Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (22 page)

“Let go of that woman,” he roared in an Irish accent I knew only too well.

Startled, Owen stopped dodging Mungo, who sank his teeth into his leg. Owen howled. Mungo let go and ran back to me. Althea twisted in his grasp, pulling on her own hair until she could claw at his face.

Owen pushed her away, and she ran from the room. He raised the gun toward us again. Declan's muscles bunched under my hand as Owen's finger squeezed down on the trigger.

“No!” I shouted.

Time slowed. The room grew brighter. Colors throbbed. Magic coursed through my core, down my arm and fingers, and met an equal force in . . . Declan?

It
was
Declan. Or Connell.
Both
of them.

The gun roared to life. I saw the bullet leave the barrel. Without thinking, I focused all of the power flowing between us and
pushed
at the missile winging toward my boyfriend's heart. Lightning flashed in the kitchen, blinding me for a second.

The bullet veered off course and hit the wall behind us.

Owen's eyes widened. “You! You're like Simon!” He turned and ran.

Ben spared me a wondering look and started after him.

“Let him go,” Ursula said. “The police are outside. He won't get far. Katie?” She gestured at me. “You're . . . glowing?”

The last of the light faded from my skin. “I'm fine,” I said as if personal incandescence was an everyday thing. In truth I felt like a live wire, still sparking with electricity.

I shook Declan. “Connell, you give him back. Now.”

He sighed, twinkled those eyes at me again, and was gone. I'd never been so glad to see my man gazing down at me, even if his confusion soon turned into a scowl.

A gunshot blasted out front. Shouts echoed from the hallway, and moments later Detective Quinn and several uniformed police ran into the kitchen. “Ben! You okay?”

My uncle nodded. “Thanks to Katie here. And a few other friends.”

Quinn turned back to where two officers were handcuffing Owen in the dining room.

“Is anyone hurt?” I asked.

“No. Little fool wasn't trying to shoot anyone. He wanted us to shoot him.”

“Katie Lightfoot,” Owen called. “Please visit me. Bring it with you.”

“What's he talking about?” Quinn asked with a frown.

I shrugged. “No idea.” But I knew he wanted the potion. If the police wouldn't put him out of his misery, then forgetting would be the next best thing.

Declan leaned back in the iron patio chair and made a show of rubbing his stomach. “That was amazing.”

I took a sip of the Cabernet Sauvignon Bianca had recommended. “Remember there's still one more course.” Inside, pears were cooling in a wine-pinked cinnamon-and-cardamom syrup, and the deep golden Mimolette was coming to room temperature.

He groaned, then grinned. “I supposed I can manage a few more bites.”

It had been nearly five o'clock by the time Detective Quinn completed his interviews and we'd filled in Lucy, Mimsey, and Jaida at the Honeybee. Althea had insisted on accompanying Ursula to the hospital despite the psychic's protests that she hadn't suffered a concussion. The paramedic gave Ben, whom Owen hadn't hit as hard, permission to go home as long as he took it easy. My aunt and uncle had headed to their town house for a well-deserved, low-key evening alone.

Despite the adrenaline rush of nearly losing our lives a few hours earlier, or perhaps because of it, Declan and I had decided we still wanted our steak supper. He'd gone to the market to pick up the ingredients, and I'd dropped by Moon Grapes to update Bianca and get some wine.

Now we sat in the early gloaming of the late-spring evening with the remains of perfectly seared filet mignons, creamy potato au gratin, and a mélange of grilled tomatoes, peppers, and sweet onions on the table between us. Mungo lay at his full length on the grass off the edge of the tiny patio with his eyes squeezed shut in post-feed-bag bliss. A soft snore rose from his throat as the first of the lightning bugs blinked on by the gazebo.

“Did Peter tell you they found the empty bottle of Côtes du Rhône in the recycle bin at the house?” I asked.

Declan nodded. “Nice luck, that. They found Glade's thumbprint upside down on the neck.”

I pictured the bespectacled Owen using the wine bottle like a club on Simon's head, then shuddered as I remembered what he'd done next.

“He'd apparently tried to wipe the rest clean,” Declan went on. “Not even Bianca's prints were on it. Just that thumbprint and some prints from Althea and Ursula.”

“Right,” I said, thinking back. “That must have been the wine Althea was drinking at the séance. Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose. I'd heard Ursula tell Quinn that she'd cleaned up afterward. If she'd thrown the empty away instead of recycling it, that piece of evidence against Owen would have been picked up with the garbage the next morning.

Silence descended between us as we each ruminated over the events surrounding
Love in Revolution
and Simon's death. My contribution had been the envelope with the newspaper clippings and photos. It was a small thing, but at least the photo of Simon and Owen's mother would confirm their connection. However, Owen's confession in front of five witnesses would be the strongest element of the case against him.

