Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) Read online

  “What can you tell me about the victim?” Quinn asked.

  “Simon was a combination location scout and production coordinator,” Niklas said. “His job was to support the cast and the crew however we needed him to, but Simon was known for going above and beyond. That’s why he was in such high demand. I had to pay him double to come work for me on this project, but with a small crew and the limited budget of an independent film like this one, I needed someone who could smooth the way whenever it got rocky. I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

  “‘Smooth the way.’ What exactly do you mean by that?” Quinn asked.

  “Simon was a . . . a fixer, I guess you’d say.”

  “A fixer.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you knew that before you hired him?”

  “Everyone knows it.”

  “Did he ‘fix’ situations that were illegal?”

  A pause, then, “Sometimes.”

  “Has he ever fixed anything for you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Care to tell me what it was?”

  Another pause. “You’re thinking I might have killed him because of it?”

  “Keeping secrets can cause a lot of damage in the world,” Quinn said.

  “Not keeping them has caused some, too.” Niklas sounded bitter. “Simon paid off a man whose wife I’d been seeing. Mostly so my own wife wouldn’t find out.”

  “So you’re married?”

  He snorted. “Not anymore. She figured it out on her own.”

  I heard rustling then, and the voices grew fainter and then drifted away altogether. Was Quinn done talking to the director? I leaned my cheek against the wall, straining to hear.

  Of course, I’d forgotten I was wearing the three-cornered hat, which promptly jammed down over my eyes.

  “Ow.” As I tugged at the brim, my elbow hit something. I freed myself from the hat in time to see a naked mannequin tipping over. My hand moved to stop it as if in slow motion, and a nanosecond later it crashed into a metal shelving unit.

  The murmurs of the crime scene techs grew silent.

  “Oops,” I said to Mungo, who had leaped to the side and now radiated disapproval.

  “Hear anything interesting?” Quinn asked from the doorway.

  Guilt stabbing my solar plexus, I casually shrugged. “I was looking at the props while I waited.”

  “Sure you were,” he said. “Sit down. I might as well talk with you next.”

  I sat back on my folding chair, and Quinn took a metal stool and placed it five feet in front of me. Mungo settled between us, and I dove into trying to explain how Ben and Declan and several of our friends had become involved with the filming of the movie while Lucy and I had devoted our time to keeping the bakery running smoothly. I told Quinn again how Mimsey had brought Simon in, that we’d made lunch, and that we had been asked to cater for the rest of the time the crew was filming in Savannah. As I spoke, the light outside grew more angled, and the air inside the tent cooled a few degrees.

  “Honest to Pete,” I said. “I’ve never met any of these people before today. I have no idea what happened, why it happened, or who would have anything against Simon Knapp. Except . . .”

  His eyebrow rose in question.

  “Well, he did fire the other caterer. Seems a pretty weak reason to kill someone, though.”

  Unsmiling, Quinn made a note. “The director called Simon a fixer.” Was he testing me, trying to find out if I’d been listening?

  Well, it wasn’t my fault I could hear his interview right where he’d told me to wait. He should have been more circumspect if he didn’t want me to eavesdrop. So I said, “Yes, I heard him tell you that. Maybe that’s a good start for finding a motive for murder.”

  Quinn looked oddly satisfied. “You say you’ve never met any of these people.”

  “Well, of course I know Steve. He was here when Deck and I stumbled onto the scene, all wrapped around Althea Cole.” I couldn’t hide the scorn that leaked out around my words.

  Amusement flickered across the detective’s face.

  “Whom I recognized but had never met,” I finished.

  “What about the psychic?”

  I pressed my lips together. “Ursula Banford introduced herself to me less than a minute before you arrived.”

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded me. “Do you think she’s really a psychic?”

  I lifted my shoulders, then let them fall. “How should I know?”

  “Do you believe in psychics?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. Did I? “I honestly don’t know,” I finally said.

  “What about intuition?” he asked.

  Peter Quinn and I had had several conversations, both on his professional turf as a policeman and on mine at the Honeybee. But this was the first time he’d gone down this road.

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course I believe in intuition. Don’t you?”

  Slowly, he nodded. “In my job it’s helpful. I do all right, but I wish I had more of it. You, on the other hand, seem to have more than your fair share.”

  Uh-oh. “What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice sounded weak.

  He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “Katie, I like you.”

  “Um, I like you, too.” The last word lilted up, making my statement sound like a question. What was he getting at?

  “And I think you have a good heart. Good intentions, if you will.”

  I waited.

  “But darn it, why are you so often in the middle of my homicide cases?” His voice rose an octave in frustration. “Why?”

  Mungo scrambled to his feet.

  At least I wasn’t in the middle of all of his murder investigations, I wanted to say. Only the ones with some kind of paranormal activity involved. But then why was I here? Was it because Ursula was a psychic?

  I said, “I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I truly don’t. And furthermore, I don’t want to get involved. It just seems to . . . happen . . .” I trailed off, the very picture of lame.

  He sat for a moment, then shook his head. “Okay. Fine. Call me if you think of anything that might help with this one.”

  “Really?” I was stunned. “You want my help?”

