Magic and Macaroons (6 page)

“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.

Then it had happened again. Luckily, that time Connell had helped save our lives.

Declan said he was okay with it, but it turned out he wasn’t—not really. Every time I brought it up, he got defensive, and that led to enough tension between us that we ended up arguing about something else entirely.

So I’d stopped trying.

Now as we spoke, he seemed to shrink into himself, growing somehow smaller and tentative. I saw something in those eyes I loved that saddened me: fear. My big, brave firefighter was downright scared of the paranormal aspect of my life—and now his. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe he was afraid of the not knowing, of the inevitable mystery of magic. I felt the same way sometimes. A lot of times. But I knew at least some of his trepidation had been sparked by the things he’d seen since getting involved with yours truly, as well as some pretty frightening stuff he’d experienced himself.

Like that time when I’d almost killed him.

Anyway . . .

Then the fear was gone—or overcome—and my old Deck was back. Relief coursed through me as he stood and pulled me out of my chair. He drew me to him and held me close for several seconds in silence.

“It’s just that I worry about you,” he finally said, stepping back. “But I also love you and love who you are. The whole package. Got it?”

I felt my lip quiver and clamped it between my teeth. I nodded.

He grinned and ran his thumb along my cheek. “Okay. Now, what are you going to do to get to the bottom of this latest mess?”

“You really think I should get involved?” I wanted to hear him say it.

Declan laughed. “You were thinking you might just sit this one out?”

“It’s closer to home than Quinn’s other cases,” I admitted. “And I want—no, I
need—
to understand what the heck is going on.” I turned to gather the plates from the table. “After all, whether or not Taite was really dead when Ursula passed on his message to me—something I’m going to be calling her about, believe me—it seems that now he sent me another message, this time truly from beyond the grave, via his niece.”

“The stuff about the talisman.” Declan gathered the half-full bottle and wineglasses.

I nodded and started toward the kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes. “Apparently I’m supposed to find it, whatever it is. And it’s not an ordinary talisman, like Lucy gave me when I first came to Savannah.”
And later Steve Dawes,
I thought, mentally fingering the metal ring resting near the hollow of my throat. “It’s a voodoo gris gris. And whatever
that
is seems to have upset Cookie.”

“Voodoo.” He put a lot of warning into the single word. “So, what’s the first step, Detective Lightfoot?”

We’d reached the sink, and now I bumped his hip with my own. “Very funny. But without more information about what happened to Taite, I think the obvious thing to do is find the voodoo queen Dawn mentioned.” I started loading dishes into the dishwasher.

He frowned. “I don’t like that part of it. Not at all.”

Straightening, I wiggled my fingers in the air like spider legs. “Spoooooky voooodoooo.”

Declan grabbed my wrists without smiling. “Do not take it lightly. Just
don’t
. You remember the fire on the Southside last year.” A glimmer of that fear I’d seen during supper crossed his face again.

I sobered.

“A woman died in that fire, Katie, and in the end, the police proved it was a voodoo ritual that started it.”

“I remember,” I said. “But, honey, that fire wasn’t started by voodoo. It was started by an overturned candle. An accident. Something like that could happen during one of the spellbook club’s rituals.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Or if the wind were to whip up right now? We left those tapers burning on the patio table.”

“Oh!” His eyes widened, and he ran out of the room.

Of course the candles were fine. Mungo, who was still lounging in his patio bed, would have let us know if anything had gone even slightly awry during our few minutes inside. But it did speak volumes about my firefighting boyfriend’s state of mind that he’d forgotten the basic rule to never leave a candle burning unattended.

Hopefully, my words would put his mind to rest. However, I wasn’t taking anything about the voodoo element of this situation lightly. I didn’t know much about that flavor of magic, but I’d seen the expression on Cookie’s face, and remembered Lucy’s admonition.

I don’t know what happened to her father, but it had something to do with him being a voodoo priest.

Cookie’s father had died when she was nine, right before the rest of his family had moved to Savannah.

Chapter 5

“Mmm. Those smell like a Caribbean vacation,” Iris Grant said, leaning close to the macaroons I’d just removed from the oven. Her eyebrow ring glinted in the sunlight shining through the window that looked out on the alley.

