by Bailey Cates
Quinn shrugged. “You’re right. It does look like someone hit the poor guy, but it could have been an accident. And he’s certainly filthy.”
“I think you should take another look, Peter. Because that man is wearing a TAG Heuer chronograph watch. Those are spendy—I was going to buy my dad one for his birthday a couple years ago until I realized there was no way I could afford it. Unless the dead man stole it, he’s anything but homeless. Eccentric, maybe, but there are plenty of people in Savannah who fit that description.”
“Katie’s right,” Declan said. “His clothes are pretty scruffy and dirty, but not living-on-the-street dirty. He’s clean-shaven and looks pretty fit.”
Peter Quinn distributed a scowl between us before finally nodding. “Noted.”
“You didn’t answer my question about who the poor guy is,” I said.
“No wallet.” His words were clipped. “But we have all we need from you on this case. Understood, Katie?”
“Of course.”
After clearing my uncle Ben’s name the previous April, I had sworn off murder investigations. For the last six months I’d been having the best time of my life, living in a city I loved, doing the kind of work I enjoyed most at the Honeybee Bakery, learning about spell work and my magical abilities from my new coven, and spending time with Aunt Lucy, Uncle Ben, Declan…and Steve Dawes. Why would I want to jeopardize that by interfering in a police matter?
Never mind that the image of the dead man’s tattoo felt like a brand on my inner vision.
Chapter 2
Pausing inside the front door of the Honeybee Bakery, I breathed in the aroma of freshly baked goodies and listened to the murmur of voices in conversation. The espresso machine came to life as Uncle Ben brewed a coffee confection for a waiting customer. Mungo, knowing he had to stay hidden when we were inside the bakery, snuggled deeper into the bottom of my tote bag.
Light amber walls rose to the high ceiling on three sides, while the vertical expanse behind the cash register blazed a rich burnt orange. The tall chalkboard menu mounted there listed coffee drinks and sweet and savory items from the kitchen. Garlands of candy corn were draped from the chalkboard’s corners as well as from the stereo speakers and the glass display case next to the register, full of scones and cookies, biscotti and cupcakes and muffins. The bottom shelf was packed with loaves of the house sourdough bread, which was beginning to gain a reputation among Savannahians who appreciated such things. Each day we also offered something special that wasn’t on our regular menu. Today it was salted caramel apples, a crispy-salty-sweet concoction that I also planned to serve at the Honeybee Halloween party coming up in less than a week. My mouth watered at the thought of them.
Of course, the candy corn garlands were some of the not-so-spooky decorations we’d been putting in place as we geared up for the party. On the windows facing Broughton Street we’d painted ghosts cavorting between cartoon headstones. Velvet spiders nestled among the vases of flowers on the blue bistro tables, and black paper silhouettes of mice crawled along the baseboards.
At the far end of the room soft brocade sofas invited people to settle in and sample from the overflowing bookshelf nearby. The Honeybee Halloween tree sat in the corner. Uncle Ben had sprayed a fake Christmas fir glossy black. Strings of tiny green fairy lights and more garlands of candy corn looped around it, and orange glass balls painted with jack-o’-lantern faces hung from the branches.
Light jazz drifted through the spice-and-coffee-scented air at low volume. Customers sat in the blue-and-chrome chairs in small groups or accompanied by their trusty laptops. The stainless-steel appliances visible in the mostly open kitchen echoed the silvery tones and let people know they were in a working bakery, not just a storefront. The most recent addition to the bakery staff, Cookie Rios, moved into view carrying a sheet pan of cookies just out of the oven.
Aunt Lucy chatted with a woman who was picking up one of her custom-decorated cakes while Ben handed the steaming coffee mug to his customer. As I watched, a familiar contentment crept over me, and the muscles along the back of my neck relaxed. I loved this place. After pastry school in Cincinnati and a few years as assistant manager of a bakery in Akron, I finally had what I’d always dreamed of: a place where I had free rein to create my own recipes and bake to my heart’s content. Not to mention working with two of my favorite people in the world.
