by Bailey Cates
Declan came in with two of his buddies from Five House, Scott and Randy. Scott was older and certainly the wiser of the two. Randy was a habitual flirt, though he kept it low-key with me, presumably because of Declan. The chiseled planes of his face always made me think of my father, and I felt sure he boasted Native American blood.
“Hey, guys,” I said. My heart warmed to see Declan’s eyes light up as soon as he saw me. At the same time, I felt a crack in my tough-girl act—an act I had apparently even fooled myself with.
“Hey, Katie,” Scott said, heading straight for the pastry case with Randy right behind him. “You still have those Parmesan scones I like?”
Ben hurried over and got the guys their regular treats and poured them some coffee. Soon the three men were chatting about all things firefighter at a table in the corner.
I pasted on a cheerful smile as Declan strode behind the register where I stood. “Missed you this morning.” His muscular arms wrapped around me, and instantly I felt that depth of safety I knew nowhere else. In his enthusiasm, he lifted me right off the ground.
“Deck, I’m at work,” I mumbled halfheartedly into his shoulder.
He set me down. “Sorry,” he began but stopped when he saw me wince. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Lucy chimed in. “If chasing off a burglar in the dark and nearly getting taken out by a giant Dumpster is nothing.”
“What?” Affection turned to alarm on Declan’s face.
I sighed and looked around the bakery. Ben was still occupying the other firemen, though Randy was watching Declan and me while trying to look like he wasn’t. Then Scott caught my eye by accident and looked away quickly, but not before I saw the beginning of a grin tug at his lips.
What’s that all about?
“Katie?” Declan was impatiently waiting for more information.
I gave Lucy a thanks-a-lot look, even though she didn’t really deserve it. It wasn’t like I wouldn’t have told my boyfriend about what had happened that morning. She knew that, of course, and merely gave me a cheerful grin in return.
“Come over here.” I grabbed Declan’s hand and led him over to the empty reading area. Other than his friends and a couple with their teenage son by the front window, the only other customer was our resident writer, Arthur, lost in his own fictional world fueled by dark-roast coffee and protected by noise-blocking headphones.
Mungo surreptitiously padded out of the kitchen behind us, a small black wraith that none of the customers seemed to notice. He settled into his bed on the bottom bookshelf as we sat down on the sofa, where I filled Declan in on the details of my earlier adventure.
When I was done, he frowned. “You promised you wouldn’t get hurt.”
“I promised to try.” I poked at the bundle of gauze on my knee, undecided about whether I should tell him magic had saved me from being crushed by the Dumpster.
He started to say something, then hesitated, looking away. “Oh, Katie,” he finally said, and met my eyes. He gave a little nod and squared his shoulders.
As if he just made a decision of some kind.
“What?” I asked, feeling my eyes narrow.
But he only smiled. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” He eyed the elaborate bandage. “You are okay?”
I bit my lip and nodded. “It looks worse than it really is.”
“Hmm. Okay, so someone was trying to break into Croft’s,” he said. “Does it have something to do with the murder?”
I shrugged. “Could be a regular ol’ attempted burglary.”
He gave me a look. “Right. Everyone knows what cash cows bookstores are.”
“He did have a very good night on Saturday.” I grimaced. “As far as sales go, I mean.”
“I don’t suppose you’d reconsider letting Quinn handle this one on his own, would you?”
Down at floor level, Mungo made a noise in the back of his throat.
I looked at him, then back at my boyfriend. Declan had my best interests in mind. I knew that. But it still kind of surprised me that he didn’t know me better than that.
Or maybe he did.
“In about an hour, Jaida and I are going to the radio station where Dr. Dana recorded her call-in program. We’re going to have a little chat with the station manager.”
He took a deep breath, then: “I see.”
“Deck, please don’t worry.”
“Sure. No problem.” A bit of sarcasm leaked through, though. “Listen, the reason I stopped by was to ask you not to make any plans for tonight. I have a very special supper planned for us.”
“‘Very special,’ huh.” I grinned.
“Seriously. Don’t go hying off after some clue tonight. This is impor—” He stopped himself. “I just want to know I can count on you being there.”
“Of course,” I said, surprised. “I’ll be home right after work. And I’ll grab something for dessert.”
A single nod. “Okay. Good.” And then a smile, almost as an afterthought. “I can’t wait, darlin’.” His intensity fell away as he leaned in and gave me a big smack on the lips. “I’ll see you then.”
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“You’ll see.” He rose and walked back to his friends.
I raised my eyebrows at Mungo, but if a dog could shrug, he did.
The three firefighters left together. As they went out the door, Scott gave me a conspiratorial look over his shoulder.
Baffled, I returned to where Ben and Lucy stood behind the espresso counter.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“See what?” Ben responded.
“Never mind.” Probably just my imagination.
* * *
Jaida showed up at the bakery a few minutes before eleven. Her blazer over a long-sleeved white T-shirt made me think it wasn’t a court day for her, and her brightly painted toenails peeking out of open-toed shoes beneath her dark slacks confirmed it.
