Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (3 page)

A speculative expression settled on my aunt’s face. “It would be a terrific way to jump-start awareness about the bakery and a perfect showcase for your cooking talents.” Her gaze caught mine, and I found myself unable to look away. “Can you do it?”

Why was my head nodding?
No, no, no.

And yet, while my head nodded, my mind raced through menu choices, discarding one after another but settling on a few possibilities.

“Whole eggs in brioche, muffins, scones and a baked strata with Italian bread, spinach and sausage as the savory option. Serve a citrus cooler along with their choice of coffee drinks, and plenty of fruit.”

Lucy raised her palms to the ceiling and beamed. “See? Easy as pie.”

“Very funny,” I said.

A flurry of phone calls later it was official: The Honeybee Bakery would be hosting Savannah’s Downtown Business Association brunch meeting in two days. I began sketching out a shopping list and a schedule. I’d bake the Italian bread for the strata tomorrow, as well as mixing the dough for the brioche. Then Lucy and I could make the muffins and the scones first thing the next morning, before the egg dishes took up all the oven space.

A sharp knock on the back door made me jump. “I bet that’s the flour,” I muttered under my breath.

“Let the ladies in,” Lucy called from out front, where she was washing windows. Ben had gone to buy venetian blinds at the hardware store.

“Ladies?” Curious, I opened the back door.

“Oh, my stars and garters, will y’all just look at this darlin’ girl! Lucille told us you were pretty, but my Lord, she didn’t tell us the half of it. That red hair is enough to light up the room all by itself.” This from a short, round woman dressed head to toe in pink. Literally.
A pink bow clung to her smooth white pageboy, and magenta pumps peeked out from under the cuffs of her rosy pantsuit. Twinkling blue eyes didn’t miss a detail.

“Um,” I said. My fingers ran through my short locks. I’d always thought of them as auburn, not red.

Her gaze shot over my shoulder. “Lucille! We brought the books,” she sang out. “Just like we promised.”

“Come in, girls,” Lucy called from behind me. “We’ve got fresh scones.”

“Yum!” the pink lady said and resumed twinkling at me.

I stepped back from the doorway, and she entered, followed by three other women, all looking me over like I was a horse they were considering placing a bet on. Each carried a fabric shopping bag bulging with books. One by one, they deposited their bags on the counter by the door.

We shuffled into a rough circle in the middle of the kitchen, and my aunt made the introductions.

“As you’ve no doubt guessed, this is my niece, Katie.”

They all nodded.

“Katie, these are the members of my book club, all dear friends.” With a languid sweep of her arm, she indicated the effusive woman in pink. “Mimsey Carmichael.”

I smiled. “Ms. Carmichael.”

She stepped forward and grabbed my hand. “Oh, no, dear. No need to stand on ceremony. We’re all going to be great friends. So I’m Mimsey, plain ol’ little Mimsey, to you.”

I felt my lips twitch. “Mimsey it is, then. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Well, it is a plumb
delight
to meet you!”

“And this is Bianca Devereaux.” Lucy gestured toward the woman who towered over the diminutive Mimsey. Long, straight black hair fell nearly to her waist, and intense emerald eyes gazed at me from her pale face. Her white peasant blouse was cinched with a silver belt over a long, watered-silk skirt in periwinkle blue. Expensive leather sandals revealed blue-painted toenails and a silver ankle bracelet. I placed her in her mid-forties. Between her height and her stark features, she would have been downright intimidating if her gaze hadn’t been so calm.

“Hello,” I said.

She put her hand on my arm. “Katie.” Her voice was low and smooth. “We’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to Savannah.”

“Thank you.”

The third woman, a little older than Bianca, stepped forward. She also touched me on the arm. “Oh, there’s so much to see here. So much to learn. You’re going to love it. I’m Jaida.” Her words slid over me like warm butter. In fact, everything about her exuded warmth, from her deep brown eyes and mocha skin to the scent of cinnamon that enveloped her. The scarlet blouse worn under a neat gray suit matched her shoes, giving the impression of a business professional with a bit of a wild side.

“Hi, Jaida. Maybe you can give me some insider suggestions.”

Her laugh was rich and sunny. “I’d be glad to. And
if you’re interested in restaurants, well, I’m definitely your gal.”

