by Bailey Cates
“Famous, huh?” I rolled my eyes and pointed to a table as I slipped out from behind the register. “Have a seat, and we’ll see if we can live up to this one’s hype.” I gestured toward Declan with my chin.
Declan gave me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.
“I’m Scott,” said the older man. His skin was dark and his short hair was threaded lightly with gray. He moved with an easy grace as he took his chair.
The younger guy was stockier, his face chiseled in planes that reminded me of my father, who was part Shawnee. His uniform did little to hide the muscles underneath. As he sat down he smiled at me with his eyes. I couldn’t help smiling back. “I’m Randy.”
I bet you are, I thought, but said, “Hey, guys.”
“You’ve got to be Katie,” Scott said. “No wonder Deck won’t shut up about you.”
I ducked my head, but not before seeing Declan’s face flush.
Ignoring both of them, I asked what they wanted to order. “Today we have some cranberry coconut cookies that aren’t on the regular menu. Or you might want a cupcake—carrot with cream cheese frosting, chocolate cherry topped with chocolate ganache, or lemon on lemon, seasoned with black pepper?”
“Black pepper?” Declan asked.
“We mix savory and sweet a lot around here.” Not to mention that from a magical perspective black pepper promoted energy, alertness, protection, and courage—right up a fireman’s alley, I’d think. And lemon was good for health in general and healing in specific while giving an energy boost. “You should try the lemon cupcakes. They’re really delicious,” I urged.
They thought for a moment, then shook their heads.
“How about a scone, then? Lime and ginger, maple cardamom, or blueberry cinnamon.”
“Yeah, that last one sounds good,” Scott said.
“Maple for me,” Randy said. “And drip coffees all around.”
“Okay. Deck?” I asked. “A couple molasses oatmeal cookies?” His usual.
He nodded. “Perfect.”
The cinnamon in the blueberry mix was good for luck and prosperity, but the cardamom in the maple scones was all about love and sex. It figured that Randy would choose that. I brought their food and went back for the coffees. A group of loud tourists came in, and Cookie took over the register. Coffees delivered, I moved toward the kitchen to restock a few things in the display case just as the door opened again. I glanced over my shoulder and saw it was Detective Taite.
“Oh!” I said. “Are you here for coffee or for me?”
Oh, no. Did I really say that out loud?
All three firemen and the pack of tourists turned their heads. Declan saw Taite and shot a puzzled look at me.
The detective quirked up one side of his mouth without a hint of a smile. “I have a couple of questions for you.”
“Um, okay. Can I get you something to eat first?”
“I think not.” The way he said it made me feel like I’d offered a bribe.
“All right.” Why wasn’t Quinn with him?
Mungo was in the office, so I didn’t want to take him back there. The empty sofas by the bookshelf were at the opposite end of the bakery from where Declan and his friends sat, so I led Taite over to them. I took off my apron and gestured for him to make himself comfortable. He didn’t move until I sat down. Then he chose a seat where he could see the rest of the bakery and carefully perched on the edge of one cushion as if the furniture might swallow him alive. Behind me, the tourists filtered back out to the sidewalk, laughing and talking and munching on various baked goods. Cookie lingered behind the register as relative quiet descended.
Taite leaned toward me. His shirt had one too many buttons open and the resulting vee revealed a chest covered with dark hair. I could see where a comb had divided his thinning brown hair into rows across his skull. Still, he looked to be only in his early forties.
“All righty—shoot,” I said, trying for nonchalant.
He considered me for a long moment. “Detective Quinn says you called him. That you identified the dead man from the park.”
“The square. And I didn’t. My friend did, from the picture in the paper.” I would call Cookie over to verify if I had to, but she had a deep-seated distrust of the police—of authority in general—so that would be a last resort.
“Convenient coincidence, don’t you think?”
My eyes narrowed. “Detective Quinn told me someone else had already called.”
He inclined his head. “Someone who managed to remain anonymous. That’s hard to do these days.”
“Especially when calling a police station,” I said.
“But you don’t know anything about that first call.”
“No…”
“You’re sure of that?”
I frowned. “Yes, I’m sure. Why would I call twice?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to make sure your friend got the information.”
“Detective Taite, are you accusing me of something?”
He searched my face. “Again, how was it that you happened to be in Johnson Square yesterday morning?” His gaze shifted over my shoulder.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. We were having a picnic.”
“That information is in our statements,” Declan said from behind me. He came around the sofa and sat beside me.
Taite frowned at him. “How convenient that you’re here. Despite being on duty.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? This bakery is owned by the former fire chief. All the firefighters stop in when they can. Not to mention the police.”
A speculative look crossed the detective’s face. He turned his attention back to me. “You recognized the watch.”
“I recognized the type of watch,” I said.
“So you hadn’t seen that particular watch before.”
“No.”
“Detective—,” Declan started.
Taite held up his hand. “We can do this here or we can do it at the precinct.” He turned his attention back to me. “What about the tattoo?”
“Ta-tattoo?” I stuttered.
Declan looked at me with surprise.
Taite’s lips quirked again. “Yes, Ms. Lightfoot. The tattoo. You remember it?”
