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

  Regardless, those ancient flower souls were going through a bit of a battle with black spot and powdery mildew. The mildew had bowed its fungal head to four separate doses of the milk and water solution I’d sprayed on the leaves, but the black spot seemed to be holding out for a shot of poison.

  I didn’t like poison. First off it was, you know, poison. Plus, I felt that as a bona fide green witch, I ought to be able to manage a better cure. Lucy had recommended a superdose of the “plant’s physician”: chamomile. I’d planted some around the base of each rose—during the dark of the moon, at Bianca’s suggestion—and since chamomile was considered a sun plant, I’d asked Archangel Michael, guardian of the South and Fire, to supercharge the healing powers of the fragrant little darlings. Then, again at Bianca’s suggestion, I’d been spraying the leaves with the strong chamomile tea during the last quarter of the waxing gibbous moon. Two more days until it would be full, and I was happy to see the black spot appeared to take my ministrations seriously. I imagined creaking sighs of relief from the rose plants as I sprayed them.

  Now, that was the kind of magic I loved and the kind I seemed to be quite capable of.

  Then I thought of Declan’s decision to spend the evening without me, and my satisfaction faded. That was a whole other can of worms.

  Floral first aid complete, I gave Mungo a bedtime snack of leftover spaghetti and had another cup of tea while he ate. The phone rang as I was rinsing out my cup, and I scooped it off the table.

  It was Declan. Relief whooshed through me, and I realized a part of me had been listening and hoping he would call before the night was out.

  “Hi,” I said with feigned nonchalance. “You’re up late.” As soon as the words were out, I mentally winced. “Not that you shouldn’t be, of course, just because you’re tired and all . . .” I trailed off, the hole already deep enough.

  “Hi, yourself,” he said. “I knew you’d be up and wanted to check in before I hit the sack.” Apparently, his response to my babbling was to ignore it. Worked for me.

  “Um, about tonight,” I started.

  “I really am tired. And I needed a little, uh, time alone.”

  “Oh.”

  “This murder stuff you seem to attract is, uh, disconcerting, you know?”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  “Not much you can do about it, though, is there?”

  “I tried to track down Detective Taite tonight.”

  “Taite? What for?”

  “He’s the only one who seems to know why this ‘murder stuff,’ as you put it, keeps cropping up in my life. I thought maybe he could tell me how to make it stop.”

  There were a few beats of silence before Declan asked, “And?”

  “No luck. He doesn’t seem to be working for the New Orleans police anymore. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t care anymore.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that. But I doubt that he can tell you much anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he didn’t tell you before. I mean, why would he keep that kind of information secret?”

  I said, “Who knows? Who cares? He always had his own agenda.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. But, Katie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ll stand with you no matter what you decide you have to do.”

  My heart warmed at his words. “Thanks,” I said in a quiet voice. We changed the subject to sweet somethings for a few minutes and said good night. Soon Mungo and I headed off to bed ourselves, my familiar to dreamland and myself into a thriller I’d chosen from the Honeybee library.

  Despite the action-packed pages, the story didn’t hold my attention. My thoughts kept ping-ponging between Declan’s declaration of support and who might have stuck a knife in Simon Knapp’s back. With the novel limp in my hand, my gaze rested on the watercolor of the Irish countryside Declan had given me, charming against the cool Williamsburg-blue walls of my bedroom.

  Mungo lifted his head as I got up, retrieved pen and paper from the kitchen, and fluffed my pillows against the wrought-iron bedstead before climbing back in. Within seconds, he was snuggled up against my leg again, and I was making a list.

  It started as a list to capture my thoughts about Simon’s murder, but soon turned to a task list to tackle first thing at the Honeybee in the morning. Murder or no, we had a lunch to cater and it would be an early morning for me.

  I turned out the light but had a harder than usual time sleeping. I dozed in and out, dreaming in fits and starts of knives and blue T-shirts, Ursula’s blue-green gaze winging through me as if I were made of nothing more substantial than cotton candy, of lips whispering into Althea’s delicate ear, and of the look in Declan’s eyes when he realized that he and I were standing next to our second body in less than a year.

