Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (25 page)

I bit my lip. “How would I know?” But I was afraid I did. I leaned back so that I
could see more of the upstairs hallway. More wooden floor, another intricately woven
rug, and a burled-walnut sideboard topped with a tall mirror at one end. Five doors
opened off the space. One was a bathroom, one revealed bookcases,
and I could see enough of two more to know that they were bedrooms.

He took his cell phone out of his pocket. I put my hand on his arm, and he paused,
eyes searching my face. “Katie?”

“You really can’t smell that stink?”

“Uh-uh.”

I swallowed convulsively, not wanting to say the words but knowing I had to. “Do you…do
you think I killed him?”

His head jerked back. “What?”

“When he…when I, you know, fought back last night?”

“No. No, of course not. No.”

He thinks I did it.

“I want to see him before you call the cops.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

I stood and stepped onto the upstairs landing. “Where is he?”

“Katie, wait!” By the time Steve got to his feet, I was moving down the hallway.

I glanced in the bathroom, saw nothing unusual, and kept going. I stopped in the doorway
of the first bedroom. A huge sleigh bed dominated the room, which reeked of masculine
presence in everything from the scent of citrusy cologne to the boldly striped curtains
on the window overlooking the backyard to the solid reading chair and clean lines
of the lamp beside it. A navy blue bathrobe lay across one corner of the fully made
bed.

Citrusy cologne. The burning smell was fading if I could smell that. I inhaled with
relief, feeling like I could take a full breath again.

“This was Lawrence’s room,” I said to Steve, who
now stood watching me. He had an odd expression on his face, something like irritation
mixed with admiration. But I didn’t have time to pick it apart, or respond to it.
I turned my back on Eastmore Senior’s digs and marched to the bedroom opposite.

Suddenly Steve was by my side, his hand closing on my arm. I curled my fingers over
his. “I have to see,” I said, pushing the door open all the way with my toe.

Unlike his father, Greer Eastmore was pale and wore his dark hair cut quite short.
His full lips and hooked nose reminded me of the body in the square, though, and I
winced. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, because they were squeezed shut.
He lay on top of the wrinkled sheets, wearing green-and-white-striped pajamas. There
was no blood, no bruising on his visible skin, and the room was tidy as could be.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” I breathed, grabbing the doorframe for support.

Steve put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure.”

I turned away, then forced myself to look again. “He looks like he was asleep when
he died.”

“Probably,” Steve said.

“He wouldn’t have cast a spell from there,” I said. “But he might have gone right
to bed after casting it.” I ran my hand over my face. “Could my backlash really have
done this?”

“You can’t know that was Greer last night.”

“But that smell—”

“Which was all over your carriage house, right?”

I nodded. “Oh. Oh, dear.” I rubbed at my face with both palms. “Of course. Whoever
came after me could have killed Greer.”

Killed
. Last night had been an attempt on my
life
.

“Which means just because this poor guy is dead, this business with the Spell of Necretius
and finding his father’s killer may not be over after all,” I said. A wave of weariness
washed all my anger and fear away. I just wanted to go home and take a very long nap.

Steve shrugged. “It’s possible. So are a lot of other things, most of which involve
Greer dying of natural causes. It happens. Katie, you can’t blame yourself. Even if
he
is
dead because of some kind of magical backlash, that’s not your fault.”

He didn’t use the term
self-defense
, but I could tell he was thinking it.

That sure didn’t make me feel any better. I sighed. “Okay. Let’s call the police.
But there’s probably something you should know about Detective Quinn’s new partner.”

 * * *

Steve made the call from the hallway. When his back was turned, I tiptoed into Greer’s
bedroom again. If the younger Eastmore had been the one in my head the night before,
then we were home free. But if he was a victim, as I’d been…then why?

