Spells and Scones (17 page)

“Maybe later,” he said. The coldness in his voice gave me pause.

“Ben?”

“Come on, Luce. We can stop by Zunzi's for takeout on the way home.” He loaded cash into the bank bag and brushed by me on his way to the office.

“What the . . .” I turned to Lucy, who gave me an apologetic smile. “Does he already know Jaida half agreed to a radio spot?”

She shook her head. “I don't think that's it.”

Realization dawned. “He's giving me the cold shoulder because I'm still deciding how to handle Declan's proposal?”

That smile again. “Don't mind him, Katie. He'll get over it.”

My aunt and uncle left. Lucy called her good-byes over her shoulder, but Ben just vaguely waved his hand.

“What's wrong with your uncle?” Cookie asked as I flipped off the overhead lights. Angie was in the office with Mungo. Again.

Sighing, I told Cookie that Declan had asked me to marry him, and waited for her response. True to form, it wasn't like anyone else's had been. Instead, she tipped her head to the side and considered me.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you not want to be married at all?”

“No, it's not that.”

“All right. Do you want to be with Declan McCarthy, forever and ever, so mote it be?”

I hesitated. “I think so. I really do.”

“You need to know so. And if the answer is yes, then you need to know whether that would be possible without marriage.”

“Not for Declan, it wouldn't.”

She took off her apron and hung it on one of the pegs on the back wall. “Whatever you decide, Katie, stand your ground. Do what you know is right for you.”

I walked up and gave her a hug. “Thanks, Cookie. I needed to hear that.”

Angie came out of the office, Mungo on her heels now that he knew the bakery was closed. “I really enjoyed myself,” she said. “Thanks for letting me hang out with you guys this afternoon.”

Cookie snorted. “Hang out? You worked your tail off.”

“Well, I'm still grateful. Katie, I'm ready to go whenever you are.”

I considered her. “I don't suppose I could talk you into having a drink with me before we head home.”

Cookie grinned. “Can I come along? Oscar isn't off work yet, and he has the car.”

“The more the merrier,” I said.

Angie tipped her head. “What did you have in mind?”

“The King's Castle, down the street,” I said. “I'll
buy.”

The King's Castle was narrow and dark. A massive mahogany bar on the right side reached into vague shadows at the back of the establishment. A row of red Naugahyde barstools offered seating in front of the bar, and small booths with high-backed, scarred wooden benches marched down the wall to the left. The eight-foot ceilings felt oppressive after all the time I spent under the high ceilings of the Honeybee and my carriage house, but the air smelled so delicious I immediately decided to have a snack with my drink.

As we made our way down to the center of the bar, I noted the plethora of framed photos arranged on the wall over the booths. They were of birds—in flight, at rest, nesting, eating, perching—and quite stunning. Good-enough-to-be-in-a-gallery stunning.

Cookie slid onto a stool, and I took the one beside her. Angie climbed up next to me, and I noticed her shoes didn't quite reach the brass footrest. Half a dozen people were sitting in pairs, recently off work like us or maybe getting an early start on the holiday.

Sophie King came bustling down and leaned her elbows on the top of the bar. “Ladies, what can I get you?”

“I'll have a Sazerac,” Cookie said.

The bartender did a double take. “What's in that again?”

“Cognac, absinthe, and bitters. A little sugar.”

Sophie bobbed her head. “Of course. Coming right up.” She looked at me. Puzzlement pinched the corners of her eyes as she tried to place me.

I pulled the bar menu over and saw we'd arrived in time for happy hour. “I'll have a Guinness.”

Angie nodded. “Sounds good. I'll have one, too.”

“And some boiled peanuts and Tupelo hot wings,” I added, visually checking with my two companions.

They nodded their agreement.

When Sophie came back with our drinks, I smiled. “Hey, I remember you from the other night at the Fox and Hound.”

Recognition dawned. “Right! I knew I'd seen you before.” Her face clouded. “What a crazy thing to happen to that radio host. Lordy, I can hardly believe it.”

“No kidding,” I said.

Beside me, Cookie took a sip of her Sazerac and winced.

Suddenly Sophie pointed at Angie. “Heck, you're the one who got Earl all het up about that silly stuff Dr. Dana told him to do, calling her on the carpet like you did.” Sophie crossed herself. “God rest her soul.”

Angie looked uncomfortable for a moment, then sat up straighter. “It's nice to know I wasn't the only one who thought Dr. Dana dispensed poor counsel to her listeners.”

“Oh, my. Earl looked up all sorts of things about her. There are a whole bunch of people online who didn't like her.” She looked torn between dishing on Dr. Dana and feeling bad about it. “You know she didn't even have
any kids, but that woman still felt like she could tell other people how to raise theirs.” She shook her head and tsked.

