Cookies and Clairvoyance

by Bailey Cates

  “Yeah. How’s Tricks. I’ve never been in. In fact, I can’t remember even seeing it.”

  “He’s a member of the Downtown Business Association,” Ben said. “We struck up a conversation at one of the meetings. He invited me to drop by the shop, so one day when I was in the neighborhood, I did.” He rolled his eyes. “It may have started out as a magic shop, but now it’s crammed full of stuff for the tourists. You know—peach everything, T-shirts, Bird Girl statues, guidebooks. Lots of stuff about the ghosts of Savannah. There were still some magic tricks in the back, but they looked pretty dusty.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Because Malcolm Cardwell said Speckman dealt in paranormal items. Called it his ‘side hustle.’”

  My uncle shrugged. “Nothing I saw in his shop looked like the authentic stuff I’ve seen you and Lucy use in your work. However, if Bosworth was fascinated with the paranormal, maybe he was into stage magic as well.”

  Stage magic? Maybe. But I don’t think so. I do think I’d like to visit Caesar Speckman’s shop myself, though.

  Chapter 11

  “Okay, so after one day we already have some real suspects that must have better motive to kill Kensington Bosworth than Randy ever could.” I held up my hand and began ticking them off my fingers. “His sister, Florinda.”

  We were on our way back to the apartment. Declan flipped his turn signal and asked, “What’s her motive?”

  “Resentment, maybe? Or perhaps she didn’t know that she wasn’t in the will and was hoping for a windfall. Hey! What if she fell off the gambling wagon and owes a bunch of money?”

  He gave me a sideways look. “You shouldn’t sound so happy about something like that.”

  Chastened, I slumped in my seat. “Yeah, you’re right. I should wait until I meet her before I start making judgments.”

  “And maybe not even then,” he said mildly.

  I brightened. “Or Florinda might have known all along that she wouldn’t get any money in the will, but she killed her brother so her son would benefit.”

  “Hm. Who else?”

  “Her son, of course. Dante Bundy. He does inherit, and money is always a good motive. Plus, that Thunderbird you saw when we went to the crime scene? Well, I saw a car parked behind it with ‘Dante’ on the license plate. Coincidence?”

  He smiled. “Probably not. Does Quinn know?”

  “Yep. He’s looking into it. I bet if Dante showed up at Mr. Bosworth’s door, he’d turn off the alarm to let in his nephew.”

  “Good point. Okay. Who else? You think one of his charities wanted their donation faster and hired someone to kill him?” He was grinning.

  “Very funny,” I said. “Though the Silver Moon people sound awfully fishy, and they did get more of the philanthropic money than any of the other organizations.”

  He gave a kind of facial shrug. “There is that. You really going to ask Steve about them?”

  “You know he’s a druid, right?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, yeah. Big deal.”

  “It’s not a big deal. It’s just that he might know about another secret society in town.”

  A snort at that. “Some secret society he belongs to. Everyone knows about the Dragohs.”

  “Not everyone. They’re still a secret clan. Sort of.”

  “Whatever.”

  I sighed. “Listen, do you want me to have someone else ask him? Cookie, maybe?”

  There was a long silence as he actually considered that. “Nah. You have to do it. He won’t tell anyone else. Who else is on your suspect list?”

  He pulled into his parking space and turned off the engine.

  I held up my hand, three fingers up. “So far those three, four if you include the Silver Moon people, plus there were two people who knew the code for the alarm system: Malcolm Cardwell and Olivia Gleason.”

  He got out. I opened the door, and Mungo sprang to the ground. I followed, holding the bowl the salad had been in. Declan scooped up my familiar and carried him up the stairs. Once inside, he turned on the lights, put Mungo down, and turned to me.

  “Did you get any gut feeling when you talked to the secretary?” Just a hint of an Irish brogue flavored the question.

  “No. . . .” I drew the word out. “He seems pretty aboveboard.”

  “And you haven’t talked to the housekeeper, Gleason, right?” The accent was stronger.

  Watching him with narrowed eyes, I said, “Not yet.”

  He had a funny look on his face.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Declan?”

  No response.

  “Declan! You’re scaring me. Is Connell telling you something?”

  Something flashed deep behind his eyes, and suddenly I knew I wasn’t looking at Declan anymore.

  “Aye and begorrah!” Connell shouted, and Mungo growled. “I’ve been trying to tell yer man—”

  “Connell!” I broke in. “How dare you! We have an agreement. If you’re going to break it whenever you want to, then it’s not really an agreement at all. How am I to know when you’re going to get it into your head to show up in Declan’s body?”

  Never mind that he didn’t technically have his own head.

  “Oh, stop bein’ such a fussy woman,” he roared. “I’ve been trying ter get himself to warn you off this murder investigation, but yer man doesn’t seem ter want ter listen. Wants ter save his friend, you know, so maybe that’s getting in the way of his listenin’ ter me. I’ve not been subtle, lass.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I can imagine. But still—”

  “No, Katie!” He held a finger up inches from my face, and I flinched. Declan would never do that, but it was his hand and his blue eyes that were flashing. My heart started to race, and a cold sweat broke out on my brow.

