Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (19 page)

Not one.

* * *

I was bussing the reading area, where a pack of college kids had just finished an intense study session, when Jaida came in. She wore simple white slacks and a violet silk blouse, which told me it was an office day but not a court day. I raised the dish towel in my hand in welcome. Her response was a short jab of her finger toward the kitchen. Lucy saw and gestured with her chin for me to go ahead and follow. Our friend obviously had something on her mind that she didn't want to talk about in front of customers.

She beat me to the office, and I found her leaning over Mungo and massaging his ears. His eyes were squeezed shut with pleasure, and he didn't bother to open them when I walked in.

I perched on the stool by the tall file cabinet, and Jaida slid onto the swivel desk chair. Mungo grunted, turned around three times, and resettled on his club chair.

“I found some information on your suspects,” she said.

My eyebrows shot up. “Do tell.”

Leaning back, she crossed her legs. She wore open-toed pumps, and her toenails were painted the same violet as her blouse. “Okay, regarding Niklas Egan, what you heard him tell Detective Quinn appears true. That is, I couldn't find any record of a payoff to his paramour's husband, but Egan went through a very nasty divorce and his ex-wife was not at all shy about blaming his philandering for the breakup.”

“That fits with what we already know. Anything about who he was seeing?”

“There was mention of a woman named Chrissa Stuvelle in a gossip rag online after the divorce. Looked like she was heading for a divorce as a result of playing around with Egan, too.”

“Online. I guess I could have looked that up.”

She waved that away. “We're a team. Anyway, I didn't find evidence in public records that hinted at anything else Simon's unique skills would have been called upon to remedy for Egan. I didn't find anything particularly interesting about the assistant, Owen Glade, either. He's pretty much the dweeb you described.”

Jaida hadn't met Owen, since he'd been in the hospital the night of the séance.

“I'm pretty sure I didn't actually call him a dweeb,” I protested.

“Maybe not, but that's still what he sounds like. He's from Boulder Creek, a little town in northern California. Only child, graduated in the middle of his class, went to a community college and then onto San Jose for a degree in theater arts. Then he went back home and worked with the local theater. Lived with his mother, a librarian, until hired by A. Dendum Productions. His father is deceased.”

Wait a minute. “Boulder Creek? I guess he told me that. But I didn't know his mother was a librarian.” I held up my finger and extracted the manila envelope I'd found in the file cabinet from my tote. I shuffled the photos until I found the one of Simon and the woman in front of the Boulder Creek Library and handed it to Jaida.

Her eyebrows shot up. “I wonder if that's her with Simon?”

“Owen told me Simon was working for a production company that was filming in his hometown, and he convinced Simon to mentor him as a production coordinator,” I said.

Jaida narrowed her eyes. “Do you think he was involved with Simon's . . . other activities?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “You know, he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy Simon would trust with sensitive information. He just doesn't come across as that competent. You never know, though, so I came right out and asked him when he paid me for lunch the day after Simon was killed.”

Jaida smiled. “And?”

“He didn't seem to know what I was talking about. Mostly he seemed resentful that his duties were not more glamorous. He was Simon's boy Friday.”

“Otherwise known as an assistant. Seems like it would beat living with your mom, though. Glade is twenty-five.”

The same age as Robin Bonner. Coincidence? Probably.

“Well, thanks for taking a closer look,” I said.

“I saved the best for last, m'dear. Mr. Grayson does indeed have a secret or two.”

“Aha!” I said. “I knew there was something hinky about that guy.”

Mungo sat up.

“Indeed,” Jaida said, smoothing the fabric of her white slacks. “In his early career, he was arrested for selling drugs. Not on Hollywood Boulevard, either. It was near a high school.”

“A children's comedian who sold drugs to teenagers?” I thought of Margie's giddy affection for Grayson. “How was that not a scandal?”

