Spells and Scones (A Magical Bakery Mystery)

by Bailey Cates

  That horrible feeling of jealousy pierced through me. I set my jaw against it and reached down to pat my familiar’s back. As I touched him, I felt a zip! of electric energy hiss through me. Angie and I jerked our hands back at the same time.

  Eyes wide, I raised my head to see Angie had the same expression on her face that I imagined was on mine. As one, we looked back down at Mungo. He distributed an impish grin between us.

  “Why, you little dickens,” she said.

  I tipped my head to the side. “Yeah?” I asked him.

  Yeah, his look said.

  “He says you’re innocent,” I said. Because along with the electric rush had come a deep knowledge that Angie was not a murderer. It hadn’t exactly come from Mungo, but through him—as if he was a conduit between us.

  “He ‘says’?” Angie seemed confused.

  Perhaps whatever had happened hadn’t worked both ways. Or perhaps they’d never been as deeply connected as Mungo and I were—and had been from the beginning of our relationship.

  “Just trust me,” I said.

  She sat back. “You know? I do. I can’t explain it, but I feel like we met for a reason. I assumed it was because of Mungo here. But perhaps there’s something else. The other woman—your aunt?—said something about help.” She blew her bangs off her forehead. “And Lord knows, I could use some help. That detective seems pretty determined to pin Dr. Dana’s murder on me. He’s already called my parents and my ex-husband, trying to see if I have any access to cyanide.”

  “Do you?” I asked.

  She glared at me. “No.”

  “Good.” I saw Lucy coming back. “I don’t think you were really introduced last night. This is my aunt, Lucy Eagel.”

  The nodded at each other.

  “Do you mind if I ask you another question?” I asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What kind of witch were you before you stopped practicing?”

  She inclined her head toward Lucy. “You’re one, too. Of course. Hereditary.” And then to me, “That was a coven meeting, wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Fair enough. I was a green witch. I still work at Chatham Garden Center.”

  Lucy and I exchanged a glance. Once again, my aunt was right. Green witch was another term for hedgewitch. And for once, it was a good thing that Quinn didn’t know about any of it, because if he’d known Angie could squeeze cyanide from a peach pit, so to speak, she’d be awaiting trial.

  “Do you know what a lightwitch is?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Well, to put it simply, it’s someone called to right wrongs, and in my case to work against evil. That might be secular, but it’s sometimes the evil of dark magic.”

  “In your case. You mean . . .” She whistled. “Mungo sure found himself a powerful witch.” She bit her lip. “So do you think you can help me?”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t know. But I’m going to try.”

  * * *

  I meant to go straight home, I really did, but I still couldn’t resist a side trip on the way. Instead of taking my usual route toward Midtown on Abercorn, I turned left and then right, and soon the Bug was crawling down Bull Street toward Ardsley Park. It was an older neighborhood, more upscale than some, but still quintessentially Savannah. Green expanses of lawns sprawled in front of stately homes, which were interspersed with more modest 1920s bungalows. Live oaks arched overhead, dripping with the Spanish moss ubiquitous to the area.

  Ben and Lucy lived on the edge of Ardsley Park, in a lovely three-story townhome with a low-maintenance rooftop garden. They shopped downtown and occasionally at the Southside shopping malls, all of which were within easy access. Still, as I pulled up in front of the L-shaped building that I’d passed numerous times on my way to their home, I could see Mrs. Standish’s point. The right businesses in this location would attract tons of traffic. The bottom floor would be prime for retail, and possibly a restaurant and bar. The upper level offered a walkway with exterior access to each unit. The space on the long side of the L looked like one big expanse, perfect for the neighborhood fitness center Mrs. Standish had imagined.

  A parking lot large enough to accommodate a double row of spaces sat between the curb strip next to where I was parked and the building. Potholes crumpled the asphalt, and the painted stripes delineating the individual spots were faded where they showed at all. Two vehicles sat nose-in at one end of the building. One was a PT Cruiser, and the other obviously a work truck, complete with utility racks and a sign on the side that read LINCOLN BARD, GENERAL CONTRACTOR.

