Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (20 page)

Forget the subtlety of glowing in the heat. I was already sweating “like a whore in church,” as I'd overheard someone say in the Honeybee. I headed inside the cheese shop, closed the door, and leaned my back against it as if hordes of Huns were on my tail instead of an overly warm spring day.

What a wimp I've turned into. Imagine how summers here might have been before air-conditioning, in the heavy heat all day. Heck, all night, too. And here I walked a whole block and a half. Go, me.

The place was empty save for the woman behind the L of brightly lit display cases similar to those in the Honeybee and a black-haired girl sitting on a high stool by the double swinging doors leading to whatever was in the rear of the shop. The floor looked as if it was made of renovated barn wood, the walls were painted a deep, rich blue, the ten-foot ceiling shone creamy beige, and the afternoon sun was blocked by rattan shades that drew up from the bottom.

Unlike the Honeybee, this was a stop, shop, and buy sort of shop, a place to sample and purchase your cheese but not linger, much like an old-fashioned butcher or fishmonger. The piles of cheese were artfully arranged behind glass, enticing, inviting, and frankly mouthwatering. It was surprising how different they looked from one another given they all started out with the same basic ingredients.

The woman behind the counter looked up, blinking behind dark-framed glasses. She was in her late forties, but wore her corn-silk hair in pigtails that jutted out from either side of her head like Pippi Longstocking all grown up. Her name tag said “Patsy,” and she wore a simple denim sundress that reached past her knees. Her smile felt big enough to encompass eight of me.

I had no choice but to smile in return.

She glided to the counter. “What can we do you for?”

I found myself in front of the plates and plates and
plates
of cheese displayed behind glass. “Oh,” I said. “This is going to cost me more than I thought.”

Looking up, I saw her nod. “Yeah. It works that way sometimes. But I'm guessing you came in with a mission. At least to start with.”

“The other night I ate a delicious cheese. I think it's called Mimolette?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching into the case for a cannonball-shaped round. The rind on the outside was pitted and grooved, making it look more like a muskmelon than a chunk of cheese. “French, made from cow's milk, and typically aged three to twenty-four months. This”—she held up the ball—“is twenty-four months old. Incredible.”

I could see a slice had been removed, revealing the deep orange color I recognized. “Yes, that's the one Althea served.”

“Oh! Are you associated with the movie?” the woman asked, leaning forward.

“Not really. My uncle is working security over there.” I scrambled to come up with an explanation. “I guess you know Althea Cole likes to serve your cheese with different wines. I'm friends with Bianca Devereaux over at Moon Grapes.”

“Bianca knows her stuff,” Patsy said. “It's a pleasure to work with her on pairings.”

“You're in touch?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Since they began filming, Mr. Glade comes in each day at four thirty, selects the cheese for the evening's soiree, and then I call Bianca so she can deliver the appropriate wines for whatever he's selected.”

“Makes sense,” I said, then paused, remembering.

The bottles of wine, though still unopened, had been on the table above Simon's body before Owen had stumbled onto the scene with his bag of Camembert.

“Um,” I said, glancing at the young girl sitting on the stool. Looking beyond her heavy black eyeliner and black lipstick, I saw she was old enough to be a junior or senior in high school. “You know there was someone killed on the set, right?”

Patsy's hand went to her throat and she nodded emphatically. “Terrible. Simply terrible.”

“Do you happen to remember when Mr. Glade came in to pick up cheese that day? I believe it was a Camembert.”

“Why, at the same time as always,” she said.

“Was not,” muttered the girl behind her.

“Oh, Iris. Don't be difficult,” she said. “Of course it was.” She shook her head. “Teenagers. Have to contradict their mothers no matter what.”

Iris' head came up, and her eyes met mine. They were deep brown, sparked with intelligence, and there was something else.

She has talent. Magical talent. Latent, but she knows she's different.

She slid off the stool and came up to stand beside her mother. Staring down at a platter of Port Salut in the display case, she said, “He came in early, right after noon that day. And the next day that white-haired chick with the cool eyebrow ring came instead of Mr. Glade.”

“Mr. Glade was, shall we say, indisposed that day,” I said, avoiding the words “sick as a dog.”

Patsy nodded. “That's right, about the woman with the short blond hair, at least. You're wrong about Mr. Glade.”

“Ursula Banford,” I said. “The one with the eyebrow ring.”

“You know her?” Iris asked, looking up at me from under her dark fringe of hair.

