Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery

Praise for the Novels of Bailey Cates

Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti

“Cates is a smooth, accomplished writer who combines a compelling plot with a cast of interesting characters that are diverse and engaging without falling into simplistic stereotypes . . . a charming addition to the food-based cozy mystery repertoire, while the story’s magical elements bring a fun, intriguing dimension to the genre.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“[A] promising series.”

—
Library Journal

“Cates delivers a tale of magic and mayhem. . . . The mystery plot will have readers guessing ‘whodunit’ all the way to the very end . . . a great read.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“With a top-notch whodunit, a dark magic investigator working undercover, and a simmering romance in the early stages, fans will relish this tale. . . . Cates cleverly keeps readers spellbound.”

—Gumshoe

Brownies and Broomsticks

“Katie is a charming amateur sleuth, baking her way through murder and magic set against the enchanting backdrop of Savannah, Georgia. With an intriguing plot and an amusing cast of characters,
Brownies and Broomsticks
is an attention-grabbing read that I couldn’t put down.”

—Jenn McKinlay,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Cloche and Dagger

“Let Cates cast her spell over you with this charming debut series entry that brings in the paranormal but never forgets the warmth that cozy readers often request.”

—
Library Journal

“Ms. Cates has most assuredly found the right ingredients . . . a series that is a finely sifted blend of drama, suspense, romance, and otherworldly elements.”

—Once Upon a Romance

“A very comfortable world with interesting characters and a well-paced plot that will leave readers anxious to return to Savannah and the Honeybee Bakery.”

—The Mystery Reader

“Filled with red herrings and a delightful tour of the downtown district, fans will enjoy this whodunit, which is a very special reading experience.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

THE MAGICAL BAKERY MYSTERIES

Brownies and Broomsticks

Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti

Charms
and
Chocolate Chips

A Magical Bakery Mystery

Bailey Cates

OBSIDIAN

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © Penguin Group (USA), 2013

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ISBN 978-1-101-62045-8

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

I am grateful to work with such a terrific team at Penguin/NAL: Jessica Wade, Jesse Feldman, Dan Walsh, Kayleigh Clark, and everyone else whose skill and hard work brought this book into being. Thanks to Kimberly Lionetti at Bookends Literary Agency for her advice and hard work. Mark Figlozzi and Bob Trott provided feedback, and the Old Town Writers Group kept me sane more than they know. I appreciate all the helpful information from the folks at Olde Savannah Garden & Produce, the Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department, firefighter Todd Bryan, and the Savannah Chamber of Commerce. Any mistakes are mine. And, as always, thank you to Kevin for . . . everything.

The sm
ell of woodsmoke from a distant hearth teased my nose as I surveyed my predawn preparations with a critical eye. My new outdoor fireplace perched in the middle of a twelve-foot circle of gravel, its copper gleaming in the soft light of the lantern. Dry kindling stacked in a rough pyramid in the metal bowl awaited a match, and six mismatched chairs sat at equidistant points around it. Only yesterday I’d purchased the two worn oak ladder-backs from a thrift store; the other four I’d moved over from the nearby gazebo.

Katie Lightfoot, hostess with the mostess.

Tonight’s Imbolc celebration would be the first sabbat I’d ever hosted for the ladies of my spellbook club—aka coven. Falling on February second, smack-dab between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, Imbolc signaled lengthening days and the coming of new life. It was a festival that celebrated feminine energy and honored Brigit, the patron of midwives, poets, and blacksmiths. Even people who’d never heard of Imbolc practiced divination and the cultivation of light, since Groundhog Day and Candlemas fell on the same day.

Over in the gazebo where I cast most of my outdoor spells, I’d collected a cut-glass bowl, four white candles, several packets of seeds, and a bundle of cinnamon sticks that I’d tied together with a bright yellow ribbon. Mimsey Carmichael had promised to supply a white flower from her shop to represent snow. Bianca Devereaux would bring champagne from her wineshop to symbolize winter ice melting into spring. Jaida French had made a special candle doused with clove, rosemary, and ginger essential oils, and Cookie Rios had offered to bring something to reflect the birth of spring. I wanted everything to be perfect—the fire, the bannock cakes and mulled cider, the incantation to greet spring and honor Brigit, and the final fizzy toast.

Not that I really needed to worry. The coven was an easygoing group, especially my aunt Lucy. They’d become my best friends since I’d moved to Savannah the previous April to open a bakery. Nonetheless, I’d been a practicing hedgewitch—and that with initial reluctance—only since Lucy had informed me of my magical heritage ten months ago. I still had a lot to learn. Lucky for me, the spellbook club had taken me under its collective wing, each member instructing me on her own special interests. My primary affinity was for working with plants and herbs in the garden and kitchen, but I was learning tons about other kinds of magic.

Not all of it good.

It turned out there was a significant amount of sorcery going on in Georgia’s First City. In my short residency I’d met a few of the other practitioners and encountered unexpected evil.

And then there was Detective Franklin Taite. The spellbook club had called him a witch-hunter, but really he focused exclusively on tracking black magic. That meant he wasn’t really antiwitch—as long as you stuck with the good stuff. Fine by me. I had no interest in the dark side. Yet he had wanted more.