  “You must believe I don’t break our agreement lightly,” Connell continued in a lower tone. “You must be careful.”

  My fear turned to anger. “Why?” I demanded. “What do you know?”

  He glared at me for a long moment, then his shoulders slumped, and the glare was replaced with confusion mixed with concern. He reached out and rubbed his thumb along my jaw under my ear, a strangely tender gesture. “’Tis what I don’t know, lass.”

  “Connell . . .”

  His hand dropped, and he shook his head. “Thar’s somethin’ different about the magic involved wi’ this murder. Somethin’ fierce.” He licked his lips. “Somethin’ dangerous.”

  “But . . .” I trailed off as his face underwent another subtle change.

  Suddenly Connell was gone.

  “Declan?”

  He blinked. “Oh, my God, Katie. I’m so sorry.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t be. Connell has my best interests at heart.” My emotions were mixed, but I knew that much was true.

  Declan took a deep breath. “He does. I’ve never felt him like this, Katie. He’s . . . I think he’s afraid.”

  A shiver ran down my back.

  “Maybe you should leave the rest of this investigation to the police.”

  I stared at him. “But what about Randy?”

  “Randy’s a good guy. You’re the love of my life. Of the two, I’m pretty sure you know who I’m the most concerned about.”

  With a small smile, I kissed him. “Thank you. And thank Connell. But I haven’t had any feelings of danger so far.”

  Declan’s brow wrinkled. “Does that mean you’re not going to stop?”

  I grimaced. “I believe Connell. I do. Something’s not quite right about this one, and I don’t just mean that a man was killed. But Quinn asked for my help with Florinda. At the very least, I’m going to talk with her.”

  He sighed. “At least your dad is going with you tomorrow. I’m going on shift, and I’d rather you didn’t go investigating things on your own.”

  “I
can take care of myself.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I smiled and let it go. I didn’t like the implication that I was some delicate flower that needed to be protected, but I knew he was on my side.

  Long after Declan had already started snoring, I was still staring at the ceiling.

  Something different about this magic. Something dangerous.

  Continuing to investigate after Connell had made such an effort to warn me felt wrong, but so did abandoning the investigation altogether. How could I just walk away?

  * * *

  * * *

  At two a.m. I woke with a start and sat straight up, looking wildly around the darkened bedroom. Mungo sprang to his feet at the end of the bed and stood staring at me.

  After a few seconds, I realized there was no imminent danger. I’d been dreaming about Iris asking why witches couldn’t solve crimes with magic. In the dream, I’d been thinking about how sometimes psychics do help solve crimes. And on that note, I’d woken myself up.

  I swung my legs over the bed, lifted Mungo to the floor, and padded out to the living room, thinking furiously. I wasn’t a psychic. I didn’t have the Sight. In fact, I was crap at workaday divination, even though I’d tried it a few times, both alone and with the help of the spellbook club.

  However, I was pretty good at spell work. So were the other ladies in the spellbook club. Plus, I was a catalyst and a lightwitch.

  And you could create a spell for just about anything.

  Right?

  So . . . why not?

  Why not cast a spell that would give me the Sight? Not forever, of course. That would take some bigger magic than I had in mind, and I couldn’t be sure of the repercussions. I mean, I didn’t really want to walk around seeing ghosts or the future all the time.

  I just wanted to be clairvoyant long enough to know who killed Kensington Bosworth. Then I would tell Quinn, and he could take it from there. That way I could fulfill my calling as a lightwitch in Kensington Bosworth’s murder investigation, and at the same time remove myself from the danger Connell had warned me of.

  Quickly, I gathered several of my spellbooks, a notebook and pen, and my laptop. Settling onto the sofa, I sketched out an idea of what I had in mind. When I was done, I sat with it for a few minutes, then pulled Mungo onto my lap.

  “What do you think?”

  His brown eyes shone with approval.

  “Okay, then. I’ll e-mail the ladies, fill them in on the latest, and see if they can meet after the Honeybee closes tomorrow evening. They can bring supplies, too.”

  He licked my chin, and I opened my e-mail program.

  That night, I slept nearly four delicious hours.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning in the bakery, I made up another batch of green tomato muffins, but the spell I murmured as I mixed in the thyme had a different emphasis than Iris’ had the day before. I was boosting the ability of thyme to augment intuition. Then I added nutmeg and extra cinnamon to the spice cookie dough Iris had already mixed up the previous afternoon, adding an extra oomph! to their ability to promote psychic abilities.

  I added the extra bits of power only to the treats I planned to use in the clairvoyance spell that evening, and not to the baked goods that would be available to the public. It was benevolent magic, certainly, and only a part of the larger spell I had planned for the evening, but I’d put a lot of focused intention into those treats. It was possible that particularly susceptible customers might find themselves with some kind of temporary Sight, and not everyone would relish such a thing.

  When I was finished with the special treats for our evening gathering, I tucked them out of the way on the back counter and got to work on the rest of the day’s baking.

