Bingo.
I smiled. “I could kiss you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t—”
“Now I can let Quinn know who the dead man is, and Steve can’t accuse me of betraying him.” I took a triumphant bite and let the salty ham play over my tongue.
“I’m confused.”
“I’ll explain later. Right now I need to make a phone call.”
Shoving my plate aside, I hurried into the office and retrieved my cell phone. Peter Quinn’s direct line at the police precinct was still in my contact list. I dialed it, expecting to get his voice mail at six a.m. However, the man himself picked up on the third ring.
“Hello, Quinn. How are you this fine morning?” Being able to get this information off my chest had lightened my mood considerably. “In kind of early, aren’t you?”
“My caller ID says this is Katie Lightfoot. Could that possibly be true? Because why would my friendly neighborhood baker be calling me on my official line only one day after I see her in the vicinity of a homicide case?”
“Funny man. Do you or do you not want to know who we found yesterday?”
“Are you telling me you know?”
I abandoned the question game. “Yes! His name is Lawrence Eastmore.” I practically crowed.
“I know.”
“But—”
“How do you know?”
There was no reason to be disappointed, yet I was a little. “Cookie recognized the drawing in the paper.”
“Cookie who works there?”
“Of course. But she used to work in the registration office at SCAD. She met Dr. Eastmore then.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” There was a little too much relief in his tone. “It turns out she’s not the only one who recognized the picture. The main desk got an anonymous call to the same effect about an hour ago.”
“Just one other call?”
“Yes. Most people are still asleep.” His tone was wry.
“We’re up.” I sounded smug.
“Bakers and policemen don’t exactly keep normal hours. I have a murder to solve.”
“At least you know whose now. And, Quinn? This is me saying, ‘I told you so.’”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Something muffled his voice, and he seemed to be talking to someone else. His words became less garbled. “I’ll be right there.” He spoke into the phone again. “Katie? I need to go now. But I do appreciate the call. Really. We’ll take it from here.”
“Okeydokey.” If he’d hurry up and solve the murder maybe the Dragohs would leave me alone. “Stop by if you’re in the neighborhood. The special today is cranberry coconut cookies.” They were Quinn’s favorite.
“Sounds great.” He was obviously distracted. “But I doubt I’ll have time for a Honeybee run today.”
* * *
“I just love those little cat faces! Where on earth did you find them?” Mrs. Standish, one of our regulars, put her fists on her ample hips and peered at the decorations surrounding the front entrance.
“Lucy and Bianca made them,” I said as I filled a box with a dozen assorted muffins. The kitties were cute, based on jack-o’-lantern carving patterns and fastened to the doorframe. The ladies had used yellow felt painted with orange and white stripes so they looked like tabby cats. Actually, they looked like Lucy’s familiar, Honeybee, who had inspired the name for our bakery. I loved Honeybee, but she made me sneeze and sniffle like crazy. Thankfully, unlike Mungo, she preferred to stay home.
“We’re going for a little scarier,” Croft Barrow said from where he sat at a table near the display case. Croft owned the bookstore next door. He and Annette Lander, who had the knitting shop on the other side of the bakery, were planning Halloween parties, too. “You know, spooky music, gross stuff in jars. We even have a cauldron to fill with dry ice on Halloween night.”
I smiled. “Us, too.” I didn’t mention that it was a real working cauldron that had seen its share of brewing.
Behind me, Cookie snorted.
“You girls make Halloween too cute,” Croft went on. “Annette’s decorations are all made of wool, for heaven’s sake. Halloween is supposed to scare the pants off you.”
“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Mrs. Standish said in a dry tone and handed me a bill. I grinned and counted out her change.
“We won’t set any records for scariness,” I said. “But it’ll be a fun and safe place for kids to come and hang out on Halloween.”
I’d always loved Halloween, and was glad to be among so many other people who felt the same way. My parents weren’t much for the holiday. They let me dress up and go around to a few houses, but always seemed nervous. Now I suspected it was because on Halloween—or Samhain—the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was supposed to be thinnest. Given Mama’s tendency to overprotect me, she’d probably been afraid of something dire happening.
They never let me wear that witch costume I’d always wanted, either. This year I’d been determined to finally dress up as a real badass: black pointy hat, hooked nose with a big wart, broom and all. Until, of course, Lucy had admonished me for being so willing to perpetuate stereotypes that gave our kind a bad name.
Sigh. Sometimes you just couldn’t win. Now I had no idea what to wear. Maybe gear up as a ghost, since Mimsey had told me that in the old times villagers would dress as spirits on Samhain in order to guide the dead to the edge of town at the end of the night.