  Checking the rearview mirror to make sure there were no cars coming, I slowly backed up along the curb until I could see the license plate on the passenger car.

  DOCDANA.

  Well, that seemed pretty clear. Was this the car Phoebe and Nate had moved after the signing so Dana wouldn’t have to walk far on her high heels? Honestly, I’d imagined a Caddy or a BMW. For someone who was afraid of being stalked, it seemed like she’d want to keep a lower profile. On the other hand, the murder victim had possessed a rather obvious narcissistic streak.

  I turned off my car, thinking. Who was driving her car? Possibly Phoebe, but why would she be here? Was she involved in the Dobbs’ real estate venture as well? Either way, it seemed awfully coldhearted to be conducting any kind of business less than twenty-four hours after a loved one’s death.

  A wide-shouldered man wearing work pants and a canvas jacket came out of a downstairs unit. The angled late-day sun struck his face, highlighting two days’ worth of grizzled stubble on his sturdy chin. He carried a flip-top notebook and stopped in the middle of the parking lot to make a note with a short stub of pencil.

  “I’ll be right back,” I murmured to Mungo. He stood on his back paws and watched out the rear window as I exited my car and approached the man.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He looked up and nodded in a friendly way. “Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?” His deep drawl curved around the vowels in delicious curlicues, and I couldn’t help returning his smile.

  I pointed to the truck. “Is that you, or are you the owner?”

  Subtle, Katie.

  “That’s me. Lincoln Bard, at your service.”

  “You must be a hardworking man, Mr. Bard. Here on the Sunday before Thanksgiving.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He winked. Coming from most men, it would have made me cringe, but the gesture fit him to a tee. “But not as hardworking so’s to work on the Sunday after Thanksgiving.”

  “Good for you. Say, what can you tell me about this place?” I asked, trying for casual.

  He shook his head. “Oh, now. You’d need to talk to the owner about that.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, raking the building with a skeptical look. “I know about the black mold. Are you here to, what do they call it?”

  “Abatement,” he said with a slow nod. “That’s not my business, but I’ll be working with the folks who do that. Gonna have to pull out some structural bits—walls and floor and the like. Fixing that up is where I come in.”

  “I see.”

  “It’ll be a good job, nice when it’s all done. Took a while to get going on it, but now there’s been an influx of money for the project.” He rocked back on his heels, looking the place over. “Yep. Looking forward to this one.”

  A door opened on the top floor and Nathan Dobbs came out.

  “Well, there’s your man if you have questions about leasing, or . . . ?” Lincoln looked at me with pleasant curiosity, but I only smiled.

  “Nate!” he called. “You’ve got a potential customer here.”

  Nathan Dobbs came slowly down the stairs, his heavy boots loud on the metal treads. He was just as handsome as I recalled from the signing. Looks don’t make the man, but I could see how Dana Dobbs h
ad wanted to hang on to this one. The sun caught the streaks in his chestnut hair, which was longish and delightfully wavy.

  He offered me a smile and his hand. “Nate Dobbs. I’m happy for the interest, but you should know it’s going to be a while before this place will be ready for renters.”

  “Hello again. I don’t imagine you remember me,” I said.

  He looked at me then, really looked, and took a step back. “You were there. At the bookstore. The caterer. You brought that damn sweet tea.”

  Stunned, I blinked. It had never occurred to me that Dr. Dana’s family might blame any of us for providing the vehicle that delivered the poison to her. But maybe it should have.

  The contractor stared at me, then muttered something about having to go and took off for his truck.

  “Mr. Dobbs, th . . . the sweet tea was fine,” I stammered. “Surely the police told you that. Lots of people drank it.” I could hear the defensiveness creeping into my voice.