“I seem to remember something on his arm,” I fudged.
“I think you remember more than that.”
I didn’t respond.
He shifted in his seat. “Where were you two nights ago?”
“At home. In bed. Why?”
“And you?” he said to Declan.
“The same.”
“Together?”
Declan grinned. “I wish. But no.”
I felt my face grow hot. To cover it, I demanded, “Is that when he died?”
Taite shook his head. “No.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
“Are you sure? You know Lawrence Eastmore lived just a few houses down the street from where you found him.”
I stared. “How on earth am I supposed to know that? I had no idea who he was when we found him.”
“Lawrence Eastmore?” Declan asked. “That was his name?”
Without breaking eye contact with Taite, I patted Declan’s arm and said, “It seems so. Though apparently he was not killed the night before we found him.”
“On the contrary,” Taite said. “Someone struck him with a heavy clay pot sometime that evening as he worked in his gardening shed. We found the shards. Blood. However, he seems to have recovered and staggered outside and down the street. He made it as far as the location where you reported finding him, and died around two a.m. Since we don’t know how long he lived after he was attacked, we can only guess at what time he was actually struck. A neighbor saw him around five p.m. on Friday, so it had to be after that.”
“That poor man,” I said with a pang. “If only someone had found him earlier, he might still be alive.”
“What’s going on?”
I turned to find that Jaida had joined the party.
> “Is this the new detective you mentioned, Katie?” Her eyes narrowed.
Taite scrambled to his feet. I stood as well. “Detective Franklin Taite, meet Jaida French. My lawyer.”
He looked disgusted.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Just following up on Ms. Lightfoot’s statement.” He gestured toward Declan with his chin. “And had the good luck to find her companion here, too.”
“Anything else?” Jaida asked.
“Not at present.” His eyes bored into me.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I said. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about a cupcake or a cookie?”
“I haven’t.”
Leaving Declan and Jaida to stare after us, I accompanied Detective Taite out to the sidewalk.
“Why did you tell us all that stuff about how Eastmore died? Quinn wants me to stay out of it.”
He squinted into the sun. “I transferred to Savannah because there is a hotbed of evil activity here, and I’m going to do something about it. Given what we found in Eastmore’s home, it seems he was a part of it.”
“A…hotbed? What on earth are you talking about? What did you find?” A dragonfly winged by. Then another. A funny feeling settled into my stomach.
“You know what I’m talking about. The occult. Witchcraft. Magic. If you’re truly unaware of such things, then all’s well. But I think you know exactly what I’m referring to. And I think you understand a lot more about the tattoo on Lawrence Eastmore’s arm than you’re telling me. Even I know it’s a druidic sigil, and that was confirmed by the number of books and papers about black magic that he had hidden.”
The flutter in my solar plexus blossomed, and my heart rat-a-tatted in my chest. Taite knew about druidic sigils? Who was this guy, really? Should I tell him that Dr. Eastmore was an expert and a collector but not necessarily a practitioner of the dark arts? How would I explain how I knew about his rare books at all? Mention Lucy borrowing the Heptamaron for our spellbook club?
Hardly. I didn’t know nearly enough about this New York transplant who spoke as if all magic was evil. I kept the puzzled expression on my face and waited in silence.
Taite pointed at me. “I don’t know where you stand in all this, but I understand that twice now you’ve been involved in homicides in ways you shouldn’t be. I can only hope you’re on the side of good. But if you’re not?” He smiled and shrugged. “Then you’re not. And I will find out.” And with that he turned on his heel and strode away.
I stood in the bright sunshine and watched his receding figure.
Who was this guy? Had he just threatened me?
Yes, he had. And frankly, I was getting pretty darn tired of being threatened.
Chapter 12
Jaida had been downtown already when Cookie called and told her I was being questioned by the police, so she’d buzzed right over. After Detective Taite left, she tried to reassure me. “Don’t worry. It sounded like he was just shooting in the dark.”
“Yeah, but he’s shooting at witches,” I whispered, glancing over to where Declan had rejoined his friends.
“What?”
So I hustled my coven mates into the kitchen and told them what Taite had said.
Jaida closed her eyes. “A witch-hunter. Great.”
“Really? In this day and age?” I asked.
“In every day and age, unfortunately,” Jaida said.
I lifted my palms toward the ceiling in exasperation. “But we haven’t done anything wrong.”
Cookie said, “He will think that practicing magic itself is wrong.”
“We’ll talk about it at the meeting,” Jaida said. “I have errands to finish.” But she looked uneasy as she grabbed her triple latte and left.
The firemen left right behind her. “Deck’s right,” Scott said. “That scone was great! See you soon.” The bell on the door rang as they opened it.
Declan paused. “Are you worried about that detective?”
I shrugged.
“Well, try not to be. I’m tempted to call up Peter Quinn and give him a piece of my mind.” He gave me a one-armed squeeze and followed the other two out.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Just after twelve thirty. Two women sat and chatted in the library area, but the other customers were primarily tourists stopping in for coffee and treats to go. In between serving them, Cookie and I began the process of shutting down the Honeybee.
