Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (6 page)

She paused with her hand on the brass handle. “Maybe. Or maybe you were simply there because you're a catalyst. Not that you
made
a murder happen, of course, but the confluences of time and events do sometimes swirl around you.”

I sighed. At least she didn't think I'd actually caused Simon's death on some metaphysical level.

“What does your gut tell you?” she asked.

I'd spent so much time trying to avoid the idea of my “calling” that I hadn't really checked in with my gut. Now that I did, though, I had to admit the signal was pretty clear.

After she left, I went upstairs to take a quick shower while the others got things ready for supper up on the rooftop terrace. As I dressed again, I finally allowed myself to admit something. There was a part of me that thrilled at the idea of tracking another killer. It wasn't a part I was proud of, but it was there . . . and I had a feeling my nonna, wherever she was on the other side of the “hedge,” wouldn't disapprove.

The rooftop garden at my aunt and uncle's town house was cool, shaded from the lowering sun by a high brick wall Ben had constructed. Trailing nasturtiums and strawberries cascaded from the pots set into the wall, a tangle of edible beauty. More potted flowers, herbs, and vegetables clustered in the corners, along the balustrade, and in the deep wooden box beneath it. Melon vines tumbled down to the stone floor, beans wove up iron trellises, and a huge pot of sorghum reached skyward by the door to the stairs. Tucked here and there were lavender, savory, purple sage, and several varieties of scented geraniums.

The space always smelled lush. Add to it the pungent mustard-pulled pork and vinegary tang of the dressing on the coleslaw Declan had insisted on making while I showered, and I almost hyperventilated trying to take it all in.

Honeybee lounged on her plush bed. Mungo downed the food Lucy served him—a miniature version of our own supper since Mungo refused to eat anything but people food—then joined the tabby for a nice doze. Sitting around the glass-topped table, we humans helped ourselves to the feast and then fell silent in appreciation. I found myself ravenous, mentally flicked away any remnants of guilt about it, and dug in. So did everyone else.

Half a sandwich later, Ben sat back in his chair and took a long swig of sweet tea. He set the glass down and regarded me with concerned eyes. “I heard that psychic said you're the go-to gal for finding Knapp's murderer. When do we start?”

Declan's attention jerked to my uncle. “Ben . . .”

I put down my fork, slowly chewing a bite of slaw. What was going on? My uncle consistently disapproved of my courting the slightest whiff of danger, and as far as I knew, he still considered anything to do with a murder investigation dangerous. I swallowed. “What do you mean?”

His mouth turned down. “Well, I'm sure going to do what I can to find the creep who killed Knapp. I figured you'd be up for it, too.”

My lips parted in surprise.

Declan still hadn't said anything, but if the horrified expression on his face was any indication, this conversation wasn't going at all in the direction he'd hoped.

“Why, Ben?” I asked, though I was pretty sure of the answer.

“A man was killed on my watch.”

Lucy blanched at the bitterness in his words.

“And I'm not going to stand idly by and let the murderer get away with it. Between Quinn, Katie, and me, that won't happen.”

“Oh, Ben,” she said softly.

I looked at Declan. He frowned at my uncle, but said, “You do what you have to, Ben.”

“It's my responsibility to make sure things are made right,” Ben said defiantly and took another swig of tea.

“Finding who killed Simon won't make it right,” I said. “You know that.”

“It's a step in the right direction,” he said. “I already talked to Peter Quinn. He didn't tell me much, mind you, as he plays things pretty close to the vest. Steve Dawes told me a little about Simon, though.”

I felt Declan grow even stiller at the mention of his former rival's name.

“You don't trust Detective Quinn?” I asked.

“He's a good cop. But he goes by the book, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's when this kind of stuff happens around you, Katie, the book goes flying right out the window. I don't understand all this magic stuff, but it seems to give you a leg up on the police.”

Beside me, Declan coughed, then took a drink of tea and wiped his lips with a napkin.

“Did you want to weigh in?” I asked him.

He looked at me and pointedly took another bite of his sandwich in silence.

I turned back to Ben. “I thought you didn't like it when I got involved with murder investigations.”