  Nate took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he acquiesced, then looked down at the asphalt rubble at our feet. “Sorry. This has been hard.”

  “Of course it has!” Sympathy washed through me.

  He looked up at the building with an expression I couldn’t read. “This place. God. I thought it would give me something to do, be a way to make some real money and not be so . . . Well, it turned out to have some problems, and the money for the project dried up.”

  “And now?” I asked, cringing as I heard the bluntness of my tone.

  Nate met my eyes. “And now it’s something to keep me busy so I don’t spend every single second thinking about my dead wife.”

  My swallow was audible. “Sorry.”

  His expression had hardened, but all he said was, “So am I.” A couple of beats, then: “So are you looking to move from your current location?”

  Confused, I scrambled to catch up. “Oh, the Honeybee? No, we love where we’re at.”

  He frowned. “Then . . . ?”

  I pasted a big smile on my face. “My aunt and uncle—they own the bakery with me—live down the road there.” I gestured. “And we were talking about whether the area could support a second Honeybee bakery.”

  He fished in his pocket and handed me a rumpled business card. “Another six months or so, and these spaces should be ready. Give me a call if you’re still interested.”

  I thanked him and hightailed it back to my car. He was still standing in the parking lot, watching, as I pulled away.

  * * *

  Declan was waiting when Mungo and I got home around five. I’d texted him to let him know the spellbook club was meeting and that I’d be a little late. He hadn’t seemed too disturbed, since he was already planning to watch the Falcons game on the TV up in the loft. I found him sprawled on the futon in front of the screen, a litter of potato chips, onion dip, and an empty beer bottle on the floor. Even though I wasn’t personally a fan, I couldn’t begrudge him his football Sundays.

  He jumped to his feet when he saw me, but after a kiss hello I waved him back to his makeshift lair. “Relax. I’ll whip up something easy for dinner.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’m a little on edge, and cooking soothes me.”

  He frowned. “Something happened at the meeting?”

  “Looks like you were right about me trying to find out who killed Dr. Dana. But at least I’ve got the help of the other ladies.”

  One side of his mouth pulled back in a combination grin and grimace. “Ah. Promise me you won’t get hurt?”

  “Believe me—I’ll do my best.”

  “And you’ve got my help if you need or want it. You know that.”

  I nodded.

  He gave me another kiss and settled back in front of the television. “Let me know if you change your mind and want some help in the kitchen.”

  I assured him I would and went back downstairs. Honestly, I was glad he was occupied. We spent a lot of time together during his time off—which was all but the forty-eight-hour shift he worked at the firehouse each week—and the carriage house was small. As much as I loved the guy, sometimes I felt a little crowded. We could have spent more time at his place, an apartment in the historic district. But the furniture was uncomfortable, and that wouldn’t really have solved my occasional problem of getting enough alone time.

  And right now I needed to think about everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. So I mulled things over as I chopped potatoes, shallots, and peppers, tossed them with olive oil, chopped garlic, rosemary, and lemon zest, and dumped the whole shebang into my favorite old cast-iron skillet. Then I took out a couple of bone-in chicken breasts and plopped them on top, doused them with more lemon juice, oil, and salt and pepper, and placed the whole thing into the oven to roast into a melt-in-your-mouth one-dish meal.

  Soon the scents of roasting chicken, garlic, and rosemary filled the little house. I decided it was a bit chilly to eat on the patio that night and set the tiny table in the kitchen. Then I slipped on a fleece jacket, grabbed a lantern, notebook, and pen, and went out to the backyard gazebo. Mungo trotted along at my heel, pausing once to roll on his back in the grass.

  Most of the backyard was cut into garden beds. Declan had helped me with a lot of the work, and now there were different spaces devoted to flowers and medicinal and culinary herbs, and a separate section by the back corner where the plants were specifically chosen for their magical properties. A small stream ran across that corner, live water that benefited the plants that surrounded it and the spells in which they were used. The gardens were tired this time of year, their growth slowing in the cooler temperatures and shorter days, but there hadn’t been a frost yet.

