Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (5 page)

“Hey, that’s not—”

“Fair?”

I sighed.

“It’s completely fair, and you know it. The only time you’ve ever called me is if
you need my help. I can’t imagine that’s suddenly changed.” He leaned toward me. “Or
has it?”

His breath caressed my neck, and I swallowed. Hard.

“Has it?”

My shoulders slumped. “No. I’m sorry.”

He straightened and opened his menu. “No need. Just making sure I know where I stand.”

“Steve, it’s just that, well, that you…I don’t know.”

“I scare you. I know that. But we have a connection, and you know that, so one of
these days you’re just going to have to get over being a fraidy cat and deal with
it.”

I glared at him.

He grinned back. “I’m going to have the turkey Reuben. You?”

With reluctance, I turned my attention to the lunch offerings. This was exactly the
kind of thing Steve was good at. It would have been a lot more infuriating if it wasn’t
true.

He ordered his Reuben and I ordered a Greek salad. After the waitress left, we sat
back and looked at each other. Steve took a sip of iced tea and raised his eyebrows
a fraction. Waiting.

Reaching into the tote bag on the chair beside me, I withdrew the smudged drawing
of the wreath tattoo and laid it on the table between us. Eyebrows still raised, he
glanced down. “What’s this?”

Then he really looked, and his whole body stilled. The blood drained from his face,
leaving it pale under his smooth tanned skin. The muscles in his neck worked, and
then he looked up at me. “Where did you find this?” He sounded almost angry.

Mimsey had acted frightened when she saw the drawing, and now Steve was angry.

Interesting.

“I drew it.”

“But you must have seen it someplace. Where? When?”

Taking a deep breath, I said, “This morning. In Johnson Square. On a man’s arm. A…a
dead man.”

He stared at me, his face expressionless. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Oh, Katie-girl. What have you gotten yourself into?”

He hadn’t called me Katie-girl for months. Of course, I’d asked him to stop, but he
seemed to rarely do what I asked, so it was notable. Now I found I didn’t hate it
as much as I’d thought. Something about the way he said it.

The waitress brought our food, and I ordered a side of soup to go for Mungo. She topped
off our glasses of tea and left, shooting a look over her shoulder at Steve as she
sashayed away.

But he wasn’t paying attention. He took a bite from the corner of his sandwich, put
his other elbow on the table in defiance of Emily Post’s dictum, and said, “You’d
better tell me everything.”

I shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. We happened to see a man lying under a rhododendron
bush in Johnson Square this morning. I could tell something was wrong, so I took a
closer look. Sure enough, it turned out he was dead. That’s when I saw the tattoo.
De—the police came then, and Peter Quinn interviewed us. Him and his new partner.”
I made a moue, remembering Detective Taite.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “We? Us?”

Of course Steve had caught my verbal slip.

I raised my chin in defiance. “Declan.”

If I’d thought he looked mad when he saw the tattoo, then the expression on his face
now was downright fury.

“I know you dislike him. We were just having a bite.”

“In Johnson Square.”

“Yes.”

“A picnic.” Somehow he made the notion of eating outdoors sound sordid. And I could
see the hurt under all that anger—long-held anger toward Declan for his part in a
tragic accident that had killed Steve’s brother. Now it had been augmented by his
feelings for me. One of those feelings was lust. It was sometimes hard to tell what
else accompanied it.

He forked a bite of side salad into his mouth and chewed slowly. Swallowed. “What
else?”

“Besides a picnic?”

“No,” he said with great patience. “What else did you notice about the man you found?
What did he look like?”

“Oh. He was older. Thick white hair, old clothes with dirt on them, muddy boots, nice
watch.”

Steve put down his fork and took a gulp of tea, blinking rapidly. Were those tears?

I put my hand over his. “You seem to recognize the description.”

“Not at all.”

I didn’t believe him. I pushed the drawing of the tattoo toward him. “You know what
this is, don’t you?”

Composed again, he asked, “Now, why would you even think that?”

“A little witch told me.” After all, Mimsey had given me permission to tell him.

He sighed. “A little white-haired witch, I bet. With blue eyes and a parrot.”

