Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (28 page)

“Hi, sweetie.” I nuzzled his neck, then looked up. “Don’t go yet. I have to tell you my good news. Ben!”

My uncle came into the office. “You don’t have to yell, honey.”

“You’re off the hook.” I couldn’t keep the broad grin off my face.

My aunt and uncle looked at each other. Mungo wiggled.

“I know you were upset about all the questions I was asking, but it paid off. Today we—and by ‘we’ I mean Detective Quinn and me—found out who killed Mrs. Templeton.”

“Who?” Lucy breathed.

“Jack Jenkins.”

Ben jerked back in surprise. “Why would Jack kill her?”

My words tumbling over each other, I related everything Ethan had told me and then Detective Quinn. Lucy’s eyes searched my face as I spoke, and Ben’s expression was sober as he listened.

“I’d bet anything he ducked away from his shop that morning, came over to kill her and went back with no one the wiser,” I concluded.

“And no one saw him?” Ben said.

“Remember, most of the DBA members had already left by the time Mrs. Templeton tried to stiff us. The ones who hadn’t were still in the bakery. And it’s possible someone else did see him, but didn’t realize what he’d done. It wouldn’t have taken very long to break her neck.”

Lucy’s hand flew to her own neck at my words. “That poor man.”

Ben gave her a hug. “You’re right. It’s a sad business.”

She came over and kissed me on the cheek. “You did a really good job, Katie. Thank you for helping Ben. We’ll see you in a little while?”

“As soon as I get the sourdough going, I’ll be right behind you.”

As I slid the loaves into the refrigerator to slow-rise,
I thought about what Ben had said. It was indeed a sad business, and I felt bad for Jack Jenkins. It would be bad enough if someone you loved were injured the way his fiancée had been, and even worse for her to refuse to see you because she didn’t want to be a burden.

But I was still glad we’d discovered the truth.

Potted herbs and flowers crammed the front entryway at my aunt and uncle’s town house in Ardsley Park. The neighborhood echoed Lucy’s abundant roof garden where I’d spent so much time when I stayed with them before buying my carriage house. The scent of sautéing garlic and onions wafted out to the front step as I knocked on the front door. Mungo sniffed the air enthusiastically.

Lucy called for us to come in, and I opened the door into the living room. Vaulted ceilings rose above, making the space feel larger than it was. Skylights and lots of big windows gave their home a light, airy feeling. Hanging ferns reached out toward the light, and ivy crept up the brick wall behind the fireplace. Rugs with geometric patterns set off the rich, cherrywood floors, and white-upholstered furniture clustered in casual seating areas that welcomed all who entered.

My aunt’s orange tabby walked languidly out of the kitchen to greet us.

“Hello, Honeybee.” I looked at her with a new attitude now that I knew she was Lucy’s familiar.

The cat slowly squinted her eyes in greeting.

I sneezed. Familiar or not, I was still allergic to her.

Mungo bounced up and down in my tote bag.

“Okay, okay.” I lifted him out and put him on the
floor. “Honeybee, this is Mungo the Magnificent. Mungo, meet Miss Honeybee.”

The terrier wagged his tail and trotted to the cat. She touched her nose to his for a long moment, then ducked her head and rubbed it against his chin. Together they turned and went into the solarium.

I sneezed again, sighed, and followed the sounds of pots and pans into the kitchen. Lucy stood stirring something in a big cast-iron Dutch oven on the stove. Ben sat at the kitchen table, thumbing through the newspaper. The aromas of cooking tomatoes, basil, oregano and onion joined the pungent garlic.

“Supper will be ready soon. We’re having pasta.”

“With your homemade sauce? Yum.”

She smiled and wiped her hands on a towel. “That can simmer for a bit. I want to show you something.”

Curious, I followed my aunt to her workroom. Dried lavender, mint and sage hung from a rack on the ceiling. Their fragrances teased my nose, along with that of the pasta sauce. A table ran along one wall, covered with Mason jars full of dried herbs, a mortar and pestle and a digital scale.

“Most of this wasn’t here the last time I visited,” I said. Not that I’d spent much time in this room, but I’d had the impression it was more of a sewing room than anything.

“I … tidied it up before. But now there’s no need to hide anything from you. Including this.” She opened a door at the other end of the room that I didn’t remember being there.