You are a candela, Katie, a lightwitch. You have an obligation to use that gift. A calling.

I took a deep breath and pushed the remembered words away. Detective Taite had transferred to New Orleans, where he was no doubt stalking another “hotbed of evil” as he’d once described Savannah.

Nothing melodramatic about that. And nothing like dumping all that crazy information on me and then up and leaving.

A breeze sighed through the air, and I tucked my floral-print scarf tighter around my neck. Even in Savannah it was chilly, in the low forties at five a.m. in early February. The three-quarter moon had set hours before, and the sun wouldn’t brighten the horizon for another two. The air was inky black outside the confined nimbus of lantern light around the backyard fire pit, and the cool but humid air caressed my exposed face and hands.

Always an early riser, even a middle-of-the-night riser, I loved working outside in the dark. Margie Coopersmith, my adorable yet sometimes nosy next-door neighbor, had become used to my nocturnal digging and planting and weeding by the light of a bicycle headlamp, and while it earned me a certain amount of guff, it also allowed me not only to garden but to practice my own brand of magic outdoors with little notice.

I loved, even craved, the depth of silence I found so early in the morning. Now, fragrant steam rising from the coffee mug in my hand, it was like venturing into a space that was somehow outside of time. With none of the bustling daytime sounds of traffic and lawn mowers and road construction, there were only quiet stars piercing the dark veil above.

Then a faraway siren broke the spell. A dog barked, and the sound of running water from the stream in the corner of the yard reached my ears, carrying with it the sweet scent of winter Daphne blooming in the garden.

“What do you think?” I asked Mungo.

My Cairn terrier bounded down the steps of the gazebo, where he’d been watching me, bright-eyed and tail wagging.

Yip!

I scooped him up and nuzzled my cold nose into his wavy black fur. “So you approve?”

My familiar answered by licking my ear. I stifled a giggle. Sudden light bloomed behind yellow curtains in my next-door neighbors’ kitchen, and I blew out the lantern. It was early for Margie and the three children to be up, so I assumed her husband, Redding, was getting ready for one of his long-haul trucking trips. I’d have to remember to bring Margie and the little ones some goodies from work.

Speaking of work, if I didn’t hurry up, I’d be late. There was always a lot to do in the mornings before the Honeybee Bakery, which I owned with Lucy and her husband, Ben, opened for the day’s business. Plus, I had to get done with work on time so I could head over to Georgia Wild, a nonprofit environmental group I’d been volunteering for, and then get home in time for the celebration. A hedgewitch’s work was never done.

I carried Mungo to the back door and set him down. Inside my little home—once the carriage house for a larger estate, now long gone—the light from the kitschy fringed floor lamp softly lit the warm, peach-colored walls of the living room. Closing the French doors to the patio, I turned away from the short hallway to my left that led to the bedroom and bathroom, and headed for the kitchen. Mungo’s toenails made tiny clicking sounds on the old wood-plank floor as he followed me.

Mungo grinned up at me, then looked pointedly at his dish on the floor.

“Okay, okay.” I opened the fridge and grabbed an egg. “I suppose you want bacon, too.”

Yip!

•   •   •

Located in downtown Savannah only a few blocks from the riverfront, Honeybee Bakery was nestled between a bookstore and a knitting shop on Broughton Street. The bakery was named after Aunt Lucy’s familiar, a regal orange tabby cat. Inside, the high ceilings gave it a sense of space, and the deep amber walls encouraged energy and creativity. We’d painted the vertical expanse behind the counter burnt orange to offset the tall blackboard menu where we listed our offerings according to the seasons, customer feedback, and our own whims. The chrome-and-blue bistro tables were the perfect size for laptops and notebooks with plenty of room for mugs of coffee and a tempting pastry or two from the glass-fronted display case, while the comfy matching chairs invited people to stay for hours. The scent of succulent baked goods infused the air and spilled out to the sidewalk. Light jazz played softly over the sound system.

At the far end of the bakery a poufy sofa and two chairs upholstered in jewel-toned brocade surrounded a sturdy coffee table. We’d always had a huge bookcase overflowing with all manner of eclectic reading materials, but the month before, my uncle Ben had talked my boyfriend, Declan McCarthy, into helping him install permanent shelves. Now the Honeybee had a proper reading area, complete with three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a hand-painted tin sign that said
LIBRARY
hanging from the ceiling.

At a little after two o’clock, I found myself counting slices of lemon-raspberry tea cake with a sinking feeling. They were our current hot sellers, along with the gingerbread—studded with gems of candied ginger and oversized chocolate chips—and maple bacon scones. It had been a rather slow morning, though, even for those items. Truth be told, business seemed a little slow all around these days. Of course, it would be for everyone, I supposed. Midwinter was hardly high tourist season, and tourism was the lifeblood of Savannah. I was happy to see a few regulars still lounging at the tables.

