Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery Read online

  Real blackmail, with real stakes. Maybe she knew Ethan was back to his old ways with a new twist, taking advantage of grieving widows like Mrs. Standish. And if he was doing it with her nephew’s help, the likelihood that Mrs. Templeton would learn of it was high.

  That would give Ethan even more of a motive to kill her.

  But then someone had gone after Ethan. Was it really Albert Hill? I found that hard to imagine, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. He was mean and, though not fit, certainly physically capable of assaulting another man. He was greedy to the point of being unbalanced. His wore his ego like a bright yellow rain slicker—nothing subtle about it at all.

  Ah. That was it. Albert might be a sociopath as Bianca and I had speculated, but he felt emotion. He was, in fact, a coward. I’d met him only once and seen him two other times, but it was evident even in the brief encounters. Insecurity lurked behind that glaring ego, and fear behind the meanness.

  Still, cowards can be dangerous. Scared dogs bite just as often as aggressive ones; their own fear serves as enough provocation whether there’s an actual threat or not. Albert could have incited Ethan to kill Mrs. Templeton and then been afraid Ethan would turn on him.

  Or not. Whatever had happened to the apartment manager might not have had anything to do with the murder. As Detective Quinn had pointed out, he had enough low-life friends to account for an assault. For that matter, we didn’t even know for sure whether Ethan had been attacked or had attacked someone else. Anything was possible at this point.

  Would Ethan have opened his door to someone he thought of as a threat? Had he even known who waited in the hallway, since the doors didn’t have peepholes? Maybe he didn’t know to be wary of whoever had knocked. After all, the guy wasn’t exactly the brightest bear.

  Those boxes, half full, made me feel kind of sorry for the guy. He was so close to getting out, to leaving and making a new life. Maybe not a better life, but a new one, where he could at least make decisions about whether or not it would be better.

  A NEW START.

  My eyes flew open.

  Those boxes seemed to be everywhere. Frank Pullman had them in his pickup. Ethan had them in his apartment. But so what? It was a popular moving company in town. Lots of people probably got boxes from there. Big deal.

  I glanced down. Mungo still stared at me from the darkness.

  “Will you stop it? You’re starting to give me the heebie-jeebies.”

  He blinked, once, very slowly.

  “Fine.” I squeezed my eyes shut again.

  And the image of the storage company logo came back, bright blue and insistent. However, this time it was emblazoned on the boxes I’d seen when Cookie and I had exited the laundry room at the Peachtree Arms.

  The boxes in the wire-enclosed spaces in the basement reserved for apartment dwellers.

  I snapped awake. Ethan’s door had been open when Declan and I arrived. After we found that he was gone, I’d assumed that the door had been left open. But before that, I’d figured he was in the basement laundry room or someplace in the building, planning to return shortly.

  He was in that basement. I knew it.

  I could see it.

  Abruptly, I sat up in bed. Mungo let out a sharp bark, ran once around the perimeter of the bed, and returned to his position by my side, panting. I tried not to be aware that he ran widdershins, or to wonder whether that was significant.

  The impression of Ethan Ridge in the apartment storage area grew stronger as the seconds passed. I shook my head. It was my overly vivid imagination. Had to be. Besides, the police had searched the whole building.

  Hadn’t they?

  But what if they hadn’t gone into the locked storage spaces? What if he was hiding down there?

  I reached for the phone to call Detective Quinn. Paused. He probably wouldn’t be working this late. I could leave a message, but that would mean morning before he got it, and even then he might not pay it any mind. I wasn’t exactly on his list of favorite people right now.

  I could call 911 and report a crime in the apartment building’s basement so the police would have to respond. Could I do it in such a way that they wouldn’t find out it was me? If they found Ridge, would it matter if they found out?

  Hmm. Yes. And Quinn was already mad enough at me.

  Ben was already upset with me about poking my nose into things, too. And he didn’t even know about what Declan and I had found at the Peachtree Arms earlier that evening.

