Witches and Wedding Cake

by Bailey Cates

  Then I saw the card taped to the mirror.

  Congratulations on your new chapter, Katie! Wishing you and Declan all happiness and love—and the most organized closet on the block!

  Blessed Be ~ Lucy, Mimsey, Bianca,

  Cookie, and Jaida.

  P.S. look in the cupboard above your scarves.

  My heart full from this show of love, I found my neatly arranged scarves and opened the cupboard above them. The scents of herbs and spices drifted into the rest of the closet, and I reached in to draw out the silken bag there. It was tied with a silver cord in a complicated series of knots. A sachet—an enchanted one. I held it to my nose and inhaled the fragrance of dried apples, cinnamon, ginger, jasmine, rosemary, and lavender. It was a heady mix, and all herbs and spices that invoked different aspects of love—adoration, fidelity, loyalty, respect, and desire. I could feel that Lucy and the others had triggered those qualities with a spell. I left the sachet on a shelf, so its magical essence could touch everything we wore.

  Stooping, I picked Mungo up and gazed around at the beautiful and tidy space one last time.

  “We have the best friends,” I whispered, then flipped off the light and went back out to the living room.

  Outside the French doors, the backyard was bathed in silvery light. The moon would be full the night before the wedding, but even in its waxing gibbous state, it cast a bold illumination that seemed to call to me. The closet had distracted me, but now I felt quivery all over again. There was something about Tucker Abbott’s death that was gnawing at me. My intuition hadn’t flared in the way it usually did when I encountered evil.

  But something was off.

  I needed to ground myself, to dispel the extra energy sparking under my skin and in my brain. I glanced over and noticed the corked bottle of red wine the ladies had left on the kitchen counter. Wine was great for grounding buzzing energy. However, I wanted my first night in the carriage house after the renovations to be with Declan, as husband and wife, so I’d be driving to his apartment still that night. Plus, it was late. Probably a good idea to forgo the wine.

  I stepped out to the back patio and stood there for a long moment. The fence that ran around the yard cast angled shadows onto the gardens Declan had helped me cut out of the sod when I’d first moved to Savannah. One patch was for vegetables, another for herbs, culinary and magical, and I’d recently added a small cutting garden. The bed by the back corner was devoted to magical plants—the yellow-flowered witch hazel I’d made my wand out of, hellebore, comfrey, angelica, wormwood, and more. In the center, a rowan sapling reached moonward, gracing the ground with the dark, lacy patterns of its leaf-strewn branches. Behind it, a small stream burbled its way across the corner of the property.

  A laugh drifted through the air from the Coopersmiths’ house, and I craned my head to look around the corner. The curtains at the back of the house were open, and I could see Margie sitting at her kitchen table, her phone in one hand and a Twinkie in the other. Ducking back, I decided against going out to the gazebo to cast the grounding spell I had been contemplating to calm my nerves. Instead, I went back inside, locked the double doors, turned off the light, and climbed the stairs to the loft.

  Mungo watched from below, then turned and trotted over to the front door. Flopping down in front of it, he put his head on his front paws and gazed up at me. My familiar had seen this movie before and was setting himself up as my sentry.

  Chapter 7

  There hadn’t been any boxes to unpack in the loft of the carriage house. The television was still at Declan’s, but on one of his days off he’d brought over his collection of DVDs and vinyl records, files, and other office-centric items. The new desk was already set up by the window, and the comfy sofa sat facing the empty space on the wall where the television would be mounted, a combination coffee table and ottoman in front of it.

  Smoke from the fire downstairs had stunk up this second level, but my insurance had paid for most of the furnishing to be replaced. The one thing I’d refused to replace was the wooden secretary’s desk tucked into an alcove near the top of the stairs. It wasn’t a working desk, at least not in the traditional way of thinking of one. Lucy had given it to me shortly after telling me about my gift, and my altar sat behind the drop-down lid, close at hand but hidden from everyday view. I’d had to move the desk into storage during the remodel construction, but I’d moved it back into the loft as soon as I’d been able and set up my altar again.