  At four a.m., I finally gave up and went for a run through the dark streets of Midtown.

  * * *

  Early mornings were sacred to me, and I was lucky to be an early riser who got to enjoy that feeling every day. Unlike the anxious thoughts that sometimes crept unbidden into my brain around two a.m., the dawning of each new day made me feel as if the world was a hopeful, clean slate. Add in the endorphins coursing through my system after my run, and I was a happy camper.

  The drive from Midtown into downtown Savannah was precisely long enough to provide the transition from home to work or vice versa. Mungo was strapped into the passenger seat, looking out the window with sleepy, blinking eyes at the silent, dark windows of the buildings we passed, his head nodding as he tried to stay awake. I reached over and stroked the soft patch of fur between his ears and was rewarded with a swipe of bright pink tongue.

  Tuesday morning the streets were quiet and calm. Through the open window of the Bug, sixty-four-degree air caressed my skin with the scent of honeysuckle. Then came the faint scent of the Savannah River as we reached the Honeybee. I unlocked the door and carted Mungo into the office. He fell asleep on his club chair within seconds, and I went back out front to flip on lights and rev up the ovens.

  Alone in my bakery. Not only mine, of course, but still mine, and still a daily joy. No customers, no sound from the espresso machine, the display case dark, empty and waiting in the silence. I flipped on the lights and dialed up some light classical on the satellite radio. In front of the row of aprons, I stopped and assessed. I didn’t feel at all frilly in the wake of a murder, so I bypassed the ruffles and reached for a forest green chef’s apron that would go nicely with my simple orange skirt–and–white T-shirt combo. As I cinched the ties behind my back, my mind ran through the list of to-dos I’d written down the night before.

  Within twenty minutes, the sourdough loaves that had been slow rising in the refrigerator were baking at high heat in one of the ovens, rounds of rosemary Parmesan scones were sliced into farls on sheet pans, and I was dolloping the batter for peach and molasses muffins into tins. Into another oven with all that, followed by a loaf of pecan sandie biscotti for its first baking. Three batches of cookies came next, the dough prepared the day before so all I had to do was plop mounds onto more sheet pans. The oatmeal cookies were loaded with dried cherries, chunks of dark chocolate, and glazed almonds. The molasses cookies would spread as they baked into thin, slightly chewy discs. The coconut bar cookies spiced with cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg boasted a hefty number of black walnuts. Between them all, Lucy and I had invoked wishes for protection, fidelity, prosperity, peace, and health, depending on the native energy of the ingredients.

  Out came the sourdough, in went the next batch of items to bake, and then I dove into the lunch preparation for the movie set. I was finishing the Caprese skewers made with cherry-sized balls of fresh mozzarella, yellow pear tomatoes, and rich purple leaves of basil when Lucy breezed in the door.

  “Good morning, Katie!”

  “Well, good morning. You seem chipper to
day.”

  “New day, new beginning,” she crooned, heading for the aprons like I had. I smiled at her reflection of my own earlier thoughts.

  “My goodness, you’ve done a lot already,” she said, tying on her favorite tie-dyed pinafore over a hemp skirt and blouse. “Why don’t you let me take over the luncheon items and you can start the choux.”

  I agreed with alacrity. Choux, or pâté à choux, was the simple pastry dough that created the crisp, airy base for profiteroles and éclairs. We’d recently added éclairs to the menu—half sweet and half savory, and with the fillings often changing as we experimented. Today’s savory options would be a sweet potato filling with a maple glaze, and a filling of goat cheese and sun-dried tomato with pesto piped on top.

  After heating milk and butter to a boil, I took the mixture off the heat and dumped in high-gluten flour. Stirring, stirring, and stirring some more until the dough came away from the edge of the pan gave me a real workout. I added in beaten eggs, bit by bit, and by the time they were all incorporated and the dough looked more like a smooth and shiny batter, I’d broken a sweat.

