by Bailey Cates
Lucy hurried toward her. “Of course, hon. Can I get you something?”
The bell over the door rang as Jaida French came in next. She waved at Iris and me and went to join Mimsey and Lucy. A slight smile curved her vermillion lips, and her wise eyes conveyed both respect and affection for the older witch. I always associated the smell of cinnamon with Jaida, a lawyer who shared an office—and a home—with a male witch named Gregory. Since it was Sunday, she’d ditched her usual formal business wear for an electric blue, tie-dyed tunic over leggings and high boots. A chunky gold necklace gleamed against the chocolate brown skin of her throat, and a matching bracelet dangled at her wrist.
As the two women settled into the poufy chairs in the reading area, Mimsey with a straight Americano and Jaida with a caramel mocha, I looked up to see Dr. Dana’s sister hurrying by on the sidewalk outside.
Chapter 8
Phoebe looked like she was on a mission, head forward and shoulders hunched. Her hands were jammed deep into the pockets of her peacoat.
“I’ll be right back,” I heard myself say as I scooted to the door and looked out.
She’d stopped in front of the Fox and Hound and was peering through the window. She knocked, her knuckles loud enough on the glass of the front door that I could hear them several yards away. She didn’t seem to notice me.
The door opened, and Croft stepped halfway out with a ring of keys dangling in his hand. Shook his head. Shrugged. Then the two of them went inside.
I hurried back to the kitchen and grabbed a waxed bag. Opening it, I layered several of the pumpkin spice cookies between slices of parchment paper and folded down the top.
Lucy followed me to the door as the others looked on with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. “What’s going on?”
“Phoebe just went into the bookstore,” I said. “I want to take her some cookies.”
My aunt nodded vigorously. “That’s a good idea. I bet Croft could use one, too.”
I went out to the sidewalk. Hopefully, Iris had added a nice zing! of power to the healing and uplifting qualities of the allspice and ginger, but just in case, I added an arrow of my own intention to the sweet concoctions.
In the distance, a guide on one of the ubiquitous tour buses extolled the foresight of General James Oglethorpe, Savannah’s founder and designer. He was the one responsible for the unique arrangement of more than twenty parklike squares in the historic district. The city’s deep and fascinating past, along with its beauty, its architecture, and the success of what locals simply called The Book—known by the rest of the world as Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt—attracted travelers from all over the world. Tourism had become quite the industry in my adopted home, and I’d learned to embrace it.
The sound of a growling car engine on the street drew my attention. I looked over to see an Audi A7, shiny gray and chrome, slowly driving by. A hand snaked out and waved at me. Surprised, I stopped on the sidewalk and began to raise my own hand.
Then I saw who it was.
Steve Dawes gazed out at me from the open window, his brown eyes drinking me in the same way I remembered from the first time we’d met. His honeyed hair, which he’d always worn in a ponytail, was now cut short on the sides and longer on top so it flopped down across his forehead, accenting his tanned, patrician features. He grinned, and white teeth flashed at me.
My smile faltered as my heart did a thumpa-thumpa in my chest. Steve—journalist, druid, and erstwhile suitor—had left town suddenly back in August. Now, seeing him out of the blue like this, I was unprepared for my visceral reaction.
The light changed, and the car drove away, that grin still lingering in the rearview mirror. When had he gotten an Audi? He’d had a Range Rover ever since I’d known him. And that short hair. What was up with that? Though I had to admit it looked good on him.
Apparently a lot of things had changed. But if that look he’d given me was any indication, that didn’t include his feelings for me. Declan would not be happy to learn his former rival had returned to Savannah.
And that turnover in my chest? Well, that was just because I was happy to see Steve was okay. His self-imposed exile hadn’t been because of me—at least not directly. But I hadn’t heard a word from him since August, and none of my texts had been returned. I’d been worried, was all.
Nothing else.
Shaking my head, I turned back to the bookstore and strode to the door. I could follow up with Steve later, find out what he was doing. Never mind that he was back in town and hadn’t contacted me. But for now I had other things on my mind. Like cookies to salve the hurt of tragedy.
And a few questions.
The CLOSED sign was up in the window, which gave me pause. Croft was usually open on Sundays, especially this time of year, when the tourists were thick and the holidays were approaching. Perhaps the police had asked him to remain closed. Or perhaps Croft, gruff curmudgeon that he was, was still reeling from the turn of events at the biggest signing he’d ever had in his store.
The Fox and Hound was dim inside, but I saw a sliver of light through the glass. Cupping my hand to the window, I saw a flash of yellow crime scene tape and movement toward the rear of the store. I pushed the unlocked door open and went inside. The office door behind the counter was open a crack, and I heard a noise on the other side. The air still held the faint scent of mulled cider from the night before, but for the life of me I could not smell anything resembling almonds. Of course, that might have faded away since the night before, and Lucy said it had been much stronger in the back room, where Dr. Dana had died.
The place felt sad, the fire in the hearth dead and the only illumination coming from the shafts of light arrowing through the windows. Dust motes danced in the filtered sunshine.