“Thanks for making time to go with me,” I said.
“Sure. Gregory can handle things at the office for a couple of hours.” She was referring to her partner—both in love and in lawyering. He was also a witch, but he preferred to practice solitary.
In the office, Mungo hunkered down in my tote bag to stay out of sight as I carried him through the kitchen. On the way, I paused.
“Are you sure you and Ben will be all right? I could see if Jaida can go with me after Iris comes in this afternoon.”
My aunt gave me a gentle smile. “We’ll be fine, honey. You go ahead and see what you can find out from that radio station manager.”
“Sure we will!” Ben chimed in from behind the register. “Just be careful not to let that Bing Hawkins talk you into buying airtime. He’s a wily salesman.”
“You know him?” I asked.
He nodded. “From the Rotary Club.”
I grinned. “I’ll try to resist.”
“Hope you do more than try,” he muttered as I walked away.
Jaida and I went out to Broughton Street. Mungo peeked his head out, eager for his next adventure. The sun felt warm on my shoulders. Lucy had planted sweet William, nicotiana, and autumn clematis in the yard-square wooden box on the sidewalk in front of the Honeybee, and their heady fragrances curled together in the crisp fall air.
As we passed by the Fox and Hound, I saw the sign in the window said OPEN, and the interior lights were on. Flames in the gas fireplace flickered. Breathing a sigh of relief, I said, “Good to see things are getting back to normal.”
Jaida nodded. “Poor Croft. All he wanted was for a celebrity to sign her book in his store, and he ends up in the news and out of business for a day. At least it was only for a day.”
“Not to mention that someone tried to break into his store this morning,” I said, and went on
to tell her the rest of what had happened.
“You did that thing where you glow?” she asked when I’d finished.
“Uh-huh. Just for a few seconds.”
She laughed. “I bet you scared the pants off that burglar.”
I snorted. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Halfway down the block, we reached her dark blue minivan. Given Jaida’s tendency for inserting a bit of underlying rebel into her lawyerly ensembles, whether a dash of color or a piece of unexpected jewelry, most people would have expected her to drive something more exciting. But then again, when you have little ones . . .
Not that Anubis was little in any literal sense. The Great Dane leaned his giant square head out of the back window and gave a low-throated woof. Mungo yipped in response.
Old-home week for the familiars.
Once inside, Mungo scrambled out of my tote and joined the big brindle beast in the backseat. I looked around to see them touching noses, both descended from wolves though one weighed a hundred and fifty pounds and the other a tenth of that. Anubis settled onto the seat and Mungo tucked in between his front paws. I couldn’t help smiling.
Jaida steered the minivan down Broad Street and turned onto Victory Drive. Blake Shelton crooned on the radio, and the breeze that winged through the open windows smelled faintly of burning leaves and ripe apples.
“I had no idea you liked country music,” I said.
“I don’t, but Anubis won’t listen to anything else.”
Surprised, I looked back to see him grinning his agreement. Mungo seemed to be enjoying himself as well.
“Yeah, well, mine thinks heaven is spending the day surrounded by snacks and binge watching Days of Our Lives.”
Yip!
I suddenly wondered whether he’d watched soap operas when he lived with Angie.
Stop it.
But apparently I wasn’t the only one thinking along those lines. When we were stopped at a red light, Jaida turned to me. “I’ve been thinking. About how I’d feel if I were in your same situation.” Her eyes flicked to the backseat, and I understood she was referring to having my familiar’s ex-witch show up out of the blue.
A quick glance over my shoulder assured me she wasn’t fooling either of the pups, who were watching us with wise wolf eyes.
One side of my mouth pulled up. “And?”
She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw what I had. “Oh. Well, I’d be torn about helping her. Like you, I guess.”
“Do you think witches have a special responsibility to be moral?” I asked.
She pursed her lips and flipped on her turn signal. “Because we have power, you mean?”
I nodded.
“Well, yes. Of course. But then again, everyone has power—more than most people realize. Don’t you think?”
I nodded again.
“So, of course witches need to wield their power with an eye to morality. Or, in the parlance of a lightwitch like you, with an eye to the good. But so does everyone else. So while witches certainly have a responsibility, I don’t think it’s exactly special.” She glanced over at me. “Not that I don’t think you’re special.”
That made me laugh. “Actually, I like the idea of being just like everyone else. It’s comforting.” Especially for someone who had spent her first twenty-eight years feeling like she didn’t fit in anywhere.
Chapter 13
The building that housed WMBK-AM radio was so nondescript we drove right by it the first time. The big satellite dish would have given it away, but it was on the back side. Jaida made a U-turn and pulled into the nearly empty parking lot on one side of the long, one-story expanse of brick. We left the windows down for the dogs and headed toward the front door.
It opened before we could push inside, and a man exited. My jaw slackened in surprise when I saw who it was.
His precision-cut hair was the color of heavily salted caramel. The fine lines etched into his face further indicated his age. Irises so light gray they seemed to have no color at all were ringed with deep charcoal. And there was that curve to his upper lip, which exactly mirrored his son’s.
