Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (11 page)

She was usually a little fuzzy that early in the morning and only mumbled a quick
greeting before heading out to the espresso counter. Seconds later she was back, a
steaming mug of drip coffee in hand.

“You rock, Katie. Thank you for making coffee before I got here.”

“I know it’s a challenge to work this early.” For most people, at least. “Hungry?”

“Actually, I am. I skipped supper last night.”

“So did I.” Plus stayed up all night, not to mention my evening run, complete with
the adrenaline rush of dodging flying pumpkins. “I have the perfect solution.”

After popping the loaf of spicy biscotti into the oven for its first baking, I got
to work on my version of
pain perdu
. I liked to think of it as the love child of savory French toast and bruschetta.
First I soaked slices of brioche left over from the day before in a mixture of eggs
and milk with a tiny bit of Mo Hotta Mo Betta hot sauce mixed in. Then I fried the
slices in butter until browned and finished them in the oven as I sliced tomatoes
and grated Parmesan. Finally, I topped the
pain perdu
with paper-thin Parma ham, the sliced tomatoes, fresh basil,
and the cheese. A quick run under the broiler and breakfast was served.

“Mmmph…good.” Cookie registered her appreciation around a mouthful. Even though she
more resembled a colt—long legs, thin build, delicate bones—she ate like a bull. I
had to admit, it was better than having someone merely pick at food I’d served. I
remembered her mentioning once in an offhand manner that there had been some very
lean times during her childhood in Haiti, and I was glad to see her enjoy the
pain
so much.

Mungo nibbled at his plate with more subdued approval.

I took another bite and reached for the
Savannah Morning News
that Cookie had picked up on her way to work. There was nothing about the dead man
on the front page, but when I flipped it open I found something on page four: a brief
story in which Declan and I were described as “a local man and woman” who discovered
“an as yet to be identified man” deceased in Johnson Square.

Darn it. I was half surprised that Quinn hadn’t figured out who the dead guy was yet—but
only half, since Lucy and Mimsey had planted the seeds of doubt the day before. Maybe
the Dragohs really were throwing some magical monkey wrenches into my detective friend’s
investigation. The other thing that confirmed the possibility was the image accompanying
the news article. It was a line drawing, not a photo—thank goodness—but it wasn’t
a very good likeness. Could this be more of the Dragohs’ “magical barrier” that Steve
had referred to last night? Because if I’d known Lawrence Eastmore as a living, breathing
human being I might
not have recognized him from the picture. I wondered if any of his friends or coworkers
would.

Wait a minute…

“Cookie, do you recognize this man?” I turned the paper around so she could look at
the picture right side up.

She cocked her head to the side. “This is who you found?”

“That’s him. Sort of, at least. Does he look like anyone you knew when you worked
at SCAD?” When I’d first met Cookie she’d worked at the Savannah College of Art and
Design, then moved on to manage an apartment building before stepping in to help us
at the Honeybee.

She squinted. Pressed her lips together. “Maybe.”

“A professor, perhaps?”

“Hmm.”

“Art history? Aesthetics?”

Her face cleared. “Of course. That’s Dr. Eastmore.”

Bingo.

I smiled. “I could kiss you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t—”

“Now I can let Quinn know who the dead man is, and Steve can’t accuse me of betraying
him.” I took a triumphant bite and let the salty ham play over my tongue.

“I’m confused.”

“I’ll explain later. Right now I need to make a phone call.”

Shoving my plate aside, I hurried into the office and retrieved my cell phone. Peter
Quinn’s direct line at the police precinct was still in my contact list. I dialed
it, expecting to get his voice mail at six a.m. However, the man himself picked up
on the third ring.

“Hello, Quinn. How are you this fine morning?” Being able to get this information
off my chest had lightened my mood considerably. “In kind of early, aren’t you?”

“My caller ID says this is Katie Lightfoot. Could that possibly be true? Because why
would my friendly
neighborhood baker be calling me on my official line only one day after I see her
in the vicinity of a homicide case?”

“Funny man. Do you or do you not want to know who we found yesterday?”

“Are you telling me you know?”

