Magic and Macaroons Page 4

  Quinn ignored them. “When you were asking after him a few months ago, you mentioned that you tried to track him down but couldn’t. I don’t know why you wanted to talk to him . . .” Eyebrows raised, he waited for me to step in with an answer.

  I remained silent.

  He continued. “Anyway, he’d obviously returned to Savannah, though he didn’t contact me. Or you.” He waited for a moment, watching to see if I contradicted him, then said casually, “At any rate, I thought you might be interested that we found him.”

  He was baiting me, of course. Fishing. But at the moment I was more gobsmacked than anything else.

  “He was murdered,” I managed.

  Quinn’s lips turned down as he slowly shook his head. “It doesn’t look like it. No obvious evidence of foul play. There were some slightly odd things near the body, I suppose, but easy enough to explain.”

  “Odd how?” I asked, instantly suspicious.

  He shrugged. “Food remains—someone probably squatted there for a while. And there were some feathers, like a maybe cat killed a bird inside. There were a couple of broken windows low to the ground, so easy enough for animals to get inside. Even snakes.”

  I shuddered. Snakes. I was afraid of snakes to a spectacular degree. “How many snakes?”

  “None, actually. Only bits of shed skin from one or two.” He leaned back and laced his hands over his abdomen. “What I want to know is why Frank was there in the first place. To the best of my knowledge, he hadn’t been in Savannah for more than a year, so why now? I contacted the New Orleans PD, and his lieutenant told me Frank left the department. There was some crazy case involving human sacrifice that compelled him to go out on his own as a private investigator last winter.”

  Human sacrifice. Yeah, that sounds like something that would have piqued Franklin’s interest.

  Quinn continued. “No idea why he was in that warehouse, though. The medical examiner said there was no obvious cause of death at the scene, but it could be a heart attack, an aneurysm, or any number of things. They’ll know more in a few days.”

  “A heart attack,” I repeated with skepticism. Instinctively, I didn’t believe that, but I was still reeling from the idea that Franklin had been alive all this time. I could barely think straight. Unless . . . “Hang on.” I raised a finger. “An empty warehouse?”

  Quinn nodded. “Used to be owned by a lumber supplier, but they went out of business. It’s been on the market for a couple of years.”

  Aha! Franklin has been on the other side all this time!

  “So, the body had been there for a while.” I leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  Lucy’s eyes widened. Mimsey patted her arm absently.

  The detective looked curious. “How long is a while?”

  “I don’t know,” I waffled. “Three months?”

  His lips quirked in a half smile. “That’s quite specific.”

  I shrugged.

  “But no.” He glanced at my companions. “From what I could tell, the body was, er, fresh.”

  “Oh!” I said in a small voice. What the heck?

  Detective Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Three months, you say. And you were asking me if I’d heard anything from him, let’s see . . . three months ago, give or take.”

  I tried to look innocent, but Quinn wasn’t buying. “I don’t suppose you know anything about how or why my former partner, who was supposed to be in New Orleans, happens to be dead here in Savannah. Do you, Katie?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. No idea.”

  He regarded me in silence for several beats.

  “None,” I said. “But his niece might be able to tell you something. If she’s conscious.”

  If she’s alive.

  “Why was she looking for you?” he asked.

  My shoulders rose and fell. “She passed out before she could really tell me.” Gris gris. You must find it. I wasn’t lying, not really. I still didn’t know what Dawn Taite had been talking about. I needed a chance to think things through.

  “Uh-huh.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll be in touch. And, Katie? If you change your mind and decide you might know something that would help me out? Call me. I mean it.” He pointed at Lucy and Mimsey. “That goes for you two as well.”

  Lucy nodded, her eyes wide.

  “Pshaw,” Mimsey said. “You don’t think we’d ever stand in the way of justice, do you?”

  “No,” he admitted. “God knows you and your friends have helped the department’s solve rate in the last year.” He walked to the door. “I’ll head over to the hospital now. Katie, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I agreed as he went out. He waved and strode away as the door closed behind him on its pneumatic hinge.