  * * *

  * * *

  After the morning rush, I went back to the office and found myself searching on the computer for Caesar Speckman and How’s Tricks—I itched to correct it to How Are Tricks every time I saw it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Speckman might be able to give me important information about the paranormal collection that I was supposedly going to Florinda Daniels’ home to discuss that afternoon.

  Besides, if things went according to plan, I was going to learn who the murderer was that very evening. A quick trip to a touristy souvenir store wouldn’t hurt anything. Even Connell would have to agree with that.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t, but I pushed that aside.

  Speckman’s shop didn’t have a website, but there were plenty of favorable reviews on travel sites from customers who had been on vacation and looking for Savannah-centric tchotchkes to take back home. The entrance was off an alley that I couldn’t remember ever being down. But Ben knew where it was.

  “Hey, Katie. Here are the candles you asked me to bring.”

  I looked up to see Cookie standing in the doorway. “Hi! Thanks.”

  She stepped in and handed me four purple votives in glass holders. I put them on the shelf above the filing cabinet, indicated she should take the desk chair, and moved Mungo aside so I could sit beside him on the club chair.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, maneuvering down to a sitting position. “Is everyone in for tonight?”

  “Mimsey and Bianca for sure. Jaida probably, but I’m still waiting to hear. And Lucy, of course.”

  “Well, I love the idea of gaining temporary Sight,” she said. “Say, I sold that house I showed yesterday morning, so I decided to take today off from the office. You guys need any help in here?” Cookie had worked at the Honeybee for a while before she was married. The early hours hadn’t agreed with her, but she knew the ropes.

  I started to shake my head, then stopped. A grin spread across my face. “I think things are under control here, but do you want to go shopping?”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

  “For souvenirs and magic tricks.” I explained that I wanted to check out Caesar Speckman’s establishment. “I could use the company.”

  “I’m game,” she said, struggling to a standing position. “Let’s walk.”

  Surprised, I asked, “You’re serious? In this heat? In your condition?”

  “Heat, schmeat,” she said. “I grew up in Haiti. Come on.”

  “Well, okay. Mungo, you coming?”

  He lay down, put his chin between his paws, and gazed up at me soulfully.

  “You sure? It’s only ninety-three or so out there.”

  A couple of blinks, then he firmly shut his eyes.

  I laughed. “Guess he decided his time would be better spent napping.”

  Cookie reached into her bag and drew out her own familiar—a red, black, and yellow–striped king snake. “Rafe doesn’t mind the heat, do you, honey?” She kissed him behind the eyes, and he flicked his tongue at her three times.

  I managed to suppress my instinctive shudder. “Let’s get going. And don’t let Rafe scare the customers on the way out.”

  * * *

  * * *

  As we walked, I told Cookie what I’d learned about Caesar Speckman.

  “I don’t know if he’ll be able to help, but if he was finding items for Mr. Bosworth to add to his paranormal collection, maybe Caesar knows whether he actively practiced sorcery.”

  “Just because someone deals with magical artifacts doesn’t mean they engage in the Craft themselves,” she pointed out.

  “True,” I agreed, and thought of Connell’s warning again. “We’ll tread very lightly.”

  It was only a few blocks to River Street from the Honeybee, but I was ready to get out of the heat by the time we descended the stone steps from Bay Street. Following the directions Ben had given me, we turned left, and several paces farther along discovered a short alley. The sign for How’s Tricks hung over a doorway in the middle, perpendicular to the wall, like a tave
rn sign.

  “I’ve never noticed this before,” I said. “Probably walked by it dozens of times.”

  Cookie frowned. “Me, too.”

  Our footfalls seemed loud on the oyster-shell tabby, echoing off the high brick walls on either side. We stopped in front of the closed door and looked at each other. It was solid wood, and there were no windows.

  I grabbed the handle and pushed.

  A welcome rush of cool air greeted us, and we stepped inside. The air smelled like dust and coffee. Not a sound breached the walls, and when the door closed, the silence was so thick I could almost touch it. I sent out my senses, anticipating that they’d encounter some kind of paranormal power. After all, the place was ostensibly a magic shop. However, I didn’t feel more than a hint of magic, and even that felt very old—possibly left over from the days when the bricks had first been laid.

  Then my eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine outside to the soft fluorescents above, and I took in my surroundings. It wasn’t a large space, perhaps fifty feet by seventy-five. The place was packed, though. A few shelves overflowed with tourist guides and maps, while another offered stuffed toys—including several of the tour trolleys that ferried visitors around Savannah’s sights. Still more shelves were stacked with commemorative mugs and shot glasses. Brightly lit cases boasted jewelry and candy. There were rotating displays of postcards, refrigerator magnets, and one stacked with half-sized Georgia license plates emblazoned with popular first names. A whole section of the shop was devoted to items related to what locals simply called The Book—Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt. In another area, there were miniature replicas of some of Savannah’s well-known statuary, including Bird Girl, Waving Girl, the African American Monument, and James Oglethorpe, the founder of the colony of Georgia himself. T-shirts hung on the wall behind the register at the back, many of which advertised local sports teams.

  “Good heavens,” Cookie breathed. “You should have warned me.”

  I laughed. “It is a bit much, but I’m sure the tourists love it. So many keepsakes to choose from!”