Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (30 page)

His nostrils flared. “I had to. He would have told them about me. He said he was going to.”

“My point is that he
did
tell them about you—about why he thought you killed Mrs. Templeton, about how you came after him with a knife.” I softened my voice. “About Gwendolyn.”

“Don’t you dare say her name!” Jenkins yelled.

I held up my hand. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But if you hurt anyone else it’s only going to get you into more trouble. Leave these ladies alone.” I moved to the edge of the circle, away from the others.

His eyes never wavered from mine. He took two more lurching steps toward me.

The spellbook club started their appeal to the archangels again. I could feel the rhythm of the words in the air, throbbing with power. The fire in the cauldron died down. From the corner of my eye I saw wisps of smoke curling up from it. Jaida nudged the contents with her fingertip, still chanting with the others, and the flames flared brightly one last time.

The brief flash revealed the knife in his hand. Not just any knife. It was the bowie knife I’d found in the trunk. The one I’d returned to him in good faith.

“Is that the knife you stabbed Ethan with?” I asked. “My knife?”

He didn’t answer, but staggered forward, brandishing it. I took another step, only to find Mimsey beside me. She blew out the eastern candle.

Opening the circle for me.

I stepped outside.

“Put that down!” Cookie’s Voice shouted.

Inside the circle, Jaida dropped the matches and Mimsey dropped the hyacinth stalk she was holding. As one they turned to glare at Cookie. Outside the circle, Jenkins sneered at me and waved the bowie. I backed away from him, toward the reading area. Backing into a corner, but that left the others a chance to get away and call the police.

Now that he was closer, I could see the knife was still worn and pitted, the edge dull.

“Is that what you used on Ethan Ridge?” I asked. “You almost killed him. But then he said you ran away like a coward.”

Jenkins lunged.

I danced back. “Why are you here?”

“Albert told me.”

“Told you what?”

“You made the apartment manager tell the police about Gwen.”

A shiver ran down my back. “Albert knows you killed his aunt?”

Jenkins shook his finger at me, almost like he was drunk. But I didn’t think he was. I wondered if he’d slept since going on the run.

“Oh, he knew. He knew better than anyone.”

My heart sank. “How, Mr. Jenkins?” I held my hands out to my side. “Jack? How did Albert know?”

“He came up with the idea. Good ol’ Albert. He understood, you see. Always stopping by and talking about Gwen.” Jenkins waved the knife in the air. “He
knew
what his aunt was like. He realized what she was capable of.”

“And he was willing to let my husband go to jail for something he didn’t do,” Lucy said.

Mimsey drew a sharp breath.

I glanced toward them. Why weren’t they running away?

“We call upon the Archangels to protect us. We call upon you, Raphael, Michael, Gabriel and Uriel. Help us now in our time of need.”
Their voices rose, and together they advanced on Jenkins, trapping him between us.

No, no, no!
He was already frightened and dangerous. Leaving him nowhere to go would only make things worse.

Jenkins swung the old knife toward them. Then toward me. Then back toward them.

I looked down and saw the
Self-Defense for Pacifists
book. What had it said? Stomp on his instep? Kick him in the family jewels?

Too far away for any of that.

He turned and started toward the spellbook club.

I scooped up the heavy volume, ran five steps and brought it down on Jack Jenkins’ head as hard as I could.

He dropped like a bag of rocks, hitting the corner of a table as he went down. The lit candle on the table bounced into the air. Quick as a snake, Cookie grabbed it, but the table it had been on crashed into the two we’d pushed together as an altar. One scooted along the floor with a piercing screech, and the other overturned. The scale smashed against the display case, fracturing the glass into a spiderweb. Ash and flower petals erupted into the air as the silver cauldron slid along the floor and banged into the wall.

Two candles remained burning, undisturbed.

“What can we tie him up with?” Mimsey asked in an urgent tone.

I racked my brain. It wasn’t like we had a length of rope conveniently at hand. Wait: “My apron strings!”

The women gave me blank looks, and then Lucy grinned. “Of course!” She hurried into the kitchen and returned with several of my funky aprons. I grabbed the pastel paisley and began wrapping Jenkins’ ankles together.

He moaned.

