Magic and Macaroons (29 page)

“Well!” she said as she finished. “That is something! Did you bring the dowsing rod? We can try to find the talisman with it again.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said. “It’s in my car.”

She frowned, then shrugged. “As safe a place as any, I suppose.”

Opening the restroom door, I said, “I thought maybe we could try after work again? Or even just you and me in the office—if we can get away.”

We rounded the corner into the kitchen to find Iris almost in tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, wishing the bakery could be one place to escape drama.

She held up a small white disk and let it drop on the counter. It landed with a
thunk
and broke into several pieces. “The prep work is done for the day’s baking, and the ovens are full, so I thought I’d try to surprise you.”

Lucy and I peered at the pieces. “With . . . ?” I asked.

Iris sniffled.

“Meringue!” my aunt guessed.

Iris nodded. “Sort of. I’m trying to make
macarons
. I’ve been thinking about them ever since you made those coconut macaroon thumbprint cookies.”

I felt my face clear. “Ah. Well, let’s make them together, then.” I looked at Lucy. “Today’s special is oatmeal lace cookies, right? We can offer
macarons
as another, as long as they last. What flavor were you thinking, Iris?”

“Chocolate!”

“Okay, then. Chocolate, it is. Maybe with a bit of espresso and a hint of cinnamon?”

Our protégée’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “Yum!”

“First you need to grind some almonds.”

“You said something about almonds the other day,” Iris said, her tears forgotten. “I remember now.”

“Many grocery stores sell preground almond meal, but we don’t have any right now,” I said. “So we’ll grind up our own, and then toast it just long enough to dry it out and intensify the flavor. And we’ll start with a French
macaron
meringue—it’s easier and faster than the Italian version.”

We set to grinding and roasting blanched almonds from the pantry, and whipping egg whites with lemon juice and a pinch of salt. Then I showed Iris how to fold in a combination of the cooled almond meal, confectioner’s sugar, cinnamon, and powdered espresso while Lucy removed a batch of fig muffins—now a regular item on the Honeybee menu—from one of the ovens and put baking sheets in to preheat to 340 degrees.

“See, this batter forms a thick ribbon, much denser than the fluffy egg whites for traditional meringue. That’s what gives the cookie outsides of the
macaron
their tender chewiness. And see the pretty speckles from the cinnamon and espresso?”

Iris nodded, as attentive as any pastry student I’d gone to school with. “Lucy said cinnamon draws love, happiness, and money.”

Glancing at my aunt, who looked pleased as punch, I said, “That’s right. And what about chocolate?”

“Oooh,” Iris said, her eyes bright. “
Chocolate
has magical properties?”

Lucy laughed. “Good heavens, girl! What do you think?”

“It makes me happy, I can tell you that,” she said.

“Chocolate creates serious feelings of euphoria, for sure,” I said. “That’s plain old science, I’m afraid. In culinary school we learned cocoa contains phenylethylamine, a chemical that reduces your appetite, makes you feel lovey-dovey—your brain makes the same stuff when you fall head over heels—and, like you said, makes you happy.”

Lucy’s expression held amused delight.

I shrugged. “Most people don’t realize how much chemistry you learn in culinary school. Another food that has even more phenylethylamine than chocolate? Cheese.”

“I’ll have to tell Patsy,” Iris said, referring to her stepmother, who owned the cheese shop down the block.

“I don’t know about cheese,” Lucy said, “But it certainly explains why chocolate is associated with romance and . . . you know,” she finished, her cheeks turning pink.

“You mean sex?” Iris said, oblivious of my aunt’s discomfort.

I suppressed a laugh. “Back to the job at hand. Load some of the batter into this pastry bag, and I’ll show you how to pipe out the cookies.”

Ben showed up with several boxes from the bulk grocery then, and as he and Lucy opened the Honeybee and greeted customers, I directed Iris as she slowly and carefully formed uniform disks of succulent, gooey meringue on silicone baking sheets. When one was full, it went right on top of one of the preheated sheets in the oven, a simple method that prevented burning and encouraged even cooking.

As each pan came out of the oven, we let the cookies cool for a few minutes and then transferred them to a rack. In between batches, we mixed a simple chocolate ganache, adding more espresso powder and cinnamon.