I abandoned the question game. “Yes! His name is Lawrence Eastmore.” I practically
crowed.

“I know.”

“But—”

“How do
you
know?”

There was no reason to be disappointed, yet I was a little. “Cookie recognized the
drawing in the paper.”

“Cookie who works there?”

“Of course. But she used to work in the registration office at SCAD. She met Dr. Eastmore
then.”

“Ah. That makes sense.” There was a little too much relief in his tone. “It turns
out she’s not the only one who recognized the picture. The main desk got an anonymous
call to the same effect about an hour ago.”

“Just one other call?”

“Yes. Most people are still asleep.” His tone was wry.

“We’re up.” I sounded smug.

“Bakers and policemen don’t exactly keep normal hours. I have a murder to solve.”

“At least you know whose now. And, Quinn? This is me saying, ‘I told you so.’”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Something muffled his voice, and he seemed to be talking to someone else. His words
became less garbled. “I’ll be right there.” He spoke into the phone again. “Katie?
I need to go now. But I do appreciate the call. Really. We’ll take it from here.”

“Okeydokey.” If he’d hurry up and solve the murder maybe the Dragohs would leave me
alone. “Stop by if you’re in the neighborhood. The special today is cranberry coconut
cookies.” They were Quinn’s favorite.

“Sounds great.” He was obviously distracted. “But I doubt I’ll have time for a Honeybee
run today.”

 * * *

“I just love those little cat faces! Where on earth did you find them?” Mrs. Standish,
one of our regulars, put her fists on her ample hips and peered at the decorations
surrounding the front entrance.

“Lucy and Bianca made them,” I said as I filled a box with a dozen assorted muffins.
The kitties were cute, based on jack-o’-lantern carving patterns and fastened to the
doorframe. The ladies had used yellow felt painted with orange and white stripes so
they looked like tabby cats. Actually, they looked like Lucy’s familiar, Honeybee,
who had inspired the name for our bakery. I loved Honeybee, but she made me sneeze
and sniffle like crazy. Thankfully, unlike Mungo, she preferred to stay home.

“We’re going for a little scarier,” Croft Barrow said from where he sat at a table
near the display case. Croft owned the bookstore next door. He and Annette Lander,
who had the knitting shop on the other side of the bakery, were planning Halloween
parties, too. “You know, spooky music, gross stuff in jars. We even have a cauldron
to fill with dry ice on Halloween night.”

I smiled. “Us, too.” I didn’t mention that it was a real working cauldron that had
seen its share of brewing.

Behind me, Cookie snorted.

“You girls make Halloween too cute,” Croft went on. “Annette’s decorations are all
made of wool, for
heaven’s sake. Halloween is supposed to scare the pants off you.”

“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Mrs. Standish said in a dry tone and handed
me a bill. I grinned and counted out her change.

“We won’t set any records for scariness,” I said. “But it’ll be a fun and safe place
for kids to come and hang out on Halloween.”

I’d always loved Halloween, and was glad to be among so many other people who felt
the same way. My parents weren’t much for the holiday. They let me dress up and go
around to a few houses, but always seemed nervous. Now I suspected it was because
on Halloween—or Samhain—the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was
supposed to be thinnest. Given Mama’s tendency to overprotect me, she’d probably been
afraid of something dire happening.

They never let me wear that witch costume I’d always wanted, either. This year I’d
been determined to finally dress up as a real badass: black pointy hat, hooked nose
with a big wart, broom and all. Until, of course, Lucy had admonished me for being
so willing to perpetuate stereotypes that gave our kind a bad name.

Sigh. Sometimes you just couldn’t win. Now I had no idea what to wear. Maybe gear
up as a ghost, since Mimsey had told me that in the old times villagers would dress
as spirits on Samhain in order to guide the dead to the edge of town at the end of
the night.

Traditional, but a wee bit boring.

Croft left a little before noon, holding the door open for three uniformed firemen
to enter as he exited. Declan came in last, flashing a grin as soon as he saw me.

“Thought I’d bring in some new customers,” he said. “Neither of these guys has been
in the famous Honeybee Bakery before.”

