Spells and Scones

by Bailey Cates

  “Because of the ad income?” she asked.

  Bing frowned. “That, but WMBK made a lot more from syndication.” He brightened. “But let’s talk about which shows would work for you! I’d advise hitting the airways in the morning before people leave for work, again at noon, and then when people are driving home. In fact—”

  “Excuse me,” I cut in. “Do you happen to have a restroom I could use?”

  He blinked. “Oh. Sure. There’s one at the end of the hall.”

  Jaida gave me a slightly puzzled glance, but she stepped in like a trouper. As I left Bing’s office, I heard her say, “Perhaps you could tell me a little more about how syndication works.”

  I hurried down the hall, slowing as I neared the door I’d seen Phoebe go into. It was open. I stopped in front of it.

  “Excuse me, is the restroom . . . Oh, hi.”

  She looked up, and surprise crossed her tired face. “Katie, right?”

  “Right.”

  The space looked like it was used primarily for storage, with file cabinets along one wall, banks of cupboards on both sides, and a table stacked with all manner of equipment in the middle of the room. One of the cabinet doors was open behind Phoebe, and a cardboard carton sat open on the table. She put the stack of notebooks she was holding into the box.

  “Are you looking for someone?” she asked. I could tell she was wondering why the heck I was there, and I saw her eye the bandage peeking out from under my skirt.

  “I was just chatting with Bing about buying some radio time and needed to use the restroom.”

  I stepped into the room, casually looking in the box. It was mostly paperwork and a couple of hardback books. Then I saw one of them was simply titled Tarot Spells. A shiver ran down my spine. Nestled next to it were several red candles with burned wicks, and a purple velvet bag that reminded me of the one Jaida used to store her tarot deck.

  All that from a single, quick glance, but Phoebe saw me looking. Her face turned pink, and she quickly shut the cardboard flaps.

  “I’m just clearing out some of Dana’s things. She recorded her show here, you know. Then she distributed it all over the country.” Her gaze flicked to the now-closed box. “My sister had some . . . unusual interests.”

  Lots of people are interested in tarot. But those candles. Good heavens, was Dana Dobbs a witch? The thought made me a little dizzy, but I managed a noncommittal smile.

  “I know some people didn’t care for her methods. For the kind of old-school, traditional-value advice she dispensed,” Phoebe said.

  “Radical Trust.”

  She snorted. “More like Radical Control.” Her eyes widened, and her next words sounded defensive. “But it worked for her and Nate. She helped a lot of people, you know.”

  I nodded.

  Phoebe ran one hand over her face. “God, she could be a royal pain in the patootie sometimes. She went through four assistants before I took the job. Heck, we were late to the signing the other night because she was firing her literary agent.”

  My ears perked up at that nugget of information.

  “I knew how to manage her, though,” Phoebe said. “She was my sister, and I knew her better than anyone. She was a good person at heart.” Her eyes welled.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said, feeling helpless.

  She reached into the cupboard and drew out a couple of envelopes. Shook them at me. “Do you know what these are?”

  I shook my head.

  “The letters I told you about. The ones that Kissel woman sent.” She shook her head. “But this was just the tip of the iceberg. She sent e-mails to all the other stations around the country that carry the show.”

  Great. I wondered whether Detective Quinn knew that. My bet was that Bing Hawkins was right—most radio personalities received both good and bad audience feedback—but it didn’t make Angie look good at all.

  Phoebe waved her hand. “Listen to me going on and on. I guess packing up this stuff is more difficult than I expected.” Her laugh had a bitter edge to it. “And here you just wanted to find the restroom. It’s right around the corner there.”

  “Thanks.” I was sorry I’d interrupted the painful process of clearing her sister’s things. But I stopped in the doorway. “Did you find your wallet?”

  She blinked. “Oh! Yes. On the floor of my car. Thanks for asking.”

  “And you mentioned a memorial for your sister. I’d like to come if there is one.”

  “Yes, I managed to put something together on the day after tomorrow. I tried to get Bryson Hall, but they were booked for a wedding. So we’re having it outside, in Chippewa Square. The station will announce it a few times over the next couple of days, and I’m hoping her local fans will attend.”

  “I’m sure there will be a big turnout for your sister.”

  “It’s at two in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll try to make it.” I backed into the hallway, remembering at the last second to turn toward the restroom.

  A few minutes later I was back in Bing’s office. Jaida was on her feet and thanking him for answering all of her questions.

  “No problem!” he said. “Not very many people are interested in how syndication works. And I’m looking forward to working with you in the future.” He nodded to include me in the you.

  My smile tightened. “Working with us?”

  Jaida gave me an apologetic smile. “Bing really thinks we need to try out a few ads for the Honeybee during the holiday season.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. “You can fill me in on the details in the car,” I finally managed.

  “I’ll call you to follow up,” Bing said, his tone triumphant. “I guarantee you’ll see the difference in business in no time.”

  Smiling weakly, I said good-bye. We went back out to the familiars waiting in the minivan, who greeted us with wagging tails and slurping kisses.

