Magic and Macaroons Page 2

  Unfortunately, that murder case wasn’t the last one I’d been involved with since moving south. Guess you can’t be lucky in everything.

  Lucy was my mother’s little sister, and, much to Mama’s chagrin, had spilled the beans about our family history of hedgewitchery soon after we started working out recipes and baking up bespelled goodies for our clientele. Mama was pretty much over that by now, but things had been a little tense there for a while.

  Mimsey Carmichael was the youngest-looking seventy-nine I could imagine, but Lucy and the others insisted she didn’t use magic to hide her age. Comfortably padded and shorter than Lucy’s five-two, she was from a long-standing Savannah family. Jaida French also looked younger than her forty-something years, her chocolate-toned skin smooth and utterly unwrinkled even around her expressive, almost hyperintelligent eyes. A defense attorney, she had been schooling me in tarot magic. Bianca Devereaux focused on traditional Wiccan methods and moon magic. The divorced mom of seven-year-old Colette, she supported them partially with Moon Grapes, her wine shop on Factors Walk, but her real money came from playing the stock market for big bucks. And then there was Cookie Rios. She’d immigrated to Savannah from Haiti when she was only nine, and her magical heritage included some slightly darker elements than the rest of ours.

  I carried the tray to the Honeybee’s library and set it on the coffee table. The ladies filled their glasses and chatted away about their lives. Jaida and her boyfriend were thinking about a trip to France the next spring. Mimsey and her husband were going to visit their daughter in California, along with their granddaughter, Wren. Bianca, still single after her husband had dumped her for practicing magic, had dropped her memberships to online-dating sites, deciding to let the man chips fall where they might. Then the conversation turned to Cookie’s new husband, Oscar Sanchez, his position at a local lab that tested buildings for mold and other toxins, and her new job managing commercial real-estate properties.

  No one was talking spells. At least they’d stopped tearing apart the lame spellbook I’d chosen for discussion. For a moment I felt embarrassed that I’d ruined our meeting, but then I glanced at my aunt, who was happily listening to our friends, and I realized there was no ruining our gatherings. The last time we’d all been together had been at Lucy and Ben’s town house on the first of August to celebrate the sabbat Lughnasadh with a fire and a harvest feast. With our busy lives, it had been another two weeks before we’d managed to dovetail our schedules, and it was obvious that a little social time with each other was better than discussing spells a kinderwitch could do.

  “How’s Iris working out?” Bianca asked. She was referring to our new employee, the eighteen-year-old stepdaughter of the cheesemonger down the block. Beneath her Goth makeup, Iris Grant sparkled with creativity and latent magical talent. She would be starting her studies at the Savannah College of Art and Design in a few more weeks.

  Lucy’s smile deepened, crinkling the fine lines around her eyes. “She’s wonderful! We really do need someone here part-time, and she’s taken to the work remarkably well.” Her eyes twinkled. “And Katie was right about her potential power. We haven’t so much as hinted at the idea yet, but I think she may be open to learning more about the ‘special amendments’ we add to the Honeybee pastries to help out our customers.”

  Mimsey had opened her mouth to say something when a loud rapping on the front door made us all jump. I let out a little laugh and glanced over my shoulder. The angle of the sofa prevented me from seeing who it was. The door handle rattled as someone shook it, then knocked again.

  “We’re closed,” I called out.

  Lucy waved her hand. “They’ll see the sign in a second.”

  Sure enough, the knocking stopped.

  “How could anyone miss it?” Bianca asked. “It’s as big as your head and right at eye level. Not to mention the hours you’re open are listed right below.”

  Bam! This time a fist pounded on the thick glass door.

  Mungo rolled to his feet and barked, loud and high-pitched. His whole body quivered with alarm.

  “Heavens to Betsy!” Mimsey craned her neck to try to see the door. Behind her, Heckle launched into the air and flew up to the speaker mounted high in the corner.

  I bolted to my feet. “Now, that’s just downright rude.” I leaned down and scooped up Mungo, who was still barking. “It’s okay, little guy. Hush now.”

