Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (16 page)

Colonial Park Cemetery on my left, I turned onto East Hull and found Mrs. Templeton’s address. The house wasn’t as large as I’d anticipated. Only two stories high, and extending deeply onto the lot behind, it was obviously very old. Like, antebellum old. It would bring a pretty penny if Albert decided to sell. The rare Savannah gray-brick facade would be enough to see to that.

“Should I go ring the bell?” I murmured to my companion, thinking there might be a caretaker or a housekeeper that would talk to me.

Mungo whined.

Moments later I saw why. Recognizing the dark Suburban heading our way, I ducked my head and continued walking toward Bull Street. Albert Hill screeched to a stop in front of his aunt’s house, slammed out of his vehicle and ran up the walk.

Was he living there? Already? Mrs. Templeton was barely cold.

“Has anyone seen the movie
Forrest Gump
?” an enthusiastic
voice yelled from a trolley tour bus. “And do you recognize that bench?” I shook my head and turned right onto Bull Street before she got to the rest of the spiel.

Looking worried, Jack Jenkins stood immediately when I walked in. Today he wore a pink shirt with his jeans, and a pair of silver-framed glasses. “Miss Lightfoot! I presume you received your trunk yesterday?”

“I did. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Relief replaced the worry. “Excellent news. When I saw you in the shop so soon again I thought perhaps there was a problem.”

“No problem, but I did find something inside it that I don’t believe you intended as part of the deal.” I reached into my bag and extracted the knife rolled in fabric. Mungo hunkered down, out of sight. I unwrapped the parcel and put the weapon on the counter.

Jenkins picked it up and unsheathed it. Tested the blade with his thumb. “This was in the trunk? I’m sure I glanced inside before the boys loaded it into the van.”

“It was strapped to the inside of the lid,” I said. “Can you think of any reason why?”

Jenkins looked thoughtful. “The gentleman from whom I purchase many of these restored trunks does his very best to maintain the integrity of the inherent history of each piece. It would not surprise me to learn that this knife was originally strapped to the interior lid, and he replaced it after his work was complete.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Thank you for returning it. Technically, though, it was a part of your purchase. You may have it, if you like.”

“No, thanks. I don’t care much for knives. But I wouldn’t mind if you knocked a little off the price of the trunk.”

His smile was charming as ever, but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I didn’t know it was in there when I set the price, Miss Lightfoot.”

“Hmm. Fair point. Anyway, I stopped by for another reason.” I put my hand into my bag to fish out the agreement Mrs. Templeton had made for the DBA brunch and was surprised to find Mungo positively vibrating. I felt terrible. He probably didn’t like knives, either, and here I’d made him ride around right beside one. I rested my hand along his back for a moment, and he quieted.

Jenkins watched me expectantly. I put the paper on the counter, and he leaned forward to take a look.

“I don’t know whether Mrs. Templeton has been replaced as treasurer of the DBA yet, but we never received full payment for the brunch. This is the contract she and my Uncle Ben drew up. And this is what she tried to pay us.”

“Oh, my. Isn’t this what they were fighting about directly before her life was cut short?”

I pressed my lips together. “There was a small disagreement after she tried to break the contract, yes.”

“I see. Well, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will attend to it and get a check to your uncle as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” I looked at my watch. “I need to be getting back to the bakery. Still a lot to do before the grand opening tomorrow. I hope you’ll stop by.”

He waved his hand through the air. “I assure you, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Here. I made these up while you were gone.” Lucy held out a plastic container. “Eat one tonight as a bedtime snack. It’ll help you sleep.”

“What are they?” I asked.

“Seven-layer bars.”

I gave her a look. “You mean the kind that are sometimes called magic bars?”

Lucy grinned. “Trust me.”

I opened the lid and peered in. A multitude of scents curled up from the container, and I almost swooned on the spot. “They smell delicious. What’s in them?” I recognized the chocolate chips, coconut, graham crackers and walnuts from the traditional recipe Mama used to make, but there weren’t any butterscotch or white chocolate chips, and their smell was different from that of the seven-layer bars I’d eaten as a child.

