Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (9 page)

“I really am sorry your boss got, well, you know.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Were you guys close?”

Finally, he faced me. “I guess.” He seemed impatient, or maybe it was simply shyness.

I wished for Ben's ability to put anyone at ease. “I heard Simon was a guy you could go to, to get things done,” I tried.

Owen peered myopically at me in silence.

“You know what I mean?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. “You don't really seem to know what you mean, either.”

Touché.

“How did you come to work for Simon? Are you from around here?”

He hesitated. “No. I'm from Boulder Creek, California. Simon was working there, for another company. I have a background in theater and talked him into giving me a try. It worked out, and he brought me on his next job.”

“You must have learned so much from him.” Like how to “fix” things? I wondered.

“I did what I was told,” he said. “Now I'll go ahead and do what Simon would have told me to do anyway. It wasn't like he was supersmart or anything. He liked people to think so, but what he did wasn't that hard.”

“Oh. Well, okay. Good luck, then,” I said.

As he left, I heard him mutter, “Don't need luck.”

“Odd little duck,” I murmured to Mungo, who concurred with a slight woof. I finished rearranging Bonner Catering's food and fitting in the Honeybee offerings. Mungo watched from under a folding chair as I gathered up all the boxes, bags, and coolers and stuffed them back onto the book trolley. I made a few last adjustments to the presentation and turned to go.

A figure stood in the opening to the tent. The bright sunlight reflected off her white-blond hair, creating a nimbus around her head and obscuring her features. Then Ursula stepped farther inside and the effect vanished. She wore plain khaki shorts and a sleeveless green shirt that showcased the defined muscles in her arms. In that moment, she looked a lot more like a personal trainer than a woo-woo psychic.

Of course, with my short hair and sensible shoes, I didn't exactly look like most people's idea of a witch, either.

“Hi, Katie.” She greeted me as if we were old friends. Then she spied the plates of food on the cloth-covered table and made a beeline for one end. “Yes! I was hoping you'd bring more of these.” She grabbed two of the loaded oatmeal cookies and promptly took a bite out of one of them. “I ate almost all of them yesterday. Ha!”

“Glad you like them,” I ventured.

She reached down with her other hand and scratched Mungo under the chin. He gazed up at her with wide eyes but seemed to enjoy the attention.

“Althea said you were in here,” she said, then lowered her voice. “She doesn't really care for you, does she?”

“I noticed. Any idea why?”

Ursula shook her head and took another bite. After she swallowed, she said, “Did you want to talk to me?”

I lifted one eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I did. I suppose you knew that from your ‘good authority,' though.”

She laughed. It was a full, free sound, and she looked genuinely delighted. “Nope. Figured that one out on my own.”

Two men came in and squirted antibacterial gel onto their hands at the sanitation station. They both wore shorts and T-shirts that read
A. DENDUM PRODUCTIONS
on the back.

Ursula gestured me toward the exit. “This place is about to fill up with hungry cast and crew. Let's get out of here.”

Quickly, I tucked the book trolley around the corner of the catering tent, and Mungo and I followed her across the square to one of the RVs parked on Abercorn Street. She opened the door on the side and stuck her head inside. I heard her say, “Susie? Lunch is ready. You might want to grab some before the good stuff is gone.”

Susie Little. Her alibi.

Thirty seconds later, a curly-haired woman wearing a loose white jacket over a bright yellow sundress stepped out, nodded at me, and headed for the catering tent. Ursula waved me inside. Picking up Mungo, I went up the steps and ducked through the doorway.

The place reeked of hair spray. A long row of round lightbulbs illuminated the mirrors running down one wall. Deep, comfortable chairs at each of four stations hinted at the long periods of time actors spent being coiffed and made up for their screen time. A shelving unit boasted a dozen wigs perched on plastic forms, ranging from elaborate updos for women to men's neat ponytails and gray curls. Cases of makeup ranged down the counter, and more peeked out from drawers. Hair-taming implements hung from hooks at regular intervals: dryers, curlers, flatirons, and diffusers.

Ursula plopped into one of the chairs and swiveled it in my direction. “Take a load off. The little dog can wander around. He won't hurt anything.”

Mungo looked a bit insulted as I set him down and snapped off his lead. “Of course he won't hurt anything,” I said, and he wagged his tail once in thanks. I sat in the chair next to Ursula and regarded her in silence.

“So . . . ,” she prompted.

“You tell me. After all, you're the one who came up to me out of the blue and said I'm supposed to find Simon's killer.”

“Yep, that's true,” she said with a grin.

“What, exactly, is so funny?”

“Well, you are, to start. That wasn't news to you. I could tell. There's something about you.”