I nodded.

“She was nice.” She smiled then. It was a sunny, warm, happy smile, and I smiled back. Then it dropped. “Mr. Glade could have picked up the cheese himself that day, since he was here when we opened.”

Patsy shook her head. “Honestly, Iris. I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Iris eyed her mother with a puzzled expression, then looked at me. Something passed between us. Iris wasn't lying, but her mother didn't seem to be, either. What was going on?

“Of course you told the police when Mr. Glade came in,” I said to Patsy.

“Naturally.” She slid a sharp knife out from under the counter and hefted the round of Mimolette. “Now, how much of this beauty would you like?”

I ended up with a varied selection of cheeses, including the Mimolette and a sheep's milk Roquefort that Patsy assured me would be a perfect accompaniment to the pears I planned to poach for dessert that evening. By the time I'd tasted and chosen and she had wrapped up my purchases, Iris had disappeared into the back of the store. It was too bad, as I would have liked to have talked with her more. I bid my new cheese expert friend good-bye with the promise to return often and went back out into the heat.

Iris was waiting for me on the sidewalk.

“Come on,” she urged, gesturing me into a bar two doors down.

“Aren't you a little young to be in here?” I asked as we entered the blissfully air-conditioned dark-paneled room. The place was practically empty.

“Yeah, but they know me,” she said. “Can I get a Diet Coke?” she called. “You want anything?”

I smiled and ordered a root beer. We sat at a high table, and as the bartender got our drinks, I noted the multiple piercings, the black nail polish to match her lipstick, the black skinny jeans with rivets all around the pockets, and the plain black T-shirt. I pointed to the elaborate tattoo of a fairy on her upper arm. “Nice.”

“You like tats?”

“It's pretty,” I said, then wondered if that sounded lame. But she looked pleased.

“I like your necklace,” I went on.

“It's an ankh.”

“The symbol of eternal life,” I said.

She pursed her lips. “You're all right.”

I laughed. “Gee, thanks.” The bartender brought our soft drinks. “So you remember Owen Glade coming in earlier than your mom does. How come?”

She sucked in half her drink through the straw, brow furrowed. “Stepmom. I don't know. I mean, it's really weird, because she's not usually flaky like that. He even said he was early that day because Althea Cole wanted to have her party earlier than usual.”

Bingo. And how else could Iris know that?

“And he did show up the next morning, too,” she went on. “Before I left for school. Brought her coffee. It was gross.”

“The coffee?” I asked.

“No! That he brought it to her. They went in the back of the shop to drink it and left me out front to wait on customers. I ended up being late to my first class.”

“So she knows you saw them together, right?”

“Uh-huh. But she's acting like it never happened. I don't get it.”

“I don't either, honey.” I put my half-finished soda on the table and fished a bill out of my wallet. Iris reached in her pocket, but I shook my head. “I've got this.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Iris? Thanks for letting me know about Mr. Glade and your stepmom.”

“Why?”

I considered her. “Because something is off, and the police should know.”

“Patsy didn't do anything wrong.” Iris looked worried.

“I'm sure you're right. We'll get it figured out.” I slid off the tall chair. “I'm Katie Lightfoot, by the way. I work over at the Honeybee Bakery. Stop in sometime if you get a chance.”

I left her slurping Diet Coke and went back to the blistering sidewalk.

Owen had lied about where he'd been during the murder, but why would he kill Simon? The man had given him a job in what had to be a pretty competitive field when Owen had little experience. Could Owen have been trying to cover for someone else?

My instincts said no. No one was who they seemed to be on that movie set. Owen lied about his alibi, and then he inexplicably came back and brought a woman twice his age a cup of coffee.

What the heck?

I hurried back through the heat to the Honeybee. As I walked, I tried calling Quinn. Sure enough, I got his voice mail.

“Quinn, it's Katie. Please call me back as soon as you can. I found something out about Owen Glade. He wasn't where he said he was when Simon was killed, and I think something hinky is going on.”

Lucy looked up in surprise as I walked into the bakery. “That didn't take long.”

“I only went as far as the cheese shop.” I held up the bag from the Welsh Wabbit absently, glancing around to see who was close enough to eavesdrop. Mimsey must have sensed my agitation because she came hurrying out from the kitchen.

It was fairly crowded in the customer area, though no one was waiting to be helped. Signaling them both to follow me, I dumped the bag of cheese on the counter and went all the way to the back door, where we could still see the register but wouldn't be overheard.

