Magic and Macaroons (8 page)

“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.

Chapter 6

I called Quinn next. He answered on the third ring.

“Katie.”

“Hi, Quinn.”

“I believe I said I’d call you.”

“Sorry! You want me to hang up, and you can call me back?”

Silence, then a small sound, and I realized he was laughing. I breathed a mental sigh of relief. Despite our frequent repartee and my willingness to push the envelope with him, I didn’t want to get on his bad side.

“I was wondering how Dawn Taite is doing, and I know the hospital won’t tell me anything directly,” I said.

“Well, I can hardly blame you for being concerned,” he said, apparently mollified by my motivation in calling. “She’s in pretty bad shape.”

I felt the muscles along my shoulders relax and realized I’d been bracing for worse news. “So she’s still in the ICU?”

“Oh, yes. No change since she was admitted yesterday. She’s in a deep coma, and the doctor who is treating her is baffled as to why. They’ve run a battery of tests on her so far, and there are more planned.”

“Poor thing,” I said. Mungo blinked up at me, concern shining from his gentle eyes. “Did you find out anything about her?”

His voice lowered. “She’s Franklin’s niece, all right. I talked with her mother up in Saratoga Springs. She told me Franklin was her husband’s older brother, and after her husband died five years ago, Franklin hadn’t been good about keeping in touch. Add in that Dawn and her mother have been more or less estranged ever since the girl dropped out of college. Mrs. Taite is on her way down to Savannah now.”

“Did Dawn’s mother say her daughter and Franklin were close?” I asked.

“Apparently, Frank asked Dawn to come work with him,” he said. “That’s why she quit school, but it’s been a while since Dawn and her mother have spoken, so Mrs. Taite doesn’t know what Dawn has been up to—with or without Franklin.”

“So she was working with him,” I said, deep in thought. Franklin had been on a quest against dark magic, and as a law officer he’d help utter strangers if they were in danger, whether the threat was secular or occult. Apparently, he’d roped his niece into joining him in the same mission.

Quinn took a deep breath before speaking with what I suspected was forced calm, “So? Are you going to finally tell me why you were trying to find Frank Taite back in May?”

I hesitated.

“Katie.” Another measured inhalation. “Please. You know something about his death, don’t you?”

“Um . . .”

“You’ve always been so helpful in the past.” Disappointed now. Was he playing persuasive parent to my recalcitrant teenager? “Why on earth would you keep vital information to yourself?”

Oh, to heck with it.
“It’s not vital information, Quinn. I was trying to find Franklin to clarify something he said about . . . um, the way I help the police out sometimes.” Granted, it was easier to talk about this stuff with Quinn over the phone than in person, but I wasn’t about to start talking about lightwitches and magical callings. “The thing is,” I rushed on. “I thought Franklin Taite had been dead for at least the last three months.”

“Hmm. I wondered, given your questions yesterday. And you thought that because . . . ?” he prompted, almost managing to keep the impatience out of his voice.

I looked at Mungo and could have sworn he nodded at me. So I said, “You remember Ursula Banford? The psychic that worked on the set of
Love in Revolution
?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Pure skepticism now.

“She gave me a message from Franklin. Back when they were shooting the movie here.”

“A message?”

I barreled on. “From
beyond
, you know? The spirit world? Now, how could he possibly send a message through a medium unless he was already dead?”

“You have got to be kidding!” Quinn exploded. “You
believed
her?”

“She didn’t know who Franklin was,” I protested. “She had no idea what kind of message she was giving me. It didn’t mean anything to her, only to me.”

“Except he wasn’t dead yet.”

“Well, yeah. There’s that.”

“What was this message from beyond the fictional grave?” Quinn asked.

“That’s not really any of your business. It certainly has no bearing on his death.” At least, I didn’t think so.

