Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) Page 2

  A man had followed her into the Honeybee, and she reached over to give his arm a quick pat. He directed a distracted smile down at her. Not much taller than my five-nine, he nonetheless towered over Mimsey. His short sandy hair was lightly threaded with gray, though from my vantage point his face appeared unlined.

  I hurried to help the family who had finally reached the register. Even the girls seemed happy enough once they had an assortment of cookies in hand and settled at a table by the window.

  Mimsey’s intelligent gaze raked the room, taking in the situation. “Have a seat, Simon,” she cheerfully instructed her companion and bustled into the kitchen. Before I knew it, she was restocking the glass display case with blazing efficiency.

  Simon, as she’d called him, slid onto a recently vacated seat near the door. I could sense his skepticism from across the room.

  I didn’t actually see auras, but after more than a year of practicing magic, I could sometimes sense the energy around other people as what I could describe only as flavors. It helped to have physical contact, and even then it didn’t happen all that often. But once in a while I could tell if a person was inherently sweet or salty or, in some unfortunate cases, bitter. Something about the newcomer, backlit by the window behind him, made me want to know more about him. As soon as I’d counted out change to the last customer in line and found myself with a little space to breathe, I centered myself and threw him a big welcoming smile.

  He didn’t appear to notice, though. His head was bent over his phone, his thumbs tapping wildly on the screen. When it rang in his hand, he answered as if he’d been expecting a call, gazing out the window at Broughton Street and talking rapidly. A couple at a nearby table shot him irritated looks. Perhaps his intensity felt out of place in their otherwise leisurely morning.

  I felt Mimsey behind me and looked around to find her gesturing Lucy over to join us. “That’s Simon Knapp,” she said sotto voce.

  “And who, pray tell, is Simon Knapp?” I matched her secretive tone.

  “He’s . . . I think his title is production coordinator? He’s the one who takes care of the actors—and the director and crew on the movie set.”

  Simon’s ears must have been burning because he stood and strode toward us, slipping his cell phone into the pocket of his tan chinos. His muscular arms were tan against the light blue of his silky T-shirt.

  Nice.

  Mimsey went on. “If they need a certain prop or one of the actresses insists on having a bouquet of a particular flower delivered to her trailer, Simon is the one who tracks it down.” She smiled broadly as he stopped in front of the register. “In fact, that’s how we became acquainted. He was looking for passionflowers for Althea Cole, and I just happened to have a fresh shipment at the shop.” Mischief twinkled in her eyes.

  Gentle amusement flashed across Lucy’s face, and I refrained from comment. Mimsey was the best of us at divination, and “just happening” to have a fresh shipment of a relatively unusual flower was likely a result of her skill. Her pink, quartz-crystal shew stone often produced somewhat murky results—except when it came to her attraction to color and flower magic.

  Mimsey added, “And Bianca agreed to provide the libations for Ms. Cole’s nightly wine and cheese parties from Moon Grapes.”

  “And thank God she did.” Simon’s words came out fast and clipped. “Because if Althea’s unhappy, everybody’s unhappy.” He held out his hand. “I’m Simon Knapp.”

  Quickly, I brushed my hands on my yellow polka-dotted apron and shook it. Instantly I felt a zing! of spicy energy—sexy and definitely high-voltage. His eyebrow twitched up, though his face remained impassive. Had I reacted somehow?

  “Katie Lightfoot,” I said, letting go of his grip. “Welcome to the Honeybee Bakery, Mr. Knapp. And to Savannah in general. This is my aunt, Lucy Eagel.”

  “Call me Simon.” No standing on ceremony and all business. His urge to hurry, hurry, hurry rolled off him in waves. He reached across the corner of the coffee counter to grasp my aunt’s hand. “And you ladies own this fine establishment, I’m told.”

  “Along with my husband, Ben, yes,” Lucy said.

  Simon snapped his fingers. “Ben Eagel. I hired him to head up the security teams on the set.”

  Lucy looked pleased. “That’s right.”