“All sorts of good things,” she said with a smile. “And a pinch of agrimony. I know you haven’t been sleeping well lately, and you need your rest if you’ll be hitting the kitchen at five every morning.”

For a moment I considered telling her about my sleep disorder, but I just said, “True enough,” and sniffed the contents once more before snapping the lid back on. “Thanks, Lucy.”

She grinned. “Plus, you’re not nearly as grumpy when you get a good night’s sleep.”

I rolled my eyes. If she only knew.

*        *        *

We’d renovated and designed and arranged the space. We’d developed the recipes. And tomorrow we would throw open the door of Honeybee Bakery to the public. In addition to hitting the kitchen at five a.m. to start the day’s baking, I would be baking on and off until each afternoon, with Lucy’s help. And besides the trios of cookies, biscotti, muffins and scones, each day there’d be a special. The grand opening special would be individual peach-and-pecan pies.

I added flour, water and salt to the giant glop of sourdough starter in the big mixer and set it to churning on low. After the mixture had grown and burbled for a few hours, I would put the wet sponge into baking pans and those into the refrigerator to slow-rise overnight. In the morning the loaves would be ready to bake, with no kneading and without my having to start work at three o’clock in the morning.

Yes, that crappy job in Akron had taught me a few things.

The back door opened and Steve Dawes walked in without even bothering to knock. I folded my arms and raised my eyebrows at his entrance. Was he simply confident or downright arrogant? At least I didn’t get the girlie shivers this time. This time my blood surged like a tide responding to the proximity of the moon.

Great.

“Hey there. All ready for the big day?” he asked.

“We’re set to go. Now we just need the customers to show up.” I flipped the switch on the mixer, lifted the beater, and draped a towel over the bowl.

“Oh, you’ll get those. There’s a buzz about this place, you know.”

A smile crept onto my face. So word had already spread. Excellent.

“People will want to see where Mavis Templeton was killed.”

My smile slid away. “Terrific.”

He laughed. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?”

“Hmm. I guess.” It would be nice if people came to the Honeybee because of the fabulous baked goods, though. I reminded myself we had to give it time.

“So, I barged in for a reason,” Steve said.

“Really? Do tell.”

“I’m looking for Ben. Got a couple follow-up questions for my column. You know, the one about the changing face of business.”

“Right. Sorry, but he’s not here right now.” He’d looked so ragged Lucy and I had insisted that he try to get a little rest. Lucy had sent some seven-layer bars home with him to encourage a nice nap.

“When will he be back?”

I shrugged. “I know he’ll be here tomorrow, manning the counter and charming customers.”

“I’d sure like to get the column in. I’ll give him a call.”

“I’m sure he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.”

“Hmm.” Steve peered at my face. “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”

I frowned. “I look that bad, huh?” What was with all the concern about my sleeping habits?

“Not at all. I can just … tell. Okay, I’ll let you get back to work. But don’t forget dinner. I’m going to keep at it until you give in.”

And now I was nodding, just like I did when Lucy had asked me if we could do the DBA brunch for Mrs. Templeton: against my will.

“Good. And soon.” He turned to go. “See you.”

“Wait a second.”

He looked back at me. “Change your mind?” The hope on his face was disconcerting and charming at the same time.

“I was wondering if you’d had a chance to talk to any of your pals on the police force about the murder.”

The hope turned into a wry smile. “Of course you were.”

I refused to feel sheepish. A girl’s got to keep her priorities straight.

“And?”

“And nothing. Yet. Give me your number, and I’ll call if I find out anything.”

“Oh. Um, okay.”

“Now, come on. I won’t bite.” His grin was awfully toothy, though.

I recited my phone number, and he tapped it into his cell phone, then looked up. “There. You’re officially on my list.” Surprise registered on his face. “Don’t look like that! You act like I’m some stalker. Here.” He took out a business card and gave it to me. “That’s my number. Now we’re even, right?”

Hardly.

Donning my best poker face, I asked, “How would you go about finding out what someone went to jail for?”

“Someone who?”

“Ethan Ridge.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You know him?”

