Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

  “Surely, as a landlord, she must have authorized some repairs,” Cookie said. “There are laws.” But the look she directed down at me belied her belief in such laws.

  Ethan snorted again. “Laws don’t make no never mind when the people who’re supposed to enforce them are willing to look the other way for a few Benjamins.”

  “She bribed officials?” I asked.

  “Paid off the safety inspectors. Or threatened them. Maybe both. She was good at both.”

  I tipped my head to one side. “Why didn’t you leave?”

  “Like I said, she was good at making threats.” He paused. Blinked. Shook his head.

  “Go on,” Cookie said.

  My head whipped around at her odd tone. One corner of her mouth turned up.

  Ethan’s face cleared. “Ah, well. Told the cops already, anyway. I’m an ex-con, and she swore she’d make it impossible for me to find any kind of job in Savannah if I quit working for her. Or anywhere else, for that matter. She had that kind of power, but Albert doesn’t—he only likes to think so. People have had to put up with some rotten things here, and I’m not going to be part of it anymore.”

  “Rotten how?” I asked.

  But Ethan was looking at me now as if he was just seeing me for the first time.

  “Who are you again? And why are you asking all these questions?”

  “Katie Lightfoot,” I began.

  Cookie stood. “I think we’re done. Thanks for talking with us.”

  He pointed at her. “Cookie? Is that right? What kind of a name is that?”

  Her fingers closed around my arm, and she pulled me to my feet. “We’re just going.”

  “But—,” I protested.

  “Now, Katie.”

  The loquacious, beer-offering Ethan had vanished, replaced by a glowering, hunched doppelgänger with darting eyes and a twitchy upper lip.

  “Yeah, okay.” We backed quickly to the door, the apartment manager pacing us like a predator. I heard it open behind me, and then we were in the hallway.

  “Thanks!” I said brightly and pulled the door shut in his face.

  “Come on!” Cookie pulled me to a door marked STAIRS. We ducked through just as Ethan Ridge came out of his apartment and turned toward the exterior door.

  “What happened in there?” I whispered to Cookie. In the dim light I saw her look away. “You cast a spell on him? To make him talk to us?”

  She shrugged and darted down the stairway. I followed. The stairs ended in a dingy laundry room.

  “Cookie!”

  Defiance flared across her face as she turned back to me. “I used my Voice.”

  I realized the charge behind her words, once in the hallway and again in Ethan’s apartment, felt familiar. And not necessarily in a good way. I shivered as another memory surfaced from my childhood.

  “Is that ethical?” I asked.

  “It depends on who you ask. Didn’t you want him to answer your questions? Wasn’t it for the greater good that he did?”

  Well, yes. “I guess you’re right.”

  “You’re welcome.” She didn’t smile when she said it. Despite her argument in favor of the greater good, she exuded defensiveness.

  An eight-foot-long fluorescent bulb flickered and hummed above. The harsh light revealed cinder-block walls painted an undefinable light color. Streaks of dark gray marred the mottled surface, and rust stains dribbled down from a tangle of metal pipes in one corner. A large drain enhanced the center of the grimy concrete floor. The taint of mold rode behind the chemical flavors of laundry detergent and fabric softener in the air. Three cheap washers and two dryers backed up against the walls, and at the far end a framed opening exited into darkness.

  “Only one of those washers works.” The voice came from behind us.

  As one, we turned to discover a white-haired lady who barely came up to my shoulder. She leaned on an aluminum walker and blinked at us behind thick lenses. A pillowcase with laundry spilling out of it was tied to one handle.

  “You two must be new here,” she said.

  “We don’t live here,” I said. “We’re just checking the place out.”

  “Well, honey, if you have another alternative, I’d take it. No one lives here if they can help it.” She pushed the walker to one of the washing machines and opened the lid.

  Cookie and I exchanged a look.

  “Why is that?” Cookie asked.

