Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery (3 page)

Detective Quinn directed a skeptical look my way. “You didn’t know Dawes was involved with this golf course venture?”

I shook my head. “Had no idea.”

Quinn knew I had a history with Heinrich’s son, Steve. I sighed. Declan would not be happy if Steve came back into my life right now. My jaw set. I’d made my choice between them, and I could make a choice now. I could walk away from this.

I
would
walk away from this.

Gathering Mungo in my arms, I grabbed my tote. “I’m sorry. I have to go. If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a call. Wren, do you need a ride home?”

“I have my car.”

“You okay to drive?” I wanted to inquire about her Imbolc plans but not in front of Quinn.

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

Of course, she wasn’t, not really. Neither was I. Still, I could function, and talking about the thing she was most passionate about had seemed to right Wren somewhat. “Okay. I’ll talk to you soon,” I said.

Detective Quinn didn’t try to stop me as I turned on my heel and marched outside. He came to stand in the doorway as I unlocked my car and got inside. When I looked back at him, he raised his hand, a rather friendly gesture under the circumstances. He was probably delighted that I was staying out of his way.

Good. I didn’t want to get on his bad side.

“Perhaps this has nothing to do with dark magic,” I said to Mungo as I steered the Bug away from the curb. Never mind the dragonfly. Never mind the shiver that always told me to be on alert, that something important was going on.

“Isn’t death bad enough without magic being involved?”

Mungo sighed.

On the way home I broke my own rule about not talking on my cell phone while driving in order to call Mimsey. Wren’s mother lived in northern California, and Mimsey was her closest family in town. I tracked her down in her flower shop, Vase Value.

“Oh, my heavens,” Mimsey exclaimed after I’d given her a brief rundown on what had happened at Georgia Wild. “I’ll call her right away. Poor thing, finding her friend who passed on like that.” She made a tsking sound, and I imagined her white pageboy swinging as she shook her head. “And how are you?”

“Oh, I’m . . .” How was I really? “Actually I’m kind of numb.”

“Of course you are, dear. That’s to be expected.”

“I suppose we should cancel the Imbolc celebration tonight.”

Her response was immediate and emphatic. “Absolutely not, Katie! We need this celebration of the coming of the light, especially given the darkness you’ve witnessed today. But would you rather we had it at my house?”

I was relieved to hear she thought we should continue. I’d been looking forward to it for days.

“Not at all,” I said. “I have everything ready. Just have to cook up the bannock cakes and reheat the mulled cider.”

“Excellent,” Mimsey said. “Do you mind if I invite Wren when I talk to her?”

“That’s a great idea. Do you think she’ll come?”

“She usually prefers to celebrate by herself, but after what happened today, she might not want to be alone. We’ll see.”

We ended the call as I was pulling into the driveway of the carriage house. Headlights rounded the corner as I let Mungo out to run in the yard, and a familiar black pickup pulled to the curb. I got out of the Bug and approached as Declan McCarthy stepped to the sidewalk. Despite the chill air he didn’t wear a jacket over his
PROUD TO BE A FIRST RESPONDER
T-shirt and jeans. Tall and muscular, Deck possessed classic good looks: dark wavy hair cut short to meet fire department regulation, a solid planed face, and bright blue eyes. The man even had a dimple when he smiled, for Pete’s sake. Looks like that usually came with an ego to match, but being raised by a strong mother in a houseful of four sisters had apparently humbled him.

It had also made him a pretty good cook. I eyed the Tupperware containers in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Chili con carne,” he mumbled before he pulled me close and his lips found mine.

“Mmm. Nice,” I said a few moments later. “The chili, too.”

He turned, sliding his arm around my shoulders. I inhaled his scent of newly mown grass and peppermint as we walked across the yard. Mungo jumped around us, wagging his tail in greeting. Declan was one of his favorite people.

“I made a big batch for the guys and thought you might want some, too. Even made up a batch without any onions for the little guy here.” His sorghum-laced voice reflected that he was a born-and-bred Savannahian.

I laughed. “Mungo, you are one lucky puppy to have this guy around.” My familiar was such a little oink that he’d eat anything, including onions and chocolate and other things that were bad for dogs. When he did get into such things, they didn’t seem to affect him, but better safe than sorry.