“Of him. When I worked the crime beat for the
Morning News
, it was common knowledge that eighty percent of the people law enforcement deals with are folks they’ve run into before. Ridge was one of those repeat customers. Then he went away for a while, and it was common knowledge when he came back.”

“He’s the manager of the Peachtree Arms.”

Steve’s response was a blank look.

“That’s Mrs. Templeton’s apartment complex. Now her nephew’s, I guess.”

He took out a pen and his ever handy notebook. “Ethan Ridge. Like I said, I know he was in prison, but I don’t know what landed him there. I’ll see what I can come up with, okay?”

“That’d be great,” I said with a big smile.

“’Bye, Katie-girl.” He walked out without looking back.

The door latch clicked behind him. “’Bye,” I said to empty air.

Ethan Ridge wasn’t the only one who’d had problems with dear Mavis. Now that Steve was looking into his nefarious past I wanted to find out what had happened to Redding Coopersmith’s friend before we got too busy at the bakery. I’d related Margie’s story to Lucy and Bianca, who came in soon after Steve left,

“I’d sure like to track down Frank Pullman before the grand opening tomorrow,” I said now. “We’ve heard Mrs. Templeton made a lot of threats, and we even witnessed some right here in the Honeybee, but it seems she actually destroyed Pullman’s life.”

Bianca slid into the chair across from me. “He lives a few miles away. We could go see him right now.” She recited an address.

“You know him?” I asked. A sense of urgency settled on my shoulders.

She shrugged. “Never heard of the gentleman before you told us about him.”

“Then how did … Is there an address location spell or something?”

Her lips quirked. “Yes. It’s called a telephone book. Very old school.”

Lucy laughed. I ducked my head, feeling my face redden. I had to stop thinking everything these ladies did involved witchcraft.

“I have some time right now. Can you leave?” Bianca asked.

I glanced at Lucy. “I think we should. What else is there to do to get ready for the opening? Other than the baking I’ll do in the morning.” The bakery was scheduled to open at seven o’clock the next morning. Because we wanted everything to be perfect, I’d be at the Honeybee bright and early at four a.m. I’d already prepped everything I could.

My aunt waved her hand. “We’re all set, hon. You go ahead with Bianca and see what Mr. Pullman has to say. I’ll take care of anything that comes up.”

Standing, I said, “We shouldn’t be long.”

Bianca offered to drive. When I saw the red Jaguar convertible I was sorry we had to go only a few miles.

In no time we pulled up behind a battered pickup parked at the curb in front of a white bungalow centered on a small lot. The porch sported an elaborate wooden railing, and the low cedar pickets surrounding the yard stood out in contrast to the neighbors’ wrought-iron fences. The gate was open, as was the front door. Several cardboard boxes emblazoned with the
NEW START MOVING
logo filled the back of the truck, along with a Naugahyde recliner and two large suitcases.

As we approached the gate, a tall bearded man wearing black-framed glasses carried another suitcase out of the house and shut the door behind him. He jingled the
keys in his hand and regarded us from the shade of the porch. Exchanging glances, Bianca and I entered the yard and walked up the sidewalk.

“You from the bank?” Anger flared in his eyes as we came nearer.

“Um, no, sir,” I said.

“Don’t tell me those bastards put the house on the market already.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that. Are you Frank Pullman?”

The heat in his glare diminished a fraction. “Who wants to know?”

I climbed the stairs and stepped onto the porch. “Katie Lightfoot.” I gestured at Bianca, who stopped halfway up the steps and leaned against the scrolled railing. “And this is Bianca Devereaux.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she drawled. “Assuming you are indeed Mr. Pullman?”

A couple of beats passed and then his shoulders slumped. He looked down at the painted floorboards and muttered, “Yeah. That’s me.”

On the brief drive over I’d racked my brain for the best way to ask him about Mrs. Templeton. Nothing terribly clever had occurred to me. Now I blurted, “My next-door neighbor is Margie Coopersmith. She told me about your trouble with Mavis Templeton, but that you’re a good carpenter. I just moved here and I need a little work done on my house, so my friend and I thought we’d stop by and introduce ourselves.” It was partly true. I did need someone to build my dream gazebo in the backyard.