“You know Heckle?”

Steve grimaced.

I pushed harder. “You know about the druids who wear this. I know you do.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I’m practically whispering. No one can hear us. And I bet you know the identity of
the man who had this on his arm.”

After not being able to take his eyes off me, now he couldn’t look at me at all.

“Tell me,” I urged. Without meaning to, I felt a little of my Voice infuse the words.
I barely managed not to clap my hand over my mouth.

His eyes flared. “Knock it off! That crap doesn’t work on me.”

“Sorry. I just thought—”

“You just wanted to get your way.”

“Not my way! To know whose body I found today. And…why. Mimsey implied it might have
something to do with my being a—a, you know.”

“What?”

“A catalyst.”

“Oh. Right. That.”

The tension rode there in the air between us for a long moment before he looked at
me again. “I need to talk to someone before I tell you any more.”

“But you haven’t told me anything,” I protested. “At least you could…” Something in
his expression made my words trail off. “Well, okay. I guess. Not that I have any
choice.”

“No. You don’t.” He rose and took a few steps away
from the table. Then he took out his wallet, extracted a bill, and threw it on the
table.

“But I asked you to lunch,” I said.

“Under false pretenses.” He turned and walked away.

I watched him go. A knot of guilt twisted in my stomach. Why was he so upset? Who
did he need to talk to?

Katie-girl, what have you gotten yourself into?

Indeed.

The blowsy waitress returned, frowning at all the uneaten food on the table. She held
a bag with Mungo’s treat. “Is there something wrong with your order?” she asked.

“It’s fine. Good. My friend had to leave, though.” I felt my face redden.

“Well, I hope everything’s all right. Would you like boxes to take home?”

“Yes, please.” I couldn’t bear to waste such excellent fare. Maybe I’d be hungry later.

At least Mungo would appreciate the leftovers.

Mimsey had left by the time I got back to the Honeybee to pick up Mungo. Cookie, finished
with the day’s baking, was also gone. Ben was restocking the toffee biscotti and chatting
with Lucy. A woman I didn’t recognize sat at one of the bistro tables. She wore a
denim jumper and Birkenstocks, and her thick gray hair was braided into a single long
plait down her back. I glanced down as I walked by and saw that she was filling out
a job application. She looked up, her warm smile accentuating apple cheeks on either
side of a slightly hawkish nose. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her eyes.

“Hi, there! I’m Nel.”

I smiled back, feeling unexpected gratitude. It had been a very odd day, and a wide
smile from a perfect stranger was more than welcome. “Hi, Nel. I’m—”

“Katie? Can I talk to you?” Lucy patted Ben on the shoulder and said something, then
hurried through the kitchen and into the office.

“Katie,” I stage-whispered to Nel over my shoulder as I followed my aunt.

Mungo jumped into my arms when I walked into the office.

“Good thing you’re not very big,” I said to him. “Otherwise you’d knock me to the
floor with those antics.”

“Where have you been?” Lucy said.

I turned. “Having lunch with Steve.”

Her eyes widened, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, really…”

“I had a question to ask him.” Mungo’s soft tongue lapped once at my neck. I frowned
down at him.

“About that tattoo?” Her smile vanished. “Mimsey rushed out of here without saying
a word to me, like dogs were snapping at her heels.”

Mungo whined low.

“Sorry,” Lucy said. “Bad choice of words. But apparently I missed quite an interesting
conversation.”

I nodded. “She recognizes the tattoo. Said it was the symbol used by a group of druids
in town, and that Steve might be able to tell me more.”

“Druids,” she repeated with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder why that would upset
her so much. Druids are typically gentle sorts, with a deep respect for the goddess.
A deep connection to nature, too. Was Steve any help?”

“Not really. He said he has to talk to someone.”

“Well, heck.”

Now I was the one smiling. “Since when are you so interested in obscure tattoos?”

“Since one showed up on a dead man’s arm—a dead man my darling niece found, by the
way—and since my mentor had such a strong reaction to your drawing.”

“Yeah, that tattoo definitely disturbed her. I’ll let you both know if Steve decides
to come through with any real information. For now, though, I’m going to take the
rest of my day off, off.” I glanced on the clock on the wall. It was almost three
o’clock. “I’m going home to play in my garden.”

