“I’m going to kill Cookie.” I shook my head in frustration and leaned one hip against the hood of the Bug.
In the aftermath of the food fight I’d seen her talking animatedly with Nel, and then a few minutes later she’d hustled over to me and said, “Just wanted to let you know Brandon is giving me a ride home, Katie. No worries.”
But I was worried. When Steve and I had left the party she’d been draped over Brandon Sikes’ arm all gooey-eyed. I had to admit he’d looked pretty smitten, too. I just hoped he drove her to her home, not his, and that she kept her head on straight.
Nel had walked out of the gallery with us and driven away in a bright red MINI Cooper. Steve and I had walked on, half a block farther, to where I’d parked, and now he put his elbows on the roof of my car. “Well, you wanted to find out more about Brandon,” he said. “If anyone can do that it’ll be Cookie.”
“I’m not afraid of what she’ll find out about him. I’m afraid of what he’ll find out about her. I should have known better. She was so excited to meet him.” I banged my hand on the metal. “Ow. But I should have known better,” I repeated.
Steve laughed. His Land Rover was parked the next block down.
As we strolled to my car, I quickly filled Steve in on what Andersen Lane had told us about the Spell of Necretius.
“I don’t know what he was thinking, getting your spellbook club involved with something like that,” he said, forehead creased with worry.
“Now who’s being sexist?”
“That’s not it at all. I know how formidable you ladies can be. But why didn’t he tell me?”
I shrugged, unwilling to point out the obvious: Andersen might suspect Heinrich of killing Eastmore in order to get the spell. If so, he would hardly involve Steve.
“What time did Brandon Sikes arrive at your father’s house?” I asked. In the gallery, Nel Sandstrom had interrupted our conversation before I’d had the chance to ask whether the double alibi Steve had offered for his father and Sikes covered the entire window of time from five p.m. until two a.m.
“About eight. But we’d been at a function with him since four.”
Well, that answered that.
“Get in,” I said, pulling my sweater close around my shoulders. The night had turned cool. “I’ll give you a ride down to where you’re parked.”
He opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. I settled behind the wheel. “I’m not being a prude, you know. Cookie has been running her own life for a long time without my help. But Sikes could be dangerous.” I waited for a Prius to pass by, then pulled out of the parking space.
“I know he comes across as kind of a skirt-chaser,” Steve said, “but I’m certain she can handle him.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. “For all our sakes.”
“You know, I’m kind of glad you know about the society,” he said. “I don’t like keeping secrets from you.”
My eyes cut toward him, then returned to the street ahead. “Do you have any other secrets you feel like sharing?”
He laughed.
I slowed for a pedestrian. “That’s not exactly an answer.”
Still smiling, he shook his head. “No. No other secrets. My life is an open book.”
“Right.”
“Seriously. You can ask me anything. But you know most of my life is totally normal, even boring. Just like yours is. Practicing magic is just part of it.”
“I like my life,” I said. “And I love learning about magic. But you’re right—normal and boring can be awful nice.”
I double-parked next to his car. It gleamed black and shiny in the moonlight, reminding me of how much money Steve came from.
He reached for the door handle, then paused. Turning, he leaned close. “Katie-girl.” His warm breath against my skin gave me instant quivers. “Things are crazier than I ever thought they’d get. It makes me regret the time we’ve wasted.”
“Oh, Steve. I don’t think—”
“You need to stop playing around. You know we’re supposed to be together.”
“Think about it. Seriously.” He got out of the car and shut the door. Leaned down and spoke through the open window. “Please? That’s all I ask.”
Stunned, I watched him get into his Land Rover. Then I tromped on the accelerator and drove away.
We’re supposed to be together? What did that even mean?
Had that been a declaration of love?
Did I want it to be?
* * *
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep great that night. Still, I dipped into my stash of Lucy’s seven-layer bars, the ones she laced with agrimony, and managed to eke out a few hours.
Early the next morning I awoke feeling a bit foggy. Normally I would have shaken it off with a run, but venturing alone into the dark predawn felt dangerous now. I hated that, resented that someone could make me feel that way.
Half an hour of yoga and a nice long shower did wonders for both body and mind, though. As I slipped into my work clothes I eyed the tie-dyed skirt and glittery tank from the night before, now laid over the back of the chair in the bedroom. For this morning’s investigative adventure I decided not to pull any punches. Forget casual Bohemian. I had the perfect suit to wear to a late October breakfast with Savannah’s political bigwigs.
At least I thought it was perfect. And that was what counted.
“I’m going to be at the fund-raiser with Bianca for most of the morning,” I reminded Mungo. “You don’t mind staying here today, do you?”
