Magic and Macaroons

by Bailey Cates

  I returned to the library to tidy the shelves of books. Our library was open to everyone who came into the Honeybee. Anyone could take a book or leave a book, but most of the volumes were supplied by the ladies of the spellbook club. They had started this practice before we’d even opened, and, in fact, had been loaded down with bags of books the very first time I’d met them.

  They chose the books using whatever method worked for them. It was largely intuition, but Mimsey sometimes employed the use of her pink shew stone, and Jaida might check about the usefulness of a particular book using a tarot spread. However they chose them, the books in the Honeybee library were intended to help patrons in whatever way they could.

  As a result, the collection was rather eclectic. Unsurprisingly, there were a large number of self-help books and a good-sized how-to section. There was also fiction—everything from contemporary and classic literature, to science fiction, romance, mystery, fantasy, and werewolf tales. There were memoirs and science books and cookbooks. You never knew how a book might benefit a customer, and it wasn’t our job to guess. Only to supply the books. Whenever I saw someone leave with one of the books the ladies had supplied, I felt a flicker of satisfaction.

  I picked up a copy of How to Write Hit Country Songs and tucked it into its proper place. Next I returned a copy of Civil War Savannah to the shelf then picked up an old, dusty volume with the title Herbal Practices Throughout the Ages. Pausing, I took a look inside. It had been published in 1948. Still, the contents looked interesting, and the historical annotations could only add to the kind of kitchen magic I already practiced. It even had a section on using herbs to increase psychic powers. Grinning to myself, I tucked the book under my arm to take into the office. I’d have to ask the ladies which one of them had brought me a book this time.

  Before I left, I turned to the woman on the couch. Her coffee mug and pastry plate were empty. I stooped to pick them up, saying, “How are you doing? Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Oh!” she squeaked. She slammed her book closed and blinked up at me with eyes so light brown, they were almost amber. “You startled me!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She laughed and waved a well-manicured hand. “Oh, gosh. No, I’m sorry. I can just lose myself in a book sometimes.” Now that she wasn’t speaking in the high register of surprise, her voice was deep and silky, the round tones of the South smoothing the edges of her words.

  I smiled in return. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s actually rather wonderful, don’t you think?”

  She nodded, eyes lit in agreement. Her blond hair swung around her tanned shoulders in a smooth-as-satin blunt cut. Her summer halter dress was a breezy pink with a darker pink sash at the waist.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” I said.

  “This is my first time. I’m waiting for my boyfriend to meet me. He just went on and on and on about this place. I have to tell you, the fig muffins are to die for!”

  “Thanks,” I said. “My aunt Lucy came up with those.”

  “Well, you just tell her they are divine. I know I’m going to have to come back over and over again. There are simply too many yummy things to try. My boyfriend told me one of his favorite things to eat here are the Parmesan rosemary scones, but, you know”—she lowered her voice—“I simply had to have something sweet today.”

  “Sweet, savory, and sometimes a little of both. That’s what we specialize in!” I turned to go. “And we certainly hope you do come visit us again.” I had the distinct feeling she would.

  “Why, thank you! What’s your name?”

  “I’m Katie Lightfoot. I own the Honeybee, along with my aunt Lucy and uncle Ben.”

  “Well, Katie, I am tickled pink to meet you. I’m Samantha.”

  “Nice to meet you, Samantha. I’d shake your hand, but—” I gestured toward my full tray. “Are you sure I can’t bring you something else?”

  “Oh, gosh, no. I’m full up. Is it okay if I just sit here for a while?”

  “Of course.”

  She spared me one more smile before cracking her book open on her lap again. As she did, I saw the title: How to Get What You Want . . . Every Time.

  Huh. I wondered which of the ladies had brought that one in.

  * * *

  The rubber soles of Iris’ shoes squeaked on the tile floor as she spun and twirled through the usually mundane job of unloading the dishwasher.

  “You seem awfully happy,” I said, taking the clean muffin pan she offered me and putting it on the shelf beneath one of the counters.

  She looked stricken. “Oh. Gosh, Katie. I’m sorry.”

  I looked up in surprise. “Why on earth would you be sorry for feeling happy?”

  Lucy came out of the office in time to hear me. She stopped to listen.

  Iris blinked heavily rimmed lids. “That woman who passed out in here and had to go to the hospital. That was, you know, tragic.”

  My aunt smiled gently. “It was. But there’s a lot of tragedy in the world, all the time. You still get to be happy.”

  A grin tugged at our protégée’s lips. “Yeah?”

  I nodded firmly. “Yeah.”

  The grin bloomed full force, and she twirled back to the open dishwasher to grab a bread pan. “I’ve been picking out my classes at SCAD. There are so many interesting things to choose from! I want to learn them all.”

  Lucy laughed. “Anything in particular appeal to you?”

  “Oh, golly. There’s fashion and graphic design and animation. I love the idea of animation, you know? Like, for the movies?” She waved the pan in the air to emphasize her point.

  “Sounds like a good career,” I ventured.

  “Oh, but then there’s filmmaking and jewelry design and all sorts of writing courses.”

  “Those sound good, too,” I said.