  “Because the place is a dump. But you don’t need me to tell you that if you’ve been looking around. You talk to the manager yet?”

  We nodded.

  She sniffed. “Not the brightest bulb, but the boy does what he can, I suppose.” She leaned against the washer and struggled to open the pillowcase.

  “May I help you?” I gently reached for the pillowcase, afraid I’d offend her, but the older woman seemed relieved to hand it to me. Cookie lifted the box of detergent from the walker’s basket and began measuring powder.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “About four years. My husband passed. He wasn’t too good with money, you see. A lot of us here are older. My name is Eugenia Perkins.”

  We murmured introductions in response.

  So the rent was cheap. Of course. I had to wonder whether it wouldn’t have been better for Mrs. Templeton to have fixed the place up and charged more. By the look of things it would have been a pretty major undertaking, though. Like companies that profit by laying off employees and increasing the workloads of those who remain, Mrs. Templeton had profited from her low rents by eliminating practically all the overhead.

  “The main problem is that I can’t get up and down stairs very well,” Mrs. Perkins continued, thumping the walker in front of her. “My apartment’s on the main floor, but every once in a while I need to come down here when I can’t get to the Laundromat. Have to drag this thing out to the back entrance, which goes straight into the basement here.”

  “I thought I saw an elevator,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t be caught dead on that elevator.” Her laugh was bitter. “Or maybe I would be caught dead.”

  Cookie said, “The elevator doesn’t work, either?”

  “Oh, it does now. Supposedly. It’s one of the few things the owner took care of, but not until someone almost died.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, my gosh. What happened?”

  “Girl was here visiting her folks about a year or so ago. Sweet little thing, name of Gwendolyn Landis. Came every Sunday for supper. Her people, they live on the fifth floor, or at least they did up until then.” Her mouth turned down at the corners, and rheumy eyes searched the corner of the room for memories. “When she left that evening, she got in the elevator like she always did. You had to chivvy it along now and again, but it had always gotten the job done. That time it didn’t. Started out, but when it got to the fourth floor a cable snapped or something. The whole shebang plummeted down to this level. Made the loudest sound I ever heard.”

  I tossed the pillowcase into the washer after its contents. “Was Gwendolyn all right?”

  “No, ma’am. She most certainly was not. Poor thing broke her neck. Now she’s in some state-run nursing home. She’s only your age, maybe a few years older. Still so young. Can you imagine? She’s a quadriplegic now.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said, shaken by her story. The more I learned about Mrs. Templeton, the more I realized what an evil woman she was.

  “It sure is. That girl’s life is ruined, along with the lives of her entire family. They got out of here, but now they’re living with relatives so they can pay for a little extra care for their crippled daughter. The family wanted to sue, but no one would take their case against the owner of this place. Old-family Savannah royalty. Should have been shot.” Vitriol threaded through her voice.

  “Too late,” I said without thinking. Then I backpedaled. “The owner of this building … was recently killed.” No need to share the gory details if she didn’t already know.
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  Mrs. Perkins stared at me. “No kidding. What happened?”

  “Someone broke her neck,” Cookie answered.

  I looked at her in surprise.

  “Someone did the world a favor, then.” Then Mrs. Perkins looked worried. “I wonder what will happen around here now, though.”

  Better the devil you knew? I had to admit Albert wasn’t likely to be much of an improvement over his aunt.

  “Will you be okay down here?” I asked. “Do you want us to stay?”

  She waved me away. “Heavens, no. I’ll just take it slow like I always do. And I have my magazines to keep me company. Nobody needs to worry about me.”

  I wavered, hating to leave her. She was obviously lonely, but also proud.

  “How do we get to the back entrance from here?” Cookie asked, ever practical. We needed to avoid Ethan if we could.

  “Just go out there and turn right.” Mrs. Perkins indicated the gaping doorway at the end of the laundry room. “You’ll find the back door down at the very end. It’s not locked during the day.”

