Spells and Scones Page 2

  My aunt’s consistent, Zen-like calm instantly dissipated the nervous energy I’d picked up from Croft. Tonight she’d twisted her mass of wavy hair into a loose French braid, and her skirt, blouse, and vest reflected the russet tones of autumn leaves and emphasized her petite figure.

  “Sure,” I said, and bent down to the bin I’d stashed under the table earlier. Liquid brown eyes looked back at me. Mungo, my Cairn terrier, was guarding the extra supplies. “Good boy,” I murmured before straightening with a sleeve of disposable cups in my hand.

  Lucy handed me a scone studded with flecks of rosemary, Kalamata olives, and nuggets of salty feta. “Any news?”

  I took the scone gratefully. We’d spent the whole afternoon baking and setting up for the event, and I hadn’t eaten much since the ham and tomato omelet Declan had whipped up for breakfast that morning.

  “The good doctor’s assistant just called,” I said. “It sounds like they’ll be here soon.”

  “Good.” Ben filled a cup with fragrant apple cider and handed it to a waiting customer. He smiled as the woman took the cup, and the corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses. In the two years since he’d retired from the fire department, a few white hairs had worked their way into his ginger hair and short beard.

  “The last thing Croft needs is for this shindig to fail,” he said after the customer had moved away to peruse a display of Dr. Dana’s tomes of relationship advice.

  Looking around, I saw several patrons already carried stacks of books. “Oh, I don’t know. A little extra time to shop, especially with Christmas coming up, can’t be bad for business.” Nearly swooning with hunger, I took a big bite of the scone and continued to watch the milling crowd.

  Croft Barrow had been one of the first people I’d met when I moved to Savannah a year and a half before. Excited about opening a bakery with Ben and Lucy, I’d traveled down from where I was living in Akron. After searching for a name, we’d decided to name it after Honeybee, Lucy’s orange tabby cat. Of course, that was before I knew anything about witches’ familiars, or that Honeybee was Lucy’s. My aunt and I had worked out recipes while Ben searched for the perfect location for the shop. He’d found it next to the Fox and Hound, the quaint, brick-faced bookstore established in Savannah’s historic district by Croft’s father, Randall Barrow, in 1964.

  The inside boasted warm brick walls, a high ceiling, and a crackling fireplace where patrons could settle into comfy chairs and warm their feet during the chilly months. The large children’s section was well regarded among parents, not least because two times a week one of Croft’s employees, a grandmotherly sort with a talent for voices, read stories aloud to the kiddos.

  On the other side of the Honeybee, Annette Lander ran the Fiber Attic yarn and knitting store. Once the bakery had opened, Croft and Annette had seen their traffic pick up, and heaven knew their customers often dropped in for a tasty treat in our establishment. Often they’d settle in with a new book or a knitting project while nibbling on a pastry and sipping coffee. It was a perfectly symbiotic business relationship.

  Annette hadn’t been able to attend Dr. Dana’s talk, but I recognized many of those who had come. Of course, Margie had already ensconced herself in the front row of folding chairs arranged in front of the podium. The kids were nowhere to be seen, and she’d ditched her practical mom uniform for a pretty, floral-print dress. Her sandy hair hung in ringlets down her back. They swung over her shoulder when she turned to smile and give me a little wave.

  I put a slice of lemon pound cake on a paper plate and made my way over to her.

  A petite, dark-haired woman was sitting next to Margie. Her gaze flicked up to me as I approached, and as our eyes met, she tipped her head slightly to one side. Did I know her? She looked a few years older than my twenty-nine and wore skinny jeans, a cream-colored T-shirt, and a short leather jacket that matched her brown boots. Before I could decide if I should recognize her from the Honeybee, she bent her head over her copy of How to Do Marriage Right.

  Shrugging, I sat in the empty chair on the other side of Margie. “How did date night go?” I asked with a conspiratorial grin, and handed her the treat.

