Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery (7 page)

My stomach tightened.

Heinrich’s sweeping gesture encompassed the whole dwelling. “I see you are discreet
about your practices, even in private.”

The fist in my solar plexus clenched harder. “Practices?”

“Please. The five-pointed rosemary topiary by the front door would be enough of a
giveaway, even if I didn’t already know you’re a witch.” He settled his elbows on
the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “And yes, my son is indeed correct.
You have tangible power.”

Takes one to know one
, I thought in silence. I wanted to hear what else he would say before I offered him
anything.

“For a woman, of course.”

“Excuse me?”

He waved his hand in the air as if my words were nothing more than a tendril of smoke.
“The fact that you don’t put yourself on display with odd clothing choices or some
silly altar in plain view confirms what Steve told me about your ability to keep things
to yourself.”

I carefully did not look up to where my altar was hidden in the closed secretary desk
in the loft above. “I see,” I grated out. Steve’s dad or not, in only a few sentences
this man had cast aspersions on me personally and my gender as a whole.

He smiled, revealing those straight white Dawes teeth again. But now I saw the naked
arrogance come through, which made his smile more feral than friendly.

“Steve tells me you happened upon an unfortunate this morning.”

I inclined my head a fraction. “That’s one way of putting it.” Now we were getting
to the meat of why this man was in my living room.

“That must have been quite alarming.”

“It was…unpleasant,” I agreed, downplaying my reaction.

“I understand. But you handled yourself with aplomb, and I expect you to do the same
regarding the tattoo on the man’s arm which has so aroused your curiosity.”

Arrogant and a chauvinist. Fine. I could work with that. Allowing my lips to curve
up in a demure smile, I looked down at the floor and waited for him to say more.

Instead, he stood up. “So glad we got that
straightened out. And of course it’s gratifying to get to know Steve’s new lady.”

I came to my feet, too, dumping Mungo on the couch cushion with a thump. “Hang on.”

His eyebrows raised an infinitesimal amount.

“First off, I’m no one’s ‘lady’ and certainly not your son’s. Secondly, what do you
mean we have this straightened out? Because by ‘this’ I assume you mean the tattoo,
and the, uh, group it implies membership in. Since you haven’t told me anything about
it, I don’t really see a need for any of that
discretion
and
aplomb
you seem to assume I possess.”

Heinrich looked down his nose at me. With an effort, I stood my ground and willed
cool confidence into my own expression.

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I see I may have been misled.”

Only by your own prejudices.

“All right,” he said. “Steve told me that Carmichael woman filled your head with a
bunch of ridiculous nonsense. You need to put her fairy tales out of your mind. The
tattoo you saw indicates membership in a very exclusive Savannah men’s club.” He licked
his lips. “The Dragoh Society. If you must think of it at all, think of the club as
a kind of Sons of the American Revolution.”

I considered him. “Really. So this Dragoh Society does the same kinds of things that
the SAR does? You’re all about education and patriotism and the preservation of history,
then? Pretty dull men’s club.”

His lips turned up, but you couldn’t really call it a smile. He inclined his head.

“You’re obviously a member,” I said.

A slight hesitation before he said, “I am.”

“So who did I find in Johnson Square this morning?”

“Ms. Lightfoot, I assure you I don’t have the slightest idea. There are many members,
and we don’t all know each other.”

So much for Heinrich and me being on a first-name basis. I didn’t believe him, either.
He knew who the dead man was.

I said, “Now that you’re aware the dead man had the club tattoo, you’ll naturally
pass the information about this Dragoh Society on to the police.”

He frowned. “Why would—”

“To help them identify the body, of course.”

“Of course.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll make that my next stop.”

“Detective Peter Quinn,” I said.

He stopped in midstride and half turned back. “Who?”

“Peter Quinn. One of the detectives on the case. He’s a friend of mine.”

Now facing me, Heinrich slowly raised one finger. “Do not threaten me, Katie.”

“I wasn’t.”