  He fell silent. Honeybee had shifted on the windowsill to press her furry, orange-striped cheek against the glass and look down the side of the building toward the ruckus.

  “Perhaps there’s something wrong.” Lucy stood. “Maybe Croft or Annette need something.” Croft Barrow owned the bookstore on one side of the Honeybee, and Annette Lander managed the knitting store on the other side.

  A pale face appeared at the window next to where Honeybee sat. Startled, she jumped from the sill and scooted to the corner, where she turned and directed baleful disapproval toward the interloper. A hand cupped the glass, and a young woman peered in at us beneath the half-drawn blind. She bobbed up and down slightly, and I guessed she was standing on tiptoe in order to see inside. Even with her hand shadowing her face, I could see her eyes were so wide, the whites showed all around the washed-out blue of her pupils. She shouted something, her palm on the glass now, fingers curling against the surface as if trying to dig through it.

  Desperate.

  A feeling of dread settled below my sternum as a shiver ran down my back. Mungo whined. I put him down on the sofa and approached the window.

  Even with her shouts muddled by the thick pane, her lips mouthed words I gradually recognized. Over and over, she was yelling, “Katie Lightfoot! I need Katie Lightfoot!”

  I ran to the front entrance without thinking, fumbling in the pocket of my shorts for the key to the deadlock. Aunt Lucy and Jaida joined me as I flung open the door. Humid heat instantly wrapped around us like a heavy blanket.

  The woman turned at the sound and stumbled down the sidewalk toward us. Her knees buckled, and she threw out her hands, almost dropping a small leather purse. I grabbed her elbow to keep her from falling. She hardly weighed a thing, which didn’t surprise me, given her stick-thin arms and the protruding collarbones evident through her thin T-shirt. Those wide eyes met mine, searching.

  “Katie Lightfoot,” she whispered. “I need her.”

  Chapter 2

  “I’m Katie Lightfoot,” I said, trying to keep the words brisk and reassuring—and utterly failing. Something was wrong, very wrong, and a big part of me didn’t want to know what. The other part warred between curiosity and fear.

  I’d expected her face to show relief when I identified myself, but instead her determination seemed to die a little. When she stumbled again, Jaida took her other arm. Lucy held the door open as we helped her inside the Honeybee, supporting her between us. Bianca and Cookie looked on wide-eyed as Mimsey bustled out of the kitchen with a glass of water.

  She thrust it at the newcomer. “Poor darling. That heat is a bear, isn’t it? Here. Drink this down, and you’ll feel better.”

  Mimsey, I realized, had not heard the young woman’s impassioned pleas for yours truly.

  “Come sit down.” I guided her toward one of the blue-and-chrome chairs by the nearest table; Jaida followed my lead. Mungo scurried under a nearby table, out of the way but available if needed.

  Mimsey’s eyes narrowed as she took in the stranger’s slack jaw and frightened gaze.

  “Sit down,” I repeated in a soothing tone. “And tell me why you’re looking for me.”

  She sank onto the seat. Her head turned, and she blinked up at me from beneath a thin fringe of dishwater-blond bangs. Slowly, she pulled her arm away from where Jaida still held it and reached her quivering hand toward my face. Her icy fingertips touched my cheek, and I barely managed not to flinch away. So cold, despite the fine sheen of perspiration th
at covered her freckled nose and cheeks.

  “. . . Said to come to you if I ever needed help,” she said, so low I couldn’t hear all the words.

  I leaned closer. “Who? Help with what?”

  “My uncle said,” she murmured. Her head wobbled on her neck, and her eyelids fluttered for a moment before she seemed to right herself with an effort. She snagged me again with those eyes the color of faded denim.

  “Honey, what’s your name?” I asked, reaching for the water Mimsey had brought over.

  Her eyes rolled back, and she sagged in the chair. Lucy drew in a sharp breath as Jaida and I both reached for her. Together we got our shoulders under her arms and lifted her, no mean feat for Jaida, who still wore pumps with three-and-a-half-inch heels. Our guest was a featherweight, and we managed to get her to the sofa in the reading area. Bianca lifted her feet onto the cushion and removed her sandals while a worried-looking Lucy placed a pillow under her head.