  Cursing my shortsightedness, I swung my feet to the floor and stood. Even if the spell had worked, I hadn’t thought ahead to what I’d do with my newfound knowledge. In my defense, I’d never dreamed Ridge would still be on the apartment property. I’d reckoned on finding him in another state or at a girlfriend’s house, wounded or maybe sleeping off a bender.

  If the spell had worked.

  Had it? Was that why I had this strong feeling about where Ridge was? Or had it been simple deduction sparked by the twilight of approaching sleep?

  It didn’t matter. Not right now. I needed to get over there and find out if I was right. It was late. Mrs. Templeton had rented largely to the elderly, so most people would be asleep by now. And if the back door was open, I could access the basement storage area from the parking lot without going through the rest of the building. A quick run inside would tell me if I was right or not.

  I half hoped I wasn’t.

  I dressed in jeans and a dark tank top without turning on the lights, put on my running shoes and grabbed my tote. Mungo waited by the front door.

  “You are not going with me,” I said.

  Ar rarr arr.

  “No, you’re not. I’ll be fine.”

  He lay down in front of the door.

  I sighed. Considered taking him with me anyway. But what if he ran off? What if he made a noise and gave me away? I couldn’t risk it.

  “Mungo, honey. Please. I’ll be right back.”

  He jumped up, ran to the sofa and launched himself onto it. Stretching toward the coffee table trunk, he sniffed the yellow roses that sat in the middle. Whined.

  “You want me to do another spell? But—”

  He shook all over. Sniffed the blossoms again. Whined.

  Why was I playing along with all this? Imagining the little dog was my familiar. That he could communicate with me. Wasn’t I over …

  Then I got it. “Steve?”

  Yip.

  I hadn’t thought of asking him to come with me. Truth be told, I had carefully avoided the idea. Besides, he was mad at me. But for what? I hadn’t done anything. Declan was the one who’d showed up unannounced. As had Steve. How dare he be angry about something like that?

  The memory of his lips brushing mine rocketed from my brain southward. “Okay, I guess it can’t hurt to call him.”

  Mungo sat back and beamed doggy approval at me.

  I dug out the card he’d given me and punched in the numbers on my cell phone. He answered after one ring.

  “Katie-girl!”

  I sighed. At least he wasn’t mad at me. “Did I wake you?”

  “Hardly. I’m out playing pool with some friends.” The clacking of enameled balls in the background punctuated his statement.

  Mental palm smack. It was Saturday night. “Friends” no doubt included a female companion. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I could be interrupting a date.

  “Oh. Of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You want to join us? We’re in the basement of Churchill’s Pub. You know where it is? On Bay?”

  “Um, thanks, but no.”

  He paused. “Katie? Why are you calling me?”

  “I, er …”

  “Tell me.”

  Deep breath. “I was kind of hoping you’d go over to Mavis Templeton’s apartment house with me.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  A pause. “What?”

  My laugh was strained. “What a good little reporter you are, with your f
our w’s.”

  He didn’t respond. The sound of the pool game receded and then faded altogether as he moved away from it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That came out a little more sarcastic than necessary. Don’t worry about it.”

  “How?” he said.

  “What?”

  “How do you want to go? Shall we meet there? Or I could swing by and pick you up.”

  Oh, dear. Better for him not to come here. Margie might still be up with the teething baby and wonder what the heck was going on.

  “Meet me at the convenience store at the corner of Forty-fourth and Habersham,” I said, remembering where Cookie and I had stopped to get something to drink after she’d used her Voice.

  Had that really happened?

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes,” he said.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’ve appealed to my good little reporter, after all. I want to know exactly what you’re up to. See you soon.”

  I ended the call and turned to Mungo. “That’s a nice contrast to having every other male in my life question what I’m doing. Are you happy now?”

  He rolled over on the sofa and kicked his stubby legs in the air. I shut the door on a teensy canine snore and hurried out to the Bug.

