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

  Yip!

  “Of course, she might have been the one who killed him. She could have stabbed him and left for ten minutes, then come back and ‘found’ his body, or she could have lied about leaving for ten minutes and simply shrieked the alert right after killing him.”

  Mungo made a sound of disagreement.

  “What?” My eyes cut toward him and then back to the road in front of us. “Okay, you’re right. I think that woman is a self-entitled pain in the wahoo, but I guess that’s not enough to pin a murder on her. Besides, it must take a lot of strength to stab a full-grown man, even in the back.”

  I pulled into the driveway of my carriage house in Midtown. My next-door neighbors had brought the lawn chairs from the back patio out to their front yard. Redding Coopersmith lifted a hand in greeting as I got out of the car, and his wife, Margie, waved me over.

  “Katie, come join us. We moved out here to watch the sunset, but the night is so lovely we don’t want to go back inside.”

  Freed from his seat belt, Mungo bounded to the ground and raced toward them. I followed at a more leisurely pace. The towheaded twins, Jonathan and Julia, ran pell-mell to greet us. When they reached Mungo, they tumbled down and rolled in the grass. He barked and jumped into the pile with them. Their giggles echoed into the evening air, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  “What a pair!” I said, stepping around them and dropping to the ground in front of the adults. Fireflies flickered in the lawn. “Hi, Redding.”

  “Hey, Katie.” He shared Margie’s Scandinavian coloring: light yellow hair, fair complexion, ruddy cheeks. No wonder all their kids were blond, blue-eyed, and sturdy.

  “Bart asleep already?” I asked.

  “For now,” Margie said, reaching toward a pitcher. The light over the porch reflected off its crimson contents. “You want some Kool-Aid?”

  I patted my stomach and shook my head. “Still full from supper.”

  “Okeydoke.” Margie sat back. “Anyway, Baby Bart has been waking up at three a.m. for a week now. Lord love a duck, I’d hoped that middle-of-the-night nonsense was over. At least he only stays awake for an hour or so.”

  “I’ll get him tonight,” Redding said easily. “I have to get on the road early anyway.” Margie’s husband was a long-haul truck driver, sometimes gone for a week at a time. I didn’t know how she so often juggled the care of three little ones by herself, but she seemed to do it with a comfortable ease.

  “Where to this time?” I asked.

  “Oklahoma City,” he said.

  The cry of a baby crackled from a monitor. Margie started to get up, but Redding said, “I’ll check on him. You stay here and chat with Katie.”

  She watched his departure with an affectionate smile, then turned back to me. “Haven’t seen much of you lately, it seems. Work must be busy—and then there’s all that hot-and-heavy time with your firefighter.”

  Margie was always pressing me for details about Declan, claiming that as an old married woman she needed a little vicarious spice in her life. Never mind that she was only a couple years older than my twenty-nine.

  “It has been busy at the Honeybee,” I said. “Especially since Ben’s been spending a lot of time on the Love in Revolution set.”

  She leaned forward. “Ooh! What’s he doing?”

  I explained about his security teams. As I spoke, the JJs, as Margie called the twins, left Mungo to his own devices and crawled up on the lounge chair with their mother.

  “Unfortunately, there was an accident today,” I ended, unwilling to get into the gory details of a murder with the twins sitting right there.

  “That’s too bad,” Margie said absently. “Do any of the actors come into the Honeybee?”

  “Not so far,” I said.

  “So you haven’t see Van Grayson?”

  I cocked my head to the side. “I have, actually. I was on the set this evening and saw him. Althea Cole, too.”

  She waved her hand and Jonathan grabbed it and hung on. Margie stroked her daughter’s hair with her other hand. “I’m sure she’s nice enough, but that Van—now, he’s a sweetheart! The kids just love, love, love him. We have all his DVDs.”

  I frowned. “So he’s been in children’s movies? Maybe that’s why I couldn’t quite place him.”

