Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) (4 page)

“He's head of security,” I said and was surprised to see my uncle's face redden. Why . . . ? Then I realized the hard truth: A man had been killed on his watch. Of course he felt responsible.

Not that it was his fault, I felt sure. Still, I knew Ben would torture himself about it to no end. My heart went out to my gentle uncle, a man of great strength but also great pride. This would be hard on him.

It already was.

“Okay, okay,” Quinn said. “Enough meet and greet. We have a murder to investigate. What do you know about it?” He looked at me when he said it. Behind him, a van pulled to the curb. Three crime scene specialists exited and began pulling cameras and other equipment from the back of it.

“Simon was dead when I got here,” I said. “Which was only a few minutes ago.”

“More like fifteen,” Declan said. “You lost a few minutes when you almost passed out.”

Quinn looked suspicious. “
You
almost fainted when you saw a dead body?”

“Um, sort of.” I carefully ignored Ursula's curious gaze. “I don't really care for knives.”

He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he settled for, “You knew the victim.” It was a statement, not a question.

I shrugged. “Not really. I only met him today at the Honeybee. Apparently, he fired the regular caterer this morning, and Mimsey suggested Lucy and I step in. We did our best, and—”

He cut me off. “Mimsey Carmichael.” Again, not a question.

“Yes, Mimsey Carmichael. She met Simon when he came into Vase Value looking for passionflowers for Althea Cole.” I gestured with my chin toward the actress, who now huddled like a frightened child in the crook of Steve's arm. As I watched, she leaned up and murmured into his ear.

Quinn took a deep breath. “Okay. I'll talk with you more in a little bit. Right now we need to clear this area so the crime techs can get in here. Ben, why don't you gather everyone in that tent over there, and I'll get started on interviews.”

“All right, folks,” Ben called. “Everyone needs to come with me.”

Althea stepped away from Steve's side. “This”—she indicated the body lying fifteen feet from her quaint shoes—“is unfortunate, but I really don't have any information for you about what happened.”

“We'd like to talk with you anyway, Ms. Cole,” Detective Quinn said.

“Then I'm afraid you'll need to do it at the house,” the actress responded with an imperious toss of her head. “I'm tired and hot and in desperate need of a shower.”

You and me both, sister.
I glanced at Steve. His face was impassive.
Is he seriously attracted to her?

“Stevie, will you grab the wine? Where's the Côtes du Rhône? Oh, never mind. Ursula, get the cheese from Owen.”

Stevie?
I almost laughed out loud. He had an unfortunate propensity to call me “Katie-girl,” or at least he had until I insisted he stop. Our eyes met, and his lips twitched. At least he appreciated the irony.

Quinn stepped forward. “I'm sorry, but everything remains right where it is, and everyone needs to stay at least until we get through preliminary interviews.”

“You can't force us!” Althea took off her white cap and threw it on the ground. One of the crime scene guys hovering at the edge of the group made a noise of consternation. A tendril of long red hair escaped from the elaborate pinning on the actress's head and snaked slowly down to her shoulder as if it had been scripted.

Steve leaned toward her and said something. She listened, stone-faced, then gave a curt nod. He straightened. “Detective Quinn, would you be willing to speak with Ms. Cole first?”

Detective Quinn was.

Racks of eighteenth-century clothing surrounded my chair: fancy dress and plain, red uniforms and brown uniforms, wool coats, breeches, and high boots, all interspersed with shelves of pistols and sabers, muskets and rifles, canteens, bags, funny-looking hats, and worn leather footwear. I was sitting in the wardrobe tent with Mungo, waiting for Quinn to finish with me. After he'd learned that I'd nearly fainted—thanks to Declan's spilling the beans—he'd insisted that I “rest” while he interviewed some of the others.

Rest. Sure, Quinn. More like punishment.

As if it were my fault Simon Knapp had been killed. Or that I'd been Janey-on-the-spot right afterward. I'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time . . .

Right. Not even I believed that anymore. Yet how could I tell Quinn his own former partner had informed me that I had a calling to remedy evil in the world? Sheesh.

I still didn't understand how the whole calling thing was supposed to work. It was beyond frustrating that Franklin Taite had dumped that information on me and then up and left town. Quinn had told me Taite transferred to New Orleans after his short stint working for the Chatham County Metropolitan Police Department. No doubt he'd gone to the Big Easy because he'd tracked down another “hotbed of evil,” as he'd once called Savannah.

In the brief time I'd know him, Taite had demonstrated quite a flair for the dramatic.

Yet I had to admit I'd encountered some true darkness since my move south. Murder was bad enough without adding in magic. It was spooky to think about.

I sighed and shifted in my chair. Mungo looked up from where he was lying on the floor, his soft brown eyes questioning. I reached down and patted his head. “What do you think about that Ursula woman?” I asked. “Do you think she's like us?”

He blinked. Not much help, that.

The side of the tent facing the dead man was open. I was thankful the crime scene folks had erected walls of plastic sheeting to cut off any view of Simon. A bright light flashed behind it, indicating they were still taking pictures.