  The three of us looked at each other.

  “What the blazes is going on?” Mimsey demanded.

  I rubbed both hands over my face. “I wish I knew.” Dropping my hands to my lap, I distributed a long look between them. “But it isn’t good.”

  Chapter 4

  It was nearly dark when I pulled into my driveway. I paused after turning off my Bug, listening to the tick of the engine cooling and savoring the simple welcome of light shining from the windows of my small home. The soft, yellow glow gently outlined the dark leaves of the magnolia by the corner and cast the delicate ironwork of the porch railing into relief.

  Declan’s big pickup truck was parked in front. We’d been spending far more time at my place than his lately, partly because my air-conditioning worked better. We also spent many evenings, after the worst heat of the day had faded, working in the gardens. I was a bit proprietary about the herbs and certain other plants with magical uses, but Deck enthusiastically tended the vegetables and kept the lawn manicured, saying he missed having a yard since moving into his apartment. Now he was puttering around in my little kitchen, and I wanted nothing more than to settle in for supper and tell him about my weird, weird evening.

  Mungo bounded to the ground as I gathered my tote bag from the passenger seat. As he gamboled across the grass, pausing to do his business, a half-dozen fireflies began to blink, gathering around him from all over the yard. I’d learned they were his totem, much like my dragonflies.

  “Well, I’ll be! Thought those lightning bugs were all done for this summer.”

  I turned to find Margie Coopersmith striding toward me from her house next door. Her towheaded five-year-old twins trailed behind, leading their wobbly baby brother between them.

  “But they sure do love that little dog of yours.” Margie’s white teeth flashed in her summer-tan face. But when she got close enough for me to see in the light from the windows, she looked tired. Blond wisps straggled out of a sloppy ponytail, perspiration soaked her hairline, her cotton shirt was wrinkled, and her shorts had a mysterious mom stain by the hem. Behind her, the back hatch of the Coopersmiths’ Subaru was open to show a couple of bags of groceries.

  I set my tote bag on the grass and gave her a big hug. “I haven’t seen you around much these days. What have you all been up to?”

  “Camp!” the twins shouted, their combined volume impressive. Mungo ran over, and they dropped to their knees to pet him.

  Margie gave me a wan smile. “Like they said, camp. All of us, it turns out, which is not what I had in mind when I signed these little darlings up. But one of the leaders at Happy Hands Day Camp bailed on them at the last minute, so guess who’s finger painting and Zumba dancing with a dozen five-year-olds instead of just two?”

  “Holy cow,” I said. “You are a saint.”

  “Saint Margie,” she snorted. “You betcha.” But she sounded so low, I wanted to hug her all over again.

  “Is Redding gone?” I asked. Her husband was a long-haul truck driver for a national transport company, and was sometimes gone for over a week at a time.

  She s
ighed as the kids reached us, then forced a smile as she looked down at them. “Daddy’s on the road for another four days, huh, guys?”

  Jonathan and Julia, known as the JJs, nodded as a single unit. “He calls us on the computer,” Jonathan said, and Julia added, “Every night.”

  Margie looked down at her watch. “Lord, I didn’t realize how late it is. He’ll be calling any minute, and these two need to brush their teeth and get into their jammies before they talk to Daddy.” The JJs pouted in response to her pronouncement, but she waved them toward their house. “Better hurry.”

  They took off at a run as she swooped Baby Bart up into her well-muscled arms. “Come on, big guy. You’re due for a bath.”

  He giggled.

  “Redding reads those two hellions to sleep every night he’s on the road,” she said, affection in her voice.

  “He’s a good man,” I said. “I know it’s hard sometimes, though, with him gone so much.” Truthfully, I was in awe that Margie wrangled three kids by herself with such aplomb.

