Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery Read online

  Lucy had insisted on adding plenty of cinnamon, cloves and ginger to the muffins, as well as basil to the sausage strata and a sprinkle of parsley over the eggs baked in brioche. All the flavors were welcome additions, but she seemed to do a lot of muttering as she stirred and sprinkled.

  I’d spent only short periods of time with Lucy before the Honeybee, though more and more often over the years. When I was a child, she’d visited Mama a few times, but she’d called me every month or so since I’d reached the age of ten. Then when I’d been in pastry school, and later in Akron, she’d made a few trips to see me, but not Mama. I didn’t quite know what it was between those two, but it was true that Lucy had an element of what Mama disdainfully referred to as “airy-fairy.” Now her herbal embellishments brought to mind how she’d murmured before, when adding the sage from her garden to the cheddar scones.

  Mmmm. Cheddar scones. That reminded me: With all the baking I hadn’t had time for breakfast. I ducked behind a partition and helped myself to a quick, buttery bite before emerging to help make coffee drinks for the crowd.

  I’d debated what to wear, and decided my usual summer uniform of T-shirt over a simple skirt and comfortable shoes would be fine for the DBA or anyone else. Any extra style would come from the extensive collection of aprons I’d gathered from vintage clothing stores, Etsy and wherever else I happened across them. Today I’d chosen a paisley chef’s apron that reflected the pink, green and orange of the melon medley.

  The door swung open again, and conversations trickled away as Mavis Templeton entered the bakery. She wore a tailored mint green dress that looked like something Doris Day would have worn, complete with matching shoes, handbag and—I could hardly believe it—pillbox hat. Her glittering eyes swept the room.

  “Where’s Mr. Jenkins?”

  “He called to say he can’t make the meeting,” Ben said.

  Her nostrils flared. “And the food? Is it ready?”

  “We’ll bring it out in five minutes,” I said from behind the counter.

  “I am especially looking forward to testing your brioche.” She sounded more like she was looking forward to having a fur coat made out of puppies. Given her obvious penchant for being difficult, it was hard to believe she’d signed off on my menu so quickly. I hadn’t been able to resist including brioche after her diatribe about the Sassafras Bakery.

  It just happened to be one of my specialties.

  “I’m looking forward to your feedback,” I said.

  After the drinks were served and the Downtown Business Association members had filled their plates, Ben joined one of the tables. He was, after all, the newest addition to their ranks. Lucy and I retired to the kitchen, but she kept peeking out.

  I craned my neck to see around the register. “What’s the matter?”

  “She’s not eating.”

  “Who?” It looked to me like everyone was tucking in with glee. You could always tell when people enjoyed a meal because they didn’t talk until they’d had a few bites of everything, and all I heard was a few murmurs and the clink of silverware on the Honeybee’s stoneware plates.

  “Mavis.” My aunt’s fingers twisted in her long batik skirt. “She took one bite of your brioche and hasn’t had another bite since. She’s not even drinking her coffee.”

  “No wonder she’s so skinny.”

  “She needs to eat.” Urgency threaded through the words.

  I looked at her curiously. “Well, why don’t you try going on out there and telling her that?”

  “Hush.”

  The group spoke informally over plates piled high with food as if it were some huge family gathering. Mrs. Templeton continued to speak little and eat less, her eyes darting around the room. The main topic of discussion was a new ordinance under consideration by the city council that would eliminate several dozen parking spaces along the riverfront. Many members of the DBA voiced their concern that it would affect the tourist trade, while others argued it would have little impact because so many visitors walked the squares and rode the numerous tour buses and so didn’t need to park downtown.

  A movement by the bookshelf caught my eye. I turned my head to discover a man sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, writing in a small spiral notebook. He wore khaki hiking pants, sports sandals and a black T-shirt. A length of leather braid gathered his smooth blond hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Brown eyes sparked with intelligence and a hint of boredom as they flicked among the diners.

