Witches and Wedding Cake

by Bailey Cates

  Effie’s face cleared. “Mimsey.”

  “And this is my friend, Katie Lightfoot.”

  She didn’t even look at me. “Of course. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, dear. The question is, how are you?”

  The other woman looked blank for a moment, and I suddenly had the horrible thought that she didn’t know Tucker was dead. Then her face cleared, and she looked down.

  “Well, it was quite a shock when the police told me this morning. It had been weeks since I’d seen Tucker, though. We weren’t, you know, together anymore.”

  Mimsey reached over the bar and patted her hand. “Still, it must be difficult.”

  Effie began to nod, then her lips pressed together, and she shook her head instead. “I would never wish him dead. I wouldn’t wish anyone dead. But that man lied to me like you wouldn’t believe.”

  I believed her—on both counts.

  “Oh, dear.” Mimsey gave a sympathetic shake of her head.

  “Over-the-top lies. Like when we were first dating? He told me his uncle had left him a million dollars but that he could only have access to the trust if he could prove he was truly happy. He said maybe I could make him truly happy.”

  Mimsey’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, dear!”

  “Can you believe that load of guacamole? I didn’t exactly fall for it, you know. I mean, it was too cheesy, like something out of a movie.” She paused. “But there was something so romantic about it, too.”

  “Like out of a movie,” Mimsey said.

  I stayed quiet as a mouse, not wanting to break the spell. So to speak.

  “He lied about quitting his job at the vacation rental place—he was fired—and about where he was sometimes.” Her nostrils flared. “And who he was seeing. Oh, and his latest whopper? He said he’d won the lottery. The lottery. Told me if I came back to him, we’d run away to live on some beach someplace. Just another movie script. Can you believe it?” Her face was a mix of emotion.

  Mimsey opened her mouth to speak, but Effie barreled on. “Well, I sure didn’t. Money doesn’t grow on trees, my mother has always said. And I didn’t believe Tucker when he said he wasn’t seeing another woman, either. Because I think he was, no matter how much he denied it.”

  “Oh?” my friend prompted.

  “All of a sudden, he seemed different. Like, somehow more appealing. If he hadn’t lied to me so much, I might have been fooled. But right about then, he started wearing this big ol’ ring, and he wouldn’t take it off, ever.”

  “A ring?” Mimsey leaned forward. Though her demeanor didn’t change, I could tell she was excited. “Where did he get it?”

  “Exactly! I know someone gave it to him, someone he didn’t want me to know about, because he wouldn’t tell me. He said he bought it at one of those stupid estate sales he was always working at. All week setting up, and then all weekend selling other people’s old crap to people who didn’t need it. No time for me at all. Like it would take that much time to put a bunch of price tags on stuff.” Shaking her head, she mused. “But Lordy, that man could sell, I’ll give him that.” Then she exhaled an angry huff of air. “He sold me a bill of goods, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m so sorry, Effie,” Mimsey said with genuine sincerity. “I’m glad you’re going to be able to move on now. And the police have already spoken with you?”

  “They came by my apartment this morning. Apparently Tucker still had me in his phone contacts. I felt like I was really getting over him, and then that detective got me all riled up again. When work called to see if I could bartend for a shift, I leaped at the chance.” Suddenly, her eyes welled up, and she choked out, “To keep busy, you know.”

  Mimsey nodded. “Of course, honey. You don’t know whether to feel sad or mad or glad, do you?”

  Speechless, Effie shook her head.

  The older witch patted her hand again. “Well, don’t you worry. It sounds like things were quite complicated between you two. There’s no right way to handle all this, and nothing you feel is wrong. Understand?” I thought I heard her Voice again but couldn’t be sure.

  Either way, Effie seemed to relax. “Thank you. It’s helped to talk about it.”

  “I’m so glad.” Mimsey slid off the chair.

