Dizzy Spells (5 page)

“I could cook something, too,” Mint chimed
in. “We should all go and offer a little distraction from her
troubles. She could certainly use it. We could welcome her to
town.”

“It seems silly that the police would
suspect the poor woman. She wouldn’t hurt a soul.” Camino shook her
head in exasperation. “You just can’t trust the experts sometimes.
They go around looking for a quick answer, not necessarily the
right one.”

Ruprecht studied the inside of his cup. He
was unusually quiet as we chattered on. I wondered what was going
on in his mind.

“Well, is there anything we can do?” I
looked around the table for inspiration.

“We could make a small casserole and make
sure she knows she is in our thoughts.” Mint tapped her finger on
the hardwood table in contemplation.

“No. I mean, anything we can
do
.
With, you know.” I felt weird, trying to request a spellcasting on
Dianne’s behalf. However, if they could use magic to spy on
suspects and make magic love-muffins, well, surely they could be of
some use in the situation.

“It’s not that simple,” Camino said
cautiously. “We could do a truth spell, I suppose, to make the
truth come to light. And a protection spell over Dianne, too.”

“If we had some sort of evidence to work
with, maybe we could achieve a better result,” Thyme mused.

“So if there was some sort of evidence to
work with, we might be able to clear her name?” I prompted the
group.

Ruprecht stroked his chin. “There’s nothing
to say that we couldn’t.”

“Nothing guarantees it, either,” Camino
added.

“We could still do a spell of clarity.”
Thyme waved a cracker to emphasize her point, but Mint shook her
head.

“But clarity for what?” Mint wagged a finger
in denial. “There are plenty of things we could accidentally bring
clarity to that are better left unknown. We could easily cause more
harm than good.”

“True.” Thyme chewed her bottom lip as she
mulled over the problem. “Clarity as to who killed him? That seems
pretty much to the point.”

“Agreed,” Ruprecht said as he tilted his cup
from side to side, studying its bottom with interest, and then set
it down. “But we will lend aid when our part becomes clear. For
now, let us simply enjoy each other’s company.”

“But how will we know?” I asked. I
desperately wanted to help Dianne. After all, I knew what it was
like to have the community turn on me over a false assumption. But
what could I possibly do? I knew even less about magic than I did
about baking. I didn’t even know spells were real until shortly
after I’d moved to Bayberry Creek.

“It will come to you, my dear.” Camino gave
my hand a reassuring pat. “Sometimes just believing in someone is
all the magic you need to help them through hard times. There isn’t
a spell in existence that makes better medicine.”

“Though spells can be very useful when they
work the way you want them to.” Thyme grinned at me. “You’re from a
powerful bloodline. Maybe you’re accidentally hexing your
cooking?”

“Very funny!” I pretended to toss a grape at
her.

“Well, think about it!” Thyme laughed. “Your
one and only success was a super deluxe, love potion infused cake.
Maybe you’re unconsciously trying to spell your cakes to be tasty
and it gets lost in magic-translation somewhere.”

“I’d settle for edible!” I said, and my
remark was met by scattered laughter from the others. I noticed
that they did seem oddly thoughtful over the idea. Surely they
weren’t seriously putting stock into that tease? I barely knew what
magic was, so I could hardly see myself subconsciously putting
hocus pocus type stuff onto my cooking. If I did, surely they’d be
less like toxic waste.

“Edible to whom?” Thyme pressed. “Maybe your
cooking is a delicacy on another planet. You might be the next iron
chef on Mars.”

“I think we’d have to look outside the solar
system,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. I was a terrible
cook, but I was certain that I wasn’t hexing food.

Thankfully, attention was soon diverted from
the sorry subject of my cooking and turned to chatter about recent
events. Mint and Thyme were bickering lightly with each other, and
Ruprecht appeared to be completely focused on his tea as he stayed
out of it. Camino was busying herself with tidying up the snacks as
she interjected from time to time like a mother hen, clucking at
their behavior. The scene felt warm, comforting, and secure. I had
never felt so comfortable at my own family gatherings.