“Hello?” I called.
The sound of a drawer closing came from behind the office door.
“Um, the bookstore’s closed,” a voice said from the rear of the store.
I squinted and saw Phoebe walking toward me.
“I figured it was. I’m Katie Lightfoot, from the Honeybee next door.” I moved toward her, my eyes adjusting to the low light.
She nodded slowly, though the gesture seemed to cost her effort. Her crisp shirt and jeans of the night before had been replaced with a pair of faded khakis and a shapeless sweater under the felted peacoat. Her hair fell lank around her pale face, and dark circles surrounded her blue eyes.
“You’re the baker,” she said.
I nodded and held out the bag of cookies. “I know it’s not much, but it’s what bakers do in times of crisis—offer food. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Then: “Thank you. I’m still having trouble believing that she’s really gone.”
I stepped forward and patted her on the shoulder. “Of course you are. Such a horrible thing.” I opened the bag and held it out again.
She looked at me gratefully and took a cookie. “I suppose I ought to eat something. Thanks.” When she took a bite, I thought the pain behind her eyes lightened a fraction.
Light cut into the area where we were standing as Croft opened the door behind the counter and bustled out to join us.
“Katie.” He frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought over some cookies.”
His frown deepened as he looked at the bag. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
I grimaced. “How long do you have to keep the store closed?”
“Until tomorrow, at least. Maybe longer.” He glanced meaningfully at Phoebe. “It’s not a big deal.”
I knew it was a big deal, but he didn’t want to make her feel bad.
He held his hands out, palms up. “I’m sorry,” he said to Phoebe. “No one turned in a wallet.”
“Darn it! Just what I need right now—to have to cancel my credit cards and
deal with the DMV.”
“I’m so sorry,” Croft said. “I’ll keep a lookout for it.”
“Maybe I lost it on the street when I went out to move the car.” Her voice cracked on the last two words. “The last time I saw her, Dana was signing books and talking to her fans. It was one of her favorite parts of the job.”
I patted her on the shoulder again, feeling completely ineffective and hoping at least the half cookie she’d eaten had sparked some healing.
But her face clouded as she took another bite. She swallowed and said, “I hope they put that woman away for a long time.”
I looked at Croft, whose lined face was filled with concern for the young woman standing between us.
“Don’t you worry,” he said. “From what I can tell, Detective Quinn is collecting plenty of evidence against her.”
“Um,” I said. “Are you talking about Angie Kissel?”
They both glared at me. “Of course!” Phoebe said.
I pasted a noncommittal look on my face. “Well, your sister did mention something about a restraining order.”
Phoebe nodded vehemently. “We hadn’t gotten one yet, but after that horrible creature showed up yet again last night, I was going to apply for one today.” She faltered.
“Again? So Kissel had been a problem before?” I asked. Leading the witness. And I would have felt bad about it if Phoebe hadn’t seemed to be so willing to talk about it. She certainly seemed more energetic, thinking about someone to blame.
“Oh, Lord yes. Dana had seen that woman following her three or four times, and she showed up at a previous signing. She didn’t say anything to my sister then, though, or I would have tried to have her removed before Dana began speaking last night.” She passed her hand over her eyes, and when it dropped they were blazing. “And that’s not all. Kissel harassed her in other ways.”
I leaned forward. “Like how?”
Croft’s eyes narrowed. “Katie, don’t you have a bakery to run?”
I smiled at him.
But Phoebe jumped at the chance to tell me more about Angie. “She was starting a letter-writing campaign. First it was just her. She wrote letters to the station manager at WMBK-AM, where Dana recorded her show, trying to get him to drop her. Like that was going to happen! Even if it did work, another station would have stepped in. Dana was terribly popular, you know? But that woman just kept trying. She threatened to solicit other people to write to affiliate stations across the country, too.”
“Really?” I asked.
Croft took the bag of cookies and set them on a nearby table. “Thanks, Katie.”
I was being dismissed.
A small smile tried to find a place on Phoebe’s face. “I’d better be going. There are arrangements to make, and I’m the arrangement maker, you know.” Her expression turned thoughtful, and she said as if to herself, “Some kind of memorial—I wonder what would be the most appropriate thing to do? Maybe something her fans could participate in? And then there are all those cancelations . . .” I could see Dana’s sister had thrived on her job administering her sister’s day-to-day activities. Thinking about logistics seemed to center her.
The phone rang. Croft looked torn.
“I have to get going,” Phoebe said, and headed for the door. “Thanks, Mr. Barrow.”
Croft grabbed the phone, calling after her, “You take care, now. I have your number.” And then into the phone: “Hello?”
I grabbed the cookies and trotted after her. “Here. Take these.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks.”
I pushed the door closed behind her and turned back to Croft.
His tone was dangerous as he spoke into the handset. “I have no interest whatsoever in talking with you, or anyone else, about what happened last night. Now, stop calling!” He slammed the phone into its cradle, making me jump.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Reporter. He’s left four messages on my voice mail. Maybe he’ll get the hint now.” His eyes met mine. “What a mess.”
