Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (2 page)

Declan shrugged and sat up. “That’s the story, anyway.” He was a big guy, but sitting
there grinning at me he looked all of fourteen years old. I couldn’t help but grin
back, and had to resist the urge to ruffle his dark curls.

Then he looked over my shoulder, and his smile faded. “Poor guy. Must be sleeping
it off.”

I turned to look where he pointed. It took a few moments, but then the dark outline
of a figure lying under a mature rhododendron bush became clear in the morning shadows.
Stripes of buttery sunshine cut obliquely across the bricks of the walkway and the
small expanse of grass, which made it even harder to see.

Squinting helped. It was a man. A large man. His
blue shirttail had come untucked from a pair of khaki slacks. I made out a worn brown
boot, caked with mud. A shiver ran down my back, and I Knew.

I pushed up to my feet. “I don’t think so, Deck.”

“Katie…”

Ignoring him, I walked swiftly toward the prone figure, Mungo at my heels.

“Katie!” He scrambled up. “What are you doing?”

Other than a woman reading the
Savannah Morning News
on a bench in front of the Coastal Bank on Bryan Street, no one was near the square.
The pathways were curiously empty. Silent, even. My steps slowed as I neared the five-foot-tall
rhododendron’s mottled shadow.

I stopped, reeling at the sight. The man lay half under the bush, but I could see
that dirt smeared the faded chambray fabric of his shirt. His slacks were dirty and
had a hole in the knee, and the one visible boot was heavily scuffed under its coating
of mud. His worn shirtsleeve brushed the edge of a tattoo on his left bicep, and below
that a sturdy black-and-silver watch hugged his wrist above a dirt-encrusted hand
devoid of rings. I leaned forward enough to make out the words
TAG Heuer
on the timepiece.

When I dared to look at the man’s face, I saw tanned skin, full lips, a hooked nose,
and bushy eyebrows sprouting beneath a high forehead. Thick white hair spread around
his head in an exaggerated halo. One side was streaked with deep red beginning to
dry to brown.

Almost against my will, my attention returned to the tattoo. It appeared to be some
kind of wreath, with three equidistant pairs of lines extending from it. There was
nothing the least bit threatening about it. So why
did the telltale shiver begin at the base of my neck, work its way down my spine,
and then make the return journey?

Mungo sniffed at the boot, then saw the tattoo. He made a little sound in the back
of his throat and jumped back, then blinked up at me with eyes full of doubt.

I nodded down at my familiar. “Yeah. I know.”

Just to make sure, I nudged the boot with the toe of my trail runner as Declan reached
my side. His fingers closed on my arm, ready to pull me away.

“Careful,” he whispered.

“No need.” I shuddered. “He’s dead.”

 * * *

“How exactly is it that you happened on this guy?” Detective Peter Quinn asked me,
running his fingers through his thick gray hair.

“Declan and I were having a picnic and saw him lying there.” I tried not to sound
defensive.

Quinn was a regular Honeybee customer, and had known Uncle Ben—Savannah’s former fire
chief—in a professional capacity for years. Unfortunately, I’d first met Quinn in
a professional capacity as well—his profession, not mine. He still brought up how
I’d barged into his murder investigation, though at least he usually smiled about
it.

He wasn’t smiling now. “So you spread a cozy blanket out on the grass and unpack your
little picnic, and then—
boom!
—you just happen to glance under a bush and there’s a dead man.”

“Well, we ate first,” Declan said.

The thought made all that lovely food in my stomach do a slow flip-flop. Mungo poked
his head up from the tote bag slung from my shoulder and glared at
Quinn. Around us, crime scene specialists poked and prodded the foliage, took pictures,
and dropped bits and pieces of who-knew-what into evidence bags. The whole square
was cordoned off, but the three of us stood inside one corner, off the street but
out of the way of the technicians trying to do their jobs.

The detective sighed. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about solving this crime
for me, Katie. I’m pretty sure the Savannah Police Department can handle the death
of a homeless man all by ourselves.”

“Homeless man? Did you see his watch?”

