Spell Bound, page 6
As I jogged up the steps of my house, another idea struck me.
Magic.
Of course. Why hadn’t that occurred to me sooner? If magic could help me make recipes that made people more honest and Eudora could blend teas to help people fall in love, there must be a magical way to help me remember more of what I’d seen at the auction, maybe point me in the right direction of where to start looking.
I made a mental note to call Honey, my witchy mentor, and ask her if that was something we could do. There was still so much I didn’t know about my witchy side that I often forgot I had magical abilities and should learn how to use them.
With a new excited bounce in my step, I fed Bob—who was speaking to me again—and got myself ready for the day. I briefly considered leaving him at home, but it seemed cruel to punish him for something he had little control over, so I grabbed the bubble backpack and set it next to the door to see if he’d hop in. Like every day since I’d bought it, he crammed his orange tabby self into the bag and stared out the dome window, looking for all the world like he was about to go on a voyage into space, or twenty thousand leagues under the sea. It was truly delightful, even if it made people look at me funny on the street.
I zipped him in and grabbed my purse, then locked the house up behind us. As I made my way onto the porch, the wood under my feet gave a particularly loud creak, and the feel of it was much closer to stepping on a sponge than a nice sturdy piece of pine. Again, I made a note that I was going to need to ask for some help with fixing the boards, because one of these days they might just crumble to dust underneath me.
The weather today was stunning, warm but with the slightest edge of late-spring crispness on the breeze making everything smell fresh and alive. Bob was an extra weight on my back as I cycled toward Main Street, but it was a comfortable, familiar sort of weight that I was glad of.
I cycled slowly, mostly so as not to push my luck with Bob’s patience in the bag—he hated going too fast and would yowl the whole way if he disapproved of my speed—but also so I could take in some of the spring decorations coming to life in town.
Now that the risk of frigid overnight lows was behind us, the town’s beautification committee had set about putting out the flowers that would brighten up the town through spring and summer. Hanging baskets adorned every other lamppost on the busier streets, and huge wooden barrels sawed in half had appeared on the sidewalks overnight. The barrels were teeming with freshly planted marigolds and petunias, and the whole of Main Street looked like something out of a storybook.
In no time at all I was pulling up in front of the Earl’s Study and locking my bike to the rack between my shop and Amy’s. I honestly could have just left the bike unattended all day and it probably wouldn’t go anywhere, but it was hard to shake a big-city mentality that told me anything I left lying around would get stolen in five seconds flat.
I was pretty sure half the people in Raven Creek kept their doors unlocked at night. I wasn’t one of them, but I could also appreciate why those who took the risk weren’t terribly worried. I’d lived in Chicago and Seattle before this, so there was no way you’d ever catch me leaving a house door open.
I left Bob inside the shop, making sure the zipper was undone so he could get out at his own pace, then headed next door to collect the morning baking. The moment I walked through the doors of the Sugarplum Fairy, Amy was waiting. Her normally perfectly styled white-blonde bob was pulled back into little pigtails today, and she wore a pink bandana over the top of the rest of her hair.
“You look great,” I told her.
“Me?” She flushed. “I must look like an absolute mess. One of our ovens stopped working this morning when I got in, so I’m trying to get the bread all finished for my daily deliveries. What a nightmare. Someone is supposed to come fix it, but they can’t be here until after ten, so I’m just sweating up a storm in here trying to make it work.”
“Oh, Amy, you should have called me. My oven isn’t industrial by any means, but I can help. Give me a couple trays to take over with me and I’ll get some stuff done.”
She looked as if she might cry. “But Phoebe, you have your own baking to do.”
“Which one of us is a bakery, and which of us can just say sorry, no shortbread today?” I put my hands on my hips, letting her know I wasn’t messing around. “I’ll have loads of time to bake and cool the sourdough before lunch. Now give me some trays.”
