Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery (8 page)

Four sets of eyes lasered to where I perched on the arm beside her. I met their curious gazes one by one.

“She’s still getting used to the idea, though.”

“I bet,” Jaida said. Her smile was rueful but kind, as if she really did understand how strange it would be to learn out of the blue that you’re a witch. Or at least that a dear member of your family believes you possess magical powers.

Bianca said, “Of course you’re still a little surprised, Katie. But you’ll soon tap back into the heritage deep inside you.”

“How do you know that?” I didn’t mean to sound so snarky.

Lucy answered. “Because all of us except Bianca were lucky enough to bring our magic into adulthood with us, encouraged by our families.”

Unruffled, Bianca nodded. “I became a witch as an adult.”

I looked down at Lucy. “You said something before about Grandma.”

Slowly, she nodded. “And her mother before her. You’re a hereditary witch. It’s in your blood—and not only on your mother’s side. Your father’s as well. He’s quite powerful himself.”

I remembered she’d mentioned something about him earlier. But now the idea of my father practicing magic shifted my perspective with an almost physical wrench. Dizziness swooped over me, and then I felt a visceral
click
, as if something had finally slid into place.

Mimsey threw up her hands, turquoise and silver flashing from the rings on her fingers. “All that will sort itself out. You can still help us while you come to terms with your magical abilities. We have to help your uncle. Lucille?”

I tamped down my roiling thoughts and the dozens of questions trying to surface, struggling to focus as my aunt jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth between the sofa and the chair opposite it. The same determination from earlier that morning thrummed in her footsteps. “There has to be a way to use our abilities to help Ben.”

Jaida cocked her head. “Another protection spell, specific to him, might be the first step.”

Inclining her head slowly, Bianca said, “It wouldn’t hurt, I suppose, but isn’t that a bit like closing the proverbial barn door after the horse has bolted?”

“A protection spell could turn aside additional mayhem, or at least keep it from affecting him,” Lucy said.

A sick feeling crept into my solar plexus. I stood. “I
do so hope you ladies won’t take offense at what I’m about to say, but I feel I must.”

“Go ahead,” Jaida said.

“Ben needs concrete help.”

No one said anything. Lucy stopped pacing.

“We need a solid, real-world game plan.” I looked around at them. “You realize, of course, that finding out who really killed Mrs. Templeton is the only way we can help Ben. I don’t suppose any of you has a working crystal ball. Though even that wouldn’t hold up very well in court.” I smiled brightly at my lame joke.

They exchanged looks.

For once Mimsey frowned. “Our magic isn’t the kind where we wiggle our noses and make something disappear. Our talents are tools we can access in addition to our brainpower, our connections in the community, and a considerable amount of Southern charm to get at the truth about what happened to Mavis Templeton. There is no abracadabra cure-all to crime solving. If there were, believe me, every law enforcement agency in the world would be willing to use our skills.”

I sat back down, thoroughly chastened.

Cookie said, “Mimsey’s right, of course. So we do need that game plan you mentioned.”

Once again all eyes were on me.

I considered. “Well, then, I suppose the first thing is to figure out who had a motive to kill Mrs. Templeton.”

My aunt bobbed her head and went behind the register. She emerged with a pad of paper and a pen. “All right. Let’s get started.”

“Okay,” I said. “We know she had the good sense to
date Uncle Ben back in high school. That she married—just once?”

Mimsey nodded. “Garth Templeton. Made a fortune in heavy equipment.”

“No children.”

“But she has a nephew,” Bianca said. She put her elbow on the sofa arm and propped her chin on her hand. “Albert Hill. Just as charming as his aunt, but not nearly as bright. I’ve met him a few times at society functions. He’s an acquaintance of a friend of mine.”

So Bianca attended society functions. Interesting.

“He’ll likely come into a pile of money from Mrs. Templeton,” Jaida said. “Depending on her will. Though I suppose she could have left her fortune to a charity or foundation or something.”

“That seems unlikely.” Lucy’s tone was wry.

“Sounds like ol’ Albert had a motive,” I said. “I don’t suppose he looks like Uncle Ben, does he?”

Bianca shook her head. “Not so much. I can try to find out more about him.”