  She allowed a small grimace to cross her face. “Well, heck. I did think I’d given myself a little break by unloading my kiddos at camp during the day, but it just didn’t turn out that way.” She shrugged and then straightened her shoulders. Bart regarded me with solemn blue eyes. “First-world problems, you know. We’re lucky as anything, and we know it. They’ll be in school pretty soon, and I’ll probably miss them like the dickens.” She turned toward her car, then paused. “You want to get together some night after bedtime? I sure wouldn’t mind a real conversation with a grown-up.”

  “You bet! Let’s set something up.”

  She opened her mouth to say something when a dramatic wail came from the interior of her house. Rolling her eyes, she started across her yard, yelling, “I’ll call you,” over her shoulder.

  I waved my agreement and stooped to pick up my bag. The porch light flicked on as I strode toward the carriage house, Mungo trotting at my heel.

  Declan met me on the threshold, along with a blast of cool air and so many scintillating scents that I couldn’t identify them all. Shutting the door behind me, I breathed deeply. But before I could ask what was for supper, Declan cupped my chin in his palm and brought his mouth to mine. I ran my fingertips through his dark curls, and my body molded to his muscular frame. Everything flew out of my mind except the tart taste of apples on his lips and the intense safety I felt in the arms wrapped so firmly around me.

  Then Mungo yipped his own greeting, so loud we started to laugh in the middle of our kiss. Declan stepped back and met my gaze with the half smile I found so sexy. I blinked, distracted by the cocktail of hormones rushing beneath my skin. Then the smells from the kitchen reached my brain again.

  “What have you been cooking up, mister?”

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “You can’t expect me to stand on ceremony after a greeting like that,” I said. “Now I am sorrier than ever to get home so late. I’m starving.” And not just for supper.

  He motioned toward the kitchen, to the left of the postage-stamp living room. “Then by all means, let’s plate up.”

  Mungo trotted eagerly after him.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said, reaching to close the shutters on the front windows. As I turned back, the sound of rattling dishes drifted from the kitchen. The fringed, vintage floor lamp illuminated my purple velvet fainting couch against the peach-colored back wall. Small wingback chairs faced it across the Civil War–era trunk that served as a coffee table. To my right, a built-in bookshelf held a few volumes and various knickknacks. Beside it, a tiny hallway led to the bedroom and three-quarter bath, and steps led from the main living area up to the dark loft above, where I kept a small television, a folding futon, and the secretary’s desk that hid my altar from view.

  As I walked across to the kitchen, my attention was drawn to the table on the covered patio outside the French doors. Declan had set it with a checked cloth, my mismatched Fiestaware dishes, candles, and a bottle of red wine, already open to breathe.

  Come to think of it, I hadn’t had a chance to drink any wine with the spellbook club before Dawn Taite had started pounding on the door. I just managed to stop myself from going out then and there and pouring a glass.

  “Wow,” I said, joining Declan. “Pretty fancy doin’s for someone who likes to eat in front of the television with the game on.”

  He smiled and gestured toward the slow cooker on the kitchen counter. “Pork chops smothered in fried apples.” Handing me a plate, he went on. “With savory corn pudding, tomato and cucumber salad dressed with feta and basil vinaigrette, and chilled watermelon grown by moi. In your garden, but still.”

  “You had me at pork chops. Holy mackerel, Deck. This is amazing!” I stepped over and lifted the lid of the slow cooker, inhaling the fragrant steam that curled up from the interior. “And a tablecloth? Candles? How romantic.”

  He waggled his eyebrows à la Groucho Marx. “Glad you noticed.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What did you do?” I teased.

  Laughing, he started dishing tender pork, tart salad, and rich corn pudding onto plates—two dinner-sized and a small one for Mungo. “Grab the watermelon out of the fridge and open the door for me, woman.”

  Happily, I did as instructed.

  As I walked by my tote bag, which I’d flung on the sofa, my cell began to ring. I opened one of the French doors for Declan and returned to put the bowl of cold watermelon down on the coffee table.

  “Come on—do you really need to answer that?”