Though in one respect starting the Honeybee hadn’t turned out quite the way I’d imagined while packing and planning back in Ohio. I smiled, remembering a day before the Honeybee grand opening. Lucy had been stirring dried sage from her herb garden into a batch of scone dough, muttering all the while. I’d thought it odd, but soon forgot about it. Not long after that, she revealed that the muttering was an incantation, a spell, and told me that I, like her, came from a long line of hereditary hedgewitches—green witches with a special affinity for herbal craft and cooking. The idea had certainly taken some getting used to, but now I was eagerly learning about the Craft.
Ben turned, reaching for the day’s mail, and saw me standing by the door. His eyes lit up in greeting behind his rimless glasses. Shaking his head, he put down the envelopes and came out from behind the counter.
“What are you doing back here on your day off, sweetie? I thought you were meeting Deck for a date.”
“I guess you could call it that.” I didn’t like to think of our platonic picnic as a date, but I could see how Ben would. Steve probably would, too—if he knew about it. And for that matter, I couldn’t have guaranteed it would have stayed quite so innocent if a dead body hadn’t intruded on our morning. Declan was so easy to be with that I sometimes let my guard down. “Something happened, though. I thought I should tell you before Peter Quinn does.”
Ben’s eyebrows shot up at that, but before I could say anything more, laughter erupted from the far end of the Honeybee. Recognizing it, I leaned around my uncle to see. Sure enough, Jaida and Bianca had stopped by for their usual Saturday lattes and were sitting in the reading area by the big bookshelf. They were both members of the book club my aunt and I belonged to.
The spellbook club—that was what my coven called itself.
The door opened behind me, and Mimsey Carmichael hurried in from Broughton Street. Two steps into the bakery she saw me and paused, a grin crinkling the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, good. I hoped you’d be working today.” Her indigo slacks brushed the tops of alligator shoes dyed to match. A long vest in a lighter shade of the same color hung gracefully over a crisp blouse as bright white as her smooth pageboy.
“Actually, I just stopped in for a few minutes,” I said. “Did you need me for something?”
Mimsey peered up at me, her blue eyes twinkling. “Did anything interesting happen to you this morning?” She was also a member of the spellbook club and a frequent visitor to the Honeybee. Among other specialties, she favored color magic, and her attire invariably reflected that. From my lessons with her I knew indigo was the color of intuition.
I looked at Ben, and he raised his eyebrows in question. He wasn’t a witch, but since he was married to my aunt he knew about our magical antics.
“I guess you could say that,” I said to Mimsey.
“I knew it!” Satisfaction spread across her face. “Or at least my shew stone did. And Jaida and Bianca are still here? Good. Let’s get Lucy and Cookie, and you can tell us all about it.” Cookie was not only the newest Honeybee employee; she was also the youngest member of the spellbook club.
My uncle smiled. “Drop your stuff in the back and then come tell us all what happened. That way you won’t have to do it twice.”
Mungo shifted against my hip.
“Right.” I headed for the small office at the rear of the bakery, wondering what Mimsey had seen in the sphere of pink quartz—literally a crystal ball—that she called her shew stone. Divination was an iffy business and open to plenty of interpretation.
I had to admire Ben’s ability to put his curiosity on hold. It
was amazing, really, how much he’d mellowed since retiring as Savannah’s fire chief and starting up the bakery. I’d wondered whether he might find running a business a bit tame after so many years of saving lives and property, but when I asked him about it he told me his position as chief had become so much about administration and politics that he’d welcomed the change.
With Mungo deposited out of sight, I returned to find that Lucy had finished with her cake customer and was sitting with the others by the bookshelves. She beckoned Ben and me over. As we made our way through the tables he greeted many of the customers by name, briefly asking after one man’s family. Yes, this was the perfect venue for his particular social talents. Even tourists who stopped in for a snack ended up feeling like my uncle was an old friend before they left.
“I do believe Cookie’s nearly finished with her duties in the kitchen for a while and will be able to join us momentarily,” Mimsey said. “Sit down and take a load off while we wait for her.”