“Good idea. What else do we know about her?”

“Ben told me she liquidated most of her assets after her husband’s death rather than pay someone to manage them,” Lucy said.

“I can dig around and find out more about that,” Jaida offered. “Much, if not all, of that information will be public record, and I know the system.”

“Perfect,” I said, feeling better now that a hazy plan began to form.

“Well, I can tell you one thing she still owned,” Mimsey chimed in. “That commercial property where Jack Jenkins has his store.”

“Where do I know that name from?” I asked.

“He’s the president of the DBA,” Lucy said. “But he couldn’t come to the brunch yesterday. He called Ben this morning, apologized and welcomed him to the association.”

“Did he say why he couldn’t make it?”

“He has a little store that specializes in Civil War–era memorabilia. Real touristy, though in truth he’s a bona fide expert. Takes part in the battle reenactments, all that stuff. He said he had to cover for a sick employee yesterday.”

I tapped one finger on the tabletop, considering.

Mimsey got up and withdrew something from the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Unfolding it revealed a large map of Savannah, which she spread out on one of the tables. She stood considering it for a few moments, then looked up at us. “Girls, I’m going to see if I can’t use one of those special talents I was telling Katie about to find someone who hated Mavis Templeton enough to kill her.”

Cookie laughed, then caught herself. “Sorry, Mims. It just seems to me that a lot of people might fit that bill.”

“Can’t hurt to try. I’ll run home and get my scrying crystal. Be back in about half an hour.” She hurried to the kitchen, and we heard the door to the alley open and close.

“That’ll give me time to run by the county clerk’s office,” Jaida said, and she went out the front door to Broughton Street.

“Scrying crystal?” I ventured.

Cookie smiled. “Mimsey’s the best of us at divination,
though it’s always a tricky business, full of hint and innuendo to interpret. I can’t do it at all.”

Bianca began closing the blinds. “Lucy, do you have candles?”

“Back in the office,” she said.

“I’ll get them,” Cookie said.

I was curious as the proverbial cat, but I reminded myself to be practical. “Where is Jack Jenkins’ store?” I asked Lucy.

“Over on Bull Street. It’s called Johnny Reb’s.”

Only a few blocks away. “I need some fresh air. Think I’ll run over there and check it out.” I fetched my tote bag and slung it over my shoulder.

“Do you think he’ll be able to help?” Bianca asked.

I shrugged. “No idea. But since Mrs. Templeton was his landlord, he might know her a little better than some people. Like whatever Mimsey’s cooking up”—I nodded my head toward the map—“it can’t hurt to try.”

In the open doorway, I turned back. “Er … don’t start without me.”

They exchanged glances; then Bianca said, “Don’t worry. We won’t.”

Scrying crystal, indeed. If Lucy was “airy-fairy,” what did that make her friends? A bunch of nuts, that’s what.

Except …

As I strode under the ubiquitous Spanish moss that hung from the live oaks overhead, I couldn’t help but think about what Lucy had said about my parents. About how familiar and comfortable her words were even as I scoffed. It would explain so much about my
childhood and about the odd things that had happened to me my entire life if my parents truly did possess some kind of magical ability. Ability they had then passed on to me.

In other words, if I were a witch.

A
witch
.

My mind railed against the notion. There was no such thing as magic. Impossible.

Except … my heart knew magic
was
real.

It had always known. Now it felt as if Aunt Lucy had simply reminded me of that.

The door of Johnny Reb’s was propped open to the warm spring air, and I reminded myself to concentrate on the task at hand. What kind of memorabilia might I find inside, and what kind of man made his living selling it? Lucy had said he was an expert, which coming from her probably meant more in the way of a tweed jacket with elbow patches than a gun-totin’ fanatic who flew the Confederate flag from the antenna of his monster truck.

Jack Jenkins, of course, turned out to be neither.

I crossed the threshold and paused to get my bearings. Broad windows in front invited bright light into the small store. Dark wooden counters ran around the perimeter of the single room, with open shelves both above and below. They gleamed from frequent polishing, which explained the strong fragrance of orange oil. Items sprawled in seemingly random fashion, inviting customers to browse. Among worn flags, canteens, musical instruments and books, several display cases housed smaller items—tarnished bullets and cartridges, buttons and currency, coins and faded documents.

