on her phone, which she was surprisingly fast at, and bent to grab her purse from under the desk. “Mungo, you stay here with Heckle, and I’ll bring Katie back in an hour or so.”

  Yip!

  Chapter 12

  Mimsey drove, and on the way, I sent Rori a text to ask if Tucker had ever traced designs on his face when he shaved or applied cologne. Her response was immediate.

  WTH? I don’t get it. He just shaved like men shave and then left the stubble in the sink.

  I texted back.

  Never mind.

  By then Mimsey had located a parking space near the southwest corner of City Market. Two stories high and made of brick, the Belford’s building had been built around 1900 to house Savannah’s Hebrew Congregation. Two decades later, the Belford family purchased it for their wholesale foods business, and in the 1990s it became one of Savannah’s fine dining restaurants. Declan and I had eaten supper there a few times. Though they were considered a steak and seafood place, the Southern fried chicken with Gouda mac and cheese and collard greens was to die for.

  I’d never been to Belford’s for lunch. As Mimsey and I strolled by the arched windows that marched down the front of the building, I felt like a teenager playing hooky. Inside, the walls were also brick, and the expanse of wood floor glowed umber beneath dark, linen-covered tables.

  “You know, it’s unlikely Effie will even be here,” I said to Mimsey as we waited to be seated. “Given what happened to Tucker last night. The manager of the Spotlight Motel wanted to make sure someone told Effie about Tucker’s death, so she would have told the police about her. Knowing Quinn, he’d interview the victim’s recent girlfriend the first chance he got.”

  “Oh, I expect you’re right, dear.” Her eyes twinkled up at me. “I was hoping we might be able to find out her last name, though. At the same time, we can indulge in a lovely lunch. I hardly ever get to spend time with you anymore, and rarely alone.”

  “We’re so busy at the bakery—” I started.

  “Which is wonderful, of course,” she broke in. “But also, a very poor excuse for how hard you work. Iris is working more than half-time, isn’t she?”

  “She is, but—”

  “You’re not indispensable, dear. Working twelve hours a day six or seven days a week is not good for you.”

  Before I could protest, a goateed man appeared to seat us. Definitely not Effie.

  He pulled out a chair for Mimsey, who settled into it with a murmured thanks. Then she looked up at him. “The other night my husband and I ate here, and there was a lovely young woman hostessing.”

  “I expect that would be Nadine, ma’am. Or perhaps Effie.”

  “Yes! Effie. And what is her last name again? My husband thinks he might know her family.”

  “It’s Glass, ma’am.”

  Well, that was easy.

  “But I believe all of her family is in Tennessee.”

  “Ah, I see. I’ll let him know.” She flashed him a charming smile.

  He smiled back. “She’s over there behind the bar, if you want to ask her yourself.”

  My head turned so fast, my neck cramped.

  “Oh!” Mimsey looked around in a much more ladylike manner. “I didn’t realize she tended bar as well.”

  “The regular guy called in sick, so she’s covering his shift. Makes a mean bourbon and grapefruit, if you’re interested. Fresh squeezed juice.”

  “Thank you so very much, but delicious as that libation sounds, I think I’ll pass. We’ll stop by to chat on our way out, though. She looks terribly busy right now.”

  It was true. The big-haired blonde mixing drinks behind the bar was working alone, though she appeared unflustered as she shook and poured for the lunch crowd.

  He nodded and stepped back as a waiter brought us water and asked us if we had any questions.

  I eyed the shrimp and clam linguine, but Declan had said something about making pasta for dinner. Instead, I opted for a cup of she-crab soup and a grilled pimiento cheese sandwich. Mimsey delicately sipped her way through a bowl of watermelon gazpacho, and we let talk of murder and weddings go long enough to catch up on our lives. As we chatted, I did my best not to watch Tucker’s ex-girlfriend working behind the bar. For the most part, I was successful.

  When we were finished eating, I looked at my watch. My companion frowned and shook her head. She insisted on paying the check. Taking her time, she counted out cash and a generous tip. I thanked her for lunch, but by then, I was fortified with considerably more calories than I needed and was practically twitching in anticipation of talking to Effie Glass.

  “Come along, Katie. We’ve been handed the perfect opportunity to find the next clue in the case.”

  Amused, I followed her across the restaurant to the bar. “You sound
like Miss Marple,” I murmured.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  We’d arrived toward the end of the lunch hour, and the crowd had thinned out as we’d eaten. Now only two people sat at one end of the bar, and the drink orders from the tables had dried up. Tucker’s ex-girlfriend stood at the opposite end of the expanse of dark walnut, cutting up limes. When we approached, she put the knife down and looked at us expectantly.

  As I’d seen from the other side of the room, Effie had blond hair—but not just blond. Every color of blond, with highlights on top of highlights on top of more highlights. It was curled and fluffed and sprayed to the point where it barely moved when she turned her head. Her eyebrows were shaped and painted, her eyelashes were longer than nature could ever have managed, and there was no way those fingernails were real. The thing was, she pulled it all off with confident aplomb, and I had to admit she looked fantastic. Her black shirt and slacks were the perfect canvas for all the glitz and glamour.

  Glamour. Is that what I’m seeing?

  I looked closer. No, her skin wasn’t perfect, and her features were a little irregular. She wasn’t employing magic; she was employing expert beauty tips.

  “Hello, ladies. What can I get you?” she asked.

  Mimsey hitched herself up on a bar chair, which increased her height considerably. I followed her lead, wondering what she had in mind.

  “Honey, you don’t need to get us a thing,” she said, her voice infused with sympathy. “I only wanted to stop by and extend my condolences.”

  I leaned forward slightly, trying not to be too obvious as I gauged Effie Glass’ reaction.

  She blinked, then gave a faltering smile. “Um . . . ?”

  “Regarding Tucker Abbott,” Mimsey said. “Tragic. Just tragic.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure we’ve met, but . . .”

  My friend nodded wisely. “Mimsey Carmichael. You remember now, don’t you?” There was something in her voice.

  Then I realized with a shock that it wasn’t something in her voice, it was her Voice. In all the time I’d known her, I hadn’t known she possessed that talent and had certainly never witnessed her using it. Her Voice was markedly different from mine and Cookie’s, the only other member of the spellbook club who had that skill. It was like a scalpel versus a butcher’s knife. I watched in awe as Mimsey’s few words slid subtly through Effie’s resistance, grateful the older witch was on the side of good.