Magic and Macaroons

by Bailey Cates

  “So, I hear you had some excitement here last night!” she practically brayed. “Bless your little heart, Katie Lightfoot, you certainly have had a lot of tragedy here at the Honeybee!” Heads throughout the room turned to look at me.

  Okay, almost every extreme thing about her. I wouldn’t have minded a bit more discretion at the moment.

  The door opened, and Steve Dawes came in. His eyes roved the room, lighting up when they met mine.

  I smiled and lifted my chin in greeting, then returned my attention to Mrs. Standish. “I suppose that’s so—” I began.

  “I mean, first a murder before you’re even officially open for business, and then having a killer attack you right here in the bakery! And don’t think I haven’t seen your name in the Savannah Morning News, my dear, more than once. You’re practically famous!”

  “Oh, I certainly hope not,” I murmured.

  Steve grinned at me over her shoulder, but he also looked puzzled.

  “It’s just so lucky you were here, it being after-hours and all, when that poor young thing collapsed like that!”

  I pasted on a smile. “Is that in the paper already?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look yet.” She tapped her diamond-studded earlobe. “But I do hear things, you know.”

  I knew. It seemed as if Mrs. Standish knew everyone in Savannah. It was one of the things that made her such a successful advocate for us—but, Lordy, I’d hate to get on her bad side.

  “It really was lucky,” I said. Steve had moved closer and was unapologetically listening. Then again, everyone in the whole place was listening, whether they wanted to or not.

  “Who was she?” Mrs. Standish probed.

  “I’m afraid she wasn’t anyone I knew.” Which was true, technically. “The ambulance took her to the hospital before we could find out her name.” Also technically true.

  Mrs. Standish frowned. “Well, we certainly hope the best for the poor dear.” She brightened as I handed her a bakery box packed with a half-dozen vanilla éclairs. “Now we’re cooking with gas, Skipper! Thank you so much, Katie. We’ll see you soon!” She held out her arm to him, and with great dignity he thanked me and escorted her out to the street.

  Steve shuffled up to the register. “What was that all about?” His honey blond hair was slicked back into the usual ponytail, but a frown ruined the line of his full lips. Serious brown eyes hooked my gaze and wouldn’t let go. Ben moved behind the coffee counter.

  I waved my hand. “Oh, you know Mrs. Standish.”

  Steve’s eyes narrowed.

  “What can I get you?” I asked.

  “Parmesan rosemary scone. Dry cappuccino,” he said without consulting the blackboard menu behind me. Now it was a challenge to see who would look away first. “Katie,” he prompted. I heard Ben start the cappuccino. It was Steve’s regular drink.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know already,” I said, finally breaking eye contact with a sense of relief and reaching for a plate. “You always seem to know when stuff like this happens, sometimes even before I do.” Steve had kept tabs on me ever since we’d become involved, and hadn’t stopped when Declan and I got together. As a reporter and columnist for the News, not to mention druid and son of the powerful Heinrich Dawes, he had many sources of information.

  But now he just shrugged one shoulder. “Sorry. Haven’t been keeping up lately, I guess.”

  I was surprised to find that hurt a bit. Don’t be a ninny. It’s good that he’s not thinking about me all the time. Right?

  No one was standing behind him, so I lowered my voice and said, “A girl came here yesterday, looking for me. It was Franklin Taite’s niece!”

  His eyes widened. He knew my history with Detective Taite. We’d both thought he was a witch hunter at first.

  “She passed out before I learned much,” I said. “But she wanted me to find some kind of voodoo talisman.”

  The skin tightened on his face.

  I handed him the scone, and he handed me a bill. “And right afterward? Peter Quinn dropped by to tell me they had discovered Franklin Taite dead yesterday—right here in Savannah!”

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, Katie-girl?”

  I glared.

  “Sorry. I have been pretty good about not calling you that, though.” He took a bite of scone.

