Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (3 page)

I paused on the curb, checked traffic, and continued across Bay to Emmet Park. As I worked my way down toward the water, I reflected that one of the other things that made me feel downright grateful to be alive was practicing magic. Was that strange?

Who cared? Not me. I'd take happy any way it wanted to present itself.

I glanced down at Mungo to check on how he was doing in the heat. He grinned up at me, tongue lolling and little legs churning like the dickens, his previous laziness forgotten. I thought of all the times I'd had to chivy myself into exercising only to be really glad I had.

We veered to the middle of River Street. There were no cars to worry about, but plenty of visitors to fair Savannah who sauntered in front of bric-a-brac shops tempting them with T-shirts, coffee cups, crab crackers, and other assorted souvenirs. The old, rounded bricks could turn an ankle in no time, so I slowed to an even easier jog and kept an eye out where I was stepping.

Two older men stood outside Joe's Crab Shack, lifting their go-cups of beer in salutation as we went by. I smiled and waved but didn't pause. The smell of taco filling, jalapeños, and limes made my mouth water as I passed One-Eyed Lizzy's and headed for the section of the street that threaded under the Hyatt Regency Hotel. When we ran beneath the tall concrete building that arched over the street, the temperature dropped five degrees.

Tantalizing, come-on-in-and-have-a-bite aromas or not, Lucy was making her Low Country pulled pork for supper, and I had no intention of spoiling my appetite. She started with a mustard rub on a massive shoulder roast and then cooked it slow and low for ten hours. That morning, before the Honeybee had opened, I'd baked up a small batch of soft sandwich buns. We'd slather them with more spicy mustard and load them up with the succulent pork shreds and some of Mimsey's homemade bread-and-butter pickles.

Yum. We still had a cabbage and some carrots from my garden after making the movie crew's lunch, so I could make up some spicy coleslaw to serve with—or on—the sandwiches once I got to Ben and Lucy's. It would be a simple but scrumptious feast.

At Whittaker Street I made my way back up to Bay from the riverfront. I increased my speed and we soon came to Broughton. Instead of turning toward my waiting car, however, I continued down and turned left onto Congress. A line of hungry tourists stretched out of the doorway of The Lady & Sons restaurant even this early on a Monday evening.

Reynolds Square came into sight, and I saw what Mrs. Standish had meant about the street—and the square itself. Mungo and I slowed to a walk, taking in the barricades and the asphalt road covered with dirt and straw and groomed to look like a lane might in the 1700s. The statue of John Wesley preaching to the masses in the middle of the square was completely covered by a large blue-green tarp.

Fifty feet away, a boom truck loomed behind an abandoned carriage. The sleek horse harnessed to the carriage turned to survey our approach with a steady brown gaze. Another horse stood in a makeshift paddock in one corner of the square. The sun glinted off two Airstream trailers snugged up to the curb on Bryan Street, and a row of RVs lined up behind them. The chug of an electrical generator sounded from that direction. Air-conditioning for the stars? Or power for the numerous cables that snaked along the ground? Probably both. A half dozen white canvas tents and canopies circled together in the middle of the square, and several of Mrs. Standish's “looky-loos” milled beyond the roped-off boundary of the set. As I watched, a trio of men in crimson British uniforms sauntered toward the crowd and began talking with them.

Motion in my peripheral vision drew my attention as Declan McCarthy rounded one of the Airstreams. He wore jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with
A. DENDUM PRODUC
TIONS: SECURITY.
His sharp, assessing gaze swept over the onlookers then mellowed with affection when he saw me.

Declan McCarthy: native Savannahian of Irish extraction, the broad planes of his face softened by a kind, blue-eyed gaze. A gardening, cooking tough guy with a heart of honey and the brawn of a seasoned firefighter. My handsome man.

Any lingering weariness forgotten, I ducked under the rope and headed toward him. Mungo pulled at his leash, anxious to greet one of his favorite people.

