Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery (4 page)

Weeks before, when I’d asked Autumn if getting the word out about the maroon bats in Fagen Swamp wouldn’t be a good way to garner public support, she’d agreed but said she wanted some definitive proof of the bats’ existence first. Otherwise she thought Georgia Wild would look foolish and lose some of its hard-won reputation. I couldn’t disagree with her logic.

So I wasn’t surprised when nothing surfaced on the Internet about a maroon bat sighting, and the only two references to Georgia Wild were regarding other projects the conservation agency had been involved with. Then, right before I shut down the computer, I saw an article about the increasing development of natural areas in the state.

Gart Fagen was quoted in the piece as saying that the swamp that carried his family’s name was a nasty, fetid place that he’d sell in a heartbeat. The article was dated over two years previously and stated that Fagen lived in Sedona, Arizona. If he liked the desert that much, then it was no wonder he had little interest in keeping his inherited marshland. Now it looked like he was about to get his wish.

Snapping the laptop shut, I said to Mungo, “Come on, little guy. We’ve got enough time for a quick walk around the block.”

Yip!

After slipping on my jacket, I jammed a wooly hat over my ears and opened the front door. Mungo bounded out to the postage-stamp lawn, the whole back half of his body wagging as I caught up. The night air had crisped, and I sucked in a deep, appreciative breath as we set off.

Since the houses on my side of the street backed up to an open space, we set off to circle the block across the way. I kept a brisk pace, but Mungo ran circles around me, getting twice as much exercise as I did. Good. He could be a bit of a lazybones, lolling around in the Honeybee office while I worked and rarely accompanying me on my runs.

As I walked, I thought about Declan’s repeated request that we go to Boston so I could meet his mother and stepfather. I was fine with meeting whatever family he wanted to introduce me to; that wasn’t the issue. But the proposed trip was just one more symptom of Declan pushing me to get serious, and instinctively I resisted. It wasn’t that I didn’t care deeply about Declan. It was just that it had been only a little over a year since my broken engagement, and I didn’t want to jump the gun. Declan was in his early thirties, and I knew he wanted to settle down sooner than later. Still, I wasn’t ready to think about marriage again, and I certainly wasn’t ready to think about having a family.

Would my children carry the same hereditary affinity for magic that had passed down to me? If I had a child with Declan, would he dilute the gift, or would it matter at all? After all, some said magic passed through the mother’s bloodline.

I could imagine what my father, who came from a long line of Shawnee medicine men, would have to say about that.

At least he’d say something. Mama and I had barely managed a few awkward conversations ever since Lucy—her younger sister—had had the temerity to ask me to move to Savannah and open the bakery with her and Ben. Well, that and telling me I was a witch. Mama had worked pretty hard my whole life to keep that information from me, and was none too happy when I’d embraced the Craft so thoroughly.

We’d circled the block, and rounding the final corner revealed Margie Coopersmith hadn’t drawn her front curtains against the night yet. I could see straight into her living room. The coffee table had been shoved aside to make space for a blanket fort. Her five-year-old twins, Jonathan and Julia, had on cowboy hats, and Julia ran around brandishing a toy bow and arrow. Margie’s golden ponytail swung forward as she plopped Baby Bart onto the sofa. He turned and slid to the floor, hanging on to the cushions as he watched his mother drop down on all fours to give Jonathan a ride. Bart opened his mouth, and I could hear his delighted squeal all the way out on the street.

Laughing, I asked my canine companion, “Can you imagine my mother doing that when I was little?”

His head tipped to one side.

“Sorry. I forgot you haven’t met her.” Which made me think about meeting Declan’s mother again. Would he ever meet my mother? Did I want him to?

The image of Autumn Boles’ bloodless face rose in my mind. Did she have family? Parents and siblings who would miss her? And what about Hunter Normandy? What possible cause could her boyfriend have had to kill her? I’d met Hunter only a few times, but he and Autumn seemed to get along quite well, despite the icky feeling he gave me. The hit I got off him was hard to describe, but it was almost impersonal, as if he wasn’t the actual source of it. After all, Autumn had been no dummy. She was unlikely to choose—or stick with—a beau who was violent or otherwise unsavory.

Her ex-husband was another possible suspect, of course. The police always seemed to look at significant others and exes first. Autumn’s divorce had been final a few months before, and other than infrequent references to incidents from their past, she rarely spoke of him. I didn’t even know his name; she’d always referred to him as “the ex,” usually accompanied with a slight eye roll.

