Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (18 page)

I reached a large brown canvas tent collapsed in the corner next to cots and stacks of bedding. Teetering on top of it was a box about two feet high and a foot and a half wide. The front was covered with a hinged lid. The whole thing was pretty light when I lifted it and placed it on a battered table. Sliding the hook on top, I lowered the front to discover a delightful portable desk, much like my own secretary's desk, only suited for camping—or a military campaign. I could easily imagine a scene in which a general penned a missive on that desk, lit only by one of the pseudo-kerosene lanterns nearby. There were other tables and lamps, and another corner held tack—saddles, bridles, and the fancy carriage harness I'd seen on the horse when I'd arrived at the movie set for the first time.

Lordy. That seemed like ages ago, but it had been only a few days. Since then, Simon Knapp had been killed, I'd learned Franklin Taite was probably dead, someone had poisoned Owen Glade with a Honeybee cookie, and my very nonmagical boyfriend had proven that he could channel the spirits of the dead while positing he might be indirectly related to a leprechaun from the Old Country.

Whew!

Glancing around, I noticed the props were in a bit of disarray. This wasn't the original setup, however, since everything had been moved from the first location near where Simon's body had been found to this, the other side of Reynolds Square. Since Niklas had decided to cut short A. Dendum's stay in Savannah, there probably hadn't been a need for a lot of neatness for only a few days.

Or maybe the property manager wasn't an organized kind of guy. Either way, the police—and probably my uncle—had certainly gone through everything in here. What on earth did I hope to find?

I didn't know, but I was still going to try.

The portable secretary's desk had a built-in drawer. It was stuck and took a bit of wiggling to get open. Inside there was a sheaf of yellowed but blank paper, a quill pen, and an inkpot. The image of the military man hunched over an important letter flashed through my imagination again. I shook the inkpot and heard the sloshing of liquid. Opening it, I peered inside.

And gagged at the smell. Did real old-fashioned ink actually smell that bad?

Dipping the pen in, I discovered the liquid was clear.

Clear ink?
Invisible
ink? I fingered the papers, wondering. One by one, I lifted them to the light that streamed in from the doorway, but discerned only a modern watermark. It was expensive paper, all right, but aged with something—tea, perhaps—to look like it had been carried through the travails of war. Still, I couldn't get the notion of a secret note written with invisible ink out of my mind.

You read too much Nancy Drew as a girl.

I started to put the paper and inkwell back, then paused with them both still in my hand. Niklas had said they were almost done. Surely they wouldn't need these two obscure props today, right? Feeling like a thief, I capped the inkwell tightly and slipped it and the papers into my pocket to check out later.

Moving on.

I opened the drawers in tables and end tables, checked inside rolled-up rugs, and tested the blades of the bayonets only to approve of how remarkably dull they were. A chair sat to one side, and I could imagine Simon sitting there with his computer open on the folding table next to it, or pacing back and forth in the middle of tent, rapidly speaking into his cell phone. But unless the canvas walls had ears, I wasn't going to learn any secrets about Simon here.

Sitting in the chair, I took one last look around. From that vantage, I spied a piece that looked out of place in its modernity. It was a plain, metal two-drawer filing cabinet. Nothing special, yet there was something about it. The slightest
shimmer
of . . . power shining from the painted steel surface.

I hurried to the file cabinet and opened the top drawer. Empty. Slipping my hand inside, I felt along the inside of the top of the cabinet. Nothing.

The second drawer was not empty, but the contents were a jumble of small props—old-fashioned pens, papier-mâché musket balls, a set of epaulets, a lady's pair of combs with a matching brush and mirror set, and a sheaf of mismatched paper that turned out to be hard-copy receipts from Atlanta for vintage clothing stores, antiques dealers, tailors, and an army surplus store. Simon had been gathering props for the movie. Some of the receipts were signed by Owen Glade. None of that was surprising.

Again, I ran my hand lightly over the bottom of the drawer above to no avail.

Until one fingertip touched something rough.

I reached farther back and felt paper crackle. Pulling the drawer all the way out, I reached in and pulled away the manila envelope that was taped to the back panel of the cabinet.

Folding onto the floor, I eagerly opened it and pulled out two sets of paper clipped together.

One set was of newspaper clippings from the
Savannah Morning News
. I scanned a column by Steve Dawes about a flurry of food trucks starting up business in town. One of them was the Waffle Baron, Robin Bonner's mobile restaurant that featured specialty waffles twenty-four-seven. Sure enough, the other clippings were ads, first for the Waffle Baron with a Twitter address so fans could find out where the truck was at any given time, and the second for Bonner Catering.

I put those aside and removed the second paper clip from a dozen photos. I didn't recognize most of the people in them, but paused at the one of Van Grayson smiling up from where he sat cross-legged on a carpet, surrounded by the grinning, cherubic faces of his young fans. Another was of Simon himself, standing with an attractive woman in her late forties in front of a sign that read,
BOULDER
CREEK
LIBRARY
. His arm was around her, and they were both smiling into the camera.

Hard-copy photographs. Pretty rare in this digital age. And meaning . . . what?

