Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (22 page)

I had a few other ideas, too, including coming right out and asking the apartment manager about Mrs. Standish. After all, he’d been susceptible to Mrs. Templeton’s blackmail and threats. Maybe he’d respond to mine.

Of course, he might have killed Mrs. Templeton as a result of her machinations. Besides the fact that the Peachtree Arms creeped me out, Ethan Ridge emanated trouble. I was very glad Declan had agreed to come along on this investigative foray, even if I’d had to guilt him into it.

We pulled into the lot and parked close to the building. The late sun cast long blue shadows. Declan pushed the door open, and we paused in the sudden dimness to blink our pupils wide. I started down the hallway as my eyes adjusted, wrinkling my nose at the pungent smell of cooked cabbage. Nearing the manager’s apartment, I saw that the hand-lettered sign on his door had lost a piece of tape on one side and now hung askew.

Then I noticed the door was open a crack.

I stopped across from it and looked up at Declan. He put his hand on my shoulder, a strangely comforting gesture under the circumstances. I rapped on the hollow wood with my knuckles. The report echoed in the silence.

The pressure pushed the door open another six inches.

“Mr. Ridge?” I called. “Ethan?”

No answer. My gaze flicked up to Declan’s as I turned around and knocked on the door across the hall. “Mr. Sparr?”

But James Sparr was apparently out.

“Maybe Ethan is down in the laundry room,” I said. “Maybe he left his door open because he’ll be right back after putting fabric softener in or something.”

Declan gave me a look. Okay, maybe Ethan wasn’t a fabric-softener kind of guy, but how was Declan to know that? He’d never even met the guy.

With one finger he pushed the door open farther. And farther. I clutched the O-shaped amulet around my neck. Now we could see into the apartment, brightly lit by the dying sun. The yellow light angled across liquid spattered on the floor and reflected off shards of glass.

The smears were mostly dry. And red. Very dark red.

Wine?

A hint of copper-and-coffee smell hit me then. I whirled to escape it, covering my nose with one hand.

Not wine.

Blood.

Declan pulled me into his side, shielding my face.

Why? What else was in there? Had I missed a dead body or something? I pushed away and stood fully in the doorway, looking over everything. Two overturned chairs. Pizza boxes and beer cans strewn across the floor. A broken liquor bottle. A dozen half-packed cardboard boxes with the ubiquitous blue truck logo on them.

And blood. Not as much as I’d first thought, but enough.

But no Ethan. I took a deep breath of relief and instantly regretted it. Pungent whiskey fumes had joined the stench. As I recalled, this apartment hadn’t smelled
so great when Cookie and I had been there before, but now it was definitely worse.

Declan palmed my shoulder, pulling me back from the doorway. “I’d like to report an accident,” he said into his cell phone. “Or an attack. Don’t know which, only that there’s blood.” He gave the address and our location in a calm and authoritative voice. “We’ll wait outside.”

After he hung up, I said, “Maybe we should look inside his apartment. He could be in the bedroom.” Even if Ethan wasn’t dead, he was likely hurt.

Or someone was.

“No. Leave it to the police.”

This time I didn’t argue.

The patrolmen tromped in first. I hung around in the hallway, staying out of the way while straining to hear what they were saying inside the apartment. From what I could tell, they hadn’t found Ridge or anyone else in the other rooms.

“Ms. Lightfoot?”

I turned to find that Detective Quinn had entered the building from the other end. Sneaky. He didn’t look too happy with me, either.

“What are you doing here?”

My thumb ran over the dragonflies embossed on my amulet, and I cleared my throat. “I came here to talk to Ethan Ridge.”

He considered me for a long moment. But instead of yelling at me, he asked, “Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t listen to what I had to say on the phone. I found out that he and Mavis Templeton’s
nephew had a history. Possibly an unsavory one. Ridge was in jail for assault and fraud.”

Irritation flitted across his face before he tamped it down. “We are aware of that, Ms. Lightfoot.”

“Of course. But did you know Ethan’s pulling some of the same tricks he was before he was convicted? At least I think he might be. And he’s doing it with the help of Albert Hill.”

Quinn was silent for a moment, then looked around at the gathering tenants. He beckoned to me. “Come with me.”