Cookie picked up the sexy maid apron, but I waved at her. “Too flimsy. Try the striped chef’s apron; it’s tough.” She nodded and got to tying.

By the time Jack Jenkins regained consciousness we had him all wrapped up like a present for Detective Quinn. While we waited for the authorities to arrive, Lucy got out the broom and began sweeping up ash. Bianca put the scale back in the kitchen and tucked her cauldron away, while Mimsey took care of spilled candle wax and Jaida rearranged tables.

“I’m going to tell them about you. All of you,” Jenkins croaked from his prone position on the floor.

“What about us?” With an effort I kept my tone light. The other ladies exchanged worried glances.

“That you’re witches. That you’re evil.”

“Bah. That’s ridiculous.”

“I saw.”

“You saw nothing unusual,” I Said. Voice and all. I could feel everyone’s eyes turn toward me.

Kneeling beside him, I murmured, “We were seeking justice. Thanks for obliging us.”

He looked up at me and blinked slowly. “I don’t understand. I was the one seeking justice. And I got it.”

“By killing Mrs. Templeton?”

He hesitated. Then defiance crossed his features, and he nodded.

“Did it really help?”

Looking away, he gave the slightest shake of his head. “I thought it would. She deserved to die, you know.”

“I don’t know. You may be right. But by taking that on yourself, you’ve ruined your life.”

A weariness so extreme I could hardly bear to witness it settled into his face. “My life was already ruined.”

“Something smells funny,” Detective Quinn said.

He wasn’t being metaphorical. The big fan over the stove in the kitchen had removed most of the smell of burning flowers and tarot cards, but not all of it.

“We had a little incident in the kitchen,” I said.

His eyes cut to where Mimsey was scraping the last of the candle wax off the floor. “Not just the kitchen, it seems.”

I changed the subject. “Is Jack Jenkins talking?”

“Doesn’t seem to be holding anything back at all. I feel bad for the poor guy, knowing what happened to his fiancée. He needs help. I’ve suggested a psych evaluation.”

I stared at him.

“What? A cop can’t have a little compassion?”

“I prefer that they do, actually.” Maybe the spell had worked after all. Maybe the highest good included therapy for Jack Jenkins. I hoped so.

“Listen, can I make you a sandwich or something?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Because your stomach’s growling. Have you eaten today?”

A quizzical look, then Quinn said, “I guess I haven’t.”

“Come on in the kitchen, then.”

As he followed, I shot a glance into the office, but clever Mungo had made himself scarce.

I sliced sourdough and added mayonnaise, bacon, cheddar, fresh tomato and a layer of fresh basil leaves. “Sorry to be such a pain while you were investigating the murder.”

He took a bite and nodded. Swallowed. “You were. But that’s okay.”

“Friends?”

“Sure.”

“What’ll happen to Albert Hill?”

“We’re arresting him for conspiracy in Mrs. Templeton’s murder. He knew all along who had killed his aunt. Given what Jack Jenkins told us and his apparent willingness to testify against him, Hill should go to jail. We’ve also found ample evidence that he embezzled funds from his aunt, and will likely find more as the investigation continues on that front.”

I poured him a tall glass of iced tea.

Quinn took a swig. “You know, I wonder if Jenkins would have murdered Mrs. Templeton if Albert hadn’t incited him. That may come up in court, too. He took advantage of a man unbalanced by grief. I think Albert was afraid his aunt would find out about the embezzlement and needed someone to take care of her for him.”

“And I thought the inheritance would be his motive,” I said.

“That, too. But what goes around, comes around, they say.”

Threefold, apparently.

“I just can’t believe that Albert fooled me so easily,” Mrs. Standish said and took an enormous bite of homemade chocolate marshmallow.

“He fooled a lot of people,” Ben said.

It was late afternoon a week later, and Mrs. Standish had come into the bakery with two custom cake orders for Lucy. While she was at it, she loaded up on enough baked goods to feed an army. After paying, she wedged herself into a chair and appeared ready to chat.

Fine by me. Most of the prep for the next day was done, and my feet hurt. Other than a couple making goo-goo eyes at each other at the far end of the Honeybee, we were alone.

“Do you know he charged me almost three times what a cremation like that should have cost?” Mrs. Standish said. “At least that lab test showed it really is Harry in the urn. I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t been him up on the mantel all this time.”

