Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (13 page)

Ben was still standing. Lucy pulled him back to his seat. “He's okay,” she said. “Aren't you, Declan?” She was still riding high after the contact with Nonna.

“That was horrible,” he said with a shudder.

The smile dropped from my aunt's face.

Mimsey, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, make a
tsk
ing sound. “A glass of wine, a nice hot bath, and a good night's sleep. That's what you need, young man.”

Bianca got up and went to the sideboard. She poured a glass of wine and brought it to Declan, who drank it down like so much of Margie Coopersmith's Kool-Aid.

“Whoa there, big guy,” I said. But when Bianca brought me a glass, I didn't hesitate to take a swig, either.

Mildly fortified, I leaned close to Declan's ear and murmured, “Are you okay?”

“No,” he shot back. “I'm not okay.”

“You will be,” I tried to assure him.

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Of course,” I agreed.

Someone turned on the chandelier, and soon everyone was milling around the room, subdued conversations murmuring in the corners, the occasional glance at Declan full of wonder.

“Here. Finish this.” I handed him my wine. “I'm going to check in with Ursula, and then we can go home.”

She was standing by the sideboard next to Bianca. My stomach growled, and I realized I was starving. Reaching for a slice of that succulent cheese, I asked, “Is Declan really okay?”

Her smile was weary. “Should be. The spirit who visited him was friendly, a relative who has been with him for his whole life, it sounds like. There shouldn't be any lasting effects. Your friend there”—she indicated Mimsey—“prescribed exactly the right thing.”

“Do you think it will happen again?”

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

I took another bite of cheese. “Do you know what this cheese is?”

Ursula snorted. “I ought to. Althea made me go get it since Owen is, shall we say, indisposed. It's called Mimolette.”

I had another quick nibble, eyeing the selection of wine that was supposed to go with it. An empty bottle of Côtes du Rhône stood next to half-full bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon and Malbec. “Guess that must be what Althea was drinking,” I said, pointing to the empty bottle.

“Just as well,” Bianca said. “That was to be paired with the Camembert yesterday. Not quite as suitable for this lovely Mimolette. Here, try the Cahors.” She held out a bottle.

“No, thanks. I'm driving—and I think Declan's about ready to go.”

The door to the dining room opened, and Steve came back in. I heard him say to Jaida, “I didn't want to interrupt if you were trying to contact Simon again.”

Her fingers gripped his arm, and she pulled him to a far corner, talking rapidly. He listened for a few moments, then shot a look at Declan and then me. She was telling him what had happened, though I doubted Declan would appreciate her sharing.

Ben approached Ursula and me. “So much for finding Simon's killer.” Disappointment hummed under his words.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Eagel. We did try.”

“I'll say,” he said, eyes widening as he turned to look at his firefighting protégé. “I still can't quite believe what happened.”

Lucy threaded her arm through her husband's. “See what happens when you get involved with the spellbook club?”

We left Jaida and Ursula talking about tarot layouts and walked out to the street with Mimsey and Bianca, Lucy, and Ben. Steve followed close behind, heading for his Land Rover. I wanted to ask him about Althea's ridiculous display, but my priority was getting Declan home. We called good night to each other as we made our way to our vehicles, started them up, and went our separate ways.

It was almost eleven by the time we got back to Declan's. Mungo bounded off the sofa to greet us at the door, and I bent down to pick him up. Nuzzling his dark fur, I murmured, “Boy, did you ever miss an interesting evening.”

He whined and licked my neck.

“I'll tell you about it later,” I said, putting him down. I shed my light wrap and laid it over the back of one of the barstools next to the high counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Declan's laugh sounded tired. “I think he really understands you.”

Yip!

“Of course he does,” I said. “I told you he's my familiar.”

“Yeah, but what does that . . . ?” He trailed off, staring at me. “Oh, my God. You mean he really does . . . ?” He wagged his head as if trying to dislodge something from his brain.