  The pretty blond from the sofa had gathered her things, including the book that had so thoroughly grabbed her attention. She approached now and asked, “Calling Katie what?”

  Steve looked down at her, swallowing. “Nothing. I take it you two have met?”

  “Just a little while ago.” I smiled, genuine at first, and then felt it stiffen across my face. I’m waiting for my boyfriend. Was Steve Samantha’s boyfriend? Good Lord, he hadn’t dated anyone seriously since we’d stopped seeing each other.

  Samantha wrapped one arm around his neck and pulled him toward her. She gave him a lingering kiss. “Mmm. You taste yummy!”

  Oh, brother.

  She turned her gaze to me, and something glinted in her eye that hadn’t been there before. Ownership.

  I continued to watch them, wanting to be gracious but steeped in my own awkwardness. I felt Lucy come up beside me.

  “Well, hello, Steve. I see you’ve gone with an old standard today. And welcome to the Honeybee, dear.” She directed this last at Steve’s companion—er, girlfriend—with a true smile.

  “Sam, this is Lucy Eagel, Katie’s aunt. And this is her husband, Ben. Thanks,” he said as he took the proffered coffee drink from my uncle. “And this is Samantha Hatfield.”

  Ben smiled, too, as he shook her hand. Yup, smiles all around. Of course, Ben was extra delighted. Declan was like a son to him, so he’d never cared for Steve’s interest in me.

  Previous interest in me.

  “Come on, lover,” Samantha said, and I had to stop myself from gagging. “Let’s take our yummies down to the riverfront.”

  First off, she had no yummies left except a book about how to get her own way. In fact, yummies struck me as vaguely obscene.

  Second: Yuck.

  “Sounds kind of hot,” I said.

  “Oh, we’ll find some cool shade,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes when she looked at me.

  “Okay, honey,” Steve said. I grabbed his plate and put the rest of the scone in a bag so he could take it with him. I held it out to him at arm’s length. He took it with barely a look of acknowledgment, set his half-full cappuccino back on the counter, and allowed her to lead him out the door before I could count his change.

  I stared after them, trying to regulate my breathing.

  “You knew it would happen sometime,” Lucy said.

  “Steve dating someone? Of course,” I said. “I’m okay with that.”

  She looked skeptical.

  “I am, honest. Just not her.”

  “And why not?” My aunt’s voice was gentle.

  “Because . . .” Why indeed? “Because I get a funny hit off of her. She wants something from him.”

  “I just bet she does,” Ben said as he joined us. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Very funny,” I said. I stalked back to the kitchen and began to take out the bread pans. There was sourdough sponge to mix.

  Chapter 7

  Determined to make a fresh start, I’d sold or given away almost everything I owned when I left Ohio to move to Savannah. I brought only my clothes and a few treasured pans, utensils and cookbooks, and a jar of sourdough starter. I’d made it on a lark while working as the assistant manager at a bakery in downtown Akron, a position that involved a lot more office work than actual baking, not to mention a boss with substandard business ethics. The starter never leavened a single loaf of commercial bread for his uninspired establishment, but I had u
sed it extensively at home to make breads and biscuits, pancakes and waffles.

  Some modern recipes for sourdough starter begin with store-bought yeast. More traditional methods often involve the skins of grapes, which naturally harbor some lovely wild yeasts. I’d done all of that in pastry school, but for this starter I’d used the simplest method ever: mix some flour and water together, put it in a corner open to the air (but covered with a thin screen of cheesecloth), feed it more flour and water each day for five days, and see what happens. There are wild yeasts in the air all around us. They’re different according to location; the wild yeasts in San Francisco, for example, are particularly tasty, which is why sourdough bread from that region is so treasured.

  The yeasts in Akron were pretty tasty, too—enough so that I tucked a jar of my homemade starter behind the driver’s seat of the Bug and brought it south. It immediately became a staple at the Honeybee, and every afternoon I mixed up a new batch of sticky sourdough—in much larger quantities now, of course—and folded it into pans to slow rise overnight in the refrigerator. Each morning the Honeybee filled with the heady scent of baking bread, in addition to the sweet and savory smells of our other creations.