  “Now, don’t get mad,” Jaida said once we were buckled in. “I didn’t sign anything. I didn’t even say yes.”

  “He seems to think you did. You know Uncle Ben will blow a gasket.” I groaned. “Especially after all his warnings about what a good salesman that guy is.”

  She grimaced and started the vehicle. “You can tell the guy you changed your mind. Say I didn’t have the authority to even say we’d consider it—which is totally true, of course. But he did make a lot of good points, and he offered a steep discount.”

  “Because of Mimsey?”

  “Partly. But the station is in dire straits and needs the business. They had a lot of eggs in the Dr. Dana basket.”

  I looked sideways at her. “Sounds like you drew Mr. Hawkins out quite a bit after I left.”

  She grinned and pulled into traffic. “You’re not the only one who can find things out, you know.”

  I held up my hands. “Boy, do I ever. You’ve helped me so many times I’ve lost count. So what did you learn?”

  “A lot of boring stuff about how syndication works. In a nutshell, most talk shows are syndicated through a radio network. Dana Dobbs’ show was self-syndicated, however. So rather than a network acting as a go-between with other stations around the country, WMBK produced and recorded all her shows and then distributed them via FTP download directly to the other stations they’d sold rebroadcasting rights to. Turns out, that’s what Bing really concentrated his sales abilities on. They partnered directly with Dana Dobbs and one other investor. International syndication was next.”

  “That sounds like a lot of work for a small station like that.”

  She nodded. “From what I understand, once everything is in place, it’s not too hard to maintain. But when they started out, they needed more staff and a pile of money.”

  “The third investor?”

  Our eyes met briefly before Jaida looked back at the road.

 
“Heinrich Dawes,” I guessed. It made sense. Dawes Corp. was a venture capital firm. Investing was what he did.

  “Bing didn’t mention a name,” she said. “But it would explain why he was leaving the station. He might be out a lot of money.”

  “I wonder if Steve would know,” I mused. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse to call him.

  “But his father said they weren’t speaking.”

  Steve, who had a column in the Savannah Morning News, had begun working for Dawes Corp. soon after he’d joined the Dragoh clan.

  “How could they not be speaking?” I made a face. “Something weird is going on there.”

  Jaida was quiet for a few beats. Then: “Does Declan know Steve’s back in town?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t mention it. He says he’s okay with our friendship. I wish it were true. After all, it’s been . . . oh, my God.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m an idiot.”

  She laughed. “How so?”

  “I was wondering why Deck came in this morning and made such a big deal about supper tonight. I totally forgot that tomorrow is our one-year anniversary. And he’s on shift starting tomorrow morning, so we’re celebrating tonight.”

  Chapter 14

  “Oh, man,” Jaida said. “You are in trouble.”

  I buried my face in my hands. “He’s making some special menu, and who knows what else, and I didn’t get him anything at all.”

  “Yep. Trouble.”

  The minivan hit a bump, and I looked up to see she’d pulled into the Dairy Queen.

  “Ice cream time,” she sang.

  “I don’t want any.” My mind was still scrambling for what I could get Declan on such short notice.

  “It’s not for you,” she said.

  Yip!

  While the dogs slurped their vanilla cones, I told Jaida about talking to Phoebe.

  “Dr. Dana fired her literary agent right before she was killed? That’s an interesting coincidence. Was it someone local?”

  “No idea. She was pretty upset, and I didn’t want to ask for more details.”

  “Of course not. Maybe Quinn would know.”

  “Not that he’d care,” I grumbled. “Maybe Croft can help.” Then I told her about the tarot book and candles.

  “Wait—was the book about tarot reading or tarot spells?”

  “It was called Tarot Spells,” I said, “so I assume the latter.”

  “How many candles?”

  “I didn’t count them.”

  “More than five?”

  “Definitely.”

  “More than ten?”

  “I think so.”

  “Could there be thirteen?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  She sat back with a bemused expression. “Well, I’ll be darned.”

  “What?”

  “Thirteen red candles are used in a classic tarot love spell, along with the Lovers card and the significator cards on either side.”

  I knew from what she’d taught me over the last year that a significator card was simply one that the spell caster felt best represented a person—the Empress as a powerful female figure, for example, or the Hierophant as a teacher. Sometimes it was a card that represented the best version of a person, and sometimes it was more realistic.

  She looked rueful. “Maybe that whole thing about Radical Trust wasn’t working so well for Dr. Dana after all.”

  * * *

  Jaida dropped me off in front of the Honeybee, saying she had to get back to the office. I knew darn well it was because she didn’t want to have to tell Ben she’d succumbed to Bing Hawkins’ sales skills. My uncle waved from the reading area, where a mix of mothers and fathers and their children clustered around the big coffee table, which was covered with a thick layer of newspaper. It looked like they were making turkeys out of paper cups with the bottoms cut out, pom-poms, googly eyes, brightly colored craft paper for feathers—and plenty of glue. Iris was with them, too, bent over her own craft project so that I could see only her flamingo pink ponytail sprouting from the top of her head. I returned my uncle’s wave and veered toward the kitchen.

