by Bailey Cates
I stood and padded over to him. Putting my arms around him and pulling him close, I whispered into his ear, “It’s not your fault. Warning me wouldn’t have made any difference. I’m just that stubborn. You know that.”
He gave a little laugh. “You are that.”
A little smile strayed onto my face, but then I saw the sadness in his eyes before he turned away to go into the bedroom.
It gave me pause. Maybe I was still being stubborn—only about the wrong things.
Sighing, I grabbed my phone from where I’d left it on the end table and realized I’d inadvertently muted it. The screen lit up with eight messages from Lucy, mostly texts, but also a voice mail.
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed.
“See?” Declan said from the bedroom doorway. “Lucy’s been trying to get ahold of you all morning. She called me, so I left work early to make sure you were okay.”
“Well, you didn’t need to. . . . You shouldn’t have. . . . But . . .” I headed into the bedroom. “Can I use the shower first? I need to get to work.”
“Sure, hon.”
“Stop grinning like that,” I said as I passed him.
However, it did feel better to be needed.
* * *
* * *
Driving seemed to jump-start my mental juices, and on the way to the Honeybee I ran through the suspects in Mr. Bosworth’s murder again, talking out loud to Mungo, as was my habit when figuring things out. We might not have the witch-familiar connection at the moment, but he still made a good sounding board.
“Like I told Quinn, Dante Bundy is my favorite suspect. He inherited a pile of money, a valuable collection of magical items . . . hey, I wonder who got the house? That’s got to be worth some dough.”
Mungo blinked at me from where he was buckled into the passenger seat.
“I hate to ask Quinn anything else about the will, especially after I brushed him off during our last conversation. Maybe Jaida can find out. Anyway, it sounds like Dante is also a member of the newly reformed Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon. A chunk of his uncle’s money goes to them, too. And since the Silver Moon folks are supposedly a foundation, they might not even have to pay taxes on it.”
Then I remembered something. “Wait a second. Mrs. Standish said Kensington Bosworth had cut back on his donations to her organizations a couple of years ago and was instead giving money to a different one. In practically her next breath, she mentioned some vague rumor that he was hanging out with some shady characters. If he’d started directing his philanthropy toward the Order, then those druids have been back together for at least two years—and very much under the radar, or else the Dragohs would know. On the other hand, Steve made it sound like Heinrich Dawes and the other Dragohs might have indeed had an inkling that the Order was re-forming.”
I slowed the car as a traffic light ahead turned red.
“So, if Mr. Bosworth was giving money to the Order for that long plus left them more in his will, he must have been a member, too. Which is weird, because no one seems to think Mr. Bosworth had much of a gift for magic. But if he was, and . . .” I trailed off, not liking the thought that had sprung unbidden to mind. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to say it. “And if the Dragohs did know, would they have threatened him?”
Mungo sneezed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Then again, maybe he just had a tickle in his nose.
I sighed. “Steve was pretty clear that even with the rivalry between the Silver Moon druids and the Dragoh clan, there wasn’t any actual violence. I think they’d do a lot, but they wouldn’t go so far as to kill Mr. Bosworth. But if they ‘discouraged’ people from joining the Silver Moon group to the degree that it died off from attrition, then maybe they did try to scare him. Or not. Because they supposedly didn’t know anything more than rumors. Unless, of course, someone is lying. Dang it!” I exclaimed.
Mungo jumped.
“Of course, someone is lying. For Pete’s sake.”
The light turned green. I pressed on the accelerator, my mind racing.
“But you know, it was pretty weird how magically dead it felt in Caesar Speckman’s shop. Given the age of that building and the fact that it was once a real magic shop, along with his sideline dealing in items that are used in real spells and ceremonial magic, I should have sensed some kind of power in his store, whether he believes in what he traffics in or not.”
I might not have my magic to guide me, but I still had logic, empathy, and native intelligence. I pictured the dorky souvenir shop owner, with his thinning hair and printed T-shirt. Not only was the atmosphere in How’s Tricks devoid of power, but Caesar himself was as bland as could be. Suspiciously so? Maybe. Caesar warranted another look. Maybe I could get him to chat with me a bit more about Bosworth that afternoon when I went in to pick up the bridesmaid lockets.
Bringing my thoughts back to my favorite suspect, I said, “Despite all that, Dante supposedly has an alibi. I wonder if a visit to his workplace is warranted? Just to double-check what his coworker has to say.” I shook my head. “Okay, moving along, what about Florinda? She said she didn’t want any money, but that’s kind of hard to believe. Even if it is true, she would have liked it for her husband, and probably for her son as well. Perhaps she felt guilty for gambling away the money her father had left her and wanted to make up for it. Or . . .” I fell silent. The more I thought about the possibilities, the more confusing it seemed.
But I wasn’t about to give up.
Think, Katie, think.
What about Florinda’s husband? I didn’t know a thing about him other than his last name was Daniels, and his wife said he was hardworking.