“Talking with the dead give you a different perspective?” I teased and reached for him.

But Declan turned his shoulder toward me and went into the walk-through kitchen. He stood for a long moment in front of the open refrigerator before selecting a can of soda and closing the door. Still, he didn't move. The under-cabinet lighting provided the only illumination, casting the strong planes of his face into shadow.

“Oh, hon,” I said softly from the doorway. “Tonight really threw you, didn't it?”

He looked up, his public poker face melting into the bewildered expression of a child who has been told there is no Santa Claus.

Except in this case it was more like the opposite.

Taking a few tentative steps toward him, I asked, “Are you okay?”

Finally, he spoke. “Honestly, Katie? I'm not sure.”

I crossed the distance and wrapped my arms around his waist. I laid my head on his chest. The crisp fabric of his shirt crinkled against my cheek, and his heartbeat thrummed in my ear. His hand moved to the back of my neck and rested there, but he didn't return my embrace.

Letting go, I stepped back and looked up into his eyes. “Come on.”

I led him into the living room, pushing aside Mungo's afghan on the sofa. Sitting, I patted the cushion beside me. “Let's talk about this.”

Instead of joining me, he said, “Stay here. I'll be right back.” He handed me his sweating soda can, walked into the bedroom, and flipped on the light.

Flummoxed, I waited. Took a sip of his drink. Orange, sweet, and tangy. Mungo jumped up on the sofa beside me. We heard a door open and some rattling noises, then a
thunk
. Silence, then a rustling.

I got up and turned on a couple more lamps. Whatever was going on, it didn't seem like there was romance in the air, so we might as well have some light. I sat back down, and Mungo crawled onto my lap.

Declan's newly renovated apartment was charming. However much he cooked and gardened, though, he had not absorbed much in the way of decorating sense from his strong mother or his four sisters. An unframed Guinness poster was the only art on the blond brick walls, and the Mexican rug tossed onto the gleaming wide oak planks of the floor was worn and frayed from foot traffic. Most of his furniture looked like he'd picked it up from the curb back in college and never bothered to upgrade. The pull-out sofa was an unfortunate brown plaid, the coffee table pitted and scarred from hard use at the firehouse, which had been its original home, and the red Scandinavian rocking chair was weirdly out of place.

This abode needed some tender loving care. It needed, in short, a woman's touch. However, when I'd made a few suggestions, Declan had started talking about moving in together. I wasn't ready for that, so I'd dropped the subject. If Declan wanted to live with ugly furniture, so be it.

Now he returned from the bedroom with a large, leather-bound book in his hand and a serious expression on his face. It was an album, I saw as he settled onto the sofa beside me. Putting his arm around me, he opened it across both of our laps. I snuggled into his side, and Mungo wiggled in even closer.

“What's this?” I asked.

“It's one of many family scrapbooks. My mother was crazy about keeping records of things, and when she went back to Ireland to explore our roots, she got a bunch of photos from a cousin of ours. See? This is my great-great-grandfather from Connemara.”

I leaned forward, drinking in the details of the black-and-white photograph. An elderly man clad in tweeds and a short jacket squinted into the camera from under the brim of a felt hat. The pipe in his mouth trailed a barely discernible stream of smoke.

“He has a gleam in his eye,” I said with a smile. “Did you know him?”

Declan shook his head. “No. My mother's mother is still alive, but this man was long gone by the time I was born. And I've never been to Ireland. There's a whole branch of the McCarthy clan there.”

I leaned my head back and looked up into his face. “We should go sometime. I probably have some kin there, too. Lucy would know.”

“We should.” His eyes searched mine.

“Did, uh, talking with your uncle spark this sudden interest in your heritage?” I asked, feeling my way.

His face darkened. “You mean talking
for
my uncle?”

“I guess it was more like that, yes.”