He knew I didn’t like to leave him at the bakery when I wasn’t there. It was enough that we were breaking all sorts of food police rules by letting him stay in the office so much. But, heck, it wasn’t like he was out in the kitchen romping in the cookie dough or anything.
Yip!
“Good. You want me to have Margie bring the JJs over to play?”
He looked disinterested, which I took for, well, disinterest. He loved playing with the kids, but sometimes they could be a bit much for his sensibilities.
“You want the TV on, I suppose?”
Yip!
Looking at the ceiling, I shook my head. “Okay.”
I climbed up to the loft that overlooked the living room, and he bounded up the narrow stairs behind me. Once he was settled into the pillows on the small settee, I turned on the TV and flipped to his favorite channel: the Soap Opera Network. “I’ll leave your lunch downstairs, okay?”
He ignored me. I’d discovered over the past few months that my familiar really liked soap operas. It was like a sickness.
Leaving him to his newfound addiction, I opened the secretary desk Lucy had given me. The folding desk fit in the tight quarters of the carriage house and perfectly hid my makeshift altar. A lace shawl Nonna Sheffield had knitted covered the wooden surface and provided the backdrop for my chalice (a small, swirly glass bowl from the flea market), a worn vintage paring knife that suited this baker’s idea of a ritual athame, a collection of stones gathered by rivers and on lakeshores, an Indian arrowhead my dad had given me, and a brilliant blue feather that had drifted into the gazebo only weeks before.
Now I fingered the delicate stitches my witchy grandmother had knitted and wondered again whether she’d imbued the piece with magic of some kind. Though I suspected she had, I’d probably never know for sure. It probably didn’t matter, either.
My grimoire sat on a shelf above the objects on the altar, reminding me that I hadn’t updated it for a couple of days now. I thought of it as a kind of recipe book for spells. In six months I’d recorded my casting attempts, what worked, what didn’t, refining and honing as I went. I promised myself that when this was all over I’d catch up.
Not that there was much to catch up on. Lawrence Eastmore getting himself killed had thrown a real monkey wrench into my lessons with the spellbook club.
After touching each object on the altar, with a mental nod to the four elements they represented, I closed the desk. Mungo didn’t budge when I ruffled his ears, so I went down and cut up a portion of Steve’s leftover turkey Reuben, complete with sauerkraut and dressing and part of a kosher pickle. It all went into a bowl that then went into a larger bowl of ice to stay fresh for hours until Mungo felt hungry.
Lordy, the things I did for that dog.
Placing the whole shebang on the floor of the kitchen, I called good-bye, then took my change of clothes out to the car. As I locked the front door I wondered what Steve would say about Mungo’s soap opera habit. Or the fact that he wouldn’t eat dog food but loved pickles and raisins.
Then I wondered why I’d bother to wonder such a thing, firmly pushing his vague request the night before to the back of my mind.
Again.
* * *
It was still pitch-black outside when I arrived at the Honeybee, and would be for hours. I tied on a bright orange chef’s apron with the white bones of a skeletal torso appliquéd on the front. I’d bought two—the other one was black—to add to my considerable collection of vintage aprons. After preheating the ovens, I put the pans of sourdough that had been rising overnight onto the racks to bake and mixed the batter for brown-butter-and-walnut cupcakes, which would be the special for the day. Or were they muffins? Hard to tell the difference when you mixed savory and sweet like that. I added a hefty dose of powdered ginger to the batter, closing my eyes and invoking its influence to increase energy, love, and courage. By the time Cookie arrived, I’d also mixed three kinds of cookie dough and re-baked a batch of cranberry orange biscotti.
“You’re late,” I said, instantly regretting my tone.
She blinked at me with bleary eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep.”
Oh, dear. I rubbed my hand over my face, afraid to ask.
Cookie didn’t seem to notice. “Brandon and I sat down by the river and talked for hours and hours last night. I barely made it home for a nap and a shower.” She twisted up her still-wet hair, pinned it in place, and donned a Honeybee baseball cap. Then she slipped the black skeleton apron over her head and reached behind to fasten it.
“What did you talk about?” My tone was carefully casual as I began stacking biscotti in a large glass jar.
“Oh, gosh. Everything. Absolutely everything. We have so much in common! It’s like we’ve known each other forever.” For being so tired she sure was enthusiastic.
I put the lid on the jar and leaned my hip against the counter. “What did you tell him?”
She stilled. “About what?”
“About the fact that you’re a witch. About the spellbook club. About what you know about him being a druid, the Dragoh Society, Lawrence Eastmore, and the Spell of Necretius.” Frustration blew out on my words. Anger, too, I realized. And fear. Cookie could have jeopardized everything the spellbook club was trying to do to find a killer and keep an evil spirit at bay.
