Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (6 page)

Her already cheerful face brightened even more. “Nice to meet you, Katie. Come on in, and tell me all about yourself. Bring your pup, too. The kids’ll love him to death.”

A little girl peeked out from behind one leg. On the other side a little boy jammed his head between her thigh and the doorframe. Both were towheaded blue-eyed wonders. She backed up a few steps so I could see them better.

“These are my twins, Julia and Jonathan. Say hello to Katie.”

“Hello,” they chimed.

“Hello,” I returned. “How old are you two?”

“Four and a half,” they said in perfect unison.

“And this here is Bart,” Margie said.

I held out my finger, and he grabbed it like a lifeline. “Hello, Bart.” But he was a lot more interested in the dog than in me.

“Actually,” I said, “this little guy’s not mine. But he’s showed up at my house two days now. Any idea where he might live?”

Margie put her nose down close to his, and the baby
patted him on the head. When she straightened, she said, “I can’t say I’ve seen him around. He’s a Cairn terrier, isn’t he? Supposed to be from Scotland. Cute little bugger. I don’t think I’ve run into a black one before.”

“Cairn, huh? I don’t know, but he is such a sweetie. I was worried that he might belong to the former owners of the carriage house.”

“Oh, Lord, no. That woman hated animals. Didn’t like my kids much, either. I tried to be nice, but we just didn’t have much truck with each other. You’re gonna be different, though. I can tell.”

“Well, I love animals of all kinds. Don’t do very well with cats, though. Allergies.”

“Heck, all we’ve got here is a poky old turtle and two rats. So no problem.”

“Rats?”

“The JJs—that’s what we call the twins—talked me into them. They turned out to be pretty good pets. Clean, and they don’t die all the time like fish. ’Course, I thought it might teach them a little responsibility, too.” A grimace flashed across her face. “We’re still working on that part.”

I smiled and looked down at the dog in my arms. “No idea where he comes from, then?”

“I’m real sorry, Katie, but that little guy just isn’t from around here. I know all the families for blocks in either direction, and none of them have a Cairn terrier.”

Sighing, I shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to take him to the animal shelter.”

“N-o-o-o-o!” intoned the JJs.

I looked up at the darkening sky, then leaned down. “It’s getting late. I’ll take care of him tonight. Okay?”

They nodded vigorously.

Margie looked at her watch. “Oh, Lord, it is getting late. I’ve got to get these kids to bed. You want to come in?”

I shook my head. “Better get back home and fix something for my overnight guest.”

She flipped on the porch light. Her disappointment showed clearly in the yellow glow. “But we’ll get together soon, won’t we? Have a cup of coffee and get to know each other?”

“You can bet on it,” I said. Good neighbors make all the difference in the world, and Margie seemed like a gem.

After she closed the door, I put the dog on the ground to see if he would run off like he had the first time. I could always follow him and see where he went. But he just blinked up at me, waiting, and then trotted at my heels the short distance home. As we crossed the lawn a phalanx of fireflies rose and whirled around him.

I stopped and watched. An image of myself as a child suddenly came to mind, lying on my back in the grass with hundreds of dragonflies zooming and diving above me. The dog sat down as the flurry of lights came closer and closer to his head. Not once did he snap or try to catch one. If a dog could have a dreamy expression, he did. After several minutes, they dispersed in every direction, an explosion of lightning bugs in slow motion. The terrier bounced to his feet and trotted toward the house. I followed slowly behind him.

“What am I going to call you?” In the kitchen, I
stirred up a batch of scrambled eggs. A major trip to the grocery store was in my near future.

He grinned from the position he’d taken up in the corner. His bright eyes watched every move I made.

The smell of bread toasting under the broiler filled the room. I took it out and slathered on the butter. Poured a glass of orange juice. Wished I’d thought to bring home some of the leftover sausage strata from the brunch that morning.

“Something Scottish might be fitting, since Margie said Cairn terriers are supposed to be from Scotland.”

Yip!

I divided the eggs between two plates and put one on the floor. He walked over and sat down in front of it.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like eggs?”

Pulling the chair out, I sat at the table and took a bite. Once he saw me do that, the little dog tucked into his own fare with vigor. As if he’d been waiting for me to start.

