Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (17 page)

“Stevie?” I couldn’t help repeating with a wide grin.

He rolled his eyes. “Katie, this is Nel Sandstrom. How long has it been?”

“Hi, again,” Nel said to me, and when Steve looked surprised she explained. “I’ve
been looking for a job, and stopped into the bakery where your friend works.”

“She more than works there,” Steve said. “Katie and her aunt and uncle own the Honeybee.”

“So are you the one I should thank for that burnt toffee biscotti?”

I nodded. “It’s my personal recipe.”

“Scrumptious,” she declared. Then to Steve. “It’s been at least fifteen years since
I’ve seen you, darlin’.”

“Well, you look just the same, Miss Nel.” He could turn on the charm like you switch
on the bathroom light in the middle of the night. “And if you’re job hunting I assume
you’re back in town for good?”

“For a while, at least. You know I had to come back to…” She glanced at me. “To take
care of Daddy’s affairs.”

He nodded. “Of course. I’m surprised I haven’t run into you before now.”

“Well, I came for the funeral, of course. You weren’t there, I noticed. Then I had
to return to settle some things in Athens. Now I’m back for good.”

“I am sorry about missing your father’s memorial,” he said. “I was out of town.”

She patted him on the arm. “Oh, that’s all right. There was quite the turnout for
the judge, though. It was nice to see.”

“Father told me.”

I’d been listening with a bit of impatience, frankly, wanting to track down Cookie
and head home. It was getting late, and I felt like I’d learned all I could about
Brandon Sikes for the evening. But then Steve’s gaze snagged mine, and something in
his eyes gave me pause.

Dead father of a fiftysomething woman who lived in Athens. A judge.

I quirked an eyebrow and asked, “Your father was Judge Sandstrom?” Dragoh number six,
who had died without male issue.

Steve winced.

“I’m sorry about your father,” I said, ignoring his dramatic shoulder slump. “A friend
of mine is a lawyer, and she’d mentioned him as someone she respected a great deal.”

“Thank you.”

“So, any luck with the job hunt so far?”

“Not yet, but something will turn up soon. It always does.” Her words made me think
of Cookie’s laissez-faire attitude. “I don’t really need the money, but I like to
keep busy, love to bake, and would like to meet some new people. As you heard me tell
your boyfriend here, I’ve been gone from Savannah for quite some time.”

Steve stepped to my side. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find the right thing, Nel. You’ve
always been lucky that way.”

I cocked my head. What did he mean by that?

“You’ve seen Brandon?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. After the food fight.” Her laugh was
strained. “That man could certainly charm the ladies, couldn’t he?”

“Brandon Sikes?” I asked, wondering if he glamoured more than his paintings.

“Oh, no. Though he does just fine. Has a new little filly just tonight.”

My heart sank. Cookie had better not do anything stupid.

“No, I meant the man who started that food fight from beyond the grave,” Nel said.
“Lawrence Eastmore. He always had more ladies flocking around him than seemed justified
to me. Quite the player, for an old guy.” She winked.

My smile in return felt weak.

“I’m going to kill Cookie.” I shook my head in frustration and leaned one hip against
the hood of the Bug.

In the aftermath of the food fight I’d seen her talking animatedly with Nel, and then
a few minutes later she’d hustled over to me and said, “Just wanted to let you know
Brandon is giving me a ride home, Katie. No worries.”

But I
was
worried. When Steve and I had left the party she’d been draped over Brandon Sikes’
arm all gooey-eyed. I had to admit he’d looked pretty smitten, too. I just hoped he
drove her to her home, not his, and that she kept her head on straight.

Nel had walked out of the gallery with us and driven away in a bright red MINI Cooper.
Steve and I had walked on, half a block farther, to where I’d parked, and now he put
his elbows on the roof of my car. “Well, you wanted to find out more about Brandon,”
he said. “If anyone can do that it’ll be Cookie.”

“I’m not afraid of what she’ll find out about him. I’m afraid of what he’ll find out
about her. I should have known better. She was so excited to meet him.” I
banged my hand on the metal. “Ow. But I should have known better,” I repeated.

Steve laughed. His Land Rover was parked the next block down.

As we strolled to my car, I quickly filled Steve in on what Andersen Lane had told
us about the Spell of Necretius.

