Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (11 page)

“This weird old thing was still in the house when we bought it. I’ll take seventy-five for it if you’ll just get it out of here.”

It was utterly charming. I loved it. I opened my mouth to speak.

Declan stepped forward. “How about fifty?”

The woman hesitated, then waved her hand. “Whatever. Can you take it right now? Take that lamp, too, if
you want it.” It was an old-fashioned brass affair with a purple fringed shade that matched the sofa.

“You bet!” I pressed a bill into her hand. Declan took the larger end of the sofa, and together we managed to wrangle it out of the house and into the truck. The woman fretted the whole time the door was open, what with all that frigid air wafting into the humid atmosphere, but I don’t know how we could have gotten the sofa outside otherwise. Maybe Lucy had a nice vanishing trick, but Declan and I had to do it the old-fashioned way.

I never did learn the woman’s name.

“We’re still in Midtown, aren’t we?” I asked as we drove away.

“Almost to Southside.”

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a piece of paper with the address Jaida had provided for the Peachtree Arms and recited it to Declan.

“Is that Mrs. Templeton’s apartment building?”

“It is. Are we anywhere close? Would it be a bother to swing by and take a look?”

He took a quick right. “No bother at all. It’s not far.”

In fact it was less than five blocks away. Declan pulled into the cracked asphalt parking lot of a monkey-poop-brown building. I counted eight doors on each of five floors, leading to ratty concrete pads on the ground floor and rickety-looking balconies higher up. The siding was peeling away in places, and at the far end an iron railing dangled from a fifth-floor balcony, directly over the walkway below.

“That looks dangerous,” I said, pointing out the truck window.

Declan looked grim. “No kidding.” He opened the console between us, extracted a notebook and scribbled something in it.

“Are you going to report it?”

“You bet I am. Want to go inside?”

I most certainly did not. Jack Jenkins’ assessment of this place as a cesspool of neglect had been mild in comparison to the reality. The place frankly creeped me out, even though I was safe and sound on the outside. My imagination flinched at the possibilities of what it might be like inside.

“Sure, let’s take a look,” I said, donning false bravado like a trench coat against the elements.

Declan looked his skepticism at me but didn’t protest. Instead he got out and came around to my door, handing me down to the ground from the running board like I was a petticoated lady just arrived on a stagecoach.

Know what? I kind of liked it. Andrew had been a getcher-own-door kind of guy.

Good riddance.

As we neared the building, a big SUV screeched around the corner. I yanked on Declan’s arm, pulling us both to the side of the building and out of the path of the speeding Suburban.

The driver didn’t even notice us, or if he did he didn’t deign to look at us. But I recognized the shiny head, shapeless lips and bitter parentheses carved around his mouth.

“Albert Hill,” I breathed. Shaken, I leaned against the brick facade. “Twice in one day. It’s a good thing we didn’t run into him inside.”

“Why?”

“Ben didn’t tell you? That’s Mrs. Templeton’s nephew. He’s threatening to sue Ben, the bakery, Lucy, me, the DBA and maybe God himself.”

“Pffft. That’s ridiculous,” he said.

I could only hope he was right.

We walked around the corner and found a door leading into a central hallway in the middle of the end wall. I held both hands up to the glass pane that made up the top half, on either side of my face to try to cut the glare from the sun. But even then the glass was too dirty to see through.

Taking a deep breath, I yanked on the handle and the door swung open with a creak worthy of a horror movie. Declan caught the door and held it, entering right behind me. We squinted in the darkness until our eyes adjusted.

The eight-by-five arrangement seemed to be reflected on both sides of the building. So unless there was a secret penthouse, this ramshackle edifice contained eighty miserable dwellings.

No wonder Mimsey had identified it as a nexus of hatred toward Mrs. Templeton. I would have guessed that after one glance.

Never mind that Mimsey had never seen the place.

Pushing the thought away, I blinked in the low-wattage light and peered down the hallway. Mustard-colored carpet crawled the length of it, stained in the middle and pulling away from the edges in places. I met Declan’s eyes, their bright color dimmed in the perpetual twilight of this place, and saw pity in them for the people who lived here.