What a charmer.

“How about Colin?”

He ignored me.

“Finn?”

Nothing.

“Hmm. How about Mungo the Magnificent?”

I was kidding, but he abandoned his breakfast-for-supper, ran to me and put his front paws on my leg.

Yip!

I was working in the bakery in Akron. Nothing had changed, but I didn’t belong there. Under everything
rode the keen awareness that back in Savannah, Ben was in jail for a murder he hadn’t committed. The Honeybee had failed. My lovely new house belonged to someone who hated animals. Foggy sadness seeped into every corner of the dream, punctuated with sudden stabs of desperate fear.

It wasn’t true. I knew it wasn’t true. But clawing my way back to consciousness required superhuman effort. Finally, I surfaced to find Mungo whimpering and licking my face, as frantic as if he were performing CPR.

“Thanks, buddy.” My voice sounded weak, and my hands trembled as I gathered the dog into my arms. Together we settled back against the pillows and listened to the soothing buzz of cicadas drift in on the scent of roses. My arms relaxed their tight hold on Mungo, but he only snuggled closer.

I hadn’t even managed to get my usual hour of sleep, and the short time I had slept was tortured by dreams. At quarter to four, I took a deep breath and rallied my inner resources. The floor was cool on the soles of my feet as I walked into the kitchen to brew coffee. Mungo’s toenails clicked lightly on the hardwood.

After getting some caffeine into my system, I decided to buzz over to the twenty-four-hour market while it was still dark and then go for a long run. In the flurry of getting ready for the DBA brunch and then Mavis Templeton’s murder, I hadn’t bothered with stocking my own kitchen. My makeshift supper the night before impelled me to remedy that situation. Besides, Mungo needed kibble.

I knew it wasn’t practical to keep him. The many
hours I’d have to spend at the bakery, especially as we got the business off the ground, meant I wouldn’t have time to give the little darling the attention he deserved. But one day spent in the fenced backyard wouldn’t hurt him. I could always donate any leftover dog food to the animal shelter. I made a list and headed out.

Grocery shopping before the rest of the world is awake is a mixed bag. On one hand, the market was practically empty, so I zoomed through the aisles, loading up on fresh fruit and vegetables, a nice slab of frozen salmon, and a few packages of chicken. But the deli, meat, and seafood counters wouldn’t open for hours. I’d learned to work around that. Finally I added the ingredients for my favorite middle-of-the-night treat: peanut butter swirl brownies.

Back home, I filled a bowl with kibble for Mungo and took off for a run. An hour and a half later I returned sweaty and content. I showered, fluffed my wet hair with my fingers, put on a little mascara and dressed in capris and a tank top.

Mungo hadn’t touched his food.

“What’s the matter? You too good for dog food?”

He sank to his belly and put his head on his paws.

Hand on hip, I considered him. Truthfully, I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to eat dog food, either. When I was a child, Daddy had fed our black Labrador what Mama insisted was people food. But he’d said dogs were omnivores just like humans, and members of the family.

“All right. Let’s see what we can come up with.” I scrambled another egg and mixed it with rice left over from Lucy and Ben’s takeout. “Hope you like it a little
spicy.” I put that and a dish of cool water outside the back door and led him to it. He dug right in.

So much for kibble.

Then he turned and sat, gazing up at me as if awaiting instruction.

All right, then. “I’m sorry to leave you all alone like this, but I have to. There should be plenty of shade out here today, and you have water. I’ll be back later. Okay?”

He grinned at me.

“You little lamb. Any creature as adorable as you are will be snapped up and given a good home in no time.”

The grin faded. Mungo whined and lay down. His eyes were still glued to mine. He whined again.

My jaw slackened. He didn’t … he hadn’t really … nah. He couldn’t possibly have understood what I’d said. But as I guided the Bug downtown I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew I planned to get rid of him.

I unlocked the door of the Honeybee and walked in to find Ben and Lucy already ensconced at the table in front of the register. Empty coffee mugs and a few crumbs on their plates indicated they’d been there a while. Ben put down the newspaper section he’d been reading when I entered.

“You don’t look like you slept a wink,” Lucy said by way of greeting.

