by Morgana Best
“Do you mean Wicca?” I had heard of Wicca.
Thyme shook her head again. “No, we’re traditional witches. Wicca is a specific modern religion, started by Gerard Gardiner in 1954.”
I gave a short laugh and looked between them as I tried to process this. Of course. This was some sort of elaborate prank, a way to poke fun at the new outsider. They must have known I would hear the town rumor that said that Aunt Angelica was a witch, and thought they’d have some fun with it. An uncle on Dad’s side used to take guests from the city snipe-hunting, an old prank that left the outsider hunched over with a burlap bag for hours, and walking home on their own after they figured out snipes don’t exist. Internet searches finally took all the fun out of it for him.
But really. “A witch? Like hocus pocus and flying on broomsticks? Turning ex-boyfriends into frogs?” Well, that’s a thought, anyway, I added silently.
Thyme laughed, “No, no, no. You watch too much TV. That’s the Hollywood version of witches. No flying. No shape shifting. It’s all pretty dull in comparison, I guess.”
Ruprecht regarded me over his glasses. “All things are bound together by energy. Witches are simply those who are more sensitive to that energy. It can be enhanced, re-channeled, manipulated. Changed by the force of will, within limits, naturally.”
“Kind of like cooking.” Thyme tapped a slender finger on the table thoughtfully. “Most creative people have some level of witch in them. They take the abstract energy and shape it into a physical form. They are usually crafters, writers, artists, musicians. They all find an outlet to create things. We do that too, mostly with potions and herbs, teas, stuff like that.”
I immediately looked down suspiciously at the cup of tea in my hands and set it down. “Well, that settles it. I have zilch talent making anything. I can’t even make toast without setting off a fire alarm.”
“On the contrary, my dear.” Ruprecht watched me with that same patient smile. “It is proof of your talent, quite a lot of untapped potential at that.”
“Right.” I was talented, and my lack of talent proved it, right. That made sense, not! My head was spinning.
“You’ve been through a rough time,” Thyme said soothingly. “You haven’t had anyone to rely on in years, so I bet you had to be a big girl and deal with it, right? But those feelings have to go somewhere. So, given you won’t let them out normally, they go straight into whatever you make. Namely food.”
“You’re an Aries,” Ruprecht said. “Your element is fire and you have a natural affinity with flame. Candle magick will be your forte, once you learn to control your powers.”
“Powers?” I echoed.
Ruprecht reached out to pat my hand gently. “Perhaps best to call it ‘energies’. Don’t fret. Angelica made sure you would be among friends: myself and Thyme, my granddaughter, and Camino. We will all do what we can to help you learn. You won’t be left to learn your heritage on your own.”
I frowned and stood up. This was too much, even for a prank. These people acted like they really believed what they were saying. They were completely delusional. “I need to get back to work.”
“I’ll go with you,” Thyme said.
Ruprecht rose slowly and gave me a kind smile. “Very well, my dear. Please come by any time you have questions for us. You no longer need to walk these paths alone.”
I managed a halfhearted nod before rushing out, pointedly ignoring the scrutinizing gazes of the cats on my way out. None of it was real. My father hadn’t been some witch. I wasn’t a witch. People don’t make potions and cast spells.
Chapter 13
I was busy behind the front counter, practicing putting icing on cupcakes. I found I was improving at that, given that no flames were involved, and it was something I could do to help while Thyme was out in the kitchen baking.
The door chimed as it was pushed open. I turned my attention to my new customer and my heart caught in my throat when I saw it was Craig.
He smiled as he stopped in front of the counter. “I messed you up,” he said, tilting his head at the icing.
“No, just practicing,” I said. “Believe me, there’s nothing special to mess up.”
“Hey, it looked better than I could do,” Craig said.
“So, what can I get for you?” I asked, hoping my checks were not bright red. They sure felt hot at the sight of Craig.
“I was wondering if you still made cupcakes,” Craig said. “Like your aunt did.”
I laughed and tapped the top of the counter. Under the countertop was the glass case, inside which were numerous cupcakes in various flavors.
“Oh, wow,” he said. “I’m not sure how I missed that.”
“It’s all right. Hey, buy fifty if you want to. I think Thyme needs to stop making so many in the morning.”
“Let me get a chocolate cake with buttercream icing please. Yeah, the blue icing there,” Craig said, pointing to the one he wanted.
I placed the cupcake inside a small box. “Four fifty,” I said as I slid the box across the countertop.
Craig handed over five dollars in cash and dumped the fifty cents change into the small glass jar that read ‘Tips’. “Business not going well?” he asked as he opened the box and pulled out the cupcake. He took a bite. “Wow, this is amazing,” he said.
“No, business is horrible,” I admitted.
Craig frowned. “It takes a little while for some of the people here to warm up to newcomers. We don’t get a lot of newcomers in Bayberry Creek.”
“I think it might have something more to do with the death in here the other day.”
“Well, it wasn’t your fault, was it?”
“No!” I exclaimed. “The police said it was natural causes. They tested all the cake samples and the results were all clear.”
“Well, I’m sure everyone else knows that.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Brant McCallum died right after eating a cake sample for his wedding, the poor guy.”