* * *
Herbs and flowers crammed the small yard in front of my aunt and uncle’s town house. Cookie and I walked up the narrow path between the plants to the front door. Ben opened it before we could knock.
“Come on in, ladies. You’re the last to arrive and the wine is open and waiting upstairs.”
Cookie gave him a broad grin. “Excellent.” She went to the steps that led to the roof garden and proceeded up.
“I’ll be there in a second,” I called.
Dozens of houseplants reached out of pots on the floor and tables and hung from the vaulted ceiling above. Ivy clung to the brick fireplace. Yet despite the jungle of greenery, their home felt light and airy. Two skylights and tall windows streamed sunshine. White sofas and chairs glowed against cherrywood floors, and boldly patterned rugs defined the seating areas.
“How was golf today?” I asked my uncle as I bent down and deposited Mungo on the floor.
“Shot a ninety. Some pars, couple of birdies, couple of snowmen.”
Whatever that meant. But he sounded happy enough. I smiled and nodded.
Honeybee, Lucy’s orange tabby, approached on soft paws and stopped at my feet. She did that squinty thing at me, and a ladylike purr emanated from her furry chest.
I sneezed.
Oh, well. At least my aunt’s familiar had the good manners not to rub against my legs.
I sneezed again.
Mungo and Honeybee touched noses as a Great Dane walked out from the sunroom. Anubis was Jaida’s familiar, and it always cracked me up to see him and Mungo together. It was hard to imagine they’d both descended from wolves.
“Where’s Heckle?” I asked.
My answer was a squawk and a flurry of wings. I ducked, and managed not to squeal. After once startling me into a squawk very like his own, Mimsey’s familiar now tried to do it all the time. I straightened and glared at the parrot.
“Katie is a scaredy-cat. Wawk!”
Ben laughed. I turned away and saw Honeybee glaring at the bird, too. Bad choice of words, Heckle my dear. Oh, well. The familiars could work it out amongst themselves.
“You going to watch the game this afternoon?” I asked over my shoulder as I followed in Cookie’s footsteps.
My uncle nodded. “Thinking about heading over to Five House and watching it with the guys.”
“Have fun.”
“And say hi to Deck?”
I paused. “Sure, but I just saw him in the Honeybee this morning. Brought a couple of his friends in.”
Ben stroked his beard and beamed.
It was a little unnerving how badly he wanted Declan and me to be together. He no doubt had visions of white picket fences, a dog, and lots of kids that would be almost like grandkids for him and Lucy. But I’d done the engagement thing, the plan-your-perfect-life thing, when I lived in Akron. It hadn’t turned out so well. Now I had the dog and the house, and I didn’t feel a need quite yet for a husband and kids. I had time.
And I love my life now, I thought as I stood in the doorway that led out to Lucy’s rooftop garden, inhaling the heady scents of lavender and rue. There were at least a hundred pots, from teensy starts in one-inch terra-cotta containers to large wooden structures Ben had built along the edges. Thriving vegetables, herbs, medicinal plants, flowers planted for aroma and beauty—and all for magic, because every growing thing is magic in its own way. Lucy’s hedgewitchery manifested in whimsical touches, in the careful arrangement and frequent rearrangement of her container garden, the combinations of plants she chose, and the many
additions tucked here and there. A tiny glass fairy gazed up from one pot, the edge of a coin she’d buried from another. In addition to their beauty, practicality, and magical essences, many of these plants were spells themselves, growing into manifestation. I knew many of them had offerings or spell-specific items buried next to their roots.
And there at the wrought-iron table in the middle of the verdant space were my coven members. The spellbook club. How I loved those ladies, each and every one.
“Get on over here.” Jaida beckoned. “You are at least one glass behind on the wine.” She’d changed into white capris and a deep red shirt that glowed like spice against her dark skin.
“Bit early, isn’t it?” I slid into a chair, pulling out our book club selection for the week, Get Off Your High Broom.
“Darlin’,” she said in an exaggerated drawl, “it’s never too early on a Sunday in the South.”
I noticed Bianca’s glass was still unused. She noticed me noticing. “I have to pick up Colette after the meeting.”
“Ah. That hardly seems fair, since you always bring the wine.” Bianca owned a wine shop called Moon Grapes, and always insisted on providing the libations for our meetings.
“Such is the life of a single mom.” Her face lit up in a smile. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“We were just updating the others on what you told us about the Dragoh Society last night,” Mimsey said. “And Jaida told us about the visit you had from that nasty detective.”
Bianca nodded. “I heard the term Dragoh once, at a party. Some vague rumor about secret societies, but nothing else. But I had no idea your Steve’s father was a member.”
“He’s not my Steve,” I said for what seemed like the zillionth time.
Bianca, with her talent for getting in on financial bubbles, riding them, and then ducking out before they popped, was among Savannah’s nouveaux riches. Nouveau or not, all that money allowed her entrance to some pretty fancy hoedowns. No doubt the rumors she spoke of were whispered among the upper crust of Southern society. I was starting to think the existence of the Dragohs wasn’t as secret as they believed.
“So we know Lawrence Eastmore and Heinrich Dawes are members,” I said. “Were. Whatever. I wonder who the others are.”
