Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery

by Bailey Cates

“Peter.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I’d like to talk with your niece. Is she here?”

  I came out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel. “I’m Katie Lightfoot. Detective Quinn, I presume?”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s go back to the office, if you will. I’d rather not talk in front of customers.” A couple nearby watched us with great interest.

  “Of course,” he said.

  The detective followed me through the kitchen, and I shut the office door behind us. As he settled into the office chair that Mungo had claimed as his own, I could only hope his dark blue slacks wouldn’t show any of my terrier’s black hair when he got up. The last thing we needed right now was a visit from a suspicious health department.

  “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. I know y’all opened to the public today,” he said.

  I pulled the chair out from behind the desk and sank into it, grateful to be off my feet. “No problem. Though I can’t imagine there’s anything new I can tell you about Mavis Templeton’s murder. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I understand you witnessed the argument between Templeton and your uncle.”

  “It wasn’t an argument.”

  He started to speak, then stopped, reconsidering. “All right, then. Tell me what happened.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t pay the amount we contracted for when we agreed to provide brunch for the Downtown Business Association. Naturally, Ben told her that was unacceptable.” I spoke slowly, choosing my words with care. “She continued to refuse, so Ben told her if she didn’t pay us the full amount he would contact the president of the DBA. Mrs. Templeton went off the deep end, not Ben. She threatened and harangued and stomped out.” I took a deep breath and continued, my tone low but intense. “But you can’t possibly think that’s a motive for murder. For heaven’s sake, you know Ben, don’t you?”

  “We’ve worked together, yes.”

  “Then you know he’s not one to fly off the handle. He was the fire chief—how many times has he had to deal with difficult situations? Besides, we only had to talk to Mr. Jenkins to get the money.”

  Quinn cocked his head to one side. “What about her threats?”

  “Bah. What of them?” Words far bolder than I felt, but I didn’t want Quinn to sense any weakness. “Why aren’t you investigating all the people who hated Mrs. Templeton? The ones who truly despised her? Because of a witness who happened to see someone who looked vaguely like my uncle in the vicinity of the murder?”

  “Not in the vicinity. On the sidewalk. Right by her Cadillac.”

  I waved that away. “So you’re not looking at the apartment manager of the Peachtree Arms? Or any of the tenants who had to put up with how Mrs. Templeton ran the place, as if it were some kind of slum? There’s a girl who’s a quadriplegic now because of an elevator accident there. What about Mrs. Templeton’s own nephew, Albert Hill? Doesn’t he inherit? Oh! If you’re looking for someone with a beard and glasses like Ben, someone who utterly loathed that old woman, try talking to Frank Pullman.” Now my words spilled out, heavily flavored with indignation.

  His eyes narrowed. “I thought you were a recent transplant to Savannah. How would you know all those people?”

  Too late, I realized I’d overstepped.

  I rubbed my face. “Sorry. Really. Of course you’re looking at everyone. Ben keeps telling me how good you are at your job. I’m just frustrated.”

  “So am I,” he said.

  My head jerked up. “Really?”

  “What do you think? Someone was murdered in full daylight, right on Broughton Street, and I don’t have any viable suspects except a man I happen to personally like very much.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “You mentioned the name Frank Pullman.”

  “Yes! You know about him, then.”

  “I’ll follow up. But I still think you know an awful lot about a woman you barely met.”

  “I’ve heard some things,” I began.

  He gave me a look.

  “And asked a few questions.”

  “That’s what I thought. Ms. Lightfoot, you need to leave homicide investigations to the professionals.”

  “But—”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “If you don’t know about Frank Pullman, neither do you.”

  Oops.

  Detective Quinn stood abruptly. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.” His voice held barely contained anger.

  “You didn’t ask me very many.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that, too. Kind of hard to get a word in edgewise with you.” He opened the office door and strode into the kitchen. The back door opened and closed.

  Had I just made things worse for Ben?

