Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (14 page)

Jaida made a noise, and we all looked at her.

“He was a respected Savannah judge for decades,” she said.

“That’s right,” Andersen said. “Of course you would have known him. Well, he died
about six months ago of a massive coronary. Unfortunately, he only spawned a daughter.”
His choice of words earned him glares all
around, but he didn’t seem to notice. He continued. “Lars’ dying without male issue
left us in a real jam. The society recently contacted his closest living male relative
as a possible replacement candidate.”

“That is the most archaic thing I’ve ever heard,” Bianca said.

He shrugged. “That’s the way it is. Like Mrs. Sandstrom, the daughter has no knowledge
of the society, and likely less interest. She came back to take care of things when
the judge died—her mother had already passed—but she’ll likely be on her way back
to Athens soon. Lars had a nephew, though, lives up in Kentucky. He looks promising.”

“How can you, you
druids
, keep something that’s such a huge part of your lives secret from your families like
that?” I couldn’t keep the disapproval out of my voice.

Andersen gave me a look. “Lots of practice.”

I thought about what Steve had said regarding the lack of female influence in the
druids’ magic and how that had affected their judgment. The “proactive” protection
spell that had almost killed me was evidence of that. The spellbook club believed
that anything we manifested would come back to us threefold. It was a guiding paradigm
that shaped our actions whether we were practicing alone or together. The Dragohs
didn’t seem to buy into the Rule of Three—indeed any rules at all but their own. What
the society needed was for a woman to elbow her way in.

“Don’t even think about publicizing your newfound knowledge,” Andersen said as if
reading my thoughts. His voice echoed with warning.

I blinked.

It sure didn’t sound like Steve would have any help from Andersen when it came to
changing things from the inside. If Steve ever did become a Dragoh, that was. Heinrich
looked like he’d be going strong for a long time. Perhaps Steve could still find a
way to avoid his supposed destiny.

“What about Lawrence Eastmore? Does he have a son?” I asked, knowing the answer from
my research.

Andersen’s face slowly cleared, and he nodded. “Greer Eastmore. He’s been living in
Europe for the last twenty years, with no contact with his father in all that time.
It almost broke Larry’s heart.”

“Why did his son cut him off?” Maternal concern etched Bianca’s features.

“Doesn’t approve of the society, he said. Doesn’t want to take on the responsibilities,
his inheritance, now that his father is dead.” He made a sound of disgust. “Like he
has a choice. It’s not like I was thrilled to be included in the group, either, but
it hasn’t turned out so bad. He’ll get used to it just like I did.”

My respect for Andersen Lane dropped another notch.

“Can’t he out and out refuse?” I asked.

“He can try, sure. But the others can be quite, shall we say, persuasive. And God
knows Greer won’t be willing to give up his
other
inheritance.” He smirked.

“Which is?” I asked.

He rubbed the tips of his fingers and thumb together in response to my question. “Money,
honey. Lots of it. That’s one thing about being a member of the society—wealth is
almost guaranteed.”

The spellbook club exchanged glances, and I could see I wasn’t the only one who found
him distasteful.
Except for Lawrence Eastmore, Andersen didn’t seem terribly fond of his fellow druids.
If they really didn’t care for him, either, as he’d stated earlier, I could understand
why.

The guy exuded a combination of childish self-satisfaction and a sense of entitlement
that was quite off-putting. Bianca pursed her lips, and I wondered if she was thinking
of her gains from playing the stock market.

He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to go, ladies.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Mimsey jumped to her feet. “You think you can come dump this problem
on us and then just waltz out of here?”

He rose as well. “Madam, I assure you I am willing to do whatever it takes, both to
bring justice to my friend’s killer and to prevent the evil influence of Zesh in this
world. Unfortunately, my hands are tied by my association with the very person—or
people—who may be responsible for his death. They already suspect that I suspect them,
which is why I came to you. Anything you need that is within my ability to deliver,
I will. Just let me know.” He handed me a business card. All it had on it was his
name and a phone number.

Mimsey scowled at him.