Ben was behind the espresso machine, sorting through the mail. He stood at an angle to the kitchen, and the soft yellow light shining down from the high ceiling glinted off his rimless glasses. Though he was in his sixties, his hair and the tidy beard he’d grown after retiring as Savannah’s fire chief were a deep reddish blond with nary a strand of gray. The bell over the door rang as two men in business suits entered, and Ben greeted them with a hearty “Hello!”

I frowned again at the almost full row of lemon cake. The ribbons of sticky raspberry jam swirled throughout beckoned temptingly. Still, if it wasn’t selling, perhaps it was time to change it out for the new sandwich cookies Lucy and I had been developing.

“Hey, Lucy,” I said as she passed by with an armful of dishes from the bussing station. “I’ve mixed up a few filling ideas. Come tell me what you think.”

“Mmm. I can hardly wait to see what you came up with,” she said with a grin, and bustled into the kitchen.

Soon we were sampling away. I licked a smear of icing off the edge of my thumb. “What do you think?” I asked. “The hint of maple syrup in the peanut butter filling would complement the maple in the cookies.”

We had the outside of the sandwiches down pat—soft oatmeal molasses disks made with maple sugar and spiced with plenty of cinnamon and cloves and a subtle dash of nutmeg. The cinnamon would promote prosperity and increased energy for our customers, and cloves invited protection and healing. Nutmeg, one of my favorite spices for both sweet and savory cooking (so good in spinach), added an extra oomph of magical energy.

Now we had to figure out what sweet goodness to put between them.

“I don’t know, Katie.” Lucy dipped the edge of a cookie into the chocolate buttercream frosting and took a big bite. After chewing slowly and swallowing, she cocked her head to one side and said, “This is awfully good. I like the hazelnut spread, too. And the orange curd.” She waved her hand in the air. “Bah. We have to pick one, and soon. I’ve probably already gained five pounds taste testing.”

“I hardly think so,” I said, eyeing her trim figure. Lucy was in her mid-fifties, but she was petite and fit and tended to wear natural fibers and funky batik and tie-dyed prints. The only indications of her age were the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and the gray that threaded through her thick blond mop of hair.

“But you bring up a good point,” I continued. “Why do we have to pick just one? What do you say we make all four and then see which the customers gravitate toward?”

“Oooh—that’s a good idea.” Lucy bent forward over the stainless steel counter and dipped another cookie into the hazelnut spread. Seeing my look, she said, “What? I’m just making sure—oh, never mind.”

I laughed.

My aunt held up a finger, swallowed again, and said, “Now, what would be the best magical amendments for each filling?”

It was part honest question and part quiz. As Lucy put it, being hereditary hedgewitches meant we were “pure magic in the kitchen,” and while the other spellbook club members taught me other aspects of magic, my aunt was my mentor when it came to kitchen and garden magic. Most of our “special ingredients” were simply herbs and spices, but we gave them a little extra bewitching boost. Lucy was great at recognizing what people needed—a little clarity here, a bit of love there, perhaps some protection from outside influences—and gently pushed them toward the baked goods we created that would help.

“Well, let’s see,” I said. “Orange already increases both physical and mental energy, and hazelnut is good for . . . creativity?” I looked to Lucy for confirmation. She looked pleased and nodded. I continued. “And of course chocolate is already awesome. But what if we added cayenne pepper for a little kick, both in the flavor department and for inner strength and cheer. It’s good protection during flu season, too.”

Lucy clasped her hands and beamed at me. “Cayenne pepper—just a hint! That’s delightful! I’ll get some right now.”

Suddenly I realized I hadn’t heard the shriek of the espresso machine or customers conversing for quite some time. Craning my head around the big refrigerator, I saw Ben counting our receipts.

He looked up and smiled at me. “Just running the register tape.”

I glanced at the big clock on the wall. It was a little after five. The Honeybee was closed.

“Oh, no. Lucy, I’m so sorry. I have to go. In fact I’m already late for my volunteer work at Georgia Wild.” I looked helplessly at the mess strewn on the counter. “Could you . . . Do you mind?”

My aunt pressed her lips together.

“I’ll come in early, make it up to you. In fact, let me just put the food away, and I’ll clean up the rest in the morning.” I grabbed a paper bag to load with day-old leftovers to take with me.

She stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Katie, stop it. I don’t mind cleaning up. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worried about me? Why?”

“You’re running yourself ragged,” she said. “It’s like you’ve got a second full-time job at Georgia Wild.”

My jaw slackened in surprise. “Only evenings—and only for a couple of hours tonight since everyone’s coming over for Imbolc. It was Mimsey who introduced me to Wren, after all.” Wren Knowles was the devoted biologist who worked full-time for the environmental nonprofit. She was also the granddaughter of the oldest member of the spellbook club, Mimsey Carmichael.

“I doubt she intended for you to volunteer there every spare minute—I bet Declan just loves that—and for what? To front-load karma?”

Shaking my head, I turned toward the office. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Luce. I would think you’d approve of my volunteering to help the environment. We’re green witches, for heaven’s sake.” Lucy’s reference to Declan bothered me more than I liked to admit. Just the other night he’d complained that he saw me less now than he did before we were a steady item.