“I don’t know what he was thinking, getting your spellbook club involved with something
like that,” he said, forehead creased with worry.

“Now who’s being sexist?”

“That’s not it at all. I know how formidable you ladies can be. But why didn’t he
tell me?”

I shrugged, unwilling to point out the obvious: Andersen might suspect Heinrich of
killing Eastmore in order to get the spell. If so, he would hardly involve Steve.

“What time did Brandon Sikes arrive at your father’s house?” I asked. In the gallery,
Nel Sandstrom had interrupted our conversation before I’d had the chance to ask whether
the double alibi Steve had offered for his father and Sikes covered the entire window
of time from five p.m. until two a.m.

“About eight. But we’d been at a function with him since four.”

Well, that answered that.

“Get in,” I said, pulling my sweater close around my shoulders. The night had turned
cool. “I’ll give you a ride down to where you’re parked.”

He opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. I settled behind the wheel. “I’m
not being a prude, you know. Cookie has been running her own life for a long time
without my help. But Sikes could be dangerous.”
I waited for a Prius to pass by, then pulled out of the parking space.

“I know he comes across as kind of a skirt-chaser,” Steve said, “but I’m certain she
can handle him.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. “For all our sakes.”

“You know, I’m kind of glad you know about the society,” he said. “I don’t like keeping
secrets from you.”

My eyes cut toward him, then returned to the street ahead. “Do you have any other
secrets you feel like sharing?”

He laughed.

I slowed for a pedestrian. “That’s not exactly an answer.”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “No. No other secrets. My life is an open book.”

“Right.”

“Seriously. You can ask me anything. But you know most of my life is totally normal,
even boring. Just like yours is. Practicing magic is just part of it.”

“I like my life,” I said. “And I love learning about magic. But you’re right—normal
and boring can be awful nice.”

I double-parked next to his car. It gleamed black and shiny in the moonlight, reminding
me of how much money Steve came from.

He reached for the door handle, then paused. Turning, he leaned close. “Katie-girl.”
His warm breath against my skin gave me instant quivers. “Things are crazier than
I ever thought they’d get. It makes me regret the time we’ve wasted.”

“Oh, Steve. I don’t think—”

“You need to stop playing around. You know we’re supposed to be together.”

I felt my jaw slacken.

“Think about it. Seriously.” He got out of the car and shut the door. Leaned down
and spoke through the open window. “Please? That’s all I ask.”

Stunned, I watched him get into his Land Rover. Then I tromped on the accelerator
and drove away.

We’re supposed to be together?
What did that even mean?

Had that been a declaration of love?

Did I want it to be?

 * * *

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep great that night. Still, I dipped into my stash of
Lucy’s seven-layer bars, the ones she laced with agrimony, and managed to eke out
a few hours.

Early the next morning I awoke feeling a bit foggy. Normally I would have shaken it
off with a run, but venturing alone into the dark predawn felt dangerous now. I hated
that, resented that someone could make me feel that way.

Half an hour of yoga and a nice long shower did wonders for both body and mind, though.
As I slipped into my work clothes I eyed the tie-dyed skirt and glittery tank from
the night before, now laid over the back of the chair in the bedroom. For this morning’s
investigative adventure I decided not to pull any punches. Forget casual Bohemian.
I had the perfect suit to wear to a late October breakfast with Savannah’s political
bigwigs.

At least I thought it was perfect. And that was what counted.

“I’m going to be at the fund-raiser with Bianca for most of the morning,” I reminded
Mungo. “You don’t mind staying here today, do you?”

He knew I didn’t like to leave him at the bakery when I wasn’t there. It was enough
that we were breaking all sorts of food police rules by letting him stay in the office
so much. But, heck, it wasn’t like he was out in the kitchen romping in the cookie
dough or anything.

Yip!

“Good. You want me to have Margie bring the JJs over to play?”

He looked disinterested, which I took for, well, disinterest. He loved playing with
the kids, but sometimes they could be a bit much for his sensibilities.

“You want the TV on, I suppose?”

Yip!

Looking at the ceiling, I shook my head. “Okay.”