  “Thanks! And thanks for the Bundt cake—it was the highlight of the meal last night.” She wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t burn anything too much.” She shrugged. “Except for the corn bread. That was sort of, you know—black. And honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of making gravy that doesn’t look like kindergarten paste. Luckily, Redding doesn’t expect me to cook like his mama—and date night involves a lot more than supper.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, a girly Groucho Marx.

  My mouth opened in a silent laugh. “Why, you naughty girl!”

  A blush crept into her cheeks. “We are married, you know.”

  I looked down at the copy of How to Do Marriage Right she held on her lap. “And it sounds to me like you already know how to ‘do it right,’ too.” The extra romantic oomph Lucy had added to the Bundt cake probably hadn’t hurt, either.

  She smiled and ducked her chin. “Redding and I are good together. You never know, though. I bet Dr. Dana has some real gems in here. I’ve been too busy to take a look yet.”

  Rising, I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to check on the buffet table. Catch up with you later?”

  She nodded and turned to face the podium with an air of expectation.

  Back at my station, a soft tongue licked my ankle, which was bare beneath the long, crinkled skirt I’d donned for the evening. I stepped back and looked down to see Mungo eagerly gazing up at me. My familiar’s nose twitched, and he broke eye contact to stare at the last bite of scone in my hand with the laser focus of a brain surgeon.

  “You already had your supper,” I said.

  Boy, had he ever. Ben had indulged him with leftover fried chicken and mashed potatoes from Mrs. Wilkes’ Dining Room, and Mungo had even tucked into some stewed okra, a Southern delicacy he happened to love but for which I had yet to develop a taste. Thinking about what my dog had had for supper made my own stomach growl, despite the Greek scone.

  Now he made a sound low in his throat and cocked his head to the side, eyes still riveted to the pastry remnant I held.

  Ben laughed. “The little guy just wants a bit of dessert to go with supper.”

  The dog’s nose twitched, and he grinned a canine grin.

  “Okay, fine.” I bent and offered the final bite to him.

  He stepped forward and daintily extracted it from my fingertips before wolfing it down in a single gulp.

  I rolled my eyes, and Ben laughed.

  A portly man with a graying comb-over and blue suspenders approached the buffet table and began examining the pastries on offer. He clutched a Craig Johnson mystery in one hand and I wondered briefly if he was there to see Dr. Dana or had inadvertently stumbled into the festivities.

  He pointed at a platter and said, “Whatever that is, it looks mighty tasty. Mind if I try one?”

  “Bacon jalapeño corn pones.” Ben’s eyes lit up as he handed the man a small paper plate and napkin. “By all means, take two.” He waved at Lucy and me. “These ladies are geniuses in the kitchen, but I have to tell you that delectable concoction was my idea—which, of course, they implemented to a spectacular degree.”

  The man took a healthy bite, his eyes widening as the spicy, salty, smoky, and slightly sweet combination hit his taste buds. “Whoo-ee! That is good! I believe I will have another. Where did you say these came from?”

  “The Honeybee Bakery,” Ben boomed. A few heads turned. “Right next door.”

  “I might just have to try one of those myself,” a familiar voice said.

  I looked up to see Declan McCarthy grinning down at me. Moving out from behind the table, I wrapped my arms around him in a hug and bussed his cheek. “Nice of you to finally show up.”

  H
e donned an expression of mock hurt but couldn’t keep it up for more than a few seconds. His blue eyes drank me in as I resisted running my finger along his square jaw. His dark, wavy hair had grown almost long enough to challenge fire department regulations, and I had a hard time not touching that, too.

  Keeping myself under control, I squeezed his arm and reached for a corn pone. Handing it to him, I gestured toward the rapidly filling seats. “You might want to find a place to sit down before the festivities begin.”

  “I’d rather hang out with you.” He looked around. “Where is this relationship guru?”

  “On her way,” Croft muttered as he passed by. “At least that’s what Phoebe said.”

  “Phoebe?” Declan asked as he watched the stressed older man walk away.

  “Dr. Dana’s assistant,” I said.

  “Her sister, too, from what I’ve heard,” Lucy chimed in.