I approached and looked inside. A table took up most of the space. A black-and-white batik scarf covered
with depictions of Celtic knots was draped over the surface. Red, blue, yellow and black candles were placed at each corner, and in the middle sat a blue glass bowl, a pentagram-shaped brooch, a feather and a letter opener.

“This is your altar?”

Lucy nodded. “Yes. I meditate, make offerings and sometimes cast here.” She closed the door. “And it’s mine. Totally private.”

I thought of my little house. “Not much chance of that for me if I have anyone over. I don’t even have a proper closet.”

She held up a finger. “You don’t have to keep an altar all the time. You can make anything an altar when you need it—a cloth on the kitchen table, a rug on the floor. But I have something for you.”

Now I followed her back through the living room to the solarium. Mungo and Honeybee looked up from where they were sitting together on a chaise lounge.

“Getting to know each other?” Lucy asked.

They touched noses again.

“Good. Katie, come over here.” She indicated a desk in the corner.

I complied.

“This secretary desk is for you.” It was made of oak, buffed to a rich patina. The front of it opened on hinges to reveal a writing surface and a series of compartments, letter slots and wee drawers. “This was my first altar, when I didn’t have much space and wanted a little privacy.” And when she flipped up the fold-down writing surface again, I could see how perfectly it would work for that purpose.

“You can put it up in the loft.”

Wrapping my arms around her, I said, “Thank you.”

Yip!

Honeybee gave Mungo a reproachful look.

“Oh, darlin’, you are welcome as can be. There’s one more thing, though.” She pushed on the side of the secretary and released a hidden panel.

“Cool!”

Smiling, she drew out a red leather book with silver leaves embossed on the cover. “This is your grimoire.”

“My … ?”

“Think of it as a recipe book. Only the recipes are for spells instead of cookies and brownies. As you learn and develop spells, you need to keep track of them. I’ve added two basic spells, one for banishing fatigue and another for getting rid of aphids, to get you started. But remember: Your personal spellbook is something to keep very private.”

I took the book from her, admiring the Italian leather and running my fingertips over the smooth paper. “Thank you. Again.”

“Ben will bring the secretary over in the Thunderbird this week. You should take the grimoire tonight, though. Make notes in it and record your spell work as you learn the Craft.”

Hugging her again, I said, “I can’t think of a better teacher than you.”

She blinked away tears and took my hand. We returned to the kitchen, to Uncle Ben and the burbling sauce on the stove.

The next morning Ben unlocked the front door to let in a few customers I was already coming to think of as our regulars. Detective Quinn followed them in.

“Peter!” Ben held out his hand with a smile, and Quinn shook it.

“Can I interest you in a cranberry-walnut turnover, Detective?” I asked as Ben slipped behind the register and started taking orders. “You must work twenty-four-seven.”

“I do when I’m on a case. Any chance I could get you to call me Peter, too?” he asked.

I smiled. “Well, to tell you the truth, I think of you more often as Quinn.”

“I like that better anyway … Katie?”

I nodded. “Of course. The turnover?”

His expression sobered. “I’m afraid I’m not here to socialize. May I talk to you in the kitchen? Ben, come on back when you can.”

“Of course.”

I led him to a spot by the industrial mixer. It provided
a view of the front so Ben would still be able to see customer comings and goings when he left the register. Plus, I didn’t want Quinn to find Mungo napping in the office.

“He shouldn’t be long,” I said.

But Quinn didn’t wait for Ben. “We went to pick up Jack Jenkins late yesterday afternoon, but he wasn’t home. His neighbors say he hasn’t been there for a couple days. The mail’s piling up, and his car’s gone. His brother on Tybee Island hasn’t heard from him, and his parents, who live in Baton Rouge, claim the same thing.”

Oh, brother. Were we going to have to cast another location spell? Slumping against the wall, I folded my arms over my chest.

“So we did some more checking yesterday, but no luck. This morning I stopped by his store and ran into a guy who says he’s worked at Johnny Reb’s for two years. He’s been off for a week—Jenkins gave him a paid vacation right
after
Mavis Templeton’s murder—and he just got back from Myrtle Beach. Turns out he was working the morning of the DBA brunch.”