  Cookie watched it all with hands on her hips, then nodded decisively and announced, “I’ll call 911.” She reached for her oversized hobo bag and fished out her cell. None of us argued.

  “Who is she?” Mimsey asked, sparing me a glance between feeling the newcomer’s forehead with the back of her hand and checking her pulse.

  “I have no idea.”

  “But she knows you,” Jaida said.

  I lifted my palms in bewilderment. “I’ve never met her. She said her uncle sent her.” Who could she be talking about? Mentally, I ran through a roster of our regular customers, recent acquaintances, friends—anyone who might have sent this young woman to find me. To seek me out for help. Not a soul came to mind.

  Behind us, Cookie murmured into her phone.

  “Her heartbeat is dangerously slow,” Mimsey said, forehead wrinkling.

  I heard the sound of Cookie snapping her bag closed, and turned as she retrieved the glass of water Mimsey had set on the bistro table. She marched into the reading area and, without a word, tossed the contents in the unconscious woman’s face.

  “Cookie!” Lucy cried as my own mouth dropped open.

  The woman on the sofa coughed, then whooped in a great breath and coughed again. Her eyes remained closed, and her breathing, though deeper, was still ragged. Mimsey grabbed her wrist, feeling for her pulse again.

  “Gone,” our guest muttered. The cords in her neck stood out with the effort of speaking. Her hair, now drenched, stuck to her face in thin streaks.

  I lowered my face toward hers. “What’s gone?” I asked.

  Her eyes flew open, transfixing me. “Katie.” It wasn’t a question.

  I put my hand on her bony shoulder. “Yes, it’s Katie.”

  She stared at me. Blinked twice. “It’s gone. The gree gree.” She grated out the last sentence in a rough whisper, and her eyelids did a little dance before closing again. “You must find it.”

  I leaned down and put my ear right by her lips.

  “Savannah . . . voodoo queen . . . can tell you,” she breathed before her head rocked gently to the side. She let out a long sigh.

  Stunned, I rocked back on my heels, studying the young woman’s face. “She’s unconscious.”

  Mimsey patted her hand. “But her heart rate is up. I think the shock of that cold water may have actually helped.”

  I wanted to check for identification, but couldn’t bring myself to invade the pockets of her cotton shorts.

  “What did she say?” Cookie’s voice was harsh.

  Voodoo queen.

  I looked up at her. “Something about a gree gree.”

  The blood drained from her face, leaving her olive complexion pasty and her lips pale pink.

  “Cookie?” I rose to my feet. “What’s the matter? Do you know what that is?”

  She rubbed her forehead with a shaking hand.

  “She has no pulse!” Mimsey said, pulling my attention back to the cryptic stranger on the sofa. She slapped the woman’s cheek, not so gently.

  There was no response.

  “Here, let me,” Bianca said. She elbowed her way past us and straddled the woman on the sofa, placing the heels of her palms on her chest. As she began compressions, we moved away to give her more space. My own heart beat hard and fast.

  The sound of sirens whined through the windows, growing louder and louder until flashing lights out on Broughton Street painted the amber walls and high ceiling of the bakery in emergency tones.

  I turned to wave them in, but stopped cold when I saw my aunt. Lucy had backed against the front wall and had both hands over her mouth as she watched Bianca work. Shocked compassion shone from her eyes before they filled with tears that spilled over and ran in twin runnels down her cheeks. I ran to the door and opened it, gesturing to the first responders, and then hurried to her side. As uniforms filled the room, I wrapped my arms around her. She held on tight, and I felt her shoulders hitch in silent sobs.

  Poor Lucy. I’d had, what? Five close encounters with death in the past sixteen months? I’d also had more than one close call myself. But even though Lucy knew of my involvement with murder cases, she’d never actually seen any of the victims.

  At least this time it isn’t murder.