  Simon leaned forward, first looking deeply into Lucy’s eyes and then boring into mine. Flecks of olive green brightened his brown irises. “Well, I need help, desperately need help, and Mimsey here says you are exactly the ones to come to.”

  Alarm tingled along my neck as I remembered the other times Mimsey had decided I could help someone. “Is . . . is somebody . . . ,” I stuttered.

  Mimsey put her hand on my arm and spoke quickly. “It’s a catering job, Katie.”

  My knees almost buckled with relief. “Oh!” I laughed. “Oh, that might be doable.” Lucy and I exchanged glances. The first—and last—time we’d taken on a catering job, it hadn’t ended well. “What kind of event?” I asked Simon. “How many people are we talking about? And when would you need us?”

  He grinned widely. “Excellent. Lunch. Twenty to thirty people. Now.”

  Chapter 2

  “Now?” I squeaked. Beside me, Lucy’s sudden intake of breath mirrored my surprise.

  “Yep,” Simon said with what I felt was inappropriate cheerfulness. “The caterer I hired to feed the crew during working hours has shown up late three times now, and frankly, the food was not at all what I’d been led to expect. So I fired him this morning.”

  “And now everyone will be looking for a nice lunch to get them through the afternoon,” Mimsey said.

  “Maybe Mr. Knapp should have thought of that before firing his caterer,” I muttered.

  “Katie,” Lucy admonished.

  But Simon Knapp laughed. “Believe me, I could simply go to a market and raid the deli. In fact, that was my plan until Mimsey here stepped in and volunteered your services.”

  “Mimsey!” Lucy and I said at the same time. “We don’t serve lunch per se at the Honeybee,” I went on. “Only a few breakfast items.”

  Simon waved at the menu. “Oh, please. Just look at the éclairs. Herbed goat cheese with sun-dried tomatoes? Passion-fruit custard with raspberry glaze? That’s evidence of serious culinary chops. I bet you two could throw something together for my people in no time.”

  I distributed a helpless look between Simon and Lucy.

  “Please?” Simon smiled at me, and even though I knew perfectly well I was being manipulated, I began to run through possible lunch options for a crowd of thirty. “As they say, money is no object,” he said.

  That’s when I saw Mimsey’s happy expression and realized she wasn’t doing this for Simon Knapp or the strangers in town filming Love in Revolution. She had just drummed up a nice piece of business for the Honeybee.

  “Lucy,” I said. “We’ll raid our stores for the rest of the week, but I think we can come up with something for Simon and his friends that will be far better than cold cuts and hours-old potato salad.”

  She nodded slowly. “We have several loaves of freshly baked sourdough. That’s a start for some sandwiches. And we can use some of the garden produce you brought this morning, Katie.” She referred to the basket of greens and vegetables from my overflowing home garden, all of which I’d harvested that morning for her and Ben.

  But I was okay with it if she was. “Sounds good,” I said.

  She hastened into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Let me see what we have in the fridge.”

  I looked around the bakery. It was late morning, typically a time when the customers thinned before lunchtime. I’d never been so thankful for a lull in business since the Honeybee opened. “Mimsey, can you handle the register?”

  “With great aplomb, sugar.”

  * * *

  Half an hour
later, Lucy and I had gathered enough food for a small army. We used six of the large sourdough loaves to make thick, pressed, picnic-style sandwiches. Two loaves were made into classic BLTs, one augmented with creamy mashed avocado. We figured on at least a few vegetarians, so we packed two loaves with sprouts, heirloom tomatoes, fragrant basil leaves, shredded red peppers, cucumbers, Greek olives, and a generous crumbling of marinated feta cheese. Another loaf contained smoked salmon and cream cheese with onions, capers, and lemon zest, and the last was a club-style combo of ham, turkey, and slow-roasted tomatoes slathered with herbed mayonnaise and topped with tender butter lettuce.

  It did drain our supplies, but a few calls to our local suppliers and a trip to the wholesale market would quickly restock the Honeybee larder.