“And Jack said the reason he couldn’t come to the brunch was because his employee didn’t show up,” Ben said as he joined us.

“So that blows away his alibi,” I said. “That’s even better than the idea that he snuck away for fifteen minutes to kill Mrs. Templeton.”

Quinn nodded and continued. “The guy at Johnny Reb’s also said a lot of things were missing.”

“He raided his own store?” Ben asked.

“Mostly little stuff, valuable and easy to dispose of. We’re checking his bank accounts now.”

“Well, that’s it.” I threw up my hands. “He’s long gone, I suppose.”

Quinn shook his head. “I’m far more worried that he might still be in the Savannah area.”

“Why?” Ben asked.

“Because one of the neighbors we talked to reported hearing an argument shortly before he left. She couldn’t tell me much about who Jenkins was fighting with—only that it was a man. And she couldn’t hear specifically what the problem was, but one name came up two different times.”

I leaned forward. “What name?”

“Katie Lightfoot.”

“What?” I croaked.

Ben put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me to his side. “Why her?”

Quinn shook his head. “We don’t know. Only that it’s possible that you’re in danger.” He held his palms up. “On the other hand, it might be nothing. Just be careful, all right?”

Stunned, I nodded.

Having felt the power Steve drew from me in order to save Ethan Ridge’s life, I no longer questioned whether I possessed a gift for magic. But untrained and unpracticed, I had no idea what I could really do. Had the locating spell I’d cast on my living room floor really worked like Steve had said? Was that how divination worked for me? Or was I like Cookie, who couldn’t
divine to save her life? If the latter, finding Ethan had been plain old deduction.

Or was that really magic, too? From what I could tell, the definition was pretty fluid.

At any rate, I couldn’t afford another miss. We needed to find Jack Jenkins—to ensure that a killer was brought to justice, to get Ben off the hook once and for all, and so I could stop looking over my shoulder and jumping at every loud noise. If Ethan Ridge’s injuries were any indication, the guy was unhinged and dangerous.

It was nearly four thirty in the afternoon. I’d mixed the sourdough sponge, scrubbed counters, appliances and the floor, planned the next morning’s baking and checked the inventory in the storeroom. I took off my sexy-maid apron, hung it on one of the hooks that marched along the back wall and went to stand in the office doorway.

“Lucy, how quickly can you get the ladies over here?”

“It depends. What do you have in mind?” She folded her arms and leaned one hip against the desk.

“I’d like to try another location spell. The one Mimsey did to find possible suspects in Mrs. Templeton’s death worked pretty well. Now we have a very specific person to find. Do you think she could do it again?”

She reached for the phone, eyes sparkling. “Let’s find out.”

I would have laughed if we hadn’t been talking about tracking down a murderer.

All four of the spellbook club members showed up within an hour. We closed the blinds tightly and locked
the door. Lucy turned on the overhead lights, and we all settled into the reading area.

Mimsey, wearing royal blue augmented by a splashy yellow scarf, shoes and chunky necklace, listened carefully to what I wanted to do. When I finished, she shook her head.

“I don’t think we should do a location spell. For one thing, they can be kind of iffy. And he’s probably on the move, so even if we do find him he could slip away.”

Jaida shrugged out of her suit jacket. “We’d also have to convince the police to follow up on knowledge we shouldn’t have and can’t prove.”

I grimaced. “Yeah, that is a problem. Detective Quinn was already suspicious of my hunch that Ethan Ridge was in the Peachtree Arms storage unit.”

Bianca rolled her eyes. “If his men had properly searched the premises they would have found that apartment manager without your help.”

“I chose not to bring that up,” I said.

Cookie grinned. “We should do an attraction spell. I’m good at those.”

Now Jaida looked at the ceiling. “I bet you are.”

Cookie laughed. Her miniskirt showed off coltish legs, and she’d tied her hair into a ponytail high on her head.

Mimsey and Lucy exchanged glances. “You want to bring Jenkins here?” Lucy asked.

I shook my head. “That doesn’t seem very safe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re
witches
, Katie. We can protect ourselves, certainly long enough for the authorities to come and take him away,” Cookie said.

“I don’t know,” Lucy said. “That’s not the kind of magic we usually—”

“Just because we don’t
usually
doesn’t mean we
can’t
. Jaida, what do you think?”