  I glanced at the display, then up at him. “I’m sorry. It’s Lucy.”

  He frowned, but took our plates outside.

  I answered the call. “Lucy? Did you find anything out?” Before we left the bakery, she’d said she’d try to get an update from the hospital.

  “Katie, honey, it doesn’t sound good.” I could hear the sadness in my aunt’s voice.

  My heart sank. “But she’s still alive?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Declan’s head jerk up.

  “So far,” Lucy said.

  “Did the hospital tell you anything more? Like what’s wrong with her?”

  “The hospital didn’t tell me anything at all. You know how careful they are about patient information. But after I told Ben about what happened, he checked with Peter Quinn, who gave him the update.” As Savannah’s former fire chief, Uncle Ben had known and worked with Detective Quinn for several years—long before Quinn had wrongly suspected him of murder.

  “Right,” I said. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

  “Are you all right?”

  I shrugged, but she couldn’t see that. “I don’t know her. We did the best that we could tonight. But of course it bothers me.”

  Declan now stood in the doorway, blatantly listening.

  “As for Franklin Taite, I already knew he was dead. Still, hearing it’s actually true from Quinn is more upsetting than I expected.”

  His eyes widened at that. I tried a smile, but felt it slide off my face like warm butter.

  “What are you going to do?” Lucy asked.

  I sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Katie, it’s pretty obvious you have to do something.”

  “Just let me sleep on it, Luce. Okay?”

  “Of course, honey. Say hello to Declan.”

  “Will do. Good night.”

  I hung up and joined Declan in the doorway. Together we moved to the patio, and he absently held out my chair. “Lucy says hi,” I said, as he moved around to his own chair and sat down.

  “That’s not all she said.” Leeriness and curiosity warred in his tone.

  “Um, no.”

  “Katie! Spill! What happened at your book-club meeting?” Even though he knew full well what the spellbook club was, he refused
to call them that. “Or does this have to do with why Detective Quinn wanted to talk to you?”

  I’d taken a big bite of pork chop and had to wait until I swallowed to answer. “Both, actually.” In between enjoying every morsel of the fabulous meal Declan had prepared, I filled him in on what had happened with Dawn Taite, about her cryptic message, and how Peter Quinn had shown up afterward with his own bombshell.

  He ate slowly, listening. His face revealed little. When I was done, he said in a flat tone, “This has something to do with you being a lightwitch.”

  I took a swig of wine. A big one. The conversation was about to get sticky. “I suspect so,” I admitted.

  “Of course it does.” The words came out harshly, but immediately Declan’s expression turned tender. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I know this is what you do.” We’d had a few difficult conversations since he’d learned I practiced spellcraft, but, for the most part, he was quite supportive—at least when it came to the hedgewitchery Lucy and I worked at the Honeybee. However, he wasn’t too happy when I was drawn into murder cases that involved magic. I couldn’t blame him.

  “Well, it’s only part of what I do,” I protested. “It’s not like being a lightwitch is my whole life.” Or was it? How could I know for sure? I didn’t even know for sure what being a lightwitch was. “And it’s not something I chose, either.” I didn’t like how defensive it came out.

  He smiled and reached over to squeeze my hand, which was resting on the tabletop next to my very empty supper plate. “I know. I get it. I’m on your side.”

  He was telling the truth about getting it, at least. He wasn’t a witch and didn’t practice any kind of magic, but he had his own unwanted “gift” to deal with. I ached to ask Declan about his uncle Connell, and whether he might be able to help. I held my tongue, however.

  We didn’t discuss Connell.

  I’d tried a few times, after Declan declared he accepted that his uncle had taken over—taken over his body, that is. Connell was long dead, and there was some question in the Declan’s family lore as to whether or not he had even been human. My boyfriend, Mr. I Think It’s Cool That You’re A Witch But It’s Not My Bag, had had his mind suddenly wrenched into a different awareness when he had inadvertently, and most unwillingly, channeled his ancient ancestor during a séance.