  Chapter 18

  When I emerged alone from the back, Ben shot a worried glance my way. The two women buying a dozen ginger-molasses muffins came first, though. It was almost two, and I expected a lull before another influx of customers in the late afternoon seeking a caffeine-and-sugar fix to get them through to the evening hours.

  When he was finally free, I sidled up beside my uncle and murmured, “I don’t think I made a very good impression on your Detective Quinn.”

  “Why?”

  “Hmm. He didn’t like it that I’ve been asking questions about Mrs. Templeton. And I might have been a little, well, snarkier than I should have been.”

  He sighed.

  Injecting a hopeful note into my voice, I said, “But I was able to give him a bit of information he didn’t have.”

  My uncle adopted a stoic expression. “That’s good.”

  I gave him a quick hug and ducked away as another customer approached. But guilt followed me as I poured a cup of coffee and snagged a muffin. I was supposed to be helping Ben, not making things worse.

  Biting into the soft, molasses-laden crumb stuffed with golden-pink candied ginger, I made my way to the reading area. Mimsey perched on one of the sofas, chatting with a young woman who struck me as extraordinarily dowdy for someone so close to my own age. Compared to the orange of Mimsey’s twinset, the woman’s pale skin, peanut-butter-colored hair, beige slacks and blouse were sedate at best. But the stretched-out brown cotton cardigan, out of place in the spring heat anyway, distinctly dragged the whole ensemble right down to drab.

  Mimsey patted her on the arm and handed her a book. I almost choked on my muffin when I saw the title: Sex Secrets of the Stars.

  “You go ahead and take this home, sweetie. Believe me, your hubby will start staying home in the evenings again. And don’t forget to give him some of those Parmesan muffins. After all, the other way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.” The woman stood. “For that matter, I don’t know how I ended up telling a perfect stranger so many details about my life. You were so kind to listen. And to offer such practical advice. I feel much better now.” As she walked by me she smiled, and her entire face was transformed. I found myself thinking of her as beautiful mere moments after thinking exactly the opposite.

  “What did you do to her?” I asked.

  Mimsey blinked her innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Did you glamour her?” I’d read about glamouring in Spellwork for Dummies. And given the older woman’s youthful appearance, I could only imagine how good she was at such things.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She was always a gorgeous woman. Over time life got heavier, and her husband started looking around. The more he did that, the uglier she saw herself, because she was judging herself through his eyes and not her own. It’s a scenario that plays out over and over, all around us. Hardly rocket science, dear. She only had to be made aware.”

  “What about sending her home with those muffins that Lucy magically primed? Isn’t a spell for fidelity interfering with her husband’s will? I thought that was verboten.”

  “Oh, Katie. Giving a love boost t
o two people who are already in love but have managed to forget it isn’t introducing anything new to their relationship. It’s a reminder more than interference.”

  I harrumphed.

  “Besides,” she said, “Lucy has a fine touch. Her hedgewitchery never forces. It only … encourages.”

  Shrugging, I chewed my last bite of muffin while pondering what magical effect it might have on me. Knowing my gentle aunt, I probably didn’t need to worry. Much.

  Absently, I reached over to realign a book on the shelf next to me. It was one of the ones the spellbook club had brought to the bakery the first time I met them: Self-Defense for Pacifists. Curious, I pulled the heavy tome out and flipped the pages. Huh. The suggestions to kick out your attacker’s knee, poke your fingers in his eyes, jam your heel into his instep and hit him in the throat with your fist seemed a bit violent for most pacifists. The emphasis seemed to be on doing anything you could do to protect yourself without outright killing the other person.

  As I slipped the book back on the shelf, a brash voice drifted over from where a large woman stood talking to Ben at the register. “I declare, Mr. Eagel. That woman got what was coming to her. I don’t condone that kind of violence, mind you, but everyone knew Mavis Templeton was difficult at best and truly dangerous if you crossed her. I never had any real truck with her, thank the good Lord, but I know her nephew. Heavens, the things he had to put up with! Fetching and carrying, driving her around, running errands—always at her beck and call.”