I glanced up to see Declan regarding me with unsmiling speculation.

“What?” I asked.

“You glowed,” he said.

I licked my lips, unsure of how to respond.

“Like a lightbulb. Did you know that?”

“Um, yeah.”

“It's happened before, then.”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Just a couple of times,” I protested.

“So other people already know this about you?”

“Some.” I shrugged it off.

“Steve?”

I looked at Mungo, still sleeping heavily, and didn't answer.

After a few moments, Declan said, “You saved my life.”

My eyes came up to meet his. “
We
deflected Owen's bullet. You and me.”

“And Connell,” he added.

“And Connell,” I agreed, examining his face. “You seem okay with that. Or if not okay, at least better than when your long-lost leprechaun uncle first showed up at the séance.”

He ignored my leprechaun reference, tapping his fingers on the glass tabletop and staring at nothing.

I waited.

“It was kind of cool in a way,” he finally ventured. “The way we connected, you and me? Doing that thing we did. It was like harnessing raw power out of thin air.”

I began to smile, but Declan held up his hand. “Don't get me wrong. I still think it's pretty weird. Unsettling. Okay—terrifying. And the business about being a medium? I don't know how to even start figuring out what that means.”

“That has me stumped, too,” I said.

He didn't seem to hear me, thumping the front legs of the chair on the stamped concrete of the patio as he leaned forward. “And why now? When I'm thirty-three? Doesn't ability like that usually show up when you're a kid?” He shook his head and repeated, “Why now?”

“I've been thinking about that.” I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “It might be my fault.”

Declan frowned; then his face cleared as he worked it out. “You mean because you're a catalyst?”

I bit my lower lip. “It's possible. But even if being around me somehow triggered your ability as a medium, or at least your connection to Connell, it was something you already had within yourself.”

“Latent talent, you mean.”

“Uh-huh. Are you okay with it now that it's surfaced?” I asked the question casually, but my heart was pounding. The future of our relationship might depend on his answer.

“Are you okay with being a lightwitch?” he asked.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, considering. Then, “I guess I have to be.”

Taking a deep breath, he said, “Then I guess I have to be okay with this ability, or curse or whatever it is that I have.” He reached over and took my hand in his. Our fingers intertwined. I felt his strong pulse and the physical power in his gentle grasp. “I'm really glad about one thing that came out of all this craziness,” he said.

“What's that?”

“I know you better than ever. I thought I did before, but I didn't. Not really. Not when it came to the magic stuff.”

I smiled.

“But now that's different. And, Katie?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Standing, I leaned over and put my arms around his neck. He pulled me onto his lap. It was a while before we got to dessert.

* * *

Later, in the dark of my bedroom, Declan's voice drifted through the cooling night air. “Katie? Are you awake?”

I inhaled the fragrance of the night-blooming nicotiana growing under the open window. “Yes.”

“About the whole talking to dead people thing . . .”

“Dead person,” I said. “Singular, and possibly not even a person.”

“Yeah, whatever. You really do have to let go of the notion Connell is a leprechaun. Anyway, do you think we could kind of keep it under wraps?”

“The spellbook club already knows. So does Ben.”

“Will the ladies tell anyone?”

“Nah. They aren't much on gossip, but I'll ask them not to mention it to anyone if you don't want them to.”

“And I know I don't have to worry about Ben,” he said. “He'd know what kind of crap I'd get from the guys at the firehouse if they caught wind of any of this.”

I thought of my altar tucked away in the loft. That was my choice because I was a rather private person, but even I could guess at Declan's buddies' reaction to his newfound gift.

“I get it,” I said. “Don't worry.”

“Thanks.”

A few minutes later I said, “Declan?”

His response was a soft snore.

“I love you, too,” I whispered anyway.

* * *

I parked in the alley behind the Honeybee at five a.m. and unlocked the door. Mungo trotted out to his bed in the still-dark reading area and settled in. I stowed my tote bag in the office, grabbed a black-and-red-striped apron, and flipped on the lights in the kitchen. On went the oven and in went the sourdough loaves that had been rising all night. As I consulted the white board on the wall where Lucy and I kept track of the daily specials, a rap sounded on the glass of the front door.

Thoughts racing through the possible reasons anyone besides Lucy or I would be at the bakery so early, I quickly checked that the back door was locked. Even in the hours before daylight, I'd never felt unsafe in the bakery, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I grabbed the phone off the cradle before making my way to the entrance. My steps faltered when I saw who stood on the sidewalk peering in at me.