Traditional, but a wee bit boring.
Croft left a little before noon, holding the door open for three uniformed firemen to enter as he exited. Declan came in last, flashing a grin as soon as he saw me.
“Thought I’d bring in some new customers,” he said. “Neither of these guys has been in the famous Honeybee Bakery before.”
“Famous, huh?” I rolled my eyes and pointed to a table as I slipped out from behind the register. “Have a seat, and we’ll see if we can live up to this one’s hype.” I gestured toward Declan with my chin.
Declan gave me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.
“I’m Scott,” said the older man. His skin was dark and his short hair was threaded lightly with gray. He moved with an easy grace as he took his chair.
The younger guy was stockier, his face chiseled in planes that reminded me of my father, who was part Shawnee. His uniform did little to hide the muscles underneath. As he sat down he smiled at me with his eyes. I couldn’t help smiling back. “I’m Randy.”
I bet you are, I thought, but said, “Hey, guys.”
“You’ve got to be Katie,” Scott said. “No wonder Deck won’t shut up about you.”
I ducked my head, but not before seeing Declan’s face flush.
Ignoring both of them, I asked what they wanted to order. “Today we have some cranberry coconut cookies that aren’t on the regular menu. Or you might want a cupcake—carrot with cream cheese frosting, chocolate cherry topped with chocolate ganache, or lemon on lemon, seasoned with black pepper?”
“Black pepper?” Declan asked.
“We mix savory and sweet a lot around here.” Not to mention that from a magical perspective black pepper promoted energy, alertness, protection, and courage—right up a fireman’s alley, I’d think. And lemon was good for health in general and healing in specific while giving an energy boost. “You should try the lemon cupcakes. They’re really delicious,” I urged.
They thought for a moment, then shook their heads.
“How about a scone, then? Lime and ginger, maple cardamom, or blueberry cinnamon.”
“Yeah, that last one sounds good,” Scott said.
“Maple for me,” Randy said. “And drip coffees all around.”
“Okay. Deck?” I asked. “A couple molasses oatmeal cookies?” His usual.
He nodded. “Perfect.”
The cinnamon in the blueberry mix was good for luck and prosperity, but the cardamom in the maple scones was all about love and sex. It figured that Randy would choose that. I brought their food and went back for the coffees. A group of loud tourists came in, and Cookie took over the register. Coffees delivered, I moved toward the kitchen to restock a few things in the display case just as the door opened again. I glanced over my shoulder and saw it was Detective Taite.
“Oh!” I said. “Are you here for coffee or for me?”
Oh, no. Did I really say that out loud?
All three firemen and the pack of tourists turned their heads. Declan saw Taite and shot a puzzled look at me.
The detective quirked up one side of his mouth without a hint of a smile. “I have a couple of questions for you.”
“Um, okay. Can I get you something to eat first?”
“I think not.” The way he said it made me feel like I’d offered a bribe.
“All right.” Why wasn’t Quinn with him?
Mungo was in the office, so I didn’t want to take him back there. The empty sofas by the bookshelf were at the opposite end of the bakery from where Declan and his friends sat, so I led Taite over to them. I took off my apron and gestured for him to make himself comfortable. He didn’t move until I sat down. Then he chose a seat where he could see the rest of the bakery and carefully perched on the edge of one cushion as if the furniture might swallow him alive. Behind me, the tourists filtered back out to the sidewalk, laughing and talking and munching on various baked goods. Cookie lingered behind the register as relative quiet descended.
Taite leaned toward me. His shirt had one too many buttons open and the resulting vee revealed a chest covered with dark hair. I could see where a comb had divided his thinning brown hair into rows across his skull. Still, he looked to be only in his early forties.
“All righty—shoot,” I said, trying for nonchalant.
He considered me for a long moment. “Detective Quinn says you called him. That you identified the dead man from the park.”
“The square. And I didn’t. My friend did, from the picture in the paper.” I would call Cookie over to verify if I had to, but she had a deep-seated distrust of the police—of authority in general—so that would be a last resort.
“Convenient coincidence, don’t you think?”
My eyes narrowed. “Detective Quinn told me someone else had already called.”
He inclined his head. “Someone who managed to remain anonymous. That’s hard to do these days.”
“Especially when calling a police station,” I said.
“But you don’t know anything about that first call.”
“You’re sure of that?”
I frowned. “Yes, I’m sure. Why would I call twice?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to make sure your friend got the information.”
“Detective Taite, are you accusing me of something?”