Simon Knapp had seemed like a pretty good guy. A little abrupt, maybe, but that was only my first impression. Who knew what he was really like? I'd never find out. Lots of people he would have interacted with in his life would never find out now.

And what about the people who did know him intimately? Parents, siblings, friends? I hadn't noticed whether he wore a wedding ring, but he could have been married, had a girlfriend, or had children who would miss him more than I could even imagine.

Because some jerk had buried a knife in his back.

Sudden rage broke through the resignation I hadn't even realized I'd given in to. Quinn was going to ask me how I happened to witness yet another dead body in the less than two years I'd lived in Savannah. I wouldn't have a good answer for him because I didn't have a good answer for myself.

And now more than ever I wanted one! This was getting ridiculous. The idea of being a lightwitch had baffled me, worried me, and made me wonder whether I was worthy of such a thing. It had cast a pall over the delight of learning about witchcraft from the ladies of the spellbook club, of finally feeling like I understood why I'd always felt different, of finally feeling like I'd found a place where I belonged. And the spellbook club couldn't help me, either. Even Mimsey, who would have been our high priestess if our coven had been formal enough to have such a thing, had heard the term only in passing in her youth.

Now it just made me angry. Franklin Taite owed me an explanation. I deserved to know everything about what it meant to be a lightwitch—including whether it was possible to stop being one.

A fan in the corner turned lazily back and forth, barely moving the stifling air. I got up and began to pace in the small aisle between racks of costumes. Mungo whined and ran to me, stopping in front of me as I turned at the end of the aisle. I paused. “Sorry, little guy. It's just that this whole thing is so upsetting.”

He made a low noise of agreement.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down. An elaborate millinery creation sat at eye level on a shelf, a frothy concoction of lace and peach-colored satin. I grabbed it and plopped in on my head. “What do you think?” I asked my familiar.

The look he gave me was answer enough.

“Fine.” I took it off and tried on a three-cornered hat. It swam on my head. More than two centuries ago even men had hair longer than my short, no-fuss do.

Voices murmured from the other side of the canvas wall. Recognizing one of them as Quinn's, I moved closer to the sound, hoping he was on his way to interview me.

“Did you see anything unusual when you were returning?” he asked someone. “Perhaps someone within the roped-off area who you didn't recognize?”

“I would have told you that by now.” The voice that answered was deep and impatient. I recognized it as Niklas Egan's. “I'd volunteer any of the information you're asking for if I had it. But I don't. End of story. Sorry.”

I shuffled up next to the thin wall, listening hard.

“I see,” Quinn said. “So I've been told most of the crew had already gone back to the hotel. The only people still around were Van Grayson, Althea Cole, and Simon's assistant, Owen Glade, who was actually off-site purchasing cheese for Ms. Cole.”

“Right. Simon sent him to the Welsh Wabbit every bloody day,” Niklas said.

“Hmm,” Quinn murmured. Then, “Also on the set were Susie Little, the makeup artist, and Ursula Banford, Ms. Cole's personal trainer—”

“And personal psychic,” the director broke in.

So she wasn't a witch. But a psychic? Like, a real one?

Quinn's voice came again. “Right. Psychic and personal trainer.”

Niklas said, “Then there were the two security guys and that guy Simon talked me into giving a small speaking part to.”

“Steve Dawes.”

Steve had an actual part in
Love in Revolution
? Well, of course he did.

“And Simon himself, of course,” Niklas continued. “He was setting up the wine and cheese dealio Althea insists on every evening. Usually we have it at the house—Simon found an old place to rent for the major players, including myself, about half a block away. Anyway, even though we were done filming for today, I wanted to run over the scene for tomorrow in situ to make sure everyone knew what I expect before we waste a bunch of time with the cameras rolling. And Althea does not like to wait for her wine in the evening, so she told Simon to set up the after-hours party here.” His voice lowered so that I could barely hear him, but I did make out the words “bit of a lush” and “keep her away from the hard stuff.”

“And you were returning from the rental house,” Quinn said. I imagined him scribbling in his notebook.

“I'd gone back to pick up some script changes I made last night. I'd just returned when I heard Althea screaming like a banshee. That sure made me pick up my pace. Lord, that woman can be challenging to direct, but she's even more difficult when she's not working.”

Hmm. He'd been there already when Declan and I entered the cluster of tents after hearing Althea scream. However, I'd also heard him swear, as if surprised, and if he'd approached from the opposite side of the square, I wouldn't have seen him.

Not to mention, my memory felt a little fuzzy after I nearly fainted.

Nearly fainted
.
Good heavens
,
Katie
.

Althea said she'd discovered the body ten minutes after leaving Simon alone. That seemed like a pretty small window of opportunity. I remembered the stain spreading on his shirt and blinked rapidly against the mental image.

“What can you tell me about the victim?” Quinn asked.