  “Heavens, all those choices would make my head spin,” Lucy said.

  Iris sashayed over to put the pan on an empty rack. “I know! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Well, let me know what you decide. In the meantime, I have some phone calls to make.”

  * * *

  Back in the office, I grabbed my cell. For about two seconds I considered making my calls from the alley to ensure privacy, but it was too darn hot out—especially given the heat all the brick and asphalt soaked up. Last August, most highs had topped out in the eighties, but this year we’d hit a hundred three times already.

  “Guess you’re stuck with me,” I said to Mungo as I closed the door.

  His response was a long, disinterested yawn.

  “I hope Iris doesn’t wander in here while I’m questioning a psychic about dead people.”

  His ears perked up, and he sat back on his haunches to listen. At least the thrum of the air-conditioning system was louder in here, which would help to muffle my words out in the kitchen.

  However, Ursula Banford didn’t answer the number I had for her. Her outgoing voice mail message said she was working on set in Madagascar and would be checking messages infrequently. She was in high demand as a psychic—and personal trainer—in Hollywood, though, honestly, she hadn’t done much good for me other than giving me messages from a supposedly dead Franklin Taite. Now I had to wonder if those particular messages had even been genuine. But I did think they had been. I knew she was the real deal—I’d had personal contact with her “posse” of spirit guides at a séance, and goddess knew she’d paved the way for Declan’s deceased uncle to make his way across the veil.

  But real deal or not, she sure wasn’t going to be any help to me today.

  Chapter 6

  I called Quinn next. He answered on the third ring.

  “Katie.”

  “Hi, Quinn.”

  “I believe I said I’d call you.”

  “Sorry! You want me to
hang up, and you can call me back?”

  Silence, then a small sound, and I realized he was laughing. I breathed a mental sigh of relief. Despite our frequent repartee and my willingness to push the envelope with him, I didn’t want to get on his bad side.

  “I was wondering how Dawn Taite is doing, and I know the hospital won’t tell me anything directly,” I said.

  “Well, I can hardly blame you for being concerned,” he said, apparently mollified by my motivation in calling. “She’s in pretty bad shape.”

  I felt the muscles along my shoulders relax and realized I’d been bracing for worse news. “So she’s still in the ICU?”

  “Oh, yes. No change since she was admitted yesterday. She’s in a deep coma, and the doctor who is treating her is baffled as to why. They’ve run a battery of tests on her so far, and there are more planned.”

  “Poor thing,” I said. Mungo blinked up at me, concern shining from his gentle eyes. “Did you find out anything about her?”

  His voice lowered. “She’s Franklin’s niece, all right. I talked with her mother up in Saratoga Springs. She told me Franklin was her husband’s older brother, and after her husband died five years ago, Franklin hadn’t been good about keeping in touch. Add in that Dawn and her mother have been more or less estranged ever since the girl dropped out of college. Mrs. Taite is on her way down to Savannah now.”

  “Did Dawn’s mother say her daughter and Franklin were close?” I asked.

  “Apparently, Frank asked Dawn to come work with him,” he said. “That’s why she quit school, but it’s been a while since Dawn and her mother have spoken, so Mrs. Taite doesn’t know what Dawn has been up to—with or without Franklin.”

  “So she was working with him,” I said, deep in thought. Franklin had been on a quest against dark magic, and as a law officer he’d help utter strangers if they were in danger, whether the threat was secular or occult. Apparently, he’d roped his niece into joining him in the same mission.

  Quinn took a deep breath before speaking with what I suspected was forced calm, “So? Are you going to finally tell me why you were trying to find Frank Taite back in May?”

  I hesitated.

  “Katie.” Another measured inhalation. “Please. You know something about his death, don’t you?”

  “Um . . .”

  “You’ve always been so helpful in the past.” Disappointed now. Was he playing persuasive parent to my recalcitrant teenager? “Why on earth would you keep vital information to yourself?”

  Oh, to heck with it. “It’s not vital information, Quinn. I was trying to find Franklin to clarify something he said about . . . um, the way I help the police out sometimes.” Granted, it was easier to talk about this stuff with Quinn over the phone than in person, but I wasn’t about to start talking about lightwitches and magical callings. “The thing is,” I rushed on. “I thought Franklin Taite had been dead for at least the last three months.”

  “Hmm. I wondered, given your questions yesterday. And you thought that because . . . ?” he prompted, almost managing to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  I looked at Mungo and could have sworn he nodded at me. So I said, “You remember Ursula Banford? The psychic that worked on the set of Love in Revolution?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Pure skepticism now.

  “She gave me a message from Franklin. Back when they were shooting the movie here.”

  “A message?”

  I barreled on. “From beyond, you know? The spirit world? Now, how could he possibly send a message through a medium unless he was already dead?”

  “You have got to be kidding!” Quinn exploded. “You believed her?”

  “She didn’t know who Franklin was,” I protested. “She had no idea what kind of message she was giving me. It didn’t mean anything to her, only to me.”

  “Except he wasn’t dead yet.”

  “Well, yeah. There’s that.”

  “What was this message from beyond the fictional grave?” Quinn asked.