A few moments of hesitation, and then Declan said, “I wanted to show you something in particular.” He flipped a few pages, stopping at another photo. It was a group of four men and three women. The men's clothing was similar to his great-great-grandfather's, which made me think the photos were from the same time period. The women wore dresses reaching almost to the ground and boots almost as heavy as their male counterparts, but one in particular had a fresh face and held her head at an angle as if she were questioning the whole notion of having her picture taken. A light spot had developed in one corner of the paper, though, which bleached out some of the finer details.

Declan pointed to the man on the end, at the edge of the group. My eyes narrowed. “Who's that?”

“That,” he said, “is Uncle Connell.”

I sipped a quick breath of surprise and leaned forward. He was short, considerably shorter than the other men. Than the other women, for that matter. His dress was a bit different, too, as he wore breeches, a coat, and boots that looked more suited for riding horseback than working in a field. He wore his hat at a rakish angle. And his face—well, his face looked ancient, wrinkled and wizened as a dried apple. His eyes were bright, though, even in the somewhat bleary photo.

“So that's who visited you tonight. Holy crumb, Deck!” I grinned up at him. “That's exciting, don't you think? That you have this picture, so you know what he looked like. Are there more?”

Wordlessly, he flipped the page to reveal two more pictures of Uncle Connell. Both had those light spots in the corners, too.

With my thumb, I swiped at them. “Must have been a reflection in the camera lens.” I cocked my head, studying the old gentleman. “He's an odd-looking duck, isn't he? A bit different from the others.”

He snorted, and Mungo jerked his head up in surprise. “That's one way to put it, I suppose.”

I raised my eyebrows in question.

“He's supposed to be a leprechaun.”

I grinned up at Deck, then saw he wasn't kidding. My smile dropped.
“What?”

Mungo wriggled in closer, his nose almost touching the album.

“That's what the cousins told my mother when she was staying with them. Uncle Connell was a leprechaun who fell in love with my great-great-aunt Avril.” He pointed to the young woman with the skeptical expression. “He was considerably older than her, and she naturally resisted his affections. But he continued to pursue her over the years until she finally gave in and married him. Despite their age difference, he outlived her. After she passed, he disappeared, and they never saw him again. And they said he looked as old when he met her as when he left after her funeral.”

I stared at him. “You mean he . . . No.” I shook my head. “That's not possible.”

He shrugged. “You believe in magic. And if that's possible, why isn't the existence of a leprechaun?”

“Well, for one thing, leprechauns are immortal. Right?” A part of me marveled that we were even having this conversation, but still I scrambled to piece together a logical argument. “And your uncle Connell came to you from the other side of the veil tonight. So he has to be dead.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “So you're saying my uncle couldn't be a leprechaun because he's a ghost?”

“Uh—”

“Where do you draw the line, Katie?”

My shoulders slumped. “You do have a point.” My head came up. “Wait a sec. You had this secret in your family all along, and you question my heredity as a hedgewitch?”

He frowned. “I didn't question anything. I took you at your word. I just didn't know you could go all abracadabra on my ass.”

“Abra . . . Declan!”

“You know what I mean.”

And I did. It had been an unfortunate incident, and I'd thought it was water under the bridge.

He pointed to the pictures still on our laps. “These smudges are supposedly lights that were often seen near Connell at night. There isn't a photo of him where they don't appear.”

“Amazing.”

Declan snapped the album shut. “Or not. It's just a family legend.” He stood, displacing Mungo, who jumped to the floor. “Who knows how much of it's true? I mean, leprechauns? I think my mother was making up fun stories for her kids, to tell you the truth.”

“But Connell was real, right? You knew the name when he . . . came to you?”

He paused on his way back to the bedroom, met my eyes. “Yes.”

“So there's that.”

“Yes,” he said. “There's that.” And he turned to put the pictures of his great-great-uncle and the other McCarthy ancestors back in the closet.

Mungo jumped back onto the sofa and regarded me with questioning eyes. “Do you think it's true?” I whispered, hugging the afghan around me.

Yip!