  Chapter 22

  Steve’s black Land Rover was already idling at the edge of the convenience store parking lot when I arrived. I pulled the Bug in next to it and got out. The temperature had dropped. I hugged my bare arms and regretted not wearing long sleeves. The halogen lights overhead hummed against the night, drawing a swarm of flying insects.

  He walked around to where I stood and stopped just inside my personal space. Nudging boundaries out of habit, perhaps, and not the intentional disregard of my comfort level he seemed so fond of. Or maybe he really didn’t get the whole idea of boundaries.

  Either way, my blood hummed beneath my skin. I took a step away. His hair was tied back, and he wore a silky green T-shirt over khaki shorts. The white light of the parking lot gave everything a strange glow.

  “What’s the plan, Agent Lightfoot?” Steve’s voice was low.

  “Oh, please. I only want to take a quick look inside the back door. It’s probably nothing.”

  “What makes you think it’s something?”

  “I cast a—” My hand clamped over my mouth. What was wrong with me?

  His eyes narrowed, catlike, and he practically purred. “Cast a what?”

  Darn it. “Cast a location spell.”

  “And what were you trying to find, Katie-girl?” He was inside my space again, his breath teasing my skin.

  “Ethan Ridge,” I said.

  He jerked back. “What on God’s green earth for?”

  “De— I came here earlier today to talk to him after I found out he might have had some shady dealings with Mrs. Templeton’s nephew. But I didn’t get a chance to ask him anything because all I found was a messy apartment—with a bunch of blood in it and no Mr. Ridge. Then the police showed up, but they didn’t find him, either. His apartment looked like there’d at least been a fight, maybe worse.”

  Steve’s eyes widened.

  “I figured it would be a good idea to find out where he was sooner rather than later, especially if he’s hurt. So I, you know, did the spell thing.” My hands waved in the air as if that would dispel my awkwardness.

  “What did you use for the scrying? A mirror?”

  I shook my head and mumbled. “Just water in a goblet.”

  He laughed. “And it worked? You saw him on the surface? You are something else, you know that?”

  “No. It didn’t work at all. That whole spell business is a bunch of hogwash.”

  Frown lines creased the smooth skin of his forehead. “Oh, really. Then why are we here?”

  “Because I got to thinking about the packing boxes in Ethan’s apartment. About how I’d seen them in the basement of his building when I’d been there before. And I wondered, well, I kind of saw, no, not really saw, but had the notion, the feeling, if you will, that he might be down there. Where I saw the other boxes, I mean.”

  Steve’s nostrils flared a tiny bit, but he managed not to laugh at me. “Sounds like maybe your spell worked after all. It doesn’t happen the same way for everyone, you know.”

  I shrugged and looked away.

  “Let’s go take a look.” His fingers clasped my elbow, and we walked the half block to the apartment building in silence. The cool, humid air brushed my cheek, tempering the heat in my face. Was I blushing because I felt silly for admitting to the spell work? Or because I sounded so goofy trying to explain why I’d dragged Steve away from his night out with friends? Or maybe it was a combination of fear, anticipation and his hand on my arm.

  He headed for the front entrance, but I pulled him toward the back door. The moon, so bright earlier, had set, and the night had turned pitch-black. I added not bringing a flashlight to my growing list of regrets. A square of light flared, weak but targeted. It emanated from Steve’s hand in a blue haze, and for a moment I thought he had manifested it. Then I saw he was holding his cell phone open.

  Stop it, Katie!

  It was enough light to help us find the doorknob. Which then wouldn’t turn. Someone had locked it. Mrs. Perkins had specifically said it was unlocked during the day. The news about their apartment manager would have spread among the tenants, and one of them might have locked the door, knowing he wasn’t around to do it. Or the police might have done it.

  So why couldn’t I shake the idea that Ethan Ridge had locked it himself?

  “Let’s try the other door,” Steve said.

  I nodded and led the way back around to the front of the building.

  That door was locked, too.

  Disgusted, I leaned back against the dirty siding and crossed my arms.