She doesn't know I'm a witch.

I took a deep breath. On one hand, I liked Ursula's easy manner. On the other, I wasn't sure she needed to be so darn amused at my discomfort. Putting my ego aside, I asked, “So? Who told you?”

The humor faded from her expression. “Not one of my usual crew of spirit guides. Someone I've never had contact with before.”

“So you're saying a spirit told you?”

“Well, yeah.” The way she said it made it sound like, well,
duh
. “You know that's what I do, right?”

“I heard you were a psychic, but I don't know how that works.”

A decisive nod. “Right. Okay, so I hear dead people.” She grinned again. “Sort of. Sometimes. I have a crew of three spirits who I have regular access to. But sometimes others come to me unbidden, and I can often call on spirits for others.”

“Like for Althea?”

“Althea—well, that's probably covered by something like psychic/client privilege, but that's part of why she keeps me around. The other part is keeping her skinny ass skinny.”

I smiled.

“Anyway, yesterday as I'm standing there with everyone else, staring at poor Simon, I felt a new presence. And it told me about you. That's all.”

“Do you know who it was?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Someone who knew you in this life, that's for sure.”

“Nonna,” I breathed.

“Who's that?” Ursula asked.

“My grandmother. She's, uh, made herself known before.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Is that so? Interesting. Still, it wasn't her this time.”

I blinked. “Then who was it?”

She frowned and looked out the window, seeming to hear something I couldn't. As I watched, a shiver ran down my back. Mungo made a low noise in his throat and trotted back from where he had been exploring to lean against my leg. Another nod and Ursula returned her attention to me.

“My guides say the name started with an F. Francis? Fitz . . . No, I think it's Frank. Did you know a Frank?”

I started to shake my head, then stopped and stared at her. “Franklin?”

She pointed her finger at me. “Bingo. That's the guy.”

“But you only communicate with the spirits of those who have passed over, right?”

Realization dawned in her eerie green-blue eyes. “Oh, honey. You didn't know?”

Thoughts racing, I picked up Mungo and held him close to my throat. Franklin Taite was
dead
?

I wanted to ask Ursula what else she knew about Franklin Taite, but the hair and makeup artist returned with Steve Dawes in tow. He looked at me curiously as she settled him into a chair and began working his long hair into a ponytail, complete with a little bow to hold it back.

“Very nice,” I muttered as I carried Mungo to the door where Ursula was waiting. I was still reeling.

He grinned. “Thanks.”

The woman working on his gorgeous tresses didn't crack a smile, however. Apparently, getting that bow right was serious work.

Then Steve got a good look at my face and drew his eyebrows together. “Katie? Everything okay?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. I'll tell you about it later.”

Back on the sidewalk, Ursula said, “So you two know each other pretty well, I take it.”

“We're friends.” I reattached Mungo's leash, and we began walking back toward the catering tent.

“Althea seems to like him a lot,” Ursula said.

“Bully for her,” I said, still distracted. I had so many questions I didn't know where to start. I settled on, “What else can you tell me about Franklin?”

Her grimace carried a note of apology. “Sorry. Only the name and the information he told me to pass on to you. He hasn't returned since that initial contact.”

“He didn't say anything else about me?”
Like I've been known to glow when under pressure?

She looked curious. “Nope. Anything you want to tell me?”

I sidestepped her question with, “He specifically said to tell me that I'd find Simon's killer? That wasn't your idea?”

“Oh, no. I hear things about people all the time, but I usually keep them to myself. Hearing news from a psychic isn't always . . . welcome.” She looked at me sideways. “He was pretty clear that I needed to pass that message on, though.”

We walked a few steps in silence.

“I'll help you load up your car if you want,” Ursula offered.

“That would be great.” My biggest question was one I couldn't very well ask the psychic herself: Should I trust her? She was personable and engaging, and I felt an unexpected kinship with her. Still, conmen—and women—were known to be quite personable, and while I wasn't exactly naive, I knew I could be fooled. It didn't seem like it would be that hard to fool Althea Cole, either.

Yet why would Ursula try to deceive me? What would be in it for her? She already had her paying gig with Althea and barely knew me from Eve. Plus, it was hard to be skeptical since I wholeheartedly believed in magic and had actually talked with my dead grandmother on more than one occasion.

So there was that.

I retrieved the wheeled cart, and, Mungo trotting ahead, we pushed out to my Bug on one of the walkways that crisscrossed the square. Niklas Egan hurried past with a sheaf of papers in his hand, heading toward where Van Grayson stood waiting with a cameraman next to the horseless carriage.

“Oh, I have a Volkswagen Bug at home,” Ursula exclaimed when we reached the car. “It's one of the old ones, though, from the sixties. Red convertible. I adore it.”