I followed him out to a nondescript gray Chevy. He opened the door, and I got in. Was he arresting me? But he only started the engine, turned the air conditioner on full blast and twisted in his seat to look at me.

“Okay. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Tell me what you found out.”

“Ethan Ridge and Albert Hill arranged a cremation for the husband of a Honeybee customer. A Mrs. Standish.”

“So?”

“So she paid Albert directly, and he paid the mortuary. Or the crematorium. I’m not sure how it worked.”

“And?”

“Well, Ethan does have a history of selling burial plots that don’t exist.”

He made a note. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Standish and see if there was anything hinky about what they did.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “She thinks they walk on water. The point is they knew each other.”

Quinn sat back and regarded me. In the light of the setting sun I saw the dark half-moons under his gray
eyes, took in the slumped shoulders and day-old stubble. This guy was in dire need of one of Lucy’s seven-layer bars.

“You do realize that might not mean a thing,” he said. “People know each other in Savannah. Hill will inherit the Peachtree Arms, and now Ridge will work for him. I know Mrs. Standish, and I knew her husband, Harry. I went to his service, the one you say the nephew arranged. And I’ve met Albert Hill before, as well as his aunt.”

I protested. “Even if everything they did was on the up-and-up, it still proves that Albert Hill and Ethan Ridge were friends and/or business partners at least a year ago. Add in that Ethan had a history of violence, wanted to get away from the crappy job Mrs. Templeton had blackmailed him into, and Albert Hill gets a pile of money now that his aunt is dead. At the very least you’ve got somebody to investigate other than Benjamin Eagel.”

Detective Quinn put down the pen he’d used to make notes. He met my eyes straight on. “This is good information. Don’t worry—I’ll follow up on it.”

“Ethan could have killed her,” I went on. “Albert could have known, or they could have been in on it together, and now Albert has cleaned up a loose end.”

He raised his palm. “Hold on. Leave the speculation to us, okay? Your part in this investigation is finished now. Over. Understand?”

The muscles in my jaw flexed. “I only want you to realize that my uncle didn’t kill Mrs. Templeton.”

“We’ll look into this other business of fraud. See what Mr. Hill has to say. But frankly, I doubt that what
you found here today has anything to do with the murder. Ridge had a number of low-life associates, any of whom he might have angered. Either way, we’ll find out what happened.”

Alarm bells went off in my head. I could tell, whether from the angle of his head or the tone in his voice or something entirely woo-woo, that he still considered Ben his primary murder suspect.
Mr
. Hill, indeed. Albert might not be his aunt, but he still had the respect of the powers that be.

“It’s that darn witness, isn’t it?” I asked. “What happened when you talked to Frank Pullman?”

“How did you know I—” He sighed. “I don’t want to know. But you’re right. He does fit the description the witness gave.”

“See!”

“But unlike your uncle, he has an alibi. He was with his sister’s family over in Pooler, as well as two of their neighbors, from eight a.m. until six p.m. the day Mavis Templeton was killed. He simply couldn’t have done it.”

“But …” I trailed off. Rubbing my eyes with my fingertips, I muttered, “The man your witness saw probably didn’t have anything to do with the murder. I mean, she didn’t actually see him kill her.”

“That’s possible.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I think we’re done here, aren’t we?”

“I guess so.” I opened the car door and got out. And perhaps I closed it with a little too much enthusiasm; it did sound awfully loud in the falling twilight. I turned and looked at Quinn through the windshield.

But I was already off his radar. He was speaking into his phone, not even bothering to look out at me.

Fine. I had resources, after all. Resources Detective Quinn would only scoff at.

Until I brought him the truth on a plate.

Back inside the Peachtree Arms a policeman was closing the door to the manager’s unit. A babble of voices drifted out from James Sparr’s apartment across the hall, and I peeked inside the partially open door to find Declan talking with half a dozen tenants.

His chin rose when he saw me, and his eyes smiled. I pushed the door farther open.

Mrs. Perkins perched on a wingback chair, her walker beside her, listening intently to the others. When she saw me, she twiddled her fingers in my direction. “Hello, dear. Did you hear?” The voices died down as the group took in the newcomer.