  “Really? I wonder what it would be like to work for your sister,” I mused. As an only child, I sometimes wondered what it would be like to even have a sister.

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d want to work with mine,” Lucy muttered under her breath.

  I stifled a laugh. She was talking about my mother, Mary Jane Lightfoot, and I had to agree with her.

  The man popped the last bite of his second corn pone into his mouth and tugged at his suspenders as he chewed. He swallowed and took a swig of the tea Lucy had handed him. “Thank you, ma’am. You put on a nice spread here. Too bad it’s for that sham of a therapist.”

  Lucy and Ben looked at each other.

  “What do you mean?” Declan asked.

  “Relationship guru,” the man grated out. “My foot, she’s a guru. You know that radio show she has? The one where people call in and talk smack about their husbands or wives or relatives?”

  I nodded. “Sure. The Dr. Dana Show. My friend loves it.” Glancing over, I saw Margie staring a hole in the door to Broughton Street as if she could bring the tardy author into the Fox and Hound by sheer willpower.

  “Dr. Dana. Right. Well, first off, she gives crappy advice.” His voice was loud.

  A curly-haired woman with dark eyes was browsing a rack of new releases nearby. When she heard him, the side of her mouth turned up, and she gave an indulgent shake of her head. Moments later she had come over to join him.

  He put his arm around her and continued his diatribe. “Really horrible advice. I did what she suggested, since she’s such an expert and all, and you know what?”

  “What?” Declan asked. His eyes shone with curiosity. Who says men don’t like gossip?

  “My Sophie here almost left me.” He gave the woman a squeeze.

  My boyfriend blinked. “Really? Geez, what did Dr. Dana say to you?”

  I glanced at Margie, who didn’t seem to be tuned in to our conversation. However, the dark-haired woman sitting next to Margie had twisted in her seat to watch us. Her eyes slowly narrowed. In anger at the stout gentleman sharing his story with us? She looked down at the book she held in her hand, and her lip curled.

  No. She doesn’t like Dr. Dana, either.

  A bad feeling settled across my shoulders, sifted down through my chest, and took up residence in my solar plexus.

  The man’s face had grown ruddier by the second. “Lots of things,” he said. “Mostly about keeping tabs on everything my darlin’ Sophie did. But the worst thing was she told me to make my fiancée quit her job.”

  The woman next to him—presumably darlin’ Sophie—rolled her eyes. “Can you believe it? In this day and age? Not to mention we have our own business. It’s not like I could quit that, even if I wanted to.”

  My aunt’s eyes widened, openly curious. “But why on earth would Dr. Dana say that?”

  “She said for the first year of marriage the wife should stay home.” He snapped his suspenders for emphasis.

  I felt my jaw slacken. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Sophie laughed. “He got his mind right. We’ve been married for six months now.”

  He shook his head. “I checked into her background after what happened. Her psychology license in the state of Georgia is expired, but it hardly matters since she doesn’t practice privately anymore. Just gets on that radio show of hers and tells people she’s never met what they should do to fix their lives. Heck, the woman wrote a book about child rearing, and she doesn’t even have any children.”

  “But how can—,” I began, but the murmur of voices rose. The front door had opened, and all eyes turned toward the woman who entered.

  Chapter 2

  A tall, slender woman about my age entered the Fox and Hound. Her shiny brown hair brushed the shoulders of a button-down oxford shirt tucked into black jeans. She kept her hand on the door as her eyes searched the crowd. When they lit upon Croft, she lifted her other hand to get his attention.

  Something like joy crossed his usually gruff face, then drained away as he hurried over to her. I held up my finger to Declan and sidled close enough to hear their exchange.

  “What’s wrong?” Croft asked in a stage whisper. “Is your sister still coming?”

  So this must be Phoebe, the sister/assistant.

  “She’s right outside,” the woman responded in a soothing tone. “I’m just checking to make sure everything is ready for her. She doesn’t like waiting.” Her eyes flicked to the podium. “Is there bottled water? Did you crack the seal as I asked?”