“It's been a good little car, seen me through a lot. Yours sounds like fun, especially the convertible part.” I found myself wondering if she really had a Volkswagen. Could it be a ploy to try to bond with me?

She grimaced. “Not that I get to drive it much. Althea travels a lot, and she always wants me to go with her.”

“How long have you been working for her?” I asked.

“Almost three years now.” Her strange eyes cut toward me. “The money is a lot better than working at the gym or my private practice.”

“Your practice as a psychic?”

She nodded.

“I heard Simon was good at taking care of things. Someone used the word ‘fixer.'”

Ursula laughed. “I bet they did.”

“Did he fix anything for Althea?”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “You don't like her very much, either, do you?”

“I was just wondering who might have a motive to kill Simon.”

“Hmm. Guess you're taking Franklin's message seriously. I can honestly say I don't know of any reason why Althea would want Simon dead, though.”

I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Do you think you could contact Franklin again?”

We reached the car, and I opened the door. Mungo jumped in and then wiggled over to the passenger seat.

“Maybe,” Ursula said in a musing tone as we stacked the empty containers on the seat.

I snapped my fingers and suddenly stood upright. “Oh, my goddess,” I said without thinking how that might sound. “Why couldn't you simply contact Simon and ask him who stabbed him?” Talk about streamlining the investigation!

A speculative look crossed her face. “You know, that's not a terrible idea. I felt his spirit hanging around right after he died, and he knows what I do. He might be willing.”

“Why wouldn't he want justice?” I couldn't keep the excitement out of my voice. Grabbing a couple of garbage bags, I rolled down the window for Mungo and shut the car door.

“You want me to take those back to the catering tent?” she asked, eyeing the plastic bags.

“I'll do it. Might as well do some of the preliminary cleanup.”

“I want to snag another one of those cookies, so I'll go with you.” We started back. “If I contact Simon, I want to do it right,” Ursula said.

“Meaning?”

“A séance. It will help to have the energy of other people to reach to the other side.”

“Makes sense to me,” I said as we reentered the tent. The tables were littered with paper plates and napkins, but I was pleased to see the majority of the Honeybee's lunch had been decimated.

“When would be a good time?” I asked. “Tonight?” Then I saw Althea still sitting at one of the tables with Owen Glade.

Great.

She had a square of cold macaroni and cheese on the plate in front of her. When she saw me looking, she stuffed a big bite in her mouth and chewed with great gusto. Glancing at her tiny waist, I wondered if she might be wearing a corset. Owen sat next to her, nibbling on a flaccid fried green tomato. He gazed at her like a puppy with a new and particularly shiny toy.

“Tonight should be fine,” Ursula said, grabbing another oatmeal cookie.

My stomach clamored. Woman could not live on scone alone. I took one of the loaded oatmeal cookies, too.

“Come over to the house where we're staying,” Ursula said, then louder, “I bet Althea will happy to help, won't you?”

“Help with what?” The movie star sounded suspicious.

“A séance tonight. We're going to try to contact Simon on the other side to see if he'll reveal who murdered him.” Ursula said it as if contacting the dead was the most natural thing in the world, like going to the grocery store or mowing the lawn.

Althea came to her feet. “At
our
house? Are you out of your mind? I'm not inviting a stranger into our house for a séance.”

“Well, honey, it's not exactly ours,” Ursula said. “Simon only rented it for two weeks.” And then, in an aside to me, “It's haunted as the dickens, too.”

Steve entered and steered a direct course to the food table. I could tell he was listening, however, and wondered whether he might have been eavesdropping outside.

“Actually, I'm hoping I can invite a few friends,” I said. “Since you said the more people are there, the more likely you'll be successful.” I wanted as many members of the spellbook club at the séance as possible. It would be harder to fool all of us if Ursula was a fraud, and if she wasn't, then I figured our natural affinity for working together would add extra oomph to the proceedings.

“Absolutely not.” Althea actually stamped her foot. Owen blinked up at her.

I struggled to keep from laughing at her antics as Steve took his plate, piled high with satay and melon skewers, to the place across from Althea. He sat down and snagged her gaze. She stared down at him for a long moment before finally taking her seat again. Owen directed a petulant look at Steve, got up, and went to the food table.

I was lifting the cookie to my mouth when Ursula's fingers gripped my wrist and pulled my hand away. With her other hand, she took my cookie away.

“What the—?” I said.

She shook her head curtly and laid the cookies down on an empty plate, surreptitiously covering them with a napkin.

I frowned at her. Who did she think she was?

She leaned toward me and said in an undertone. “There's something wrong. I don't know what, but trust me.”