“Hey!” shouted one of the onlookers, a cranky-looking woman with a big camera slung around her neck. “You're supposed to stay out here. Those security guys are real strict.”

I waved. “It's okay. I'm the caterer.” I stifled a grin and reminded myself not to get cocky.

Reaching the security guy in question, I slid my arm around his waist as he bent for a quick hello kiss. All the tensions of the day evaporated at his touch. We'd gone through a difficult time recently, but our relationship since then felt like it was solidifying into something even better than it had been before.

“Hey, darlin'” he drawled and bent down to scratch behind Mungo's ears. My familiar wagged his tail so hard I thought his back end might leave the ground altogether.

“Hey, yourself,” I said in amusement.

Declan stood. “Simon said you might be stopping by. Thanks for the grub, by the way. Good stuff.”

We began strolling toward the cluster of tents. “You're only slightly biased,” I said.

A high shriek tore the air, winging through the leaves of the live oaks and seeming to snag in the Spanish moss before fading away. My breath caught, and my steps faltered. Behind us the crowd erupted into conversation.

“What was
that
?” gasped the woman who had chastised me for crossing into the square.

Declan said casually over his shoulder, “It's a movie set, folks. Relax. They're just filming a scene.” But he walked faster, and I didn't like the look on his face.

“Deck, that wasn't acting, was it?”

“I don't know.” He sounded worried. “But I'd like to make sure.”

Mungo growled.

No . . . no, no, no
 . . .

My uncle Ben came barreling out from between two of the temporary structures, his cell phone clutched in his hand. “That's right, Reynolds Square. Where they're filming.” His brown eyes searched the area. “Please hurry.” He spotted me with Declan, and his forehead wrinkled.

I approached and put my hand on his arm. Listening to the other party, he squeezed my fingers, too distracted to see the question in my eyes. Declan frowned for a split second, then took off at a run. I left my uncle to his phone call and followed close behind him.

So close that he almost knocked me over when he suddenly stopped and spun on his heel. “Katie. You need to go.” He took a step to the side, blocking my view. His voice was calm, soothing. I knew that voice. It was his emergency voice.

“What? Why?” I leaned to one side and saw a plate of leftover pastries on the corner of the table. Only two were left. I would have been pleased at their apparent popularity if my boyfriend hadn't been radiating quiet anxiety. Deep down I knew something was wrong, horribly wrong, but my mind wasn't ready to go there yet.

I jumped when a deep male voice behind Declan let loose with a string of extremely creative swearwords. They were followed by the sound of a woman loudly weeping.

Warning Klaxons rang in my head. “Come on, Deck. Seriously.” I gave him a not-so-playful push.

I must have caught him off guard, because, big as he was compared to me, he stepped aside awkwardly to regain his footing. That gave me a chance to take a split-second mental snapshot:

Six open tents around a long table under a shade canopy. Lunch remnants on the table shoved to one side. Bowl of watermelon slices. Five bottles of wine, cheese knife, pile of napkins. A sharp-eyed man with a smoothly shaved head, who looked like Yul Brynner in
The King and I
,
still muttering oaths. The dark-haired man next to him was wide-eyed and pale beneath his five-o'clock shadow. A muscular woman with spiked white-blond hair and a silver eyebrow ring stood next to the very recognizable Althea Cole. The star wore a period costume and wept copiously onto the T-shirted shoulder of a man who held his arms protectively around her.

Instantly, I recognized his smooth, honey-colored ponytail, the curve of the lips as he murmured words of comfort. This was no movie scene. Steve Dawes was a columnist for the
Savannah Morning News
, a member of one of the oldest druidic clans in the South, and not so long ago had been Declan's rival for my affection.

He looked up and saw me standing there. Surprise stretched his features taut. “Katie? Why are you . . . ?” He blinked, and his shoulders slumped. “Of course you'd be here.” He looked slowly down at the ground.

Almost against my will, I followed suit.

And saw the legs jutting out from under the table.

His high-end athletic shoes showed little wear on the tread, which happened to be clearly visible since whoever the feet belonged to was lying facedown.