  Cookie started for the dark hallway. I hesitated, putting my hand on the older woman’s shoulder. For a brief moment, she leaned into my touch, then straightened and smiled. “It was nice talking with you, honey.”

  “Thank you.” I patted her arm one more time and hurried to catch up to Cookie.

  “Wait up,” I said, blinking in the dimness that was relieved only by a low-wattage lightbulb near the back door.

  Cookie slowed.

  “It sounds to me like this whole place needs a great big protection spell,” I said.

  She nodded. “For a start.”

  “How long would it take?”

  “More time than we have.”

  “What about Mrs. Perkins?”

  “Do you think she’s in danger?”

  “I think her life is pretty miserable.”

  Cookie directed a sympathetic look my way. “You can’t help everyone, Katie.”

  “I don’t want to help everyone. I just want to help Mrs. Perkins.”

  As we neared the end of the hallway, the walls gave way to a series of storage spaces enclosed by chain-link gates fastened with padlocks. The yellow light from two bare bulbs above revealed the detritus of an apartment dweller’s life jammed into the partitioned areas: an exercise bike, a small rubber raft and fishing gear, old tires, a few boxes. The space right by the back door was full of empty moving boxes, some of them flattened, ready to be employed in an eventual escape.

  Most of the boxes read NEW START MOVING and showed a logo of an old truck piled high with belongings. The only thing missing was Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies in her rocking chair on top.

  A new start, indeed. Not knowing what else to do, I whispered Blessed be and imagined the wish winging into every nook, cranny and life at the Peachtree Arms.

  Chapter 14

  Cookie asked me to stop at the 7-Eleven down the street so she could get some water. She sounded hoarse. Apparently using her Voice was hard on her throat. She hurried back out, and we continued on our way to the bakery.

  As the air-conditioning kicked in I asked her if she was seeing anyone.

  “A building contractor for the last few months. He’s nice. We’re almost through, but I’ve enjoyed spending time with him.”

  I remembered what Lucy had told me about Cookie’s dating habits. “So why would you break up with him?”

  She shrugged. “I can tell it will be time to move on soon.”

  Well, that was cryptic. Maybe she stuck with short-term relationships because she didn’t want anyone to find out she was a witch. I could understand that. On the other hand, maybe she was commitment-phobic.

  Cookie seemed to know everything about me already, thanks to Aunt Lucy. Probably more than I knew myself if everything Lucy had told me about my family background was really true.

  We got back a little after two o’clock. Mimsey popped her head out of the kitchen as soon as the door opened.

  “Lucille!” she called. “They’re back.”

  Lucy, Jaida and Bianca joined us in the library area, passing around glasses of sweet tea. I welcomed the cool, syrupy liquid sliding down my throat.

  “Okay, spill.” Mimsey practically shook with anticipation.

  I settled into the sofa. “We talked with the apartment manager, Ethan Ridge. He said Albert Hill will own the Peachtree Arms now. He didn’t want to keep working there now that Mrs. Templeton is dead. She threatened him with his past if he didn’t stay and now he’s free. He also said Mrs. Templeton had bribed inspectors so she wouldn’t have to fix anything in the building.”

  Jaida raised her eyebrows. “I’m surprised he told you all that.”

  My eyes cut to Cookie, but I moved on to what we’d learned from Mrs. Perkins. When I finished we were all quiet for a few minutes as everyone thought about the woman injured by the elevator fall.

  Finally, Jaida broke the silence. “I did some more checking and can confirm that Mavis Templeton liquidated all her other assets after her husband died. She invested heavily in gold and foreign currency. Rumor is she’s done well, despite the bad economy. The only real estate she owned besides the commercial property on Bull Street and the apartment building was her home, off of Chippewa Square.”

  I imagined her house. It would be big, fancy … and cold even on the hottest summer day. I was tempted to go see where she had lived.