  It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn the wood still smelled faintly of smoke as I unhooked the hasp and lowered the dropleaf to rest horizontally. Then I lit three white candles and put them in a row along the top of the desk.

  I ran my fingertips over the lacy shawl that served as my altar cloth. My nonna, also a hedgewitch, had knitted it from fine cotton thread. Her love and magic were woven into the tiny, meticulous stitches, making it a touchstone for my own intentions when I was casting. Then I gently touched the items arranged on the lace in turn. A witch’s altar is very personal, and I’d gathered examples of the classic tools of magic that resonated with my particular sensibilities. The chalice, representing water, was a small hand-blown glass bowl I’d stumbled onto at a flea market on one of my rare days off from the Honeybee. Air was represented by an antique kitchen knife that served as my ritual athame, which rested gently on a collection of small feathers. Next to it, an Indian arrowhead perched on a cairn of smooth pebbles, representing the element of earth. And for fire, my witch hazel wand rested next to a two-inch figurine of a phoenix carved from red tourmaline. This last was a new acquisition, in honor of the carriage house metaphorically rising from the ashes.

  Once I’d connected with the items on my altar, I slowly closed my eyes. A soft doggy snore from my sentry downstairs made me smile. A few deep breaths helped to center me. This wasn’t a spell per se, not in the sense that I needed to cast a protective circle, invoke the elements, and the like. This was simply a way to get rid of the excess jittery energy I still felt after the evening’s events. It had been one of the first things Lucy had taught me, and though grounding energy was generally more effective on the actual ground, this was an alternative that would work.

  And hopefully, I might understand the feeling of wrongness in Tucker’s motel room. Of course, the whole situation had been wrong. A man was dead, after all. Although this wasn’t my first experience with such things, I hadn’t encountered that sense of magical ozone before.

  Standing in front of the altar, I reached out mentally and slowed my breathing.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  Eyes still closed, I raised my hands in front of my waist, palms facing one another. Drawing them toward each other, and then apart, I concentrated on the energy flowing between them. After a few times, I felt the resistance when I pushed my hands together. Breathing my intention into that space, I gathered my nervous tension there, molding it with my hands into an invisible but palpable ball of energy.

  My eyes popped open, and I focused on the swirly glass bowl, the chalice on my altar. With care, I moved my hands over the chalice and pushed my excess energy into the vessel, willing it to stay when I released it. I stepped away. The candles sputtered, then burned bright again.

  The ritual worked. I felt lighter, more at ease, and the tight muscles in my neck had loosened. Rolling my shoulders, I thanked the elements. I touched the lace of the altar cloth and thanked Nonna as well. Whether her spirit was nearby or not, I was grateful. So many times, she’d shown up to help me when I needed it, so I had the feeling she was never too far away.

  After extinguishing the candles, I reached for the chalice. Holding it carefully from the bottom, I carried it down the stairs and out the front door. Mungo padding behind me, I crossed the small porch to the rosemary topiary Lucy had planted by the front walk and kneeled beside it. Gently, I placed the bowl on the ground next to the rosemary and ti
pped it toward the plant.

  I could sense the energy flowing to the plant, neither good nor bad, simply an excess that I didn’t need or want. It seeped into the earth and into the resinous roots of the herb, from there dispersing through the leaves into the air and through the roots into the earth and the water it held. Some of it merged with the fiery verve of the herb itself, and I knew I’d added to its protective and feminine power.

  Standing again, I inhaled the warm, humid air and gave a nod to the waxing moon. The smell of night-blooming jasmine filled my nose, and in the distance, a train whistle faintly moaned. I smiled down at Mungo, and we went back inside. I returned the chalice to my altar and closed the secretary’s desk. I took one last look at the fabulous closet the spellbook club had organized, closed the shutters on the front windows, turned off the light, and locked the door. Soon, Mungo and I were on our way back to Declan’s apartment.