His
. Because it was a large shoe, my logical brain reasoned as my mind reeled. A chino pant leg met the top of it. Lots of men wear chinos, right? But I'd seen a pair like those already today.

“Simon?” I murmured and began to push past Declan. He grasped my arm. I pulled, but he didn't let go. I raised my eyes to his face and saw concern quietly overtaken by resignation. We stood there for what seemed like a full minute but was probably only a couple of seconds before he sighed and released his hold. Another second's hesitation, and then I tore my gaze away and took three steps around to the front of the table.

Yep. The fallen man was definitely Simon Knapp. The production coordinator lay diagonally under the corner of the table. His torso was disturbingly visible from this angle, however.

As was the large knife jutting out of his back.

The knife that only hours before Lucy had given him to slice up a watermelon.

A shudder began in my shoulders and migrated down to my toes. My stomach roiled at the crimson stain spreading across the blue T-shirt I'd found so attractive earlier. My peripheral vision blurred, my focus narrowing until all I could see was that knife, the shining strip of steel threaded through its black handle so clear it made my eyes ache and my head throb. Still, I couldn't look away even as my bones melted to jelly. Sparks floated in front of my eyes, and I felt my knees buckle.

“Hey!”

I felt Declan's strong hands grip my upper arms. The sparks turned black. My head felt like a balloon bobbing on a string. I was lifted, and then I was sitting on a chair, and then I remembered to breathe.

Gently, I shook my head side to side. “Whoa.” It came out as a whisper.

“Who is that?” It was a woman's querulous voice. “Steve, who is she?”

“You'll be okay, hon. I've got you,” Declan said in a low voice. He held out a sweating glass. “Here, drink this.”

“Thanks.” I took it and raised it to my lips. Quickly, he steadied my trembling hands. “I'm okay, really,” I said. The sweet tea slid down my throat, spreading fingers of comfort. I took another swallow, then another before the sugar jolted my system like an electric current. I blinked as the reason I'd nearly passed out came flooding back to me.

Another murder? Oh, good goddess, is this never going to stop?

Quickly, I scanned the area, carefully avoiding the prone figure on the ground twenty feet away.

Steve's brow wrinkled, and his eyes were on my face as he said something into Althea's ear. She wore a simple long dress made of blue calico cotton with a pink overgown tied in front and slippers on her feet. Her trademark waves of ash-blond hair were dyed dark red and stuffed under a white ruffled cap for her role in
Love in Revolution
. It had been her voice demanding to know who I was. I wondered what he was telling her and felt my cheeks color. The others stared at me with curiosity.

Especially the woman with the spiked hair. Her aqua eyes bored into mine, glinting green when she moved her head a fraction. She seemed to make a decision and took a step toward the open-sided tent where Declan had deposited me in a canvas folding chair. As she moved, the air around her seemed to shimmer for a nanosecond, like heat rising from asphalt in the distance.

I blinked.

“Okay, folks,” Ben announced. “The police are on their way, so hold tight. I can't let anyone leave—I'm sure the authorities will want to talk to everyone who was here. No doubt the press will be close on their heels, so get ready to deal with that.”

I glanced at Steve. Nice for him to have inside access, but he didn't give the impression that he was wearing his reporter hat today. Althea had stopped crying and now contented herself with glaring at me.

The guy with the shaved head was on his phone now, and I heard him say, “Nik Egan here. Is he in? All right . . . Tell him to call me as soon as he gets back. This is an emergency.”

Ben had told Lucy and me the director's name was Niklas Egan.

“Whatever you do,” my uncle continued, “stay well away from the body.”

“
Body
? Oh, my God, oh, my
God
, what
happened
?”

All eyes lasered to the newcomer. Mid-twenties, skinny, pale, and bespectacled, he didn't notice the scrutiny. All his attention was on the ground.
“
Simon?”

“Owen! Where have you been?” demanded Egan.