He took my hand. Warm and dry, his hand completely enveloped mine. I instantly felt better.

“Let’s see if we can find the manager,” he said.

I nodded my agreement. As we continued down the hallway I had the sense of being in a fun house or a Tim Burton film. Declan paused in front of a door.
MANAGER
was written in black Magic Marker on a piece of cardboard and taped slightly above my eye level. As if of its own volition, my fist rose and knocked on the hollow wood below the sign.

We waited. No sound came from inside.

“He’s not in. Don’t know when he’ll be back, neither.” A stooped black man with a puff of bone white hair stood in the doorway across the hall.

“The manager?”

His confirming nod was elaborate, slightly sarcastic. “Yes, the manager. Who else’s gonna put a sign on their door that says
Manager
?”

“What’s his name?” Declan asked.

“Ridge is his name. Ethan Ridge. He’s probably off seein’ his parole officer.”

My ears perked up. “Is that so?”

“Oh, he’s all right. Just got himself in some trouble back a ways, is all. We got a couple openings here if you’re looking for a place, I can tell you that, but I can’t show you none of them.”

I tried to nonchalantly see into the apartment behind our font of knowledge. Unfortunately, nonchalance was not my strong suit. He noticed.

So I stuck out my hand. “I’m Katie Lightfoot.”

He took it. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Katie Lightfoot. And is this Mr. Lightfoot?”

I blushed so hard my follicles tingled. What was wrong with me? It was an innocent assumption.

“Oh! Lookie there. She’s turning the same color as her hair, almost!” He grinned at Declan. “You two living in sin, then? That it? Well, that’s no never mind to me. Can’t judge. I let folks be. My name’s James Sparr.”

“Nice to meet you, James. We’ll come back later. Thank you.” I turned and strode outside, determined to shake off my embarrassment.

By the time Declan opened the passenger door for me I was thinking about Albert Hill again. Had he stopped by to see Ethan Ridge and left in a huff because the manager wasn’t there?

Or had something else deepened Albert’s bad mood?

Declan and I wrangled the sofa through the front door and set it against the wall opposite the entry. The contrast of dark purple against the peach walls translated to a kind of cheerful elegance. And the old trunk would make a perfect coffee table.

He folded his arms and gave one decisive nod. “Looks good.” His gaze took in the rest of the living room: plank floors, built-in bookcases, the hall leading down to my bedroom, the stairs to the open loft above, French doors that opened to the backyard. “This is a great little place.”

“As soon as I saw it I knew it was right for me.” I opened the back door.

Mungo barreled in and right up to Declan. He stooped and picked up the dog. “Who’s this?” Mungo wiggled and licked his chin.

“That’s Mungo the Magnificent.”

Declan laughed. “He is magnificent. Did you bring him from Akron?”

“Nope. He showed up when I arrived. My neighbor says he doesn’t belong to anyone around here.”

“It’s nice that you took him in.”

“Oh, I don’t know …” I trailed off.

Those blue eyes met mine. “No tags? Have you checked the paper for lost dogs? Or taken him to check for a microchip?”

Silent, I shook my head. I should have done all those things, but I realized I didn’t really want to discover that the terrier had another owner. No matter what I’d been telling myself, I wanted to keep him.

He handed Mungo to me, and the little guy immediately snuggled up under my chin. I could feel his heart beating against my chest.

“Maybe I’ll take him to the vet tomorrow and have him scanned.”

Declan grinned. “Sure you will.” He peered out the open door. “Mind if I check out your yard?”

“Of course not.” I followed him out. “I’m planning a garden along that back fence. See the narrow stream that runs across the corner of the property? In the opposite corner I’d like a little gazebo, maybe with a ceiling fan for hot evenings. In between I want to have a landscape-type bed full of all kinds of herbs, with an eye for beauty as well as utility. Same with the vegetable garden that’ll go in after the herb garden is done.”

“Like a French potager,” Declan said. “Brilliant.”

“You’re a gardener!”

“I have a little vegetable patch. Tomatoes, melons, cucumbers, that kind of stuff. But my mother’s an avid gardener. I learned a lot from her.”

Mungo wiggled. I set him down and bent over to say, “I’ll be home again in a little bit, okay?”