“Now we fill,” I said. “First, you have to make a little indentation in the bottom of each cookie with your thumb, so it will hold more of the filling.” I gently pushed into the center of a meringue cookie to show her.

Iris did a little two-step before settling in to work. I began to realize that move of hers was a sign of joy.

“So these are kinda-sorta thumbprint cookies, too!” she said, bending over and making a careful dent in one of the cookies.

“Ha! I guess you’re right.” I began piping ganache onto cookies and sandwiching them together, watching her out of the corner of my eye. “And you know what else? You’re a natural at this. Whatever you decide to focus on at SCAD, I guarantee you that baking is one art form you’ll excel at.”

She answered with another two-step and a happy grin.

*   *   *

Making
macarons
with Iris—and sampling plenty of them as we worked—helped settle my thoughts. However, it didn’t help me make sense of all the pieces of information I had. Part of the problem was that I didn’t even know how many of the pieces even fit into the puzzle. And I felt sure there were still a few missing.

At least that night we’d have a better idea of where the talisman might be. And this time, I had a feeling Cookie wouldn’t be kept from joining us.

Just to make sure, I called her first of the spellbook-club members. Her phone rang five times before going to voice mail. I looked at my watch, suddenly panicked that I’d called too early—it had certainly happened before. But the morning rush had come and gone, and it was well after nine thirty.

On the other hand, Cookie had had a late night, and not everyone could get by on just a few hours’ sleep, like
me. I left a quick voice mail asking her to call me when she got a chance, and hung up.

Declan answered my next call, and we chatted for a while. He actually sounded worse off than I did, after being out all night checking for the source of carbon monoxide leaking into an entire apartment building. The residents had to be evacuated, and the fire crew not only had to track down the source of a poisonous gas, but also had to mollify a crowd of extremely cranky people who’d been rousted out of their beds in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, he still insisted on talking about my evening and how well I’d slept. When I told him about Cookie breaking the hex on the talisman, he grew quiet.

“Deck? This is good news. We have to be close to finding out who has the gris gris. That means we’re close to finding Franklin’s killer, and, hopefully, bringing Dawn out of her coma.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what I’m worried about. If you track it down—or if you track
someone
down—I want you to get ahold of me right away. And Peter Quinn. And Ben, of course.”

All men.
I smiled to myself.
Well, as they say down here: Bless his heart.

Before returning to the front, I checked in with Candler Hospital. They wouldn’t tell me more than that Eulora Scanlon and Dawn Taite were both still there, but that was enough.

Back out front, I found Bianca and Jaida sitting at one of the tables, leisurely flipping through sections of the
Savannah Morning News
. How long had it been since I’d simply sat down and read the paper? Things were fairly slow, so I grabbed a hazelnut biscotti and a cup of coffee and joined them.

“Hey, you two! Perfect timing.” I sank into a chair.

“Katie! We wanted to see for ourselves how you’re
doing after that awful fire,” Bianca said, setting aside the financial section.

Jaida examined my face, and then her attention flicked to my shoulder. “You had to get stitches in your arm?”

I nodded and grinned. “A baker’s dozen.”

Bianca rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

Jaida shook her head. “She’s obviously fine, Bianca.” She sat back. “Is our timing perfect because you can take a break? Or . . . ?”

“Ah. The break is good—don’t get me wrong—but Lucy and I were going to call and see if you two could come here after hours.”

“For, er, book-club business?” Jaida asked, surveying nearby tables to see if anyone was listening.

“Indeed. The same as the other night. Bianca, is this enough notice for you to get a babysitter for Colette?”

Her gaze slid away from mine.

“You know,” I said, sitting back and regarding her through the steam drifting from my mug. “We haven’t seen you as much as usual the past few days.”

She looked up with a troubled expression and bit her lip.

Jaida’s gaze sharpened. “Did you really have to stay home with Colette when we last gathered?”

“Yes!” Bianca said.

“You don’t like that the spellbook club is involved in this voodoo business, though. Am I right?”

Bianca gave a slow shrug. “I’m sorry. It just makes me uncomfortable.”

