Free Spells and Scones by Bailey Cates Page A

As I heard the words,a pang shot through me. With horror, I identified it as jealousy.
    That was what I’d been feeling ever since Angie had told me about Mungo. Mongo. Whatever.
    Jealousy.
    It was an awful feeling. I’d never felt it over a man, including Andrew, probably because he hadn’t taken up with his new girlfriend until after I’d moved to Savannah.
    And, I realized, it was clouding my judgment about whether to help Angie or not.
    Declan was watching me with a wary expression. “So she’s a witch. And she just showed up out of the woodwork, publicly denounced the good doctor at her book signing, and then Dr. Dana is murdered.” He whistled. “Well, I guess that explains the magical element.”
    â€œFormer witch,” I muttered.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShe doesn’t practice anymore. That’s why Mungo left her.” I shoved aside my plate, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Can we change the subject?”
    He blinked. “Sure. But I just want you to know I’m on your side. I admire your abilities, and all that magic stuff you do.” He grinned. “Even if you did almost kill me.”
    My mouth dropped open. He’d never brought that up, not once, since it happened. And now he was teasing me about it?
    I stood and said airily, “Only the one time, dear.” And then I gave him my own mischievous grin. “So far.”
    His laugh was tinged with a tad of uncertainty.
    â€œOh, please.” I ruffled his hair. “Like you have to worry about me doing you any harm.”
    Still, his smile in response seemed the tiniest bitstrained.

Chapter 7
    After dinner, we’d started watching
Tremors
for the umpteenth time to let the day wind away. Declan had dropped off in the middle of the movie, but it had taken me a long time to get to sleep. The events at the Fox and Hound kept rolling over and over in my mind. It also didn’t help that I could sense Mungo staring at me in the dark.
    My entire life I’d had a kind of sleep disorder that kept me from sleeping more than an hour or two most nights. It didn’t affect my energy level, and it wasn’t a bad thing for a baker who had to hit the ovens at o’dark thirty most mornings. So Sunday morning I woke up bright-eyed and ready to go, but Declan was still snoring through his requisite seven hours at four a.m. I’d quietly showered and dressed, bundled Mungo into my tote bag, and sneaked out in the cool of the predawn morning.
    Two and a half hours later, Iris Grant and I were finishing up the cream cheese frosting on a batch of pumpkin spice cookies in the Honeybee kitchen as the sun began to glint off east-facing car windows out on Broughton Street. Ben was off playing his weekly round of golf, so it was Lucy who opened the blinds and tidied the poufy chairs and sofa that were arranged around the coffeetable in the reading area. Light jazz came on the stereo system, right before my aunt opened up the front door at seven. A couple of weekend regulars were waiting outside for their Honeybee fix, and a few moments later I heard my aunt revving up the espresso machine.
    â€œKatie?” she called.
    I looked up and saw a customer at the register. I stripped off my plastic gloves as I hurried out from the open kitchen to ring up one of the daily specials: a delicate miniquiche packed with onions caramelized in balsamic vinegar and flecked with fresh thyme. I’d already set one aside for my own breakfast.
    Once the customer had gone, I grabbed a cup of drip and leaned my hip against the counter to drink it. Lucy had returned to the reading area and was rearranging books on the shelves. The volumes were roughly organized by subject, but the reason to it varied on who was doing the organizing. There was fiction and nonfiction, a fair amount of self-help, poetry, and inspirational fodder, as well as the occasional magazine. Regardless of the contents, most of our selection had