A sigh traveled through the wireless. “Good Lord, Katie. Don’t you think you should leave that up to me? You usually seem so practical. Even, dare I say it, wise at
times. Then you tell me something like this, and I have to wonder.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell you in the first place, and why I wish to heaven I hadn’t now!”

Mungo made a warning noise low in his throat, and I realized I was practically shouting—at a homicide detective.

Quinn was silent. Then he said, “That’s a valid point.”

“Okay.” I knew I sounded sullen. Maybe he hadn’t been that far off the mark in treating me like a teenager. The thought did not fill me with pride.

“You and Frank shared an interest in the paranormal—that’s for sure,” he said.

If you only knew.
“Does the medical examiner know what caused his death yet?”

“The preliminary report confirms heart failure, but it was caused by snake venom.”

I moaned. “He was bitten?”

Quinn hesitated, then said, “They found the bite marks over his heart.” I heard him take a breath. “Which is pretty weird. Still, it’s possible he was already prone or even unconscious by the time he was bitten.”

“You don’t exactly sound convinced,” I said.

He ignored that. “Katie, were you two that close? Frank left Chatham County PD right after last Halloween. I didn’t even know you were . . . friends.” It seemed to pain Quinn to say it, and I wondered what he was thinking.

“We weren’t. Not friends, not close. I didn’t have any contact with him after he left for New Orleans, either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Honestly, Quinn? Neither do I.” In fact, the whole conversation made me feel more confused than ever. Mungo leaned over and nudged at my hand until I stroked his soft little ears, something he knew would comfort me as much as him.

“Is there anything else I should know?” Quinn asked. He sounded as defeated as I felt.

Should I tell him about the talisman Dawn had spoken of before losing consciousness? That I was supposed to find it? What about the voodoo queen?

No, absolutely not. If he reacts that way when I tell him about a message sent through a psychic, he’s not going to take any talk about a gris gris or a voodoo queen seriously.
It would be a waste of my time, and possibly he’d get in the way of what I knew I had to do.

So I answered, “Not that I can think of.” I could always tell him later, if need be.

“Okay, then. I’ll call you if there’s an update on Dawn Taite.”

“Or Franklin,” I said. “Are you investigating his death as a homicide?”

He sighed. “As a suspicious death for now. Good-bye, Katie.”

“Good—”

But he’d already hung up.

*   *   *

“Hellooooo!” The voice brought my head up from where I was rearranging the depleted platter of key lime tarts that were the day’s special. It wasn’t yet noon, and except for the two sisters sharing hummingbird cake, the same customers who’d been hanging out in the Honeybee before I’d ducked into the office were still staying cool inside.

“Mrs. Standish, how are you this morning?” Ben asked with a smile in his voice.

Brushing my hands off on a towel, I moved behind the register to stand by my uncle.

“Fine and dandy!” The rich, fruity tone of the words sounded like a Southern version of Julia Child. “Just had to stop by and see how y’all are today!” A few inches taller
than Ben, she towered over me. She wore a white gauze tunic and slacks. Gold bangles clanked on her wrists as she gestured, and a gold chain that would have made an NFL player bling-proud shone from around her generous neck.

“Now, Edna,” her companion said, moving out from where Mrs. Standish had eclipsed him. He wore his usual straw hat to protect his bald pate from the summer sun. His sunshine-yellow, short-sleeved button-down was tucked into festive Bermuda shorts that revealed birdlike legs and knobby knees. His dark eyes sparkled with good humor.

“Mr. Dean, it’s good to see you,” I said.

“Thought I’d come along to make sure Punkin here brought the éclairs back home.”

She rolled her eyes at her beau. “As if I’d forget!”

He and I exchanged a brief look, and I suppressed a grin. He hadn’t thought she’d forget; Mrs. Standish often returned to the Honeybee for more pastries because she’d eaten all the goodies from her first purchase before she arrived home.