“In the meantime, I will seek access to Larry’s collection before his son gets here.
Eastmore Junior is coming in from Barcelona tonight, then driving down from Atlanta
in the morning. What I need is inside a climate-controlled vault, but I know the combination
and I have a key to Larry’s house.”

A vault. Of course. Well, if it was full of books on
dark magic, I could see why a witch-hunter like Taite might jump to conclusions about
Lawrence Eastmore.

“I doubt the police would approve,” I said.

“Then it’s just as well that I don’t plan to ask their permission,” Andersen said.
“Stop looking at me like that, Ms. French. In the next few days, I’ll be looking for
a suitable counterspell to prevent the summoning in case you’re—we’re—unsuccessful
in finding the killer in time.”

“Hang on,” I said. “What about you? We don’t know anything at all about you. Why should
we even believe you?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well, for one thing, what was your ‘professional association’ with Jaida here? She’s
an ethical attorney, so she’s not about to tell us anything about you.”

He looked at his watch again. “Ms. French, you hereby have my permission to tell your
coven anything they want to know.”

“Anything?” she asked with a skeptical look.

“Yes. I’m serious about finding Larry’s killer, and revealing my foibles is the least
of my worries.”

“Andersen,” she said in a slow voice, “there’s something else you should be aware
of.”

“And what, my dear, might that be?”

“The police know who Katie found Saturday morning. They know it was Dr. Eastmore.”

“That’s hardly surprising.”

Jaida considered him, then took a deep breath. “One of the detectives is new to Savannah.
He’s here with a mission, however.” She looked over at me, and I nodded. Her attention
returned to our visitor, whose eyes
had widened at her words. “He’s a hunter, Andersen. And from the brief encounter Katie
had with him earlier today, we don’t know whether he’s discerning or not.”

Discerning?

“We were talking about that when you arrived,” Lucy said to me. “Some witch-hunters
understand the difference between black magic and white magic. Others, not so much.
Some consider all magic evil.”

Andersen asked in a thoughtful tone, “What’s his name?”

“Franklin Taite.” I didn’t feel great about sharing the information with this druid,
but if Taite was really dangerous then it was the right thing to do.

Unless the Dragohs were more dangerous. I hated that we were in the dark about so
many things. We needed more information about them all.

“Thank you for the warning.” Andersen nodded. “Yes, indeed.” With deliberate steps
he walked to the door leading down from the terrace.

“You’re not driving, are you?” Jaida asked.

He turned. “Of course not. Once was enough, thank you.” Looking around at each of
us, he said, “Thank you, Katie. All of you. Even though you haven’t done anything
yet, and Ms. Carmichael here may still convince y’all not to help me. But you’ve listened,
at least.” He held up a finger. “You do know, of course, that if you use magic when
looking into Larry’s murder, the other Dragohs will sense it. And believe me, they
will react badly.”

We watched him pivot and make his way downstairs.

“I can’t tell if he’s drunk or sad,” I said when he was gone.

“Both, I suspect,” Jaida said. “I defended him on a drunk-driving case, but he was
doing well since that. His friend’s death seems to have knocked him off the wagon.”

“Great,” I said. “What kind of help will he really be?”

They all looked at me.

“Well, we’re going to do what we can, aren’t we? I don’t like it, but it seems that
finding Lawrence Eastmore’s killer is up to us.”

Mimsey’s gaze lasered to me, and after a moment she managed a smile. “No doubt that’s
why Katie was the one who discovered him in the first place.”

I held my palms up. “Sorry.”

“Are you familiar with Brandon Sikes’ work?” Cookie asked. Ice cubes clinked against
the side of her glass as she poured from the pitcher of lemonade Lucy had carried
up to the roof garden. So much for a Southern Sunday afternoon of book club and wine.

We’d tabled the spellbook discussion until the next meeting so we could figure out
just how to go about investigating Lawrence Eastmore’s death. Getting close to the
druidic movers and shakers might prove difficult, especially given our deadline. Three
days until Samhain.

Deadline
, indeed. The very notion of Zesh sent a reptilian quiver through me.

“It’s marvelous,” Cookie said.
“Sikes creates these huge pieces, usually on a background of thin plywood rather than
canvas, with paint, fiber, papier-mâché, metal, even clay. Large, but intricate. The
longer you look at them, the more they say to you.” She was positively enraptured.

