Some Enchanted Eclair (A Magical Bakery Mystery, Band 4) - Softcover

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Bailey Cates believes magic is all around us if we only look for it. She is the author of the Magical Bakery mysteries, including Charms and Chocolate Chips.

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ALSO AVAILABLE BY BAILEY CATES

OBSIDIAN

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

The friendly chime of the bell over the entrance to the Honeybee Bakery sent a shot of adrenaline through my veins. I looked up from where I was quickly counting out change for a customer and saw two giggling teenaged girls enter. Their similar features suggested they were sisters, and behind them followed a tired-looking couple I pegged as their parents. The family paused to take in the high ceilings, warm amber walls, and fully occupied blue and chrome bistro sets before shuffling to the back of the line, which was already five deep at the register.

Uncle Ben, Aunt Lucy, and I had started the bakery more than a year ago, and we’d worked hard to develop regular clientele as well as to attract Savannah’s tourist trade. The sound of that bell meant customers, and customers meant business, and business was a good thing almost without exception.

Never mind that Lucy and I were on our own these days, juggling the busy morning rush without Ben’s help. Usually he ran the register, chatting with people as if they were his best friends as he took orders and rang up purchases. His natural style combined with genuine interest to make each person feel special. I tried to emulate him, but my mind kept darting back to the kitchen.

Aunt Lucy cast a harried glance my way before quieting her features and returning her attention to the espresso machine. Two patrons who had already ordered stood near the counter, patiently waiting for their coffee drinks. They nibbled on confections purchased from the brightly lit glass case that was usually packed with all manner of Honeybee pastries, cookies, scones, muffins, and the like. With dismay, I realized the shelves were half-empty.

Pasting a cheerful smile on my face, I asked the gentleman who was now at the front of the line, “And what can we get for you today, sir?”

The man’s gaze remained trained on the chalkboard menu on the wall above and behind where I stood. His thinning hair wisped above light eyes in a pale face. He shuffled his feet and jammed his hands deep into the pockets of his Dockers.

“What do you have that’s gluten-free?” His voice was so soft I could hardly hear him.

“How does a peanut butter cookie sound? Or an apricot-almond tart?” I pointed to the clearly listed gluten-free options we’d recently added to the menu. “They’re sweetened with clover honey. Or how about a chunk of peanut butter fudge?” I suggested the daily special as an alternative to the items listed behind me.

He glanced at me with wide eyes before his gaze fell to the floor, and he sighed heavily. “Fudge is candy. I don’t want candy. What about a corn bread biscuit?”

My cheeks were beginning to hurt from the effort it took to keep smiling. One of the young girls rolled her eyes and said to the other one in a loud voice, “This is going to take forever.”

“Kelsey,” her mother said without much feeling.

“Well, it is.” The girl spun around and opened the door. She stuck her head out and looked down the street. Sticky May heat rolled into the air-conditioned seating area, and I bit my tongue as I thought of the electric meter working overtime.

“I’m afraid only those baked items listed under the heading ‘gluten-free’ are, you know, free of gluten,” I said to my customer.

The tall woman behind him snorted. It was Mrs. Standish, one of our regulars. Today she wore a crimson turban and a swirling white caftan covered with giant Oriental poppies the same color as the headdress. I was perpetually amazed at the bold fashion statements she managed to pull off.

Lucy moved to my side, the seafoam green of her batik skirt swirling around her slim hips. She’d tamed her long gray-blond mop into a thick braid that fell down her back and wore a simple blue chef’s apron from my considerable collection.

“I bet you’d like the apple-fennel muffins,” Lucy said to the wispy man standing in front of the register, and then to Mrs. Standish, “Your usual drink, dear?”

“Please, Mrs. Eagel,” she said.

The other people waiting in line appeared relieved at Lucy’s efficiency. As my aunt turned, she caught my eye and gave the slightest of winks. Darn it—I’d been so busy trying to catch up that I’d missed the clues from our gluten-intolerant customer. His lack of eye contact, the weighty sigh, all that looking down at the floor, the pained shyness.

This guy was lonely. Extremely so.

Lucy had suggested the muffin to him because she knew it contained more than savory-sweet goodness. She was still teaching me about the Craft of hedgewitchery, but by now we regularly worked together to add a bit of green magic to our baked goods—a bit of herb there, a sprinkle of spice here, a murmured incantation. Everything that came out of our ovens had a special ingredient no other bakery in town could copy: spells intended to be helpful whenever and wherever they might be needed. My aunt was quite talented at steering people toward exactly the right treat for them on any given day. Our customers might not know why they loved the Honeybee as much as they did, but my pastry school training and our family practice of herbal witchery were a happy combination.

As we’d tinkered with the gluten-free muffin recipe a few weeks before, Lucy had commented, “We need apples in this one. After all, who couldn’t use more love, peace, and happiness?”

“Mmm,” I’d said. “Nice tart Granny Smiths. And how about fennel, too? The flavors enhance each other, and it will add a boost of courage.”

But now my customer frowned. “That muffin sounds good, but you seem to be out of them.”

“Oh!” I held up my finger. “We haven’t had a chance to restock the case. Give me a sec, and I’ll grab some more.”

The teenager’s sigh must have been audible clear over on Tybee Island.

I hurried into the open kitchen at the rear of the bakery. Rounding the big stainless-steel refrigerator, I saw little Mungo peeking around the half-open door of the office. Concern shone from his cocoa brown eyes.

“Sorry, buddy.” I waved the Cairn terrier back toward the club chair where he lazed most days at the Honeybee. “I know you’d help if you could, but you know the rule—no dogs in the kitchen.”

He panted and grinned up at me.

“Or in the reading area, either. At least not while it’s still so busy.”

My familiar huffed his disgruntlement and backed into the other room. I shut the door, piled a plate high with muffins, and quickstepped to the register.

Mollified, the man paid and left. Mrs. Standish stepped up next. “Today I’ll take two of those scrumptious red velvet whoopie pies, Katie my dear. Red velvet cake was my dear Harry’s favorite.” Suddenly, she sighed, and I saw another kind of loneliness in her eyes, the kind that comes from the lingering loss of a loved one. Her husband had died a bit over two years before, but she rarely referred to him. “While you’re at it, throw in some of those pistachio cream éclairs. Is that toffee on top?” Her deep voice rose and fell over the syllables as only a native Savannahian’s could.

Lucy handed her a tall steaming drink with a smile and turned to the next customer in line to get a jump on his order.

“It is indeed.” I grabbed a paper bag and slid open the back of the case.

“How is it you two...