  A dragonfly drifted in through the propped-open door. It flew around the bakery, pausing for a moment near Mungo, who was still hunkered out of the way under a table, and then zoomed up to my eye level. It hovered so close, I could see the dark veins in its iridescent lavender wings, the big round eyes that never blinked.

  Then it suddenly left the way it had come in.

  My heart sank. Dragonflies were my totem. They served as a kind of metaphysical tap on my shoulder, telling me to pay special attention. And I had a pretty good idea why this one had been so insistent.

  Okay, maybe this is murder. Attempted murder, that is. Because whoever she is, she’s still alive.

  “Try to think positive thoughts,” I murmured into Lucy’s ear, as much to hear the words out loud as to comfort her.

  One of the paramedics took over from Bianca. I recognized him as Joe Nix, a friend and coworker of Declan’s.

  Lucy nodded against my shoulder, sniffed once, and took a step back as she wiped her eyes with an air of determination. “Of course, honey. You’re so very right. Intention. We must unite in our good intentions for her.” She reached down and clasped my hand in her right hand and held out the other one to Mimsey. The older witch took it and held out her hand to Cookie. Still visibly shaking, Cookie took it. One by one, we all joined together, Bianca grasping my fingers to complete the circle. Without a word we stood and watched as they loaded the young woman onto a gurney, sending her our combined healing energy.

  A mask still covered her face, and an earnest EMT hurried alongside the moving gurney, pumping oxygen into her lungs with a handheld ventilator. I allowed a flicker of hope as they approached the spellbook club. Together, we moved aside, and they rushed through the door and out to the waiting ambulance.

  Joe saw me, and recognition flashed in his eyes. After the woman was safely ensconced in the back of the van, he returned. Jaida pulled the door closed after him, muting the blare of the siren starting up as the ambulance drove away and shutting out the curiosity of the small crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. In moments it was utterly quiet in the bakery; a silence made all the deeper by the suddenness with which the commotion had stopped.

  I broke it. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Joe shook head. “I’m sorry, Katie. I just don’t know.”

  Mimsey’s hand went to her chest. Cookie turned away.

  “Try not to worry,” Joe said. “They’ll keep working on her, and Candler Hospital isn’t far.” He ran his hand through his blond buzz cut. “It would help if we knew what we’re treating. What happened?”

  I took a deep breath. “No idea. She showed up here and then colla
psed. We got her to the sofa, and Mimsey here checked her pulse, which was quite slow. Cookie threw a glass of water in her face, and that seemed to bring her around until just before you got here, when her heartbeat stopped and Bianca started CPR.”

  His head jerked to Cookie when I mentioned the water, and she looked at the floor. A ghost of a smile crossed his face before he looked back at me. “What else can you tell me? Who is she? How can I get in touch with her family?”

  I rubbed my hand over my face, feeling defeated. “I was going to ask you that,” I said. “You didn’t find any identification?”

  He shook his head. “Not even a library card.”

  I sighed. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Well, if you think of anything else that might be helpful, give the hospital a call,” Joe said.

  I agreed, and he went outside to the fire truck waiting for him down the block.

  We looked around at each other, stunned out of the easy camaraderie of the spellbook-club meeting. Mungo trotted to me, and I bent and picked him up. Honeybee came out from the corner where she’d been hiding and rubbed against my aunt’s ankle. She picked up the cat and buried her nose in the orange fur of her neck. Heckle glided down to Mimsey’s shoulder and tucked his head near her shoulder. She reached up to stroke his bright feathers. No doubt the others would have liked the comfort of their own familiars right then—Jaida’s Great Dane, Anubis, and Puck, the ferret who’d found Bianca recently. The only one of us who didn’t have a familiar was Cookie.

  Cookie, in the reading area, quietly gathered her things to go.

  I marched over to her. “Tell me.”

  Her head jerked up, but she didn’t say anything. Her color had returned and she was no longer shaking. But there was something in her eyes. Sadness? Resignation? I couldn’t tell.

  “Gree gree,” I said, trying to keep my voice gentle, even though I knew by asking I was starting something I might not be able to stop. “You know what that means.”