She whirled to face me, hands on her hips. “Just because you’re too afraid to commit to either of the men who are obviously in love with you doesn’t give you the right to judge me.”
“Cookie, I wasn’t—”
“Believe me, we had a lot more interesting things to talk about than your murder investigation.”
“My—?”
“And yes, Brandon knows I practice magic, but he told me about his practice first. The spellbook club and his society didn’t come up. Our childhoods, our lives, our values and beliefs—those were what we talked about. You know what else?” She was practically shouting by now. “He admitted to glamouring his paintings. He doesn’t do it with all of them, just enough to keep the money coming in so he has the freedom to pursue his art.”
Oh, brother. Like that somehow made it better?
“Katie is only worried about you,” Lucy said from beside the display case.
We both turned in surprise. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear you two fighting. Now stop it. It makes my stomach hurt to watch you.”
I went over and gave her a hug. “Hear that, Cookie? We’ve made Lucy sick.”
After a moment Cookie laughed. “I’m sorry. I get kind of cranky when I don’t get enough sleep.”
“You’re not the only one,” Lucy said with a meaningful look at me.
“Moi?” I said.
“Actually, we need to talk about that,” Cookie said, her expression serious again.
Uh-oh.
“What’s up?” my aunt asked.
Cookie licked her lips. “Well, you know I’ve been working at the Honeybee for four months, right?”
Lucy and I exchanged glances.
“And I’m not that great at these early mornings…Oh, heck. The truth is I really hate getting up this early.”
“And besides, four months is about your limit at most jobs, isn’t it?” Lucy’s voice was kind. “We understand.”
Cookie looked over at me, and I nodded. “We’ve kind of been expecting this. Can you stay for a few more days, while we find someone else?”
She wagged her finger at me. “Ah. You see, I found someone last night.”
“Last night?”
“At the gallery. Brandon introduced us. Her name is Nel. And she’s already filled out an application—kismet!”
“Nel Sandstrom?” I asked, thinking hard.
“You met her, too, then.” Cookie looked pleased.
“Briefly. And I saw her here when she came in looking for a job. But, Cookie, you know who she is, don’t you?”
“Her father is a druid,” Lucy breathed.
“Was a druid,” I said.
“Does it matter?” Cookie asked. “She’s no druid, she’s looking for a job, and her background is in baking. She worked at a bakery in Athens for a long time, and—get this, Lucy—she’s a cake decorator!”
Lucy’s lips turned down in thought. “We could sure use someone else who likes to decorate cakes. It’s good business.”
“Yeah…” I trailed off. I loved experimenting with flavor combinations and trying new baking techniques a lot more than the intricacies of piping and working with fondant. Maybe I just wasn’t artistic enough, but cake decorating had been the only pastry course that brought me to tears.
Cookie continued. “When I told her there might be an opening here because I was quitting, she became very excited. She says she’s a real early bird, too.”
“All right,” Lucy said with a decisive nod. “If you think she would be a good fit, the least we can do is interview her.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Cookie said, lifting the jar of biscotti and sashaying out to the front counter with it. “She’ll be here this afternoon to talk to you.”
“First she went directly against the spellbook club’s request not to get involved with Brandon Sikes by spending most of the night baring her soul to him,” I whispered to Lucy as Cookie began opening the front blinds.
“Presumably only her soul, though.” She smiled.
“And then she had the audacity to arrange for her own replacement by asking a total stranger,” I finished.
“I’m sure she felt that she was doing us a favor,” my good-natured aunt said in Cookie’s defense. “And she does have terrific instincts about jobs, not only for herself but for others.”
I harrumphed.
“Everything happens for a reason, Katie. You know that.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely. Cookie,” she called.
The younger witch turned with a quizzical expression.
“What will you do once you’re not working here?”
“I’m not sure yet. Something will turn up.”
“It always does,” I muttered.
“I heard that,” she sang out, her good humor completely restored. “Oh, and Katie? You can cross Brandon off your list of suspects in Dr. Eastmore’s murder.”
“Why? Do you know where he was?” Wondering if her new beau’s story would match Steve’s, I followed her to the reading area, where she had started tidying the volumes on the shelf.
“Well, I couldn’t very well come right out and ask that, now could I? Not without giving away our interest. But if it’s true that whoever killed the professor did it because they wanted that spell to bring them worldly power, well, then, it just couldn’t have been Brandon. See, he’s not interested in material success, only in bringing beauty into the world.”
Not interested in material success, my patootie. And as for bringing beauty into the world, if that was Sikes’ goal he needed to take some more art lessons.
But I just nodded and smiled and went back to the kitchen to pull the sourdough loaves out of the oven.