I glanced over at Mungo, who was watching me with interest even though I’d stopped talking. “I’m going to have to call Quinn and tell him I changed my mind about helping.” I rolled my eyes. “That should go over well. Okay, who else? Well, Malcolm Cardwell said his great-aunt was a witch of sorts, so perhaps there’s a magical connection there. But he doesn’t benefit from Mr. Bosworth’s death. In fact, he’s out of a job now.”
Pulling into a parking spot, I shut off the engine and turned to Mungo. “You know who else is out of a job? The housekeeper, Olivia Gleason. The one person on my list that I haven’t had a chance to follow up with.” I unbuckled my seat belt and reached for the door handle. “Now, how do I go about approaching her?”
* * *
* * *
My eyes widened when I stepped inside the bakery from the alley. The place was a madhouse. People packed the tables and reading area, while lines had formed at both the register and the coffee counter. Iris turned as I entered, a frantic look—and a smear of flour—on her face.
“Where have you been?” she hissed.
“I—let me drop my stuff,” I hedged, and hurried into the office with Mungo in my tote bag. Back in the kitchen, I quickly donned a half apron embroidered with clusters of red cherries. “What is going on?”
“Busload of tourists.” Iris slid a trayful of hot cookies onto a rack and began to fill a tray with already cooled pastries. “They dropped them off on Broughton to shop and explore the historic district, but apparently every last one of them needs a pastry and a drink first.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “What can I do?”
She shoved the tray at me. “Display case.”
I took the tray and trotted out to refill the diminishing contents of the case. As I bent to arrange the rows of scones and muffins, Lucy turned toward me from where she was ringing up a purchase at the register.
“How are you?” she murmured.
A brisk nod. “I’m okay.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Really.” One way or another, I had to be.
A smile blossomed on her face. “Welcome back, honey.” Despite the line of people reaching to the door, she appeared as Zen a
s ever.
I straightened and nodded toward the crowd. “Good thing we got rid of that bell over the door.”
She laughed and turned to the next customer.
* * *
* * *
Two hours later there was a lull between the tourist traffic and the lunch rush. I helped police the seating areas, collecting dishes and wiping down surfaces. When things were a bit more under control, I excused myself to the office to make some phone calls.
First, I called Detective Quinn. He answered with an abrupt, “Yeah?”
“Hey,” I said. “Sorry to bug you, but I have a question.” Actually, a couple of them, but I’d ease into that.
“I thought you were done with the questions.” There were voices in the background, and I heard a rustle of clothing as he covered the microphone on his cell. His voice then, but I couldn’t really make out what he was saying. Then he came back on. “Listen, Katie. I’ve got to go. We have a break on another case.”
“Can you just tell me really quickly if you learned anything when you talked further with Olivia Gleason?”
“She found Bosworth, but couldn’t really add anything to that. Seriously, I need to go. And you can stop playing Nancy Drew, or whatever your version of her is. We got the forensics back on the Bosworth case, and like it or not, Randy Post’s fingerprints are the only ones on the murder weapon. He doesn’t have an alibi, he has motive, and there’s a witness to that fact. I’ve got a call in for an arrest warrant.”
“But, Quinn—”
“Talk to you later,” he said, and hung up.
I stared at the phone for a few seconds before looking up at my dog. “Mungo, they’re actually going to pin this on Randy if I don’t do something.” A part of me had believed that since he was innocent, that couldn’t happen.
Boy, was I ever wrong.
Mungo made a sound in the back of his throat and cocked his head at me.
I sighed, then called Jaida to let her know what Quinn had just told me. She said she’d take it from there, and I left her to contact Randy and Bianca and whoever else might need to know.
Before I could decide what to do next, the phone rang in my hand. It was my mother.
After a quick debate with myself about whether I could possibly duck her calls for the rest of my life, I decided I probably couldn’t and answered.
“Hello, honey,” she said after I’d greeted her.
Her voice was low, her tone quiet. That was not how my mother operated. Her usual mode was full steam ahead, and even at her mellowest she faced the world with firm confidence.
“Dad told you,” I said.
“He did. Honey, I’m so sorry. I know he did the best he could.”
“Oh, gosh. Of course he did.” In my wallow of self-pity, it hadn’t even occurred to me that my dad might be feeling guilty about the failure of the night before. “It wasn’t his fault that I didn’t get my magic back last night. He knows that, right?”
“I think he does, deep down. But we’re both so worried about you.”
“Well, don’t be,” I said. “I’m going to be just fine. After all, I lived most of my life without knowing anything about magic or spell work or hedgewitchery, so I’ve had lots of practice, you know . . . not practicing . . .” I trailed off, the words hanging there in the air between us. I’d tried to sound light and airy, but as soon as I heard myself, I realized how passive-aggressive I sounded.
“Hmm,” I said. “That came out wrong. Just know that I’m not giving up. If there’s a way for me to get my magic back, I’ll find it.”
There was a long silence. Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Mama—”
“No, I really am. I thought I was doing a good thing by hiding your gifts from you, but it wasn’t my right to do that.” Her voice had grown stronger, and I imagined her perching on the overstuffed armchair by the phone stand in the living room. My parents hadn’t had a landline for years, but Mama still kept her cell phone in the same place where my grandparents’ phone sat for decades. Doing so was orderly and traditional, just like she was. Her professionally colored hair would be perfectly arranged, and more likely than not she was wearing a modest sundress with a light cardigan draped over her shoulders.
