Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  “Oooh, a fireman. Well, he’s a cutie, even if you are on hiatus from the male gender.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “What does your husband do?”

  “He’s a long-haul truck driver, so he’s gone a lot.”

  “Does it get lonely?”

  “Honey, I’m so busy I don’t have time to get lonely. Besides, now you’re here. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have someone friendly living next door.”

  Margie told me bits and pieces about the neighborhood and the people who lived in it. She wanted to know more about Lucy and Ben and the bakery, so I filled her in on how everything had come about and how I’d come to live in Savannah. She was funny and smart and seemed genuinely interested in just about everything. She put Bart down on the floor, and he contentedly inched around on the hardwood for a while. Mungo sat at my feet and watched him. As we reached the dregs of wine and tea, I found myself telling Margie about Mrs. Templeton’s murder in front of the Honeybee.

  “Oh, I heard about that on the news. Had no idea it was so close to you. You actually saw her?”

  I grimaced as I remembered. “From several feet away, but yes. It was pretty awful. And now it seems the police are running around in circles.” I couldn’t bring myself to say my uncle was a murder suspect. As much as I liked Margie, I didn’t know her well enough to share that information. “Apparently Mavis Templeton had quite a few enemies.”

  She nodded. “I’ve heard stories. She was a bad one to cross.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, a friend of my husband’s lost his job because of her.”

  A little shiver ran across my shoulders despite the April heat, but I kept my voice casual. “Good heavens. What happened?”

  “Well, let’s see here. I don’t know Frank very well, but I do know he’s a carpenter by trade. Specialty stuff. Craftsman, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve only met his wife once, but she’s a sweet little thing, a real Georgia peach, so to speak. They have a little girl who’s just cute as the dickens. Anyway, Frank did some job for Mavis Templeton, but something he did made her mad as a wet hen.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “No idea. Redding—that’s my husband—told me about it. In fact, I haven’t seen Frank since it happened. All I know is Redding said Frank is a real hard worker and very skilled. But whatever happened, Mavis Templeton got him fired from his job.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Oh, that’s not the half of it. She also got him blackballed from working for other companies. I guess he’s tried to start up his own business, working for himself, you know? But that didn’t work out so well, either. He blamed her for that, too. Redding said he’s been getting by on odd jobs for the last eight months or so.”

  Margie’s story made me feel a little sick. I couldn’t help but remember how Mrs. Templeton had threatened the Honeybee. No wonder Detective Quinn was willing to entertain the idea that his old friend Ben Eagel might actually have killed her.

  My neighbor glanced at her watch. “Oh, Lord. I’d better get going. The JJs are due back any minute, and my sister will have a hissy fit if she has to wait. Thanks for the tea.” She scooped Bart up off the floor and dangled him high in the air. He shrieked with laughter. Then she settled him back in the familiar curve of her hip.

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for the company. I’ve been pretty caught up in getting the bakery open. It was nice to chat for a while.”

  “Well, we’ll do it again real soon, okay?”

  “Sounds good.” I walked her to the door. “Say, do you know Frank’s last name?”

  “It’s Pullman. Frank Pullman.”

  “Thanks for the geranium. I’ll try not to kill it.” Fat chance. I couldn’t kill it if I tried.

  She laughed. “Better you than me.”

  I turned back from the closed door to find that Mungo had moved into the kitchen. He sat by the stove, an expectant look on his face.

  “Ready for dinner?”

  He voted in the affirmative with one sharp bark. I replaced his stale kibble with fresh. He sniffed it, and his brown eyes conveyed deep disappointment. He went back to the stove and sat down.

  I was planning on a light salad for supper, and omnivore or not, I didn’t think Mungo would get very excited about a bowl full of greens. “I brought home some leftover mac and cheese and a piece of fried chicken. Could I interest you in that?”

  Another yip of approval.

  I made my salad and dished up his dinner, only halfway paying attention. Frank Pullman sounded like yet another good candidate for murder suspect. But I knew only what Margie told me Redding had told her. Too much like a game of telephone for my comfort.

  I needed to talk to Mr. Pullman myself.

  Chapter 11

  I kept thinking about that knife sitting on the bookshelf. And about Daddy’s bowie knife. I should simply call him and ask about it. I mean, it was no big deal, right? But other than giving them a quick safe-arrival call, I hadn’t talked with Mama and Daddy since I’d gotten to Savannah. After Lucy’s revelation about our family, I was confused and angry. What was I supposed to say to them? Ask them why they didn’t tell me I was a witch? Sarcastically thank them for letting me feel like an outsider my whole life?

  No, I wasn’t ready to start a conversation like that. Not yet.

  So I called Lucy instead.

  “Do you remember Daddy’s bowie knife?”

  After a moment she said, “I do.”

  “What did he use it for? I can’t seem to remember.”

  This time the silence went on a lot longer. Then, “It was his athame. It’s a knife used in magic. Sort of a combination wand and sword. We use it in rituals and spell work, to cast circles, and some use it to project power. Usually they’re black and sharp on both sides, but your father always liked to be a little different.”

  His athame.

  Of course.