“Famous, huh?” I rolled my eyes and pointed to a table as I slipped out from behind
the register. “Have a seat, and we’ll see if we can live up to this one’s hype.” I
gestured toward Declan with my chin.

Declan gave me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.

“I’m Scott,” said the older man. His skin was dark and his short hair was threaded
lightly with gray. He moved with an easy grace as he took his chair.

The younger guy was stockier, his face chiseled in planes that reminded me of my father,
who was part Shawnee. His uniform did little to hide the muscles underneath. As he
sat down he smiled at me with his eyes. I couldn’t help smiling back. “I’m Randy.”

I bet you are
, I thought, but said, “Hey, guys.”

“You’ve got to be Katie,” Scott said. “No wonder Deck won’t shut up about you.”

I ducked my head, but not before seeing Declan’s face flush.

Ignoring both of them, I asked what they wanted to order. “Today we have some cranberry
coconut cookies that aren’t on the regular menu. Or you might want a cupcake—carrot
with cream cheese frosting, chocolate cherry topped with chocolate ganache, or lemon
on lemon, seasoned with black pepper?”

“Black pepper?” Declan asked.

“We mix savory and sweet a lot around here.” Not to mention that from a magical perspective
black pepper promoted energy, alertness, protection, and courage—right up a fireman’s
alley, I’d think. And lemon was good for health in general and healing in specific
while
giving an energy boost. “You should try the lemon cupcakes. They’re really delicious,”
I urged.

They thought for a moment, then shook their heads.

“How about a scone, then? Lime and ginger, maple cardamom, or blueberry cinnamon.”

“Yeah, that last one sounds good,” Scott said.

“Maple for me,” Randy said. “And drip coffees all around.”

“Okay. Deck?” I asked. “A couple molasses oatmeal cookies?” His usual.

He nodded. “Perfect.”

The cinnamon in the blueberry mix was good for luck and prosperity, but the cardamom
in the maple scones was all about love and sex. It figured that Randy would choose
that. I brought their food and went back for the coffees. A group of loud tourists
came in, and Cookie took over the register. Coffees delivered, I moved toward the
kitchen to restock a few things in the display case just as the door opened again.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw it was Detective Taite.

“Oh!” I said. “Are you here for coffee or for me?”

Oh, no. Did I really say that out loud?

All three firemen and the pack of tourists turned their heads. Declan saw Taite and
shot a puzzled look at me.

The detective quirked up one side of his mouth without a hint of a smile. “I have
a couple of questions for you.”

“Um, okay. Can I get you something to eat first?”

“I think not.” The way he said it made me feel like I’d offered a bribe.

“All right.” Why wasn’t Quinn with him?

Mungo was in the office, so I didn’t want to take him back there. The empty sofas
by the bookshelf were at the opposite end of the bakery from where Declan and his
friends sat, so I led Taite over to them. I took off my apron and gestured for him
to make himself comfortable. He didn’t move until I sat down. Then he chose a seat
where he could see the rest of the bakery and carefully perched on the edge of one
cushion as if the furniture might swallow him alive. Behind me, the tourists filtered
back out to the sidewalk, laughing and talking and munching on various baked goods.
Cookie lingered behind the register as relative quiet descended.

Taite leaned toward me. His shirt had one too many buttons open and the resulting
vee revealed a chest covered with dark hair. I could see where a comb had divided
his thinning brown hair into rows across his skull. Still, he looked to be only in
his early forties.

“All righty—shoot,” I said, trying for nonchalant.

He considered me for a long moment. “Detective Quinn says you called him. That you
identified the dead man from the park.”

“The square. And I didn’t. My friend did, from the picture in the paper.” I would
call Cookie over to verify if I had to, but she had a deep-seated distrust of the
police—of authority in general—so that would be a last resort.

“Convenient coincidence, don’t you think?”

My eyes narrowed. “Detective Quinn told me someone else had already called.”

He inclined his head. “Someone who managed to remain anonymous. That’s hard to do
these days.”

“Especially when calling a police station,” I said.

“But you don’t know anything about that first call.”

“No…”

“You’re sure of that?”