Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery (7 page)

With a twinge of guilt that he was still in my contact list, I dialed Steve’s cell and waited while it rang.

“Well, well, well. I thought you’d never call.”

Didn’t anyone just answer
hello
anymore?

“It turns out I really do need to know more about the sale of the swamp,” I said. “Are you at home?” Steve had moved into his family’s guesthouse, but I’d never been there. I did know the estate had a swimming pool and a tennis court, and I was curious to see the place.

“Actually I’m at the office on this sunny Sunday afternoon.”

“At the
News
? Can I drop by?”

“No, at Dawes Corp. Thought I’d take a look and see what I could find out about this golf course thing in case you called after all. Which you just did.” I could hear him smiling.

Dawes Corp. Lordy.

“Something happened to change my mind,” I said.

There were a few beats of silence before he answered. “That sounds serious.”

“It is. Someone threatened Wren.”

Mungo nudged my hand again, and I absently scratched the top of his head.

“I’m not far from the Honeybee.” He gave me the address on Drayton Street. “Top floor. I’ll leave the side door to the street unlocked.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I hung up.

“He wasn’t the least bit surprised that I called,” I said to Mungo.

He made a noise in the back of his throat and jumped down to where my tote bag sat open on the floor.

On my way out, I told Lucy where I was going. Her response was a quirked eyebrow that I pointedly ignored.

“Detective Quinn is dropping by in the next hour or so to pick up the bat,” I said. “It’s in a bag on the shelf under the register. Oh, and tell him I’m sorry Wren and Mimsey left before he could talk to them. My bad. They’re expecting him at Wren’s apartment, though.”

“Got it,” she said. “Now scoot.”

•   •   •

It actually took twelve minutes for Mungo and me to walk to Steve’s office. As he’d said, it was a sunny Sunday, and the humid air had warmed to sixty-five degrees. A few acclimated Southerners hurried by me on the sidewalk bundled up in sweaters, but I slipped off my jacket and looped it through the handles of my tote bag. Leaning against it, my familiar’s head bobbed in time with my steps.

On the way I thought about bats and swampland, boyfriends and ex-husbands. About halfway there, I realized that I was developing a mental to-do list. I might not know how to be a lightwitch per se, but in less than a year I’d developed a knack for getting information and figuring things out. Quinn wouldn’t be excited about my involvement, but if I stayed out of his way, I might be able to help in the end. I’d left the Honeybee feeling strongly protective of Wren, and now that was joined by the combination of intense curiosity and a desire for justice that I’d been so carefully trying to tamp down ever since I’d gotten that strange vibe from the first origami bat.

I stopped on the sidewalk in front of the address Steve had given me. Not surprisingly, subtlety ruled when it came to the Dawes Corporation. Nothing indicated the nondescript brick building held offices at all—no signage, no view into windows revealing office furniture, no parking lot. In front a concrete pathway led from the public sidewalk to three steps and then a large wooden door with a brass knocker. Wrought-iron window boxes on the second and third floors spilled over with bright pansies.

Then a single gargoyle downspout on a corner by the roofline caught my attention. Grotesque but amusing with bulging eyes and bulbous nose, the sculpture had something about it.

It held power. Not the cloying, rotting feel of Autumn’s paper bat, but a power I recognized.

Looking down at Mungo, I said, “Feel that?”

Yip!

The Dawes Corporation office would be in that corner of the third floor, and Heinrich Dawes had imbued the sculpted stone with a protection spell—and possibly something else. No surprise there. Heinrich wasn’t shy about using his druidic power both personally and in business. I just didn’t know to what degree.

I veered off the front path and went around to the narrow walkway that led between the buildings. The side door was indeed open. I entered the dark stairwell, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Wending my way up the narrow stairs, I bypassed the first landing and entered a short hallway on the third floor. It ended in an open space thirty-five feet square. Light streamed down from multiple skylights set into the high ceiling, and plush carpet muffled my footsteps. Huge potted ficus trees in each corner reached toward the light above, and more lined the wide stairway, which was visible through a glass wall. Comfortable chairs were interspersed along walls graced with splashy modern art, and an unmanned reception desk sat near the entrance from the front stairs.