  Really tempted. I had to return the bowie knife to Johnny Reb’s anyway. “Lucy, has Uncle Ben talked to Jack Jenkins about getting full payment for the DBA brunch yet?”

  She shook her head. “With everything else going on it must have slipped his mind.”

  “I need to run by there anyway. If you have a copy of the agreement he and Mrs. Templeton signed I’ll take it with me. And you still have the check she gave you?”

  I followed Lucy into the office. Mungo jumped off the chair he’d taken over and ran to me. Once in my arms, he snuggled under my chin. “You want to come with me?”

  “Of course he does,” Lucy said.

  “I don’t have a leash for him.”

  She laughed. “He seems to like that big tote bag of yours just fine.”

  Yip!

  Mungo sat up in my tote, peering over the top. His head bobbed along with my footsteps. Never in my life would I have dreamed I’d end up being that lady who carried a dog around in her purse.

  Mrs. Templeton’s address was farther away than Johnny Reb’s, so I’d walk there first and then circle around. Following Broughton to Abercorn, I turned right and walked to Oglethorpe Square. You’d have thought General Oglethorpe, the founder of Savannah, would be venerated in the square that bore his name, but no. His statue dominated Chippewa Square, more famous these days for the bench where Forrest Gump talked about a box of chocolates.

  Tour guide voices blared from loudspeakers as buses passed by. Tourism was a big industry in Savannah, and plenty of the residents made their living from visitors to the city. But how many times could you repeat the same stories? I wondered as yet another bus went by. Even in a place as historical and unique as this one, how jaded to its beauties would you become the more you had to sell them to the masses?

  Colonial Park Cemetery on my left, I turned onto East Hull and found Mrs. Templeton’s address. The house wasn’t as large as I’d anticipated. Only two stories high, and extending deeply onto the lot behind, it was obviously very old. Like, antebellum old. It would bring a pretty penny if Albert decided to sell. The rare Savannah gray-brick facade would be enough to see to that.

  “Should I go ring the bell?” I murmured to my companion, thinking there might be a caretaker or a housekeeper that would talk to me.

  Mungo whined.

  Moments later I saw why. Recognizing the dark Suburban heading our way, I ducked my head and continued walking toward Bull Street. Albert Hill screeched to a stop in front of his aunt’s house, slammed out of his vehicle and ran up the walk.

 
Was he living there? Already? Mrs. Templeton was barely cold.

  “Has anyone seen the movie Forrest Gump?” an enthusiastic voice yelled from a trolley tour bus. “And do you recognize that bench?” I shook my head and turned right onto Bull Street before she got to the rest of the spiel.

  Looking worried, Jack Jenkins stood immediately when I walked in. Today he wore a pink shirt with his jeans, and a pair of silver-framed glasses. “Miss Lightfoot! I presume you received your trunk yesterday?”

  “I did. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  Relief replaced the worry. “Excellent news. When I saw you in the shop so soon again I thought perhaps there was a problem.”

  “No problem, but I did find something inside it that I don’t believe you intended as part of the deal.” I reached into my bag and extracted the knife rolled in fabric. Mungo hunkered down, out of sight. I unwrapped the parcel and put the weapon on the counter.

  Jenkins picked it up and unsheathed it. Tested the blade with his thumb. “This was in the trunk? I’m sure I glanced inside before the boys loaded it into the van.”

  “It was strapped to the inside of the lid,” I said. “Can you think of any reason why?”

  Jenkins looked thoughtful. “The gentleman from whom I purchase many of these restored trunks does his very best to maintain the integrity of the inherent history of each piece. It would not surprise me to learn that this knife was originally strapped to the interior lid, and he replaced it after his work was complete.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Thank you for returning it. Technically, though, it was a part of your purchase. You may have it, if you like.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t care much for knives. But I wouldn’t mind if you knocked a little off the price of the trunk.”

  His smile was charming as ever, but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I didn’t know it was in there when I set the price, Miss Lightfoot.”