Free Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery by Bailey Cates Page A

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