“Hi, everyone.” I sank gratefully onto the sofa next to Lucy. Ben remained standing where he could keep an eye on the register and the front door.
My aunt, sweeter than was sometimes good for her, looked like a throwback to the sixties with her batik print skirt and mane of blond hair streaked with gray. She was shorter than me by several inches, and now patted my bare knee with a calm smile. “Glad you could join us.”
The others murmured greetings. Mimsey took a seat on the sofa opposite Lucy and me. On her left sat elegant Bianca Devereaux, a fortysomething single mom and practicing Wiccan with an affinity for moon spells and making piles of money in the stock market. She smiled now and said, “Mimsey has made us all quite curious about your morning, Katie.”
In the chair next to the sofa, Jaida French cocked her head to one side. “Did something happen when you were out with Declan?”
“We weren’t ‘out,’” I protested. It sounded weak, though, and she rolled her eyes.
“Where were you not out, then?” She might be wearing jeans and a Bob Marley T-shirt right now, but Jaida was a lawyer by profession. Interrogation came as naturally to her as the tarot magic she practiced.
“Johnson Square,” I said. “Now wait until Cookie gets here, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Cookie Rios was the reason I was able to take this Saturday off in the first place. Four months before, she’d given up her job as an apartment manager and, out of the blue, asked to work at the bakery. Lucy, Ben, and I had jumped at the offer. Business was going great guns, and we desperately needed the help. Her addition to our staff freed up more time for me to learn the Craft.
Each of the spellbook club members had been schooling me in her own magical specialty, and I’d been attending the spellbook club meetings; for the most part our gatherings really were about studying spells and spellbooks. I added to my personal grimoire—a kind of magical journal where I recorded my spell work—every day, but I knew I still had a long way to go. Gradually, I was getting a handle on some of the specifics about practicing magic. It was really all about different ways to focus intention in order to manifest change in the real world. Witches are naturally better at it, but magic exists for anyone who wants to reach for it. The spellbook club practiced a gentle, subtle magic.
Well, for the most part. A couple of things had surprised me during my relatively short journey. Things like being able to direct energy to healing, or infusing my voice with a Command. But we all believed in the Rule of Three: All actions and intentions came back to you threefold—so it paid to be careful with your abilities.
“Ah, what is this all about, then?” Cookie’s slight Haitian accent lilted from above and behind me.
I tilted my head and watched her come around to sit on Mimsey’s right. Her teensy apron barely covered her miniskirt, but with those lanky legs and her graceful manner Cookie could pull off the skirt-and-tank-top combo with an oddly tasteful sexiness. She regarded me with jade eyes that were a little too wise and a little too willing to break the rules. Her lips curved into a smile.
“Mimsey, what did you see in your shew stone?” I practically whispered. We didn’t usually talk magic in the bakery unless there were no customers to overhear us.
“Well, my stars!” Mimsey kept her voice low, though it trilled with excitement. We all leaned closer. “It appeared to be an emergency, though of what kind I simply can’t pretend to know. My dear little pink stone only indicated that you needed help, darlin’.” She looked around at the others.
I pressed my lips together. “Your crystal ball is nothing more than a gossip, then.”
Her face fell, and Bianca gave me a stern look. I backpedaled. “I mean, yes, Declan and I discovered a body under a rhododendron bush in the square, but that doesn’t have anything to do with us. Long term, I mean.”
“What!” Ben exclaimed.
Heads all over the bakery turned toward us, and I felt my face redden. I scooted closer to Lucy and motioned Ben to the cushion next to me. “Shh.”
He ducked his head. “Sorry.” He sat down and whispered, “A body? What happened?”
Glancing behind me to make sure no one was too close, I said, “Peter Quinn says it’s a homeless man, but I don’t think so. Quinn has a new partner, by the way—Detective Taite—and he seems to think the guy was homeless, too. But he didn’t even want to admit the poor guy had been hit over the head, even though I saw the blood. Anyway, the man Declan and I found was wearing clothes with dirt on them, but he also had a nice watch and had recently shaved. Except for his hands, he looked bathed and, well, healthy.” I made a face. “Other than, you know, being dead.”