“Sounds interesting,” Lucy said.

“He’s single, too,” Cookie said.

Uh-oh. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I think I should go to Xana Do! Gallery, where his new show is opening.”

“When?” I asked.

She sat back, feline contentment on her face. “Tonight. I know I can find out more
about him. I met him a few times when I worked at SCAD. He’s quite friendly.”

Cookie went through boyfriends like she went through jobs, and as luck would have
it, she currently happened to be between beaus. The last thing we needed now was for
one of the spellbook club to hook up with a druid who was a possible murderer.

Though reluctant, I agreed. “But do not let him know that you know he’s a member of
the Dragoh Society.”

She looked offended. “Of course not. I know to be careful. In fact, why don’t you
go with me, Katie? So you can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t mess up.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing his work.” And him.
I sometimes got intuitive hits off of people, so it couldn’t hurt to try.

“Of course you have to go,” Mimsey said to me, then looked around at the others. “Katie
is the common denominator. She discovered the body, found out about the Dragohs, drew
the magical attack, and was the reason Andersen Lane found his way here to us this
afternoon.”

She didn’t use the word
catalyst
, but I, for one, was wondering about it.

“Whatever you do, don’t try to use magic on him,”
Bianca warned Cookie. “Like Andersen said, he’d know. I bet all these guys are quite
powerful sorcerers. I can certainly see how Victor Powers could be.”

“You know him?” Mimsey sounded surprised.

“I’ve met him.”

“At one of those fancy parties you go to?” If that sounded like I was jealous, I wasn’t.
I wouldn’t have minded wearing some of her beautiful gowns, though.

“Indeed. In fact, there’s—” She bit her lip.

“There’s…what?” I prompted gently.

She let out a breath. “A fund-raising breakfast for him at the Westin Hotel. Tomorrow
morning.” A kind of defeat weighed her features. “I could get tickets, Katie. For
you and me.”

“I have to work,” I said.

“Cookie and I can cover for you,” Lucy said. “Mimsey’s right. You should go.”

“What if they know what Katie looks like?” Jaida said. “Won’t the druids get suspicious?”

“Why would they know?” I asked. “You think Heinrich showed them pictures of big, bad
Katie Lightfoot so they’d know what to watch out for? Because I guarantee he doesn’t
think enough of me, or any woman, to feel threatened.”

“But the pumpkins—,” Lucy said.

“Andersen said the spell was designed for general protection, not specifically directed
at me.” I stood. “Okay, we have a plan, or at least the beginnings of one. Cookie,
do you need a ride home?” She didn’t like to drive and usually relied on public transportation.

“If you don’t mind.”

“And I’ll pick you up tonight at eight.”

*  *  *

Back home, I let Mungo out to roam the backyard and settled into one of the mismatched
chairs in the gazebo. Margie’s car was gone, and all was quiet on the Coopersmith
front. The stream gurgled over stones by the back fence, the sound blending with the
low drone of bees moving drowsily through the garden beds. Iridescent dragonfly wings
flashed in the late-afternoon sunlight, and the breeze had turned cool with the promise
of rain. I filled my lungs with the electric air.

Things were out of control on so many fronts. My life of early mornings, baking all
day, learning magic and gardening had suddenly turned into a dead body, questionable
druids, the attack of the killer pumpkins, a witch-hunter, and the looming threat
of an evil spirit.

With mixed feelings, I dialed my cell and hoped Daddy would answer the phone in Fillmore,
Ohio.

No such luck. Mama picked up on the third ring.

“Katie! How are you, sweetie?” I could hear the strain behind her forced cheerfulness.
When Lucy had informed me I was a hereditary witch, a rift had formed between my parents
and me. Well, mostly me and my mother, who had been the driving force behind their
lying to me most of my life about who—and what—I was.

Over the past few months Daddy and I had talked it out. He’d apologized, and I accepted,
since I did understand their motivations, at least in part. How could they have known
that their attempt to protect me from myself would boomerang and mess up my life?
I firmly believed that things happen for a reason, and maybe the way I found out about
my magical heritage was exactly the right way and at the right time.