“I didn't. I don't. But you're going to anyway, aren't you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

I felt Declan watching me. On one hand, I wanted to live my lovely life with my lovely job and my awesome boyfriend and practice magic and bake for people every day. On the other hand, a man was dead, and it was possible for reasons beyond my ken I might be able to help bring his murderer to justice. Because of that I'd already pretty much decided to do what I could to help. And yes: also because the challenge and thrill of finding the truth appealed to me.

Declan finally spoke. “Of course she is. The resident movie psychic even said so.” His tone was part sarcasm and part resignation.

I still didn't say anything, torn more than ever.

A dragonfly drifted over the table and settled near the pepper grinder. Lucy saw it and cocked an eyebrow at me.

I wrinkled my nose and crossed my arms over my chest.

Her lips twitched with amusement.

“Well, I figure this time when you get up to your neck in things, I can be there to protect you,” Ben said.

Lucy patted her husband on the arm. “That's sweet of you, Ben.”

So while we ate strawberry shortcake made with berries from the hanging plants above us, I told them what I'd overheard Niklas Egan tell Quinn about Simon being a fixer. That turned out to be the same information Steve had passed on to Ben.

“I think the next step might be to find a motive, and that might lie in what sorts of things Simon fixed,” I said. “And for whom.”

“How do we do that?” Ben asked.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “But heaven knows you can charm the shell off a turtle, Ben.”

A quick grin lit his face. “Well, thank you, darlin'. Problem is I'm there in a professional capacity, and I don't tend to chat with folks much when I'm being all official.”

“Oh, I think you could have a few conversations here and there and still be professional,” I said, glad to see he looked a little happier. “And I have an excuse to come onto the set since the Honeybee is catering lunch for A. Dendum Productions now.”

“That wasn't just for today?” Declan asked.

“Simon asked us to cater for the rest of the week,” I said. “We agreed to at least one more day, but it looks like we have no choice but to step in now that he's dead.”

“After all, Simon fired that other caterer, and those poor people still have to eat,” Lucy said.

Lucy and I kicked around a few ideas about what to serve for the cast and crew for the rest of the time A. Dendum Productions was in town.

Ben leaned back in his chair. “At least there will be fewer folks to provision.”

“Why's that?” I asked.

Declan answered. “After Detective Quinn told him they couldn't work in the cordoned-off area where they found the body, Niklas Egan made other arrangements for about half the scenes they were planning to shoot in Reynolds Square and sent part of the crew on to set up in the new location. The remaining outdoor scenes here in town will be filmed with a skeleton crew over the next three days.”

“Quinn let part of the crew leave Savannah?” I asked.

“They're still in Georgia,” Ben said. “Apparently, Simon had already found a second location in Dahlonega, and all the people who are leaving could prove to the police where they were when Simon was killed. Most of them had already returned to the hotel.”

“That narrows the list of suspects,” I said. “So finding a motive should be a little easier.” I pushed a chunk of strawberry around in a pool of whipped cream on my plate. “The problem is everyone who was there when Simon was killed seems to be able to account for their whereabouts.”

Or could they? While waiting for Quinn to arrive, the people who were gathered around the body had stated where they'd been when Simon was killed, but any one of them could have lied.

“I wonder why Simon hired Bonner Catering in the first place,” Lucy mused. “There are so many wonderful, reputable companies in our little burg.”

“Maybe Bonner was cheaper,” Ben said. “It's an independent film, though obviously someone with fairly deep pockets is producing it.”

“Simon didn't even blink when I gave him our bill,” I said. “In fact, he came right out and said money was no object.”

Lucy shrugged. “It doesn't matter. If we only have to worry about three days and fewer people, there shouldn't be any problem for the Honeybee to step in.”

After we cleared the dishes and cleaned up in the kitchen, Ben suggested we return to the rooftop for a nightcap. “It's been a heck of day, after all. I could use a snort.”

Declan shook his head. “Sorry, Ben. I'm tuckered out. Just not used to working seven days a week.” He laughed. “I'm not even used to working four days a week.”

His typical schedule was to work forty-eight solid hours each week, with the rest of the time free. Many firefighters, especially those with families, took second jobs during that extra time, but other than working some overtime and covering for his friends who were out sick, Declan generally liked to keep his off hours open.

I yawned. “Me too. Tired I mean. And I'm used to working six days a week, you big lug.” I punched him playfully on the arm. He grinned and made like he was going to pick me up.