  Over time, of course, Savannah had altered the flavor, adding her native varieties of airborne yeast to the mix and making it her own. In some ways I felt as though the city—and the people whom I’d met in my new home—had affected me in much the same way, infusing me with local lore and customs and changing something deep down in the core of who I was.

  As I scooped the smooth dough out of the industrial mixer into pans and added more water and flour to the starter for the next batch, the tangy aroma teased my nose and made my mouth water. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since the yogurt and granola Mungo and I had shared that morning; Declan didn’t generally tumble out of bed like I did at four a.m. My familiar, of course, had downed his second breakfast and lunch by now. I was more than due for some calories.

  I sliced two pieces from one of the sourdough loaves baked that morning and slathered one with mashed avocado and the other with herbed cream cheese. Then I layered on Tasso ham, thinly sliced provolone, tomatoes, and fresh spinach. As Lucy came into the kitchen, I cut the sandwich in halves, put them on two plates, and handed her one.

  She took it with a smile. “Mmm. Looks delish, honey. I’ll grab us some mango sweet tea to go with.”

  Icy glasses of tea in hand, we settled in at a back counter in the kitchen, one of the few places in the open floor plan where the customers wouldn’t see us, and dove in.

  “Have you talked to Cookie about the voodoo queen yet?” my aunt asked around a bite of bread.

  I shook my head. “I’d like to do it in person.”

  Lucy grinned. “Too easy for her to get away from you on the phone.”

  I grimaced. “Something like that. But that means I’ll have to run by her condo tonight after work, and I’d rather not wait that long.”

  “We can handle things here,” Lucy said. “It won’t be that busy, and Iris will be here until close.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  “You should call Cookie’s office to see if she’s going to be there.” Lucy took a sip of tea. “It sounds like she’s out working with clients an awful lot.”

  I nodded my agreement as a voice out front caught my attention. I stood quickly, wiping my mouth with a paper towel grabbed right off the roll. “Or I might not have to.” I hurried out to where Ben was helping someone at the register.

  Not someone: Cookie herself, in a form-fitting white suit over a silk shell the same shade of green as her eyes. The small white flower tucked behind her ear added a festive note.

  My uncle had placed something in a bag with the Honeybee logo on it and was starting to hand it to her. “Here you go. Hope Oscar enjoys—”

  His eyes widened as she grabbed it out of his hand and thrust a bill at him. “Thanks. Must be going,” she said, and spun toward the door as if she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  “Cookie!” I said.

  She slowed, and I saw her shoulders slump.

  She’s trying to avoid me.

  Too bad.

  “Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” I asked.

  Her eyes met mine. “Oscar wanted me to pick up one of your blue-cheese scones.”

  Or you wouldn’t have come in at all.

  “I need to drop it off at his lab and then meet with a possible buyer.” From what I understood, Oscar Sanchez tested samples from homes and businesses for an environmental safety laboratory. He’d found Cookie her current job in real estate through his connections at work.

  “Please?” I asked.

  “I’m already late.”

  I just looked at her. She was a terrible liar.

  Her eyes skittered away, and her mouth pulled back in a gesture of resignation. She slowly walked back toward the register. Ben looked between us without hiding his curiosity. No doubt he’d hightail it over to ask Lucy what was up as soon as he had a chance.

  Cookie stopped in front of me. “Let’s go in the office,” I suggested.

  She sighed. “Sure. Okay.”

  “Hi, Cookie!” Lucy greeted her from the sink where she was rinsing off our lunch dishes. Our friend raised her hand in greeting but didn’t say anything. My aunt and I exchanged glances, hers wishing me good luck. Iris, who had followed us in from where she had been tending the espresso counter, peered after us with frank interest.