“Besides,” Declan said, “you’re having your party tonight, and knowing you, you’ll get everything ready for them and forget to eat any supper.”

Your party.
He knew all about Lucy and the spellbook club. And me. When I’d finally told him the truth, I’d been relieved at his relatively mild reaction. After all, Bianca’s husband had left her when he found out she was Wiccan. But Declan had seemed amused that I’d been so nervous about telling him. As time went on, though, I was coming to realize that he really didn’t
get
what magic was all about. I’d tried to explain the idea of manifesting a desired outcome through focused intention, but he continued to think being a witch was more of a hobby like knitting or scrapbooking. Then again, Ben probably didn’t get Lucy all the time, either. It didn’t matter. He’d once told me he’d love her if she went bald or turned orange, so learning she was a witch wasn’t a big deal.

Like Ben, Declan was a genuinely good guy. I always felt relaxed and safe when he was around. He was funny and smart and often gave me a break from cooking at home after baking all day at the Honeybee.

Like now. “Thanks for thinking of me,” I said.

He squeezed me. “Silly goose. I can hardly think of anything else. And speaking of thinking, have you thought any more about going to Boston?”

For the past couple of weeks, Declan had been urging me to go to Massachusetts with him so I could meet his family. I unlocked the door and we went inside. “I have, actually—”

My cell phone rang, cutting off my words.
Saved by the bell
.

It was my aunt. “I just got a call from Mimsey, and she told me about Autumn. Oh, my gosh, Katie, are you okay? Why didn’t you phone me? Are you sure you don’t want to cancel tonight?”

“Lucy,” I tried, but she kept talking.

“Or maybe I should come over early to help you.”

“Lucy!”

“Yes, honey, I’m sorry. Just tell me what I can do.”

“I’m fine, really. I mean, it was awful, but I’m okay. Declan is here right now. On the way to his forty-eight hours at the firehouse.” I looked at him for confirmation.

He nodded, curiosity practically oozing from his pores.

“Oh, that’s good. Have him stay until I can get there,” she said.

“He has to get going. And Lucy, I still have to make up the bannock cakes for tonight.” Truthfully, I wanted a little space to process having seen my fourth dead body in less than a year. That had to be some kind of record for a mild-mannered baker, and I needed to figure out how I felt about it.

And what to do about it.

So now I said, “I could use a couple of hours to get myself together.”

Lucy was quiet for a moment, and I wondered whether I’d insulted her. But when she spoke, her tone was warm. “Of course. I understand. I’ll show up at eight thirty as planned. If you change your mind and want me to come over earlier after all, just give me a jingle.”

“Thanks, Luce.”

“Say hello to Declan for me, okay?”

“All righty.”

But when I hung up, I had to say a lot more than hello. He wanted to know why Lucy had been so worried, and the more I told him, the more his eyes widened. By the time I was done, he had me enveloped in his arms again.

Which, frankly, was an awfully nice place to be.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded.

Gently, I pushed away. “Deck, I just got home. I haven’t had time to call anyone—except Mimsey from the car to let her know about Wren.”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” he almost grumbled. He liked to be needed. Suddenly leaning forward, he stared into my eyes. “Are you really okay?”

I nodded and tried a smile.

“You are not! Katie, how did this happen? What the heck is going on?”

Waving my hand, I said, “Bad luck, I guess. Worse luck for Autumn—let’s be clear. Now listen—I really am okay. And you have to get going, or you’ll be late.”

“But, Katie—”

“And I promise not to worry about you every single second while you’re on duty, obsessing about whether you’ll be called out to a fire or a horrible car wreck or some other tragedy. After all, it’s what you do, and I have every confidence in your ability to handle whatever comes up.”

He gave me a wry look and put his hand on my shoulder. “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re tough. But you need to know you don’t have to be. Not all the time.” His kiss was light and tender.

Chastened, I said in a small voice, “Thanks.”

“Call me if you want. Either way, I’ll check in with you later.”

I sat at my kitchen table and listened to the rumble of his truck engine fade. Mungo jumped up on my lap. The chili called from the containers on the counter. Holding Mungo, I got up and dished out a bowl, one-handed.

“You want some?”

His
yip
was subdued.