She continued, “However, I can’t change the past. I would if I could, but I can’t. So, we’re simply going to have to do the best with what’s happened. I spoke with Lucy, and she said your spellbook club is on the job.”
“They are,” I assured her, unwilling to share what Mimsey had told me about the anti-magic spell. “I’ll have my magic back in no time.”
“That’s my girl,” she said. “Now, I might have a solution to your wedding cake quandary.”
And she was off and running. My mother was nothing if not resilient, and I had learned a long time ago that it was easier to let her believe what she wanted to than to try to dissuade her. And if she was willing to let the question of my magic drop, so was I. Her wedding cake idea wasn’t so bad, either.
After we hung up, my mind immediately went back to what Quinn had said about Olivia Gleason. She hadn’t added anything else to his investigation? Really? She saw Mr. Bosworth almost every day, in his home, when his guard was down. She must have known him pretty well. She did his laundry, cleaned his house, cooked his . . .
Of course. That was it.
I knew how to approach the woman who had found the body.
Chapter 20
“Of course I want to help!” Mrs. Standish exclaimed when I told her what I had in mind. “I’ll call her right away and ask her to meet me at the Honeybee. Then I’ll call you back and let you know when to expect us.”
“The sooner, the better,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t have her number, though.”
“I’m on it, chief,” she boomed. “We met once at Kensington’s, and I’m sure I can track her down. Skipper! We need to find the number for Olivia Gleason tout de suite.” She was still talking when the connection was severed.
What else? Maybe go to see Dante Bundy’s coworker?
I felt a rush of frustration. I’d promised to do what I could for Randy, and I’d failed. I’d lost my magic in the bargain, and now it felt like I didn’t know much more than when I’d first heard Mr. Bosworth had been killed.
But I do know more. Lots more. Pieces of the puzzle.
I just didn’t know how they fit together.
Heck, I don’t even know exactly which ones belong in the puzzle and which ones don’t.
I was putting my cell back into my apron pocket when it rang.
“Mrs. Standish! That was quick.”
“Told you I was on it,” she brayed. “We’re meeting there at one o’clock.”
“This afternoon? How did you manage to get Mrs. Gleason to meet you with only two hours’ notice?” I asked.
“Well,” she said. “I might have laid it on a bit thick. Sounded downright desperate for a new housekeeper, ha ha ha.”
“Oh, dear. What if she thinks you’re serious?”
“Now, don’t you worry, honey. I am serious, serious as sin. We’re utterly and completely frantic for a new housekeeper since dear Alda left. And if Olivia Gleason fits the bill, I’ll hire her in a heartbeat. Full-time, too. With benefits. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”
“But she could be a murder suspect,” I protested.
“For heaven’s sake, Katie. I think it goes without saying that I won’t hire her if it turns out she killed Kensington. Not only would she be in prison, but murdering one’s employer is terrible precedent for acquiring a new position.”
Still shaking my head over Mrs. Standish’s logic, I gave Mungo a scratch behind the ears and went out to help with lunch.
* * *
* * *
Skipper Dean was having lunch with a friend and didn’t come with
Mrs. Standish to interview their potential new housekeeper. She showed up early and ensconced herself in the reading area with a tall glass of sweet tea and the half-dozen assorted pastries I’d selected—on the house. I slipped the RESERVED sign onto its hook, so no one would bother them while they were talking.
Except me, of course. The idea was for Mrs. Standish to start the interview, then she’d invite me to join them.
Mr. Bosworth’s housekeeper walked through the door at exactly one o’clock. Unlike the woman with red-rimmed eyes and unkempt hair that I’d seen sitting at Mr. Bosworth’s dining table when I’d gone to meet Quinn the night of the murder, this Olivia Gleason was quite striking and put together. She carried a soft leather briefcase and wore a beige pencil skirt with a white blouse and stadium pumps. Her blond hair was in a smooth French twist, and her gray eyes scanned the people sitting at the tables.
She and Mrs. Standish saw each other at the same time. She hurried over to the reading area, sparing a brief glance at the RESERVED sign, and with an eager smile shook Mrs. Standish’s hand. They sat down, and Olivia opened her leather bag and removed some papers, which she handed to Mrs. Standish.
I went over to them. “Hello. Can I get you anything?” Never mind that we didn’t typically offer table service at the Honeybee.
Olivia looked up at me, then down at the pile of pastries on the table.
“Oh, those are for both of us, dear,” Mrs. Standish said. “What would you like to drink?”
“Do you have any peppermint tea?” Olivia asked me.
“Absolutely.”
“Iced?”
“Coming right up.” As I left to make her tea, I heard Mrs. Standish exclaim over her references.
“You worked for Mrs. Dwightshire-Smith? Oh, that’s excellent. Excellent, indeed.”
I impatiently made the tea, practically tapping my foot as it brewed, then poured the double-strength concoction over a tumbler of ice. Trying not to look like I was hurrying, I took the tea over to Olivia Gleason.