Lucy came around the counter and joined us. “Three times? That’s terrible.”

“My husband would have had a fit. He was always very good with money, you know.”

We all nodded as if we did know.

“I felt as though I needed to make it up to Harry, somehow.”

“Do you think you can get the money back from
Albert?” I didn’t think so; Albert Hill had a lot of charges hanging over his head, and it was unlikely he’d be able to inherit Mrs. Templeton’s estate.

“Oh, I’ve done better than that.” She took another bite and chewed contentedly.

Ben raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Mrs. Standish swallowed and took a swig of her mochachino. “I bought that apartment building for next to nothing.”

“The Peachtree Arms?” I said.

“I’m beginning renovations immediately.”

“How is that getting back at him?”

“It’s not, really. But I’m getting my money back, and helping the people who live there. Otherwise they’d be left high and dry, waiting to see if Albert would be allowed to inherit the property after his trial.”

She waggled her eyebrows at me. In her mannish face the gesture really did make her look a little like Groucho. “So I made a very good deal. A
very
good deal. See, with the help of some tricky probate lawyers and brokers I know, Albert released all claim of future ownership by donating the Peachtree Arms to my favorite charity, Paw Prints. It’s a no-kill shelter. And then I bought it from them, and we all benefit. I’ve always wanted to be a real estate mogul, you know!”

Lucy laughed. “Good for you. And good for the shelter.”

I tipped my head to one side. “How did you manage to convince Albert that would be in his best interest?”

“Well, now, I found out how he likes to sue people. So I threatened to sue him for what he did when Harry died. For a
lot
of money. Sure enough, he doesn’t like
the idea of being on the wrong end of a lawsuit, not with everything else he’s looking at.”

Ben shook his head at the irony, a smile on his face. “Doesn’t that just figure?”

“Is Ethan Ridge going to stay on as your apartment manager?”

She shook her head. “I let him go. We don’t need that kind of riffraff running the Peachtree Arms. I think I’ll change the name, too. Make it something snazzy.”

“Do you have a new manager yet?”

“Indeed, I do. It’s a little lady I think you might know. I’ve seen her in here before. She’s called Cookie?”

My jaw slackened.

Lucy looked at me. “Didn’t I tell you about how Cookie gets just the right job at just the right time?”

“She can’t start quite yet, so there is a very nice gentleman named James who’s taking care of everything over there for the time being. Now I just need someone to help with the renovation. I don’t suppose you know anyone with connections in the construction industry? Someone who can handle restoring all the old wainscoting in the hallways? And some of those apartments have lovely woodwork inside, too. “

I remembered the elaborate mantel above James Sparr’s fireplace and smiled. “In fact, I do know someone who might be able to help. His name is Frank Pullman.”

Ice cubes popped in my glass of sweet tea. I swiped the sweating surface across my forehead and settled back in the patio chair. A pile of bright red coals had burned down in the hibachi Declan had brought me. Soon
they’d be ready to sear the thick tenderloin steak sitting on the counter in the kitchen. I’d rubbed it with ground sage, oregano, cumin, chili powder and turmeric. A salad of baby greens chilled in the fridge, waiting to be dressed with a simple balsamic and olive oil vinaigrette. A foil packet contained baby new potatoes, sliced garlic and sprigs of rosemary.

I examined my fingernails. My hands needed a good scrub before supper. I’d been gardening for three hours, teasing out weeds, working more compost into the area Declan had rototilled for me and planting a dozen organic herb plants I’d picked up at the nursery on the way home from the Honeybee. I’d even tried my hand at the aphid-banishing spell Lucy had included in my mostly blank grimoire. The roses on the side of the house had seemed to appreciate it.

The leather-bound book sat tucked into the secretary desk, visible up in the loft from the living room like any normal desk. But inside it I was gradually outfitting my altar. First I’d spread out a white lace shawl my grandmother had knitted. I reckoned she’d added a little extra something to her stitches, but even if it didn’t have magic woven into it, it was special to me. I’d added a small blown-glass bowl from the flea market as a chalice after Lucy showed me how to purify it. And just because I liked them, three smooth rocks I’d gathered by the shores of Wingfoot Lake sat in the middle.