They all stared at me. I realized that after talking with Quinn, and then Taite, and then Declan as he drove me and Mungo the few blocks to the bakery to pick up my car, I perhaps sounded a little callous. But they didn’t know about the nice breakfast now burning a hole in my stomach or the headache slowly building in my temples.
“Did Quinn tell you who the victim was?” Jaida asked.
I shrugged one shoulder. “He said the guy didn’t have a wallet. Didn’t seem all that excited about giving me information.” I sat back and said in a louder voice, “And that’s fine. It’s none of my business.”
“What else?” Mimsey said. The usual twinkle had left her eyes, and she kept her voice so quiet I had to strain to hear her.
I couldn’t help but echo her low tone. “What do you mean, what else?”
“There’s something you’re not telling us.”
“Why would you say that?” I frowned.
“Because my shew stone says so. What are you leaving out?”
“Nothing! I mean…” But for some reason I didn’t want to tell them.
Bianca finally spoke. “If we are being called upon to help the unfortunate man who died, you must play your part, Katie.”
Now I was the one staring at her.
“Is there something else, dear?” Lucy asked from beside me. Her gaze radiated kindness. It worked better than the most forceful questioning could have.
“Well…he had a tattoo.”
Cookie raised one eyebrow and exchanged looks with Bianca.
Ben turned in his seat to face me. “What did it look like?”
I raised my shoulders, still reluctant. “Like a wreath, kind of. With lines coming out of it.”
“Was it black? Or that gray color you see in prison tattoos?” he asked.
“Prison?” I squeaked at the same time Lucy said, “Good heavens!” with her hand at her throat. Heads turned our way again, and I swore under my breath. “How am I supposed to know what a prison tattoo looks like, Ben?” I asked.
“Well, what color was it?”
The image was so clear in my mind, I didn’t really have to think at all. “It was green. Dark green against his pale skin. And the lines were dark yellow. Amber.”
The bell over the door tinkled again. Two women were leaving. Ben called good-bye and began to turn back to our conversation when on
e of our regular customers who made the Honeybee his office away from home walked up to the counter.
“I’ll be right back,” Ben said, and hurried to take the man’s refill order.
I slumped back into the cushy sofa and held my palms up. “That’s it. There’s no more for me to tell you. And I can’t imagine what that tattoo could have to do with your shew stone, Mimsey.”
She didn’t say anything. The other ladies exchanged glances. Jaida said, “Could it be a gang symbol?”
“He seemed a bit old to be in a gang, but you never know,” I replied.
Cookie shrugged and stood. “Probably some personal symbol, like mine is.”
“You have a tattoo?” Though I wasn’t all that surprised.
“Of course. I’d better get back to work. That sourdough sponge won’t mix itself.” She paused as she walked away, her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be too concerned, Katie. The dead rarely torment those who have not done them harm.” Then she continued on to the kitchen.
Jaida laughed at my expression. “Don’t mind her. You know how dramatic she likes to be with all that voodoo stuff.” She stood. “I’m meeting Greg for a late lunch at the River House, so I’ll see you all later. Katie, don’t worry. Detective Quinn took your statement, right?”
I nodded.
“That should be the end of it, then. But if you need me for anything, just give a call.”
Bianca rose, too. Tall, with long dark hair and translucent skin, she was the witchiest-looking of us all. She tended toward natural fabrics that flowed with her movements, and today she’d chosen a layered silk dress in hues of lavender, violet, and mauve.
“I need to pick Colette up from the babysitter. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at the book club meeting, okay?” She leaned down. “I am sorry to hear about your morning, Katie. Just remember that death is but a passage onto another plane, and not a tragedy by any means.”
Trailing her signature scent of cinnamon, Jaida winked at me as they passed by.
“Thanks, everyone—” I stopped as my eyes met Mimsey’s and I saw the deep worry there.