Once the morning baking was well under way, I went into the office and closed the door. Our Web designer had sent updates to our Web site that I wanted to review, and there were new e-mails in the Honeybee in-box to answer. Those bits of secretarial duty attended to, I sat back and took a sip of strong coffee before reaching into my tote bag and retrieving my cell phone.

My mother, Mary Jane Lightfoot, and I had had our differences since I'd learned from Lucy that I came from a long line of hedgewitches. At first Mama had been really upset that her younger sister had not only spilled the beans but was instructing me in the Craft. However, after a surprise visit in the middle of a murder investigation, my mother and I had finally reconciled after a year of estrangement.

Trial by fire, I supposed, but the result was we were not only speaking to each other again, but were in frequent contact.

Now my mother answered on the second ring. “Katie! I'm so glad you called, sweetie. How are things in fair Savannah?”

I leaned back in the desk chair and reached over to scratch Mungo under the chin.

“Unseasonably hot today, humid, mosquito-y, and when the wind drifts from the wrong direction, it smells like the pulp mill.”

“You sound kind of grumpy.”

“Oh, and you know that film they're making over in Reynolds Square? The romantic comedy set during the Revolutionary War?”

“You mentioned it.” She sounded wary.

“Well, someone died on the set. Was
killed
on the set, I should say, and right after he hired the Honeybee to cater lunches.”

“Killed . . . Oh, dear.” I heard her take a deep breath. “Were you the one who found him?”

“No. Althea Cole did. At least that what she says. But Declan and I got there right after we heard her scream.” I braced myself for my mother's dire warnings against using magic or putting myself in danger.

Instead she said, “Althea Cole? Really?”

“Sure. She's the female lead. Both of them, actually, since she's playing twins.”

“And you don't believe she found the body?”

“It's not that, not really. I just don't trust her.”

“Why is that?”

“For one thing, she sabotaged the séance last night.”

“Séance.”

“Oh. Right. So Althea travels with a personal trainer who's also a psychic. This woman—her name's Ursula Banford—apparently has this trio of spiritual guides that help her talk to dead people. So a bunch of us got together last night and tried to reach Simon—that's the victim—to see if he could tell us who killed him. Althea disrupted things, though, right as Simon showed up, and he left without telling us who stabbed him.”

There was a silence, and then she said, “I see.”

“And get this: Franklin Taite apparently told Ursula I would be the one to bring Simon's killer to justice, which means he has to have passed to the other side, only I don't see how he could be dead without anyone knowing about it, so that doesn't make any sense, except I can't find any record of him on the Internet.” Mungo stood up and stared at me, and I realized I'd been talking at breakneck speed. I inhaled and said, “Oh, and Nonna showed up at the séance. She said to pass her love on to you.”

My mother snorted out a very unladylike laugh. “Oh, Katie. You've been called again, that's all.”

“That's all? You sound like Lucy.”

“Well, it's pretty obvious.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “And Ben asked me to help, too, since he's angry that someone got killed while he was working security for the area. Declan was working at the same time, and he doesn't seem to take the murder personally. Ben was in charge, though, so he feels responsible.”

“I imagine he does.” Her tone was light, neutral. I pictured her sitting on the Queen Anne chair next to the telephone table she insisted on using despite the phone being cordless now. Her ankles would be crossed beneath her pencil skirt, and her blouse would be crisply ironed, her hair perfectly coiffed, and her makeup light but precise in the even sixty-nine degrees she and Daddy kept their home at year-round.

“Aren't you going to tell me to butt out?” I asked.

“Of course not. I have all the confidence in the world in you and your ability to fulfill that psychic's prediction. And if my mother came through for her, you can bet this Ursula is a bona fide medium. Anyway, your father and I are only a phone call away if you need us. Plus, you have those wonderful ladies in the spellbook club. They are quite the impressive coven of witches, and you'll be well advised to ask for their help.”

“Wow,” I said. “You've certainly changed your tune.”

She paused and then said cheerily, “You'd be surprised how much. Your father is, at least.”