  Apparently, we were leaving. I desperately tried to figure out how on earth I could ask Tucker’s ex if he traced designs on his face with shaving cream on a regular basis without her thinking I had totally lost my mind when Mimsey turned and spoke again.

  “Effie, honey?”

  “Yes, Mimsey?”

  “Which estate sale company did Tucker work for?”

  “Gibson Estate Sales. It’s a husband and wife team.”

  “And darlin’, what did that ring of Tucker’s look like?”

  “Oh. Well, it was big, like I said. Gold, with these weird squiggles carved into the sides, you know? And there was a big ruby in the middle. One time, I noticed more squiggles under the ruby itself, like it was set over a, what do you call it? A signet.”

  “Yes, a signet ring,” Mimsey said, arching an eyebrow at me. “Now I want you to take good care of yourself, Effie. And you’ll be just fine.” Again, a thread of her Voice rode the words. It wasn’t a command; more like permission.

  “Thank you.” Tucker’s ex-girlfriend’s voice held true relief.

  As we stepped onto the sidewalk, I said, “You never cease to surprise me.”

  “Oh?”

  “First off, the way you use your Voice. Can you teach me how to do that?” Even though it was strong, I was extremely reluctant to use my Voice. Actually, because it was so strong. After all, I’d nearly killed Declan with it one time. Believe me, there’s nothing like stopping the heart of the man you love with a single word to test a relationship. We’d survived that test, but I’d kept my Voice under wraps since then.

  Well, mostly.

  “Over time, you’ll become more adept,” Mimsey said.

  I sighed. “Maybe. You’re so good, though. Such a light touch. I bet you could hire out to the police. Get the bad guys to confess right away.”

  “Pfft. I try to do what I can when I can. As you know, one must be judicious in the use of any power that manipulates others.” She stopped by her car and gave me a broad smile. “But sometimes using that power can help a confused young woman and at the same time net you a clue in a murder investigation.”

  Frowning, I waited while Mimsey unlocked the car from her side, and we got in. After she started the engine, I asked, “The ring? Because I noticed he was wearing a big ruby ring when he visited Rori.”

  “Indeed, the ring. I’ll bet anything that ring contained a sigil—or two—that invoked Tucker Abbott’s glamour.”

  “Wow.”

  “Especially the one hidden by the ruby. My guess is that Tucker had a natural glamour as a part of his charismatic personality. Effie said after he started wearing the ring, he seemed to have even more appeal.”

  “And Rori said she didn’t remember him being so mesmerizing back when they were married. I put it down to familiarity.”

  Mimsey’s eyes twinkled. “That might be part of it, but I think that ring gave his glamour an extra oomph, as it were. Another layer.”

  As she pulled onto the street, I considered. “You wouldn’t just find a cool ring and put it on and, boom, you’re even more glamorous than before, right?”

  Mimsey tipped her head. “Not likely. The power of the ring would have to be focused.”

  “So Tucker must have had some training in magic, right?”

  “Perhaps. Or he found someone else to invoke the power for him. It could be done.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Who would do that?”

  Mimsey shook her head. “Someone he knew. Someone he hired. Who knows?”

  She parked near Vase Value. We got ou
t and started walking. Suddenly, I stopped dead in my tracks. Closed my eyes. Tried to envision the motel room. Tucker prone on the floor. When my eyes popped open, Mimsey was watching me with an expectant expression.

  “What is it?”

  “I was trying to remember if I’d seen that ring on Tucker’s hand at the motel.”

  Her eyes widened. “You saw him?”

  “Yeah, I sneaked a look when no one was watching.”

  She grinned, a reaction that should have surprised me, but by now didn’t. “And the ring?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t remember it. But I don’t think his hands were in view. And I could have easily missed seeing it, even if I’d been looking right at it. The scene was pretty unpleasant.”

  She sobered. “Of course it was. Perhaps Peter Quinn can tell you if Tucker was wearing his ring.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “And Mims? Thanks for lunch. Even if we had an ulterior motive for going to Belford’s, it was such a nice respite.”