“Maybe two or three winks. How about you two?” I tore off a piece of brioche left over from the day before and joined them.

One side of Ben’s mouth quirked up. “Not so great.” He looked exhausted.

Lucy, on the other hand, appeared far more upbeat than when they’d left the evening before. Now she pushed aside the dirty dishes with a determined gesture.

“I’ve decided to bring in the ladies to help. They’re all coming here this morning.”

“The … you mean your book club? Whatever for?” I could understand needing Jaida’s help; she was a lawyer, after all. But Mimsey was a florist, for heaven’s sake, and I didn’t even know what Cookie and Bianca did.

“They can help. I’m sure of it. We did what we could to protect the bakery before the brunch. With Mavis Templeton involved, it was the practical thing to do. At first I thought the protection spell hadn’t worked, even though it’s one of Jaida’s specialties.” Lucy leaned forward and gripped my arm. “But now I realize we didn’t ward the exterior of the building. That’s why a murder could occur out on the street like that. It didn’t help that Mavis refused to eat the food I made especially for her, either.”

I squinted in confusion. “Protection spell?” I turned to my uncle.

He was focusing intently on the sports section and wouldn’t look at me.

She flicked a glance at her husband and took a deep breath. “Katie, we need to talk.”

Not my favorite words in the English language.

My uncle cleared his throat and stood. “Excuse me.” He took his coffee and paper into the office at the back of the kitchen.

I took a bite of brioche to steady myself.
Protection
spell
. What New Age mumbo jumbo was Lucy about to unleash on me?

Bracing, I sipped my coffee and sat back in my chair. “All right. Let’s talk.”

Her unblinking eyes never wavered. “I don’t know any other way to say it except to come right out with it: All the members of the book club are witches.” Her statement held an intensity I’d rarely heard from Lucy. “And so are you.”

The brioche did a slow flip-flop in my stomach. I spoke each word with care. “Aunt Lucy, that’s ridiculous.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Good ones, of course.”

“Right. You’re in a book club with a bunch of witches.”

She didn’t smile. “It’s a spellbook club. We study the spells of others, some very old, in order to develop our own. Like you read old cookbooks to get ideas for recipes.”

A couple of beats passed as my mind wrapped around that. My laugh, when it came, was just a tad strained. What she was saying was crazy, absolutely nutso to a degree that went beyond any of her usual tarot-chakra-feng-shui-psychic nonsense.

So why did the very notion wing through me like a familiar wind? Why did I feel more relief than alarm at hearing her words?
Nonsense
.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Oh, now, come on. You can’t be serious.”

“I can. I am.”

Bewildered, I could only blink.

My aunt continued. “You come from a long line of witches.”

I snorted. “Tell that to Mama.”

“Your mother turned her back on the Craft. And on me, eventually,” Lucy said. The deep sadness in her voice gave me pause. “She was frightened that someone would find out what she and your father were. Fillmore is a small town, you know, and not everyone is open-minded. And when we were children in Dayton, there was a problem with a neighbor who happened upon your grandmother casting a spell. It was only a fertility spell for the vegetable garden, but word got around and life was difficult for a while.”

I gaped. “Grandmother cast a fertility … You’ve got to be kidding!” My grandmother was a prim and proper lady who always wore an apron in the house and got upset when I used the word
darn
.

Lucy went on. “Mary Jane doesn’t embrace her gift, and that’s her choice to make. Unfortunately, your mother tried to choose for you, too.”

“But—”

“She didn’t tell you about your magical heritage, did she?”

Numb, I shook my head once.

“Our family specialty is called hedgewitchery. It’s one of the gentler branches of magic.”

“Specialty?” I squawked. “Lucy!”

“An affinity for herbal lore, herb craft, and a heck of a green thumb. All of which you possess.”

“Well, I can grow most anything, sure. And I do have a particular interest in herbs, but that’s only because I like to cook with them!”

“And you’re very good at it, too. Pure magic in the kitchen.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled broadly.
“Have you ever had the feeling you were different from the people around you?”

My lips parted to deny such silliness, but no words came out. I’d often felt peculiar, especially as a child. Once I’d even had the temerity to mention it to Mama.