Spells and Scones (21 page)

Phoebe rolled her eyes.

My face burning bright red, I escaped. Margie led me over to the drinks table and cracked a bottle of water open for me. It could have been pure poison for all I cared. I swigged it back like a sailor.

Sophie King came up. “That's a nice thing the bookstore is doing. I hope those books are locked away someplace safe. Someone might get the idea to take them and try to make money on them on eBay or something. Heck, now I wish we'd bought a copy.” She realized what she'd said and ducked her head, embarrassed.

“They're tucked away in the back of the bookstore,” I said. “At least until tomorrow.” I looked around, but Nate was no place near. “I'm a little surprised to see you here.” She was, I noted, quite tall. Not as tall as her husband was, though.

She gave a little shrug. “I felt kind of bad about the other night.”

“Katie,” Margie broke in apologetically, “I just got a text. Julia ate a bug, and my sister's freaking out.”

“I'm ready,” I replied. Then to Sophie: “You mean about your husband confronting the author?”

“Yeah. I mean, she wasn't a horrible person or anything. She just had strange ideas. Earl's a big boy, though. He didn't have to take her advice.” She shook her head ruefully. “For some reason, when it comes to love, that man doesn't have the sense of a gnat.”

We said good-bye to Sophie and began to walk toward Bull Street.

“What kind of bug did she eat?” I asked.

Margie shrugged. “Who knows? I swear that kid eats a bug a day. You'd think my sister would be used to it by now. God knows I am.”

“Katie!” A voice shouted behind me.

I turned to see Bing Hawkins trotting down the sidewalk.

Dang it. Of course, I should have expected to see him here
.

He stopped, out of breath. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, and a strand of hair had come loose from his man bun. Margie peered at him with frank curiosity.

“Just wanted to follow up with you about that ad,” he panted.

“Uh . . .”

“Now, don't tell me you changed your mind.” He grinned. “I'll just sell you on it all over again.”

Actually, you sold Jaida on the idea.

But instead, I said, “You should call my uncle Ben at the Honeybee Bakery. He makes the final decisions regarding all our advertising. I think you know him from the Rotary Club.”

“Ben Eagel? Sure, I know him. But then why did you and Ms. French—”

I cut him off with a cheery smile. “He sent us to get more information.”

Bing didn't seem entirely satisfied with my answer, but I turned and started walking again, calling over my shoulder. “You should give him a call this afternoon. He's at the bakery now.”

After all, I figured that my uncle was already peeved with me. A phone call from Bing wasn't going to make it that much worse. And it was the quickest way to convince Bing that his efforts were going to be fruitless.

Right?

We stepped out of the square in the direction of Margie's car, and a figure stepped right in front of me.

“Hey,” I exclaimed, backpedaling.

Detective Quinn grabbed my arm to steady me. “Fancy meeting you here, Lightfoot.”

I glowered at him.

“What? Homicide cops always go to the funeral.” Amused.

Margie looked between us.

“And I understand you left me a message,” he went on, the humor dropping from his gaze.

“Margie, could I meet you at the car in a couple of minutes?” I asked, keeping my eyes on Quinn. He acted a little too self-satisfied for my taste. What was going on?

“Sure!” she answered almost before I'd finished speaking, and hurried away.

I didn't blame her.

“So now you think Earl King killed the doctor?” Quinn gestured toward the memorial behind me with his chin.

“I actually think it was her husband,” I said. “But whether it was him, or King, or someone else, I'm going to lay a trap tonight.”

That self-satisfaction slid right off his face. “Tell me you're not going to do something stupid.”

“I'm not going to do something stupid.”

“Darn it, Katie! I'm serious.”

“I won't be alone. Croft is in on it, and I'll see who else I can get to come. Oh, and I'm pretty sure Angie will want to be there.”

“No!”

A passerby turned to look at him.

I sighed. “Quinn—”

The muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched.

Uh-oh. He's really angry.

But when he spoke, there was worry in his tone. “I talked with Ms. Kissel's husband. He told me a lot of really
crazy stuff. Please stay away from her. And whatever you do, don't let her stay at your place for one more night. I want you to ditch whatever you have planned tonight and let me convince the district attorney to try her for murder.”