Slumping against the wall, I said, “Owen lied about his alibi. He was at the Welsh Wabbit much earlier than he said the day Simon was killed. I don't know why the owner couldn't remember that when Quinn asked her—or when I asked her—but her stepdaughter was there and assured me Owen came in much earlier.”

The two other women stared at me. “Slow down, Katie,” my aunt admonished. “Now, are you sure?”

My head bobbed emphatically. “The girl, Iris, even said it was because Althea Cole wanted to have her wine and cheese get-together earlier than usual. Now, how would she know that?”

They looked at each other. “But why would the owner lie to Detective Quinn?” Lucy asked with a wrinkled brow. “I've met her, and she seems really nice.”

“I thought so, too. She just seems . . . mistaken. Vague, if you will. Maybe she's absentminded. Though why she wouldn't just say she couldn't remember when Quinn asked her, I don't know.” I grimaced. “Iris said Owen came in the next day and brought her mother coffee, though. I can't imagine she'd be attracted to him, but do you think she might actually lie for him?”

Mimsey's lips parted, and she drew in a sudden breath. “Oh, my stars. Katie, come with me.”

She bustled into the office, and I followed behind her. Lucy looked after us regretfully, but moved back out to the front with the customers. By the time I joined the older witch, Mungo was standing with his front paws on the arm of his club chair, his bright eyes intent on Mimsey.

My own eyes went wide when I saw the inkwell in her hand. She held it in front of her face, cover open, and sniffed at it delicately. Looking at the ceiling in thought for a moment, she nodded once and snapped the top shut. Turning, she placed the inkwell in the back of the supply cupboard.

“Whatever you do, Katie, don't let that get near anything that you're cooking.”

I thought of the oatmeal cookies. “Why? Do you know what it is?”

“Well, as you determined, it's not invisible ink. But it's not innocuous, either.”

“It sure doesn't smell innocuous,” I agreed.

“It wasn't until you told me about the cheese shop owner that I was able to put it together.”

“Put together what?” I tried not to sound impatient.

“That is a fermentation of essence of forget-me-not and some kind of soap plant—it could be yucca or even bracken, but my bet is that it's something commonly called soap lily.
Chlorogalum pomeridianum
. It grows wild in California. And after it brewed with the forget-me-nots for a while, the fermentation was stopped by the addition of salt. Very old-school. I haven't run across such a thing for a very long time.”

I frowned. “Brewed? Mimsey, are you saying . . . ?”

Her chin dipped in affirmation. “It's a potion. Specifically, it's a potion to erase memory.”

Stunned, I asked, “But why?”

“Well, for one thing, don't you think it would be handy for a fixer to be able to erase a memory here and there?” Mimsey pressed her lips together. “Though it's certainly not without risk.”

“And what if it got into the wrong hands?” Like Owen's. I thought of the coffee Iris swore he'd brought Patsy at the Welsh Wabbit. The coffee she didn't seem to remember drinking.

“Exactly,” Mimsey said.

* * *

Next, I tried calling Ben, but he didn't pick up, either. Sheesh. Couldn't anyone answer their phone anymore? But, of course, he was working, so it shouldn't have surprised me. I tapped out a text, hit send, then tried Declan.

Deck, bless his heart, answered on the second ring. “Hi, Katie.” He sounded distracted.

Or upset. I couldn't tell.

“Are you done with your meeting?” I asked.

“Yeah. I'm back at the set. What's up?”

I took a deep breath. First things first. “Well, I was hoping you'd let me make you a nice supper tonight to make up for last night.”

“Supper last night was fine.”

Yep, he was mad. Time for an apology. “You know what I mean. Asking you to try to contact Franklin Taite.”

Silence.

“I never should have done that. I'm sorry, and I want to make it up to you with a nice steak.”

“Well,” he said, and I could tell he was coming around. “I guess I could be talked into that. Steak, you say?”

“Filet mignon.”

“Mmm. Grilled?”

“Of course.”

“I'll cook,” he said.

I laughed. “The meat, yes. Everything else I'll take care of. Now, is Ben around? I tried to call him, but he didn't answer.”

“Nope,” Declan said.

Confused, I asked, “Well, where is he? I found out something about Owen Glade that I want to tell him.”

“That's who he's with.”

Alarm trilled through me.

