Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (8 page)

Tuesday morning the streets were quiet and calm. Through the open window of the Bug, sixty-four-degree air caressed my skin with the scent of honeysuckle. Then came the faint scent of the Savannah River as we reached the Honeybee. I unlocked the door and carted Mungo into the office. He fell asleep on his club chair within seconds, and I went back out front to flip on lights and rev up the ovens.

Alone in my bakery. Not only mine, of course, but still mine, and still a daily joy. No customers, no sound from the espresso machine, the display case dark, empty and waiting in the silence. I flipped on the lights and dialed up some light classical on the satellite radio. In front of the row of aprons, I stopped and assessed. I didn't feel at all frilly in the wake of a murder, so I bypassed the ruffles and reached for a forest green chef's apron that would go nicely with my simple orange skirt–and–white T-shirt combo. As I cinched the ties behind my back, my mind ran through the list of to-dos I'd written down the night before.

Within twenty minutes, the sourdough loaves that had been slow rising in the refrigerator were baking at high heat in one of the ovens, rounds of rosemary Parmesan scones were sliced into farls on sheet pans, and I was dolloping the batter for peach and molasses muffins into tins. Into another oven with all that, followed by a loaf of pecan sandie biscotti for its first baking. Three batches of cookies came next, the dough prepared the day before so all I had to do was plop mounds onto more sheet pans. The oatmeal cookies were loaded with dried cherries, chunks of dark chocolate, and glazed almonds. The molasses cookies would spread as they baked into thin, slightly chewy discs. The coconut bar cookies spiced with cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg boasted a hefty number of black walnuts. Between them all, Lucy and I had invoked wishes for protection, fidelity, prosperity, peace, and health, depending on the native energy of the ingredients.

Out came the sourdough, in went the next batch of items to bake, and then I dove into the lunch preparation for the movie set. I was finishing the Caprese skewers made with cherry-sized balls of fresh mozzarella, yellow pear tomatoes, and rich purple leaves of basil when Lucy breezed in the door.

“Good morning, Katie!”

“Well, good morning. You seem chipper today.”

“New day, new beginning,” she crooned, heading for the aprons like I had. I smiled at her reflection of my own earlier thoughts.

“My goodness, you've done a lot already,” she said, tying on her favorite tie-dyed pinafore over a hemp skirt and blouse. “Why don't you let me take over the luncheon items and you can start the choux.”

I agreed with alacrity. Choux, or pâté à choux, was the simple pastry dough that created the crisp, airy base for profiteroles and éclairs. We'd recently added éclairs to the menu—half sweet and half savory, and with the fillings often changing as we experimented. Today's savory options would be a sweet potato filling with a maple glaze, and a filling of goat cheese and sun-dried tomato with pesto piped on top.

After heating milk and butter to a boil, I took the mixture off the heat and dumped in high-gluten flour. Stirring, stirring, and stirring some more until the dough came away from the edge of the pan gave me a real workout. I added in beaten eggs, bit by bit, and by the time they were all incorporated and the dough looked more like a smooth and shiny batter, I'd broken a sweat.

Er, glow.

As I was piping the éclair-sized lengths of dough onto a buttered sheet pan, Lucy came up on the other side of the worktable.

“All done with that,” she said. “I can finish up the rest of the lunch items after we open. In the meantime . . .” She paused.

I looked up and saw her grin. “Uh-oh. What do you have up your sleeve?”

“I think a new éclair filling might be in order.”

The piping bag hovered in my hand. “Such as?”

“Vanilla.”

“Vanilla what?”

“Just vanilla custard, with lots of tiny speckles of seeds, strong and classic.”

“Isn't that kind of boring?”

“Why, Katie Lightfoot, I'm surprised at you. Vanilla beans come from an exotic orchid, after all. Good heavens. What's boring about that? Besides, we'll glaze the tops with chocolate ganache.”

Then I cottoned to her motive. “Who, precisely, are these special vanilla custard éclairs intended for?”

She beamed. “Mrs. Standish.”

I smiled and slowly nodded. “Of course. To attract love back into her life.”