“How's that?” I asked.

“I worked with him to cast a fertility spell on our garden seeds this year. It worked! The vegetables are growing like mad, and the frost-free date was only a few weeks ago.” She giggled.
Giggled
. “We're thinking of boosting all the seeds down at the store.”

My mother might come across as a prim-and-proper lady of society, but she and Daddy owned the hardware store in the little town of Fillmore, Ohio. And when I say little, I mean little—fewer than six hundred residents. Which was one reason why my mother was so careful about practicing magic, especially since her mother had been caught casting a fertility spell in her backyard there.

In the nude.

“Mama, I'm so proud of you.”

“Thanks, honey. I must say it felt really good to cast again.”

“Maybe we could try a spell together sometime.”

“I think that would be fun,” she said. “Something light, though, not any of your crazy lightwitch stuff.”

Crazy lightwitch stuff. Well, mothers would be mothers, wouldn't they, even if they also happened to be witches.

Still, I felt better after talking with her. Clear and focused after the confusing evening with Declan had muddied my thoughts.

“Mama?” I asked. “Do you believe in leprechauns?”

“Do I . . . what?” she asked. “What do leprechauns have to do with anything?”

“I don't know. Probably nothing. Last night Declan was at the séance with us, and his great-great-uncle came through. I mean, actually came through Declan himself. Ursula said it's rare that someone has the right vibrations to physically channel a spirit, but he did.”

“Oh, my,” my mother said. “How did he take that?”

“Er, not very well, actually. But afterward, Deck showed me old pictures of this uncle Connell of his, taken back in Ireland maybe a century ago. More, even. He's a strange-looking guy, and Deck said his mother was told by his Irish cousins that Connell was a leprechaun.”

My mother blew a raspberry. “Just because someone looks odd doesn't mean they're another—I don't know—species. Good heavens, Katie. Leprechauns are only a myth.”

“What about water spirits or tree spirits?”

“Naiads and dryads are different,” she said, but I could hear the doubt in her voice.

“How?”

“I don't know. They're nature spirits, for one thing, not little men who run around in green suits. Seriously, Katie. Declan's uncle was not a real leprechaun.”

I let the subject drop. We talked for a few more moments, and she promised to update my father on the murderous doings in Savannah.

As I hung up the phone, I reflected that she was probably right that leprechauns weren't real. But Declan was right, too: Once you believe in magic as a reality, once you proudly call yourself a witch, talk to ghosts, and admit that water and tree spirits are actual entities in the world, how much further does your belief have to stretch to include a wee leprechaun or two?

* * *

At ten thirty I was restocking the pistachio cream éclairs, and the air was filled with the spicy scent of carrot ‘n' apple cake baking in the oven. Jaida sat over in the reading area perusing back copies of
Cosmopolitan
. Today she wore skinny jeans and a Che Guevara T-shirt, so I knew it was not only not a court day but also not an office day. I was glad to see her take some time off since she'd been working so many hours lately. Mungo was hanging out in the library, too, keeping an eye on the goings-on from his comfy new bed on the bottom shelf of a bookcase.

The door opened and Detective Quinn stepped through.

“Hey there,” I called and waved him in. “Can I interest you in a piece of lemon sour cream cake?”

He came over and leaned his elbows on the espresso counter. “I don't suppose you have any of those big oatmeal cookies left?” His eyes twinkled.

Lucy shooed him off. “Those aren't on the menu anymore.” She lowered her voice. “Just in case, you know?”

“Mmm. You're right, of course. But I do have news on that front.” He turned to me. “You look nice, Katie. That color suits you.”

I glanced down at my indigo-and-plum-striped skirt and sleeveless plum crinkle blouse, all covered with a navy apron. “Um, thanks.” But I was suspicious. Why was he being so nice to me?

Quinn, of course, looked cool and collected in blue slacks and a crisply starched white shirt that looked like it was fresh from the cleaners. I knew, however, that when he was working on a murder case, the detective tended to work around the clock. He probably kept a drawer full of shirts in his office.