  Lucy had created a superfresh salad from some of items I’d picked from my garden that morning, while I’d tossed a medley of fresh raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries with a sweet balsamic glaze. We gathered it all together and presented lunch à la Honeybee to Simon Knapp.

  He’d been talking on his phone a mile a minute the whole time we were working in the kitchen but had also somehow sipped his way through a quadruple latte—as if he needed more caffeine. Still, for all I knew, that was what kept him going at the breakneck pace that appeared to be normal for him. He’d also downed a passion-fruit éclair so fast I wondered if he’d even tasted it.

  Eyeing our offerings as we piled them on the table nearby, he ended his call and stood. A slow grin spread over his face as he nodded his approval. “Perfect. And none of the gooey grits or fried stuff that other caterer seemed so fond of. Heart attack waiting to happen.”

  Also classic Southern fare any caterer in Savannah would have in his or her repertoire, I thought, wondering whether Simon had suggested to his caterer that lighter dishes might be more appropriate for the fancy folk watching their waistlines. He seemed to make lightning-fast decisions. Had he even given the original caterer a chance?

  “Do you mind my asking who you hired—and then fired?” I asked as I loaded up a variety of scones, cookies, éclairs, and rhubarb mini-pies for dessert or afternoon snacking. Lucy carried out two gallon jugs of minted sweet tea and set them next to our big drink dispenser.

  “Bonner Catering,” Simon volunteered easily. “Not up to my standards.”

  I hadn’t run across the name before and wondered if it was a new catering company. I hoped the emergency Honeybee luncheon met with general satisfaction since it was evident that getting on Simon’s bad side could be bad for business—no matter how much he was about to pay us.

  Speaking of which. I told him the total, to which I’d added a significant “rush” fee. Lucy looked at me in surprise, but he handed me a credit card with hardly a glance and began toting the food out to Mimsey’s car. She threw an approving smile at me over her shoulder as she opened the door for him.

  “Here,” I said when he returned for the sweet tea. “Take this and keep it on ice.” I handed him a chilled whole watermelon I’d picked up at the market for myself the day before. “It’ll be welcome later in the afternoon when it gets hotter.”

  Simon assured us they had plenty of paper plates, flatware, plastic cups, and the like. Lucy added serving spoons, a pile of napkins, a couple garbage bags, and a knife for the watermelon. “Let us know if you need anything else,” she said.

  “This is great. I’ll have my assistant bring back the drink dispenser and utensils.” He hefted the watermelon and gently took a heavy jug of tea away from Mimsey. “My dear, please let me get this.”

  Apparently, Simon wasn’t entirely devoid of manners.

  At the door, he paused. “I don’t suppose you’d consider serving all our lunches, would you? We’ll only be filming in the area for another week.”

  I looked at my aunt. It would be difficult to add so much to our workload, but it would also mean a significant chunk of cash.

  “We can do it again tomorrow,” I said. Lucy’s chin dipped in agreement. “But we’ll have to talk about doing more than that and get back to you.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Stop by the set if you’ve a mind. I’ll make sure you can get in.”

  I thanked him, and he and Mimsey left to feed the crew.

  * * *

  Books crowded floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at the far end of the bakery we’d designated as an eclectic mini library. Honeybee patrons donated or took reading material at will, so the titles were constantly changing. Each weekend a few members of the spellbook club brought in items they had a feeling someone might want during the coming week. Call it magic or intuition—they were often the same thing, I’d found—but the ladies were usually right.

  Standing behind the register, I held the phone to one ear and watched Lucy return a few volumes to the shelf, fluff the cushions on the poufy brocade sofa, and move the jewel-toned chairs back to their original positions beside the low coffee table. I concluded my call with our local pork supplier and hung up. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was a bit after one.

  Lucy gave the coffee table a swipe with a damp towel, nodded to a couple of our regulars on her way to the espresso counter, and began wiping that down, too.