  “So far no one seems to have seen anything, and no one is bad-mouthing anyone else—which, frankly, I find a little odd.”

  What about Niklas telling you Althea drinks too much?

  “We’ll see what the physical evidence says, but I can tell this one is going to be tricky.” He stood. “I don’t know what else to say. Whatever the reason for your involvement, you’ve given me good information in the past. In fact, you’ve actually helped find three killers. Even my limited intuition says it would be stupid not to at least listen to you.” At the doorway, he turned. “Katie, that’s not an invitation to actively investigate. Okay?”

  Still speechless, I nodded.

  “All right, then. You’re free to go.”

  I picked up Mungo and followed him out of the tent. “Quinn?”

  He paused and tipped his head to the side. “What?”

  “Have you heard anything from Franklin Taite since he left for New Orleans?”

  “Taite? Now, why would you ask about him? As I recall, you two weren’t exactly the best of friends.”

  Which was true as far as Quinn knew. And I still wouldn’t call Taite my friend, so much as absent mentor. Now I was trying to figure out how absent he really was.

  “He seemed like a pretty good detective, though,” Quinn said.

  Other than thinking I was the devil’s spawn for a while there.

  “And he’s the last person you were partnered with,” I said.

  “He was okay,” Quinn said. “But I like working alone—and no, I haven’t heard anythin
g from him since he left.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’m sure he’s living it up down there in the Big Easy and doesn’t have much time to stay in touch.” I started off across the square. “See you later, Detective.”

  He watched me go with a speculative look on his face.

  Chapter 5

  The late-day sun cast shadows across the walkway leading up to the front door of Ben and Lucy’s town house. Pots marched along each side of the path, overflowing with verbena, petunias, marigolds, and geraniums and accented with blowsy ornamental grasses and richly colored sweet potato vines. As I stepped toward the bright rows of flora, Mungo wiggled in the tote bag slung from my shoulder.

  “Looking forward to seeing Honeybee?” I asked.

  Yip!

  But it wasn’t just that, I realized a second later when the tantalizing fragrance of slow-roasted pork layered with garlic and savory spices reached my nose. Mungo was always excited to visit my aunt and uncle’s home and hang out with my aunt’s familiar, but I knew it was the prospect of supper that made him lick the drool off his wee chops. The aroma drifted all the way to the public sidewalk. If my aunt didn’t watch it, the neighbors would soon be flocking to her kitchen. Not that she’d mind. She loved feeding people and was an easygoing hostess even with little or no warning.

  I felt guilty about the sounds my stomach was making after how swoopy-sick it had felt a mere hour earlier when the police were taking pictures of Simon’s dead body. I still felt shaken, but the strange thing I’d learned about when awful things happen is that real life keeps right on happening, too. A man was dead, and I was hungry—and sweaty and tired, to boot.

  I stopped in front of the large wreath on the door. Lucy had wired sticks of honey locust together and then woven Spanish moss, or old man’s beard, as some called it, and stalks of dried lavender among the thorns to soften their wicked appearance. The trio of plants were attractive together and provided a powerful oomph of protection as well. I had a similar wreath on my own front door.

  I skipped the bell, knocked once, and then turned the knob and entered the town house. “Hello?”

  As usual, the air inside thrummed with verdant energy from all the growing things: houseplants in pots, a six-foot hibiscus in full bloom, a Mandarin orange tree in one corner, and the thick carpet of ivy gripping the rough brick of the fireplace mantel. The vaulted ceiling rose above, and two skylights offered an abundance of natural daylight. The place had a rich yet airy feel, a welcoming vibe despite the thorns on the front door, and smelled pretty much like heaven right then.

  Like an old-time movie star making an entrance, Honeybee came down the steps leading up to the second floor and then to the rooftop garden: graceful, beautiful, and well aware of both. Her orange tabby stripes glowed in the oblique sunlight from the window, and her green eyes flashed a greeting.

  I sneezed. Beautiful or not, Honeybee made my eyes puff and my nose run within seconds. Mungo bounced in my tote bag, wanting down. I complied, lowering him to the floor next to the white sofa. His toenails clicked on the dark cherrywood as he ran to meet Lucy’s cat. They touched noses while I felt around in the side compartment of my bag for my antihistamines.

  I tried again. “Lucy?”

  “We’re in here.” Her voice came from the rear of the house.

  We? I left the two schmoozing familiars to catch up and went to find out. The scent of roasting pork was even stronger as I entered the kitchen. Copper pots hung from the ceiling over a large work island, a blue-speckle teapot sighed on the old gas range, and glass-fronted cupboards showed off Lucy’s sturdy green stoneware. On the other side of the island, Lucy sat at the scarred wooden table stripping dried thyme leaves from their tough stems into a wide-mouthed Mason jar.

  Jaida French sat across the table from where Lucy worked, a book and a steaming cup near her elbow. Her formfitting beige suit testified to her day in court, and her vivid blue blouse glowed like a sapphire against her chocolate skin. She wore a tasteful silver filigree necklace, and matching earrings dangled from her exposed earlobes.