Wrong? With my cookies?

“Althea, why wouldn't you want to help find Simon's killer?” Steve asked in a gentle voice, redirecting my attention back to them.

“It's not that,” Althea said.

“Don't you believe in Ursula's abilities?” he asked.

“Don't be silly. Of course I do. She's
my
psychic.”

I glanced at my companion, but she appeared unperturbed by her employer's possessiveness.

“Then what's the problem?” Steve asked.

Althea pointed at me. “She is.”

He turned and looked at me. “Really? What did Katie ever do to you?”

“I, uh . . .”

“Nothing at all, right?” He didn't seem to be using his Voice, the one that literally compelled people, but Althea nonetheless responded. “I guess not.”

His voice lowered so that we couldn't hear the words, but Althea seemed to soften further. “Althea, what do you say?” Steve said in a normal tone.

“You can have the séance at the house, of course. We all want justice for Simon, after all.” She smiled at me, the very picture of graciousness.

I smiled as well. “Thank you so much, Ms. Cole.”

“Althea, please.”

“Um, okay,” I said.

All of a sudden, I heard Ursula cry, “Owen,
don't
,” from beside me.

He'd taken one of the oatmeal cookies and was about to take a bite. Waving it in her face, he asked, “Why not? Are you such a big fan of that Honeybee place that you don't want anyone else eating what the other caterer brought?”

I was about to point out that those cookies, even though they were sitting next to Bonner Catering's chocolate cake, were actually from “that Honeybee place” when he stuffed half the cookie in his mouth.

“No!” Ursula reached for his arm.

He chewed with a defiant look in his watery eyes.

“There's something wrong with it!” the psychic insisted.

Fear suddenly brightened in Owen's eyes, and a strangulated groan came from his throat. I watched with horror as his face crumpled with revulsion. He clamped his hand over his mouth and bolted from the tent.

“Oh, dear,” Althea said, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin.

From outside, we heard the sound of loud retching, then worse as Owen was sick. The sound repeated over and over. Steve jumped to his feet and ran out. To my amazement, Althea took another bite of congealed macaroni and cheese. I swallowed hard and looked away.

Puzzlement creasing her brow, Ursula pushed the napkin-covered plate on the table behind us to one side. “We should put aside the rest of those cookies.”

“Indeed,” Althea said. “It seems the Honeybee Bakery could poison us all.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “But . . .” I gestured toward the disgusting noises still coming from the other side of the canvas. “Ursula, you had two of those oatmeal cookies earlier, and you're fine.”

“There's something wrong with these, though, and with the one that Owen ate.”

My breath hitched in my throat. “How do you know?”

“Let's just say I have it on good authority.” She shook her head. “I only wish my guides gave me more complete information sometimes.”

Yeah
, I thought.
Me too
.

* * *

The assistant production coordinator was so violently ill that Ben called an ambulance. Steve stayed with the poor guy until it got there, but Althea seemed to have evaporated. I'd have speculated that her sensibilities were too delicate for such distasteful goings-on if I hadn't seen her stuffing her face right in the middle of it all.

Niklas Egan had added to the festivities with another string of epithets directed at no one in particular, and Van Grayson had lived up to his name, his face turning a sickly shade of wallpaper paste when he'd heard Owen dry heaving.

I shuddered, remembering. “Will he be okay?” I asked my uncle as they wheeled Simon's assistant away.

“I think so,” Ben said. “Whatever disagreed with him didn't stay in his stomach for very long.”

My appetite had flown and didn't seem inclined to return anytime soon. Funny how hearing someone be violently sick was almost worse than seeing a dead body.

“Ursula said there's something wrong with the cookies.” After she'd said that, she strode out of the tent with a firm sense of purpose, but I had no idea where she'd gone.

Ben looked surprised. “From the Honeybee?”

I nodded. “The loaded oatmeal cookies. I can't imagine what I could have done wrong. All the ingredients are innocuous. The most unstable thing would be the butter, and if that went bad for some reason, it would only taste unpleasant, not make anyone ill like that. At least I think so. Besides, the cookies Ursula ate earlier today were perfectly fine.”

His brow furrowed. “That's pretty suspicious, don't you think? Especially the day after someone is murdered. I've never known you to make mistakes baking, and I'd think if something wasn't right, the whole batch would have been affected. No, I'm sure you didn't do anything wrong, Katie,” he said. “And we can't afford to have the Honeybee's reputation sullied. I'm calling Peter.”

The ambulance drove away. Declan was busy keeping people out of the square since so many had been attracted to the sketchy perimeter of the set after yesterday's swarm of police and then today's visit from the ambulance.