  “Oh, not movie movies. He’s a . . . what . . . ? Like, a personality, you know? Like Captain Kangaroo or something. Only he’s a comedian, really. I read somewhere that he started out doing birthday parties way back when. He had a show on cable for a while, but now I guess he’s hit the big time with a movie like the one they’re filming here. I’m happy for him, I suppose, but I do hope he doesn’t give up performing for the kiddies altogether. He’s so talented!”

  Her enthusiasm ignited the twins. “Yeah!” they yelled. “Van’s the man! Van’s the man!” Even in the dark I could make out their hot pink Kool-Aid mustaches.

  Margie laughed. “That’s his tagline.”

  “Huh. I had no idea.” It was hard to wrap my mind around the idea of the handsome man with a five-o’clock shadow and Birkenstocks delivering jokes to adoring children. Not to mention that he was a potential murder suspect.

  “These two would love to meet him,” Margie said. “Do you think Ben would let us?”

  “Yeah!” the JJs chorused.

  I wished Margie hadn’t asked right in front of them. “Um, I don’t know. I guess I could check. But it’s not really up to Ben so much as Mr. Grayson.”

  “Oh, poo. He’s so nice. I’m sure he’d want to meet two of his biggest fans face-to-face.”

  I half shrugged and lifted my palms. “If I see him, I’ll ask. Okay? The Honeybee is providing lunch for them tomorrow, so there’s a chance I’ll run into him when I bring it over.”

  She clapped her hands, a gesture immediately mirrored by the JJs, who seemed awfully energized so close to their bedtime. I eyed the Kool-Aid. Oh, well. If Margie wanted to ramp her kids up on sugar, she had to deal with it, not me.

  I stood. “I’m bushed. Beddy-bye time for me and Mungo. Come on, boy.”

  My familiar sprang to his feet, a cloud of fireflies rising with him. They danced around his head as Margie and the kids said good-bye and followed him as we turned to go.

  “Now, will you look at that,” my neighbor said. “I just can’t get over how the lightning bugs flock to that little dog of yours.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” I kept my tone casual. Fireflies were Mungo’s totem, like dragonflies were mine. His just happened to be a bit more sparkly at night.

  I retrieved the duffel full of dirty running clothes from the back of the Bug, and we went inside. In the dark living room, I paused to flip the switch by the door. The floor lamp by the purple fainting couch bloomed into a gentle welcoming light. How I loved this little abode of mine. Once the carriage house for a large estate that was now long gone, it had a single bedroom, a small bath with stacking washer and dryer in the corner, a tiny kitchen, a living room barely big enough for five people to sit in, and a loft above where a futon folded out for guests or provided seating in front of the modest television.

  The swooping back of the old-fashioned couch cast a pleasant silhouette against the peach wall across from where I stood, the kitschy lamp beside it decorated with elaborate fringe that normally I wouldn’t have said was my style but spoke to me as soon as I saw it. Two wingback chairs sat across from the sofa, the coffee table between them a repurposed Civil War–era trunk. The wall to my right featured a built-in bookshelf, though my spellbooks were upstairs in the closed secretary’s desk, a gift from Lucy where I kept my altar hidden away from casual visitors. French doors led out to the backyard and my gardens.

  I dropped the duffel by the entrance to the short hallway so I wouldn’t forget to do a load of laundry before going to bed. “Beddy-bye time” had been a bit of an overstatement to
the Coopersmiths, as it was unlikely I’d be hitting the sack for another few hours.

  My sleep disorder had improved since I began practicing magic. Prior to that I’d slept for only an hour or so each night and still had to run most days in order to burn off extra energy. Being such an early riser was, of course, a boon for a baking professional, and I still regularly awoke around four a.m. But now that I practiced kitchen magic at the bakery and garden magic at home, as well as casting spells with the other members of the spellbook club, I was naturally calmer and sometimes even slept a full four hours a night.

  Which still left me plenty of time tonight to try to track down Franklin Taite.