Declan continued. “They finished the final scene earlier than the director thought they would. They're packing up now. The spectators are pretty much gone, but I stuck around to help the crew.”

“And Ben?”

“Glade asked him to help take some of Althea's stuff from her dressing trailer to the house where they're staying. She's packing for the drive to Dahlonega tonight. Hang on a sec.”

I heard him tell someone he'd be right back; then the background noise faded. When he returned, his voice was lower. “Now, what's this about Glade?”

“He lied about his alibi. He wasn't at the cheese shop when Simon was murdered.”

“How did you find that out?” he asked.

“I'll tell you when I get there. Don't go anywhere.”

“Katie—”

“I'll pick you up in ten minutes.” I hung up and turned to see Lucy in the doorway of the office. “Luce,” I began.

“Go,” she said. “We've got things under control here.”

“Will you try calling Detective Quinn again?” I asked, grabbing my tote and motioning for Mungo to jump in.

“Of course, dear.”

“Tell him what I found out at the Welsh Wabbit and that I'm going over to the rental house to talk to Owen.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, I don't think that's a good idea at all, Katie.”

“Don't worry. I'm taking Deck, and Ben's already there.”

She still looked worried. “Well, okay. I'll try Peter again.”

“Thank, Lucy.” I bent and kissed her on the cheek. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

I hurried out to my car, waving at a startled Mimsey on the way. As the door closed behind us, I heard her ask my aunt, “Now where's she going?”

* * *

Declan stood waiting on the corner of Abercorn and Congress. I pulled to the side of the street without parking. A car behind me honked, then zoomed around the Bug. I twisted to put my tote bag in the backseat as he opened the passenger door and lifted Mungo onto his lap. He was still buckling his seat belt as I checked my mirrors and took off.

As I drove, I related my conversation with Patsy and Iris at the cheese shop.

“I don't get it. Why would Owen Glade kill Simon?” he asked.

“Good question.” Still, Owen hadn't seemed to feel a bit of sorrow or regret about Simon's passing. He'd only complained about how Simon bossed him around. “And we still don't know that he did,” I said. “Only that Owen lied about when he was at the Welsh Wabbit. He could have been someplace else he didn't want anyone to know about, or he could be covering for someone.”

Like Althea.

“Or he could have killed Simon, left, and then come back after the body was discovered with a bag full of Camembert as his alibi.”

My boyfriend made a noise of disbelief.

I barreled on, telling him about the altar items I'd found that indicated Simon was a witch of some kind. In my peripheral vision I saw Declan's eyes cut toward me in question. But when I turned my head, he was gazing placidly out the windshield as if I'd been talking about the weather. Mr. Poker Face.

However, when I told him about the memory-erasing potion, he couldn't help but roll his eyes. “You've got to be kidding. A magic potion?”

“Hey,” I said. “You did say you wanted to know more about this aspect of my life. And if Mimsey says it's a magic potion, I believe her. It certainly smells bad enough.”

“Hmm. Eye of newt probably does.”

Steve wouldn't question one iota of what I've told you
, I thought but managed to stop myself from actually saying it out loud. Instead I said, “We'll have a chance to ask Owen directly in a few minutes.”

“It's hard to seriously imagine Owen Glade as a murderer,” Declan said. “Still, wouldn't it be better to wait for Detective Quinn before questioning the guy?”

“Of course,” I said, exasperated. “I called and left a message on Quinn's voice mail, and Lucy said she'd call, too. He may already be on his way. But Ben could be in danger.” My uncle was as capable as they come, but I couldn't help worrying a little. Besides, if we did get there before Quinn, I'd have a chance to drop a few hints about the potion in the inkwell to see if Owen reacted.

A van was parked in front of our destination.
A. DENDUM PRODUCTIONS
was emblazoned on the magnetic sign adhered to the side. I found a spot half a block away and pulled to the curb. Declan set Mungo on the sidewalk and unfolded his frame from the Bug. I came around to join them.

“Stick close,” I said to my familiar, but didn't put his lead on. Together the three of us approached the three-layer-cake house. The wrought-iron gate creaked open at Declan's touch, and we climbed the four steps leading up to the porch. I pushed the doorbell and waited.

And waited. Declan reached around me and knocked firmly on the thick wooden door.

There was no response.

“Maybe they've already left,” he said, and turned to go.

I dug my phone out of the pocket of my skirt and dialed. Declan paused on the front step. “Who are you calling?”