  Not that I’d known the name for it then, but I’d seen him use it. I swallowed, not sure what to say. More evidence that I really was a bona fide witch.

  “Katie? You okay?”

  I cleared my throat. “Tell me more about Mama and Daddy.”

  “Perhaps they should do that.”

  “They should have done it already, but they didn’t. Now I don’t trust them to tell me the truth.”

  “Your parents love you very much, you know.”

  “I know,” I grumbled. “But still.”

  My aunt took a deep breath. “Your mother was always a little reluctant to use her abilities after what happened between your grandmother and old Luke Godry. That’s who happened upon her casting the fertility spell I told you about. Mary Jane didn’t want to be labeled and whispered about in little Fillmore, but she didn’t completely turn her back on witchcraft until she and Skylar had you.”

  “You’re saying it was my fault?”

  “No. I’m saying that two hereditary witches had one powerful little offspring. Mary Jane was leery about practicing magic in that small town already, but when she realized what could happen to you if people found out what you were, she convinced Skylar to hide the truth from you.”

  “And he agreed?” A part of me listened to all this with the full knowledge that having a conversation about my magical heritage was ridiculous, if not altogether insane. But a bigger part totally believed and wanted to yell in frustration at what my parents had done to me.

  “He was never as afraid as your mother, but he loved her very much, and she was downright terrified for you. He told me once that he knew you would discover your abilities in time. He was happy to see you working with plants and cooking, instinctively interested in herbalism and aromatherapy. And when you wanted to go to pastry school your mother fought against it much harder than you know. I think she might have broken her own taboo on practicing magic to try to get you to stay closer to home, but Skylar put his foot down. Your father has had your back all along. When
Andrew and you split, he even cast a spell to protect him.”

  “To protect Andrew? Good heavens, why? I was the one who got dumped.”

  “So much of magic comes from intention. You were hurt and angry and it was possible you could have inadvertently done … something.”

  “That’s absurd. Something like what?”

  “If you’d wanted to, you could have harmed him.”

  I began to protest again, but the truth was I had been angry, furious even, in addition to feeling betrayed, sad and humiliated.

  “Daddy really did that?” I asked in a small voice. “He thought I’d hurt Andrew?”

  “Not on purpose. You didn’t know what you are.”

  I needed to digest the conversation about my parents, and figured I might as well digest some comfort food, too. The salad had been healthy to an almost holy degree, and now it was time for sweet goodness. First I stirred up some simple brownies using the old trick of adding boiling water to the batter to make them extra moist. Then came the best part: chunky peanut butter mixed with soft butter, confectioners’ sugar and vanilla and dolloped on top of the brownie batter. I drew a knife through the combination to create a chunky marbled effect and popped the pan into a hot oven.

  Mungo looked on with great interest.

  “No chocolate for you, buddy. Sorry.” But I couldn’t help giving in to those soft brown eyes. I sat down on the floor beside him and offered the spoon I’d used to scoop peanut butter from the jar. Soon it was sparkling clean, and he was licking the roof of his mouth like crazy.

  He frowned at my laughter and trotted over to his water dish.

  I spent most of the rest of the night immersed in Mimsey’s books on witchcraft, munching on peanut butter brownies and learning about spells and charms, Wiccans, druids and voodoo. About altars and elements and archangels. I even made a rudimentary list of supplies. Other than the candles, I was surprised to learn, I already had many items I might need: dried herbs, essential oils, even the stones I gravitated to in jewelry.

  All the information was introductory, but clearly Lucy was right about how magic worked. It was all about intention and the power that came from belief. One book even likened it to quantum physics, in which the expectation of the scientist affects the outcome of her experiment. According to what I read, everyone has magic in them. But there are some people who possess the innate ability to focus their intention more effectively.

  More powerfully.

  Finally I closed the books and grabbed an hour of sleep before dawn.

  As I ran, I listened to the pounding of my feet on the pavement and pushed thoughts of witches and magic aside. We needed to find Mrs. Templeton’s murderer, and fast. Now that Albert had entered the picture, there was yet another threat to Ben—and the rest of us. So I wanted more than ever to talk to the manager at Mrs. Templeton’s apartment building and see what he could tell me about her tenants. And about her. Everyone seemed to have a story about that woman.

  I also had to track down Frank Pullman. I could only hope he’d be willing to talk to me about Mrs. Templeton and what she did to him. Questioning two men I’d never met. One with a murder motive.

  My mother would have had a fit if she’d known.

  I ran until I was a sweaty mess, but the clean, open feeling that usually accompanied the endorphins eluded me. I couldn’t stop worrying about Ben, the Honeybee and my future. Steve Dawes entered my thoughts more than a few times, and so did Declan McCarthy. Then I started feeling guilty about what Declan had said about someone missing Mungo. I should have looked harder for his owner. Taking him to the pound now was out of the question; he’d wiggled his furry little self right into my heart.

  Then I turned to obsessing about the details of the Honeybee’s opening, running over and over in my mind the things we might not have thought of. But my job at the bakery in Akron, hard and thankless work though it was, had provided me with a wealth of experience, not only in the particulars of baking but also in how to run that kind of business.