I stopped in front of the door. “Althea?”

“Please, Katie. Can I come in?” Her voice was barely audible through the thick glass, but I could detect the pleading tone.

My hand reached into my apron pocket for the key to the dead bolt, but there it paused.

“Is everything okay?” I asked through the glass.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. Will you please just let me in? I'm here to apologize.” No longer pleading, but she had me hooked. I opened the door.

Althea entered, briskly rubbing her bare arms. The night had cooled considerably after the high temperatures of the day before. I keyed the lock behind her and turned.

“Apologize?” I asked.

“Yes. God, is there any coffee?”

I pressed my lips together. “I'll make some.” Returning the phone to its cradle on the way, I moved behind the espresso counter.

As I set up the drip coffeemaker with a rich Kona blend, Althea wandered around the bakery, trailing her fingers along the tops of the tables, adjusting a vase of anemones on one and briefly standing in front of the empty display case with her hands on her hips before moving into the reading area. I watched every move, glad the glass shelves were still empty. Whatever her stated reason for showing up at the Honeybee at o'dark thirty, I couldn't afford to trust her.

She flipped on the lamp by the couch. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Your little dog surprised me.”

“He likes the books.” I took two steaming mugs and joined her. Roused, Mungo moved to sit under the coffee table near my favorite seat on the couch. “And the people who read them.”

She reached down and patted him awkwardly on the head, her allergies apparently forgotten. My familiar grinned up at her, and I felt my shoulders relax. If Althea meant harm, I trusted that Mungo would let me know.”

“Cream or sugar?” I asked.

“Black's fine.” She took her mug and folded into one of the brocade chairs.

“And fewer calories,” I said as I took a seat, then wanted to kick myself.

This morning she didn't look like the Althea I'd come to expect. She wore a light cotton sweater, jeans, and tan boat shoes. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a high ponytail, exposing a face devoid of makeup. Her age showed in the tiny lines around her eyes, but at the same time she looked oddly younger.

“You're here early,” I ventured.

She took a sip of coffee and nodded. “I've been at the hospital with Ursula all night.”

“All night?” Alarm threaded my words.

“For observation,” Althea said. “The doctor suggested it, and I begged her to do as he asked.”

Begged? Althea?

“It looks like she'll be fine,” Althea said. “When she fell asleep, I went to the Hyatt and showered, but I couldn't sleep.” Her gaze moved to the side; then she blinked and seemed to force herself to look at me. “One of the reasons I couldn't sleep is because I needed to tell you how sorry I am.” She paused, her internal struggle evident in the slight twist of her lips.

Setting my mug on the coffee table next to a couple of books we should have put away the night before, I prompted, “Sorry for . . . ?”

She took a deep breath. “For being so mean to you. For trying to make your bakery look bad. And for putting that stuff on your cookies.”

I tipped my head to the side, searching for the right words. “Why do you have that ‘stuff' anyway?”

Her nostrils flared, and I mentally braced myself. But when she spoke, her words were slow and measured. “I have an eating disorder. I'm going to get help for it. That and some of my other problems.” Her eyes flared with dark humor. “There's nothing to make you decide to save yourself from yourself like having some nutcase almost kill you.” She took a deep, restorative swallow of coffee. “Ursula said she'll help me.”

“Good for her. And good for you,” I said. “But why would you want to make anyone sick with our cookies?”

She barked a laugh. “Boy, you aren't going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“I—”

“No.” She held her palm up to me. “It's okay. I have a feeling I'm going to be asked a lot more when I'm in treatment.” Her hand dropped to her lap. She looked down at Mungo, seeming to speak to him when she said, “There were two reasons I did it, I'm ashamed to say. And they were both for Robin Bonner.”

“Your . . .”

“Friend,” she finished.

A lie on the surface. Then again, maybe they were friends as well as mother and son. Who was I to say? And Steve's admonition that Althea might be trying to protect her son from the notoriety that would no doubt come simply from
being
her son still rang true.

“See, I wanted Robin to be successful in his new venture as a caterer,” she said, finally looking up at me. “He's a good cook, but he was used to running a food truck for the late-night crowd. That worked well because he's such a night owl. Not a morning person at all. And it seems he has a few problems with self-discipline.”

“Which is why he showed up late three days in a row.”

“I tried to tell Simon—well, it doesn't matter. Once Simon had his mind made up, that was it. But he didn't have to fire my . . . friend so publicly!” Even now her distress showed, despite the Botox. She took a sip of coffee, grasping the mug in both hands. “Anyway, I wanted Owen to hire Robin back, so I tried to make sure no one would want to eat any of your food. Plus—” She stopped herself.

“Plus what?” I asked.