Bewilderment playing across his features, the young man held up a bag. “The Welsh Wabbit. Simon sent me to get Camembert.” He gestured toward Althea. “For her.”

The actress rolled her eyes.

The dark-haired gentleman patted her shoulder absently as he stepped forward. His stubbled face and wavy locks rang a note a familiarity, but I couldn't place him. He wore cargo shorts with a Hawaiian shirt and Birkenstocks.

“Who's that?” I muttered to Declan, who still hovered over me.

“Van Grayson,” he whispered back. “Lead actor.”

That surprised me a little. Althea exuded a combination of haughty confidence that was quite lacking in Grayson's demeanor. He seemed as horrified—and curious—as I felt.

He surveyed the group, speaking for the first time. “Did anyone see what happened?”

There were blank looks all around.

“Simon told me he was going to set up for the after-hours party,” Althea said. “I went to my trailer to change; then I remembered something I wanted to ask him and came back about ten minutes later.” Her voice broke on the last word, but she soldiered on. “That's when I found him.”

Steve said, “I was back there in the property tent, heard Althea's scream, and came running.”

Grayson nodded. “I was heading to my own trailer and saw you.”

“I was leaving the makeup trailer when I heard the scream,” the blond woman with the strange eyes said. Her voice was surprisingly deep. She gestured toward a nearby RV. “Over there.”

“Did any of you notice anyone who wasn't supposed to be here?” Ben asked. “A stranger? Or someone leaving the set?”

Of course, they all looked at me. I tried to look innocent, which was harder than it should have been.

“This is my niece,” Ben said. “She provided lunch.”

“Well, you were all here by the time I happened into this mess.” Egan's expression was bitter. “And I sure didn't see anyone running away as I came across the square from Bryan Street.”

The blank expressions turned to suspicion as the realization sank in.

“It was probably one of us,” Althea breathed.

Declan stroked my cheek with his finger, then tipped my chin up. Worry gleamed from his deep blue eyes. “You okay? I should go make sure no one crosses those barricades.”

“I'm fine.” I tried a smile.

“Are you sure?”

“And dandy,” I managed.

“Katie?” Uncle Ben stepped in front of me and leaned down. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he squinted at me through his frameless glasses. “I've never seen you so wobbly.”

I gave a little nod. “I'm okay. At least I will be. But that knife . . .” I trailed off.

He straightened and stroked his short beard. “The knife. Not the . . . ?”

“That, too,” I croaked. Though, honestly, I'd seen a dead body—or four—since moving to Savannah, and not once had I felt in danger of fainting. But knives gave me the super heebie-jeebies. Outside of the kitchen, that was. It was a strange phobia for someone who used them in a professional capacity every day, I had to admit.

The spike-haired blond woman had approached and now stood behind Uncle Ben, waiting. I deliberately didn't look up at her, unsure of what she wanted with me. Besides, that whole shimmery thing kind of gave me the creeps.

If it had even been real. My synapses were a little overheated, after all.

Something outside the tent area caught Ben's attention. “Hey, get back on the other side of that rope!” he thundered and took off. Declan took a step, then stopped and turned.

“Go,” I urged. Giving in to his training as a first responder, he didn't wait for me to say it twice.

I watched my uncle shoo a bystander back onto the sidewalk and heard his raised voice. Ben was not one to yell—at least not under normal circumstances.

The blond woman stepped forward, and I finally looked up at her.

“I'm Ursula Banford,” she said. A blue dragonfly drifted by her shoulder, the iridescent wings flashing. I blinked as a second one followed, and then a third, gliding smoothly along as if they were riding sunshine itself.

Uh-oh.
The dragonfly was my totem, and while they sure were handy for keeping Savannah's rampant mosquito population at bay, they also served as a kind of metaphysical tap on my shoulder.

I stood, on guard but glad to feel the muscles in my legs working properly again. “Um, hi.” A few beats as I struggled to get some kind of intuitive hit off this Ursula Banford. “I'm Katie Lightfoot.”