Keeping my back to the silent form on the bed and muttering,
Sorry, sorry, sorry
, I sidled across the room to the closet. I grabbed a tissue off the dresser and used
it to open the door. It looked like he’d already unpacked. Clothes were hung in a
neat row, each hanger spaced two inches from the one next to it. I counted two pairs
of slacks, two of jeans, two silk T-shirts and three cotton ones, three collared shirts,
a sports coat, and a charcoal gray suit. The dress shoes on the floor looked new and
matched the suit. With a start, I realized he’d been planning to wear them to his
father’s funeral.

“Oh,” I said out loud, and closed my eyes. I didn’t have the heart to go further.
Despite my original intentions, someone else would have to go through the pockets.

Sorry.

On the other side of the closet from the dresser, a matching chair and ottoman backed
into the corner. A floor lamp like the one in Dr. Eastmore’s room loomed above the
chair. A biography of the writer Conrad Aiken lay in the center of the ottoman. Between
the chair and the bed was a small writing desk—yet another antique. A laptop sat open
on the surface.

Turning my back on the bed, I moved sideways to the computer and pressed
ENTER
with a tissue-covered forefinger. The screen sprang to life. Program icons were scattered
across a photo of the Parthenon, but I didn’t see any files. Greer Eastmore had been
a very tidy guy. Freakishly so.

“What are you
doing
?” Steve asked from the doorway.

“Just a quick look, that’s all,” I said.

“Come on,” he urged.

I retraced my steps toward Steve waiting in the doorway. But I stopped when I saw
the cell phone on the dresser top. Ignoring my companion’s frantic gestures, I carefully
picked it up and scrolled through to the recent calls.

One number caught my eye.

My cell number.

I stared at it, unable to process what it meant.

“Katie. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Put that down! Let’s go.”

I placed the phone back where I’d found it and
shouldered past him to the hallway, thoroughly shaken. Taking a deep breath, I tried
to focus. Before leaving I had to check out the room with the bookcases. It was still
possible to get the
The 33 Curses
for Andersen Lane. I could decide later whether to actually give it to him or not.
Sure enough, when I pushed the door open I discovered a small library. I noted the
lovely musty scent of yellowing paper and old ink—the burning smell was definitely
fading. I moved quickly down the shelves, scanning titles.

As I expected, the volumes were primarily related to the occult. However, none looked
all that old, and the book Andersen wanted me to borrow from Greer was not in the
section that seemed devoted to spellbooks. Then I saw the metal door at the far end
of the room, so out of place in that atmosphere of leather, wood, and money. It appeared
sturdy enough to withstand a bomb and no doubt housed the climate-controlled atmosphere
that Andersen had mentioned—the one that Lawrence Eastmore employed to preserve books
like the Spell of Necretius for future generations of Dragohs.

The 33 Curses
would be in there.

My thoughts whirled as Steve grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the hallway. With
a murmured “Come on, Katie-girl,” he hurried me down the stairs to greet the authorities.
My stomach felt like someone had run an old-fashioned eggbeater in it. Why was my
number in Greer Eastmore’s recent-call list? Had it been a dialed call or a received
call? I wasn’t familiar enough with his model of phone to know, and I berated myself
for not looking closer. But either way, I hadn’t received any calls from strangers
lately, and I sure hadn’t called Greer Eastmore.

I should have deleted the number. My gut did another twist. No, that wouldn’t have
worked. The police would still have Greer’s phone records.

Nonetheless, there was still a part of me that wished I’d hit that
DELETE
button.

 * * *

Detective Taite boiled out of the passenger side of the unmarked Caprice before it
had even stopped moving. He strode to where we stood waiting on the front step while
his partner exited the vehicle, closed the door, and paused on the sidewalk across
the street to take in the whole scene. An ambulance and two Savannah patrol cars had
arrived moments earlier, and we’d told them where to find Greer Eastmore inside.

“Katie Lightfoot. Imagine seeing you here.” New York–accented sarcasm oozed from all
six words, and he looked at me like he wanted to suck every secret out of my soul.

“Detective Taite,” I said. “This is Steve Dawes.”

Quinn caught up to his partner. He nodded at Steve, taking in his face, his clothes,
his stance, and who-knew-what-else in one sweeping glance. His eyes settled back on
me. “This is getting to be a really bad habit with you.”