  Steve peered through the dingy glass, but I didn’t see how he could make out anything in the dim light of the bulb down at the other end of the hallway. He rattled the metal handle. Muttered something under his breath. He sounded a lot like Lucy when she added “extra” ingredients to my recipes.

  A snick sounded, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door ease open. Openmouthed, I whirled to find Steve standing in the entrance with a big grin on his face.

  A tall figure moved behind him, and my heart went thumpa for a completely different reason than it usually did when Mr. Dawes was in the vicinity.

  James Sparr loomed into view. “Well, now, for someone who says she don’t want to rent an apartment, you sure do show up here an awful lot, miss. What can I do for you this fine evening?”

  I cleared my throat. “When I was here earlier today—”

  “Yes, indeed, with that young man you showed up with the first time.”

  I felt Steve’s eyes slide to me.

  “Uh, yes. Anyway, I left through the back door, downstairs, you know? And I think I dropped something.”

  James didn’t ask what I’d dropped. “Well, you know where you want to look, then.” He motioned us in. “Go on ahead. But if you leave through the back, make sure that door locks behind you, all right?”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  “Mmmm-hmmmm.” He wagged his head. “That sure was a lot of fuss this afternoon.” He trudged to his own door and stepped inside. “Mr. Ridge disappears pretty regular. Don’t know if he’ll be back this time, though.” He raised one hand. “Good night.”

  When we were alone in the hallway, I turned on Steve. “What did you whisper out there?”

  “Just a little incantation, Katie-girl. A quickie, you might say.”

  I echoed his tone. “To unlock the door? But ha-ha, it didn’t exactly work, did it?”

  “The door’s unlocked, isn’t it? And we’re inside. Magic doesn’t always work the way you think it will. Or think it should. That’s why it’s a good idea to be careful what you wish for.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me Katie-girl, that’s what
I wish,” I mumbled.

  “Done. But only because I see it truly irritates you. I’m getting to like you way too much to irritate you on purpose. I’m sure I’ll manage just fine by accident.”

  “Oh, come on.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall to the stairs.

  The heavy door creaked open, then closed behind us with a final chunk. Steve followed me down the metal steps, taking in the rattletrap washers and dryers, moisture-streaked cinder-block walls, and the scents of laundry detergent and mildew. We went out the other door and down the basement hallway toward the back door. As we neared the storage area, the weak light glinted off the metal of the enclosures. We paused to examine the contents through the chain link. Caged belongings stacked to the ceiling in two spaces, evidence of their owners’ hopes and ambitions of moving to another abode soon. I wished their owners luck in that. The exercise bike in another offered good intentions gone awry. The rubber raft looked uniformly unseaworthy, and my guess was the owner held on to it out of stubborn sentimentality more than any true belief that he—or she, I supposed—would be fishing again soon.

  At the end, right by the back door, were the piles of boxes with the NEW START logo on them. In the pale light, they looked the same as they had before. Pillars of flattened cardboard leaned over a tumble of empty boxes in the center. A hodgepodge of sizes tipped into the pile, looking as if they’d been tossed in from the gate to deal with later. I hooked my fingers in the fence and craned my neck to peer into all the spaces visible from that angle.

  Nothing.

  I hoisted myself up and jammed the toes of my shoes into the chain link, straining to get a slightly better view. As my head neared the ceiling a faint miasma teased my nose.

  Whiskey. And blood.

  “Katie! Get down!”

  The pile of boxes in front of me exploded as Steve grabbed the back of my tank top and pulled me backward. Arms pinwheeling, I landed hard and we both went down, letting out twin “oomphs” when we hit the floor.

  A jagged knife jammed through the diamond-shaped space in the fence where my abdomen had been pressed a moment ago. The shaking hand holding it belonged to Ethan Ridge. He glared at me through red-rimmed eyes. Dried blood on his neck flaked onto his streaked T-shirt. We remained like that, a frozen tableau with Steve and me on the floor and Ridge looming above us on the other side of the gate, for what seemed like a long time but was probably only a few seconds.