It had not escaped my notice that despite the sparser-than-usual stock in her display cases, my two morning to-go boxes were still set aside waiting for me. She could have easily told me that my order couldn’t be filled, but she’d prioritized my pastries over filling up for her own customers.
The woman was a saint.
Her lower lip trembled, but she steeled herself, giving her foot a stomp with her pink Croc shoes scuffing against the tile floor. I think she was trying to fight her desire to cry in relief.
“I can handle the breads here if you could take some cookies and squares?”
“Load me up.” I was grateful that I’d left my purse back at the shop, so it was one fewer thing to juggle.
Amy ducked back into the kitchen and returned with three carefully stacked cookie sheets. “I’ll come right behind you with some brownies and blondies. If you can handle these over the morning, I think I’ll be able to catch up.” I didn’t bother to tell her a third time that it would be my pleasure, as she had already gotten the point, but she followed me out the door with two big trays of beautifully decorated squares.
As we approached the Earl’s Study, the door directly beside the store opened up and Rich Lofting walked out, still wearing his pajamas: a rumpled navy Henley shirt and matching plaid pants. He was picking up the newspaper from his front stoop and stopped when he saw us coming.
“I don’t think I requested breakfast delivery, but I sure won’t complain.”
He was so handsome that even with his dark hair mussed from his pillow and stubble dotting his cheeks and chin, my heart skipped a beat to see him. When he smiled, a little dimple appeared on one cheek, and I found myself grinning like an idiot back at him.
“Well, if you’re already here, you might as well help,” Amy declared, handing him the two trays she was carrying. She used her newly free hands to grab my keys and unlock the front door of the store.
Rich, who hadn’t yet fully processed his role in all of this, followed me into the store and went, “Uhhh?”
I replied, “In the kitchen.”
The kitchen, of course, was much too small for two people to stand in together. I deposited my three trays onto the counter, and the moment I turned around, Rich was right behind me. The only thing keeping us from touching was two big trays of brownies.
I paused just long enough to stare into his eyes, the color of liquid honey, or a glass filled with whiskey, then took the trays out of his hands. “Thank you.”
“I’m still not entirely sure I’m awake.”
“Do a lot of your dreams feature you helping me carry baked goods?”
The corner of his mouth tipped up in a smirk. “Maybe.”
That was enough for me to break eye contact as my cheeks turned red hot and I had to look down at the brownies. “Well, I’m glad you were up. Why are you up, come to think of it?”
Rich’s job as a private investigator meant he kept unusual hours and normally worked through the night. It was a rare thing to see him up before eight in the morning. Though usually when I saw him, he was wearing nicely tailored clothes and had recently brushed his hair, none of which was true right now.
Now he looked much more like the rough-and-tumble kid I’d known during my childhood summers here, and it was nice to know that kid was still in there somewhere.
“Have to meet some clients a bit on the early side and wanted to make sure I had time to make myself presentable.” He glanced down. “More presentable than this, anyway.”
“I think you look good.” Oh my god, Phoebe, shut up.
“Well, you’d be too nice to tell me I looked bad, so I’m not sure I believe you, but thanks. Looking pretty good yourself this morning. Nothing like a woman carrying cookies to make seven AM a bit less terrible.”
“And I can’t even offer you one.”
He smirked again. “You’ll find a way to make it up to me.”
For a guy who had agreed that taking it slow was the best approach for two newly divorced people, he sure was flirting enough to set my hair on fire.
“’Scuse me,” came Amy’s voice as she handed Rich another tray. She then held out a sheet of paper to me, which a quick glance told me had the temperature and bake times for all the items I’d taken from her shop. It was also the perfect excuse for Rich to extract himself from the kitchen after depositing the last tray on my counter.
Before he could get all the way to the front door and completely escape this situation, however, I called after him. “Hey, Rich?”
He turned around. It should have been illegal for someone to look that good while still wearing their pajamas, and my heart did another little flip-flop when he smiled back at me. “What’s up, Phoebs?”
