“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.
My incantations over a boiling cauldron. I suppressed a smile at the thought, still avoiding her gaze.
“Hey, Iris, do you have a minute?” Ben asked. He didn’t practice magic, but he knew what Lucy and I did in the Honeybee kitchen. Now he was trying his best to distract Iris from her current line of questioning.
“Um, sure,” she said, finally catching my eye. Hers were full of curiosity, and, I realized, hope.
I smiled. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”
She grinned in return. “Yeah?”
I looked over at Lucy, who nodded her agreement. “Yeah.”
“Cool!” She hurried out to where Ben had moved behind the espresso counter. “At your service, Mr. Eagel.”
“Stop calling me that,” he said. “If you don’t start using my first name, I won’t show you how to make a black eye,” he said.
“A what?” came her puzzled response.
“One of our regulars orders it, so you need to know how to make it. Start with a cup of drip, and then make a double shot of espresso . . .”
I grabbed two of the macaroons, went to stand by Lucy, and handed her one as she began loading a display tray with the slices of cream cheese–frosted hummingbird cake.
“Are you sure she’s ready?” Lucy asked in a hushed voice.
“More than I was.” I also kept my tone low. “She has latent talent. We all agree on that.”
She finished filling the tray and began to wipe down the counter. “Of course. All the members of the spellbook club have had a chance to meet her and . . . assess her potential. However, do you think she’s really open to the idea of witchcraft?”
I pressed my lips together in thought. “How about if we start slowly? Rather than talking about the Craft, we could begin by introducing her to some of the qualities of herbs and spices. A lot of people know lavender is soothing and relaxing, and citrus is invigorating. What we do is simply introduce another level, or perhaps aspect, of what herbalists do when they use plants as medicine. Or how aromatherapists use essential oils.”
Lucy gave a decisive nod. “I like it. We can gauge her reaction and go from there.” She dropped the towel in the laundry hamper and put her hands on her hips. “Now, what are you going to do about Franklin Taite and his poor niece?”
I blinked at the abrupt change of subject, but we’d been busy ever since getting in that morning, and Iris had arrived early. This was the first chance my aunt and I’d had to talk about the Taites since she’d called me the previous evening. I glanced into the other room, then nodded toward the office. Lucy followed me in, and I shut the door behind us.
It was a small room lined with shelves. A computer desk and chair, one tall file cabinet, and the club chair where Mungo napped while I was working crowded most of the space where we performed the myriad of administrative tasks as necessary to running our business as the actual baking. I leaned my elbows on the file cabinet while Lucy sat in the desk chair, reaching over to stroke under Mungo’s furry chin. He wagged his appreciation, looking between us with avid interest.
“I’m not sure how much I can do, actually,” I said in answer to Lucy’s question. “The whole thing is so strange. How could Franklin contact a medium when he wasn’t even dead?”
“There’s no doubt he died recently?” Lucy asked.
“You know as much as I do,” I said. “Quinn hasn’t told me anything you haven’t heard.”
“What does Declan think?” Lucy asked. She knew he didn’t care for how I got sucked into murder investigations, especially those that involved magic.
“He says he wants me to figure out what’s going on.”
I’d thought my aunt would be surprised, but she only nodded and said, “Of course he does. He’s coming around. I told you he would.”
“Well, when he channeled his uncle Connell, it did seem to change his mind about what’s possible—and about what magic might really be about. He’s been quite curious about my spell work since then, asking questions about things he used to avoid, or, even worse, marginalize.”
“Hmm. Yes, I imagine having another consciousness speaking through one’s lips might have that effect,” she said.
“It frightened him, too. He doesn’t like to talk about that, but I can tell.”
“You’ve had your own share of frights,” she said, her expression an invitation to open up.
I swallowed hard. “I just wish I knew what, exactly, I’m supposed to do as a lightwitch. We don’t know what kind of evil might have taken an interest in Franklin—or Dawn.” And despite making light of it with Declan, delving into the world of voodoo was a big, scary unknown.
Lucy gazed at me with sympathy, but didn’t offer any stellar advice.
I sighed. “So, here’s the plan I came up with last night.” Long after Declan had fallen asleep. “Such as it is. I’m going to call Quinn and see if he knows anything more about Franklin’s death, especially whether they’re considering it suspicious now. Then I’m going to see if I can track down Ursula Banford in case she can shed any light on how Franklin could have communicated with her from the spirit world when he was still alive on this plane.”