I climbed up to the loft that overlooked the living room, and he bounded up the narrow
stairs behind me. Once he was settled into the pillows on the small settee, I turned
on the TV and flipped to his favorite channel: the Soap Opera Network. “I’ll leave
your lunch downstairs, okay?”

He ignored me. I’d discovered over the past few months that my familiar
really
liked soap operas. It was like a sickness.

Leaving him to his newfound addiction, I opened the secretary desk Lucy had given
me. The folding desk fit in the tight quarters of the carriage house and perfectly
hid my makeshift altar. A lace shawl Nonna Sheffield had knitted covered the wooden
surface and provided the backdrop for my chalice (a small, swirly glass bowl from
the flea market), a worn vintage paring knife that suited this baker’s idea of a ritual
athame, a collection of stones gathered by rivers and on
lakeshores, an Indian arrowhead my dad had given me, and a brilliant blue feather
that had drifted into the gazebo only weeks before.

Now I fingered the delicate stitches my witchy grandmother had knitted and wondered
again whether she’d imbued the piece with magic of some kind. Though I suspected she
had, I’d probably never know for sure. It probably didn’t matter, either.

My grimoire sat on a shelf above the objects on the altar, reminding me that I hadn’t
updated it for a couple of days now. I thought of it as a kind of recipe book for
spells. In six months I’d recorded my casting attempts, what worked, what didn’t,
refining and honing as I went. I promised myself that when this was all over I’d catch
up.

Not that there was much to catch up on. Lawrence Eastmore getting himself killed had
thrown a real monkey wrench into my lessons with the spellbook club.

After touching each object on the altar, with a mental nod to the four elements they
represented, I closed the desk. Mungo didn’t budge when I ruffled his ears, so I went
down and cut up a portion of Steve’s leftover turkey Reuben, complete with sauerkraut
and dressing and part of a kosher pickle. It all went into a bowl that then went into
a larger bowl of ice to stay fresh for hours until Mungo felt hungry.

Lordy, the things I did for that dog.

Placing the whole shebang on the floor of the kitchen, I called good-bye, then took
my change of clothes out to the car. As I locked the front door I wondered what Steve
would say about Mungo’s soap opera habit. Or the fact that he wouldn’t eat dog food
but loved pickles and raisins.

Then I wondered why I’d bother to wonder such a thing, firmly pushing his vague request
the night before to the back of my mind.

Again.

 * * *

It was still pitch-black outside when I arrived at the Honeybee, and would be for
hours. I tied on a bright orange chef’s apron with the white bones of a skeletal torso
appliquéd on the front. I’d bought two—the other one was black—to add to my considerable
collection of vintage aprons. After preheating the ovens, I put the pans of sourdough
that had been rising overnight onto the racks to bake and mixed the batter for brown-butter-and-walnut
cupcakes, which would be the special for the day. Or were they muffins? Hard to tell
the difference when you mixed savory and sweet like that. I added a hefty dose of
powdered ginger to the batter, closing my eyes and invoking its influence to increase
energy, love, and courage. By the time Cookie arrived, I’d also mixed three kinds
of cookie dough and re-baked a batch of cranberry orange biscotti.

“You’re late,” I said, instantly regretting my tone.

She blinked at me with bleary eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep.”

Oh, dear. I rubbed my hand over my face, afraid to ask.

Cookie didn’t seem to notice. “Brandon and I sat down by the river and talked for
hours and hours last night. I barely made it home for a nap and a shower.” She twisted
up her still-wet hair, pinned it in place, and donned a Honeybee baseball cap. Then
she slipped the black skeleton apron over her head and reached behind to fasten it.

“What did you talk about?” My tone was carefully casual as I began stacking biscotti
in a large glass jar.

“Oh, gosh. Everything. Absolutely everything. We have so much in common! It’s like
we’ve known each other forever.” For being so tired she sure was enthusiastic.

I put the lid on the jar and leaned my hip against the counter. “What did you tell
him?”

She stilled. “About what?”

“About the fact that you’re a witch. About the spellbook club. About what you know
about him being a druid, the Dragoh Society, Lawrence Eastmore, and the Spell of Necretius.”
Frustration blew out on my words. Anger, too, I realized. And fear. Cookie could have
jeopardized everything the spellbook club was trying to do to find a killer and keep
an evil spirit at bay.