Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (7 page)

Don’t give yourself airs, Katie. You’re nothing special, just a normal kid.

I hadn’t felt like a normal little girl, though. Not then. But over time I’d convinced myself she was right.

Or was she? The truth was that I still felt different. I’d thought having a husband and a home with a nice rosebush by the door might change that.

“You grew up and decided everyone thinks they’re special, even when they’re really not. Right?”

I stared at Lucy, then shook myself. “Don’t they?”

“Not special like you were. And you had evidence of it, didn’t you?”

A telltale shiver ran down my back. I held up my palm in a weak attempt to stop her.

She ignored it. “Think about when you were a child. How you knew things other people didn’t know. How you could influence events—not exactly make things happen outright, but nudge them to go the way you wanted. Remember when you and your father went hiking, and you already knew which plants you could eat and which ones were poisonous? No one told you that. It was just part of the knowledge you were born with. And what about how you always knew how Sukie and Barnaby were feeling? Even what they were
thinking
? You may be allergic to cats, but your father always made sure you had dogs around to keep you company. He knew you needed them. That they were truly your friends.”

My thoughts shot to little Mungo, waiting for me on the driveway and then later on the porch.

“And don’t forget your dragonflies.”

I shivered again, despite the heat. “They aren’t mine.”

“They’re your totem, Katie. They manifest whenever there’s something you should pay attention to, like a metaphysical tap on the shoulder.”

There had always been dragonflies around when I was a child, and I’d been drawn to depictions and representations of them like other little girls loved unicorns. But over time I’d seen them less and less. Until Savannah.

But that was just because of the warm climate. Right?

“When the opportunity for the Honeybee came along, I knew it was kismet,” Lucy said. “I would finally have a chance to introduce you to your heritage.” Her obvious joy would have made me smile if I hadn’t still been so stunned. Then it was replaced by a rueful look. “I hadn’t planned on springing it on you quite like this, though. Believe me, I wanted to ease you into it so you’d have a chance to get used to the idea. But then Mavis Templeton was murdered, and Ben’s in danger. You needed to know now, even if you’re not prepared to use any of your abilities yet. The spellbook club is meeting to see what we can do to help Ben, and I don’t want to try to hide that from you.”

Spellbook club indeed. I remembered the way they’d all looked at me, waiting to bring me into their … Oh, no, did they consider themselves some kind of coven? What would I say to them now? I couldn’t get over
how
normal
they all seemed, even little pink Mimsey. I shook my head and swallowed. Then I caught Lucy’s amused look, and couldn’t help but wonder whether she could read my mind.

Stop it.

Lucy rose, then bent slightly to kiss my forehead. “Being a witch is a good thing, sweetie. You’ll see.”

Ben returned from the office as she picked up our plates. She passed him on her way into the kitchen.

He had to know what she had just been telling me. How did he feel about the whole witch business?

“Ben,” I said.

“Gotta go proof the newspaper ad for the grand opening,” he said, lurching toward the door.

My eyes narrowed. He ducked his head and escaped.

I put my chin in my palm and listened to the rattle of dishes in the kitchen while I tried to assimilate Lucy’s revelation. A witch. Bless her heart, she seemed to really believe it.

Hedgewitchery
. I shook my head.
Oh, brother.

Never mind that the word seemed to wrap around my soul like a cozy blanket.

I stirred tart cherries into the dark chocolate batter and tasted the concoction. Delish. But it would be even better with a dash of cinnamon and a few more cherries. I measured out another cupful while my mind gnawed on what Lucy had told me about Mama.

My mother, Mary Jane Lightfoot, had thrown a fit when she learned of my plans to go into business with her big sister.

“You’ll hate it in Savannah,” she’d said on the phone.

“What are you talking about? I love it. The squares, the river, the history. Mama, I’ll be able to really use my culinary training in a creative way. And I can have a garden all year-round. Even in the
winter
. How cool is that?” No mention of escaping a romance gone sour. No mention of Andrew at all. My mother had disliked him from the beginning and was not above throwing an I-told-you-so my way.