  I closed the door behind us. “Mungo, mind making some room for Cookie?” He stood on the club chair and stretched before jumping down to check his food dish. “I’ll get you some chicken salad in a few minutes.”

  His forehead wrinkled, but he didn’t protest. Instead he watched us from beneath the chair with much the same expression Ben had shown. I moved the piece of sheepskin that served as his bed and gestured Cookie to the best seat in the house. She sat slowly, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

  “I’m so sorry to have to bother you like this,” I began. “I know you don’t want anything to do with voodoo anymore.”

  Her lips pressed together.

  “But you’re the only person I know who understands it. I really and truly need your help.”

  She frowned, looking down at the floor. “Oscar disapproves of voodoo, as well. When he was a child in the Dominican Republic, a neighbor hired a shady priestess to curse his older sister. Luckily, another priestess was able to avert the curse, but he knows how I feel. He wouldn’t like it if I were to become involved.”

  Stunned, I sank into the swivel desk chair. “I’m sorry he had a bad experience when he was young. I am. But I’m surprised you won’t help me just because Oscar wouldn’t like it.”

  She must have heard the disbelief in my voice, because her head jerked up, defiance in her eyes. “You know I’m more independent than that. Even though I’m married now, I am still my own woman.”

  “Of course you are. You didn’t even change your last name.”

  A grimace flashed across her face. “Oscar didn’t like that, either. He’s a very traditional man.” She held up a finger. “Do not think I’m cowed by that, however. It’s simply that we’re both learning about compromise as we . . . adjust . . . to being married.” She took a deep breath. “Oscar was married before, but it’s a very different situation for me.”

  No kidding. Cookie had always been known for going through boyfriends and jobs every three or four months. When she’d returned from Europe with a different man in tow than the one she’d left with, none of the spellbook club had been surprised. But the ring on her finger had thrown us all for a loop. It hadn’t helped that Oscar had little interest in socializing with his new wife’s friends. He still felt like a stranger to us.

  And perhaps a bit to Cookie, too, I realized. “Is everything okay between you two?” I asked.

 
; “Yes! Of course. It’s just that I don’t wish to introduce difficulty into our relationship.”

  I quirked an eyebrow. She sounded more stilted than usual. Stress?

  “Also, my new job is very time-consuming,” she said. But she looked away as she said it, and I could see her resolve crumbling. “Plus, I’m redecorating our condominium,” she tried. “The former owners had terrible taste.”

  “Please?” I asked again. “Just help me find someone else who might be able to answer my questions. That’s all I ask—a foot in the door of the voodoo community here in Savannah.”

  Mungo stood and nudged at her leg, adding his encouragement.

  She pressed a palm over her eyes. Mungo watched her intently, then sat back when she finally gave a fraction of a nod and said, “I can do that, I think.” Another nod. “Yes. I’ll contact someone I used to know to see if he would be willing to help.” Her hand dropped and met my eyes. “I cannot guarantee he will, however.”

  “I appreciate anything you can do.”

  She stood and smoothed her skirt. “I know. We are sisters, of a sort, Katie. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.”

  I stood and hugged her. After a moment, she returned it. “Thank you,” I said. “When do you think you’ll know?”

  Her eyes flared, and I realized how pushy I sounded.

  I raised my palms to her. “It’s just that this feels so urgent, you know? With Dawn Taite in the hospital and Franklin Taite dead.”

  She blanched. “Detective Taite is dead?”

  “Oh! Oh, my God. No one told you? I assumed the spellbook grapevine . . . I mean . . . Oh!”

  “Jaida told me the woman’s identity, and that she might be related to your detective.”

  So I filled Cookie in on Quinn’s visit after half the spellbook club had left. “Feel free to tell Bianca and Jaida if you see them,” I finished. “I need all the help I can get with this one.”

  “And it’s far more personal than I had believed,” Cookie said. “I’ll make a call right after I meet with my client, Katie. We’ll find this voodoo queen and the missing gris gris.”