“Ah, but his name was different then. He changed it—
twice
. From Grant Vanders, who went to jail for five months on the drug charge before being let out on parole, to Vance Gray. Six months later he changed his name again to Van Grayson and developed the super-squeaky-clean image as a kiddy comic. First parties, then shows, and finally videos. For a while he made the rounds on a number of kids' shows, too.”

“And he doesn't actually like children,” I said, thinking out loud. “Yet that career move gained him enough recognition to get the lead actor role in
Love in Revolution
. He's savvy that way, but he doesn't seem quite comfortable as a star—at least not yet.” I was remembering how different his attitude seemed from Althea's. Or maybe he was just a nicer person.

Except he dealt drugs to high school students.

“With his career on the upswing, he certainly wouldn't have wanted his former identity to come to light,” Jaida said.

“Do you think Simon knew?” I asked.

“The double name change is clever, and he could have been involved with that, but Grayson could have done that on his own easily enough. However, there was a rather convenient restraining order placed on that tabloid the
Inquisitor
a while back, and the rumor was that it involved a story about Mr. Grayson.”

I felt my forehead scrunch. “Wait a sec. You can't stop a story that way, can you? Freedom of the press and all that, even if the
Inquisitor
will print anything they feel like to make sure people will grab their rag in the checkout line. I've heard of people suing after a story runs, but a restraining order?”

Jaida held up her hand. “It wasn't for a story per se. It was on the publisher, and the details were sketchy. I'm betting Simon was involved.”

I whistled. “Wow. That would take a lot of juice.”

She nodded. “I had to dig pretty far, but I'm still a little surprised Detective Quinn hasn't already discovered this.”

“Maybe he has,” I pointed out. “If so, he wouldn't feel any obligation to tell me. But he might not have because there's another factor you don't know about yet.”

She uncrossed her ankles and leaned forward. “What's that?”

“Simon was some kind of sorcerer—a witch, I suspect, given the altar items he had hidden in the prop tent.” I told her how I'd come to find the blue velvet bag and its contents. “But he could have been druidic or something else altogether. The point is, I think he used magic to enhance his ability to get things to go his way—or the way of whomever he was ‘fixing' a situation for.”

Jaida slapped her leg with her palm. “Well, I'm not surprised at all if Quinn doesn't know about Grayson's past, then. Simon would have cast a cloaking spell.”

“Which didn't stop you,” I pointed out.

She grinned. “That's because I'm a witch, too.”

“You used magic?” I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice. Jaida had admitted to sometimes using her tarot skills on behalf of her unknowing clients, but that was all.

“Sort of,” she said. “As a matter of course, whenever I go looking for information, I do a quick clarifying spell with the Star, High Priestess, and Hermit cards to clear the way. I perform a lot of my own investigation since many of my clients can't afford for me to hire an outside investigator, and I need to be able to quickly weed through the unimportant stuff.”

“Lucky for me,” I said.

Mungo made a noise of agreement in the back of his throat.

Jaida stood. “Speaking of unimportant stuff, I have a pile of paperwork I've been putting off on my desk. Keep me in the loop, and let me know if you need me to look into anything else, okay?”

I hugged her, breathing in cinnamon and caramel. “Okay. Thanks again. You're the best.”

* * *

I left a message on Quinn's voice mail that I had information about Van Grayson he might be interested in. As I hung up, I debated whether to tell him that Robin Bonner was Althea Cole's son. Given that Simon had fired Bonner Catering, my cookies had been laced with a prescription emetic, and someone had ended up in the hospital, it was probably best that he know.

Lucy answered the Honeybee phone an hour later, mouthing to me that it was Quinn. She put the phone on hold and turned back to her customer. I slipped the last apple-fennel muffin out of the tin and onto a cooling rack and went back to the office to take the call. Collapsing into the chair, I swiveled to the desk and hit the speaker button.

“Hey, Quinn. Thanks for calling back.”

Mungo sat up from his nap to listen.

“Katie, it's been too long since we've spoken. An entire day, if I'm counting correctly.” His tone wasn't as sarcastic as his words, however.

