Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) by Bailey Cates Page B

If my aunt didn’t watch it, the neighbors would soon be flocking to her kitchen. Not that she’d mind. She loved feeding people and was an easygoing hostess even with little or no warning.
    I felt guilty about the sounds my stomach was making after how swoopy-sick it had felt a mere hour earlier when the police were taking pictures of Simon’s dead body. I still felt shaken, but the strange thing I’d learned about when awful things happen is that real life keeps right on happening, too. A man was dead, and I was hungry—and sweaty and tired, to boot.
    I stopped in front of the large wreath on the door. Lucy had wired sticks of honey locust together and then woven Spanish moss, or old man’s beard, as some called it, and stalks of dried lavender among the thorns to soften their wicked appearance. The trio of plants were attractive together and provided a powerful oomph of protection as well. I had a similar wreath on my own front door.
    I skipped the bell, knocked once, and then turned the knob and entered the town house. “Hello?”
    As usual, the air inside thrummed with verdant energy from all the growing things: houseplants in pots, a six-foot hibiscus in full bloom, a Mandarin orange tree in one corner, and the thick carpet of ivy gripping the rough brick of the fireplace mantel. The vaulted ceiling rose above, and two skylights offered an abundance of natural daylight. The place had a rich yet airy feel, a welcoming vibe despite the thorns on the front door, and smelled pretty much like heaven right then.
    Like an old-time movie star making an entrance, Honeybee came down the steps leading up to the second floor and then to the rooftop garden: graceful, beautiful, and well aware of both. Her orange tabby stripes glowed in the oblique sunlight from the window, and her green eyes flashed a greeting.
    I sneezed. Beautiful or not, Honeybee made my eyes puff and my nose run within seconds. Mungo bounced in my tote bag, wanting down. I complied, lowering him to the floor next to the white sofa. His toenails clicked on the dark cherrywood as he ran to meet Lucy’s cat. They touched noses while I felt around in the side compartment of my bag for my antihistamines.
    I tried again. “Lucy?”
    â€œWe’re in here.” Her voice came from the rear of the house.
    We? I left the two schmoozing familiars to catch up and went to find out. The scent of roasting pork was even stronger as I entered the kitchen. Copper pots hung from the ceiling over a large work island, a blue-speckle teapot sighed on the old gas range, and glass-fronted cupboards showed off Lucy’s sturdy green stoneware. On the other side of the island, Lucy sat at the scarred wooden table stripping dried thyme leaves from their tough stems into a wide-mouthed Mason jar.
    Jaida French sat across the table from where Lucy worked, a book and a steaming cup near her elbow. Her formfitting beige suit testified to her day in court, and her vivid blue blouse glowed like a sapphire against her chocolate skin. She wore a tasteful silver filigree necklace, and matching earrings dangled from her exposed earlobes.
    She rose in a fluid motion, reaching to give me a hug as she said my name. Jaida gave the best hugs, warm and enveloping and somehow full of instant comfort. I practically fell into her arms. A second later, I felt my eyes grow hot with tears that almost felt like an afterthought to the day’s events.
    â€œWhy do you always smell like cinnamon?” I sniffled.
    Jaida held me at arm’s length, surprise on her face. “I do?”
    I nodded, blinking back the moisture in my eyes. “You didn’t know? Cinnamon and caramel.”
    She laughed. “You’re the first person to tell me that, but it doesn’t sound all bad.”
    â€œIt’s not,” I assured her, then realized I hadn’t had a chance to shower. “I bet I don’t smell like anything sweet right