Craig popped the last of the cupcake into his mouth. “So, what do you think happened to Brant? What did the cops mean by natural causes?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “That’s all they said. Natural causes, his heart, although they said he didn’t have a heart condition. But I’ll tell you one thing, it didn’t seem natural to me. It seemed pretty unnatural.”
“What do you mean?” Craig asked. He leaned forward, against the counter.
“He took a bite, and it just, well, I know it makes it sound like it was the cakes here, and it wasn’t. He took a bite and his eyes just went big, like he knew something was wrong.”
Craig rubbed his chin. “Maybe it was a heart attack, after all. Maybe he felt it, and maybe him biting into your cake didn’t mean anything. It was just a coincidence.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “That’s a pretty big coincidence.”
“But what are you saying?” Craig asked. “What do you think happened?”
I shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just know that it wasn’t a heart attack. I would bet anything.”
“Do you think someone killed him?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, if you could prove that, people would know someone actually murdered Brant, and that it wasn’t your cake. That would save your business.”
I smiled. It was sweet of Craig to be so helpful. “But how am I supposed to prove it? That’s a job for the police.”
Craig shook his head. “It doesn’t sound as though they’re going to be looking into it much, does it? Natural causes, case closed.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a cop, or a detective.” I pulled a face. “I don’t know how to solve a crime.”
Craig laughed and nodded. “You have a point there.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I said.
“Hey, it was just an idea,” Craig said. “Something to help. But it’s crazy, so forget I said anything.”
But I couldn’t
forget that he had said anything. He left shortly after that, but I couldn’t recall any more of our conversation. My mind was too preoccupied. I needed to make sure that business picked up again. Aunt Angelica had left the cake store to me, and I couldn’t let her down. I needed to find out what had happened to Brant McCallum. If I could somehow prove he was murdered, then the locals wouldn’t be suspicious of the cake store anymore, and everything my aunt had worked so hard to achieve wouldn’t be flushed down the drain.
The rest of the day passed slowly, but when it was time to close up, I did so quickly. I knew exactly what I needed to do. I hurried to my car and drove home. I spent a half hour or so browsing, and then I downloaded a stack of books to my iPad. They all had to do with forensics and crime solving.
I read late into the night, and the oddness of the new room almost didn’t matter at all, nor did the fact that I was surrounded by witches, or so they said. I read first on the couch, eating a quick dinner that had been prepared in the microwave, what else! When my eyes were tired and my back and neck were sore, I took the iPad to my bedroom, and kept reading.
I was awoken by the iPad crashing onto my head. It hurt quite a bit. I suppose that was one of the drawbacks of reading on an iPad rather than reading a ‘real’ book, as people like to call them. If you fall asleep and a book falls on your head, it doesn’t hurt, but an iPad really hurts, trust me.
Anyway, what was I thinking? The books on forensics and crime solving were interesting. Well, some of them were—others were as dry as dust—but I couldn’t see how they helped inexperienced sleuths like I was. I needed help.
Chapter 14
One thing was certain. I had to solve the murder of Brant McCallum to clear the cloud of suspicion that hung over the cake store. It was the only way I could regain the trust of Aunt Angelica’s customers. I had pointed that out to Thyme who was in full agreement. She suggested we speak to Ruprecht.
I felt a little strange speaking to Ruprecht after the whole ‘your-aunt-was-a-witch’, ‘your-father-was-a-witch’, ‘you-are-a-witch thing’. While I didn’t accept that I was a witch, I had spent a lot of time on YouTube, and I had a better understanding of the whole witch thing now.
Mint stood in the doorway to Glinda’s with a broad smile across her face. “Grandfather’s expecting you.” She led us to the back room.
Ruprecht was sitting by a table with a large teapot of hot tea, four empty bone china mugs (at least I hoped they were bone china, and not bone), and the same type of cakes he had offered me last time. He gripped the pot in his right hand and poured tea into each of the mugs. Steam swirled from each as the warm liquid reached their brims. He didn’t say a single word as he did this, but when he was done, he returned the teapot to its original location and then sipped from the cup before him. After he placed it back down, he looked up at us. “So, what brings you here?” he asked in a gentle tone.
I was sure that he already knew why we had come, but I decided to answer anyway. “I need your help. Business has dropped right off, and we’ve heard rumors around town that Brant McCallum died from eating our cake. I’m sure business will pick up again if we could find out what really happened to him. Who would have wanted to kill that man?”
Ruprecht leaned forward in his chair and took another sip from his cup. “Well, I believe even those with the most trivial of motives could still be the number one suspect. Brant was not well liked by any means. Perhaps there were people who respected him, but mostly he was loathed.” He tapped his chin. “Perhaps we can brainstorm and think up a list of suspects.”
“That’s what we were hoping,” Thyme said, giving me an encouraging nod, “but where do we start?”
Ruprecht sat back in his chair and looked up at the high ceiling. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but I hoped his thoughts, whatever they were, would throw some light on my problem. Finally he spoke. “We must start with those who had an obvious problem with the man. We must bring to mind any old altercations, any recent disputes, or anything else that could give someone a reason to murder the man.”