I heated his a little in the microwave and put it on his place mat on the floor, and he tucked in. I heated mine to blazing and took it to my own place mat on the table. It was awesome chili: spicy and exotic, deepened with the flavor of, Declan had once confessed, a splash of Jack Daniel’s.

Still, my stomach topsy-turvy from the day’s events, I managed only four bites before I had to dump it back into the container.

•   •   •

Scottish bannock cakes were traditional fare for Celtic Imbolc celebrations, and having a chance to make them for the spellbook club had thrilled me. After all, baking was a huge part of my life, and now so was magic. I loved how they often overlapped. The old recipes I’d found were for a kind of unleavened fried or baked patty, almost like a thick, oat-laden pancake. More recent recipes included yeast, which would make for a lighter, fluffier interior. I could easily see how the older version could turn out like hockey pucks, but I really wanted to stay as traditional as possible and avoid using yeast.

So I decided to do one of my favorite things when it came to making a recipe (or a spell, I was learning) my own: I used elements from very different recipes to come up with something totally new. That something, it turned out, was sweet and savory and substantial without resembling a dry, flat rock.

I melted bacon fat to begin. After all, when in doubt, bacon is a good place to start with any recipe. Then I added oatmeal, baking soda, and a little salt. In another bowl I mixed together beaten egg, milk, barely melted butter, and a bit of maple syrup, then added it all to the oatmeal. When it was the consistency I wanted—still sticky, but workable with floured hands—I dumped in white raisins, candied orange peel, and some finely chopped bacon. A bit of chewiness and a bit of crunch.

My breath deepened as I worked, the acts of mixing and tasting and testing calming both body and mind. In the kitchen I understood how flavors interacted and how ingredients reacted with other ingredients, heat, agitation, and time. With Lucy’s continued instruction, I also knew how to add a little magical oomph here and there. I felt sure, able to trust my instincts.

However, when it came to fulfilling some kind of magical destiny, I didn’t feel sure at all. Which I hated because I’d really come to enjoy the burst of confidence I’d developed since living in Savannah. The horrible way that paper bat had felt had thrown me. Ugh.

Pausing for an elaborate shoulder roll, I pushed the thought away. Tonight was for me, for my friends, for Brigit and her promise of spring. Hope and forward motion.

Except for Autumn Boles, of course.

After kneading the rough dough together with a bit more oatmeal, I formed it into three rounds and then cut the rounds into quarters—also called farls—as I did when making scones. The triangular shapes went onto a buttered cookie sheet to bake up crispy on the edges and tender in the middle.

I could hardly wait to hear the spellbook club’s verdict.

While they baked, I changed into warm slacks and a thick sweater, tidied the kitchen, and double-checked the preparations I’d made in the dark of morning. Everything looked fine, so when the bannocks were done, I set them out to cool on racks on the counter and shoved aside the pile of seed catalogs on my tiny kitchen table so I could open my laptop.

Mungo whined softly in the back of his throat. Without taking my eyes off the screen, I scooped him up and deposited him on my lap where he promptly lay down so I could type.

Quickly, I searched the online archive of the
Savannah Morning News
for any mention of the swampland deal or the promise of a new golf course being built on the outskirts of the city. I knew from past experience that the paper was often the first place to get basic information, but I typed my search request with trepidation.

Heinrich Dawes described himself as a venture capitalist, and I’d heard Steve was trying his hand at the family business since reconciling with his father and joining his druidic “social club.” However, Steve was also a former crime reporter turned columnist for the
News
. Most of his columns focused on Savannah business, and I didn’t remember seeing any about the land deal. Still, I couldn’t be sure.

The enmity between Steve and Declan was almost palpable when they were in the same room. Not only had Steve and I once been on the verge of getting seriously involved, but Declan and Steve had their own issues centering around the death of Steve’s brother—who had been Declan’s best friend.

When the results popped onto the screen, I frowned. There was a brief mention of Fagen Swamp, but it was from five years before in relation to a strange but irrelevant story about an H-bomb landing someplace in the area in the late 1950s. Apparently the investment group had managed to keep the upcoming deal out of the papers. That didn’t surprise me since I knew Heinrich Dawes was a man used to secrets and used to getting his way.