  The practicalities of getting the Honeybee up and running were really the least of our worries. Maybe another protection spell would help, though. And something to encourage success and abundance. The thought came to me so easily I almost didn’t notice how strange it was.

  After showering and dressing in my usual skirt and T-shirt, I fed Mungo bacon and eggs and took my coffee out to the back patio. We sat on the grass, and I watched the dragonflies patrolling the yard. Another name for them was mosquito hawks, and given the abundance of the little flying vampires, I was glad to have that particular kind of hawk as my friend.

  My sleep disorder was ideal for a baker, because we keep crazy hours. But I didn’t have to be at the Honeybee early today, so I forced myself to putter around the little house for a bit, doing dishes and making the bed, wiping down the bathroom and running a dustcloth over the few surfaces. Mungo encouraged my tidying up by following me everywhere. Finally, I scooped him up and carried him out back. The soulful expression in those doggy eyes looking through the glass as I closed the French door almost broke my heart. Sighing, I grabbed the bowie knife off the bookshelf, slung my tote bag over my shoulder and headed out the door.

  Steering the Bug around Lafayette Square, I glanced in the rearview mirror and almost swerved into a Bermuda-shorts-clad couple taking pictures.

  Mungo sat looking back at me with a happy grin on his face.

  “How did you manage that, you little stowaway?”

  He licked his nose.

  I bent the mirror down and saw he was sitting smack-dab in the middle of my open tote bag. Now what was I supposed to do? Drive all the way back home? I sighed. The Honeybee wasn’t officially open, so I could probably sneak him into the office for a few hours without the food police closing us down.

  The operative word being sneak.

  It didn’t surprise me when he burrowed into the bottom of my bag, not even poking his twitching nose out as I carried him down the street and into the bakery. He was a very smart puppy, after all. Maybe too smart.

  Ben and Lucy were already inside, sitting at a table. When I saw the looks on their faces, inexplicable dread settled into my stomach.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked without preamble, sinking onto another chair and putting my tote on the floor. Mungo popped his head out, but they didn’t notice.

  “Detective Quinn just left. He stopped by to talk to Ben.”

  The dread intensified.

  “Stopped by? So it wasn’t official? What did he want?”

  “Slow down.” Lucy put her hand on my wrist. “It was official, all right. He made Ben go over everything that happened that day, from the minute we got to the bakery. Everything that happened at the DBA meeting, exact times, where he stood in the alley, what people said to each other. They’ve talked to everyone who attended the brunch, but no one was able to shed any light on what happened. They’ve got nothing but that woman who saw someone who looks like Ben by Mavis’ Cadillac around when she was killed. No one saw Ben in the alley behind the bakery.”

  I rubbed my hand over my face and stared unseeing at the empty display case. “The police have talked to people who could have looked out and seen him, then?”

  “They’ve talked to everyone in the area. In fact, the detective said he wanted to talk to you. Go over what you told the policewomen who interviewed us that day.”

  “Well, that’s fine, but I won’t be able to add anything helpful.” Frustration leaked into my voice. “What about you, Ben? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” But his tone said he wasn’t fine at all. “Peter Quinn was just covering all his bases.”

  I took a deep breath. “You’re still a suspect, though. The main suspect. Am I right?”

  A pause, then, “It does look that way.”

  “Oh, Ben.” Silence fell between us for a long moment.

  Ben roused himself. “I talked to Declan last night. He said you two went to the Peachtree Arms yesterday. I do
n’t like it.”

  I frowned. “But you knew we were going to try to find the killer. After this latest encounter with Detective Quinn I’d think you’d be doubly on board.”

  “I knew Lucy’s spellbook club included you in their magical workings. I never expected you to go out and play private eye.”

  “But it’s the only way to prove your innocence. Witches or not, we need concrete evidence.”

  “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Does that mean you’ll stop nosing around?”

  I smiled and patted his arm.

  Fat chance.

  Lucy stood, hands on hips, and gazed down at Mungo. He sat pertly on the office chair, mouth open and tongue lolling as if laughing at us both.

  “I don’t know how he got into my car. The windows were up. I’d say he crept into my tote bag, and I ended up carrying him out. But I would have noticed, right? Besides, he was in the backyard. How could he have gotten back inside?”

  “You are a clever one, aren’t you?” She leaned down until they were almost nose to nose. “Don’t want to let her out of your sight right now?”

  Yip!

  I stared.

  My aunt turned to me. “You know what he is, don’t you?”

  “He’s a Cairn terrier.”

  “He’s your familiar.”

  I looked down at him.

  Yip! And more of the laughing.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Aren’t you taking this whole magic thing a little too far now?” After all my reading the night before, I was even more convinced that magic was real. Heck, maybe it was science we hadn’t discovered yet. But familiars? Come on.

  Lucy smiled. “They are a bit old-fashioned. Not everyone has one, but some of us do. Honeybee has been my familiar for almost twenty-five years.”

  “Cats live that long?” I asked in a weak voice.

  “Oh, yes. Mimsey’s is a parrot.”

  “Heckle,” I said, remembering the bird poop on her shoulder.

  She nodded. “And Jaida’s Anubis is a Great Dane.”