  “Who’s that?” I whispered to Lucy, indicating him with my chin.

  Suddenly his eyes met mine, and for some reason it became difficult to breathe.

  “That’s Steve Dawes,” my aunt said. “He’s a columnist for the Savannah Morning News. Used to be a crime reporter before his column took off. Ben asked him here today, hoping for a mention of the Honeybee in the paper before our grand opening.”

  I didn’t respond, still entangled in his gaze. Finally, I took a deep breath and looked away, but not before his lips had quirked up on one side in a knowing grin.

  Shake it off, Katie. I’d sworn to forgo men for at least six months. Nothing good could come of a rebound relationship after being dumped by my fiancé.

  Lucy and I began clearing tables. Soon the DBA members rose and began to drift out in ones and twos, the same way they’d arrived. Several stood talking in small clusters, and a few wandered over to the library area to take a look at the books. Once again, Ben took up his station by the door, talking to each person as he or she left. As the former fire chief, he already knew most of them.

  “You’re going to be a huge success if the food you served today is any indication!” a woman in a smart brown suit said with loud enthusiasm,

  And from the woman behind her, “Oh, I agree. That sausage casserole was to die for.”

  “Thank you, ladies,” Ben said, graciousness personified. “Of course the real credit goes to my niece and my wife.”

  “Well, keep ’em around,” said a portly man with muttonchop sideburns. “They sure turn out some tasty eats.”

  I busied myself in the kitchen, happy for the kudos but mostly waiting for the Morning News columnist to leave. No use tempting fate with a closer encounter than we’d already had.

  Mrs. Templeton approached the counter where Lucy stood and handed her a check. “The coffee was too strong, and that egg casserole was too rich.”

  She had to be referring to the strata. The old crab hadn’t even sampled it, so how had she managed to develop such a severe opinion? Frowning, I turned toward them.

  Her eyes snapped to me. “The brioche would have been quite decent if you hadn’t ruined it by baking that egg in it. A bit of strawberry jam would have been far better.”

  I was silent.

  She sniffed and continued. “But overall it was an acceptable meal, and the association was able to successfully conduct its business.”

  Lucy looked down at the check in her hand. “Uh, Mavis.” She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice as she held it out. “This isn’t what we agreed upon.”

  “Nonsense. I’m treasurer of the association, and I’m paying exactly what this job is worth.”

  “But—”

  “And not a penny more.”

  Ben left his position by the door and joined his wife. “Is there a problem?”

  “No,” Mrs. Templeton said.

  “Yes,” Lucy said at the same time. The set of her shoulders, the pinched muscles near her mouth and the look she shot at Ben all shouted her distress. Conflict was not my aunt’s forte—nor mine. Tension hung heavy in the air.

  And there was Steve Dawes, drinking it all in as if we were finally going to provide some news fit to print.

  I was relieved when Ben stepped forward and my aunt leaned back a fraction. He took the check Lucy offered with her fingertips, perused it for a moment and then frowned at Mrs. Templeton. “Mavis, this is less than half of what we agreed upon. You know we can’t take that as full payment. It doesn�
�t even cover our expenses.”

  “You didn’t lose any money by having to close the bakery for the meeting,” she countered.

  “We had to scramble to cater to the DBA at all, given we aren’t due to open for three more days.”

  “So now you’re ahead of schedule.”

  Ben shook his head. “Mavis, either you pay the full amount we agreed upon in writing or I’ll have to go to Jack Jenkins.”

  Her red-tipped talon came out and shook in his face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, but I would. After all, it would be bad business not to bring this up to the president of the association.” Throwing her own words back at her.

  “On the contrary, Benjamin. It would be very bad business to cross me. Several people have found that out over the years. I can put your little bakery under inside of a month.”

  She whirled and stalked out.

  Slowly, I closed my mouth. Tried to swallow. The dozen or so business owners left in the bakery were dead silent. Lucy’s face creased with worry, and Uncle Ben flushed red under his beard. In the corner, the reporter wrote furiously in his notebook. I wanted to run over and yank it away from him.

