Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (27 page)

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.”

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.

“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?”

“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 …”