Handling the items gingerly, I slid everything back into the envelope to give to Quinn. Who knew if he could do anything with them, but at least I'd teased them out of their hiding place.

Then I paused. If I took the photos, I'd be disturbing evidence. The best thing would be to return them to the file drawer and tell Quinn about them. Then he could come find them in situ.

“Get those lights packed up!” a male voice shouted outside the tent. Niklas had said they were getting ready to break down the set and pack things up, and it sounded like it had already begun.

If the photos and clippings could help Quinn, I couldn't take the chance that they'd be taken away before I could get ahold of him. I'd take them with me.

I was sliding the drawer back into the cabinet when light from the open doorway brightened a scrap of blue velvet at the bottom. Digging through the detritus, I pulled out a bag tied with a cord made of woven gold silk. Certainly Quinn's people had already looked inside. Still, I worked the knot open and poured the contents out onto the canvas floor of the tent.

A small silver goblet laced with embossed ivy leaves shone up at me. Next to it fell a finely carved wooden stick that looked almost like a miniature totem pole, a tarnished brass sheriff's star, and finally, a short, thin dagger in a leather sheath. I removed a fine silk scarf that swirled with all the colors of the rainbow and set it next to the other pieces.

Chalice, wand, pentacle, athame—and a ritual cloth to set them all up on.

This was an altar—portable and innocent-looking among this mishmash of movie props.

With trepidation, I slowly slid the blade of the dagger out of the sheath. It flashed wickedly, and I knew without touching the blade that it was razor-sharp.

An athame was a ritual blade, not a functional one. Unless, of course, whoever this altar belonged to practiced darker magic than what I was used to.

Whoever.

My mind staggered through the possibilities. Shuddering, I slid the blade carefully back into its leather covering.

That's when I saw the tiny, curved inscription on the metal next to the handle:
SK.

This was Simon's altar.

Which suddenly made an enormous amount of sense. No wonder Simon had been so good at fixing things! He was a witch or some other kind of sorcerer. And no wonder he'd known Heinrich Dawes, head of the druid clan that had been in Savannah before the time
Love in Revolution
was set.

However, did Simon's magical practice—good, bad, or ugly—account for why I'd become involved in his murder investigation? Because it didn't explain a motive for his murder.

Unless perhaps he was killed simply because he practiced magic?

A shiver ran through me at the thought.

Or perhaps it was because he practiced
dark
magic. Oddly, that made me feel better. The spellbook club believed in the Rule of Three. It informed all our magical workings. If Simon had cast dark magic to fix a problem for someone, it was possible the boomerang effect could have resulted in his death.

His death through human action, though, to be sure. And a death that as a lightwitch, even a white witch, I was still obligated to bring to justice.

* * *

Back at the Honeybee, Lucy was on her own.

“Where's Mimsey?” I asked.

My aunt waved her hand in the general direction of Vase Value. “A floral delivery went awry, and the customer came into the shop in person to complain. Her manager called, and Mims headed right over there to put out the fire.”

I tied on the first apron that came to hand, a frilly French maid affair. “Has it been busy?”

“Not too bad. We had a run on the goat cheese éclairs, though. They're so popular, I think we should make twice as many tomorrow.”

I grinned. “That's the kind of problem I like to have.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Did you find out anything?”

I joined her behind the register, talking low so the dozen or so customers ensconced around the bakery wouldn't hear. “Get this, Lucy. Simon was a witch.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh!”

“Or at least some kind of sorcerer. Maybe even a druid.” I told her the items I'd found hidden in the prop tent. “I can't think of any other reason for them to be there.”

“Are you sure they belonged to him?”

A young couple came in the door and headed straight for the register. I waited while she chose a molasses cookie and he selected a coconut bar cookie. Lucy rang them up, and they took their treats with them back out to the street.

When the door closed, I said, “Simon's initials were engraved on the athame.”

A decisive nod from my aunt. “Well, that settles it, then. Do you think that's why he was killed?”

“I don't know. Maybe not directly. But it certainly makes it easier to understand why he was so good at fixing things. Plus, Steve told me Simon contacted Heinrich before coming to Savannah, to help find Robin Bonner for Althea. So if there's some kind of good ol' boy druid network, Simon was probably part of it, or at least knew about it.”

“Do you think Steve knew Simon practiced magic?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, I don't think so. He said Simon contacted Heinrich, and when I asked how Simon knew to do that, he simply said Heinrich had lots of connections.” I paused, remembering Steve's reluctance to tell me about Althea when before he'd always been willing to give me any information he might have. “On the other hand,” I said slowly, “he might have known all along. Those druids are a tight-knit lot, and if that's what Simon was, then I could see Steve closing ranks with the others in the Dragoh Society. The Dragohs only have a few members, all in Savannah, but there have to be other groups like them out there—and they'd all be likely to protect one another, right?”

Lucy looked as unhappy as I felt about the idea that Steve would keep secrets like that from me.

We both looked up as the door opened again and Mrs. Standish entered. She wore a zebra-print tunic over wide flowing slacks accented by silver metallic leather flats. Her iron-gray hair curled fetchingly around her earlobes, and her lips shone hot pink rather than her usual raptor red.