He searched my face. “Again, how was it that you happened to be in Johnson Square yesterday morning?” His gaze shifted over my shoulder.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. We were having a picnic.”
“That information is in our statements,” Declan said from behind me. He came around the sofa and sat beside me.
Taite frowned at him. “How convenient that you’re here. Despite being on duty.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? This bakery is owned by the former fire chief. All the firefighters stop in when they can. Not to mention the police.”
A speculative look crossed the detective’s face. He turned his attention back to me. “You recognized the watch.”
“I recognized the type of watch,” I said.
“So you hadn’t seen that particular watch before.”
“No.”
“Detective—,” Declan started.
Taite held up his hand. “We can do this here or we can do it at the precinct.” He turned his attention back to me. “What about the tattoo?”
“Ta-tattoo?” I stuttered.
Declan looked at me with surprise.
Taite’s lips quirked again. “Yes, Ms. Lightfoot. The tattoo. You remember it?”
“I seem to remember something on his arm,” I fudged.
“I think you remember more than that.”
I didn’t respond.
He shifted in his seat. “Where were you two nights ago?”
“At home. In bed. Why?”
“And you?” he said to Declan.
“The same.”
“Together?”
Declan grinned. “I wish. But no.”
I felt my face grow hot. To cover it, I demanded, “Is that when he died?”
Taite shook his head. “No.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
“Are you sure? You know Lawrence Eastmore lived just a few houses down the street from where you found him.”
I stared. “How on earth am I supposed to know that? I had no idea who he was when we found him.”
“Lawrence Eastmore?” Declan asked. “That was his name?”
Without breaking eye contact with Taite, I patted Declan’s arm and said, “It seems so. Though apparently he was not killed the night before we found him.”
“On the contrary,” Taite said. “Someone struck him with a heavy clay pot sometime that evening as he worked in his gardening shed. We found the shards. Blood. However, he seems to have recovered and staggered outside and down the street. He made it as far as the location where you reported finding him, and died around two a.m. Since we don’t know how long he lived after he was attacked, we can only guess at what time he was actually struck. A neighbor saw him around five p.m. on Friday, so it had to be after that.”
“That poor man,” I said with a pang. “If only someone had found him earlier, he might still be alive.”
“What’s going on?”
I turned to find that Jaida had joined the party.
“Is this the new detective you mentioned, Katie?” Her eyes narrowed.
Taite scrambled to his feet. I stood as well. “Detective Franklin Taite, meet Jaida French. My lawyer.”
He looked disgusted.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Just following up on Ms. Lightfoot’s statement.” He gestured toward Declan with his chin. “And had the good luck to find her companion here, too.”
“Anything else?” Jaida asked.
“Not at present.” His eyes bored into me.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I said. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about a cupcake or a cookie?”
“I haven’t.”
Leaving Declan and Jaida to stare after us, I accompanied Detective Taite out to the sidewalk.
“Why did you tell us all that stuff about how Eastmore died? Quinn wants me to stay out of it.”
He squinted into the sun. “I transferred to Savannah because there is a hotbed of evil activity here, and I’m going to do something about it. Given what we found in Eastmore’s home, it seems he was a part of it.”
“A…hotbed? What on earth are you talking about? What did you find?” A dragonfly winged by. Then another. A funny feeling settled into my stomach.
“You know what I’m talking about. The occult. Witchcraft. Magic. If you’re truly unaware of such things, then all’s well. But I think you know exactly what I’m referring to. And I think you understand a lot more about the tattoo on Lawrence Eastmore’s arm than you’re telling me. Even I know it’s a druidic sigil, and that was confirmed by the number of books and papers about black magic that he had hidden.”
The flutter in my solar plexus blossomed, and my heart rat-a-tatted in my chest. Taite knew about druidic sigils? Who was this guy, really? Should I tell him that Dr. Eastmore was an expert and a collector but not necessarily a practitioner of the dark arts? How would I explain how I knew about his rare books at all? Mention Lucy borrowing the Heptamaron for our spellbook club?
Hardly. I didn’t know nearly enough about this New York transplant who spoke as if all magic was evil. I kept the puzzled expression on my face and waited in silence.
Taite pointed at me. “I don’t know where you stand in all this, but I understand that twice now you’ve been involved in homicides in ways you shouldn’t be. I can only hope you’re on the side of good. But if you’re not?” He smiled and shrugged. “Then you’re not. And I will find out.” And with that he turned on his heel and strode away.
I stood in the bright sunshine and watched his receding figure.
Who was this guy? Had he just threatened me?
Yes, he had. And frankly, I was getting pretty darn tired of being threatened.