Then there was that darn bat she’d been holding. Was it actually related to her death, or had she just happened to be holding the origami when she’d been attacked? And what was
wrong
with it, in a metaphysical sense? I’d have to ask Wren if she’d felt it, too.

Sighing, I wished I could talk to my mother about the whole situation. Lucy was great, as were the other ladies in the spellbook club and my dad, but it wasn’t the same. What if there really was dark magic involved? I reminded myself that my mother wouldn’t have been the right one to talk to about Autumn’s murder anyway. Even if she’d been happy that I practiced magic, she’d still be the same overprotective Mama she’d always been.

Back home, I opened the door for Mungo and inhaled the spiced fragrance of the fresh-baked bannock cakes with appreciation.

And then it hit me. I wasn’t angry at my mother anymore. Not for keeping the family heritage of hedgewitchery a secret, and not for being such a pain in the patootie ever since I’d found out about it. I was simply tired of dealing with her stubbornness about magic.

And I missed her.

By the time the doorbell rang at eight twenty, the apple cider was hot and infused with cloves, cardamom, clover honey, and a few black peppercorns. Jaida French stood on my porch, armed with a yellow candle, a bottle of wine, and a worried expression. An attorney by trade and tarot expert by training, she had been teaching me how to incorporate cards of the major arcana into my spell work. Tonight she wore designer jeans and a dark red sweater that glowed like fire against her deep mocha skin. She swept into the living room followed by her familiar, a Great Dane named Anubis.

Tail wagging so hard I thought he’d put his back out, Mungo launched himself off the couch. The two dogs touched noses. Mungo was about the size of the Great Dane’s head.

“God, Katie. How awful. How utterly, utterly awful.” Jaida set the bottle on the coffee table and threw her arms around me. Her soothing voice ran over me like caramel.

I returned her embrace, surprised to feel hot tears stinging my eyelids. “Mimsey called you, too,” I mumbled into her comforting shoulder. She smelled like cinnamon.

“Of course. She called all of us.” She stepped back and held me at arm’s length, looking me up and down. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”

I nodded, swallowing the sudden ache in my throat. “Thanks,” I finally managed. “Wren was much closer to Autumn than I was, though.” I thought of her stunned face as she’d careened out of Autumn’s office. “I’m really worried about her. Mimsey said she was going to try to get her to come tonight.”

“And Wren said she would.” Jaida laid her coat across the back of one of the wingbacks.

I started to close the door, then saw Lucy’s 1964 Thunderbird convertible pull into the driveway behind my Volkswagen. The top, of course, was up, but I could see Mimsey in the passenger seat, and the tall figure in the back had to be Wren.

“Grab yourself some cider,” I called to Jaida, and went out to the porch just as Margie opened her front door to take a look. I waved to her. She waved back and went inside. I’d already told her I was having a book club meeting at my house so she wouldn’t die from curiosity when the ladies arrived.

The three women got out of the Thunderbird and hurried toward me. Honeybee strolled leisurely behind them, the very picture of orange-striped feline nonchalance. Lucy wore a black cloak that reached nearly to the ground and had tamed her mop of hair into a thick braid that fell over one shoulder.

Mimsey, even shorter than my aunt and considerably rounder, wore a long, poufy down coat in vivid eye-pounding orange. Heckle, her parrot, rode on one shoulder. The septuagenarian was the unspoken leader of the spellbook club, as much as any group as democratic as ours needed a leader. She practiced flower and color magic as well as a bit of divination. Orange was, among other things, the color of movement and life force, apropos for this evening’s festivities, and the bow clinging to the side of her smooth white pageboy was the same traffic-cone hue as her coat. As they approached, I saw Mimsey’s usual twinkle had been ousted by worry. Lucy watched me with careful eyes as I greeted them, her face relaxing when I smiled at her.

Wren looked a little better, blinking at me from behind her dark-framed glasses. Her sheepskin coat hung loosely on her thin frame, and tight black leggings emphasized her long legs. “Hi, Katie. Thanks for letting me come tonight. I know covens aren’t traditionally open to outsiders, especially for Sabbat celebrations.”

I took her arm and led the way inside. “Don’t be silly. You’re not an outsider, Wren. You could be a member of the spellbook club if you wanted.”

“I keep telling her,” Mimsey said. Heckle squawked his agreement.

“I know, Gran.”

“Mimsey, do you think you’ll be warm enough in that coat?” I asked. She looked ready for an arctic expedition, and it was still in the low fifties outside.