However, Mr. Dean gazed up at her with obvious affection. And no wonder. The éclairs they’d come in for had been Lucy’s idea when Mrs. Standish, a widow, had mentioned how lonely she was. Sure enough, the vanilla in the filling, along with extra oomph from my aunt’s benevolent incantation, had opened up the possibilities for love. Mrs. Standish had netted the man she called Skipper Dean, and they’d been going strong ever since.

“It’s just hot as
Hades
out there,” Mrs. Standish declared, dramatically swiping the back of her hand across her brow. Hot or not, her iron-gray cap of hair was perfectly coiffed. “So we thought we’d take the ship out of port for a little runabout. Blow out the cobwebs, don’t you know?” We all understood the “ship” in question was a twenty-three-foot motorboat.

The two students glared at her, no doubt because her loud voice cut right through their ear-budded privacy. I mentally shrugged. They’d just have to live with it. She and her date would be on their way soon enough, and Mrs. Standish had been one of the Honeybee’s first customers ever. Loyal through and through, she’d encouraged Ben to join the Downtown Business Association before we’d opened and spread the word about our baked goods throughout Savannah. I loved every extreme thing about her.

“So, I hear you had some excitement here last night!” she practically brayed. “Bless your little heart, Katie Lightfoot, you certainly have had a lot of tragedy here at the Honeybee!” Heads throughout the room turned to look at me.

Okay,
almost
every extreme thing about her. I wouldn’t have minded a bit more discretion at the moment.

The door opened, and Steve Dawes came in. His eyes roved the room, lighting up when they met mine.

I smiled and lifted my chin in greeting, then returned my attention to Mrs. Standish. “I suppose that’s so—” I began.

“I mean, first a murder before you’re even officially open for business, and then having a killer attack you right here in the bakery! And don’t think I haven’t seen your name in the
Savannah Morning News
, my dear, more than once. You’re practically famous!”

“Oh, I certainly hope not,” I murmured.

Steve grinned at me over her shoulder, but he also looked puzzled.

“It’s just so lucky you were here, it being after-hours and all, when that poor young thing
collapsed
like that!”

I pasted on a smile. “Is that in the paper already?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look yet.” She tapped her diamond-studded earlobe. “But I do hear things, you know.”

I knew. It seemed as if Mrs. Standish knew everyone in Savannah. It was one of the things that made her such a successful advocate for us—but, Lordy, I’d hate to get on her bad side.

“It really was lucky,” I said. Steve had moved closer and was unapologetically listening. Then again, everyone in the whole place was listening, whether they wanted to or not.

“Who was she?” Mrs. Standish probed.

“I’m afraid she wasn’t anyone I knew.” Which was true, technically. “The ambulance took her to the hospital before we could find out her name.” Also technically true.

Mrs. Standish frowned. “Well, we certainly hope the best for the poor dear.” She brightened as I handed her a bakery box packed with a half-dozen vanilla éclairs. “Now we’re cooking with gas, Skipper! Thank you so much, Katie. We’ll see you soon!” She held out her arm to him, and with great dignity he thanked me and escorted her out to the street.

Steve shuffled up to the register. “What was that all about?” His honey blond hair was slicked back into the usual ponytail, but a frown ruined the line of his full lips. Serious brown eyes hooked my gaze and wouldn’t let go. Ben moved behind the coffee counter.

I waved my hand. “Oh, you know Mrs. Standish.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed.

“What can I get you?” I asked.

“Parmesan rosemary scone. Dry cappuccino,” he said without consulting the blackboard menu behind me. Now it was a challenge to see who would look away first. “Katie,” he prompted. I heard Ben start the cappuccino. It was Steve’s regular drink.

“I’m surprised you don’t know already,” I said, finally breaking eye contact with a sense of relief and reaching
for a plate. “You always seem to know when stuff like this happens, sometimes even before I do.” Steve had kept tabs on me ever since we’d become involved, and hadn’t stopped when Declan and I got together. As a reporter and columnist for the
News
, not to mention druid and son of the powerful Heinrich Dawes, he had many sources of information.