My own jaw set. I had a pretty good idea what kind of crazy stuff Angie's husband had told Quinn. Witches on brooms and evils spells and the like.

We stared at each other for a long moment.

I broke first, looking down at the sidewalk. “I have to get back to the bakery.”

When I looked back up, he was watching me. “You really think Angie Kissel is innocent.”

I nodded. “I don't just think it. I know it. Just like I did with Uncle Ben. And you have to admit I have a pretty good track record with this stuff.”

“Sometimes I wish you didn't.” He blew out a breath. “Okay. Tell me about this plan of
yours.”

Things were slowing down at the Honeybee when I got back. Most of the pies had been picked up, and since we were closed the next day, we could skip the usual kitchen prep. Of course, the morning after Thanksgiving would see me at work earlier than ever to get ready for the Black Friday shoppers.

Mungo watched from the office doorway as I tied a red-checked apron over my gray ensemble.

“I talked to Declan,” Ben said.

I whirled around.

My uncle smiled tentatively at me. “He told me to stop being a jerk. That this marriage business was between you two and not my concern.”

I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face.

“Don't get cocky,” he said. “I still think you need to make a decision. The right decision.”

“Ben—”

He held up his hand. “In the meantime, Lucy told me about what you have planned tonight. Count me in.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a hug.

“Well, since Declan can't be there to have your back, I figure I'd better step in to protect you.”

“Ben!” Lucy said from the register, where she'd apparently been listening to us.

He winked at me and moved out front.

“What was that all about?” Angie asked from where she was organizing canned goods in the pantry.

“He's teasing me,” I said.

Protect you.
Ben knew darn well I could take care of myself, even if he'd thrown a fit when someone tried to run me over with a Dumpster.

Still, it was nice to know he was on my side. I didn't want to tangle with Dr. Dana's murderer by myself.

As the day wound down and the last of the pies went out the door, the subtle current of energy beneath my skin increased bit by bit. I kept telling myself not to count too much on tonight. There were too many variables, too many possibilities, too many ways for it not to work out.

The most likely outcome would be a night spent in the back room of the Fox and Hound with Ben, Croft, and Angie. None of them would thank me when nothing came of my grand plan except an exhausted Thanksgiving and a murderer still free.

*   *   *

At eight o'clock, the main area of the Fox and Hound was dark, and the
CLOSED
sign hung in the window. We were all in the back room with the door tightly shut. Croft had even laid a piece of cardboard under the jamb to ensure no light would escape. Anyone who peered through the window facing Broughton would never know someone was still in the store.

“How long do you think we'll need to wait?” Lucy asked.

“I wish you hadn't insisted on coming along on this escapade,” Ben said. It came out gruffly, but I knew he would rather keep his beloved out of harm's way.

“I was just wondering whether we planned on staying here until dawn.” She marched over and sat down on the folding chair next to Mimsey. The older witch was ensconced on one of the sliding rockers that usually sat in front of the fireplace. Croft and Ben had carried it into the storage room when she had entered the store at closing time and announced that she would be joining us for the duration.

Lucy had told Mimsey what we'd planned. She'd wanted to call all the spellbook club members, but I'd dissuaded her. There was no reason for nine of us to spend the night before Thanksgiving in the Fox and Hound. She'd agreed, but there was still more of a crowd than I'd expected.

Croft was there, of course. And Ben. I hadn't been surprised when Mimsey decided to partake; heaven knew what her husband thought of his seventy-nine-year-old wife taking off like that. Perhaps he was used to it by now. And I certainly wasn't going to tell Mimsey Carmichael no. Once she was in, Lucy had to come, too. Mungo sat by my feet, and Angie—nervous but unwilling to stay by herself in either her apartment or the carriage house—perched on the edge of a stool on the other side of him.

Already tensions were riding a little high. Other than Mimsey, we were sitting around on hard metal seats, and the room was chilly. Ben had grabbed pizza from Screamin' Mimi's, so we'd eaten. Still, the smell of garlic in the air had soon become oppressive in the closed space.

“I don't think we'll have to wait until dawn,” I told my aunt. “If the person who tried to break in before decides to try it again, they'll know they could get caught by early bakers if they don't show up before four a.m.”