“It's what we do, sweetie! Now, let me think about the right incantation for her.”

We declared the vanilla-filled, chocolate-topped éclairs the daily special, dubbing them “Black and Tans” and placing them front and center in the display case with tasty little samples by the register. When Mrs. Standish stopped by for her late-morning sugar fix, she took one bite and ordered half a dozen in a bag. Lucy complied with a knowing grin and a glint in her eye.

I had to admit, I was curious about who Mrs. Standish might invite into her life after two years without her Harry. He'd passed away before I moved to town, so I didn't know what sort of man he had been—or whether she'd be attracted to the same again or someone completely new.

She wasn't the only one who grabbed up the Black and Tans, and I wondered how many kindled or rekindled romances might be around the corner for Honeybee customers.

At eleven thirty Bianca and Jaida pushed through the door. Lucy had called them to help out, knowing I wanted to take lunch over to the movie set myself. They settled in at a sun-drenched table by the window as I poured two glasses of sweet tea, garnished them with fresh mint, and took them over.

“Thanks for coming in to help,” I said. “I know you're both super-busy.”

Bianca waved her hand. “Today I am a woman of leisure. Colette's at school, and I hired another part-time employee at the shop so I'd have more time to play the market.”

Bianca Devereaux's wineshop was located near the river on Factors Walk. She tended toward fabrics that flowed when she moved and accented her natural gracefulness. Today she wore a whisper-light linen skirt and tunic combination, and several strands of tiny silver beads wound around her neck, wrist, and ankle. Her black hair was piled up to show her long neck, a few strands curling artfully around her ears. She made being beautiful look so easy, and she was also one of the nicest people I knew. Her focus on traditional Wiccan practices with a special emphasis on moon magic was one of the many aspects of magic the spellbook club had been schooling me in ever since I'd discovered my talents and joined their number.

Now she reached into her big Prada bag, extracted an electronic tablet and opened it. Instantly, what looked like a stock trading application bloomed on the surface. “In fact, I thought I might do a little research before you go.”

Jaida smoothed her suit skirt, opened a leather portfolio, and took out a sheaf of papers. “And I brought paperwork I need to complete by end of day, figuring I could step in anytime things get busy.”

“Perfect,” Lucy said, bringing them napkin and silverware setups. “Hungry?”

“Am I!” Bianca said. “I skipped breakfast, waiting until I got here for one of your éclairs.”

Jaida uncapped a pen, laughing. “So did I.”

“What kind?” Lucy asked with a grin and listed their options.

“Oh, let's try them all,” Bianca said. “Share?”

Jaida nodded.

Well, at least Bianca was eating something substantial. I loved her to death, but sometimes that woman seemed to subsist on nothing but fruit and nuts.

I realized that with all the rushing around, I hadn't eaten, and no doubt Mungo was getting cranky about missing second breakfast—his first being peanut butter toast before dawn. Grabbing a still-warm scone for myself, I set a small dish of Tasso ham and pickled okra on the floor of the office for my familiar.

Mungo eyed me with reproach for feeding him so late, but it didn't last long once he'd launched himself from the club chair to the floor and began chowing down in earnest.

“You're welcome,” I said.

He grunted without looking up.

“When you're done with your snack, do you want to come with me to the set? I have to set up lunch pretty soon.”

This time he stopped eating long enough to confirm with a
yip!

* * *

A breeze had freshened off the river, greeting me when I got out of the Bug on Congress Street. Mungo jumped out, and I attached the long lead to his collar. “I know you don't need it, but it's the law, and I don't have enough hands to carry you and the food.” As it was, I'd borrowed a collapsible cart from Croft Barrow's bookstore next door to the Honeybee so I could wheel the food onto the set.

As I loaded it with boxes and bags, a movement caught my eye. I looked up to see Declan hurrying toward me from one of the only three tents still standing. I'd called to see if he'd be available to help before I left the Honeybee, alert for any indication of a rift between us. The conversation had been too short for me to really be able to tell.

