Spells and Scones

by Bailey Cates

  Someone came up to stand next to me. I looked over to see it was Earl King.

  Uh-oh.

  “Hello? Hello.” Phoebe’s voice boomed out.

  Conversations all over the square drifted into silence.

  “Thanks to everyone for coming here today and celebrating the life of one of the smartest, kindest, and most influential women I know. I’m Phoebe Miller. Dana Dobbs was my sister. I want to invite everyone who has a story they’d like to share to come up here and tell us. Nothing formal, just tell what you want.” Her eyes lit on Earl, and her voice hardened. “Though do keep in mind that this is about celebration.”

  Beside me, he nodded his understanding.

  Phoebe’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “First the owner of the Honeybee restaurant has an announcement to make.”

  I shook my head and waved at her to go on.

  She stepped away from the mic and gestured regally with her arm, inviting me to speak next.

  “Go get ’em, tiger,” Earl urged. It was nice of him, really, since I was pretty sure he didn’t even know my name.

  Slowly, I stepped up to the microphone. An amplified scratching noise echoed through the square as I tried to adjust it lower. It balked, and Phoebe started back toward me. Nate stepped up ahead of her, though, and moved it down for me. Smiled. “There you go.”

  “Thanks,” I said in a small voice.

  Everyone who had been milling and talking began to converge on the little stage. Panic burbled through my veins. Margie pushed through to the front of the crowd and snagged my gaze. Nodded her encouragement.

  Bless her, it worked. Enough at least. I wasn’t eloquent in the least. My voice wavered, and I talked a mile a minute, but I managed to say, “The Fox and Hound Bookshop will be auctioning the last dozen signed copies of Dr. Dana Dobbs’ book How to Do Marriage Right on the store’s Web site. Please look for more details there.” I started to step away. “Oh! And the profits will all go to the Dr. Dana Dobbs Scholarship Fund.” Another step away; then back I went. “Please feel free to donate to the fund yourselves.” Two steps away, then back yet again. “And the Honeybee is a bakery, not a restaurant.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes.

  My face burning bright red, I escaped. Margie led me over to the drinks table and cracked a bottle of water open for me. It could have been pure poison for all I cared. I swigged it back like a sailor.

  Sophie King came up. “That’s a nice thing the bookstore is doing. I hope those books are locked away someplace safe. Someone might get the idea to take them and try to make money on them on eBay or something. Heck, now I wish we’d bought a copy.” She realized what she’d said and ducked her head, embarrassed.

  “They’re tucked away in the back of the bookstore,” I said. “At least until tomorrow.” I looked around, but Nate was no place near. “I’m a little surprised to see you here.” She was, I noted, quite tall. Not as tall as her husband was, though.

  She gave a little shrug. “I felt kind of bad about the other night.”

  “Katie,” Margie broke in apologetically, “I just got a text. Julia ate a bug, and my sister’s freaking out.”

  “I’m ready,” I replied. Then to Sophie: “You mean about your husband confronting the author?”

  “Yeah. I mean, she wasn’t a horrible person or anything. She just had strange ideas. Earl’s a big boy, though. He didn’t have to take her advice.” She shook her head ruefully. “For some reason, when it comes to love, that man doesn’t have the sense of a gnat.”

  We said good-bye to Sophie and began to walk toward Bull Street.

  “What kind of bug did she eat?” I asked.

  Margie shrugged. “Who knows? I swear that kid eats a bug a day. You’d think my sister would be used to it by now. God knows I am.”

  “Katie!” A voice shouted behind me.

  I turned to see Bing Hawkins trotting down the sidewalk.

  Dang it. Of course, I should have expected to see him here.

  He stopped, out of breath. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, and a strand of hair had come loose from his man bun. Margie peered at him with frank curiosity.

  “Just wanted to follow up with you about that ad,” he panted.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Now, don’t tell me you changed your mind.” He grinned. “I’ll just sell you on it all over again.”

