Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (10 page)

I couldn't really blame them. I wanted to know what the heck was going on, too.

In the empty catering tent, I opened a garbage bag with the intention of cleaning up, but slowly sank onto one of the benches instead. Once more I mentally ran through mixing the oatmeal cookies. It had been a huge batch, which we then kept for a couple of days in the refrigerator so we could easily bake fresh cookies throughout the day. Portions of that same batch had been served to Honeybee customers already. Other than a small incantation to give an extra kick to the prosperity-producing aspects of the cinnamon and the healing and love contained in the chunks of dark chocolate, no strange ingredients had gone into those cookies.

Either something else had made Owen sick, or someone had tampered with the cookies. In the latter case, I doubted the police would want me to touch anything.

Great. First I'd lost the catering job for the Honeybee for the rest of the week, and now the catering tent itself was a potential crime scene.

Ursula opened the side of the tent wider and came to join me.

“Where did you run off to?” I asked.

“I was awfully vocal about how much I liked those cookies,” she said. “I wanted to see who was hanging around.”

I tipped my head to the side. “You think someone was trying to poison you specifically?”

She shrugged. “Like I said, I ate most of those cookies yesterday.”

“But why would anyone want to do that?” I asked.

“Perhaps they overheard us talking about the séance tonight.”

“Oh,” I breathed. “Of course the murderer wouldn't want Simon to reveal who killed him. But how would anyone have time? We'd just come up with the idea.”

She shook her head. “I don't know. We'd have seen anyone around the cookies once we were in the catering tent talking with Althea and Owen. I suppose Steve could have slipped something into the cookies when he was getting his lunch . . .”

I gave a definitive shake of my head. “It wasn't Steve.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Then it would have to have been someone who heard us talking by your car.”

“Niklas? Or Van? Were they close enough to hear?” I asked. “Because I don't remember anyone else being around.”

“I'm not going to accuse anyone until we find out what's in those cookies,” Ursula said. “I saw the police cars arriving. I assume you called them?”

“Ben did.” I touched her forearm with my fingertips. She felt cayenne hot, and I realized I could physically feel her anger. “Are you still up for the séance tonight?”

Her jaw set. “You bet I am.”

Peter Quinn came in then with a couple of uniformed police officers carrying their own bags.

“Leave everything as it is,” he said.

“Don't worry.” I rose. “I know the drill.”

“Ben said someone was poisoned.”

“Owen Glade,” Ursula said, also coming to her feet. “He's already on his way to the hospital.”

“What happened?” Quinn asked.

We took turns telling him. “And those are the two cookies we were about to eat when Owen got so sick.” I indicated the two oatmeal treats Ursula had covered with napkins. “I've racked my brain and can't see how it could be the Honeybee's fault.”

He removed one of the napkins. “I hope not. My wife brought home half a dozen of these a few days ago.” His face was serious as a tomb when he looked up. “Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this.”

“Do you think this incident has anything to do with Simon Knapp's death?” I asked, daring a glance at my psychic companion.

“Sure would be a coincidence if it didn't,” Quinn said.

Beside me, Ursula pressed her lips together.

I'd been gone from the Honeybee a lot longer than I'd planned, so while I walked back to my car, I called Lucy to check in.

“Jaida had to go file her paperwork at the courthouse, but Bianca is still here and we're doing fine,” she said. “When do you think you'll be back?”

“I'm on my way,” I said.

“Did you find out anything?”

“Not anything very useful.” Except that Franklin Taite might be dead. “There was a rather . . . unsavory development, though. The new production coordinator became ill after eating one of our oatmeal cookies.”

“Oh, no! Is he allergic to chocolate or nuts?”

My steps slowed. “I don't know. I guess it's a possibility. He got really sick to his stomach, though. Don't food allergies typically give people hives or make it hard to breathe?”

“From what I know, yes.”

“Well, he's at the hospital, so they'll know what to do,” I said.

“Oh, no! It was that bad?” she asked.

“Definitely that bad. Ben thinks someone tampered with the cookies.” As did Ursula, but that was a little harder to explain.

“What? Why would anyone do that?” Lucy asked.

“I don't know. Detective Quinn is looking into it. And there's more bad news—at least for us,” I said. “Before he got sick, the new production coordinator hired the old caterer back. I barely managed to get paid for today's meal.”

“Oh, sweetie. I'm so sorry.”

“It would have been a challenge anyway,” I said. “A lucrative one, but still.”

There was a long pause before she tentatively asked, “They don't think you did something to the cookies out of spite, do they? To get back at the new guy for rehiring the other caterer?”

My stomach sank. “Honestly, that never occurred to me, Luce. Quinn didn't give that impression, but then again, he might not know we got fired this morning. Darn it. I hope he doesn't pull the same kind of nonsense he did when he accused Ben of murder last year.”

“I'm sure that won't happen,” my aunt soothed. “You two are friends now.”

“Hmm,” I murmured, noncommittal. “There is one other thing I want to give you a heads-up about.”