  She rose in a fluid motion, reaching to give me a hug as she said my name. Jaida gave the best hugs, warm and enveloping and somehow full of instant comfort. I practically fell into her arms. A second later, I felt my eyes grow hot with tears that almost felt like an afterthought to the day’s events.

  “Why do you always smell like cinnamon?” I sniffled.

  Jaida held me at arm’s length, surprise on her face. “I do?”

  I nodded, blinking back the moisture in my eyes. “You didn’t know? Cinnamon and caramel.”

  She laughed. “You’re the first person to tell me that, but it doesn’t sound all bad.”

  “It’s not,” I assured her, then realized I hadn’t had a chance to shower. “I bet I don’t smell like anything sweet right now.”

  Lucy had risen, too. “Have you been running this whole time? I thought you’d gone home to take a shower.” Leaving unspoken that I obviously hadn’t.

  I sighed. “I wish. Have you talked to Ben?”

  Her brow knitted. “I tried to call him, but he didn’t pick up. Then I got a text from him a little while later. Said he’d be late and would explain when he got here. Maybe the second security shift didn’t show up on time.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “No, they got there right on schedule. I saw them.”

  “You were on the Love in Revolution set?” Lucy asked.

  “I took Simon Knapp up on his invitation to stop by.” The last invitation he’d ever extend.

  Jaida put her hands on her hips. “You show up for dinner about to break into tears—yes, I noticed—and Ben’s unaccountably late. Declan, too.”

  Lucy nodded, her brow still wrinkled. “He’s coming home with Ben.”

  Our friend gave a decisive nod. “Uh-huh. What’s going on, Katie?”

  So I told them, pacing from one end of the table to the other as I described what had happened as soon as I got to Reynolds Square. As I spoke, their eyes grew wider, and a few times they turned and looked at each other, but not once did they interrupt me. When I was done, I said, “So that’s why Ben and Declan are late. They were finishing up when I left, though, so they should be here pretty soon.”

  Silence descended on the kitchen, punctuated by the puffs of steam from the kettle and the faint crackling sound of roasting meat in the oven.

  “Oh, that poor man,” Lucy finally said. “Someone stabbed him?”

  “With our knife.” I shuddered, remembering.

  The blood drained from her face. “Why?” she whispered. “He seemed so nice.” Of course, my sweet aunt thought the best of everyone.

  I shook my head. “Hard to tell.” Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of situations besides a philandering husband a fixer might fix.

  “So,” Jaida said, drawing the word out. “You met this Simon Knapp for the first time today?” Her eyes were narrowed in thought.

  “Uh-huh. Lucy, too.”

  “Was there anything about him or the, er, death, that indicated paranormal foul play or dark magic?”

  I sighed. “Not that I could tell. He had a kind of . . . spiciness to him but nothing that I’d characterize as bewitching.” Not that I’d had a clue Steve Dawes was a druid until he told me. I’d been a real newbie then, though. “Althea Cole travels with her very own psychic. A woman who’s also her personal trainer.”

  “I wonder if that’s why you were there.” Jaida looked over at my aunt, who slowly nodded.

  I sighed. “Yeah. That occurred to me.”

  “Because it’s likely there’s something hinky going on, something besides the actual murder of a human being,” Jaida said.

  Lucy made a noise of consternation. Our friend sat back down and reached across the table to put her hand on my aunt’s arm. “I know this is upsetting. Death is always upsetting. Bu
t you know what Bianca would say.”

  My aunt took a deep breath. “She’d say that death is but a transition to the next thing, that it’s not a tragedy for the one who dies, only the ones who are left behind.” She began reciting as if by rote, but by the time she finished, the thought seemed to give her some peace. Her face relaxed, and her lips turned up in a small smile.

  I, on the other hand, felt the jury was still out on that one. Souls might continue to the next plane, however you defined it, but surely a violent death was a bad send-off.

  “Um, about the psychic,” I said.

  They both looked curious. “Spill,” Jaida said.

  “Her name is Ursula Banford. She introduced herself to me a couple of minutes after I came to.”

  “Came to!” Lucy’s hand went to her throat. “Katie, what didn’t you tell us?”

  “Oh. Um, yeah. See, the knife in Simon’s back kind of gave me a turn—you know my problem with knives, right? Anyway, I got kind of woozy when I saw it, that’s all. No biggie. Declan was right there and grabbed me . . . Anyway, that’s not important. The thing is that this Ursula made a—” I paused. “Well, a prediction.”

  “Really.” Jaida’s response was flat with skepticism.

  “Yeah. I still don’t know what to think of her, but she did say I was, er, special and that she had it on good authority I would be the one to bring Simon Knapp to justice.”

  “Good authority? What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaida asked. Still she didn’t look as disbelieving as she had a moment earlier. “Who could have told her that?”

  Lucy tipped her head to the side. “Many psychics are hedgewitches of another sort, you know. Instead of the traditional hedge on the edge of town that we green witches crossed in the old days to find our medicinal—and magical—plants, they cross the ‘hedge’ between this plane and the next.”

  I felt my breath hitch as I caught her meaning. “You think Nonna told her?”

  “Your grandmother has reached through to this side a few times before. I wouldn’t put it past her to do it through a medium.”

  Jaida nodded.