“I think your husband mentioned that,” I said, and took a sip of Guinness. The creamy foam coated my upper lip, and I licked it off.

“She was misguided in many ways,” Angie said. “Not that I wished her any harm,” she hastened to add.

The bartender waved her hand. “Oh, heavens no!” She looked both ways at the other customers, then leaned toward us. “Were you still there when it happened?”

Cookie tried another sip of her drink. After a few moments, she took another. It appeared to be growing on her.

Angie and I exchanged glances. I nodded. “We were.”

“Is it true that she was poisoned?”

We all nodded.

“Well, goodness, how could they tell? Did she look funny?” Sophie's eyes widened. “Oh, gosh. Did you see her, you know,
after
?”

Angie blanched, and I felt sure she was remembering exactly how Dr. Dana had looked when she found her.

“Is your husband here, too?” I asked.

“Earl's in the back. Our cook called in late.”

“You left pretty early that night, didn't you?” I asked.

“Pretty much right after Dr. Dana stopped talking.” She tsked again. “Who knew?”

Now I leaned toward her. “I'm curious. Why did you go to see her if you didn't like her?”

She laughed. “Oh, Lord, honey. We didn't mean to go to see her at all. Earl just had to get the latest book by that Western mystery writer he likes so much, so we stopped in on our way home from here. We had no idea she'd be there.”

That took the wind right out of my sails.

“But boy howdy,” she continued. “When he saw she was gonna be there, he couldn't resist staying to see what she'd say.” Sophie reddened. “I didn't expect him to shoot his mouth off like that, though. Or to drag me into it.”

A door down at the end of the bar opened, and a rectangle of bright light briefly illuminated the dark atmosphere. Earl himself came lumbering down with a bowl of peanuts and a platter heaped with chicken wings still sizzling from the fryer. He set them down on the bar and distributed napkins and moist towelettes.

“Hon, you remember these two from the bookstore the other day, don't you?” his wife asked.

“You betcha,” he boomed. “Hell of a thing that happened.”

We all murmured agreement.

The Kings moved away to check in with their other customers, and we dug in.

“How's your drink?” I asked Cookie around a bite of sweet and fiery chicken.

“Terrible,” she said, and raised her empty glass. Sophie saw her and nodded. Within moments my friend had another in front of her. “I think she's using as much absinthe as cognac—only the cognac is actually cheap brandy. But I'm developing a fondness for the combination.”

I laughed. “I'm glad you're not driving.”

She grinned. “Thank goodness Oscar's going to pick me up in half an hour or so.”

My phone rang in my pocket. Quickly, I wiped hot sauce off my fingers, slipped off the stool, and went to an empty corner.

It was Declan.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey. Are you home from work yet?”

“Nope. Out partying at the bar,” I joked.

“Seriously.”

“I am serious,” I said.

“Who are you with?” And suddenly it wasn't funny anymore, because I heard actual suspicion in his voice.

He doesn't think . . . he couldn't think . . . Steve? Nah.

“I'm with Cookie and Angie. Listen, can I call you later? Angie's going to come home and stay the night with me.”

A pause, then: “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“I am.”

“Okay . . .” He cleared his throat. “I'll pick up if I can. The holiday crazies are starting up already. We had to go fetch a guy who'd had too much eggnog out of a tree earlier.”

I laughed.

“Oops. Just got a call. Talk to you later.” And he hung up.

Unsettled, I returned to the others. We chatted and ate until there was nothing but empty peanut shells and a few ribs of celery left. Angie and I finished our stouts, and I asked for the check. Earl brought it over. I waved away the others' attempts to pay and put a couple of bills on the bar.

As we started to leave, Earl came over again. “Need change?”

I shook my head. “Nope. That's for you. Those wings were fantastic.”

“My own special recipe,” he said with a grin.

“Say,” I said, shrugging into my jacket. “Who took all the bird photos? They're awfully good.”

Pride infused his face. “Those are mine.” He walked down to the end of the bar and came around to where
we stood. Pointing at the first picture in the array, a beautiful hawk perching on a piece of driftwood, he said, “This was my first one. Red-tailed hawk at my father's hunting cabin. Saw it and just happened to have my camera with me. Took that photo, and I was hooked.” He looked fondly down the line of images. “I've been taking pictures of birds ever since.”

“On film?” Cookie asked.

He laughed. “Yep. Old-school.”

My head came up from buttoning my jacket. “Do you develop them yourself?”

“Absolutely. Learned how to do it years ago, and built myself a little darkroom at home.”

“Earl?” Sophie called.

“Thanks for stopping in,” he said as he turned away. “Come again soon.”

Out on the sidewalk, Cookie and I stopped. Looked at each other.