She’d sniffed. “It’s muggy and hot and sticky. The bugs are awful. It smells funny. People are stuck-up. You’ll have to get new clothes, do something with that
hair of yours, and stop acting like such a tomboy.” A pause, then, “Lucy will turn you … You’ll turn into a whole different person.”

Now, Mama was not exactly tactful on her best days, but this diatribe had surprised me. Normally the idea of my updating my wardrobe and fussing with my hair would have sent her over the moon with delight. But on the phone she’d sounded almost frightened at the prospect. I put it down to the decades she’d spent in Fillmore, Ohio, population 563. After all, she’d fought my decision to go to pastry school, and then she’d hated it when I moved to Akron. I was an only child, and Savannah would be the farthest I’d ever lived from my parents. But what did she expect me to do—move back to Fillmore?

Uh-uh. No way.

I’d countered in the gentlest tone I could muster. “Everyone I’ve met in Savannah is nice as pie. My clothes are fine. My hair is fine. And while I don’t intend to turn into a whole new person, I sure hope some things are different. That’s kind of the idea.”

Well, after my one week in Savannah someone had killed Mavis Templeton, Ben was a murder suspect, and now my aunt had informed me I was a
witch.
Not exactly what I’d had in mind when I’d wished for something different.

Should I ask Mama about what Lucy had told me? As I dolloped batter into the rows of paper cupcake liners, I found myself shaking my head. If Lucy was simply unbalanced, then calling my mother wouldn’t help a bit. And if Lucy was telling the truth …

Ow. That just made my brain hurt.

*        *        *

“You know, Mavis and I dated for a while back in high school.” Ben’s words cut through my thoughts.

I looked up from the notebook in front of me. It contained all the recipes Lucy and I had developed, and I was adding the cupcake recipe to a page toward the back. I had a feeling they’d be in high demand once the Honeybee opened. The warm scents of chocolate and cinnamon filled the air. Light classical music played at low volume through speakers mounted high in each corner of the room.

It took a moment for what he’d said to register. “You dated?”

“For almost a year, when we were juniors.”

I whistled. “That’s hard to believe. How did you stand it?”

He laughed. “She wasn’t like she is … was … Well, anyway, she used to be a lot of fun—happy, lighthearted, almost silly at times. But she hardened over the years. Became bitter.” His voice softened. “That bitterness sapped all her joy and left her a shell of the girl I knew, brittle with anger and disappointment.”

“She was bitter, yes. But hardly brittle, Uncle Ben. That woman was made of oak, not balsawood.”

Silence as I remembered how someone had snapped her neck as if it had been exactly that: balsawood. One glance at Ben and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

I cleared my throat, feeling awkward. “I’m glad she was happy once.”

Knuckles rapped on the front window, making me jump. Steve Dawes peered through the slats in the blind, trying to see into the relative darkness.

“Darn him.” I launched myself to my feet. “He just wants a story about what happened yesterday.”

Ben rose and strode to the door. “Actually, Steve called me this morning. Wants to talk to me about the face of business here in the historic district. He’s talking to Croft Barrow in the bookstore and Annette Lander, who owns the knitting shop next door. It’s for his column.”

His last words accompanied Dawes’ entrance into the bakery. The reporter’s teeth flashed as he said, “Yes. For a column about the changing and the not-so-changing aspects of this fair city.”

He knew I’d suspected his motives.

Wincing inwardly, I said, “Come in, Mr. Dawes.”

“Steve, please.”

I nodded my agreement and muttered, “Steve it is.”

Ben gestured toward a blue-and-chrome chair. “I bet we could talk you into one of the cupcakes Katie just took out of the oven.”

The corners of Steve’s eyes crinkled, and his lips parted to reveal those teeth again. “Is that what smells so great? Talk about savvy marketing.”

My heart went
thumpa
. I scowled.

“Katie,” Ben said, the word gentle but insistent.

“I suppose you’d like coffee with that,” I grumped.

The smile never faltered. “If you insist. Cappuccino. Dry, please.”

“Dry. Right.”

As I moved to the espresso machine, he sat down
and pulled out a notebook. “Ben, tell me about your vision for this newfangled bakery in old Savannah. Are you going for tradition or pushing for progress?”