Heckle, until now the perfect gentleman, suddenly squawked, “Sarcasm! Lowest form of humor!”

“Hush,” Mimsey admonished, but at least she was smiling.

Inside, Jaida called from the kitchen, “Who wants cider and who wants wine?”

We all exchanged glances and answered as one: “Wine!”

As everyone got their drinks, the doorbell rang again. Before I could get there, the door opened and Bianca Devereaux and Cookie Rios entered. The other ladies drifted back out of the kitchen, glasses in hand.

“Hi, guys,” I said.

“Hello,” Cookie said, the lilt of her Haitian accent evident even in the one word. She took off her long leather coat to reveal a form-fitting dress the same jade as her eyes. These days her long dark hair was highlighted with subtle blue streaks. She was a few years younger than me, but I felt sure she possessed an old soul.

Tall and elegant, Bianca wore a long black cloak like Lucy’s. It was pretty traditional garb for workings, especially outside. As she was more traditional than any of us, Bianca looked the most like what the majority of people thought a traditional witch should look—long black hair, pale skin, penetrating green eyes, and a tendency to wear clothes that swirled and flowed around her. Funny that she was closest to Cookie, the one most likely to break the rules and ignore the Rule of Three.

Though the more I practiced, the more good and bad kept getting mixed up.

Now Bianca shook her head. “Oh, Wren. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She held out a basket that held a hefty bottle of champagne and seven carefully wrapped flutes.

Wren took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

As I reached to relieve her of the basket, I saw two bright eyes looking out from inside the collar of Bianca’s cloak. A tiny black nose quivered, then disappeared.

“I see you brought a friend,” I said.

Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “Puck,” she said softly, “come out and meet the spellbook club.”

The nose appeared again, then the head, snow-white except for a Zorro mask of black fur around the eyes. In a liquid flash he slithered around Bianca’s neck and down her arm to the cloak’s pocket where he resumed watching us with those dark, assessing eyes.

Puck was a ferret.

“Oh, he’s darling,” Lucy exclaimed. “How did he find you?” She asked because of course familiars find their witches, not the other way around. Mungo had shown up at the carriage house the first day I’d arrived there.

“He came into Moon Grapes this afternoon—from where, I have no idea. I was in my office working on the books when my assistant started shrieking like a madwoman. I ran out front and found her standing on a chair. She thought this little guy was a rat.” Bianca’s smile widened, and she stroked the sleek head. Puck leaned into her hand. “He came right up to me and has been riding on my shoulder or in my pocket ever since. He’s still a bit shy, but Colette adores him.” Colette was her six-year-old daughter.

“I’m so happy for you,” Jaida said.

I leaned down to pocket level. “Welcome, Puck.” Straightening, I took the basket from Bianca and gestured toward the kitchen with my chin. “Help yourself to some wine if you’d like.”

They liked. When they’d returned, I said, “Now listen, everyone. We’re going to celebrate tonight. Right?”

Wren solemnly nodded her agreement as we all exchanged glances.

I grabbed one of my three kitchen chairs to add to the six already set up around the fire. “At least we’ll celebrate the best that we can under the circumstances. Now I’m going to go out and get the fire going. Grab your jackets, ladies.”

Cookie’s eyes met mine, holding my gaze for a long moment before looking away. I realized that she hadn’t said a word since her initial greeting. Her face was a careful mask, but I could tell something was bothering her.

“Cookie—,” I began.

“Let’s get this party started,” she said, and led the way outside.

•   •   •

The crackle of the fire warmed my mind as much as the flames warmed the surrounding air. I respected all of the elements, but nothing was as comforting as fire, especially on a cold night after seeing cold death.

Usually I cast in the relative privacy of the gazebo, but tonight we used salt to cast our circle deosil around the fire, beginning and ending in the east and encompassing all the chairs and the small table I’d added at the last minute. The tabletop held a small vase of snowdrops—sometimes called the maids of February and a traditional symbol of Imbolc—which Mimsey had also chosen to represent snow. The bundle of cinnamon sticks tied with a ribbon the color of bright sunshine also rested on the table, along with a felted woolen lamb Cookie had bought from Annette Lander, who owned the knitting store next to the Honeybee, and the cut-glass bowl containing several packets of organic heirloom flower seeds I’d been hoarding for this night. All the items represented the coming of spring and light and the birth of new plants and animals—especially lambs.