I wanted to give him a hug, but he was not a huggy kind of guy. So, I plunged in with the other reason I’d come next door.
“Croft, you remember the big guy who confronted Dr. Dana? The one who said he’d almost lost his fiancée?”
He nodded.
“Do you know his name?”
“He’s not a regular.”
“He bought a book,” I said. “Can you look up the transaction and see if he paid with a credit card?”
His lips pressed together. “Maybe. If I knew what book it was.” A wry look crossed his features. “I assume it wasn’t a Dana Dobbs title.”
“I don’t know the title, but it was one of Craig Johnson’s mysteries.”
“Why do you care about that guy?” he asked.
“We were chatting over at the buffet table, and he said something about needing some catering.” The lie came with disturbing ease. I tried to mitigate it with a little truth. “Plus, I’m curious. After all, he harassed Dr. Dana, too.”
He snorted. Still, he moved behind the counter and began pushing buttons on the computer. “Hmm. Only one Johnson book sold yesterday. To an Earl King.” He looked up. “That must be your guy.”
“Thanks, Croft. I’ll give you a finder’s fee if he ends up hiring us.” Stop making it worse! I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to get back and help Lucy close. I sure hope you’ll be able to open up tomorrow.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear.”
Chapter 9
When I returned to the Honeybee, the last two members of the spellbook club had arrived. Bianca Devereaux towered over the others, her long black hair worn loose, and an elegant, mauve-colored maxi-dress draped on her willowy frame. Of all of us, she looked the most like a traditional witch—Mimsey actually looked more like the fairy godmother in Disney’s Cinderella. Bianca also had quite the talent for making money in the stock market, which nicely augmented the income from Moon Grapes, her wine shop on Factors Walk. I saw her familiar, a white ferret named Puck, stick his little pink nose out of the pocket of the jacket she’d slung over the back of her chair.
Cookie Rios was the last and youngest member of the group, and even though I knew familiars chose their witches, I couldn’t help hoping that she’d left her king snake, Rafe, at home. She was originally from Haiti, her background in voodoo, but she’d turned away from that element of her life to focus on the kinds of magic the rest of the spellbook club practiced—until very recently, that is. Now she was slowly delving back into some of Savannah’s voodoo culture despite the concerns of her husband of less than a year.
She’d worked as a commercial agent for Quartermaine Realty for more than six months, and though she’d changed jobs every three months when I first met her, so far she wasn’t showing any signs of restlessness. Today she wore leggings as well, though unlike Jaida’s simple black ones, Cookie’s were leopard print and worn with metallic leather ballet slippers and a swirling ochre top studded with fake jewels. It made her look older; though I had only a few more years than her twenty-six, I tended to think of her as a bit of a youngster. Still, she was a settled, married woman, while I’d practically been left at the altar in Akron.
I dashed over and gave them each a hug. “Hey. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Lucy said you needed us,” Bianca said with a smile, and that said enough.
“We just need to close things down so we won’t be interrupted,” I said. “Then I’ll fill you in on what happened last night.”
“Oh, I’ve already done that,” Mimsey said. “At least all the information your aunt gave me.”
“Well, that’ll save some time,” I said wryly. “But I might have a few tidbits to add.”
“Do tell,” Jaida said, her curiosity evident.
“Oh, I will,�
� I said, and headed into the kitchen.
It was almost one o’clock. Of course, we could have added a few sales to the register if we’d stayed open on Sunday afternoon, especially in late November, but we had decided to draw the line. After all, if we’d stayed open until ten at night we would have garnered traffic from the after-dinner crowd, too, but there had to be some kind of a limit. Maybe we’d rethink things when we could hire another full-time employee. As it was, Lucy and I worked a lot of ten- and twelve-hour days. That was one of the reasons why being able to add Iris to our roster had been such a boon. I loved my work—I mean, I loved it—but I couldn’t work twenty-four-seven.
The spellbook club usually met on Sunday afternoons, and often at the bakery. We’d had a few meetings since Iris had been hired, but Lucy and I hadn’t mentioned anything about a meeting today, and her interest was obviously piqued. As she chopped a pile of candied orange peel and dried cherries, she eyed the ladies in the reading area again and again.
“Better watch what you’re doing,” I teased, donning a vintage apron from my collection arrayed on the back wall. “That knife’s sharp.”
She blushed. “What’s going on over there?”
“A little impromptu meeting,” Lucy said as she breezed by. “Why don’t you go ahead home when you’re done there, dear. We’ll finish closing up.”
Iris looked disappointed. “I can stay if you need me.”
“Nonsense. You go on and enjoy yourself,” Lucy said.
The younger woman grimaced. “If you call doing homework enjoyment.”
I laughed. “It can be. I used to love coming up with recipes for class when I was in pastry school.”
“Sure. I bet you liked taking tests, too.”
Actually, I had, but I knew better than to say so. “What homework’s on your docket this afternoon?”
She sighed. “I have to write a short story.”
“Really? I thought you were taking metalsmithing.”