  “Of course,” Croft said, impatient. “Everything has been ready for an hour now. People are starting to get restless. If she doesn’t get in here, they’re going to start walking out.”

  Phoebe’s smooth demeanor cracked. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow. We’ve been behind schedule all day, and tonight we were particularly late because there was a . . . situation . . . my sister had to take care of.”

  What does she mean by “particularly late”?

  Did Dana Dobbs always arrive late to author events? From what I’d read in the Savannah Morning News, How to Do Marriage Right was her fourth book, and she was on the radio three days a week. Busy, I could understand, but keeping people waiting for this long was downright rude.

  “Well, get her in here,” Croft said, equally unimpressed.

  The doctor’s sister nodded, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. Then she turned and opened the door, gesturing to someone out on Broughton Street. The room grew quiet as everyone realized the star was about to arrive.

  Suddenly, the door was jerked wider, and Dr. Dana Dobbs clicked into the Fox and Hound on four-inch heels. Her golden hair was sculpted into a retro flip, and she wore a light blue, long-skirted wool suit that looked like it was from the fifties. Mascara, salmon pink lipstick, and a dusting of rouge completed the Mad Men look.

  A couple of steps inside, she paused. Her large brown eyes scanned the eager crowd, and despite her very put-together look, I sensed anxiousness. A split second later it was gone, and her lips curved up in a regal smile.

  Croft hurried forward, holding out his hand. “Here she is! Welcome, Dr. Dana! Everything’s ready.”

  She shook his hand twice, then let it drop. “Thank you so much, you dear man. I’m delighted to be in your little bookstore.” Her words drawled out sweetly, but there was just enough condescension in her tone to make me frown.

  I saw the skin tighten across Croft’s features and knew he’d caught it, too.

  Behind Dr. Dana, a man filled the still-open door to the street. He wore a blue sports coat over an open-collared white shirt and dark blue jeans and carried a leather folio bag with a handle. His chestnut hair curved toward his collar, accenting the handsome lines of his face. Phoebe hustled toward him and put out her hand. He nodded, reached into the bag, and handed her a sheaf of papers, then ambled to the seat she pointed to.

  Croft hurried behind the podium and turned on the microphone. I winced as his
voice thundered throughout the room. “The woman you have all been waiting for has arrived.” He turned the volume down to a more bearable level. “I’m sure you’re all quite familiar with her work, both on the radio waves and in print. So without further ado, please give a warm welcome to Dr. Dana Dobbs!”

  Applause smattered from the audience. The author marched up to take Croft’s place behind the podium and surveyed the room. Phoebe scurried up and handed her sister the papers, then faded to the side. Everyone else settled in their chairs, including the man who had been regaling us with the sad tale about his fiancée. Declan came around to where I stood. He leaned against the wall, and I leaned against him. He put his arms around me and rested his chin against my temple.

  “Thank you all so much for coming. I know there are a lot of places you could be on a Saturday evening, and I’m honored that you chose to come to . . . to . . . here,” Dr. Dana finished with a little smile.

  “She doesn’t know the name of the bookstore,” Declan murmured into my ear.

  “I bet she’s been to so many that they all run together,” I whispered back, trying my best to be charitable. “Besides, her sister probably sets it all up.” Never mind that since she lived in Savannah, she should have been familiar with all the local bookstores.

  Dr. Dana reached under the podium and drew out a bottle of water. She removed the cap and lifted it to take a sip. When she saw the label, the smile on her face froze, and she slowly lowered the bottle again. Her eyes sought out her sister, whose eyes widened when she saw the water. The celebrity’s delicate nostrils flared.

  Phoebe hurried to the man who had followed them in from the street. With a wry look, he reached into the leather bag at his feet and handed her a bottle of water. Quickly, she twisted off the cap and took it to Dr. Dana.

  “Sorry!” Phoebe whispered. “I told them which brand, but—”

  Dr. Dana’s eyes narrowed, and she grabbed the bottle. After taking a delicate sip, she placed it under the podium.

  I twisted my head to look up at Declan. “What was that all about?”