Angie frowned. “What's going on?”

“Maybe Sophie King didn't know Dr. Dana was going to be at the Fox and Hound, but her husband might have,” I speculated slowly.

“And if Iris was right,” Cookie said, “the chemicals he uses to develop his photos contain cyanide.”

Angie's jaw slackened. “Do you think he killed Dana Dobbs?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. But he sure didn't like her, and if he had access to the poison . . .” I pulled my phone out. “I'm going to call Quinn. He said he'd have someone follow up with the Kings, but this information might light a fire under him.”

I had just finished leaving a message when Oscar Ruiz, Cookie's handsome husband, pulled his SUV to the curb.
As they pulled away, Angie and I started back to the Honeybee to pick up Mungo and head to my house.

*   *   *

“Oh,” Angie breathed when I got out of the Bug. She'd followed me home in her Toyota and stood on the front walk. “You live here?”

I smiled. “Mmm-hmm.” How could I leave it behind if Declan and I got married? It was too small for two people day in and day out. I pushed the thought away and got out of the car.

Yellow light streamed from Margie's front window, and I saw the JJs jumping off the sofa into a pile of pillows. Somehow, I didn't think Dr. Dana would have approved. Their shrieks and giggles drifted out to us, a sound so contagious I couldn't help laughing. Angie grinned, too, and even Mungo's eyes danced with humor.

I lowered him down, and he ran out to the lawn. “Has he always attracted fireflies?” I asked as I watched him.

Angie nodded. “When they're in season.”

The lightning bugs were long gone by late November, of course, but during the months when they were plentiful—and sometimes when they weren't supposed to be around at all—their little winking lights congregated around my familiar in droves. They were his totem, like dragonflies were mine.

And apparently they always had been.

I led her inside, which she found just as charming as the outside.

“There's a futon in the loft upstairs. And I'll clear a shelf in the bathroom for you.”

She gave me a grateful look. “This is really nice of you.”

“It'll be fun to have the company. And maybe we can get to know each other a little better.”

“I'd like that.”

We made up the futon, and she unpacked a few of her things. Then she went back down the narrow stairs with a bag of toiletries. When she was out of sight, I quickly retrieved the key to the secretary's desk from behind a stack of books. I twisted it in the lock and put it in my pocket. Angie might be innocent of murder, but I didn't know her that well, and altars were very personal.

She was looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs when I turned back but didn't comment.

I made tea and gave Mungo a bit of leftover beef Wellington sans béarnaise sauce, and we went into the living room. Grabbing my tote, I took out my phone and was about to put it in the bedroom when my hand encountered something unfamiliar. I drew it out.

The figurine Steve had given me. How had it gotten in there? I'd left it on the coffee counter at the bakery, and then later it had been gone. Perhaps Lucy had decided to tuck it in my tote?

“Where did you get that?” Angie asked from her wingback chair. Steam drifted up from the tea and curled around her face. However, her bow mouth was pursed with concern.

I hefted the little statue. “A friend gave it to me. At least I thought he was a friend.”

She leaned forward and put her tea on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”

“We dated—almost dated—a while ago. Then Declan—the fireman from the other night? That's my boyfriend. Anyway, we got together, and Steve—that's who gave this to me—Steve and I agreed we'd be friends.”

She frowned. “This Steve character wants to be a lot more than friends, believe me.”

My eyebrows rose. “How do you know that?”

“Because that”—she pointed at the dog/cat/bird figure in my hand—“is a furata.”

My face went blank. “A what?”

“Furata. It's like a poppet, or a voodoo doll, but it doesn't represent you. It represents the giver. And it's used exclusively to force the love of another.”

A chill ran down my back. “How do you know that?”

“Just because I don't practice anymore doesn't mean I don't remember my training.” Her face reddened, and she looked away. “And I considered using a furata spell on my husband.”

The bronze cat's eyes laughed up at me from my shaking hand.

“But I didn't,” Angie continued. “It's gray magic at best, and dark at its worst. I'd already tempted the Rule of Three once, and I knew better than to do it again.”

“Is that why you don't practice anymore?” I asked, oddly unwilling to talk about the furata in my hand even though now it wasn't just my hand shaking. My whole body quivered with revulsion and disbelief.

And hurt that Steve would violate our friendship in such a horrible way.

Yip!
Mungo had finished his supper and now jumped up on the couch next to me. One look at my face and he scooted into my lap. He sniffed at the figure in my hand and his lips pulled back to expose his teeth.

Slowly, Angie's chin dipped. “Mongo remembers why I stopped. It was a spell that went terribly wrong.” She nodded at the furata. “Does the man who gave you this have any knowledge of magic?”

Only the kind handed down from generations of the blatantly unscrupulous Dragoh clan.