Ruprecht was right. Magic couldn’t beat good
company, not by a mile.

Chapter 8

“Darn it,” I said sleepily to no one in
particular. There was no one in my room, not even the cats,
although of course, the house itself was alive in a way. I rolled
over onto my stomach and felt along the floor for the phone.

“Hello, Thyme?” I said groggily. “It’s
early.”

“I know,” Thyme said. “I’m sorry.”

I could tell at once, even in my half-awake
and caffeine deficient state, that Thyme was not herself. Her voice
was nasal. It dawned on me what Thyme was calling to say before the
words even left her mouth.

“No!” I said, loudly. “No, no, no!”

“I know,” Thyme said. “I’m sick. I’m sorry.”
She sounded congested and tired.

“I could just close for the day,” I said.
“If I cook, we won’t have any cash, ever.”

Thyme laughed weakly. “What about hiring
someone for the day?”

“Who?”

Thyme didn’t have an answer for that.

I wondered why a witch was sick at all.
Wasn’t there a spell she could do? I had no idea. I really did to
need to read up a lot more on the subject. I also needed to look
for extra staff members I could call on in such a situation.

I didn’t speak to Thyme again until later
that morning when she called to ask how I was doing. I had stupidly
decided to try to bake, and at the very moment Thyme called, smoke
was billowing out of the oven, slipping through the small crack at
the edges of the door.

“Hi Amelia, how’s it all going?” Thyme
asked.

“I have to call you back!” I screeched,
hanging up and throwing the phone on the countertop in one fluid
motion. I ran to the sink at the back of the room, and pulled a
small red extinguisher from the cupboard. I ran back to the oven.
When I pulled the door open, the flames leaped at me. Within
seconds, the towels on the counter next to the oven were
burning.

I pulled the silver pin on the extinguisher
and aimed it at the fire, but by the time the extinguisher was
empty, the fire was still going, albeit far more weakly. I ran back
to the phone and called triple zero.

After the call, I went back to the sink. I
filled a large mixing bowl with water, and threw it on the flames.
That did the trick, but as I stood in the somewhat blackened
kitchen, I heard the faint roar of a siren.

Within minutes, Craig and the other
firefighters were in the kitchen. “I put it out just before you got
here,” I said lamely.

“Well, we rushed here for nothing then,” one
of the men said to me. “Always the best kind of call—it means
everyone is safe.”

Craig came over to me. He looked as hot as
usual, his muscles seemingly bulging through his uniform. “There
isn’t any damage here,” he said. “Just make sure that oven’s
working properly before you use it again. You’d better get it
checked out. Otherwise, there’s nothing that a good clean up
wouldn’t fix.”

I smiled my gratitude. “No more baking for
me, seriously.”

When Craig and the other firefighters left,
I spent the morning scrubbing the kitchen. After all, I was
experienced with removing smoke and ash from surfaces.

I shut the shop at lunchtime and headed to a
local café to buy soup for Thyme.

The woman who answered the door only vaguely
resembled Thyme. Her face was pale, her eyes red, and her hair limp
and stringy.

“You look terrible,” I said.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Thyme said
dryly.

“I brought you soup.” I carefully held up a
paper bag.

“Come in, but don’t get too close.” Thyme
threw herself down on her couch. “So what are you doing here? You
didn’t burn down the bakery, did you?”

I pulled a face. “Well…”

Thyme’s mouth dropped open. “I was kidding!
Did you? Another fire?”

“Another fire,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? It’s your shop. If you want to burn
it down so badly, go ahead.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. I
thought I’d try to bake, but then there were flames. Craig came and
put it out. I spent ages scrubbing the soot.”

“Oh, your boyfriend showed up? Now it all
makes sense,” Thyme teased me.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said defensively,
“and what makes sense?”

“Why you keep setting all of these fires.
You want to see the firefighter Ken doll.”

I laughed. “I’m not setting fires on
purpose, and don’t be mean. He has way more muscles than a Ken
doll.”

“That’s a fair point,” Thyme said. “Anyway,
I still can’t believe you set the place on fire again.”