  Actually, you sold Jaida on the idea.

  But instead, I said, “You should call my uncle Ben at the Honeybee Bakery. He makes the final decisions regarding all our advertising. I think you know him from the Rotary Club.”

  “Ben Eagel? Sure, I know him. But then why did you and Ms. French—”

  I cut him off with a cheery smile. “He sent us to get more information.”

  Bing didn’t seem entirely satisfied with my answer, but I turned and started walking again, calling over my shoulder. “You should give him a call this afternoon. He’s at the bakery now.”

  After all, I figured that my uncle was already peeved with me. A phone call from Bing wasn’t going to make it that much worse. And it was the quickest way to convince Bing that his efforts were going to be fruitless.

  Right?

  We stepped out of the square in the direction of Margie’s car, and a figure stepped right in front of me.

  “Hey,” I exclaimed, backpedaling.

  Detective Quinn grabbed my arm to steady me. “Fancy meeting you here, Lightfoot.”

  I glowered at him.

  “What? Homicide cops always go to the funeral.” Amused.

  Margie looked between us.

  “And I understand you left me a message,” he went on, the humor dropping from his gaze.

  “Margie, could I meet you at the car in a couple of minutes?” I asked, keeping my eyes on Quinn. He acted a little too self-satisfied for my taste. What was going on?

  “Sure!” she answered almost before I’d finished speaking, and hurried away.

  I didn’t blame her.

  “So now you think Earl King killed the doctor?” Quinn gestured toward the memorial behind me with his chin.

  “I actually think it was her husband,” I said. “But whether it was him, or King, or someone else, I’m going to lay a trap tonight.”

  That self-satisfaction slid right off his face. “Tell me you’re not going to do something stupid.”

  “I’m not going to do something stupid.”

  “Darn it, Katie! I’m serious.”

  “I won’t be alone. Croft is in on it, and I’ll see who else I can get to come. Oh, and I’m pretty sure Angie will want to be there.”

  “No!”

  A passerby turned to look at him.

  I sighed. “Quinn—”

  The muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched.

  Uh-oh. He’s really angry.

  But when he spoke, there was worry in his tone. “I talked with Ms. Kissel’s husband. He told me a lot of really crazy stuff. Please stay away from her. And whatever you do, don’t let her stay at your place for one more night. I want you to ditch whatever you have planned tonight and let me convince the district attorney to try her for murder.”

  My own jaw set. I had a pretty good idea what kind of crazy stuff Angie’s husband had told Quinn. Witches on brooms and evils spells and the like.

  We stared at each other for a long moment.

  I broke first, looking down at the sidewalk. “I have to get back to the bakery.”

  When I looked back up, he was watching me. “You really think Angie Kissel is innocent.”

  I nodded. “I don’t just think it. I know it. Just like I did with Uncle Ben. And you have to admit I have a pretty good track record with this stuff.”

  “Sometimes I wish you didn’t.” He blew out a breath. “Okay. Tell me about this plan of yours.�
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  Chapter 24

  Things were slowing down at the Honeybee when I got back. Most of the pies had been picked up, and since we were closed the next day, we could skip the usual kitchen prep. Of course, the morning after Thanksgiving would see me at work earlier than ever to get ready for the Black Friday shoppers.

  Mungo watched from the office doorway as I tied a red-checked apron over my gray ensemble.

  “I talked to Declan,” Ben said.

  I whirled around.

  My uncle smiled tentatively at me. “He told me to stop being a jerk. That this marriage business was between you two and not my concern.”

  I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face.

  “Don’t get cocky,” he said. “I still think you need to make a decision. The right decision.”

  “Ben—”

  He held up his hand. “In the meantime, Lucy told me about what you have planned tonight. Count me in.”

  “Thanks.” I gave him a hug.

  “Well, since Declan can’t be there to have your back, I figure I’d better step in to protect you.”

  “Ben!” Lucy said from the register, where she’d apparently been listening to us.