  My tired feet forgotten, I launched upright and then toned down my approach to look a bit more casual than I felt. Albert Hill was high on my list of suspects, and not just because I disliked him so much. Still, how handy would it be for him to be the murderer? It would be hard for him to sue anyone from prison.

  “You know Albert, then,” I said over my shoulder as I removed the grounds from the big drip coffeemaker behind Ben and dumped them in the compost bucket.

  Her horsy face swung toward me. “Oh, my, yes. Such a nice young man.”

  Ben and I exchanged poker-faced looks.

  “He and that friend of his helped me with the arrangements after my husband died. We never had children, you know.”

  I tried smiling my sympathy at her.

  “Well,” she continued, “if it weren’t for dear Albert and that friend— What was his name?” She peered at me as if I might really have an answer.

  I held my palms up to the ceiling. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  She looked down at the floor and tapped her foot. “The name is on the tip of my tongue. Right there. I can almost taste it. Edward … Evan … Ethan! His name was Ethan, just like Ethan Frome!”

  My brain wrenched at the juxtaposition of Ethan Frome and the only Ethan I’d met since coming to Savannah. “Ethan Ridge? Was that his name?”

  She pointed a victorious finger at me. “Yes! You know him, too, then? What a sweet boy. He has some kind of pull in the mortuary business. He and Albert handled all the details of Harry’s cremation last year, and all I had to do was show up at the service.”

  “May I ask a question, Mrs. … ?” I offered my hand.

  “This is Mrs. Standish,” Ben said. “Mrs. Standish, this is my niece, Katie Lightfoot.”

  “Oh, I am so very pleased to meet you.” Her hand enveloped mine in a crushing grip.

  “Likewise,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “You had a question, dear?”

  Extricating my bruised digits from her grasp, I nodded. “I was just wondering whether you paid the funeral home directly, or if you gave the full amount to Albert and Ethan.”

  “Only to Albert,” she said. “He paid all the bills for me. It was such a relief to have all that worry off my hands.”

  Ben and I exchanged another look.

  “I imagine it was,” I said. “Here, let me give you a few little pies to take with you.”

  “Oh! How generous of you! They look absolutely scrumptious.” Half of one went immediately into her mouth.

  “We want our customers to be happy,” Ben said with a grin. “And, of course, for them to tell their friends if they enjoy our baked goods.”

  She swallowed. “Yummy! I’ll be sure to tell everyone I know, Mr. Eagel. We’ll get the whole town in here! Toodle-loo!”

  We watched her considerable backside sway out the door, two bags of goodies in one large hand while the other guided the remaining half of the mini-pie to her lips. When the door had closed behind her, Ben glanced around at the half-populated tables to see if anyone could hear, then leaned close to me.

  “What was that all about?” he whispered.

  In a low voice, I said, “It turns out Ethan Ridge used to dabble a bit in fraud. Steve told me he went to prison after being convicted of assault. He’d conned a man into buying nonexistent cemetery plots, and when the man found out about it he challenged Ethan. Ethan’s solution was to beat him up.”

  Ben shook his head. “Cemetery plots, and now contacts with a mortuary. Makes me wonder whether Harry Standish was actually cremated at all.”

  I grimaced. “Preying on the grief-stricken is the worst. And if Ethan is back to his old ways, it sounds like he has a partner in Albert Hill. Who, it’s rumored, is willing to cross to the other side of the law if there’s money in it.”

  Two men with motives to murder a cranky old woman. Ethan hadn’t seemed too fond of Albert. Though in truth he’d only said it was good that I wasn’t his friend. That didn’t mean he wasn’t Albert’s friend. According to Mrs. Standish, the two men were friends, but the look on Albert’s face when he’d screeched out of the Peachtree Arms and almost hit Declan and me had been anything but friendly.