Yip.

Declan’s laugh followed me through the house as we returned to the front door. “You are so not getting rid of that puppy.”

“Hush,” I said, and locked the door behind us. “Thanks for the help with the sofa. I really do appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He opened the passenger door and put his hand on my elbow as I hoisted myself in from the running board. “In fact, let me know if you need any help with those gardens you have planned. I happen to be pretty good with a rototiller.”

“Oh, you sweet-talker, you.” Oddly content, I buckled my seat belt.

The feeling lasted all the way back to the Honeybee but vanished the instant I stepped down from Declan’s truck and saw Steve Dawes standing in the doorway. He shot a quick glare at my companion and stalked away down the sidewalk.

A pang of guilt stabbed through me. “Steve,” I called.

He either didn’t hear or was ignoring me. Well, what did I care? And why should I feel at all defensive just because these two men seemed to have a problem with each other?

I whirled to look at Declan, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Slamming the truck door, he stepped past me toward the still-open door of the bakery. “Hey. What the heck is the deal with you two?” I demanded.

He paused, but didn’t turn around. “It’s a long
story.” His words were so low I had to strain to hear them.

I softened my tone. “Will you tell me sometime?”

A long pause, then “Maybe.” And he went inside.

I followed slowly behind him.

After he’d left I rested my chin on my hand and blinked across the table at my uncle. “Declan seems nice. Did you two work together much?” Leading the witness, trying not to be too obvious.

“We’ve been through a lot together. Life-and-death stuff.”

I sat up and leaned forward in my chair. “Sounds heavy.”

“Unfortunately, firefighting is too often about tragedy. Early in his career, we almost lost Declan. We did lose another man.”

My fingers crept to my mouth. “Oh, no.”

“It was right before I became chief. I was still a commander and Deck was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie. Smart, though. Took his training seriously, did things by the book. That’s important because that’s how you stay alive in that business. The rules are there to keep you safe.”

He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. Gazing out the window as if the past lay on the other side of the glass, he continued. “A multilevel office complex was on fire. Dispatch sent us out as soon as they got the call, but the flames had already spread to several parts of the building. Deck and another rookie went in with the hose line.”

Ben paused, remembering. “One of the most important
things they teach at the academy is that you never let go of the hose. It’s your lifeline. Between smoke and fire, it’s easy to get disoriented. Sometimes the hose is the only way you can find your way back out. Well, the other rookie broke that rule. When the rescue team went in they found Deck right by the hose line. His air bottle was empty, and he was unconscious. The rescue team dragged him outside to the paramedics and went back in for the other rookie. He’d run out of air, too, only he’d removed his mask.” He looked down at the floor and gave a slight shake of his head. “Died of smoke inhalation.”

My uncle turned away from the window and sat down again. “That other kid was Declan’s best friend; they’d gone to college together, went through training at the same time, even shared an apartment.”

I closed my eyes, the scenario playing out in vivid detail in my imagination. I saw a younger Declan, frightened and left alone, wanting to help his friend but knowing better than to go after him.

“It must have been devastating,” I said.

“He wanted to quit. But Deck’s good at his job, and despite what happened that day, he truly loves it. I talked him into staying. It’s been nearly a decade, and he’s become one of the best men I’ve ever known in the fire service.”

He took a deep breath and stood. “Enough sad talk. I’d better go hook up your fancy convection oven so you can give it a test drive before the big day.”

Bianca called as I was getting ready to go home. “I asked around about Albert Hill. The responses I got were wildly inconsistent.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, people seem to either love him or hate him. According to two society matrons I spoke with, he’s the bee’s knees. Helpful, generous to a fault with both time and money, an unfortunate, lonely man who needs a good woman to take care of him.”

“Oh, brother.”

She laughed. “These dears had an almost maternal attitude toward him, as if he were a favored son.”

“Albert stopped in to the Honeybee this afternoon. He’s just awful, Bianca. Mean, spiteful, and I’m pretty sure he was drunk. It’s possible he’s grieving the loss of a close family member, but I don’t think so. He seemed more angry than sad, accusing Uncle Ben of killing Mrs. Templeton and threatening to sue anyone remotely involved.”