  He winked at me and moved out front.

  “What was that all about?” Angie asked from where she was organizing canned goods in the pantry.

  “He’s teasing me,” I said.

  Protect you. Ben knew darn well I could take care of myself, even if he’d thrown a fit when someone tried to run me over with a Dumpster.

  Still, it was nice to know he was on my side. I didn’t want to tangle with Dr. Dana’s murderer by myself.

  As the day wound down and the last of the pies went out the door, the subtle current of energy beneath my skin increased bit by bit. I kept telling myself not to count too much on tonight. There were too many variables, too many possibilities, too many ways for it not to work out.

  The most likely outcome would be a night spent in the back room of the Fox and Hound with Ben, Croft, and Angie. None of them would thank me when nothing came of my grand plan except an exhausted Thanksgiving and a murderer still free.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock, the main area of the Fox and Hound was dark, and the CLOSED sign hung in the window. We were all in the back room with the door tightly shut. Croft had even laid a piece of cardboard under the jamb to ensure no light would escape. Anyone who peered through the window facing Broughton would never know someone was still in the store.

  “How long do you think we’ll need to wait?” Lucy asked.

  “I wish you hadn’t insisted on coming along on this escapade,” Ben said. It came out gruffly, but I knew he would rather keep his beloved out of harm’s way.

  “I was just wondering whether we planned on staying here until dawn.” She marched over and sat down on the folding chair next to Mimsey. The older witch was ensconced on one of the sliding rockers that usually sat in front of the fireplace. Croft and Ben had carried it into the storage room when she had entered the store at closing time and announced that she would be joining us for the duration.

  Lucy had told Mimsey what we’d planned. She’d wanted to call all the spellbook club members, but I’d dissuaded her. There was no reason for nine of us to spend the night before Thanksgiving in the Fox and Hound. She’d agreed, but there was still more of a crowd than I’d expected.

  Croft was there, of course. And Ben. I hadn’t been surprised when Mimsey decided to partake; heaven knew what her husband thought of his seventy-nine-year-old wife taking off like that. Perhaps he was used to it by now. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell Mimsey Carmichael no. Once she was in, Lucy had to come, too. Mungo sat by my feet, and Angie—nervous but unwilling to stay by herself in either her apartment or the carriage house—perched on the edge of a stool on the other side of him.

  Already tensions were riding a little high. Other than Mimsey, we were sitting around on hard metal seats, and the room was chilly. Ben had grabbed pizza from Screamin’ Mimi’s, so we’d eaten. Still, the smell of garlic in the air had soon become oppressive in the closed space.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to wait until dawn,” I told my aunt. “If the person who tried to break in before decides to try it again, they’ll know they could get caught by early bakers if they don’t show up before four a.m.”

  “Four in the morning,” Croft said, weariness already threading his tone.

  Ben came over to pat his wife on the shoulder. “Of course, the intruder might not worry too much about getting caught on Thanksgiving morning. Most businesses up and down the street won’t be opening at all.” He gave me a pointed look. “Including the Honeybee.”

  I passed my hand over my face. Hadn’t thought of that.

  “Now, don’t worry,” my uncle said. “All we can do is settle in as comfortably as possible and hope this works.”

  No pressure.

  A banging on the front door made me jump.

  “What the heck?” Croft bolted to his feet.

  We looked around at one another. The banging stopped. Croft reached over and turned out the light, plunging us into total darkness. He opened the door a fraction to look out.

  “Whoever it was left. Good Lord, you’d think customers would understand the concept of a store being closed.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a customer,” I said. “Maybe it was someone checking to see if the store is empty.”

  Angie sucked in her breath.

  A fist pounded on the back door, and my heart jerked against my rib cage.

  “Croft! Katie!” A deep voice, not loud, but insistent.