  “That’s not really any of your business. It certainly has no bearing on his death.” At least, I didn’t think so.

  A sigh traveled through the wireless. “Good Lord, Katie. Don’t you think you should leave that up to me? You usually seem so practical. Even, dare I say it, wise at times. Then you tell me something like this, and I have to wonder.”

  “Which is why I didn’t tell you in the first place, and why I wish to heaven I hadn’t now!”

  Mungo made a warning noise low in his throat, and I realized I was practically shouting—at a homicide detective.

  Quinn was silent. Then he said, “That’s a valid point.”

  “Okay.” I knew I sounded sullen. Maybe he hadn’t been that far off the mark in treating me like a teenager. The thought did not fill me with pride.

  “You and Frank shared an interest in the paranormal—that’s for sure,” he said.

  If you only knew. “Does the medical examiner know what caused his death yet?”

  “The preliminary report confirms heart failure, but it was caused by snake venom.”

  I moaned. “He was bitten?”

  Quinn hesitated, then said, “They found the bite marks over his heart.” I heard him take a breath. “Which is pretty weird. Still, it’s possible he was already prone or even unconscious by the time he was bitten.”

  “You don’t exactly sound convinced,” I said.

  He ignored that. “Katie, were you two that close? Frank left Chatham County PD right after last Halloween. I didn’t even know you were . . . friends.” It seemed to pain Quinn to say it, and I wondered what he was thinking.

  “We weren’t. Not friends, not close. I didn’t have any contact with him after he left for New Orleans, either.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Honestly, Quinn? Neither do I.” In fact, the whole conversation made me feel more confused than ever. Mungo leaned over and nudged at my hand until I stroked his soft little ears, something he knew would comfort me as much as him.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” Quinn asked. He sounded as defeated as I felt.

  Should I tell him about the talisman Dawn had spoken of before losing consciousness? That I was supposed to find it? What about the voodoo queen?

  No, absolutely not. If he reacts that way when I tell him about a message sent through a psychic, he’s not going to take any talk about a gris gris or a voodoo queen seriously. It would be a waste of my time, and possibly he’d get in the way of what I knew I had to do.

  So I answered, “Not that I can think of.” I could always tell him later, if need be.

  “Okay, then. I’ll call you if there’s an update on Dawn Taite.”

  “Or Franklin,” I said. “Are you investigating his death as a homicide?”

  He sighed. “As a suspicious death for now. Good-bye, Katie.”

  “Good—”

  But he’d already hung up.

  * * *

  “Hellooooo!” The voice brought my head up from where I was rearranging the depleted platter of key lime tarts that were the day’s special. It wasn’t yet noon, and except for the two sisters sharing hummingbird cake, the same customers who’d been hanging out in the Honeybee before I’d ducked into the office were still staying cool inside.

  “Mrs. Standish, how are you this morning?” Ben asked with a smile in his voice.

  Brushing my hands off on a towel, I moved behind the register to stand by my uncle.

  “Fine and dandy!” The rich, fruity tone of the words sounded like a Southern version of Julia Child. “Just had to stop by and see how y’all are today!” A few inches taller than Ben, she towered over me. She wore a white gauze tunic and slacks. Gold bangles clanked on her wrists as she gestured, and a gold chain that would have made an NFL player bling-proud shone from around her generous nec
k.

  “Now, Edna,” her companion said, moving out from where Mrs. Standish had eclipsed him. He wore his usual straw hat to protect his bald pate from the summer sun. His sunshine-yellow, short-sleeved button-down was tucked into festive Bermuda shorts that revealed birdlike legs and knobby knees. His dark eyes sparkled with good humor.

  “Mr. Dean, it’s good to see you,” I said.

  “Thought I’d come along to make sure Punkin here brought the éclairs back home.”

  She rolled her eyes at her beau. “As if I’d forget!”

  He and I exchanged a brief look, and I suppressed a grin. He hadn’t thought she’d forget; Mrs. Standish often returned to the Honeybee for more pastries because she’d eaten all the goodies from her first purchase before she arrived home.

  However, Mr. Dean gazed up at her with obvious affection. And no wonder. The éclairs they’d come in for had been Lucy’s idea when Mrs. Standish, a widow, had mentioned how lonely she was. Sure enough, the vanilla in the filling, along with extra oomph from my aunt’s benevolent incantation, had opened up the possibilities for love. Mrs. Standish had netted the man she called Skipper Dean, and they’d been going strong ever since.

  “It’s just hot as Hades out there,” Mrs. Standish declared, dramatically swiping the back of her hand across her brow. Hot or not, her iron-gray cap of hair was perfectly coiffed. “So we thought we’d take the ship out of port for a little runabout. Blow out the cobwebs, don’t you know?” We all understood the “ship” in question was a twenty-three-foot motorboat.

  The two students glared at her, no doubt because her loud voice cut right through their ear-budded privacy. I mentally shrugged. They’d just have to live with it. She and her date would be on their way soon enough, and Mrs. Standish had been one of the Honeybee’s first customers ever. Loyal through and through, she’d encouraged Ben to join the Downtown Business Association before we’d opened and spread the word about our baked goods throughout Savannah. I loved every extreme thing about her.