She inclined her chin slightly and slowly held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Was it? I couldn't read her at all. I reached out, ready to flinch when our fingers touched. But there was nothing. Not a hint of anything, even with the physical contact. Her gaze lifted, looking into a distance that wasn't there for a few seconds before her attention returned to me.

She released my hand and smiled. ”You're special, Katie Lightfoot. You know that, right? And you know why you're here.”

“I'm not sure I—”

“Oh, don't be modest. I've heard on good authority that you will be the one to bring Simon Knapp's killer to justice.”

Mind racing, I felt my jaw slacken. Was this woman a witch like me? Or more pointedly,
not
like me? Because I sure couldn't make any predictions like that.

I was about to ask when I heard a voice mutter, “Well, that's
just
what I wanted to hear.”

With a sinking feeling, I turned to see Detective Peter Quinn had arrived, accompanied by Ben and Declan. He wore tan slacks and a linen sports coat. His thick gray hair fell in a wave across his forehead, and he was already summer-tan.

I tried a smile, but it slid off my face. “Oh. Hey, Quinn.”

He shook his head and held up his palm to me. “Stay right there.”

Worry pinched the skin around Ben's eyes, Declan had donned a smooth poker face, and Ursula regarded me with unabashed interest. I clamped my lower lip between my teeth and watched Quinn move to where Simon lay, squat down, and take a long look without touching the body. He stood, pulled his notebook from an inside pocket, and made a few notes before returning to where the four of us waited in silence.

Mungo ran to him and gently touched his front paws to the detective's pant leg in greeting before assuming the sit position. Quinn glanced down at him and his narrow lips twitched in a smile—a smile that vanished by the time his gray eyes found mine. “I can hardly wait for you to tell me why you're here.”

“We're feeding these fine people.” I tried not to sound defensive.

“The Honeybee doesn't cater.” His tone was flat.

“We do today,” I answered. “Special circumstances.” It was true, but not a good enough answer for Quinn. This was the fourth time he'd come to investigate a suspicious death and I'd already been on the scene.

Ursula had taken a step back when Quinn arrived but continued to watch me. I itched to find out more about her—and why she'd made that bold statement about me bringing Simon's killer to justice. After all, I'd never met the woman before. Who the heck was her “good authority”? When I'd touched her hand, there had hadn't been so much as a tickle of energy, which surprised me if she possessed real power. Of course, I'd been fooled before, more than once, by people who were very powerful indeed.

More than one had intended me harm.

Yet her words resonated. The spellbook club had concluded early on that I was a catalyst of some kind, but according to Peter Quinn's former partner, Detective Franklin Taite, I was more than that. He'd called me a lightwitch, a candela. Told me I was drawn to circumstances that involved black magic but was unable to practice it myself—as if I wanted to dabble in the dark arts anyway. Still, during the short time I'd been a witch, I'd found the definition of dark and light magic, like any moral framework, involved a lot of gray that depended on intention and circumstances and abilities and who knew what else.

That had never been as evident as when I'd nearly killed Declan by accident a few months before.

I'd worried about the whole light/dark thing for months, but I'd finally determined to simply do my best and keep in mind the Rule of Three, the part of the Wiccan Rede which states that everything we do comes back to us threefold—kind of like the Golden Rule on steroids. What else could I do? Still, that was a lot easier to say when no one had been murdered.

Now Simon had been. Was I here because there was a magical element to his death?

“Oh, and of course, you're right in the thick of things, too.” Quinn narrowed his eyes at Declan.

Before Declan could respond, Ben said, “Security, Peter. Most of the crew is made up of firefighters on their days off.”

He'd known Detective Quinn on a professional level for many years. Not that their long-standing working relationship had stopped Quinn from suspecting Ben of murder right after we'd opened the Honeybee. That was water under the bridge now, and Ben was quite willing to forgive and forget. Me? I liked Peter Quinn a lot, but I could never forget how he'd accused my uncle.

The detective nodded. “I guess that makes sense. Makes sense you'd be in the middle of the bunch of them, too, Ben.”