“Good idea,” she said. “How are your spells growing?”

“The witch hazel is doing well, but the jasmine has still been kind of wilty. So this
morning I took your advice and brewed a healing tea, then misted the plant with it
at dawn. I want to get back and see how it’s doing.”

“What did you decide to use in the tea?”

“Lavender and nettle,” I said.

She smiled gently. “Those are good choices. I knew you’d figure out a suitable combination
to heal and encourage growth.”

“I hope so.” I opened my tote bag. “Say, I saw that woman filling out an application.
Do you really think we need another employee?”

Lucy shrugged. “Maybe down the road, but not yet. She came in and asked if we needed
any help—apparently she has a lot of experience working in bakeries. I figured it
couldn’t hurt to have her application on file. Cookie’s been here four months already,
you know.”

I nodded. Cookie switched jobs—and men—every three or four months. “I’d hoped she
might stick around,” I said. “Having the help is great, and we don’t have to be sneaky
about our hedgewitchery.” The Honeybee’s baked goods often came with an extra dose
of beneficial magic. A little sage here to encourage wisdom and attract money, a bit
of rosemary there to encourage
long-lasting love. Cinnamon for prosperity and cloves for healing and courage. It
wasn’t just the herbs and spices that had magical influences, either. Apples promoted
peace and happiness and lemon boosted health. Even the coffee from the espresso counter
helped people make decisions and clear deadlocks. Our customers might not know all
that, but they sure kept coming back for more.

With Mungo safely ensconced in the bottom of my tote, I followed Lucy out to the front,
kissed Ben on the cheek, and headed out to my Volkswagen Beetle. I received a doggy
glare when I buckled the bag into the passenger seat with my familiar still in it,
but he stayed there, head clearing the top so he could look around.

“I’m sorry, but you know how I feel.” I drove down Broughton and took a left on Whitaker.
Soon we were buzzing out of Savannah’s historic district toward home. “I just don’t
understand why Steve was so weird today,” I said once we were on our way. “He’s not
usually secretive about magic, at least not with me.”

Yip!

“And who did he need to talk to before he could tell me anything? I have a feeling
he knows at least some of the druids in that secret society.”

The terrier was silent. I looked over at him. His expression echoed my questioning
tone.

“Right.” It wasn’t as if I could read his mind in anything like words; I just knew
what he was thinking most of the time. Just like I’d known what my childhood dogs,
Sukie and Barnaby, had been thinking when I was growing up. Some dogs are smarter
than a lot of humans. Especially dogs who are connected with witches.

“Anyway, Steve does know a lot of people in town, so maybe…oh, my goddess—what if
he’s
one of them?”

The thought was so distracting that I almost missed the stop sign. I might have if
Mungo hadn’t barked a warning. I stomped on the brake and the Bug shuddered to a stop
as a huge king cab pickup went blaring past, right in front of my bumper. The container
of soup flew out of the bag on the floor and spattered all over the passenger-side
footwell.

Mungo whined.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Thank heavens I was dutiful about using seat belts.

The smell of shrimp and spicy sausage filled the interior of the warm car. Nauseated,
I rolled all the windows down for the remainder of my shaky drive home.

Silly me. Steve wasn’t a druid—at least not one of the group Mimsey had told me about.
He didn’t have the tattoo on his arm.

But maybe they didn’t all have them on their arms. Maybe he had a tattoo someplace
else on his body. Someplace I hadn’t seen. Yet.

That thought was even more distracting than the first one, but I managed to get us
both home intact.

 * * *

Mungo and I lived in a tiny house that had once been a carriage house for a larger
home. That estate was now gone, and middle-class homes and pleasant lanes lined with
dogwood, crape myrtle, and live oak trees surrounded my little abode. There was a
green space behind the houses on my side of the street, so my neighbors and I had
room to breathe and a little more privacy. There was even a natural stream that ran
across one
corner of the yard. When I’d purchased the carriage house I hadn’t known I’d be doing
spell work outside, but somehow I’d happened upon the perfect place for it.