I glanced over at James, who was holding court from his recliner. “May I come in?”

He gestured me forward with a languid wave. “Knock yourself out.”

The living room felt cramped with that many people in it. Three older ladies sat on a maroon velvet sofa so worn in places that it looked as though pink skin were showing through. Another man stood next to the doorway leading into the kitchen, and Declan leaned against the incongruously elaborate fireplace mantel.

Sitting on the ottoman next to Mrs. Perkins, I took her hand and said, “You mean about Ethan being missing?”

“Oh, yes. And all that blood! I looked inside after the nice police lady came to find out if I’d heard any kind of ruckus.”

The others erupted again with their own stories of police questioning. Under the circumstances it was quite the convivial atmosphere. There were even cheese crackers and a bowl of green grapes on the coffee table. As I listened to the tenants one after another disappointedly relate that they hadn’t heard a darn thing but wished they had, a short, round woman came in with a bag of chips for the coffee table and cracked open a plastic container. The smell of onion dip added to the festive climate.

Despite tragedy and the neglected property, the Peachtree Arms was a community. These people knew their neighbors and cared about them. Watching them interact, I felt my attitude about the place shift slightly.

I stood. Declan took a step toward me. The tenants stopped talking and looked at me.

“Did anyone see or hear anything that could help the police find out what happened to Ethan?”

Everyone shook their heads. Except, I noticed, James Sparr.

I turned to him. “Mr. Sparr? Were you in here earlier today?”

“Sure was.”

Declan and I exchanged looks.

“Were you here when we knocked earlier?” he asked.

“Sure was.”

Cocking my head to one side, I asked, “Why didn’t you open the door?”

“Didn’t know it was you.”

I turned and looked at the door behind me. It didn’t have a peephole. I turned back. “You heard something across the hall, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “’Bout an hour before you got here I did.”

Everyone went still. He’d been waiting to spring this.

“And you’ve already told the police about it?”

He smiled. “Soon as they asked me I did.”

Declan got to the point. “What did you hear?”

“Quite the commotion, it was. Bunch of yelling and then a big crash. Door opened then and someone ran off down the hallway.”

There was a general intake of breath at that.

“Just one person ran away?” I asked.

“Sounded like that. I kept my door shut, though. Don’t have any interest in getting involved in Mr. Ridge’s affairs.”

Just then I heard a voice in the hallway and held my finger to my lips.

“You’ve searched the whole place?” Detective Quinn asked. “Top to bottom?”

“Yessir,” came the reply. “Found some blood on the stairs, but other than the mess inside, nothing else.”

In James’ living room we all looked at each other, perfectly quiet and straining to hear.

“Is his car here?” Quinn asked.

“Right in his spot.”

“And you’ve talked with all the tenants.”

“Still working on the top two floors.”

Quinn sighed. “All right. Check with all the hospitals regarding suspicious wounds and let me know what you find out.”

“Yessir.” Their voices began to fade as they walked away.

I peered around the doorjamb to see the retreating backs of Quinn and the uniformed man. I waited until the uniform opened the door to the stairwell, then grabbed Declan’s hand.

“We’d better get going. I don’t think the good detective is ready for another encounter with yours truly so soon.” I waved back at the Peachtree Arms tenants. “’Bye, everyone.”

“Good-bye, dear,” called Mrs. Perkins, echoed by the others.

We made it to Declan’s truck without incident. On the drive home I said, “Somebody hurt Ethan, and now he’s gone but his car is still there. Did they make him go with them?”

He shrugged and flicked on his turn signal. “He may have hurt someone else, you know.”

“Do you think Albert had anything to do with it? Because Detective Quinn thinks the whole thing might be fallout from the company Ethan keeps and nothing at all to do with Mrs. Templeton’s murder.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“But what do you
think
?” I found myself almost bouncing in the seat.

“I think no one can answer those questions except Ridge himself.”

That gave me pause. “So we have to find him.”

“Good luck with that,” Declan said. “He may not even be alive.”

After Declan dropped me at home, Mungo and I read up on location spells. For the most part they looked pretty simple. Which was good, because for my very first solitary spell I wanted something easy peasy. There was a common one that looked doable, safe, and didn’t call for any crazy ingredients.