My ears perked right up at that.

“And last, but never least, this is Cookie Rios,” Lucy said.

Small and delicate, she’d been standing slightly behind Bianca. Now she moved toward me. The light caught a glint of reddish-purple highlights in her shiny black hair. It was a perfect complement to her olive skin. Her sundress, tied at the shoulders, matched jade-colored eyes. No touch on the arm for her; Cookie marched right up and embraced me. “Katie Lightfoot. Finally, we meet.”

I couldn’t quite identify her subtle accent.

She stepped back and laughed. “What you must think of us, fawning over you like this. It’s just that your aunt has been talking about you for months.”

“Uh-oh.” I smiled at everyone, a bit bowled over by their enthusiasm. “It’s nice to meet all of you.”

“You must come to our next meeting,” Cookie said. “It’s next week.”

“The book club, you mean?” I asked. “What are you reading right now?”

They looked at each other, and then at Lucy. She said, “I’ll fill you in later. For now, let’s give that espresso machine a whirl and get to work. Bring those books—I want to see what you ladies chose for our little library here.”

The book club ladies hefted their shopping bags and lugged them out to the seating area by the empty shelves.

By the time I made my own latte and went to join
them, the group was surrounded by piles of books. Some looked ancient, others brand-new. I sat down next to Cookie and picked one up at random.

Hypnotize Yourself to Stop Smoking Now.

Really?

I put it down and picked up another:
Self-Defense for Pacifists
.

My eyes raked the titles, flicking from pile to pile. There was plenty of fiction and nonfiction, along with cookbooks, crafts and natural history. Though I considered myself fairly well read, most of these titles I’d never heard of. Almost half the books were how-to and inspirational manuals that ranged from beauty tips to how to parent a difficult child, from installing bathroom tile to exploring the afterlife.

Across from me, Jaida caught my look. Her eyes laughed. “How do you like our choices?”

“I … um … well, there certainly is a wide selection.”

“Honeybee customers’ll read these books, darlin’. Don’t you worry.” The pink bow in Mimsey’s hair bobbed up and down as she emphasized her words. “They just don’t know they need to yet.”

Everyone nodded their agreement, including Lucy. Amazing. Best to stick with the tried-and-true classics, in my opinion. Oh, well. My purview was the kitchen. My aunt’s was the library. I’d leave it to her.

“If you ladies will excuse me, I need to finish up my shopping list for an event we’re hosting in two days,” I said.

“You go right on ahead. Don’t mind us.”

I took Mimsey at her word, and returned to the tiny
office off the kitchen. If Ben could make a run to the warehouse grocer early in the morning, we’d be all right. I finished my list as another knock came on the back door. This time it really was the flour deliveryman. I signed the receipt and directed him to the storeroom.

When I emerged, the ladies were gone, and Lucy and Ben were installing blinds on the windows.

I sniffed the air. “I smell gin. And smoke.”

Ben grinned. “You been tippling, Lucy?”

She punched him lightly on the arm. “The ladies dropped by to help us get ready.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “Juniper?” he asked.

I was still confused.

“What did you do, burn it?” I joked. “It smells awful.”

Ben and Lucy exchanged glances.

My aunt cleared her throat. “Mimsey is putting together some nice flower arrangements for the tables on Wednesday. Little bundles of freesia on each table. She’s a florist, you know.”

A frown creased my forehead. “No, I didn’t know that. Now what on earth—”

Lucy interrupted me. “Ben, we’re ahead of schedule. Why don’t you pick up what Katie still needs while I get the rest of these windows shined up?”

“Sure thing.” He raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. “I bet you have a nice long list for me.”

My mind filled with all I still had to do to get ready, and I turned toward the kitchen. “Finished it just before the flour was delivered. Let me get it.”

When I brought the list back to Ben, Lucy was scrubbing furiously at a spot on the window all the way at the end of the bakery. He took it, bussed my cheek heartily and left. I watched Lucy for a few moments, but she didn’t look up.

I went back into the kitchen and turned on the industrial fan over one of the stoves. In minutes the funny smell was gone.