  Lucy had just taken a pan of cranberry coconut cookies out of the oven, and they smelled heavenly. I grabbed one and asked, “What’s going on out there?”

  “It’s a homeschooling group. They were going to meet at Croft’s, but then the parents heard what happened.”

  I made a face. “That’s too bad. But at least he’s open.”

  She nodded. “Things will get back to normal soon. Did you find out anything interesting?”

  I motioned her into the office and closed the door. “A few things—though I don’t know how interesting they are.” I ticked off the high points on my fingers. “The Dr. Dana Show was the lifeblood of the radio station, and they might be in real trouble without it. Heinrich Dawes may or may not have been a primary investor in the syndication of the show. Dana fired her agent right before she died.” I tapped my pinkie. “And if Dr. Dana wasn’t a witch, she at least dabbled in tarot magic. Jaida says it might have been love magic.”

  Lucy whistled. “No kidding. That’s kind of sad, really. Considering that her whole reputation was built on relationship advice. Still, it’s another possible magical connection to the murder.”

  And one Detective Quinn would just call “woo-woo nonsense” and ignore.

  I nodded. “And on a completely unrelated note, I have to leave again. Just for a little bit.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “I’m so sorry, but tomorrow is Declan’s and my anniversary. That’s what tonight’s supper is all about. I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh, honey! I didn’t realize! Congratulations!”

  “Lucy, I’m such a lame girlfriend,” I wailed softly. “I totally forgot. At the very least I have to go get a card. Say,” I said with sudden hope, “I don’t suppose you have any clever ideas about what I could get him in the next”—I looked at my watch—“three hours?”

  “Gosh, Katie. I’ll think about it. But I’m sure if you don’t get him a gift, he’ll understand.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  She made a shooing gesture with both hands. “Go get that card. Cardiologie will have something, and it’s just down the street.”

  “It looks pretty busy out there with all the kids. I’ll hurry!” I winced. “And I told him I’d grab something for dessert. I’d better come up with something impressive.”

  “Don’t be silly. Iris and Ben can stop playing with paste and come help me if we get a rush, and I can whip up a flourless chocolate torte while you’re gone. That should be a match for any fancy dishes he has planned.”

  “Thanks, Lucy. You’re a lifesaver.” I gave her a quick hug.

  Mungo and I left through the back door, so we could check out the alley in the daylight. The big Dumpster the potential burglar had shoved at me that morning looked just as huge, but utterly harmless in the sunshine. The patch of pavement where it had tipped toward me looked a little scuffed, but not as scuffed as my knee. The memory of the power that had rushed through me when I’d pushed it away made my skin goose-bump.

  Mungo wanted down, so I leashed him for our short walk. We headed west down the alley, then cut through to Broughton at the next cross street. As we strode down the busy sidewalk, I racked my brain for what I could get Declan.

  A gift card to his favorite restaurant? Lame. Clothes? Jewelry? Watch? Lame, lame, and he always wore his late father’s timepiece. It needed to be something romantic for the first anniversary. Something special. I felt panic arrow through me, but instead of the adrenaline sparking a great idea, my mind went utterly, stupidly blank.

  Think!

  Experiences were good gifts, right? Often far better than stuff. A hot-air balloon ride? I shuddered. Heights were not
my cup of tea, and it wouldn’t be very romantic to send him up alone. He’d mentioned taking our relationship to the next level a few times lately, casually saying it would be less expensive to combine households, especially since we already spent most of our off-hours together. But I hadn’t even gotten around to making the trip to Boston to meet his mother and sisters yet—another thing he’d been trying to get me to do . . .

  I came to a dead stop. “Mungo! I’ve got it. I know exactly what to get Declan! And all I have to do is write it in the card.”

  A passing couple stared at me standing smack-dab in the middle of the sidewalk and talking to my dog. I offered a feeble smile and started walking again. In front of the card shop, I looped my familiar’s leash around a light standard so he could spend a little more time outside, and went in. He could easily get loose, but I knew he wouldn’t take off.

  Unless Angie Kissel was to walk by.

  I pushed the uncharitable thought out of my mind as I pushed the door open. A clerk greeted me as I wound through the displays of gag gifts, candles, bath products, toys, and decor items to the card racks.

  There were so many cards to choose from: funny, serious, romantic, silly, flowery, and sappy poetic ones. None were quite right. Finally, I went to the blank cards and found one that spoke to my heart. It was a black-and-white close-up photo of clasped hands, a man’s and a woman’s, from behind.

  “Katie?”

  My heart stuttered as I turned to find Steve Dawes standing right behind me. Blond hair flopped over his forehead, and the tan I’d noticed the day before was even richer than I’d realized. His dark green T-shirt accented a few more muscles than I remembered him having.

  His lips curved into a smile. “Of course it’s you.” He eyed the card in my hand.

  Annoyed as well as relieved, I said, “I saw you driving by yesterday morning. Nice car.”

  “It’s good to see you.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Where the heck have you been for the last three months? You didn’t answer my texts, and I e-mailed, and . . . and . . .” I trailed off. “Why are you smiling like that?”