I held up my hands in a warding gesture. “I know, I know. Twice in one week. But it’s
not my fault,” I lied. Sort of. We’d come up with a story that bordered on the truth,
so I plunged on. “Steve knew Greer Eastmore when he was a boy. When Steve was a boy,
not Greer. Anyway, when Steve heard he’d come back to town after his father’s death,
he decided to stop by and pay his respects.”

“Which explains nothing about why you’re here,” Quinn said with a hard look.

I shrugged. “He asked if I wanted to come along, and I said sure. Moral support, you
know?”

“Right.” Taite’s nostrils flared.

“I did find his father, you know. I thought maybe he’d have questions.”

“If he had questions he needed to ask us, not you,” Quinn said.

Two more patrol cars arrived, and two of the officers herded the gathering crowd across
the street. I turned my back to them. It would be just my luck if some of them recognized
me from the bakery. The Honeybee had already been associated with one murder.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s not going to be asking anyone any questions.”
My voice quavered, and a part of me was surprised to discover that I was on the verge
of losing control. Steve’s arm snaked around me, and I leaned into him.

Until six months ago, the only dead body I’d ever seen had been Nonna’s. That had
been in a fancy casket in a church, with my father holding my hand on one side and
my mother holding my hand on the other. At nine years old, I’d been too young to really
understand what death was all about. Now I’d seen three dead bodies since April, and
I didn’t like it at all.

And I still didn’t understand what death was all about.

Steve said, “You know that Katie and I are dating. It only makes sense that she’d
come with me.” He gave me a squeeze.

I forced a smile up at him.
Dating
was inaccurate but vague enough.

Quinn raised his eyebrows. “What about Declan McCarthy, Katie?”

I didn’t say anything. At least I had a valid reason to be here with Steve. I didn’t
know what I would have told the police if Declan had come along as originally planned.
Still, remembering how Declan had stomped out of my house made my throat tighten.

“I was the one who discovered Greer dead,” Steve said. “Katie was waiting outside.
She didn’t come inside until I called for her to.” Again, dancing with the truth.
I could tell he was trying to be gallant, though, to divert their immediate suspicion
of me.

“Dawes,” Taite said. “Any relation to Heinrich Dawes?”

“He’s my father,” Steve said easily.

“His name was among Lawrence Eastmore’s effects.”

Steve nodded. “I imagine a lot of names were. Dr. Eastmore knew a lot of people in
Savannah. And didn’t Katie just explain that we were here because I’m a family friend?”

Taite looked between us. “You’re not telling us everything.”

I pasted an innocent look on my face. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, but you’re coming down to the precinct with me, young lady, and we’re
going to find out.”

The blood drained from my face, and I felt light-headed. “What?” I said at the same
time Steve said, “Now, look, Detective.”

Quinn looked as surprised as I felt, but quickly recovered. “Detective, may I speak
with you for a moment? Over here?” He led Taite around the side of the house.

I sighed. “I want to go home.” Except now my carriage house felt tainted. “Or at least
to the Honeybee,” I amended. “I want to bake something delicious and feel in control
of my life again.”

“Baking does that for you, doesn’t it?” Steve asked.

“In the kitchen I always know things will work out okay. Even if a recipe flops, I
still feel that way.”

He smiled. “I love that.”

Which was a considerable way from
I love you
.

Quinn and Taite walked back around the corner. I was alarmed to see Taite glaring
at me, licking his lips in a way that made me feel like prey.

“We’ll contact you later for your formal statements,” Quinn said. “But I think we
have enough for now. You
got here, the door was open, Dawes went inside looking for his friend, you stayed
outside, the friend was discovered deceased, you went in to see if there was anything
you could do, there wasn’t, and you called us.”

I stared at him, especially since he’d filled in a few more innocent “facts” for me.
I quickly nodded. “Right. Yes. Exactly.”

“The dispatcher said this guy might have died in his sleep?”

“I probably said something like that,” Steve admitted. “I assumed since he was lying
in bed…Well, you’ll see.”