Lucy greeted her. “Hello, my dear. Need more éclairs?”

Mrs. Standish's laugh in response held giddy delight as a man who had apparently entered behind her stepped out of her shadow. He removed his straw hat to reveal a smooth, bald head that reached almost to his companion's chin. His build was so slender, his gray trousers and button-down Oxford hung on him like a scarecrow, but his dark eyes were kind and the lines time had carved into his face suggested a man who smiled often.

“Perhaps later, Mrs. Eagel!” she said. “Right now we were hoping for something a bit more substantial. Picnic fare, if you will.” Her eyes twinkled.

My aunt and I exchanged amused glances.

“We should be able to come up with something you'll enjoy,” Lucy said.

“Wonderful! I knew I could count on you.”

I smiled pointedly at the gentleman beside her. “Welcome to the Honeybee.”

“This is Mr. Dean!” Mrs. Standish said. Her voice softened. “Skipper.” She gazed fondly down at him. “I call him Skipper because he's the caption of his own ship.”

For a moment I wondered if she was being metaphorical, but then he smiled back at her. “Now, Edna. It's just a little boat.”

Edna? Mrs. Standish had been one of the Honeybee's first customers and had been spreading the good word about our baked goods ever since, but I now realized I'd never heard her first name.

“That doesn't matter a whit,” she said. “It's delightful.” And to Lucy and me, “We're going out on it this evening for a lovely romantic supper, but until then I'm going to show Skipper a bit of Savannah. He's new here, you see. Purchased the house next to mine only last week.”

He nodded his agreement, letting her take the conversational lead.
Wise man.

She leaned toward us and hissed, “A widower, don't you know.”

Skipper Dean heard, of course, yet didn't seem in the least nonplussed by Mrs. Standish. I instantly deemed him worthy of her attention. Time would tell, of course, but I'd never seen her so happy.

Lucy invented a couple of new picnic-friendly items for them on the spot: sandwiches made from our giant biscuits typically referred to as catheads—because that was how big they were—layered with slabs of smoky Tasso ham, a thick slather of sweet mango chutney, and a thin layer of sour pickled okra. Just watching her assemble them made me hungry, and Mrs. Standish was over the moon with delight.

“Oh, you are a genius,” she boomed. “A culinary genius. I really must have you cater my next party!”

Lucy shot me a look. I stepped forward. “You have a wonderful time today, you hear?”

“Oh, we plan on it, my dear,” she sang and, taking Mr. Dean's arm, floated out of the bakery as if her silver shoes were made of feathers.

“Well,” Lucy said with her hands on her hips and one eye still on the door, “at least we know the vanilla éclairs had the desired effect. But I don't understand why everyone seems to want us to cater for them.”

I shrugged. “We don't have to. It is flattering, though, to know she likes our food so much she wants to share it with her guests.”

The expression on my aunt's face became speculative. “If we could find some good help, it might be a viable way to expand our business. If we want to expand, that is.”

“We can talk about it with Ben,” I said. “You're right that we'd need some help. A lot of it, really, since we are relying far too much on the kindness of our friends as it is.”

She sighed. “It was so nice when Cookie worked for us. I miss her.”

“Me too. I hope she comes home soon.”

“But she won't come back to work here, will she?”

One side of my face squinched in a kind of facial shrug. “Probably not.” Cookie Rios was a witch with a talent for moving forward. She also hated early mornings, and bakery work was unforgiving in that regard.

Changing the subject, I said, “Listen, I want to make Declan a special supper tonight. Any suggestions?”

Lucy waggled her eyebrows. “Special occasion?”

I grimaced. “More like a combination of ‘thanks for being such a good sport the last few days' and an apology.”

“Apology?”

“I asked him to try to contact Franklin Taite last night.”

“Contact . . . You mean you asked him to channel a spirit again?” My aunt sounded almost as outraged as he had.

I looked down. “Yeah.” I stubbed the toe of my shoe into the floor. “Pretty stupid, huh?” My head came up. “I try, but I can't seem to let it go.”

“I know,” she said with sympathy, then briskly, “But I can see why an apology might be in order, and a delectable meal is a good start. Now, let's see. . . .” Her eyes clouded with thought. “Fried chicken?”

“He had chicken and waffles last night from The 5 Spot.”

“Ah. Well, it's awful warm out, so why not grill up a couple of nice filet mignons?”

“Hmm. Simple, special and one of his favorite cuts.” I closed my eyes, imagining. “Served with spicy red-and-black pepper sauce and creamy potatoes au gratin with chanterelles.”

“And Spanish tomatoes with your heirloom tomatoes, peppers, and some nice Vidalia onion.”

My eyes popped open. “Yum. Oh, and I want to end with cheese and poached pears. Maybe some of that butterscotchy Mimolette Althea had at the séance and a nice port wine. I'm sure Bianca can suggest something.”

Lucy grinned wide. “A meal like that would make up for anything.”

The more I thought about it, the more I was looking forward to it. We'd sit at the patio table Declan had brought me soon after we met, back when I'd barely had any furniture in the carriage house at all, he could grill on the hibachi he'd also given me, and I wouldn't say a single word about magic or ghosts or murder.