  Er, glow.

  As I was piping the éclair-sized lengths of dough onto a buttered sheet pan, Lucy came up on the other side of the worktable.

  “All done with that,” she said. “I can finish up the rest of the lunch items after we open. In the meantime . . .” She paused.

  I looked up and saw her grin. “Uh-oh. What do you have up your sleeve?”

  “I think a new éclair filling might be in order.”

  The piping bag hovered in my hand. “Such as?”

  “Vanilla.”

  “Vanilla what?”

  “Just vanilla custard, with lots of tiny speckles of seeds, strong and classic.”

  “Isn’t that kind of boring?”

  “Why, Katie Lightfoot, I’m surprised at you. Vanilla beans come from an exotic orchid, after all. Good heavens. What’s boring about that? Besides, we’ll glaze the tops with chocolate ganache.”

  Then I cottoned to her motive. “Who, precisely, are these special vanilla custard éclairs intended for?”

  She beamed. “Mrs. Standish.”

  I smiled and slowly nodded. “Of course. To attract love back into her life.”

  “It’s what we do, sweetie! Now, let me think about the right incantation for her.”

  Chapter 8

  We declared the vanilla-filled, chocolate-topped éclairs the daily special, dubbing them “Black and Tans” and placing them front and center in the display case with tasty little samples by the register. When Mrs. Standish stopped by for her late-morning sugar fix, she took one bite and ordered half a dozen in a bag. Lucy complied with a knowing grin and a glint in her eye.

  I had to admit, I was curious about who Mrs. Standish might invite into her life after two years without her Harry. He’d passed away before I moved to town, so I didn’t know what sort of man he had been—or whether she’d be attracted to the same again or someone completely new.

  She wasn’t the only one who grabbed up the Black and Tans, and I wondered how many kindled or rekindled romances might be around the corner for Honeybee customers.

  At eleven thirty Bianca and Jaida pushed through the door. Lucy had called them to help out, knowing I wanted to take lunch over to the movie set myself. They settled in at a sun-drenched table by the window as I poured two glasses of sweet tea, garnished them with fresh mint, and took them over.

  “Thanks for coming in to help,” I said. “I know you’re both super-busy.”

  Bianca waved her hand. “Today I am a woman of leisure. Colette’s at school, and I hired another part-time employee at the shop so I’d have more time to play the market.”

  Bianca Devereaux’s wineshop was located near the river on Factors Walk. She tended toward fabrics that flowed when she moved and accented her natural gracefulness. Today she wore a whisper-light linen skirt and tunic combination, and several strands of tiny silver beads wound around her neck, wrist, and ankle. Her black hair was piled up to show her long neck, a few strands curling artfully around her ears. She made being beautiful look so easy, and she was also one of the nicest people I knew. Her focus on traditional Wiccan practices with a special emphasis on moon magic was one of the many aspects of magic the spellbook club had been schooling me in ever since I’d discovered my talents and joined their number.

  Now she reached into her big Prada bag, extracted an electronic tablet and opened it. Instantly, what looked like a stock trading application bloomed on the surface. “In fact, I thought I might do a little research before you go.”

  Jaida smoothed her suit skirt, opened a leather portfolio, and took out a sheaf of papers. “And I brought paperwork I need to complete by end of day, figuring I could step in anytime things get busy.”

  “Perfect,” Lucy said, bringing them napkin and silverware setups. “Hungry?”

  “Am I!” Bianca said. “I skipped breakfast, waiting until I got here for one of your éclairs.”

  Jaida uncapped a pen, laughing. “So did I.”

  “What kind?” Lucy asked with a grin and listed their options.

  “Oh, let’s try them all,” Bianca said. “Share?”

  Jaida nodded.

  Well, at least Bianca was eating something substantial. I loved her to death, but sometimes that woman seemed to subsist on nothing but fruit and nuts.