  “Well.” Ben cleared his throat and tried again. “Well, thank you all for coming to this, the Honeybee’s pre–grand opening.”

  With that, conversation resumed, though I detected a slight edge to the voices.

  Ben came into the kitchen and strode toward the back door. “I need a moment.”

  Lucy watched him go, threw a look at me and moved out front. Immediately I heard a man compliment her on the food and service, followed by a woman chiming in with her agreement.

  At least someone liked my food. I began loading the dishwasher. What if Mavis Templeton—Ms. Nastiness Personified—ruined the Honeybee? Could she do that? I had a sinking feeling the answer was yes, and she’d sleep like a baby afterward, too. Moving to the counter for another pile of plates, I felt Steve Dawes looking at me. Against my will, I raised my eyes and met his.

  His smile revealed perfect white teeth. Damn.

  The front door flew open, and a tall bald man yelled, “Call 911! We need an ambulance out here!”

  Steve ran out the door, followed by everyone left in the Honeybee except Lucy and me. Her eyes were wide as she made the call to emergency services.

  A heavy, icky feeling weighed my steps as I moved to the door, opened it, and joined the people on the sidewalk. A gawker knot had formed around the dark green Cadillac parked a few spaces down the block. The milling crowd parted briefly to reveal Mavis Templeton sitting behind the wheel.

  Her hair was perfect and her red lipstick flawless. But her head lay against the seat back at a strange angle, and those snapping hawk’s eyes no longer glittered.

  It seemed pretty obvious that they never would again.

  I raised a trembling hand to cover my mouth. She’d been shaking her finger at us only minutes before, and now she was … dead?

  “Where’s Ben?” The voice startled me, and I spun around to find that Steve Dawes had approached from my other side.

  “Um—um—he went out back,” I stuttered. “What happened?”

  He grimaced, then leaned closer. “Someone broke her neck.” The way he said it sounded almost like an apology.

  “On purpose?” I asked without thinking.

  Dawes nodded. “Most definitely on purpose.”

  We heard the sirens first, and then saw the flashing lights. Soon the street was crawling with uniforms—police officers, firefighters and paramedics. Two officers quickly cordoned off the area around the Cadillac and asked the crowd to move back. Another two began to question the closest onlookers.

  I craned my neck, searching the throng.

  “I doubt the murderer is still here,” he said.

  Murderer. There was the word I’d been avoiding. I turned and hurried back inside the bakery just as Lucy reached the door. “Where’s Uncle Ben?”

  She looked blank.

  Grabbing her shoulders, I gave her a little shake. “Do you know where he went?”

  She winced, and I dropped my hands. “Oh, Lucy. I’m sorry,” I said.

  The sound of the back door opening was followed by Ben’s voice. “What on God’s green earth is going on out front?” He came through the kitchen to find Lucy and me staring at him.

  “What?”

  “Someone broke Mrs. Templeton’s neck,” I said. “At least that’s what that reporter told me.”

  Lucy sucked air in through her teeth. “Oh, that poor woman!”

  Bewilderment settled on Ben’s face. He opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything.

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  The door opened behind me, the bell above it tinkling merrily as two uniformed police officers entered the Honeybee.

  “Benjamin Eagel.” The shorter one made it a statement, not a question.

  My uncle nodded anyway.

  “We need you to come down to the precinct.”

  “Whatever for?” Lucy asked.

  “A woman’s been murdered.” This from the second policeman. His freckled face reddened as he spoke.

  “We just heard.” She moved closer to Ben. “It’s terrible, absolutely terrible. But it doesn’t have anything to do with my husband.”

  Freckles shuffled his feet. “Sorry, Ben. We heard you had an argument with her right before it happened. Detective Quinn wants to talk to you.”

  The short one looked stoic. No doubt Ben knew them from his tenure in the fire department.