Oh gosh, a nickname. I was done. I was a puddle on the floor.
“Do you think I could come by after work?”
Both of Amy’s brows shot up, practically into her hairline, as she swiveled her attention between me and Rich like we were either a tennis match or her new favorite soap opera and she was just dying to see what happened next. Rich cocked his head to the side, glancing first at Amy, then back at me, and I realized how awkward I’d just made everything.
“Professionally. I might need your help with something.” Why it hadn’t occurred to me until we were wedged together in the kitchen that knowing a private investigator might help me when it came to finding Franny and some of the other guests at the auction yesterday was beyond me. But in fairness, whenever I was in close proximity to Rich, I tended to forget my own name, so how could I be expected to remember what he did for a living?
This seemed to relieve him and disappoint Amy in equal measure.
“Oh, sure. You’re off at four usually, right?” He went to check his watch before realizing he wasn’t currently wearing one. “I should be home around six if all goes well tonight. I’ll let you know if anything holds me up. Are you going to the town council meeting tonight?”
I’d almost forgotten about the meeting in all of the other drama I’d found myself embroiled in. But there was no drama quite like town council drama, and I had no intention of missing my opportunity to get them to hear me out about my shelter.
“If you think I’d be missing another no-holds-barred fight between Dierdre and Mayor Collins about whether or not we should repaint the covered bridges, you are out of your mind. Meeting starts at seven and you said you’re off at six? Why don’t we plan to meet at Peach’s?” I suggested. “I mean, you’ve gotta eat, right? We can talk business, then walk over to the meeting after.”
Sweet Peach’s was the local diner, where we’d gone on what some might consider our first date. It was also where I’d discovered that I had magical powers almost entirely by accident. I had managed to avoid any further magical slipups there in visits afterward, but it had also been seven months since I’d gone with Rich. I didn’t want to push him into anything he wasn’t ready for, and I really did need his professional help, so I was hoping Amy’s excited expression wouldn’t put him off the suggestion.
“Sure, that sounds great. Six o’clock at Peach’s. Unless someone decides to cheat on their wife between now and then.” He laughed and gave a little shrug, knowing full well how ridiculous his job could seem to others.
As soon as he was gone, Amy’s gaze pivoted to me, and she gave me a knowing smirk. “Ohhhh, someone’s got a daaaaate.”
I pushed her toward the door. “Didn’t you hear me say professional ? I need his PI skills, that’s it. And no one finishes up their date at a town council meeting.”
“Mm-hmm, sure.” She nodded several times and gave me an exaggerated wink as she opened the front door. “I’ll tease you more about it later. Call me as those come out of the oven, and I’ll come grab them from you. I can’t thank you enough, Phoebe, seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
“It’s nothing. I’m glad I could help.”
With her gone, I quickly reviewed the list she’d given me so I could plan what would be best to bake together so we didn’t waste a moment of time or oven warmth. With the cookies in first, since they’d take the shortest time, I prepped my own sourdough loaves so they’d be ready to go into the oven as soon as Amy’s stuff was done. It would be tight timing, but I was positive I could get both Amy’s goods and my own loaves done before lunch started.
My investigation into Madeline’s murder was going to have to take a literal back burner, because my entire morning was soon consumed by baking.
Chapter Nine
Busy days are always the best in a business, because time just flies before you have a chance to get bored. It helped that the news of the murder in Barneswood had been slow to make its rounds to Raven Creek and that no one had yet made the connection that I had been involved.
Soon enough they’d piece it all together, and curious townspeople would be at my door asking questions, but at least they usually bought some tea when they did that, so I wasn’t going to complain too much.
Imogen, however, had put two and two together right away, and the moment she came through the door at ten she was a whirlwind of braids, energy, and questions.