The finger waggled slowly back and forth. “Not ever. You are now aware of the existence
of a well-established men’s club that has been around for a very long time. That’s
more than most women—people—know. Be happy with that, because you would be well advised
to keep out of the society’s business.”

I heard the Command in the last sentence. It rolled off me like rain on polished glass,
but I nodded as if it
had worked as Heinrich Dawes intended. He’d told me all he was going to, and suddenly
it felt imperative to get him out of my home.

“Okay,” I said, injecting a little sweetness into my tone. “Thank you. Say hello to
Steve for me. It was lovely to finally meet you.” I smiled big and bright.

He seemed to buy it. “Likewise.”

I closed the door behind him and watched through the slats of the wooden shutter as
his driver opened the door of the Town Car and Heinrich Dawes climbed inside. Mungo
joined me. I picked him up and together we watched Steve’s dad being driven away.

The dog licked my chin.

“I know. There’s something off about that guy. I don’t know that it’s anything evil.
An unfortunate combination of arrogance and power, perhaps.” I put Mungo down and
thought about what my aunt did whenever she wanted to rid a space of negative influences.
“Whatever it is, let’s dig out the white sage. You know Lucy would tell us to smudge
this place from top to bottom.”

Yip!

At least Heinrich had gone back to calling me Katie before he left. I tried to think
of that as a good thing.

Smudging, while effective, can be stinky. Mungo and I used stalks of white sage, the
stems tied together with twine. But Heinrich Dawes had unsettled me, and I felt compelled
to double-smudge, if you will. So after walking the perimeter of each room with the
smoking bundle of sage, I did the same with juniper berry incense. The combination
of scents was acrid and heady—and quite frankly a little hard to take. All for the
good, though. At least the carriage house was small.

After opening the French doors wide, I went to throw open the windows facing the street
to encourage more airflow. It would be just my luck for Margie to pop over unannounced.
She did that with remarkable frequency, always when I was up to something witchy.
Luckily, most of the time my workings looked like cooking or gardening to my neighbor,
and since she avoided doing both she rarely paid attention. Also, for magical rituals
that looked odd—or smelled odd—I usually worked late at night, either inside with
my windows thoroughly covered or outside where I could draw on the power of the moon.
Even so, Margie had
interrupted me a few times when she’d sneaked out to her backyard to eat Twinkies
and Ding Dongs like a smoker steals an illicit puff.

As I pushed the front windows open, a familiar black Land Rover pulled up right where
Heinrich Dawes’ driver had parked by the curb. Steve got out and hurried up to the
door, not noticing that I was looking out the window. The sound of his fist pounding
on the wood made me jump.

“Katie! Let me in! Katie—” His face showed brief surprise when I yanked the door open.

“Stop yelling and get in here,” I hissed and stepped back so he could enter. “Do you
want the whole neighborhood to hear?”

Sure enough, over his shoulder I saw Margie out by her mailbox. I smiled and waved.
After a few seconds Margie waved back, but she still looked concerned.

Steve sniffed the air as I shut the door behind him. I flapped my hands, a futile
gesture that did nothing to dissipate the smell of smoke. Before I could say anything,
he held up his palms.

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I had no idea Father would come over here like
that. Did he frighten you?”

More than his apology, the way he said the word “Father” gave me pause, made me wonder
what their relationship might be like. After all, Steve hadn’t told me anything about
his father; in fact, he’d dodged my questions about his family the few times I’d asked.
I’d assumed it was because of the tragic death of his younger brother and backed off.

“He didn’t frighten me as much as make me angry.”

He sniffed the air again. “Yeah, Father elicits that
reaction, too. You seem to have removed any lingering effects, though.”

I looked down at Mungo. “We did our best.”

Steve leaned down and offered the back of his hand for the dog to sniff. Mungo did,
then walked over to the French doors and lay across the threshold. Over a period of
several months he’d come to accept Steve, but if enthusiastic greetings counted as
votes, then Declan had already won the election.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go out back and let the air clear in here.” I thought about
offering him something to eat, but decided against it. If he wanted to walk out of
the restaurant before finishing his lunch, that was his problem. Instead, I poured
two glasses of plain iced tea and topped them with sprigs of spearmint. No more wine
for me. I had a feeling I’d need to be on my toes for the conversation Steve and I
were about to have.