On the southern side of the table a mason jar half filled with sand shielded Jaida’s yellow candle from the night air. The bottle of champagne Bianca had brought from Moon Grapes was on the western side. She’d gone totally overboard with the Dom Perignon, but I wasn’t exactly surprised. Bianca had a talent for making money in the stock market, and tended to spoil us a bit when she could.

Our glasses of wine had been traded for mugs of hot cider, which now balanced on the gravel next to each chair. The bannock cakes filled a tray on the ground in front of the makeshift altar. Puck reappeared and wrapped himself around the side of Bianca’s neck. Anubis and Mungo lay between the chairs Jaida and I had chosen, and Heckle perched on the back of Mimsey’s chair. He was uncharacteristically quiet after his outburst, concentrating on preening his brightly colored wings. Honeybee stretched out as close as she could get to the fire, almost touching the copper bowl. Purring, she did that squinty thing with her eyes, which made me smile. It was too bad I was so allergic to her.

After the circle was cast, everyone else took their seats around the fire. Looking around at my friends, I realized yet again how lucky I was to have them.

“Katie,” Lucy said, “how would you like to proceed?”

I hesitated, unsure if what I was about to propose was a good idea now. Might as well find out. “I was thinking that I’d like to add a twist to the usual incantation.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out several sheets of handmade paper and a variety of pens. “I do have something short and sweet to recite, but I’d like to incorporate some burning magic as well. What do you all think about writing down our wishes as spring approaches and releasing them in the fire?”

Mimsey clasped her hands and beamed. “Oh, my stars, Katie. That’s a wonderful idea.”

Jaida said, “It’s certainly in keeping with the spirit of looking forward with anticipation and thankfulness.”

The others nodded their agreement. All except Wren.

“Anyone who doesn’t want to participate doesn’t have to,” I said, watching her.

Her eyes met mine, but she didn’t say anything.

“Okay, so let’s get started,” I said, passing around the paper.

There was silence as everyone bent to writing their wishes. In my peripheral vision I saw Wren writing, too. Perhaps this ritual would give her a modicum of peace.

When we were done, everyone rose and moved closer to the fire and to one another. Lucy’s gloved hand squeezed my own before dropping away. With a quick glance at Margie’s house, I moved to the table. The circle was to protect our working, and I’d added an incantation to create disinterest next door. It seemed to be working.

I cleared my throat. Lucy gave an encouraging nod. I placed the fingertips of one hand on the wooly lamb, plunged my other hand into the bowl of flower-seed packets, and began to recite my short and simple Imbolc incantation.

Hail Brigit, protectress

Of women,

Of children,

Of lambs and babes,

Of seedlings and fledglings,

Of all newborn creatures.

My hand moved to the scented yellow candle and the vase holding the delicate sprigs of snowdrops.

With this golden light

We welcome you tonight.

Come February maids

And darkness fades.

I brought my hands out in front of me, palms up.

Brigit, bless the plants of yesteryear

And carry forward new creation,

Transformation,

Inspiration.

May you heal ill’s cost and return joy lost.

Let it be so, in celebration.

“Blessed be,” Bianca murmured.

At the last minute I’d added the bit about healing ills, mostly for Wren. After all, Brigit was the goddess of healing as well as midwifery, and I figured we could use all the help we could get. At least no one seemed to think it was out of place.

I took the paper with my wish on it—there was only one—and gently placed it among the glowing red coals. It flamed bright and quick, releasing a brief puff of smoke that wended toward the starry heavens. I leaned my head back to watch it go. One by one the others followed suit.

When we had regained our seats, I passed around the bannock cakes on napkins decorated with vivid sunflowers.

Bianca took a hesitant bite. Delight replaced her doubt. “Oh! I’ve had bannock cakes before, and they were simply awful. What’s your secret?”

Lucy leaned forward to hear my answer.

“Bacon,” I said.

My aunt smiled. Any other night she would have laughed, but nothing was normal tonight.

Cookie snorted and leaned forward, staring into the flames. “I hope you’re burning magic works, Katie. Brandon is leaving in a month for a stay in Europe to work on his latest art exhibition, and Xana has decided to close the gallery and go with him as his manager. So I’ll be out a boyfriend
and
a job.” Her words held an undertone of bitterness.

The rest of us exchanged glances. Cookie was known for holding on to both men and jobs for no longer than four months, and she was already three months into the current cycle. Even if her boyfriend and job with the Xana Do! Gallery weren’t going away, she would have been moving on. However, she’d always been the one to move on, and this time the choice hadn’t been hers. It sounded to me like Brandon and Xana might be doing more than just touring Europe together in the name of art.