Thankfully, with Amy’s baking keeping me busy and the shop surprisingly bustling, she didn’t get a chance to ask too much before I was whisked off to another customer or another tray of brownies. A lot of people were disappointed by the lack of Earl Grey shortbread, which was something of a relief to me, because it meant people enjoyed my cookies. I promised it would be back the next day.
We powered through the lunch rush, but I could tell Imogen was just dying to start her interrogation. By the time the last of our lunch hour toasts were gone and we were sold out of pastry, I sighed and said, “Before you start, let me make us each a cup of tea.”
I knew Imogen well enough to know she didn’t care if I made her the tea or not, but she watched impatiently as I took a tin of Lemon Meringue Pie off the shelf and carefully spooned it into compostable tea bags. The heavenly scent of dried lemon rind wafted out of the canister, and the little flecks of dried marigold petal reminded me of the new flowers outside. I boiled the water, then watched Imogen tap her toe against the front desk as I poured the nearly boiling water over the bags and set a cup down in front of each of us.
I glanced at the clock so I wouldn’t let the cups overstep, then said, “Okay, I know you’re about to burst. Just ask.”
“Finally,” she breathed. She pulled up the stool behind the cash counter as I cleared some dirty plates from the little café tables and waited for our tea to be ready. “So, I read there was a death at the auction last night. My first question: Did you win the book lot?”
“That’s your first question?”
“I’m trying to be pragmatic!”
That made me laugh, which then made me feel guilty. “Yes, I won the books, though I’m not totally sure how that’s all going to work out, since the auction didn’t actually finish. But they got my information to coordinate payment, so I’m assuming I still get the books. How much did the newspaper say about the death?” Imogen was levelheaded but not cruel, which made me wonder how vague the details had been if she was asking about the sale first.
“It just said someone died unexpectedly and the police were onsite. I assumed someone had a heart attack. Isn’t it usually lots of older people at those? Eudora was always the one attending for the shop.”
“Lots of middle-aged people, honestly. And I suppose you could call the death unexpected.” I put the dishes into the kitchen and started a cycle on the dishwasher. When I returned, I dropped the real bombshell. “The woman running the auction was murdered.”
Imogen spun around on her stool to face me, her expression stunned. “Excuse me? Someone was murdered at this auction? Are you okay?” She gave me a once-over to confirm I had not also been murdered. “What happened?”
It felt weird to be gossiping about this, but since I knew the news would arrive in Raven Creek sooner rather than later, it would be good to have Imogen on my side so she could set people right when they started sharing false versions of events. It was inevitable, when playing what was basically a game of telephone for adults, that some of the truth would get lost along the way.
As long as there wasn’t a version of the story where people thought I was the killer.
“I found the body. Well, actually, Bob found the body.”
“You took your cat to the auction?”
“In fairness, he kind of took himself.”
Imogen suppressed a smirk, her gaze darting toward Bob where he was snoozing by the fire. Then she got back to business. “And did they catch whoever did it to her?”
“No, no one knows what happened. She was showing people around the property, she showed me all the books, and then an hour later she was dead. I did overhear her having an argument on the phone with someone, but I have no idea who. And her assistant left the event crying before the actual bidding got under way, which I thought was weird.”
“Oh, she did it.”
The bell chimed merrily, and Imogen turned around to greet someone walking through the door as I gave a soft smile to the customer. The new arrival made a beeline for the bookstore but stopped by the fireplace to give Bob a gentle scritch behind the ears, which automatically made me like her more. I just trusted people who liked my cat. Maybe it was a bad habit, but he hadn’t steered me wrong so far. If Bob let you touch him, you were probably an okay person.
“I think it’s a bit early to assume the assistant did it,” I whispered, not wanting to spread the details with strangers. Mr. Loughery had been here the whole time, but as usual, by the lunchtime rush, he was snoozing, as was Bob. It made it a lot easier to talk about crimes when your only customer was fast asleep. This new customer, however, might not be so easygoing about the topic of murder.