A tall man rose from his seat behind the counter near the door. “Welcome to Johnny Reb’s.” All the edges were worn off his gentle drawl, giving the impression of stately gentility in those few words. He wore jeans and a crisp, white oxford shirt open at the neck. A pale strip of skin around his hairline indicated that his brown hair had recently encountered a very precise barber.

“Thank you. May I look around a little?”

A slow, easy smile lit his sharp blue eyes. “Well, of course, darlin’. Look all you want and then some.” His hand swept the air, encompassing the whole interior. “I’ve tracked down every one of these pieces personally. You won’t find a bunch of cheap reproduction gewgaws here, don’t you worry.”

Mostly for show, I made my way around the periphery of the store. War memorabilia in general didn’t appeal to me, though I could see how many of the items in Johnny Reb’s brought the past tangibly into the present. But I imagined that many of them also represented grief and tragedy. How could they not?

The daylight didn’t quite reach the back of the store, which made it harder to see the contents clearly. Absently, I fingered the worn leather cover of a book, then flipped it open to reveal the scrawled notes of a journal. As I leaned forward to take a look, something in my peripheral vision caught my eye.

Tucked under a shelf was a flat-topped wooden trunk reinforced with dark metal and wrapped with leather straps. Abandoning the journal, I knelt in front of the trunk. No price tag that I could see. That didn’t bode well, but I couldn’t help it: I had to have that trunk.

Returning to the counter, I asked how much he wanted for it. The response was higher than I liked, but manageable. “You have excellent taste. You should know it’s been restored, so the straps are new, but the patina of that old wood is beyond lovely.”

“It almost glows,” I said in agreement. “Do you deliver?” I dipped into my bag for my wallet. No way would that big trunk fit in the Bug.

“Well, that depends. Are you a visitor to Savannah?” He licked his lips as if in anticipation of my answer.

“Recent transplant.” I moved to the counter. “My aunt and uncle and I are opening the Honeybee Bakery.”

“You must be Ben Eagel’s niece, then! I’m so very pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Jack Jenkins.”

I shook his outstretched hand. “Katie Lightfoot.”

“Well, well, well. Of course we can deliver the trunk—for a nominal fee, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t that something. Ben’s family come back to roost.”

“Actually, he’s my uncle by marriage. I grew up in Ohio.”

Unfazed by this information, he went on. “So sorry I wasn’t able to come to the extravaganza you threw for the Downtown Business Association.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It’s so very difficult to get really good help anymore. My latest employee called in ill at the last moment, so naturally I was required to tend to my business and miss the meeting despite my role as president.”

I found myself rather taken with Jenkins. “Well, I don’t know that I’d call it an extravaganza, but we did feel it was a success. Until, of course, a woman was murdered out front.”

His shoulders slumped, and his head swung slowly back and forth. “I could not believe it when I heard someone had done mortal violence to an elderly woman like that. Right downtown, too. Mavis Templeton might not have been the most popular citizen in Savannah, but no one deserves such a horrible end.”

“It was pretty awful,” I replied. “You knew her, then?”

“Oh, heavens, yes. We were both natives, you see, and despite our age difference it’s very difficult not to encounter every soul who was born in this area over a lifetime of living here.”

“Plus, she was in the DBA,” I pointed out.

“Yes, of course. And she is … was my landlady.”

I had wondered how I could bring that up, and now I didn’t have to.

“Here at the store, of course. This building. I’d no more live in one of her apartments than I’d stab myself in the leg with a dull knife.”

I blinked. His voice had remained even and flowed with the same mellifluous tones I’d quickly grown accustomed to, even lulled by, but his choice of words seemed a bit over the top. Then I realized he’d handed me a new piece of information.

“She rented apartments?”

For the first time, he hesitated. “I don’t know that I should be talking about the dead like this.”

Like what? But I kept my mouth shut and waited for him to fill the silence.

Finally he spoke. “Mrs. Templeton didn’t rent out any of the apartments at the Peachtree Arms personally, you understand. She hired a manager to handle all the day-to-day for that”—he took a deep breath—“that place.”