My aunt nodded. “Both good ideas.”
“Then I’m going to track down the voodoo queen Dawn Taite referred to. She said Savannah voodoo queen, so it has to be someone here in town, right?”
A frown creased Lucy’s forehead. “Voodoo’s not something to be taken lightly.”
“No kidding. But at least I might have an in—or, rather, Cookie might have an in. I’m hoping she’s still in contact with some locals who could help, even if she doesn’t practice anymore.”
Lucy stood and gave Mungo one last pat on the head before reaching for the doorknob. “She turned her back on her upbringing for a good reason. She might not be willing to get involved with some elements of her old community.”
“All I can do is ask,” I said. Again.
“That’s true. She was in shock yesterday—we all were, of course. In the end, however, she’s a member of our coven. And she likes you, Katie. A lot. If she can’t—or won’t—help, at least she might be willing to refer you to someone who can.”
“I hope so,” I said, as Lucy opened the door. The sound of murmuring voices punctuated by Ben’s booming tone alerted us the Honeybee had gotten busy. We hurried out to help, and found the line to the register four deep.
My phone calls would have to wait for now.
* * *
When the rush was over, Lucy got to work restocking the display case beside the register, and Ben bundled up the garbage to take out to the alley. Our writer sat at a corner table, typing slowly, even hesitantly, but at least he was typing. Two women, similar enough in looks that they had to be related, sat at another table, lingering over sweating glasses of sweet tea and sharing a piece of Lucy’s hummingbird cake. A young man sat across from a woman of similar age, both hunched over their laptops and in their own separate worlds, defined by whatever was playing through their earbuds. Both were swigging black coffee, and she was drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Given the textbooks piled by her computer, I guessed they were college students studying for summer finals. Another woman sat on the sofa by the bookshelves, engrossed in a hardback volume with a brightly colored dust jacket.
It looked like a small bomb had gone off in the reading area. Two chairs had been moved next to the front window; plates and cups littered the top of the coffee table. Even the windowsill where Lucy’s Honeybee had been sitting last evening held dirty dishes. Apparently, the two self-bussing stations at each end of the bakery were invisible to our patrons. Still, business was business, and I wasn’t going to complain about a rush or a little cleanup. I returned the chairs to their places and gathered crockery to take into the kitchen, happy to see the customers must have enjoyed their goodies; only crumbs remained on the plates.
I returned to the library to tidy the shelves of books. Our library was open to everyone who came into the Honeybee. Anyone could take a book or leave a book, but most of the volumes were supplied by the ladies of the spellbook club. They had started this practice before we’d even opened, and, in fact, had been loaded down with bags of books the very first time I’d met them.
They chose the books using whatever method worked for them. It was largely intuition, but Mimsey sometimes employed the use of her pink shew stone, and Jaida might check about the usefulness of a particular book using a tarot spread. However they chose them, the books in the Honeybee library were intended to help patrons in whatever way they could.
As a result, the collection was rather eclectic. Unsurprisingly, there were a large number of self-help books and a good-sized how-to section. There was also fiction—everything from contemporary and classic literature, to science fiction, romance, mystery, fantasy, and werewolf tales. There were memoirs and science books and cookbooks. You never knew how a book might benefit a customer, and it wasn’t our job to guess. Only to supply the books. Whenever I saw someone leave with one of the books the ladies had supplied, I felt a flicker of satisfaction.
I picked up a copy of How to Write Hit Country Songs and tucked it into its proper place. Next I returned a copy of Civil War Savannah to the shelf then picked up an old, dusty volume with the title Herbal Practices Throughout the Ages. Pausing, I took a look inside. It had been published in 1948. Still, the contents looked interesting, and the historical annotations could only add to the kind of kitchen magic I already practiced. It even had a section on using herbs to increase psychic powers. Grinning to myself, I tucked the book under my arm to take into the office. I’d have to ask the ladies which one of them had brought me a book this time.
Before I left, I turned to the woman on the couch. Her coffee mug and pastry plate were empty. I stooped to pick them up, saying, “How are you doing? Is there anything else I can get you?”
“Oh!” she squeaked. She slammed her book closed and blinked up at me with eyes so light brown, they were almost amber. “You startled me!”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She laughed and waved a well-manicured hand. “Oh, gosh. No, I’m sorry. I can just lose myself in a book sometimes.” Now that she wasn’t speaking in the high register of surprise, her voice was deep and silky, the round tones of the South smoothing the edges of her words.