“Don't you dare.” I laughed.

Mungo bounced around at our feet.
Yip!

“See, you're getting the little guy all riled up.”

“All right, you two,” Ben said. “On your way so we can have our drink and get to bed ourselves.” He winked at his wife of over ten years.

I loaded Mungo into my tote. After a long day, a run, and stuffed full of pork and shortcake, he could barely keep his eyes open. We said good night and fervent thanks for supper and went outside.

On the sidewalk, I asked Declan, “My place or yours?”

“Um, do you mind if we each just head home? I'm well and truly beat,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “Sure. No problem. Do you need a ride?”

He pointed at his ginormous king cab down the street. “I picked Ben up this morning.”

“Okay.” I tried to sound noncommittal, but I could feel a distance forming between us. It could be that he really was tired and simply wanted to go home for a good night's sleep. I could understand that. But tonight? After screams and a dead body and a psychic and police interviews and Ben wanting to find a killer? Really?

He kissed me good night and started for his truck.

* * *

The only other time Declan had begged off spending time together had been when he was deciding whether to break up with me. Was he doing that again? The thought made Lucy's beautiful dinner sour in my stomach.

“What do you think?” I asked Mungo, who was firmly strapped into the passenger seat of the Bug. “Do I need to worry, or is he simply exhausted?”

I stopped at a red light and looked over at my terrier. He licked his nose.

“He's not happy about me helping Uncle Ben,” I said. “I get that. But it's
Ben.
Those two are so close. I'd think Deck would understand how he feels, you know?”

Yip!

The light turned green, and I drove on, mulling over what my uncle had told us about Steve's whereabouts during the murder. Apparently, he'd been in the prop tent on the phone with his father, Heinrich. When he'd heard Althea's scream, he'd quickly ended the call and ran to see what the trouble was—much as Declan and I had.

The four of us had run over everything else we knew, which, frankly, wasn't much. Van Grayson had been walking toward his trailer, but who knew what he'd been doing before that? And Niklas Egan claimed to have just returned to Reynolds Square when Althea screamed, but could anyone verify that he hadn't been there the whole time? I sure hadn't seen him approaching from where Declan and I had been standing, and Ben hadn't noticed him, either. At least we'd witnessed Simon's assistant, Owen, returning from his errand.

And Ursula Banford was still a wild card, in more ways than one. I definitely wanted to know more about Althea's personal psychic.

Personal psychic. Sheesh.

Still, Ben said the makeup artist had confirmed Ursula had been with her during the time frame Simon had been murdered—a time frame Althea herself had defined. She'd alleged that she'd left Simon alone for only ten minutes or so. He'd supposedly been setting up the wine and cheese soiree.

However, I'd noticed that the wine bottles hadn't even been opened. Even I knew most good wines needed to breathe—and they'd be good wines if they came from Bianca's shop. The remains of lunch had still been on the table, and Simon's assistant hadn't even returned from fetching the Camembert.

“So if I had to guess,” I mused out loud to Mungo. “I'd say Simon was killed shortly after Althea left him. Otherwise, he would have been further along in his preparations. Right?”

Yip!

“Of course, she might have been the one who killed him. She could have stabbed him and left for ten minutes, then come back and ‘found' his body, or she could have lied about leaving for ten minutes and simply shrieked the alert right after killing him.”

Mungo made a sound of disagreement.

“What?” My eyes cut toward him and then back to the road in front of us. “Okay, you're right. I think that woman is a self-entitled pain in the wahoo, but I guess that's not enough to pin a murder on her. Besides, it must take a lot of strength to stab a full-grown man, even in the back.”

I pulled into the driveway of my carriage house in Midtown. My next-door neighbors had brought the lawn chairs from the back patio out to their front yard. Redding Coopersmith lifted a hand in greeting as I got out of the car, and his wife, Margie, waved me over.

“Katie, come join us. We moved out here to watch the sunset, but the night is so lovely we don't want to go back inside.”

Freed from his seat belt, Mungo bounded to the ground and raced toward them. I followed at a more leisurely pace. The towheaded twins, Jonathan and Julia, ran pell-mell to greet us. When they reached Mungo, they tumbled down and rolled in the grass. He barked and jumped into the pile with them. Their giggles echoed into the evening air, and I couldn't help but smile.