Read Online Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery by Bailey Cates - Free Book Online
Authors: Bailey Cates
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had developed, and I was adding the cupcake recipe to a page toward the back. I had a feeling they’d be in high demand once the Honeybee opened. The warm scents of chocolate and cinnamon filled the air. Light classical music played at low volume through speakers mounted high in each corner of the room.
It took a moment for what he’d said to register. “You dated?”
“For almost a year, when we were juniors.”
I whistled. “That’s hard to believe. How did you stand it?”
He laughed. “She wasn’t like she is … was … Well, anyway, she used to be a lot of fun—happy, lighthearted, almost silly at times. But she hardened over the years. Became bitter.” His voice softened. “That bitterness sapped all her joy and left her a shell of the girl I knew, brittle with anger and disappointment.”
“She was bitter, yes. But hardly brittle, Uncle Ben. That woman was made of oak, not balsawood.”
Silence as I remembered how someone had snapped her neck as if it had been exactly that: balsawood. One glance at Ben and I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I cleared my throat, feeling awkward. “I’m glad she was happy once.”
Knuckles rapped on the front window, making me jump. Steve Dawes peered through the slats in the blind, trying to see into the relative darkness.
“Darn him.” I launched myself to my feet. “He just wants a story about what happened yesterday.”
Ben rose and strode to the door. “Actually, Steve called me this morning. Wants to talk to me about the face of business here in the historic district. He’s talking to Croft Barrow in the bookstore and Annette Lander, who owns the knitting shop next door. It’s for his column.”
His last words accompanied Dawes’ entrance into the bakery. The reporter’s teeth flashed as he said, “Yes. For a column about the changing and the not-so-changing aspects of this fair city.”
He knew I’d suspected his motives.
Wincing inwardly, I said, “Come in, Mr. Dawes.”
“Steve, please.”
I nodded my agreement and muttered, “Steve it is.”
Ben gestured toward a blue-and-chrome chair. “I bet we could talk you into one of the cupcakes Katie just took out of the oven.”
The corners of Steve’s eyes crinkled, and his lips parted to reveal those teeth again. “Is that what smells so great? Talk about savvy marketing.”
My heart went
thumpa
. I scowled.
“Katie,” Ben said, the word gentle but insistent.
“I suppose you’d like coffee with that,” I grumped.
The smile never faltered. “If you insist. Cappuccino. Dry, please.”
“Dry. Right.”
As I moved to the espresso machine, he sat downand pulled out a notebook. “Ben, tell me about your vision for this newfangled bakery in old Savannah. Are you going for tradition or pushing for progress?”
The screech of the espresso machine drowned out the rest of his question and my uncle’s answer as well. I topped the cappuccino with dry foam, plopped a warm cupcake on a small plate and took both, along with a napkin, to Steve. Setting them in front of him, I met his eyes. He stopped talking.
We looked at each other for a few years before I tore my gaze away. Ben’s expression held mild amusement.
Steve reached toward the notebook of recipes that sat on the table in front of him. Before he could open it, I snatched it out of his hand.
“Proprietary information. I’ll let you get back to your interview.”
I took the notebook behind the register and bent to search under the counter for the colored chalk we’d use to list menu items on the giant blackboard. The whole time, I was intensely aware of the two-inch strip of skin on the side of my hand where Steve’s finger had rested for a nanosecond when I’d taken the notebook away.
There was no reason on earth for it to tingle like that.
None.
After a few moments the two men began speaking again, in tones low enough for me to ignore with a little effort. Which I did, studiously concentrating on roughing out
It took a moment for what he’d said to register. “You dated?”
“For almost a year, when we were juniors.”
I whistled. “That’s hard to believe. How did you stand it?”
He laughed. “She wasn’t like she is … was … Well, anyway, she used to be a lot of fun—happy, lighthearted, almost silly at times. But she hardened over the years. Became bitter.” His voice softened. “That bitterness sapped all her joy and left her a shell of the girl I knew, brittle with anger and disappointment.”
“She was bitter, yes. But hardly brittle, Uncle Ben. That woman was made of oak, not balsawood.”
Silence as I remembered how someone had snapped her neck as if it had been exactly that: balsawood. One glance at Ben and I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I cleared my throat, feeling awkward. “I’m glad she was happy once.”
Knuckles rapped on the front window, making me jump. Steve Dawes peered through the slats in the blind, trying to see into the relative darkness.
“Darn him.” I launched myself to my feet. “He just wants a story about what happened yesterday.”
Ben rose and strode to the door. “Actually, Steve called me this morning. Wants to talk to me about the face of business here in the historic district. He’s talking to Croft Barrow in the bookstore and Annette Lander, who owns the knitting shop next door. It’s for his column.”
His last words accompanied Dawes’ entrance into the bakery. The reporter’s teeth flashed as he said, “Yes. For a column about the changing and the not-so-changing aspects of this fair city.”
He knew I’d suspected his motives.
Wincing inwardly, I said, “Come in, Mr. Dawes.”
“Steve, please.”
I nodded my agreement and muttered, “Steve it is.”
Ben gestured toward a blue-and-chrome chair. “I bet we could talk you into one of the cupcakes Katie just took out of the oven.”
The corners of Steve’s eyes crinkled, and his lips parted to reveal those teeth again. “Is that what smells so great? Talk about savvy marketing.”
My heart went
thumpa
. I scowled.
“Katie,” Ben said, the word gentle but insistent.
“I suppose you’d like coffee with that,” I grumped.
The smile never faltered. “If you insist. Cappuccino. Dry, please.”
“Dry. Right.”
As I moved to the espresso machine, he sat downand pulled out a notebook. “Ben, tell me about your vision for this newfangled bakery in old Savannah. Are you going for tradition or pushing for progress?”
The screech of the espresso machine drowned out the rest of his question and my uncle’s answer as well. I topped the cappuccino with dry foam, plopped a warm cupcake on a small plate and took both, along with a napkin, to Steve. Setting them in front of him, I met his eyes. He stopped talking.
We looked at each other for a few years before I tore my gaze away. Ben’s expression held mild amusement.
Steve reached toward the notebook of recipes that sat on the table in front of him. Before he could open it, I snatched it out of his hand.
“Proprietary information. I’ll let you get back to your interview.”
I took the notebook behind the register and bent to search under the counter for the colored chalk we’d use to list menu items on the giant blackboard. The whole time, I was intensely aware of the two-inch strip of skin on the side of my hand where Steve’s finger had rested for a nanosecond when I’d taken the notebook away.
There was no reason on earth for it to tingle like that.
None.
After a few moments the two men began speaking again, in tones low enough for me to ignore with a little effort. Which I did, studiously concentrating on roughing out
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