Late Wednesday morning local business owners began to trickle into the Honeybee. Ben, looking handsome in his linen jacket, greeted each by name at the door, and Lucy seated them. In the center of every chrome-and-blue table a small vase of yellow and white freesia sat beside a sweating pitcher of citrus cooler. Lucy had told me the freesia would promote peaceful, loving feelings. Seemed a lot to demand from a flower. For me it was enough that it was pretty.

A large glass bowl of chilled melon balls drizzled with balsamic vinegar and sprinkled with cracked black pepper shone like a pastel beacon in the middle of the buffet table we’d erected against the wall opposite the library area. I’d baked like a madwoman the day before and had driven downtown before dawn to start in again. The lemon spice muffins and cheddar-sage scones would be served still warm, the other dishes piping-hot.

Lucy had insisted on adding plenty of cinnamon, cloves and ginger to the muffins, as well as basil to the
sausage strata and a sprinkle of parsley over the eggs baked in brioche. All the flavors were welcome additions, but she seemed to do a lot of muttering as she stirred and sprinkled.

I’d spent only short periods of time with Lucy before the Honeybee, though more and more often over the years. When I was a child, she’d visited Mama a few times, but she’d called me every month or so since I’d reached the age of ten. Then when I’d been in pastry school, and later in Akron, she’d made a few trips to see me, but not Mama. I didn’t quite know what it was between those two, but it was true that Lucy had an element of what Mama disdainfully referred to as “airy-fairy.” Now her herbal embellishments brought to mind how she’d murmured before, when adding the sage from her garden to the cheddar scones.

Mmmm. Cheddar scones. That reminded me: With all the baking I hadn’t had time for breakfast. I ducked behind a partition and helped myself to a quick, buttery bite before emerging to help make coffee drinks for the crowd.

I’d debated what to wear, and decided my usual summer uniform of T-shirt over a simple skirt and comfortable shoes would be fine for the DBA or anyone else. Any extra style would come from the extensive collection of aprons I’d gathered from vintage clothing stores, Etsy and wherever else I happened across them. Today I’d chosen a paisley chef’s apron that reflected the pink, green and orange of the melon medley.

The door swung open again, and conversations trickled away as Mavis Templeton entered the bakery. She wore a tailored mint green dress that looked like
something Doris Day would have worn, complete with matching shoes, handbag and—I could hardly believe it—pillbox hat. Her glittering eyes swept the room.

“Where’s Mr. Jenkins?”

“He called to say he can’t make the meeting,” Ben said.

Her nostrils flared. “And the food? Is it ready?”

“We’ll bring it out in five minutes,” I said from behind the counter.

“I am especially looking forward to testing your brioche.” She sounded more like she was looking forward to having a fur coat made out of puppies. Given her obvious penchant for being difficult, it was hard to believe she’d signed off on my menu so quickly. I hadn’t been able to resist including brioche after her diatribe about the Sassafras Bakery.

It just happened to be one of my specialties.

“I’m looking forward to your feedback,” I said.

After the drinks were served and the Downtown Business Association members had filled their plates, Ben joined one of the tables. He was, after all, the newest addition to their ranks. Lucy and I retired to the kitchen, but she kept peeking out.

I craned my neck to see around the register. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s not eating.”

“Who?” It looked to me like everyone was tucking in with glee. You could always tell when people enjoyed a meal because they didn’t talk until they’d had a few bites of everything, and all I heard was a few murmurs and the clink of silverware on the Honeybee’s stoneware plates.

“Mavis.” My aunt’s fingers twisted in her long batik skirt. “She took one bite of your brioche and hasn’t had another bite since. She’s not even drinking her coffee.”

“No wonder she’s so skinny.”

“She needs to eat.” Urgency threaded through the words.

I looked at her curiously. “Well, why don’t you try going on out there and telling her that?”

“Hush.”

The group spoke informally over plates piled high with food as if it were some huge family gathering. Mrs. Templeton continued to speak little and eat less, her eyes darting around the room. The main topic of discussion was a new ordinance under consideration by the city council that would eliminate several dozen parking spaces along the riverfront. Many members of the DBA voiced their concern that it would affect the tourist trade, while others argued it would have little impact because so many visitors walked the squares and rode the numerous tour buses and so didn’t need to park downtown.