I set down my coffee. “You’ve never made a secret that you disapprove of Cookie’s approach to magic, and we understand. But I’ve learned so much about voodoo that I never knew before. I think you might find some of it interesting.”

Bianca’s jaw set. Jaida shot me a look.

I lifted my palms. “Or not. It’s entirely your choice. And if you don’t want to come tonight, that’s okay, too. I’m going to try Lucy’s dowsing rod again.” I directed my next words to Jaida. “Cookie is sure that last night she broke the hex that was hiding the gris gris.” I didn’t elaborate on the broken glass we’d had to clean up.

Interest sparked behind Jaida’s eyes. “Well, count me in. Can I bring Anubis?”

“Of course!”

Bianca sighed. “I’ll come, too.”

I grinned and stood. “Thanks. Cookie should be calling me back soon, and I’m pretty sure Mimsey will be able to join us. So we should have the whole gang.”

*   *   *

“Katie Lightfoot, as I live and breathe! What on earth are you doing at work today?” Mrs. Standish stood at the counter. Her hair was wrapped in a white turban that went nicely with her zebra-print caftan. Skipper Dean was nowhere to be seen.

I glanced down at Lucy’s abbreviated bandage. It didn’t show at all under the sleeve of my T-shirt. “Why, Mrs. Standish. I work almost every day except a few Sundays.”

“Oh, but that
fire
. Darlin’ girl, it’s all over town how you survived that horrible blaze. How on earth can you be so
blasé
about it?”

“The woman who owned the house that burned down is in much worse shape than I am,” I said quietly. “She’s still in Candler Hospital.”

“Oh, dear. That’s right—the fire completely destroyed Eulora Scanlon’s house, didn’t it? I’m so very sorry. I don’t know her well, but I’m aware that she is quite well respected in the community. She was hurt in the fire, then?”

I shook my head. “Not directly, but I’m sure the smoke did her no good.”
Nor did fighting an antifire demon, or whatever the heck that was.
“She had a heart attack.”

Her voice dropped to a faux whisper as she leaned closer. “Oh, no! Does the poor dear need help with her medical bills?”

I blinked. “I honestly don’t know.”

She straightened. “Well, you just leave that to me. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I am a fund-raising dervish.”

I had to laugh. “Mrs. Standish, trust me—your reputation precedes you. Anything you can do to help will be much appreciated, by me and by her family, I’m sure.”

Her eyes twinkled behind heavy eyeliner. “I might need more of those Brazilian cheesy biscuits your aunt Lucy made for the animal-shelter cocktail party. They were a huge success.”

“You just let us know,” I said. “We’ll whip up as many as you want—of those or anything else you decide on.”

“I can always count on the Honeybee! But for now, why don’t you load up a half-dozen mixed pastries for me?”

“Of course. What would you like?”

She twiddled her fingers in the air. “Surprise me.”

I selected two of the vanilla éclairs I knew she and Mr. Dean loved, a small brioche “pizza” drizzled with caramel and chocolate sauce, two savory scones—blue cheese and one of the cheddar sage scones Lucy had shown Iris how to make—and a peach pecan muffin, because I knew Mrs. Standish favored that flavor combination. Then I tossed in another small box with a half dozen of the oatmeal lace cookies for free.

She left, trailing the scent of expensive perfume in her wake, and I went back to the kitchen to arrange rows of
pineapple macaroons next to the chocolate espresso
macarons
. As I refilled the glass jars of biscotti and bused the reading area, my thoughts kept returning to Cookie. After taking a fresh cup of tea to Martin, who was now typing so busily on his novel that he hardly noticed, I went back in the office and tried her cell again.

Again, there was no answer.

I didn’t leave a message this time, and instead looked up the number of Cookie’s employer. Listening for an influx of customers out in the bakery, I dialed. The phone was answered on the first ring.

“Quartermaine Realty. Amber speaking. How may I help you?” She sounded perky and friendly.

“May I please speak with Cookie Rios?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. Ms. Rios is not in at the moment. Would you like her voice mail?”

“No, thanks. Can you tell me when she’s expected in the office?”

“Let’s see here.” I heard the clicking of a keyboard. “It looks like she’s out showing a warehouse to a potential client.”

Warehouse.
Such a simple word, yet my internal alarm bells began to jingle jangle.