Three doors opened off the reception area. The first had a nameplate that unsurprisingly read
HEINRICH DAWES
. I did a double take when I saw the second name:
LOGAN SEWARD
.

Colleague indeed.

Steve sat behind an enormous burled-walnut desk in the third office.
His
office, the brass plate told me. I’d thought he was merely dabbling in Daddy’s business, and now I reassessed.

“Hello,” I said.

He looked up and rose to his feet. “Come in.”

I paused in the doorway, then continued in. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

He laughed. “How formal. You’re very welcome.”

I sat down in the distressed leather guest chair that he waved me toward. There was plenty of room for my tote, too, and for Mungo, whose dark brown eyes were fixed on Steve. He sat back down on the other side of the desk.

Another skylight above offered plenty of daylight to tease out the elaborate grain of the desk, illuminate the dark wood of the bookcases and filing cabinets, and echo off the indigo paint on the beadboard wainscoting that ran around the periphery of the room. A marble sculpture of a bull dominated a corner behind the desk, and a single painting of a stormy country scene hung on the wall to my right. It looked like a Constable—so it probably was—and not a reproduction, either. A kind of fuzzy veil surrounded it, indicating it was heavily warded. I had to give Steve credit for keeping things simple in this plush and ornate space. Despite the palpable presence of wealth, the feng shui felt right.

“I’m intrigued,” he said. “This is the third time in a year that something like this has landed in your lap, so to speak. And they do say the third time’s a charm.”

I grimaced at his pun. “Funny.”

“Really, I’d like to help if I can.”

That’s why you’re here. Take him up on it.

Taking a deep breath, I plunged in. “So, what can you tell me about the swampland-slash-golf-course deal?”

He considered me. “Well, you do get to the point.”

“Sorry.” I leaned forward. “But this isn’t exactly a social call. I’d think you’d rather I didn’t waste your time.”

Amusement flickered across his face. “Tell you what. I’ll answer your questions to the extent that I’m able if you’ll listen to a proposal I have for you.”

Uh-oh. Warning klaxons went off in my mind, but I did my best to ignore them, knowing that if I didn’t agree, Steve might usher me out right then and there.

I nodded my agreement.

He smiled. “What do you want to know?”

I sat back and scrambled to gather my thoughts. “What, exactly, is your involvement with the sale of Fagen Swamp?”

“I’m not involved at all. Father is.”

“Perhaps I should be talking to him, then.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.”

He was right. Heinrich probably wouldn’t even take my call. I wondered what Quinn would get out of him, if anything.

“He’s a venture capitalist,” Steve said. “In this case he’s investing capital in the venture of building a golf course—along with a few other people, I might add. Obviously the first step is to purchase the land. After looking at several sites, the investment group decided that the location of Fagen Swamp, which is about halfway to Tybee Island, was close enough to Savannah and the price was right.”

“Which has to be completely negated by the fact that it’s a
swamp
,” I said. “Won’t it have to be drained, razed, and then completely rebuilt down to the most basic level?” I struggled to keep the indignity out of my voice.

He gave a kind of facial shrug. “Still at less expense than the other land options.”

“And if somehow the land can’t be sold?” I asked.

“Bah. That silly bat thing? I don’t think they’re too worried about that.”

Mungo bristled beside me.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, only one person has seen them.”

“There are pictures.”

He gave me a wry look.

“Okay, what do you know about the landowner, Gart Fagen?” I asked.

“Only what Father mentioned. He’s a backwoods kind of guy who inherited the land, but he’s not much of a nature nut. Couldn’t care less about flying mammals. He’s racked up a few gambling debts, not too bad but enough to make him highly motivated to sell. And not that many people want to buy a swatch of soggy swamp.”

“Sounds like they’re taking advantage of him.”

“Hardly. He wants the money, and he’s getting it. And the investors are getting a good deal. It’s the way business is done, Katie.”