Heinrich Dawes. Steve’s father. One of the richest businessmen in Savannah—heck, in Georgia, if not the United States. And leader of the Dragohs, the exclusive druid clan that had existed in the area since before Savannah had even been established as a city.
Not, I might add, the most ethical druid clan. The spellbook club had worked with them once, but I had serious questions about how their magical men’s club did business.
He paused for a split second when he saw us, quickly schooling his face into a bland smile. “Katie Lightfoot. It’s been a while.” A slight bow that would have looked corny if anyone else had done it. “And Ms. French. A delight, as always.”
“Mr. Dawes,” she said.
He tipped his head to the side and regarded me. “Let me guess. You’re up to your old tricks.”
I bristled. “Meaning?”
“It’s big news in town that Dana Dobbs died in the Fox and Hound on Saturday night. Right next to your little bakery. Since she taped her shows here, I assume you’re here in some kind of connection with that.”
“For your information, I’m here to talk about advertising with the station manager.”
One eyebrow slowly lifted. “Not the ad manager?”
“Bing Hawkins happens to be a friend of Mimsey’s,” Jaida said. “She referred us to him directly.”
“And you?” I asked. After all, if he was going to be rude, so could I.
Little bakery. Ergh.
“Business,” he said curtly.
Fine. “I saw Steve yesterday. When did he get back into town?”
Jaida’s gaze slid sideways to me.
A stony expression settled on Heinrich’s face. “My son and I are not currently speaking to each other. I certainly am not inclined to speak about him, either. Good day, ladies.”
I frowned as he walked by, watching as he climbed into a dark Mercedes and drove away.
“What was that all about?” Jaida asked.
“No idea,” I said, and pushed through the door.
“But Steve’s back?”
“Well, he was driving down Broughton Street yesterday. That’s all I know.”
Inside the station, the air smelled of burnt coffee and Pine-Sol. Somewhere, speakers broadcasted someone talking about politics, the volume low enough that I couldn’t make out most of what he was saying. The small entry was decorated with fake ferns that needed a good dusting, a few Scandinavian-style chairs, and a low table strewn with magazines. Industrial carpeting led down a hallway studded with doors on the left side and a big glass window on the right. We glanced at each other and started down the hall.
The first door was open, showing an empty office. The next was closed, and the sign on the door said PRODUCTION STUDIO. Across the hall, the window revealed the working studio. Two desks were packed with computer consoles, a board with all sorts of little levers, and a series of boxes and consoles covered with buttons and lights that performed who knew what functions. A woman sat behind one of the desks, a huge microphone arching over her head on an articulated arm. It didn’t look like she was on the air, but she was doing something on the computer and didn’t look up. The talking head droned on in the background, evidently a recorded show rather than a live one. The place felt empty and weirdly quiet.
Movement at the end of the building caught my attention, and I looked just in time to see none other than Phoebe Miller walk around the corner and go through one of the doors.
“You must be Katie Lightfoot.”
I turned to see a man coming out of an office one door down from where we stood. In his late thirties, he was about my height. His dark hair was pulled back from a receding hairline and twisted into a hipster man bun. As he came near,
the smell of wet dog wafted from his flannel shirt.
“Guilty as charged. And you must be Bing.” I smiled and shook his hand. “This is Jaida French. She’s another friend of Mimsey’s, and, er, helps with our marketing.”
“Nice to meet you both,” he said. “Come into my office so we can chat.”
We followed him inside and perched on the guest chairs. He plopped into his desk chair, already speaking a mile a minute.
“So you want to buy some airtime. Excellent! It’s really the best way to spend your advertising dollar, especially for a business like yours. Mims said you have a bakery? Perfect!”
“Well, we’re just exploring—”
“Oh, believe me, you’re going to want to do more than explore. Radio is immediate, it’s intimate, and it reaches the audience in every aspect of their lives—work, play, in their cars, when they wake up in the morning, as they go to sleep at night. It’s cost-effective and reaches the customer over and over. After all, the more someone hears about your business, the more they’ll remember it, and the more likely they’ll frequent it. And I haven’t even talked about the theater of the mind yet!” He beamed at us.
“Wow. That all sounds very interesting,” I said. “And I know Mimsey is quite pleased with how your station has helped her flower shop.”
Bing opened his mouth, and I hurried on before he could get going again. “So can you choose when your ad will play? I was thinking of The Dr. Dana Show, because she was so popular, but then, well . . .” I trailed off.
He sighed. “Right. You heard about what happened. Horrible. Just horrible. And yes, you can certainly choose. Different slots cost different amounts, of course. Ad slots in her show were our most expensive for the very reason you just mentioned—she had a huge audience. But I’m afraid there’s no Dr. Dana Show without Dr. Dana.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, feeling like a heel.
“We heard there was a movement to shut down the show,” Jaida said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, sure—there were a few letters suggesting that we take Dana off the air. But there are always nuts out there who write in. You think Rush Limbaugh doesn’t get hate mail as well as fan mail?” He made a rude noise. “But we’d never have fired Dana. Sheesh.”