I put my head in my hands. “I’m so
embarrassed. I’m an optimist—I think that one day I’ll be fine with
baking, but perhaps I’ll never be able to bake. Anyway, I don’t
know about Craig. I like him, but I don’t really feel a spark
there. Do you know what I mean? He’s awfully good looking, but
there’s no chemistry. Still, the Millionaire Matchmaker says
chemistry needs time to grow. What do you think?”

I looked back up and saw that Thyme had
fallen asleep. Her mouth was open and she was snoring softly. I let
myself out and drove back to the cake store, all the while thinking
about Craig. He hadn’t even asked me out, but what would I do if he
did?

When I got back, I left the ‘Back in 1 hour’
sign hanging on the doorway. There hadn’t been many customers that
morning, and I figured I was safe to have a few more minutes to
clean up before I opened for the afternoon. I threw away the burned
towels, and then tried to clean the charcoal from the cake pan. It
proved awfully persistent, so I scrubbed at it with salt.

I jumped when I heard the bell above the
door to the front of the store. I was sure I had locked the
door.

I stepped through the swinging doors, and to
my shock, Alder Vervain was standing in the store.

“We’re actually closed. I thought that door
was locked,” I said. I hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt, but the man
made me nervous. He was dark and brooding, albeit in an attractive
sort of way. And how did he get in? There was something mysterious
about him, and I’d had an over supply of mysterious since I’d moved
to Bayberry Creek.

“Hello to you, too.” He looked amused, which
annoyed me for some reason.

“Excuse me?”

“Thomas Hale died in your house, did he
not?” His gaze was unwavering.

I shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“Well, no,” I said defensively. “He was on my porch, not in my
house. Anyway, why do you ask? Was he a friend of yours, or
something?”

“I’m a private detective.”

I gasped at the disclosure. Sure, and I’d
never make a poker player, but I had not the faintest clue that he
was a private detective.

“Do you find it strange that one man died in
your shop, and then a man died at your house?”

“What are you saying?” I didn’t like where
he was going with this. “They found Brant McCallum’s murderer.”

“You have to admit it’s a strange
coincidence,” Alder said. “Why you?”

“I don’t have a clue. Look, I’m sorry, but
we’re closed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Alder nodded. “All right. I’ll come back
tomorrow.”

I crossed my arms. “If you’d like to buy
something, then by all means come back tomorrow.”

Alder smiled, a thin smile that I imagined a
storybook wizard would smile, as if he knew something I didn’t,
something important.

Alder left swiftly. There was a strange
stillness to the air after he’d gone, and it made me uneasy.

Chapter 9

When I arrived at work the following morning,
Alder Vervain was already there. Part of me was pleased to see him,
and that in itself annoyed me.

“You’re tenacious,” I said. I held the door
open for him with my foot after I stepped inside.

Alder walked through the door, tucking a
newspaper under his arm. “You don’t happen to make donuts in this
place, do you?”

“No, just cakes and cupcakes.” As usual, he
was dressed all in black. The scent of cinnamon, and something I
couldn’t quite identify, seemed to follow him.

“I don’t think I should eat a cupcake for
breakfast,” he said.

I shrugged. “Donuts aren’t really much
better.” I walked behind the counter. Of course, he was just a
private eye, so he had no jurisdiction anywhere, but there was no
harm in answering questions. “Okay, enough of the small talk. What
do you want to ask me?”

“Many things.” Alder bent to look in the
empty display counter. “Do you make the cakes fresh each day?”

I folded my arms. “Is that what you really
wanted to ask me?”

Alder shot me a look of appraisal, or so I
assumed. “What happened with Brant McCallum?”

I shifted from one foot to another. “As you
well know, his wife was arrested for his murder. She confessed. I
had nothing to do with that.”

Alder walked over to the counter. “I heard
that you and your friends were investigating. You fancied yourself
as detectives.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I have my sources,” he said.

“Look, my friends and I did investigate, but
that was only because the death in my shop was affecting the
business. I certainly wouldn’t say that we fancied ourselves as
detectives or anything like that.”

“I see.” Alder leaned on the counter.