“You can tease all you want, Peter, but you did tell me to call if I happened to find anything out. Well, I found something out about Van Grayson. Did you know he used to be—”

Peter cut in. “I should tell you that I already know that Van Grayson used to be Vance Gray. He probably changed his name because ‘Van' is easier for little kids to say—and remember.”

“I bet you're right,” I said. “But did you know that first he changed his name from Grant Vanders to Vance Gray?”

A long silence then, “That's news to me.”

“And as Grant Vanders, he went to jail for five months for selling drugs near a high school.”

Quinn swore under his breath, and beside me Mungo cocked his head. “How did you find that out?”

“Well, I know you told me not to do any actual, um, investigation, but you did agree there was a good chance that Simon's ‘fixing' could have gotten him killed. So I asked Jaida to do a little digging.”

I heard typing. “The officer who is helping me with background investigations didn't get that far. I'll have a talk with her.”

“Oh, gosh. I don't want to get anyone in trouble. Jaida said the double name change was pretty buried. She just happened onto it.”

“Don't worry. I'm not going to put anything in her file.” He sighed. “I swear, Katie, sometimes the way you and your friends find things out is like magic.”

My breath caught in my throat before I managed to force a laugh. Unfortunately, the noise that came out sounded more like a camel sneezing than an expression of mirth. Mungo looked at the ceiling, but I ignored him.

“Anyway,” I said in a voice that hopefully didn't sound too strangled. “Someone else might have found out, you know? Maybe Simon fixed it so that Grayson wouldn't be revealed as a drug-dealing fraud.”

“Right. We'll look into that. Thanks, Katie.”

“Um,” I said.

“Yes?” He drew the word out.

“It also came to my attention that Robin Bonner of Bonner Catering is Althea Cole's son. She gave him up for adoption when she was sixteen, and Simon helped her track him down here in Savannah and then hired him to cater for the movie.”

“What?”

“What's that, Lucy?” I called. “Okay, be right there. Quinn, I have to go. Talk to you later!” And I hung up.

Dang it. I didn't have a chance to tell him about the photos. Maybe I can drop them by his office this afternoon.

If dogs could laugh, that was what Mungo did as I hurried out to the kitchen.

* * *

The lunch rush was over, tables bussed, and the early-afternoon baking cooling on the counter before going into the display case. Even the espresso counter was gleaming. Eight people were scattered among the tables, most of them regulars who settled in a few afternoons a week with their laptops. Some were telecommuting, a few were students at the Savannah College of Art and Design or Savannah State University, and one unassuming gentleman was an author working on his latest spy novel.

The door opened to admit Mimsey for the second time that day. She was clad entirely in white except for the bright blue bow in her hair. Quickly, she shut the door behind her. “Land sakes, it's hot out there! You'd think I'd be used to it after living my whole life here, but May is simply not supposed to feel like July.” Fanning her face, she plopped down on a chair near the register and put her shopping bag on the floor. I suspected her color choice for the day had less to do with magic than with keeping cool, regardless of the old rule about not wearing white before Memorial Day.

“Here you go,” Lucy said, a tall, sweating glass of sweet tea already in hand. “Drink this and cool down. Did you walk all the way from your shop?”

“Yes, ma'am, and I do not intend to walk back to my car until the sun goes down.”

My aunt laughed. “Well, don't worry. If you want to hang out here for the afternoon, I'll give you a ride.”

Mimsey's head bobbed in agreement. “I was hoping you'd say that. I brought a few new books for the library, and while I'm at it, I'll cull what needs to go.”

“That's sweet of you,” I said.

“Bah. Not sweet. Necessary. Some of those volumes have served their purpose. Must make way for the new!” She pulled out a half-dozen volumes from the bag at her feet and set them on the table before taking a rather unladylike gulp of tea.

Walking over, I picked up the top two. One was a thin volume of poetry by Rainer Maria Rilke and the other was a spy novel by none other than our resident author. After a quick glance his way, I checked out the other titles:
How to Train Your New Puppy
,
Great Expectation
s,
Windowsill Gardening
,
The Creative Woman's Guide to Authentic Recovery
, and
Your Stylish Six-Year-Old
.