  Then the words sank in. An argument right before a murder. The police couldn’t help but see it as a possible motive.

  The same thought obviously occurred to Lucy, because she vehemently shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  My uncle stepped forward. “It’s all right, Luce. I’ll go talk to Quinn and find out what’s going on.” He began to move toward the door.

  “Ben,” I said, “do you want us to call a lawyer?”

  He hesitated. “I suppose that might be a good idea.”

  “Who—”

  “I’ll call Jaida.” Lucy’s voice shook.

  Ben nodded, opened the door and left with the two policemen.

  I turned to my aunt. “Jaida’s a lawyer?”

  But she was already speaking into the phone. “We need you. Mavis has been murdered, and the police took Ben down to the station … Mavis Templeton … Yes, my Ben. Of course I know he didn’t do anything … No, I don’t think he’s under arrest. They said they wanted to question him.” She sank into a chair, pale with worry. “All right. Thank you, honey. We’ll wait for your call.”

  The hand holding the phone fell slack in her lap, and she looked up at me with wet eyes. “I can’t believe Mavis is really dead. We were just talking to her.”

  I knelt beside her. “Oh, Lucy, it’s going to be okay. They’ll find who did this awful thing.”

  The front door tinkled open again. I rose to tell whoever it was to go away and leave us alone. The doorframe filled with a brown-haired, blue-eyed man, and the words died in my throat. His blue T-shirt did little to conceal the muscles beneath, and he topped my five-eight by at least seven inches.

  Great. I didn’t care how good-looking he was; we didn’t need any visitors right then.

  He entered and went straight to Lucy. She rose and wrapped her arms around him, leaning against his chest. Giving her a squeeze, he looked at me over her head, eyes full of questions.

  “Oh, Deck,” my aunt said. “How did you hear?”

  “C’mon, Luce. You know we’ve got a scanner at the firehouse.”

  Ah. That explained the logo on the sleeve of the T-shirt. A fireman, and one who knew my aunt well enough to call her by Ben’s nickname for her. The tension in my shoulders relaxed a fraction.

  “I came as soon as I heard someone was killed in this neighborhood. I heard the cops already have a suspect, though, and they expect to make an arrest soon.” He held her away
from him and looked around the bakery. “Where’s Ben?”

  “Arrest? Oh, no. They can’t really think …” Lucy whispered. Tears welled in her eyes.

  I stepped forward and held out my hand toward the man. His forehead creased as he reached out and shook it.

  “Declan McCarthy,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Katie Lightfoot, Ben and Lucy’s niece. And I’m afraid the suspect you heard about might be my uncle.”

  Chapter 4

  “Let me get you a cup of coffee.” Lucy hustled to the espresso counter, her multicolored skirt swirling around her ankles.

  “You don’t have to—,” Declan began to protest, but stopped when I squeezed his fingers. He looked down at his hand, still in mine, as if wondering how it got there.

  I let go, leaned up and said in a low voice, “It’ll give her something to do besides worry.”

  He hesitated. I sat down. After a few seconds he followed suit. His hands, calloused but clean, rested on the expanse of blue covering the table between us. They looked strong and capable. And bare.

  Not that I meant to look for a ring. I just noticed, is all.

  “Ben told me you were moving here,” he said.

  My attention returned to his face. It looked strong and capable, too, with solid planes, a few laugh lines and a jaw that was a bit too square. Good, because we needed all the strong allies we could get.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he continued with a small smile. “Too bad it has to be under these circumstances.”

  “So you and my uncle are friends?”

  The smile widened into a grin. “Great friends. He mentored me as a rookie. Helped me through some pretty rough times, too.”

  “He’s a good man,” I said.

  “That’s why I don’t understand why the police consider him a suspect. Tell me what happened.”

  So I did, briefly explaining about the brunch, the argument over money and Mrs. Templeton’s threatening to close down the bakery before she walked out.