“More?” She sounded wary now.

“It's a good thing. At least I think so.”

“Katie,” came my aunt's gentle voice. “Just tell me.”

“Remember me telling you about the psychic?”

“The one who said you'd find Simon's killer.”

“Well, she agreed to hold a séance tonight to try to contact Simon Knapp himself,” I said.

“Oh, honey! That's a wonderful idea.” Lucy's voice trilled with excitement.

“Will you come? She said I could invite some friends.”

“Of course she did! Contacting the dead must be like any other spell, and as you well know, we are more powerful as a group than alone. You can count on me to be there. Shall I contact the others?”

“If you don't mind. But keep in mind that Ursula knows I'm bringing reinforcements, but she doesn't know we're a practicing coven.”

“Got it.”

“Thanks, Lucy. I'll be there soon.”

I hung up and opened the car door. “Hey, little guy. Thanks for hanging out here. It got a little crazy there for a while.”

Mungo shot out of the car.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, assuming he had to use the lawn facilities. But he kept running frantically toward an azalea bush on the other side of the square. A squirrel's tail twitched from the underbrush. “You little stinker,” I muttered under my breath.

Shutting the door, I retraced my steps for what felt like the umpteenth time. When I got to the bush, my familiar was nowhere to be seen, however.

“Mungo,” I called.

Steve rounded the corner, still in full eighteenth-century regalia. “What's wrong?”

“Have you seen a Cairn terrier in the last few seconds?”

He grinned and shook his head. “It's not like he's a runner. He'll find you if you don't find him.”

“It's not like him to take off at all, even after a squirrel, and I need to get back to the bakery.”

“Do you want me to watch for him and bring him to you when he makes himself known?”

I shook my head. “No. I wouldn't feel good about that. I'll find him soon.”

“Okay. But I'm happy to help,” Steve said.

“I know. Thanks.” And I did know. Steve had steered clear when Declan and I started getting serious, and then he'd pursued a platonic friendship because he wanted to be in my life. It had been a little awkward at first, but I wanted him in my life, too. Declan didn't love the idea, but he wouldn't presume to choose my friends for me.

Steve continued on his way, and I went looking for Mungo. I finally spied him sitting near the relocated wardrobe tent Detective Quinn had made me wait in while he interviewed other, more important people after Simon's murder. When I approached the little dickens, he threw a glance over his shoulder and trotted around the corner.

I started to call for him when I heard voices inside. Rounding the edge of the canvas, I saw Mungo waiting for me in the opening. He came toward me, but when I reached down to pick him up, he ran back toward the tent with another backward look.
Come on
, he seemed to be urging.

Something about his manner told me to be quiet. I slipped into the tent, recognizing the racks of clothing and hats, even the mannequin, which, though now dressed in a frumpy nightdress, still sported a slight dent in her cheek from our encounter the day before.

And there, at the rear of the tent, stood Althea Cole, still wearing the elaborate peach satin gown. She was embracing a man with a neat blond ponytail, and in the dim light, I immediately thought of Steve. A pang of something arrowed through my solar plexus—concern? Wonder? Certainly not jealousy, I began to tell myself before realizing I'd just seen Steve, and he'd been in full costume down to the bow in his hair.

Squinting, I could now see the man with his arms around the testy leading lady was taller than my friend by several inches, had a pale complexion, and wore casual shorts and a plain white T-shirt. His hair was a few shades darker than Steve's, too.

He looked up, and our eyes met over Althea's shoulder. “Can I help you?” He sounded irritated.

“Er, sorry,” I said, backing away.

Althea stepped back from him, whirling to see who had interrupted her tryst. I was surprised to see something very like fear drawn across her features before she masked it with an imperious toss of her head and a slight sneer.

“Don't mind her,” she said. “She's a bit of snoop, that's all. And just leaving. Weren't you, Miss Lightfoot?”

I bit back a reply and bent to pick up Mungo, who watched our exchange with eager interest. “Indeed.” I gritted my teeth, gave her the widest smile I could manage, and said in a chipper tone, “I'll see you later tonight, though!” I bestowed a vestige of my smile on her paramour and hightailed it back to my car with my familiar.

“What was that all about?” I asked as I deposited him into the passenger seat. “Do you think Althea's dalliance is relevant to Simon's death?”

Yip!

“How so?”

But my familiar only grinned his doggy grin and left me to mull over the possible answers.

* * *

Before I pulled away from the curb, I texted Declan:
Hey, big guy. Have to get back to the Honeybee. Check in when you get a chance?

He called as I was parking the Bug in the alley behind the bakery. “That was quick,” I said.

“Hey, darlin'. I'd hoped to see you before you left.”

“Sorry. I've been gone much longer than I expected and felt like I needed to get back.”

“No problem. No one expected all that drama this afternoon. I wanted to see if I could take you out to dinner tonight, though. To make up for last night.”

“Er . . .”

“You're not mad at me, are you?”