  I hurried over and cracked the door. Detective Quinn stood in the dark alley. He wore faded blue jeans, a rag-wool sweater that had seen better days, and a worn bomber jacket. Opening the door farther, I grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him inside. Quickly cranking the lock closed again, I turned to him.

  “Listen, Quinn. Just because you don’t like this idea doesn’t mean you need to sabotage it. I mean, what harm can it do? We either catch the bad guy or we don’t. There’s no downside for you. I can’t believe you’re so—”

  He grabbed my shoulders. “Settle down. I’m not sabotaging you.”

  My arm waved wildly. “But you just announced our presence.”

  “Will you relax? There’s no one out there. Believe me—I checked.”

  “I assume that was you at the front door? How could you know no one was watching?”

  “It’s too early—”

  I shrugged off his hands and went to stand by Lucy and Ben.

  He sighed and turned to the others. “Croft. Ms. Carmichael.”

  From her rocker, Mimsey twinkled her blue eyes at him. “Detective. Welcome to our little party. I assume you’re here to help?”

  He shot a glance at me. “Certainly. It’s not like I have anything else to do tonight.” Sarcastic. And then he turned to Angie. “And I want to keep an eye on things.”

  She reddened and looked away.

  * * *

  Quinn ate a couple of pieces of pizza, then settled onto a chair and took out his phone. Soon he was tapping away, still working even on stakeout. Mimsey found a bodice-ripper romance on the storage shelves and dove in. Ben, Lucy, and Angie all followed suit, whiling the time away with their own selections from Croft’s stock. Croft himself sat with his feet up on another chair, arms crossed, and appeared to nod off.

  Hours ticked by. Hushed conversation would flare for a few minutes and then quickly fade. They were all getting tired, and I was beginning to really regret the whole stupid idea. I couldn’t stay still and paced the short distance between the rack of chairs and the returns shelf over and over. Mungo trotted along beside me for a while but eventually went to lie in the corner and watch me.

  As I paced, my brain replayed the events
over the last few days. Our introduction to the concept of Radical Trust. Angie confronting Dr. Dana during her talk. Earl King denying the psychologist’s medical bona fides. A drained Phoebe Miller packing up her sister’s things. Using my Voice on Ronnie Lake. A book of tarot spells and partially burned candles. The burning spell on my lawn. Three satin ribbons.

  I stopped pacing.

  Ribbons.

  Did druids use burning spells? I didn’t know, but the more I thought about it, it was hard to imagine Steve performing any kind of magic that required ribbons. So it had to be the same person I’d scared away in the alley. Right?

  Except it was pretty hard imagining Nate performing a burning spell—or any kind of magic for that matter. I’d been fooled before, though.

  I resumed my steps.

  Cyanide. Who used cyanide to kill in the twenty-first century? Nate and Earl King had access, one via business and the other from his hobby. But something kept bothering me about that, too.

  Cyanide. Study in Scarlet. Sherlock Holmes.

  Poison is a woman’s weapon.

  A bit sexist, that. But still, Holmes had been pretty smart for a fictional character.

  Dr. Dana had written Nate as she died. Her killer, I’d assumed. But maybe Lucy was right. Maybe Dana Dobbs had no idea who had poisoned her sweet tea. So why Nate?

  Because he was the last thing she thought of when she was dying? Because she loved her husband?

  Something twisted inside of me at the thought.

  So if not Nate, who? Earl? Maybe. Sophie? Possible, but my gut told me no. Ronnie Lake? Another possibility, but I couldn’t help but think that if she was the killer, she would have given some hint of that under the influence of my Voice.

  “Hey, Katie. Keep a lookout for Phoebe Miller’s wallet,” Croft said in a sleepy voice.

  Startled out of my train of thought, I paused before resuming my steps. “You can stop worrying about that. She told me she found it.”

  “Oh, good. I’d wondered.” Croft stood and stretched. Lucy looked up at him absently, then went back to her book. “On Sunday she thought it might have fallen out of her pocket back here the night before, when the police brought her back to see . . . you know. Her sister.”