When he reached my side, he swooped me into a hug, lifting me off my feet, and gave me a firm smack on the lips. “Missed you.”

I grinned, pushing my worries back into their brain closet and shutting the door. “Good.”

He laughed. “Fine. I guess I deserve that, since I was the one who begged off last night. Tell me what I can do.”

I managed the cart across the bumpy road, Mungo trotting at my side, while Declan hefted a cooler full of drinks as if it were full of packing peanuts. My gaze cut sideways to the muscles bulging in his arms, and despite my protests that big muscly guys weren't necessarily my type, the sight sent a quiver of excitement all the way down to my toes.

Everything had been moved away from the crime scene to the far corner of Reynolds Square. It looked like the filming was down to bare-bones: three tents, a much shorter patch of concrete camouflaged to look like an eighteenth-century lane with an unhitched carriage sitting in the middle of it, and only a few people milling around, apparently between shots. Even the horses were gone. Only the number of looky-loos had increased.

“This is all that's left?” I asked.

Declan made a face. “Niklas isn't making much of a secret of how unhappy he is about having to change their plans.”

“Yeah—too bad someone died in the middle of his movie,” I said. Still, the director's disgruntlement pointed to a possible lack of motive, as did his frank conversation with Quinn about how Simon had stepped in to fix the situation after Egan had cheated on his wife.

Rounding the corner of the resituated catering canopy, I stopped cold. Platters of food marched down the long buffet table, beginning with pimento cheese dip and ending with a sloppily frosted chocolate sheet cake. In between, squares of macaroni and cheese congealed in the breeze, a fancy serving bowl of colorless grits hunched next to a platter of greasy-looking fried green tomatoes with no sauce. Two platters held piles of waffles, one garnished with split sausages and the other plain. My critical eye noted the potato salad looked pretty good, as did the deviled eggs. In fact, all of the food might have been fine if kept warm . . . or cool.

Okay. I was trying to be charitable, when in fact I was really angry. I whirled on Declan. “They already have lunch set up!”

He looked stricken. “Oh, hon. I had no idea. I've been keeping people away from the scene they're shooting in that horse carriage for the last hour or so.”

My shoulders slumped. Of course he would have told me if he'd known. “Sorry. I shouldn't have snapped. It's just . . .” My words trailed off as I limply pointed at the table.

He grinned. “If that was you ‘snapping,' you need to work on your technique.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe you should set up your stuff at the other end and let people decide what they want to eat.” Stepping toward the door, he said over his shoulder, “I'll stop back when I can, but curiosity is running high since the murder. We've already had a couple incidents where folks have tried to sneak in, so I'd better get out there.” He ducked out, leaving me alone with Mungo.

I grumbled under my breath and turned back to the classic Southern spread. It looked exactly like the fare Simon had described.

“I thought he fired Bonner Catering,” I mused to my familiar while I mentally scrambled. He made a low noise in the back of his throat.

“I hired them back,” a high-pitched voice said behind me. Simon's assistant, the one who had arrived so soon after his death laden with fresh cheese and an air of utter bewilderment, entered the canopy. He still looked bewildered, blinking at me from behind his round glasses, head bobbing on his long neck.

“You might have alerted us of that fact, Mr. . . . ?”

“Glade,” he reminded me. “Owen Glade. I'm the new production coordinator.”

“Right. Of course you are. But even though he's, um, gone, Simon Knapp hired us to provide lunch to your crew today.”

Owen put his bony fists on his hips and tried a glare. I felt bad for the guy, but we'd spent a lot of money and a lot of time to put together a small feast for what was left of the cast and crew. Not to mention we'd determined to do the same for as long as the filming was going on.

“Well, he never told me that,” the former assistant said. “I don't even know who you are, other than seeing you and that dog on the set last night.”

In my sweaty running clothes. Great. I tipped my head. “I'm Katie Lightfoot from the Honeybee Bakery. How exactly do you think your lunch showed up yesterday?”

He started to stick out his lower lip, then seemed to realize what he was doing. “How should I know? Simon never told me anything, just ordered me around. Owen, do this. Owen, find so-and-so, Owen, pick up the dry cleaning, blah, blah, blah.”