  I climbed the steps to the gazebo and sat in one of the mismatched thrift-store chairs. Mungo settled under the table, right in the middle of the five-pointed star in the center of the round floor. It was only ten inches in diameter, painted white with a purple border. A besom, a handmade broom traditional in some old spells, leaned against the railing. It was one of my favorite places to cast, especially garden spells, but I hadn’t spent much time out there in the last month or so. The sun had set, though tangerine fingers streaked the low sky to the west. I could hear the stream and smell night-blooming jasmine.

  Before lighting the lantern in the gloaming, I focused on a little tree that I’d planted a few feet away from the stream. It was a mountain ash, which is also known as a rowan tree. The Tree of the Goddess. I’d brought it home and planted it in late September. Tangled in its roots was a voodoo talisman that had once belonged to a mentor of mine. Franklin Taite had used it to hunt out evil magic, though he did not think he had any magical gifts of his own. He did, of course, as well as a fervent desire to support the Light. But he was gone now, and I’d been given the talisman.

  At first I thought I could just start using it like he had. However, it turned out that’s not the way talismans work. It had gone through transformations from light to dark and then back to light again. Unlike a simple charm for luck, or an amulet for protection, it had been created for a specific purpose and a specific person. Once that purpose had been adulterated by evil intent and then actually used to kill, I didn’t feel like I could, well, trust the talisman anymore. I’d consulted with the spellbook club, who had all been there when the talisman had come back to the light, and they had agreed to a woman that it would be best to deactivate its powers.

  So I’d thanked it for its service and reverently buried it beneath the baby rowan. There it would remain as the tree matured. As I reflected on the crazy week I associated with the talisman, I found myself fingering the hair-thin silver circle that hung on a chain around my neck. It was an amulet of protection that I’d worn all year—given to me by Steve Dawes. I’d considered removing it, but it wasn’t like I wore it because of him. I wore it because of the power it possessed. After all, who couldn’t u
se a little extra protection?

  I lit the oil lamp. It illuminated the interior of the gazebo, squeezing down my pupils and shutting out the dark that surrounded us. I opened the notebook and began to make a list.

  Angie Kissel: motive, opportunity, former hedgewitch who possibly could decoct cyanide. Also innocent.

  Earl King: motive, possible opportunity. Access to cyanide?

  I tapped the pen against my teeth, then wrote, Nate Dobbs: motive? Alibied by witnesses. Access to cyanide?

  Phoebe Miller: motive? Also alibied by witnesses. Access to cyanide?

  Frustrated, I put the pen down and stared at the list. It was awfully short, and the only one who fit the bill was Angie.

  Which was why she needed my help.

  Earl and Sophie King had left right after Dr. Dana had finished her reading. Could he have come back down the alley later? With or without his wife? And if he/they had, the same argument I’d given Quinn applied. How could he have convinced Dr. Dana to take the poison? As for Phoebe and Nate, they had alibis for the actual time of death, but it was possible that either of them could have slipped the poison into the sweet tea without her seeing. But why? My heart had gone out to Phoebe that morning. Even if I was reading her wrong, monetarily she had benefited much more from her sister being alive than from her being dead. Or had she? Was there life insurance of some sort? And how was Nate affected by the death of his wife?

  I sighed and rubbed my eyes. Tomorrow Mimsey would call the manager of the radio station, and I’d see if I could find out anything more there. And since Quinn seemed determined to make the case against Angie without looking at other possibilities, I was going to have to find out more about Earl King—and hopefully have a chat. Too bad I hadn’t been telling the truth about Mr. King wanting to hire the Honeybee.

  “Katie?” The voice came drifting over the back fence. “Is that you?”

  I blew out the lamp and rose. “Margie. Of course it’s me.”

  “It could be Declan,” she said, sounding a little defensive.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I went down the steps and over to the side of the yard. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”