“Oh, no. Of course not. But I kind of have plans for tonight,” I said.

“Another date?” he asked, teasing.

“Not exactly.” Should I tell him? Well, it wasn't going to be a secret. “We're having a séance at the house where the movie muckety-mucks are staying.”

“A . . . You're kidding.”

“Nope. I figure if Ursula Banford is the real deal, then why not ask Simon himself who killed him?”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Crazy, huh?” I opened the back door of the Honeybee and carried Mungo, hunkered down in the bottom of my tote, through to the office. Lucy waved at me from where she was chatting with a customer at the register.

“I don't know that I like you going into that house by yourself,” Declan said. “Most of the people who live there are suspects.”

“Don't worry. Lucy is going to come, too, and she's checking with the other members of the spellbook club to see who else can make it. I want lots of support, and even Ursula says the more energy she can draw on, the better luck we will have.”

“What about me?” he asked.

“What about you?”

“Were you going to ask me to come with you?”

“Honestly, I hadn't thought about it,” I said. “I'm surprised that you'd even consider coming to a séance.”

“Maybe it's time I learn more about that part of your life,” he said. “And it's not like you're going to invite me to one of your spellbook club meetings, right? Not even Ben gets to go to those.”

I had to give him credit for making the effort. “Do you really believe we can communicate with those who have passed on?” Ursula hadn't said anything about participants needing to be believers, but it couldn't hurt, right? Plus, I had to admit I was testing him a little.

“I'll do my best,” he said.

That was good enough for me. “Okay, then. I'll pick you up at your place at seven,” I said. “We can grab a quick bite and then head over to the house where the cast is staying. Festivities are slated to begin at eight thirty.”

* * *

I found Jaida and Mimsey seated at a bistro table by a front window.

“I came back as soon as I was done,” Jaida said. “I want to hear more about this séance you have planned.”

Mimsey beamed at me. “It's an excellent idea, Katie.”

Bianca came out from behind the espresso counter, scanning the Honeybee for customers. A couple sat next to each other on the sofa, heads together as they looked at something on the laptop screen between them. A dreadlocked dude rocked out silently to whatever was streaming through his earbuds, reading a copy of Khalil Gibran from the bakery's library. In a far corner, a mother tended two little girls dressed up in lace and petticoats, bright patent-leather shoes on their swinging feet.

No one paid us any mind, so I sat down as Lucy left the register and joined us. Quickly, I outlined the plan and gave everyone the address.

“Declan wants to come, too, so I'm going to pick him up on the way,” I said.

Lucy looked satisfied. “See. I told you he'd come around.”

“He was never antimagic,” I said. “He just didn't get it.”

“Tonight could change that.” Jaida's lips twitched. “If your psychic manages to reach the murder victim, that is. I'm still not convinced.”

“Well, I'm not either, not all the way. But I can't figure out why Ursula would try to hoodwink me, and heaven knows we understand there's a lot more happening on this plane—and the next—than most people realize.”

“True,” Bianca said. “And I'm willing to believe.”

“That's called faith,” Mimsey said with a decisive nod.

Jaida shook her head. “It might be called something else. What if Ursula is the one who killed Simon? Then she'd have a good reason to try to misdirect you, Katie.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But telling someone they've been chosen to solve his murder sure isn't the first step I'd take in that situation.”

Jaida made a moue of agreement.

I dropped my voice to a low murmur, and they all leaned forward so they could hear me. “Besides, someone must believe that Ursula can really talk to the dead, because it looks like she might have been the intended victim of the poisoned oatmeal cookies.”

Exclamations at that. Lucy hadn't had a chance to tell them that part of the story, so I caught them up. “But if that was the idea, then it only made her angry. She's even more determined to go on with the séance.”

“Good for her!” Mimsey said.

Lucy's head bobbed. “Let's just go with it and hope. What's the worst that could happen?”

The spellbook club members looked around at each other. What indeed?

“Just so you know, I don't think Ursula knows I'm a witch,” I said. “Or that you are. Until we know more, we might want to keep it that way.”

“Oh, poo,” Mimsey said with a wave of her hand. “A psychic isn't going to care one way or the other.”

Before I could respond, the door swung open, and Mrs. Standish burst in. “Helloooo, darlings! How are we this fine afternoon?”

Lucy and I both came to our feet. “Fine and dandy,” I replied.

“Twice in one day?” Lucy said. “You flatter us, my dear. Or perhaps you're simply thirsty?”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Standish boomed. All the customers, including earbud man and the two patent-leather princesses, turned their heads toward us. “I simply must have two more of those Black and Tan éclairs. Samantha—my daughter, you know?—confiscated the last two from those I bought this morning. I'd been saving them to share with a friend of mine this afternoon, and as much as I love my darling girl, I still want those éclairs.”

Lucy bustled behind the counter and shook out a bakery bag.

“Can I get you any more whoopie pies to go with those?” I asked.

“What? Oh.” She waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “No, thank you. I've had enough whoopie pies to last me for a while.”