“Er . . . isn't that your job?” I asked in as neutral a tone as I could manage.

Owen's face colored, and his eyes flashed behind the round lenses. “Well, it's not anymore.”

“So there's a new assistant, then?” I asked.

His nostrils flared in what I took as a negative. I could only imagine what Niklas Egan thought about Owen taking over for Simon. Given what he'd said to Quinn about needing Simon's special skill at getting things done, I doubted Owen would hold the doer-and-shaker position for long.

In the meantime, though, I stood my ground. “I'm very sorry your boss didn't inform you about hiring us, and I'm sorrier than I can say that he's gone now. However, we had an agreement and had to go out of our way to accommodate his request.”

Owen's feet shifted, and uncertainty flickered across his features. I straightened my shoulders and opened my mouth to speak again when Althea Cole swept in. Literally. Unlike the day before, when her costume had screamed “simple country girl,” today she wore a peach satin brocade gown with full bustle and dripping with lace that swished along the ground with each step. The frothy hat I'd tried on in the wardrobe tent the day before was firmly tied over her cascading red curls, and long fake eyelashes gave her a doelike demeanor.

Until she opened her mouth. “Well, isn't that too bad. Do you have a signed contract with Simon?”

My heart sank, but I raised my chin. “We had a verbal agreement.”

“Which he can no longer confirm. Did he prepay you?”

I shook my head, feeling like an idiot.

Althea sniffed. “Well, it looks like you're out of luck, Miss Lightfoot.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice when she said my name.

What's this woman's problem?

At my feet, Mungo emitted a low growl.

Althea's eyes cut to him. “And you'd better get that little beast out of here. I'm terribly allergic to dogs.”

I swore my familiar rolled his eyes. I couldn't blame him—the catering tent was open on one side, and even my violent allergies to Lucy's Honeybee wouldn't have been triggered in those circumstances.

“Where is Mr. Egan?” I asked.

“Oh, no, you don't. You haven't got a leg to stand on, so you just take your little bakery stuff and go on home.” Althea could do imperious better than most. I was pretty sure she wasn't acting, though.

My jaw set, and I struggled to keep from using my Voice. “Where is Mr. Egan?” I asked Owen this time.

Althea crossed her arms and glared at me, but I ignored her and focused on Simon's replacement. He nervously licked his lips. “I rehired Bonner Catering. That's all there is to it.”

“Fine,” I said. “I'll find Mr. Egan myself. Because I have no intention of letting you stiff the Honeybee just because Simon didn't keep you in the loop.” I strode away, Mungo trotting at my side. Althea's lip curled up as I passed her.

“Wait,” Owen said.

I paused and looked over my shoulder.

He made a vague gesture. “This appears to be a simple misunderstanding. Go ahead and set up the food you brought, and I'll cut you a check.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Owen,” Althea said. “Don't be such a wimp.”

He visibly flinched at her words. “This one time,” he said to me. “But then that's it.”

Slowly, I said, “Okay.” Reaching into my tote bag, I retrieved the invoice I'd printed out before leaving the bakery.

Owen took it and nodded. “Fine.” He stalked off, and I began unloading lunch from the trolley.

Althea watched me, her lip slightly curled as she took in the different kinds of skewers and kabobs.

After several seconds, I stopped arranging the shrimp on their bed of ice and looked her in the eye. “It must be quite gratifying to everyone working on this movie to know how concerned you are with the day-to-day workings of craft services.”

She held my gaze; then her eyes narrowed before she whirled around and left without a word.

I stared after her. Why was the famous star of the movie so worried about who supplied the catering? If she'd asked a single question about the food, I might have understood, but she hadn't. Furthermore, her figure was so petite, I doubted that she ate even as little as Bianca did.

It seemed to be all about some kind of power play now that Simon was gone. Puzzled, I began setting up a three-tiered tray for the salad kabobs.

* * *

Owen returned with the check and turned to go after depositing it in my hand.

“Hang on,” I said.

He paused, looking at me over his shoulder.