“Not so great for the plants and animals that live there, though—whether there are maroon bats or not. You’re a druid, Steve. Aren’t you supposed to respect and love nature? Isn’t the rest of your clan supposed to as well?”

His lips pressed together. “I understand what you’re saying, of course. But we are modern druids, and nature takes many forms. They aren’t turning the swamp into a concrete parking lot. It will be a beautiful golf course full of natural elements. Not wild, mind you, but it will still be nature.”

Whatever you have to tell yourself so you can sleep at night, Steve.

“What else?” he asked.

“Who are the other investors?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“But you said—”

“I said I would answer your questions if I could. I only know about Father and Logan.”

I pointed to the office next door. “Your lawyerly ‘colleague,’ huh? So is there some famous golfer behind all this nonsense?”

“Not yet—but there will be.”

“Who?”

“From what I know, the investors haven’t decided yet. They’ll select some up-and-comer who will jump at the chance to design a course and whose name will add cachet to the project.”

It sounded like a backward way of going at things. What if they couldn’t convince their chosen designer to become involved? Then I remembered how persuasive Heinrich could be—and how he wouldn’t be shy about using magic to get what he wanted. It would be interesting to see what the Rule of Three bounced back at him.

“Okay.” I stroked Mungo’s head and thought about what else Steve might be able to tell me. “Do you know of anyone who would, no, wait . . . anyone who could
possibly
have a reason to want Autumn dead?”

He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his desk chair. His shirt stretched taut over his chest, and I had a sudden vision of running my hands over his bare torso. Tearing my gaze away, I met his dark knowing eyes. For a split second I wondered if he could read my mind, but I quickly pushed the thought away.

“That’s a rather subjective question, Katie. Never mind the fact that I’d never met her.” But there was something in his voice.

I suppressed a smile. “No, it’s not. You either know of someone who has a possible motive—just possible motive is all I’m asking about—or you don’t.”

Without taking his eyes from my face, he reached for a pen on the desk in front of him and began tapping it against the blotter.

“You do, don’t you?” I urged.

He looked toward the ceiling as if weighing his answer. “Possible motive, I suppose. And I’m only telling you this because . . . well, because you might be able to do something with the information. I’m not sure what, though.”

“You are a tease. Plain and simple.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

Steve said, “I heard that Skip Thorsen wanted to join the investment group, but he didn’t have enough money.”

Skip
. Did I know that name? “Who is Skip Thorsen, and why would that give him a motive to kill Autumn Boles?”

“He’s her ex-husband.”

I gaped.

“And he still has a nice big life insurance policy on her.”

I tucked that choice bit of information into my mental pocket and plunged on. “What about Logan Seward?”

Steve shrugged.

“You must know something about him.”

“Nothing that has any relevance here.”

I glared at him.

He ignored me. “So, how are you and your new boyfriend doing?”

I stood and slung the tote onto my shoulder. “Steve, I understand your dislike of Declan. I know what happened when he and Arnie went into that burning building. I’m so sorry for the loss of your brother, but it wasn’t Declan’s fault. I’m simply not going to sit here and listen to you run down my boyfriend.”

He stood, too. “Oh, stop it. How is asking how you two are doing running down your boyfriend?”

“It . . . I could hear it in your tone.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Was it? Was I manufacturing difficulty where there wasn’t any?

He came around the desk until he was standing next to me, his elbow brushing my arm. I tensed but held my ground.

“I said I had a proposal for you,” he murmured. “It’s nothing terrible, nothing weird. But back at the bakery, you said you didn’t want me out of your life. And I most definitely don’t want to be out of your life.”

“Steve . . .”

“We can’t be involved, as you put it,
romantically
. At least not . . . well, I respect your decision, Katie, because I respect you. But we can be friends, can’t we?”

I was silent.

His voice was tender. “You chose Declan, not me. I should be the one who is upset, not you. I’m over it. I’d rather have you in my life in whatever way I can than push you away because I’m too pigheaded to understand your problems with my druid clan. Because I do understand.”