“Simon was a combination location scout and production coordinator,” Niklas said. “His job was to support the cast and the crew however we needed him to, but Simon was known for going above and beyond. That's why he was in such high demand. I had to pay him double to come work for me on this project, but with a small crew and the limited budget of an independent film like this one, I needed someone who could smooth the way whenever it got rocky. I don't know what I'm going to do now.”

“‘Smooth the way.' What exactly do you mean by that?” Quinn asked.

“Simon was a . . . a fixer, I guess you'd say.”

“A fixer.”

“Sure.”

“And you knew that before you hired him?”

“Everyone knows it.”

“Did he ‘fix' situations that were illegal?”

A pause, then, “Sometimes.”

“Has he ever fixed anything for you?”

“Sure.”

“Care to tell me what it was?”

Another pause. “You're thinking I might have killed him because of it?”

“Keeping secrets can cause a lot of damage in the world,” Quinn said.

“Not keeping them has caused some, too.” Niklas sounded bitter. “Simon paid off a man whose wife I'd been seeing. Mostly so my own wife wouldn't find out.”

“So you're married?”

He snorted. “Not anymore. She figured it out on her own.”

I heard rustling then, and the voices grew fainter and then drifted away altogether. Was Quinn done talking to the director? I leaned my cheek against the wall, straining to hear.

Of course, I'd forgotten I was wearing the three-cornered hat, which promptly jammed down over my eyes.

“Ow.” As I tugged at the brim, my elbow hit something. I freed myself from the hat in time to see a naked mannequin tipping over. My hand moved to stop it as if in slow motion, and a nanosecond later it crashed into a metal shelving unit.

The murmurs of the crime scene techs grew silent.

“Oops,” I said to Mungo, who had leaped to the side and now radiated disapproval.

“Hear anything interesting?” Quinn asked from the doorway.

Guilt stabbing my solar plexus, I casually shrugged. “I was looking at the props while I waited.”

“Sure you were,” he said. “Sit down. I might as well talk with you next.”

I sat back on my folding chair, and Quinn took a metal stool and placed it five feet in front of me. Mungo settled between us, and I dove into trying to explain how Ben and Declan and several of our friends had become involved with the filming of the movie while Lucy and I had devoted our time to keeping the bakery running smoothly. I told Quinn again how Mimsey had brought Simon in, that we'd made lunch, and that we had been asked to cater for the rest of the time the crew was filming in Savannah. As I spoke, the light outside grew more angled, and the air inside the tent cooled a few degrees.

“Honest to Pete,” I said. “I've never met any of these people before today. I have no idea what happened, why it happened, or who would have anything against Simon Knapp. Except . . .”

His eyebrow rose in question.

“Well, he did fire the other caterer. Seems a pretty weak reason to kill someone, though.”

Unsmiling, Quinn made a note. “The director called Simon a fixer.” Was he testing me, trying to find out if I'd been listening?

Well, it wasn't my fault I could hear his interview right where he'd told me to wait. He should have been more circumspect if he didn't want me to eavesdrop. So I said, “Yes, I heard him tell you that. Maybe that's a good start for finding a motive for murder.”

Quinn looked oddly satisfied. “You say you've never met any of these people.”

“Well, of course I know Steve. He was here when Deck and I stumbled onto the scene, all wrapped around Althea Cole.” I couldn't hide the scorn that leaked out around my words.

Amusement flickered across the detective's face.

“Whom I recognized but had never met,” I finished.

“What about the psychic?”

I pressed my lips together. “Ursula Banford introduced herself to me less than a minute before you arrived.”

He leaned back in his chair and regarded me. “Do you think she's really a psychic?”

I lifted my shoulders, then let them fall. “How should I know?”

“Do you believe in psychics?”

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. Did I? “I honestly don't know,” I finally said.

“What about intuition?” he asked.

Peter Quinn and I had had several conversations, both on his professional turf as a policeman and on mine at the Honeybee. But this was the first time he'd gone down this road.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course I believe in intuition. Don't you?”

Slowly, he nodded. “In my job it's helpful. I do all right, but I wish I had more of it. You, on the other hand, seem to have more than your fair share.”

Uh-oh.
“What's that supposed to mean?” My voice sounded weak.

He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “Katie, I like you.”

“Um, I like you, too.” The last word lilted up, making my statement sound like a question. What was he getting at?

“And I think you have a good heart. Good intentions, if you will.”

I waited.

“But darn it, why are you so often in the middle of my homicide cases?” His voice rose an octave in frustration.
“Why?”

Mungo scrambled to his feet.

At least I wasn't in the middle of
all
of his murder investigations, I wanted to say. Only the ones with some kind of paranormal activity involved. But then why was I here? Was it because Ursula was a psychic?

I said, “I don't know. I'm sorry, but I truly don't. And furthermore, I don't
want
to get involved. It just seems to . . . happen . . .” I trailed off, the very picture of lame.

He sat for a moment, then shook his head. “Okay. Fine. Call me if you think of anything that might help with this one.”

“Really?” I was stunned. “You want my help?”

“So far no one seems to have seen anything, and no one is bad-mouthing anyone else—which, frankly, I find a little odd.”