I smiled in return. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s actually rather wonderful, don’t you think?”
She nodded, eyes lit in agreement. Her blond hair swung around her tanned shoulders in a smooth-as-satin blunt cut. Her summer halter dress was a breezy pink with a darker pink sash at the waist.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” I said.
“This is my first time. I’m waiting for my boyfriend to meet me. He just went on and on and on about this place. I have to tell you, the fig muffins are to die for!”
“Thanks,” I said. “My aunt Lucy came up with those.”
“Well, you just tell her they are divine. I know I’m going to have to come back over and over again. There are simply too many yummy things to try. My boyfriend told me one of his favorite things to eat here are the Parmesan rosemary scones, but, you know”—she lowered her voice—“I simply had to have something sweet today.”
“Sweet, savory, and sometimes a little of both. That’s what we specialize in!” I turned to go. “And we certainly hope you do come visit us again.” I had the distinct feeling she would.
“Why, thank you! What’s your name?”
“I’m Katie Lightfoot. I own the Honeybee, along with my aunt Lucy and uncle Ben.”
“Well, Katie, I am tickled pink to meet you. I’m Samantha.”
“Nice to meet you, Samantha. I’d shake your hand, but—” I gestured toward my full tray. “Are you sure I can’t bring you something else?”
“Oh, gosh, no. I’m full up. Is it okay if I just sit here for a while?”
“Of course.”
She spared me one more smile before cracking her book open on her lap again. As she did, I saw the title: How to Get What You Want . . . Every Time.
Huh. I wondered which of the ladies had brought that one in.
* * *
The rubber soles of Iris’ shoes squeaked on the tile floor as she spun and twirled through the usually mundane job of unloading the dishwasher.
“You seem awfully happy,” I said, taking the clean muffin pan she offered me and putting it on the shelf beneath one of the counters.
She looked stricken. “Oh. Gosh, Katie. I’m sorry.”
I looked up in surprise. “Why on earth would you be sorry for feeling happy?”
Lucy came out of the office in time to hear me. She stopped to listen.
Iris blinked heavily rimmed lids. “That woman who passed out in here and had to go to the hospital. That was, you know, tragic.”
My aunt smiled gently. “It was. But there’s a lot of tragedy in the world, all the time. You still get to be happy.”
A grin tugged at our protégée’s lips. “Yeah?”
I nodded firmly. “Yeah.”
The grin bloomed full force, and she twirled back to the open dishwasher to grab a bread pan. “I’ve been picking out my classes at SCAD. There are so many interesting things to choose from! I want to learn them all.”
Lucy laughed. “Anything in particular appeal to you?”
“Oh, golly. There’s fashion and graphic design and animation. I love the idea of animation, you know? Like, for the movies?” She waved the pan in the air to emphasize her point.
“Sounds like a good career,” I ventured.
“Oh, but then there’s filmmaking and jewelry design and all sorts of writing courses.”
“Those sound good, too,” I said.
“Heavens, all those choices would make my head spin,” Lucy said.
Iris sashayed over to put the pan on an empty rack. “I know! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Well, let me know what you decide. In the meantime, I have some phone calls to make.”
* * *
Back in the office, I grabbed my cell. For about two seconds I considered making my calls from the alley to ensure privacy, but it was too darn hot out—especially given the heat all the brick and asphalt soaked up. Last August, most highs had topped out in the eighties, but this year we’d hit a hundred three times already.
“Guess you’re stuck with me,” I said to Mungo as I closed the door.
His response was a long, disinterested yawn.
“I hope Iris doesn’t wander in here while I’m questioning a psychic about dead people.”
His ears perked up, and he sat back on his haunches to listen. At least the thrum of the air-conditioning system was louder in here, which would help to muffle my words out in the kitchen.
However, Ursula Banford didn’t answer the number I had for her. Her outgoing voice mail message said she was working on set in Madagascar and would be checking messages infrequently. She was in high demand as a psychic—and personal trainer—in Hollywood, though, honestly, she hadn’t done much good for me other than giving me messages from a supposedly dead Franklin Taite. Now I had to wonder if those particular messages had even been genuine. But I did think they had been. I knew she was the real deal—I’d had personal contact with her “posse” of spirit guides at a séance, and goddess knew she’d paved the way for Declan’s deceased uncle to make his way across the veil.
But real deal or not, she sure wasn’t going to be any help to me today.