He did look tired, though. The beginnings of half-moons darkened the area under his eyes, and he'd missed a slight bit of stubble the last time he shaved. For the first time, I wondered how old Quinn was. Though his face had its share of lines and his hair was almost solid gray, I'd always thought he was in his late forties. Today he looked at least a decade older, and I reminded myself to ask Ben if he knew Quinn's age.

“The lemon cake sounds good. It's one of my favorites.” He lifted a hand to Jaida, who returned the gesture, and then he promptly chose a seat as far away from her as possible. As far as I knew, he didn't have a problem with Jaida personally, so I put it down to police instinct regarding defense attorneys.

Sliding onto the seat across from him, I asked, “How's Owen Glade?”

“He spent quite a few hours at the hospital, but he's okay. They released him late last night.”

I blew out my breath in relief. “So what happened?”

“Someone definitely tampered with those cookies.”

My stomach dropped, even though I'd suspected Quinn would say that. “Only those cookies? From the Honeybee?”

“Yes. All the oatmeal cookies we tested from the movie set had a little special addition to them. No other food item did, however, and neither did the cookies we picked up here and took to the lab. It was obvious sabotage.”

I thought of poor Owen, as sick as anyone I'd ever seen. “Sabotage of what, though? The movie? It was a
poisoning
.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “What will people say about the Honeybee?”

“It's not your fault someone slipped a powerful emetic into something after you served it. And I can't imagine you did it yourself. The last thing you'd want is to make people sick with your cooking.”

“Emetic? Like ipecac syrup?” I made an upchucking motion.

“At least it wasn't ex-lax,” he said.

Ugh.
“So it was some kind of prank?”

“Hmm. I wouldn't call it that,” he said. “An over-the-counter emetic might have counted as a prank, but whatever was used was strong. Prescription strong.”

“People get prescriptions for emetics? For what? I mean, I've heard of
anti
emetics, sure.” I thought of a friend who'd gone through chemotherapy. “But trying to be sick? I don't get that.”

Wait a minute. My fingers crept to my lips as I thought of Althea and her tiny waist and thin arms. Sure, she traveled with a personal trainer, and Ursula had said she kept Althea skinny, but I'd seen her tuck into macaroni and cheese with great gusto, and she apparently drank wine and ate cheese every single day.

“You look like you might have something to tell me,” Quinn said.

“I wish I did, at least something definitive. I was just wondering how Althea stays so thin.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “Ah. You think she might use an emetic as part of her ‘Hollywood diet'?” He tapped his fingers on the table. “You know, that's a good place to start looking.”

I shrugged. “I must say that for someone so famous, Althea seems to have her fingers in the middle of everything, from finding Simon's body to influencing Owen Glade's choice in caterers to being right there when he got so violently ill.” Not to mention she'd ruined a perfectly good séance.

Lucy brought Quinn's slab of lemon cake over, along with a complimentary cup of coffee. He dug in, still listening.

“Plus, she's obviously involved with Steve Dawes but still fooling around with another man.”

He swallowed. “And how do you know that?”

I told him about chasing Mungo into the wardrobe tent and finding Althea embracing the stranger. “He has a ponytail, too, like Steve. Maybe that's her thing.” I raised my palms to the ceiling. “I don't suppose there were any fingerprints on that knife?”

Like mine? Or Lucy's?

“Wiped clean,” he said.

“So tell me, how much strength would it take to drive a big knife like that into a grown man's body?”

“A grown man the size of, say, Simon Knapp?” Quinn asked.

“Precisely that size.”

“Quite a bit, actually. However, it would take less force if he were to be on the ground, already unconscious.” He took a sip of coffee and sat back in his chair. “Which Simon probably was.”

“Really?”

“His skull showed signs of blunt force trauma. It looks like he was struck on the head, went down, and then was stabbed.”