The screech of the espresso machine drowned out the rest of his question and my uncle’s answer as well. I topped the cappuccino with dry foam, plopped a warm cupcake on a small plate and took both, along with a napkin, to Steve. Setting them in front of him, I met his eyes. He stopped talking.

We looked at each other for a few years before I tore my gaze away. Ben’s expression held mild amusement.

Steve reached toward the notebook of recipes that sat on the table in front of him. Before he could open it, I snatched it out of his hand.

“Proprietary information. I’ll let you get back to your interview.”

I took the notebook behind the register and bent to search under the counter for the colored chalk we’d use to list menu items on the giant blackboard. The whole time, I was intensely aware of the two-inch strip of skin on the side of my hand where Steve’s finger had rested for a nanosecond when I’d taken the notebook away.

There was no reason on earth for it to tingle like that.

None.

After a few moments the two men began speaking again, in tones low enough for me to ignore with a little effort. Which I did, studiously concentrating on roughing out the menu design on a blank sheet of paper. Glancing back and forth at the colors of chalk in the box, I tried to imagine what they’d best represent on the board behind the register.

Coffee drinks in white.

Cookies in light blue.

Biscotti in yellow.

Muffins and sweet confections like the cherry-chocolate cupcakes in light pink. Or maybe—

“That was delicious.”

I jumped and turned to find the columnist leaning one hip against the counter beside the register.

Thumpa.

“Um, thanks.”

“I’m not here to make your uncle look bad.”

“Thanks,” I said again.

“In fact, I hope the Honeybee will be a big success.”

“Th—” I bit my lip.

“Because then you’ll be around for a while. And I’d like to get to know you better.”

My brain shouted,
Too slick! Don’t trust him
! But something considerably south of my brain couldn’t have cared less.

“How much do you know about the haunted side of Savannah?” he asked.

“Not much,” I managed to get out.

“Want to know more? Not the tourist traps, mind you. The real deal. I could show—”

“Yoo-hoo!” Mimsey Carmichael’s distinctive Southern tones echoed from the kitchen, followed immediately by the lady herself. Today’s color of choice was turquoise, from the beads around her neck to the surprising blush of blue-green on the toenails peeping out of her sandals. The only incongruity was a tiny blob of white on her shoulder.

“Lord love a duck, what have y’all been getting yourselves involved with? When Jaida told me what
happened yesterday you could have knocked me over with a feather! Thank goodness Lucille called.” When she saw Steve, her mouth snapped shut. Twinkling eyes moved rapidly between us as if we were batting a tennis ball back and forth. Finally they rested on me—and one closed in a conspiratorial wink.

I was sure he’d seen. Crawling under the counter seemed like a good idea, but there wasn’t room. If I’d been a real witch I would have made myself disappear.

“Why, Mrs. Carmichael. What a nice surprise,” Steve said.

Sheesh—did everyone here know everyone else?

Mimsey’s responding titter was tight with nervousness, which surprised me. The older woman struck me as unflappable.

“Another of your book club meetings?” His eyebrows rose and fell a mere fraction.

Mimsey cut a sidelong look in my direction. “Oh, we’re just being supportive friends,” she said. “Lucille called and wanted us to stop by, you see.”

Steve leaned forward.

“We’re going to see what we can do about—”

I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her—and discovered the white blob on her shoulder was slightly sticky.

What the … bird poop? Really?

“Do you have any more questions for me?” Ben said.

“What?” Distracted from Mimsey’s near revelation, Steve turned. “Oh. No, I don’t think so.”

My uncle opened the front door. “We sure do appreciate you including us in your column.”

Steve took the hint, albeit with reluctance, if the look
on his face was any indication. “I’ll check in with you later, okay, Katie?”

I nodded mutely, ignoring the grin on Mimsey’s face, and reached for a napkin to wipe my hand.

She noticed and twisted to look down at her jacket. “Oh, dear. Heckle’s usually so good when he’s on my shoulder. I had no idea he’d gone and made a mess.” Shrugging her jacket off, she said, “Heckle’s my parrot, you see.”

Her parrot. Of course.

Lucy leaned forward on the poufy brocade sofa and clasped her hands in her lap. “I told Katie this morning.”