  As much as I loved my wee home, I hadn’t been there as much as usual because I’d been at Declan’s new apartment so much. It was closer to downtown, Mungo was always welcome, plus there was Declan. He was fun, sexy, steady, reliable, sweet, a good cook, and he adored me. Steve was also sexy, believe me, and he also adored me, or at least said he did. He was also a practicing druid, so he really understood what magic meant to me. On the other hand, he could be presumptuous, insistent, and he ran with a crowd of other druids with questionable ethics in business and who knew what else. He was more of a bad boy, and I’d had my fill of bad boys. I’d even been engaged to one for a while until he broke it off and broke my heart. The longer Declan and I were together, the more I knew I’d done the right thing. Our relationship had grown, been threatened—by my magic—and then had deepened.

  Now it was being threatened again, and again by my magic.

  Franklin Taite had to tell me why I kept stumbling into dire situations. And then he had to tell me how to stop it.

  He just had to.

  Chapter 7

  Clothes in the washer, I changed into yoga pants and a tank top and grabbed my laptop from where it perched on the coffee table. I brewed a cup of peppermint tea and settled at the kitchen table, which was big enough to seat three in a pinch.

  What do you do when you want to find someone? Google them, of course. I typed in “Franklin Taite.”

  I’d been hoping for some professional reference to him, but there was nothing—not in New Orleans, not in Savannah, and not in New York, where he’d been before transferring to work with Quinn. There were only links to sites where I could pay for information about my quarry. However, there appeared to be at least one Franklin Taite listed on the first search site I clicked on, so that was a step in the right direction.

  Still, that would be my last resort. I tried the New Orleans online phone book next. No luck there, though I couldn’t say I was surprised. Since he seemed to move around so much, I suspected Taite would be a cell phone kind of guy rather than a landline kind of guy.

  Ah, but the New Orleans Police Department would have a landline, right? I glanced at the clock on the stove and saw it was already after ten p.m. The time didn’t really matter, though—the police couldn’t care less about Emily Post’s guidelines regarding the proper hours to telephone. I retrieved my cell from my tote bag with a frisson of excited dread. Since I could be talking to Taite in mere minutes, I jotted a few notes about what I wanted to ask him.

  What is a lightwitch?

  Why do you think I’m a lightwitch?

  And: How can I make it stop?

  Pretty simple, but good enough to start a conversation. I put the pen down and searched for the phone number for the NOPD. Right away I ran into a snag, because I didn’t know what district of the NOPD Detective Taite had transferred into, and there were eight of them. I retrieved the list from the printer in the loft and returned to the kitchen.

  I stared at my choices. Might as well dive in.

  Beginning at the top, I worked my way down, dialing, waiting, and then running through an exhausting gauntlet of informational runaround at each police district before finally being told that there was no detective by that name working there. By the time I got to the eighth district, I had a bad feeling I was heading straight into a brick wall.

  Sure enough, no Detective Taite.

  Okay, fine. I’d pay for the information. Plugging back into the site where I’d found references to Franklin Taite, I got out my credit card, justifying the fifty-dollar charge because Simon Knapp, or at least A. Dendum Productions, had given the Honeybee bank account a nice infusion, and there was more to come.

  There were three Franklin Taites the Web site wanted to tell me more about. One was a teenager. One was in his late seventies. One was fifty. If any of them was the detective I was looking for, it was the last.

  I ran through the pay screen and was awarded with the sterling information that fifty-year-old Franklin Taite lived in Vermont, was married, had three children, and owned a garage that specialized in diesel repair.

  That didn’t sound anything like the Franklin Taite I knew. It was eleven o’clock by then, certain to earn a frown from Emily if I called. I wrote down the number, thought for a moment, then searched for images of Franklin Taite.

  There were photos of three cemeteries, six women, and two males. One was of a teenager in a formal prom photo. The other was of a tall man around fifty next to a Mustang convertible. He had a mane of thick blond hair, a handsome smile, and he and his sports car were in front of a sign that read: BROOKFIELD, VERMONT, POP 1,222.

  My Franklin Taite was short, tubby, and had thinning hair he wore in an unfortunate comb-over.