He followed me out to the gazebo, Mungo right behind him. It was my sacred garden
circle, but it was also a great place to sit and chat. At least Steve was a witch.
Or something like a witch. I was about to get some serious clarification on a few
things. I set the sweating glasses on the table and we settled into mismatched wooden
chairs I’d chosen more for comfort than style. Steve pointed at the floor.

“Subtle.”

I looked down at the star I’d painted in the center. It was purple, outlined in white,
and about ten inches in diameter. Shrugging, I said, “It’s not an obvious pentagram.”
Noticing white granules on the floor, I hopped up, grabbed the straw broom leaning
against the wall, and swept the salt left behind from the last circle I’d cast in
the gazebo out of the structure. “Guess I could
be a bit tidier about cleaning up after I work in here, though.”

The scents of roses and mint mingled in the air. I flipped a switch on the wall and
the ceiling fan began to stir the warm mugginess. A phalanx of dragonflies drifted
in to take up station around the gazebo. The sound of a lawn mower droned from a few
doors down.

Steve took a long swallow of tea as I returned to my seat. “I never intended to put
you in Father’s sights when I spoke with him,” he said. “But I couldn’t tell you anything
about that tattoo until I’d checked with him. It’s simply not my secret to tell. Do
you understand?” He sounded almost like he was pleading.

I’d never seen him so discombobulated. “Of course.”

“So…what did he say to you?”

Now I took a drink of tea, thinking. “Oh, you know. All that stuff about the Dragoh
Society.”

Steve’s jaw dropped.

“How long they’ve been around, what they’re all about.” I kept my tone light.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. ’Course the word
druid
never came up directly, but there was enough wink, wink, nudge, nudge in our conversation
for Heinrich’s meaning to be crystal clear.” I pasted a knowing smile on my face.

His eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t sound like Father.”

“Really? Because we got along famously. After all, you’d already told him I’m a witch.”

“Um…”

“So there was no reason for secrets. He certainly is powerful, isn’t he?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed even more as he picked up on my sarcasm.

“I mean, I could feel it,” I went on. “And it went both ways. Your dear father even
complimented me on my ‘tangible’ power.”

“Really.” His tone was flat.

The smile dropped from my face. “For a
woman
, of course.”

He winced.

I relented. He couldn’t help it if his dad was a jerk. “So you’re a hereditary, too,
then.”

He nodded.

“But not a witch, as I believed,” I said.

“Magic is magic. But yes, technically, I’m a druid.”

“Why do I think your father might disagree? That he might be insulted if he knew I’d
thought you were a witch?”

Steve took a deep breath. “The Dragoh Society is a bit different from the druids of
old.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, they’re a bit misogynistic.”

“I’ll say.”

He held up his hand. “It’s a problem. Not all of them are as bad as Father, but they
do tend to hold rather outdated chauvinistic views. It’s one of the many reasons I’m
less than enthusiastic about my magical inheritance.”

“I don’t understand.”

He looked into the distance for a moment, then met my eyes. “Membership in the Dragoh
Society is quite exclusive. All six members have inherited their position through
the decades—centuries, really. Most have passed on from father to son, though if necessary,
membership can pass to a grandson, or even a nephew
may inherit. But the six bloodlines have remained the same since they first banded
together during the Revolutionary War.”

I took a careful sip of tea as these new bits of information ping-ponged through my
brain. Six members. Yet Heinrich had said he didn’t know all the members. Liar, liar,
pants on fire.

Steve, apparently taking my silence for disapproval, spoke defensively. “I know I
should be honored, but I’ve always had my qualms about the Dragohs. I believe they’re
outdated, out of touch, and after all this time continue to cling to a wartime mentality.”
He paused as if deciding how much to say. “The lack of feminine energy in their magic
creates imbalance. It has allowed them to occasionally justify…questionable…practices.”