  Beaming, she said, “You’re so welcome, dear. We should do it more often.”

  Chapter 13

  Back at the bakery, Mungo settled in for a nap in his bed on a bottom shelf in the reading area. I texted Detective Quinn to ask if Tucker had been wearing a ruby ring when he died, then I quickly donned an apron. Iris had finished mixing up the sourdough for the next day’s baking and was cleaning up the kitchen. Lucy chatted with a customer at the register. Ben was nowhere to be seen. I looked around for whatever might need doing and spied the half-empty pastry case.

  When Lucy’s customer left, I said, “It must have been a busy lunch rush. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. Mimsey insisted I go to lunch with her. I mean, there was someone I wanted to talk to at the restaurant, but still—”

  “Katie, we were fine,” Lucy broke in with an easy smile. “Relax.”

  Maybe I wasn’t indispensable, as Mimsey had said. I had to admit, I felt a bit ambivalent about that. Nice to think I might be able to take a day off now and again, but also, it was nice to be needed.

  “Where’s Ben?” I looked around as if he might have suddenly materialized without my noticing.

  “He had an errand to run. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Okay. Well, at least I can restock the case,” I said, starting back to the kitchen.

  “M’kay,” Lucy said in a distracted tone. She was looking at her phone.

  “Everything okay?”

  “What?” She looked up. “Oh. Of course.” She slipped her phone into her pocket.

  I filled the trays with chocolate peanut butter muffins, sour cream donuts, and the cheddar sage scones that had been on the menu since the day we opened. I’d bent over to arrange slices of caramel apple coffee cake on the tray on the bottom shelf when a loud voice floated through the air.

  “Yoo-hoo! Katie!”

  “Hello, Mrs. Standish,” I said without looking up. I’d know that voice anywhere. She’d been one of our first customers and continued to be one of our best, frequenting the Honeybee nearly every day.

  “Oooh, look at that,” she said, sounding like a Southern Julia Child with a bullhorn. “Itty-bitty key lime hand pies. I just love key lime pie!”

  I stood and gave her a wide smile. Today, Edna Standish wore a zebra-print caftan with several strands of shiny onyx beads looped around her neck and a white scarf artfully tied over her iron gray hair in lieu of her usual turban. Her nails glittered vermilion, as did her lips, but lipstick was her only makeup. Her astute gaze raked the pastries I’d restocked before rising to meet mine.

  “We’re thinking of putting those pies on the regular menu,” I said. “Perhaps full-sized versions. That flavor is so nice in the heat, you know.” Though we had a list of popular items not on the regular menu, which we mined for the daily specials, sometimes we tried out new recipes we wanted feedback on. If they were a hit, they often went into rotation on the regular menu. The key lime mini pies were new, and obviously a big hit since there were only ten left.

  “I’ll take all of those, honey.”

  Make that none left.

  “And throw in a half dozen of those brookies. And a chocolate croissant. Wait, is that chocolate?”

  “Hazelnut spread, actually.”

  “Oooh! I’ll take two, then.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “And what’s that?” She pointed.

  “I was making samples for my tiered cupcake wedding cake,” I said. “Those are hummingbird muffins.”

  “With pineapple on top? Oh, honey, I’m going to love that wedding cake! What an excellent idea! I’ll take three. And how are the wedding plans going?” she asked as I unfolded a box and began loading her order into it.

  “Everything seems to be fine. Though there is one hitch.”

  “Uh-oh!”

  “Judge Matthews had to go to Chicago for a family emergency and can’t perform the ceremony.”

  “Oh, no! Do you want me to make some inquiries?”

  “Do you have anyone in mind? I don’t suppose Skipper Dean might be able to do it? Since, you know, he’s the captain of a boat.” Skipper Dean was Mrs. Standish’s patient paramour and also a frequent customer.