Mint sat forward and spoke. “The first person who comes to my mind is Dermott Smith. Just a few weeks ago, there was a huge dispute over a big poker tournament that came to town. Smith and Brant McCallum made it into the final round, and of course, Brant won somehow. I’m not sure what the actual sum involved was, but Dermott was very upset soon afterwards. He said that he’d been cheated and that McCallum had been counting cards during their match.”
I sat in silence for several minutes, taking it all in. Was being cheated in a poker game truly reason enough to murder someone?
“Do you think Dermott Smith is a calculating killer? Whoever pulled this off knew what they were doing. If it was poison—and really, what else could it have been?—it was given in advance, as he didn’t ingest any poison in the cake store. To me, it sounds more like Bill Gafney could have his hands in this mess.” Thyme picked up one of the cakes as she finished her sentence. She took a big bite from it and then washed it down with a sip of tea. “He’s running for mayor, and rumor has it that Brant had some dirt on him. That sounds like as good a reason as any to want someone killed,” she explained.
I sighed. I now had the names of two suspects, two names circling around in my mind, but which was the more likely culprit: the man who had lost a poker game, or the politician who had everything to lose if Brant opened his mouth?
“Gafney is known around town as someone who can’t be trusted with his own secrets, let alone anyone else’s. Do you really think he would be able to pull off something like this without a single person knowing about it?” Ruprecht paused after speaking, and then looked directly at me. “Either of these men could be the killer, but I think there’s still at least one person we haven’t mentioned yet. I believe there’s someone who might have a larger stake in all of this, someone who might have known where Brant would be at the very day and time of his death.”
I sat up, listening intently as I waited to hear the name of another possible suspect. “Who would have known Brant would be at my shop at that time? Was that killer trying to frame me, or was the entire cake thing just a coincidence?”
Ruprecht finished his tea and gently slid his cup back onto the table. He looked at each of us. “A local delivery driver named Jason Mackay has been very vocal about his feelings toward McCallum. Since he typically drops off any deliveries for me shortly after dealing with Brant, I’ve spoken to him on several occasions about it.”
Mint seemed puzzled. “You really think Jason had something to do with this?” she asked.
“Jason Mackay had some trouble with his previous delivery van, so he was looking for a reliable replacement. After all, a delivery man’s truck is his everything, much like cakes are yours now, and books and antiques are ours,” Ruprecht said, looking at each of us as he spoke about us. “The truck turned out to have serious faults, which Jason believes Brant knew about all the while. He believes he purposefully sold him an unreliable vehicle.”
“A broken down van?” I asked. “You think someone murdered a man over being sold a lemon?”
Ruprecht shook his head. “No, I think someone might have wanted to kill over what that broken down truck caused. Without a reliable vehicle to transport goods, Mackay lost his business. That led to a foreclosure on his home, and ultimately, it all caused his wife to leave him.” He refilled his cup from the delicate green and pink teapot. After taking a sip, he looked at Thyme, and then shifted his focus back to me. “I do believe one of these suspects might be our culprit, but there must be other suspects that we haven’t as yet considered.”
“Well, I think all three had motives and maybe even opportunity,” Thyme said. “Either way though, I think we need to investigate all three of them. Gafney is still my pick, but only because he’s the only one of the three that I’m okay with calling a criminal at this point.”
Mint shifted in her chair. She glanced over at me and spoke softly. “I think Thyme could b
e right, but that being said, I believe that Dermott is the offender. I’ve seen him very angry, and he’s the only man who’s ever sent chills down my spine, aside from Brant himself.”
We all sat in silence for the next few minutes, but Ruprecht finally spoke up. “Bill Gafney and Dermott Smith are both men I fail to trust. Jason, however, makes me apprehensive. Regardless, if any of us think we know who killed Brant right now, we are likely mistaken. I think Thyme and Mint are both correct in saying that we need to know more about these men before deciding which of them is the villain. All we can offer now is speculation, and we need much more than that.”
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
Ruprecht pulled himself to his feet and wandered over to one of the old bookshelves that lined the wall. I watched as he placed a single finger on each book until he touched a specific one and didn’t move onto the next. He slid that book into his other hand and then opened it up. I studied him as he stood in silence, apparently reading from the old tome. He clapped the book shut and then spoke once more. “We should try to discount each of these suspects, one by one.”
Mint nodded. “Yes! We could try to lure all three men to Amelia’s home under some sort of pretense, like a party or something. That way we can let the house narrow down which of them is the murderer,” she said.
My face twisted with confusion. “Excuse me?”
Ruprecht walked back over and sat down. “There’s something about your new home that you should probably be aware of.”
I nodded. “Oh, you mean the changing rooms? I found that out for myself! So I’m not going mad? What a relief!” The words all tumbled out one after the other, and then I put my head between my hands. I took a deep breath and continued babbling. “First the library was there, then it was a bedroom, and then I woke up in a room that doesn’t exist, but it does now…” My voice trailed away as Thyme and Mint exchanged worried glances.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Thyme asked.
“‘Cause you’d think I was mad!” I said.