  Could they have done it together? Or had one chivvied the other into killing Mrs. Templeton? It was a stretch to imagine Ethan convincing Albert to kill his own aunt, but it was possible. Albert struck me as a potentially violent and definitely immoral man. But it was easier to imagine him convincing Ethan to commit murder. After all, the apartment manager had an official history of hands-on brutality and felt Mrs. Templeton had forced him into a life he didn’t want to lead.

  Plus, there would be plenty of inheritance money that Albert could use to pay for services rendered.

  Detective Quinn made me wait on hold for almost fifteen minutes before he took my call, but I pushed away the idea that he would do something like that out of spite. When he finally came on the line, I changed my mind about that.

  “There’s a new connection between Albert Hill and Ethan Ridge—”

  He interrupted me. “I told you to stop asking questions, Ms. Lightfoot. Do I have to force you to comply?”

  “Hey, wait a minute. First off, I found this out from a simple conversation with a Honeybee customer. And second, what do you mean, ‘force me to comply’?”

  “I can arrest you for obstructing justice.” He didn’t sound like he was kidding.

  “That’s ridiculous.” I tried to imbue my words with amused verve. It didn’t work.

  “Is it?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He sighed. “Probably not. But I could. Don’t you see? Someone out there broke a woman’s neck. On the street. In the middle of the day. The idea of you poking that bear gives me the willies.”

  “But you think my own uncle did it! Good heavens, doesn’t that give you the willies?”

  His voice hardened. “And you’re trying to protect him. I understand that, at least in theory. But I’m good at my job, and you need to trust me.”

  Did I mention I rarely trust people who tell me to trust them?

  “Albert Hill and Ethan Ridge are not people you want to mess with. You have to trust me on that, too.” His condescending tone made me want to kick something.

  “What, are you afraid Albert’s going to sue you?” I couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  The silence on the other end of the line dragged on for a painfully long time. Finally Detective Quinn said, “Now that i
s exactly the kind of thing I don’t want you to go around doing.”

  “What?”

  “Pissing people off.” And he hung up on me.

  Chapter 19

  Stunned, I slowly replaced the office phone in its cradle. I didn’t go around making people angry at me. Not Katie Lightfoot. Uh-uh.

  Except … I had. Detective Quinn had made me mad first, of course, with his patronizing attitude and his insistence on viewing Ben as a suspect. Still, it wasn’t like me to be so defiant in the face of authority. I’d always followed the rules, careful to dot my i’s and cross my t’s.

  Maybe Mama was right. Maybe Lucy was turning me into a whole different person.

  Or maybe it was simply the confidence that resulted from knowing who—and what—I was.

  I stood and began pacing back and forth in the small space.

  At any rate, it was obvious Quinn didn’t care about what I’d learned, and he wouldn’t follow up with Albert or Ethan. Frankly, I wasn’t much for confronting Albert, either. For one thing, his vitriolic attitude made it unlikely he’d give me the time of day.

  Not to mention he smelled bad.

  However, I was up for another visit to Ethan. Perhaps Cookie would be available to help again, to use her Voice to impel him to give some answers. It had worked pretty well before.

  At least at first. The effect of her Voice had seemed relatively short-lived.

  I had my Voice, though.

  Nah. That would be stupid, right? No matter my heredity or the innate ability Lucy was so convinced about, I was a newbie witch. Going around and using what must be a pretty rusty Voice to get people to talk made no sense. Not to mention how badly it had backfired the one time I remembered using it.

  Besides, I was haunted by the whole Rule of Three thing Bianca had told me about. My gut—and almost three decades of life experience—told me she was right. I paused in my pacing and leaned against the desk. Despite a murder and the police suspecting Uncle Ben, life was better than it had been for a very long time. No way was I going to start messing with karma now.

  So I needed someone other than Cookie to go with me. My thoughts flew to Steve Dawes. After all, he was a witch and a man. Double your protection, double your fun. But I didn’t know him well enough to trust what he’d do if confronted. In other words, I’d only just discovered he was a witch, and I didn’t know what kind of witch.