“You just gave me a great idea,” I said, glancing over at my aunt. She stood at another of the stainless-steel counters in the Honeybee kitchen, carefully slicing hummingbird sheet cake into luscious squares. “There’s still some pineapple left, isn’t there?” I could smell it in the still-warm cake, along with the scents of ripe bananas and vanilla bean. This morning the Honeybee really did smell like a tropical paradise.

Lucy looked up and nodded. “Quite a bit. You know Ben always buys things in cases.”

“Yes, I do,” my uncle called back to us from behind the register. “That’s why you always send me to the bulk stores to stock up.”

“You’re right, Ben. Very efficient.” I turned back to Iris. “Let’s boil some of it down to make a nice, concentrated, sticky jam,” I said.

“Like you did with the pomegranate juice yesterday?” Iris asked.

“Well, that’s more of a jelly, but I want to use it for the same thing. You can see these macaroons are thumbprint cookies, as well. So we want to fill—”

“Macaroons?” Iris broke in. “Those don’t look anything like the cookies my stepmother brought me last time she went to Atlanta.”

“Ah.” I held up a finger. “Little round sandwich cookies? Slightly crunchy and light as air?”

She nodded.

“Those are
macarons
,” I said, then spelled the word. “Though sometimes it’s spelled the same as the coconut-based cookies we have here.
Macarons
don’t typically have any coconut at all. The cookies themselves are delicate meringue stabilized with almond flour and sometimes an additional flavor to go with whatever filling you put inside.”

Lucy laughed. “You sound like you should open your own pastry school.”

I blushed. “Sorry.”

“No!” Iris said. “I want to know.”

“Well, they can be a little tricky to get just right.” I reached for a number-two can of pineapple. “I had an instructor who challenged us to come up with all kinds of crazy fillings.”

Iris shifted position so I could reach the electric can opener. “What did you make?”

“Let’s see.” I thought back. “A sesame paste spiced with ginger, as I recall, and a curry cream with turmeric and chili. I seem to remember something with fennel, too.”

“For
cookies
?” Iris almost looked offended.

I shrugged. “Savory cookies, yeah.”

“Will you show me how to make
macarons
sometime?” Iris asked. “But filled with something chocolaty.” She got a dreamy look. “Dark chocolate with raspberries. Or caramel. Or both.”

Lucy put down her knife. “Sounds delicious, all right.”

Laughing, I said, “We can make some for a daily special next week. But right now I’m going to finish up these coconut macaroons. We can fill half the thumbprints with the pomegranate jelly and the other half with pineapple jam. They’ll taste like bite-sized piña coladas.”

“I approve,” Ben said, turning to face us. He’d recently changed his rimless glasses for a pair with brown frames that nicely complemented his ginger hair and neatly trimmed beard. At the moment there were no more customers waiting to be served, and the brightly lit kitchen was open to the rest of the bakery.

“A piña colada without rum?” Iris frowned.

I poked her tattooed shoulder gently. “What do you care? You can’t legally drink for another three years, anyway.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. So what’s the deal with the pomegranate jelly?”

“You don’t like it?” I asked.

“It’s yummy,” Iris said. “It’s just that you made such a big thing about needing to use it in a recipe.”

“Pomegranate is popular right now.” I kept my tone mild, but my eyes cut to my aunt. I hadn’t realized Iris had picked up on how strongly I felt about using the fruit in a recipe. The truth was, one of our patrons was a bestselling author who came in each morning for a muffin and green tea, and stayed until afternoon, typing away on his keyboard. Lately, Martin—though he published under another name—had shown up less frequently. When he did, he sat and stared at his laptop screen with a woeful, almost bewildered expression. Ben, who had a practiced knack for relating to customers, had finally teased it out of him: Our resident scribe was suffering from writer’s block.

So Lucy and I had determined to do our best to help.
We’d baked hazelnuts into moist fig muffins, a magical double whammy to increase his inspiration. We’d ordered bouquets of cornflowers and narcissus for the bistro tables from Mimsey’s flower shop, Vase Value, because those two flowers held creative power. I’d even slipped up his tea order one day, giving him jasmine green tea instead of the plain variety, along with a few muttered words directing the flower’s inspirational and intuitive powers to aid in overcoming his block. The pomegranate had been Lucy’s idea; my twist was to concentrate the juice into jelly with the intention of concentrating its creative, generative power as well.

“And then you got really weird,” Iris said, “standing over that steaming pot and talking to it.”

My eyebrows shot up. I
really
hadn’t intended for her to hear my incantations.