  The grounding ritual had removed the static that had been clouding my mind, and as I drove, I felt a new clarity of thought about the evening. At a light, I reached over and scratched Mungo behind the ear. He panted his appreciation.

  “You know what?” I asked. “There were remnants left over from a powerful spell in Tucker’s motel room. I thought maybe it was something Tucker did himself, but I’m not so sure now. I don’t know enough to tell Quinn, but I’m pretty sure it’s somehow related to his death.”

  Mungo made a noise in the back of this throat.

  I glanced down. “Yeah. I sure would like to ask Connell what he thinks about that.”

  Yip!

  Ah, Connell. Not just your run-of-the-mill spirit, but a leprechaun spirit, Connell had long been connected to the males of the McCarthy clan. He’d stayed in the background of Declan’s psyche until he’d inadvertently been brought out during a séance a couple of years before.

  It had sometimes been a difficult relationship between Declan and his resident spirit. Then last month a horrific thing had happened. In the course of returning my stolen magic back to me, Connell had sacrificed himself and been drawn far, far away.

  We’d thought he was gone altogether, but then he’d contacted me in a dream. Not my dream, but Declan’s. Apparently when I’d got my magic back, I received a little bonus—the ability to eavesdrop on others’ dreams within a certain proximity. Pretty cool in theory, but more of a pain in practice.

  With everything going on in the last month, I hadn’t had time to really explore my new ability. All I knew was that, because of it, I’d been in fleeting contact with Connell. We knew he was lost but had no idea how to find him.

  I arrived at the apartment and took Mungo around the block for a final walk before heading inside. As we ambled and Mungo stopped to check out the smells every six feet, I reviewed the evening at the Spotlight. I wondered whether Rori had really decided to go to the motel herself, or if Tucker had convinced her without her realizing it.

  “So say Tucker cast his glamour spell intentionally and also used his Voice on Rori. Would someone with that kind of talent need to sell a kitschy music box for money and live in a seedy motel when his girlfriend kicked him out?” I murmured out loud. “Seems like a stretch. There was magic in that room all right, but maybe it wasn’t his. I wonder if it’s possible to cast a glamour spell on someone else. But why would anyone do that?”

  A woman on the evening’s last walkies with her Yorkie glanced my way, and I pressed my lips together. But Mungo had heard and stopped to look up at me. His brown-eyed gaze didn’t hold any answers, though.

  We finished our perambulation and climbed the stairs to the apartment. Once inside, I raided the refrigerator for a snack. A piece of leftover baked Brie and a fresh peach for me, and a bit of leftover chicken stir-fry on jasmine rice for Mungo. I changed into a pair of soft shorts and a spaghetti tank in preparation for bed, then settled onto the couch with my laptop and a cup of chamomile tea.

  I was still hoping Quinn would find the killer among his suspects, but I couldn’t resist seeing what I could find out about Tucker Abbott online. Though I’d met him only the one time, he had definitely piqued my interest. Not in the way he probably piqued a lot of women’s interest, but because of the façade he seemed to so successfully employ. Eliza had called him a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and Quinn had said he was involved in some kind of fraud.

  First, I e-mailed the members of the spellbook club, thanking them for their work at the carriage house, the surprise closet arrangement, and the magical touch they’d added at the end. I’d thank them all in person, of course, but I wanted them to know right away how touched I was by all they’d done for Declan and me.

  A quick Internet search for Tucker Abbott brought up the usual ads for background checks. It was tempting, but they wanted me to pay for a subscription. Money was tight enough, and it wasn’t like I was going to use a subscription.

  I scrolled down, getting hits for other people with the name “Tucker.” I went back and enclosed the name in the search box in quotation marks so any results that didn’t have “Tucker Abbott” together would be eliminated.

  Bingo.