“Four in the morning,” Croft said, weariness already threading his tone.

Ben came over to pat his wife on the shoulder. “Of course, the intruder might not worry too much about getting caught on Thanksgiving morning. Most businesses up and down the street won't be opening at all.” He gave me a pointed look. “Including the Honeybee.”

I passed my hand over my face. Hadn't thought of that.

“Now, don't worry,” my uncle said. “All we can do is settle in as comfortably as possible and hope this works.”

No pressure.

A banging on the front door made me jump.

“What the heck?” Croft bolted to his feet.

We looked around at one another. The banging stopped. Croft reached over and turned out the light, plunging us into total darkness. He opened the door a fraction to look out.

“Whoever it was left. Good Lord, you'd think customers would understand the concept of a store being closed.”

“Maybe it wasn't a customer,” I said. “Maybe it was someone checking to see if the store is empty.”

Angie sucked in her breath.

A fist pounded on the back door, and my heart jerked against my rib cage.

“Croft! Katie!” A deep voice, not loud, but insistent.

I hurried over and cracked the door. Detective Quinn stood in the dark alley. He wore faded blue jeans, a rag-wool sweater that had seen better days, and a worn bomber jacket. Opening the door farther, I grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him inside. Quickly cranking the lock closed again, I turned to him.

“Listen, Quinn. Just because you don't like this idea doesn't mean you need to sabotage it. I mean, what
harm can it do? We either catch the bad guy or we don't. There's no downside for you. I can't believe you're so—”

He grabbed my shoulders. “Settle down. I'm not sabotaging you.”

My arm waved wildly. “But you just announced our presence.”

“Will you relax? There's no one out there. Believe me—I checked.”

“I assume that was you at the front door? How could you know no one was watching?”

“It's too early—”

I shrugged off his hands and went to stand by Lucy and Ben.

He sighed and turned to the others. “Croft. Ms. Carmichael.”

From her rocker, Mimsey twinkled her blue eyes at him. “Detective. Welcome to our little party. I assume you're here to help?”

He shot a glance at me. “Certainly. It's not like I have anything else to do tonight.” Sarcastic. And then he turned to Angie. “And I want to keep an eye on things.”

She reddened and looked away.

*   *   *

Quinn ate a couple of pieces of pizza, then settled onto a chair and took out his phone. Soon he was tapping away, still working even on stakeout. Mimsey found a bodice-ripper romance on the storage shelves and dove in. Ben, Lucy, and Angie all followed suit, whiling the time away with their own selections from Croft's stock. Croft himself sat with his feet up on another chair, arms crossed, and appeared to nod off.

Hours ticked by. Hushed conversation would flare for a few minutes and then quickly fade. They were all getting tired, and I was beginning to really regret the whole
stupid idea. I couldn't stay still and paced the short distance between the rack of chairs and the returns shelf over and over. Mungo trotted along beside me for a while but eventually went to lie in the corner and watch me.

As I paced, my brain replayed the events over the last few days. Our introduction to the concept of Radical Trust. Angie confronting Dr. Dana during her talk. Earl King denying the psychologist's medical bona fides. A drained Phoebe Miller packing up her sister's things. Using my Voice on Ronnie Lake. A book of tarot spells and partially burned candles. The burning spell on my lawn. Three satin ribbons.

I stopped pacing.

Ribbons.

Did druids use burning spells? I didn't know, but the more I thought about it, it was hard to imagine Steve performing any kind of magic that required ribbons. So it had to be the same person I'd scared away in the alley. Right?

Except it was pretty hard imagining Nate performing a burning spell—or any kind of magic for that matter. I'd been fooled before, though.

I resumed my steps.

Cyanide. Who used cyanide to kill in the twenty-first century? Nate and Earl King had access, one via business and the other from his hobby. But something kept bothering me about that, too.

Cyanide.
Study in Scarlet.
Sherlock Holmes.

Poison is a woman's weapon.

A bit sexist, that. But still, Holmes had been pretty smart for a fictional character.

Dr. Dana had written
Nate
as she died. Her killer, I'd assumed. But maybe Lucy was right. Maybe Dana
Dobbs had no idea who had poisoned her sweet tea. So why
Nate
?