  I realized that with all the rushing around, I hadn’t eaten, and no doubt Mungo was getting cranky about missing second breakfast—his first being peanut butter toast before dawn. Grabbing a still-warm scone for myself, I set a small dish of Tasso ham and pickled okra on the floor of the office for my familiar.

  Mungo eyed me with reproach for feeding him so late, but it didn’t last long once he’d launched himself from the club chair to the floor and began chowing down in earnest.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  He grunted without looking up.

  “When you’re done with your snack, do you want to come with me to the set? I have to set up lunch pretty soon.”

  This time he stopped eating long enough to confirm with a yip!

  * * *

  A breeze had freshened off the river, greeting me when I got out of the Bug on Congress Street. Mungo jumped out, and I attached the long lead to his collar. “I know you don’t need it, but it’s the law, and I don’t have enough hands to carry you and the food.” As it was, I’d borrowed a collapsible cart from Croft Barrow’s bookstore next door to the Honeybee so I could wheel the food onto the set.

  As I loaded it with boxes and bags, a movement caught my eye. I looked up to see Declan hurrying toward me from one of the only three tents still standing. I’d called to see if he’d be available to help before I left the Honeybee, alert for any indication of a rift between us. The conversation had been too short for me to really be able to tell.

  When he reached my side, he swooped me into a hug, lifting me off my feet, and gave me a firm smack on the lips. “Missed you.”

  I grinned, pushing my worries back into their brain closet and shutting the door. “Good.”

  He laughed. “Fine. I guess I deserve that, since I was the one who begged off last night. Tell me what I can do.”

  I managed the cart across the bumpy road, Mungo trotting at my side, while Declan hefted a cooler full of drinks as if it were full of packing peanuts. My gaze cut sideways to the muscles bulging in his arms, and despite my protests that big muscly guys weren’t necessarily my type, the sight sent a quiver of excitement all the way down to my toes.

  Everything had been moved away from the crime scene to the far corner of Reynolds Square. It looked like the filming was down to bare-bones: three tents, a much shorter patch of concrete camouflaged to look like an eighteenth-century lane with an unhitched carriage sitting in the middle of it, and only a few people
milling around, apparently between shots. Even the horses were gone. Only the number of looky-loos had increased.

  “This is all that’s left?” I asked.

  Declan made a face. “Niklas isn’t making much of a secret of how unhappy he is about having to change their plans.”

  “Yeah—too bad someone died in the middle of his movie,” I said. Still, the director’s disgruntlement pointed to a possible lack of motive, as did his frank conversation with Quinn about how Simon had stepped in to fix the situation after Egan had cheated on his wife.

  Rounding the corner of the resituated catering canopy, I stopped cold. Platters of food marched down the long buffet table, beginning with pimento cheese dip and ending with a sloppily frosted chocolate sheet cake. In between, squares of macaroni and cheese congealed in the breeze, a fancy serving bowl of colorless grits hunched next to a platter of greasy-looking fried green tomatoes with no sauce. Two platters held piles of waffles, one garnished with split sausages and the other plain. My critical eye noted the potato salad looked pretty good, as did the deviled eggs. In fact, all of the food might have been fine if kept warm . . . or cool.

  Okay. I was trying to be charitable, when in fact I was really angry. I whirled on Declan. “They already have lunch set up!”

  He looked stricken. “Oh, hon. I had no idea. I’ve been keeping people away from the scene they’re shooting in that horse carriage for the last hour or so.”

  My shoulders slumped. Of course he would have told me if he’d known. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s just . . .” My words trailed off as I limply pointed at the table.

  He grinned. “If that was you ‘snapping,’ you need to work on your technique.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe you should set up your stuff at the other end and let people decide what they want to eat.” Stepping toward the door, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll stop back when I can, but curiosity is running high since the murder. We’ve already had a couple incidents where folks have tried to sneak in, so I’d better get out there.” He ducked out, leaving me alone with Mungo.