  She brayed out a laugh. “Oh, no, honey. I don’t think that would be a good idea. Even if it was legal, and I don’t think it is in the state of Georgia—you really need to be a judge or magistrate or some kind of clergy before they’ll let you marry anyone—he’s terribly shy in a crowd. Any kind of public speaking, and he freezes like a deer in the proverbial headlights.”

  “Really? He seems so confident.”

  “Well, he is, of course. It’s just more of a one-on-one confidence.”

  I sighed. “It was a long shot anyway.” Then something occurred to me. “Say, you know a little something about how estate sales work, don’t you? I seem to remember you were in a service group that organized them.”

  “Oh, Lordy.” She rolled her eyes. “I was younger then. It’s so much work! You have to inventory everything, and then do all sorts of research to determine value. You have to clean things up, then arrange it all nicely and tag everything. Then there’s the sale itself, with scads of people coming through the house to see what kind of bargains they can finagle. And that’s only half of it.” She started to shake her head, then paused and leaned forward to peer at me. “Why do you ask? Do you know someone who requires that kind of service? Because there are at least two professional companies in town that can take care of all the details.”

  “Is one of them Gibson Estate Sales?”

  She nodded. “Jake and Serena Gibson are quite reputable. Whose estate are we talking about?”

  I hesitated. “Well, no one’s really. You see . . .” I trailed off, unsure how to explain why I wanted to know.

  Mrs. Standish’s face suddenly lit up. “You’re on the hunt again, aren’t you?” she cried with such obvious delight, I had to suppress a smile. “Who died?”

  Quickly, I glanced around the bakery. Sure enough, her booming enthusiasm had drawn the attention of half the customers sitting at the bistro tables. I flicked a look at the reading area and debated whether it would be a good place to talk. Almost immediately, I decided against it.

  “Mrs. Standish, perhaps you’d like to come back to the office?”

  “Pshaw.” She stepped around the register and marched into the kitchen with alacrity. Surprised, I trailed behind, gesturing weakly toward the open office door. Inside, she started to sit in the club chair.

  “No! Wait. Sorry. Let me move the blanket. Mungo sleeps here a lot, and I’m sure his fur is all over.”

  “All right,” she said placidly, then sank into the chair once I’d removed its protective covering. “Now, dish.” She looked at me expectantly.

  “You’re right,” I said. “There is a case. It’s Declan’s sister’s ex-husba
nd.”

  “Oh, dear. He’s not the one who was killed at the Spotlight Motel, is he?”

  “How did you know?”

  She tsked. “I saw Mr. Dawes’ story in the News. Such a shame. The Spotlight used to be such an adorable place, back in the day when motels provided welcome respite to car travelers. Motor hotels, or motor courts, they called them. Wholesome, family friendly, reasonable. But now the Spotlight has a rather unsavory reputation, you know.” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Tell me more.”

  “I don’t know a lot more than what was in the paper,” I said. “Except I learned that the victim worked for Gibson Estate Sales, and I’m wondering about a ring he may have bought at one of the sales.”

  “Sounds delightfully mysterious. Would you like for me to make an appointment to talk with the Gibsons?”

  “You know them?”

  “My service group has worked with Jake before. I’d be happy to call and arrange a meeting.”

  I did some mental calculations regarding the next day’s schedule. “Thank you so much, but I think Rori and I will drop in on them tomorrow morning before the rest of Declan’s family arrives.”

  Mrs. Standish was shaking her head. “Oh, no, dear. Dropping in won’t do. The chances of catching either of the Gibsons in their office are infinitesimal. They spend most of their time organizing the contents of the houses they’re liquidating, assessing the value of items, working with dealers and thrift stores, and even putting things on eBay if they don’t sell. It can be an enormous job, clearing out someone’s house. Often, you’re finding homes for the pieces and parts of an entire lifetime.”

  “Oh, gosh. That sounds heartbreaking,” I said.

  “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s a fresh start. Either way, hiring it out is often the most painless way to proceed. The problem is, sometimes a company like that will work several weeks out. How soon do you need to talk with them?”