A short, slightly rotund man with an unfortunate comb-over broke loose from the knot
of people surrounding the rhododendron and its grisly guest and stomped toward us.
I watched him approach and tried to ignore the alarm bells ringing in the back of
my mind. When Quinn saw me looking over his shoulder, he stood and waited for the
other man to reach us.

“Katie Lightfoot, Declan McCarthy, this is my new partner, Detective Franklin Taite.”
Quinn smiled when he said it, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I turned to the newcomer. “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

“So you know these two?” Taite said to Quinn by way of greeting. A New York tang rode
under his words, tight and abrupt.

But Quinn smiled easily. “Katie and her aunt and uncle have the Honeybee Bakery down
on Broughton Street. Declan is a firefighter with Five House.”

“So what’s the story?” Taite demanded.

Declan and I repeated what we’d already told Detective Quinn. I ended with, “Do you
know who the victim is?”

Taite spoke to me with exaggerated patience. “Victim? Of what? There’s no official
determination of cause of death yet.”

I frowned. “Maybe not official, but he was assaulted. I saw the blood.”

Taite snorted. “I’m sure you like to watch those detective shows on television, Ms.
Lightfoot. But let’s try not to be sensational. Especially if the press starts asking
questions, all right? Wouldn’t want to get yourself in any trouble for speaking out
of turn, now, would you?”

Declan frowned at the mention of the press, and I knew he was thinking of my friendship
with crime-reporter-turned-columnist Steve Dawes—a friendship he heartily disapproved
of. A long-ago family tragedy had made enemies of those two, and my fondness for both
of them didn’t help matters a bit. I didn’t know if I would ever tell Declan I was
a witch, but I trusted him with my life. Steve, though—he knew I practiced magic because
he was also a witch. A sexy, intriguing male witch who made me crazy in more ways
than I liked to admit.

My thoughts came up short as I realized this balding jerk of a detective had just
threatened me. The heat of the day had increased and suddenly felt oppressive. The
cooling breeze from earlier had given way to a dank stillness. The ghost of Nathanael
Greene had abandoned us all.

Taite stepped closer. Mungo leaned out of my tote bag and bared his teeth at him.
I smoothed the hair between the dog’s ears with my fingertips. The growl died in his
throat, but I could still feel him quivering beneath my hand.

Ignoring my canine companion, the detective patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sure it
was horrible finding a dead man like that. You probably didn’t take a very close look,
and that’s for the best, honey. You just go home and forget all about the whole sad
situation.”

I sensed Declan bristling beside me. “Listen, Katie’s not some delicate…” He trailed
off when I put my other hand on his arm.

“‘Horrible’ is one way of putting it, Detective,” I said with heartfelt emphasis.
“I imagine I did miss a few details.”

Quinn watched me with a wry expression.

“There you go,” Taite said. “But don’t you worry about it. We’ve got everything under
control. Your friend Detective Quinn here will check in with you if we have any more
questions, or perhaps I will. After you’ve had a chance to settle down a little, of
course.” With another dismissive pat, he directed what was intended to be an encouraging
smile at me, nodded at Declan, and made his way back to one of the many minions of
officialdom already investigating the suspicious death.

“Why, that—,” Declan spluttered.

I shook my head. “It’s okay.”

“But he was so condescending!”

I was watching Quinn, who suddenly wouldn’t meet my eye. “Since when do you work with
a partner?” I asked.

He sighed. “Since the new captain doesn’t approve of lone wolves.”

A smile crept onto my face. Quinn struck me as more of a lone dachshund than a lone
wolf. “You must have
really made him mad for him to saddle you with Mr. Charm.”

“Eh, he’s a Yankee, and a little obsessive, but he seems smart enough.”

“Really? Is he the one who suggested the
victim
was homeless?”

Quinn shrugged. “You’re right. It does look like someone hit the poor guy, but it
could have been an accident. And he’s certainly filthy.”

“I think you should take another look, Peter. Because that man is wearing a TAG Heuer
chronograph watch. Those are spendy—I was going to buy my dad one for his birthday
a couple years ago until I realized there was no way I could afford it. Unless the
dead man stole it, he’s anything but homeless. Eccentric, maybe, but there are plenty
of people in Savannah who fit that description.”