  Well, not so much bingo, I realized as I read. It was a business announcement from a few years back. A new vacation rental business, specific to Savannah and the surrounding area, had opened its doors in competition with the national vacation rental companies. Tucker was listed as an employee, and he was in the picture of the new staff in the article. Then I noticed the byline was one Steve Dawes. Back then, he’d taken a break from crime reporting to write a column on local businesses. It was how I’d met him in the first place, when he covered the grand opening of the Honeybee.

  What had Tucker said about how he’d found out Rori was in Savannah?

  I checked with my friend in the vacation rental business, and she told me your family was staying here for the week.

  I felt certain I was looking at his “friend” online right then. Was his job at the vacation rental place the same one he’d told Dayleen that he’d lost? But if he’d been fired, then why would anyone there tell him where to find Rori?

  Oh, Rori. What were you thinking, marrying this guy?

  At least she’d gotten out quickly. Then I remembered Eliza saying she’d never forgive Declan for introducing them.

  There’s a story there, I bet.

  I didn’t see any other results for Tucker Abbott. For someone who appeared to dabble on the edge of legality, perhaps on the other side as well, he had virtually no online presence. On the other hand, maybe that was part of living in his shadow world, namely staying in the shadows.

  I closed the laptop, put it on the coffee table, and beckoned to Mungo.

  “Come on, buddy. Let’s hit the sack.”

  It was midnight when we went to bed. My thoughts were still circling Tucker’s murder, but lazily. The grounding ritual was still working. I was nudging the softness of sleep when I had the strange sensation of something in my eye. Something huge. I tried to ignore it. Sometimes that helped, and it went away on its own. I knew there was nothing in my eye. The woman in the apartment next door had a recurring dream that she had a piece of popcorn stuck in her eye, and thanks to my newfound dream-sensing ability, I’d had the pleasure of having the sensation more than once. She was an avid dreamer, especially about food. At least I was able to tap into the sensations of her dreams only as I was drifting off, not all the time. But still, I was looking forward to not having anyone close enough to read except Declan and Mungo. Their dreams I had tapped into enough times that I was learning to manage it. Other people, not so much.

  The sensation got worse, until I came fully awake and it went away. I threw back the covers and padded out to the kitchen to retrieve my phone. One of the advantages of having a firefighter boyfriend was he didn’t mind when you texted him in the middle of the night at work.

  I e-mailed two possible alternatives to Judge Matthews, but haven’t
heard back. Strangers, though. Any ideas?

  I waited. It was possible he was taking a nap. After all, the men and women at the firehouse grabbed a bit of sleep whenever they could on a forty-eight-hour shift.

  However, about a minute later, he texted back.

  I do have an idea! Will follow up. In the middle of a call right now. Can’t chat.

  I sent him a thumbs-up and went back to join Mungo, who was still sprawled on the bed. It was nearly one when I drifted off again, but there was blessedly no sensation from the woman next door. I selfishly wished her a long, dreamless sleep for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 8

  Four a.m. saw me donning my running clothes and filling a water bottle. Mungo hadn’t budged from his spot at the foot of the bed. I left him to his slumber, well aware that he had no interest whatsoever in going on a run with me. Outside, the air was delightfully crisp and free from exhaust. The eastern sky was a bruise of purple and blue with a few strands of peachy tendrils reaching to the west. The scents of brugmansia and night phlox teased at my nose as I stretched, and then I set off. Farther from the landscaped gardens around the apartment building, the telltale scent of the local paper mills cut through the clear air. Ignoring it, I ducked my head and plowed along the four-mile route that had become my habit while living at Declan’s apartment complex.

  Back home, I showered and left for the bakery. Mungo looked sleepily out the car window as we drove. He wasn’t a morning dog, but he’d still managed to eat his scrambled egg breakfast. I’d passed on the eggs, figuring I’d grab something at the bakery.

  Inside the Honeybee, I flipped on the lights, started up the music, and set the ovens to preheat. The sourdough loaves that had been slowly rising overnight went in first. By the time they were sitting on the counter, their crisp crusts audibly crackling as they cooled, I had buttermilk rusks and pecan toffee cookies ready to pop in the ovens.