  Baffled, I closed the laptop and leaned my bent elbows on the table. Resting my chin on my hands, I considered the pot of purple basil going wild on the windowsill. A soft breeze pushed through the window and the plant’s licorice-like fragrance wafted into the kitchen. The number of protections in and around the carriage house had increased over the months I’d lived in Savannah in proportion to the number of threats I’d encountered. The pot of basil was only one.

  With garlic, pistachios, olive oil, and lemon juice, it also made a gorgeous pesto.

  In this day and age, it seemed like anyone should be able to find anyone else online. Unless, perhaps, if that person didn’t exist. But Detective Franklin Taite did exist.

  Right?

  My mind raced with possibilities. “Have I been misspelling his name all this time?” I asked Mungo.

  He didn’t respond, other than pointedly staring at the empty dog dish on the floor beside him.

  Ignoring his plea for an evening snack, I stood and stretched before climbing the stairs to the loft. Bypassing the secretary’s desk in which I kept my altar out of sight, I grabbed the old-school Rolodex off the shelf behind it. Seconds later, I found the business card Taite had given me shortly after we’d met. It looked exactly like Peter Quinn’s card, which declared him a detective with the Chatham County Metropolitan Police, only it read “Franklin Taite.” So: no spelling error.

  What if that wasn’t his real name, though? Could he be using an alias?

  Could the man I’d believed was telling me the truth about my magical abilities as a lightwitch be an imposter?

  The thought made my heart beat faster. Agitated, I paced back and forth a few times in the small space before clambering back down the stairs and bursting out the French doors to the back patio. My familiar padded behind me with wide eyes.

  Whirling to face him, I said, “What if he lied to me, Mungo? What if . . . I don’t even know!” My voiced quavered as a mishmash of emotions cascaded through me. I took a deep breath and looked down into the calming chocolate gaze of my terrier. I bent, scooped him up, and walked out to the dark yard.

  The smell of green grass, the fireflies that immediately began to gather in Mungo’s presence, the white of the night-blooming moonflowers climbing up the cedar gazebo to our left, and the humid caress of impending dew in the air all settled my monkey mind.

  I’d assumed Taite had been telling me the truth, but then again, what had he told me? Not very darn much. So maybe it was the truth and maybe it wasn’
t. I didn’t need him to tell me that I had no desire to dabble in black magic. Nor did I need him to tell me that I had some extra something in the magic department. I had my own instincts, and I had the help of the spellbook club when I needed more information or perspective.

  “So to heck with Franklin Taite—or whoever he is—and his cryptic declarations,” I murmured. “I’ll do what I can to help Quinn—and Ben—find Simon Knapp’s murderer, but not because some short, bald fibber told me I’m supposed to ‘fight evil.’ Nope, nuh-uh. It’s my decision.”

  I instantly felt a sense of control that I hadn’t felt for a while. A smile crept onto my face, and Mungo seemed to sense something, too. He leaned back and opened his mouth in silent doggy laughter.

  As I set him down, the pale glow of the moonflower caught my attention again. True to its name, it reflected the light of the moon from white petals, almost casting its own light in response. I glanced up and saw the waxing gibbous face peering down from the heavens.

  “Oh! I almost forgot,” I said. “Were you going to remind me?”

  Yip! Mungo softly responded.

  “Let’s go get the tea.”

  Inside, I retrieved a jar of triple-strength chamomile tea from the counter next to the refrigerator and carefully poured half of it into a mister. I grabbed a flashlight and we went back out, leaving the door open to let the cool night air in, and rounded the corner of the house.

  After moving in, I’d carved the vegetable and herb gardens out of the sod by the back fence with a shovel and plenty of effort. I’d arranged water-loving plants along the edges of the small stream that ran across one corner of the yard and had the gazebo built. However, the roses that wound up the iron trellis attached to the eastern side of the house had been there a very, very long time. They exuded a sense of age, even wisdom, from their cracked canes and old-fashioned white flower heads. I’d learned they were Cherokee roses, same as the ones that grew along the Trail of Tears. They were also the Georgia state flower. Perhaps that was why the estate gardener had planted them so long ago, or perhaps it was simply that they could stand a bit less sunshine than other varieties.