  “We’re set,” I said. “At least for the extra delivery of bacon, ham, and sausage.”

  She nodded, thoughtful. “I guess we should talk about whether we can pull off a week-long catering job without your uncle’s help.”

  “I think we can. We’ll have to brainstorm menus, of course, but I ordered extra of everything, just in case.”

  The bell over the door chimed, and Mimsey entered the bakery for the second time that day.

  I came out from behind the counter and gave her a hug. “Thanks for suggesting us to Mr. Knapp.”

  “You saved the day, darlin’.” She grinned. “Between the Honeybee, my flower shop, and Bianca’s wineshop, this movie has sure been good for business.”

  “Except for Bonner Catering,” Lucy said. “Are you familiar with them?”

  Mimsey waved her hand. “Never heard of them until yesterday, when Simon fired Robin Bonner in front of everybody.”

  I winced.

  “He’d shown up late for the third day in a row. Honey, your food is much better, believe me.”

  “Do you have time to stick around here for a little while?” I asked.

  Mimsey cocked her head at the petite gold watch on her wrist. “I was on my way to the shop to confirm an order of gerbera daisies for a wedding we’re doing this weekend, but I could simply call instead. Why?”

  “That spread for all those film stars wiped out our stores, and one of us needs to make a run to restock. It’s been busy today, and I don’t want to leave Lucy alone to handle all the customers.”

  “Of course,” the older witch said. “I can stay for an hour and a half or so.”

  Quickly, I untied the strings of my apron. “I’ll hurry. Lucy, let’s talk later about menus, but in the meantime, what do you think about a kabob lunch for tomorrow? Something along the lines of chicken satay skewers with peanut sauce, shrimp cocktail skewers, rare beef and bleu cheese kabobs marinated in vinaigrette, and then a few others that are more saladlike. I’m imagining Caprese with those little balls of mozzarella—ciliegine, right?—and yellow pear tomatoes and basil from my garden. Another simple option would be three kinds of melon balls, and finally a vinegary potato salad with and without chunks of ham. All would be fine at room temperature. We could even string pieces of firm tofu soaked in chili sauce on skewers.”

  Lucy clapped her hands. “Lunch on a stick! Easy and fun and delicious. Yes. Perfect. Throw in some salted edamame and we’re golden.”

  Mimsey shook her head. “You know you could make the Honeybee into a full-fledged restaurant, don’t you?”

  “Nuh-uh, no way. I love baking too much,” I said. “This is just an exception.”

  She s
hrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  * * *

  “Man, am I ever tired,” I murmured to Mungo later that afternoon. I was in the office after restocking the kitchen and whirling through the prep work for the next day’s baking and the additional catering on top of that. “I could really use a run.”

  “You and Declan are still coming over for supper, aren’t you?” Lucy asked from the doorway.

  I stifled a yawn. “Yep, that’s the plan. He’ll come home with Ben after they’re done with their shift.”

  She examined my face. “Do you have your running clothes with you?”

  I nodded. “In my car.” I’d been taking Mungo for runs at the Savannah Wildlife Refuge or down to Forsythe Park and back after work a few days a week. They weren’t long runs—but long enough for a sedentary Cairn terrier to get some exercise and a welcome addition to the longer runs I often enjoyed in the early mornings.

  “Well, go ahead, then.” She looked at her watch. “We close in twenty minutes, and I can shut everything down by myself. No worries.”

  I hesitated. Even a short run would energize me for the evening. “Are you sure?”

  She waved her hand in the air. “Of course, sweetie. Go.”

  “Deal.” I looked down at Mungo. “Ready?”

  He turned around once on his chair, lay down, and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Lazy,” I muttered and saw one eye squint open at me as I turned to go out to get my clothes. I retrieved shorts, sports bra, tank, and trail runners from the backseat of my Volkswagen Beetle and changed in the restroom of the Honeybee. I rousted Mungo, slipped on his collar and leash, and was soon stretching in the alley. Five minutes later, I took off toward Habersham Street at a slow jog.