Picking up the last one, I asked, “Really? This looks one of those guides for stage mothers.”

“Don't judge,” Mimsey said. “Someone needs this book.”

Rolling my eyes affectionately, I returned it to the pile.

“Katie,” Lucy said. “Since Mimsey is back to help, why don't you run down to Bianca's and get your wine for dinner tonight? That way you won't have so much to do before Declan comes over.”

I hugged her. “Thanks. I was wondering how I could get everything done.” I untied my apron. “I'll be back in a jiffy, ladies.”

* * *

“You don't mind sticking around here, do you?” I asked my familiar. “I know you don't care for the heat.”

He curled into a ball and closed his eyes in answer.

I opened my tote to make sure I had my wallet and saw the inkwell and distressed paper I'd found in the prop tent. Removing them, I held the paper up to the light again. There was still no evidence of writing. I remembered writing notes to my best friend in third grade. We'd used toothpicks and lemon juice, let the “ink” dry on the paper, and then held them next to a warm lightbulb to reveal the messages.

Quickly turning the desk lamp on, I touched one of the sheets to the bulb.

The very cool bulb. We didn't have compact fluorescent lamps when I was in the third grade.

Ah, but the arched reading lamp in the Honeybee library featured a full-spectrum incandescent bulb. Grabbing the paper and ink, I returned to the front of the bakery. Mimsey looked surprised, then followed as I went into the reading area and held the papers up one by one to the hot bulb.

The gentleman sitting on the sofa looked up in chagrin as my machinations dimmed his reading light. “Miss, please.”

I ducked my head. “Sorry.” My shoulders slumped in defeat. There were no messages.

“What on earth are you doing?” Lucy asked, watching with Mimsey nearby.

I gestured them to the kitchen before answering. “I found these in the property tent earlier. The ink seems to be clear, which makes no sense, so I thought it might be, er, invisible ink,” I finished, feeling lame as all get out.

Mimsey held out her hand. “Let me see.”

I handed her the inkwell, and she opened it. Her head reared back as a foul odor boiled out of the tiny container. Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Oh, put the lid on, Mims. That smells absolutely wretched.”

But speculation replaced the disgust on the older witch's face, and she took another deep whiff before screwing the cap back onto the inkwell.

“What is it?” I asked.

She frowned. “I don't know. I feel like I should, though. I've smelled that someplace before.” She looked up and saw my urgent expression. “Go on, dear. I'll have your aunt text you if I think of it while you're out.”

* * *

Mimsey was right: It was land sakes hot out, indeed. Growing up in Ohio, I'd known some hot weather, but my first summer in Savannah had put that to shame. “Hot mayonnaise” weather they called it, a heat laced with thick humidity that never allowed you to feel dry. That was July and August heat, but it had settled down on the city this late May afternoon like a mama hen on her chicks.

I considered walking to Moon Grapes, which, let's face it, was only six blocks away on Factors Walk. I had almost convinced myself when I spotted the quaint wooden sign hanging over the door of the Welsh Wabbit Cheese Shoppe half a block down. It hung at a perpendicular angle to the door, swinging like an old English alehouse might invite some quiet revelers into the snug. I'd stop there first, pick up the Mimolette and any other cheese that happened to catch my fancy for Declan's and my party, then move on to Moon Grapes for the wine.

The image on the old-fashioned placard sharpened into a new-fangled graphic as I approached close enough to see it. I'd driven by dozens of times since the small specialty store had opened and never noticed the details. The sign showed a long-eared hare straddling a low-rider Harley. The jackrabbit wore a pudding-basin helmet, leather jacket complete with diagonal zipper and fringe flying out from his narrow shoulder blades, and boots replete with three sets of buckles up the legs. Despite his regalia, he appeared to be peacefully riding through an English countryside that James Herriot himself would have recognized.