Because he was the last thing she thought of when she was dying? Because she loved her husband?

Something twisted inside of me at the thought.

So if not Nate, who? Earl? Maybe. Sophie? Possible, but my gut told me no. Ronnie Lake? Another possibility, but I couldn't help but think that if she was the killer, she would have given some hint of that under the influence of my Voice.

“Hey, Katie. Keep a lookout for Phoebe Miller's wallet,” Croft said in a sleepy voice.

Startled out of my train of thought, I paused before resuming my steps. “You can stop worrying about that. She told me she found it.”

“Oh, good. I'd wondered.” Croft stood and stretched. Lucy looked up at him absently, then went back to her book. “On Sunday she thought it might have fallen out of her pocket back here the night before, when the police brought her back to see . . . you know. Her sister.”

Quinn was watching us now.

“I couldn't let her look for it then, though.” Croft looked pointedly at Quinn. “Since this area was all cordoned off with police tape. I'm glad she didn't have to deal with the DMV and canceling her credit cards after all.”

But I was staring at him. Yellow tape or not, Phoebe had been back by the storage room door when I'd walked into the Fox and Hound bearing sympathy and restorative pumpkin spice cookies. Croft had been in the office. Had my sudden arrival stopped her from going farther?

And come to think of it, she'd seemed slightly flummoxed when I'd asked her about her wallet at the radio station.

The image of Phoebe standing in the Fox and Hound the morning after her sister died filled my mental movie screen. She'd been wearing a peacoat. A very
bulky
peacoat. Add a hat and the darkness of a predawn alley or the darkness of the street outside Margie's house . . .

I hadn't thought of Phoebe as particularly tall, but I was five-eight, and I'd had to adjust the mic at the memorial down a good three inches after she'd spoken into it. And the burning spell? Well, the only proof I had that the book of tarot spells and half-burned candles she'd been packing up at the radio station had been Dana's had come from Phoebe herself.

Jaida said thirteen red candles were part of a classic tarot love spell. To force someone's love.

Ugh.

“Quinn,” I said in a low voice. “I think I might have been all wrong about the identity of the murderer.”

Croft whirled toward me. “What?”

The others regarded me with frank curiosity, and not a little frustration.

Quinn put down his phone in such a deliberate, careful manner that I got the impression he was trying to control himself. His attention flicked to Angie, who was watching me with a narrowed gaze, then back to me.

“I think the killer is—”

“Shh!” Ben hissed.

In the instant silence, we all heard it. A scratching at the back door, metal on metal.

Quinn faded to the side of the entrance, and I leaped to the light switch. The room descended into darkness just as there was a snapping sound and the door opened to reveal a figure outlined by the lighter shade of night out in the alley.

Tall. Bulky. Hat.

A headlamp switched on, blinding me to everything but the narrow beam of light. I shrank against the wall, holding my breath, as the person took a step inside. Sniffed the air. Would our visitor flee at the scent of garlic from the pizza? I hadn't thought of that, but Lucy had told me that garlic was more than pungent. There was a reason for the belief that it could repel vampires, because the odiferous bulbs actually did contain the potential magic to repel evil.

The figure took another step, then another. The headlamp swished back and forth across the room. Suddenly, it stopped.

Focused on Mimsey, still sitting in her rocking chair, beaming up at the newcomer.

“Hello!” she sang.

The figure turned to run, but the door to the alley slammed shut. I flipped the light switch.

Phoebe Miller stood squinting into the sudden illumination of the overhead light, eyes darting right and left as she tried to assess her situation. She whirled to find Quinn standing with his back to the door, preventing her escape. I obstructed the way into the bookstore. Other than Mimsey, the others had faded to the sidelines.

Phoebe wore the peacoat I remembered from her visit to the Fox and Hound, and a knit hat pulled down over her ears. Slowly, she reached up and turned off the headlamp.

“Do you know this woman, Katie?” Mimsey asked, still rocking slowly. Her feet didn't quite touch the floor.

“That's Dr. Dana's sister,” I said. “Phoebe Miller.”

“Dear,” Mimsey said gently. “I believe what they say is, ‘The game is up.'”