“Katie’s right,” Declan said. “His clothes are pretty scruffy and dirty, but not living-on-the-street
dirty. He’s clean-shaven and looks pretty fit.”

Peter Quinn distributed a scowl between us before finally nodding. “Noted.”

“You didn’t answer my question about who the poor guy is,” I said.

“No wallet.” His words were clipped. “But we have all we need from you on this case.
Understood, Katie?”

“Of course.”

After clearing my uncle Ben’s name the previous April, I had sworn off murder investigations.
For the last six months I’d been having the best time of my life, living in a city
I loved, doing the kind of work I enjoyed most at the Honeybee Bakery, learning about
spell work
and my magical abilities from my new coven, and spending time with Aunt Lucy, Uncle
Ben, Declan…and Steve Dawes. Why would I want to jeopardize that by interfering in
a police matter?

Never mind that the image of the dead man’s tattoo felt like a brand on my inner vision.

Pausing inside the front door of the Honeybee Bakery, I breathed in the aroma of freshly
baked goodies and listened to the murmur of voices in conversation. The espresso machine
came to life as Uncle Ben brewed a coffee confection for a waiting customer. Mungo,
knowing he had to stay hidden when we were inside the bakery, snuggled deeper into
the bottom of my tote bag.

Light amber walls rose to the high ceiling on three sides, while the vertical expanse
behind the cash register blazed a rich burnt orange. The tall chalkboard menu mounted
there listed coffee drinks and sweet and savory items from the kitchen. Garlands of
candy corn were draped from the chalkboard’s corners as well as from the stereo speakers
and the glass display case next to the register, full of scones and cookies, biscotti
and cupcakes and muffins. The bottom shelf was packed with loaves of the house sourdough
bread, which was beginning to gain a reputation among Savannahians who appreciated
such things. Each day we also offered something special that wasn’t on our regular
menu. Today it was salted caramel apples, a crispy-salty-sweet
concoction that I also planned to serve at the Honeybee Halloween party coming up
in less than a week. My mouth watered at the thought of them.

Of course, the candy corn garlands were some of the not-so-spooky decorations we’d
been putting in place as we geared up for the party. On the windows facing Broughton
Street we’d painted ghosts cavorting between cartoon headstones. Velvet spiders nestled
among the vases of flowers on the blue bistro tables, and black paper silhouettes
of mice crawled along the baseboards.

At the far end of the room soft brocade sofas invited people to settle in and sample
from the overflowing bookshelf nearby. The Honeybee Halloween tree sat in the corner.
Uncle Ben had sprayed a fake Christmas fir glossy black. Strings of tiny green fairy
lights and more garlands of candy corn looped around it, and orange glass balls painted
with jack-o’-lantern faces hung from the branches.

Light jazz drifted through the spice-and-coffee-scented air at low volume. Customers
sat in the blue-and-chrome chairs in small groups or accompanied by their trusty laptops.
The stainless-steel appliances visible in the mostly open kitchen echoed the silvery
tones and let people know they were in a working bakery, not just a storefront. The
most recent addition to the bakery staff, Cookie Rios, moved into view carrying a
sheet pan of cookies just out of the oven.

Aunt Lucy chatted with a woman who was picking up one of her custom-decorated cakes
while Ben handed the steaming coffee mug to his customer. As I watched, a familiar
contentment crept over me, and the
muscles along the back of my neck relaxed. I loved this place. After pastry school
in Cincinnati and a few years as assistant manager of a bakery in Akron, I finally
had what I’d always dreamed of: a place where I had free rein to create my own recipes
and bake to my heart’s content. Not to mention working with two of my favorite people
in the world.

Though in one respect starting the Honeybee hadn’t turned out quite the way I’d imagined
while packing and planning back in Ohio. I smiled, remembering a day before the Honeybee
grand opening. Lucy had been stirring dried sage from her herb garden into a batch
of scone dough, muttering all the while. I’d thought it odd, but soon forgot about
it. Not long after that, she revealed that the muttering was an incantation, a
spell
, and told me that I, like her, came from a long line of hereditary hedgewitches—green
witches with a special affinity for herbal craft and cooking. The idea had certainly
taken some getting used to, but now I was eagerly learning about the Craft.