Bewitched, Bothered, and Biscotti: A Magical Bakery Mystery by Bailey Cates

rock, Katie. Thank you for making coffee before I got here.”
    “I know it’s a challenge to work this early.” For most people, at least. “Hungry?”
    “Actually, I am. I skipped supper last night.”
    “So did I.” Plus stayed up all night, not to mention my evening run, complete with
     the adrenaline rush of dodging flying pumpkins. “I have the perfect solution.”
    After popping the loaf of spicy biscotti into the oven for its first baking, I got
     to work on my version of
pain perdu
. I liked to think of it as the love child of savory French toast and bruschetta.
     First I soaked slices of brioche left over from the day before in a mixture of eggs
     and milk with a tiny bit of Mo Hotta Mo Betta hot sauce mixed in. Then I fried the
     slices in butter until browned and finished them in the oven as I sliced tomatoes
     and grated Parmesan. Finally, I topped the
pain perdu
with paper-thin Parma ham, the sliced tomatoes, fresh basil,and the cheese. A quick run under the broiler and breakfast was served.
    “Mmmph…good.” Cookie registered her appreciation around a mouthful. Even though she
     more resembled a colt—long legs, thin build, delicate bones—she ate like a bull. I
     had to admit, it was better than having someone merely pick at food I’d served. I
     remembered her mentioning once in an offhand manner that there had been some very
     lean times during her childhood in Haiti, and I was glad to see her enjoy the
pain
so much.
    Mungo nibbled at his plate with more subdued approval.
    I took another bite and reached for the
Savannah Morning News
that Cookie had picked up on her way to work. There was nothing about the dead man
     on the front page, but when I flipped it open I found something on page four: a brief
     story in which Declan and I were described as “a local man and woman” who discovered
     “an as yet to be identified man” deceased in Johnson Square.
    Darn it. I was half surprised that Quinn hadn’t figured out who the dead guy was yet—but
     only half, since Lucy and Mimsey had planted the seeds of doubt the day before. Maybe
     the Dragohs really were throwing some magical monkey wrenches into my detective friend’s
     investigation. The other thing that confirmed the possibility was the image accompanying
     the news article. It was a line drawing, not a photo—thank goodness—but it wasn’t
     a very good likeness. Could this be more of the Dragohs’ “magical barrier” that Steve
     had referred to last night? Because if I’d known Lawrence Eastmore as a living, breathing
     human being I mightnot have recognized him from the picture. I wondered if any of his friends or coworkers
     would.
    Wait a minute…
    “Cookie, do you recognize this man?” I turned the paper around so she could look at
     the picture right side up.
    She cocked her head to the side. “This is who you found?”
    “That’s him. Sort of, at least. Does he look like anyone you knew when you worked
     at SCAD?” When I’d first met Cookie she’d worked at the Savannah College of Art and
     Design, then moved on to manage an apartment building before stepping in to help us
     at the Honeybee.
    She squinted. Pressed her lips together. “Maybe.”
    “A professor, perhaps?”
    “Hmm.”
    “Art history? Aesthetics?”
    Her face cleared. “Of course. That’s Dr. Eastmore.”

Chapter 11
    Bingo.
    I smiled. “I could kiss you.”
    Her eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t—”
    “Now I can let Quinn know who the dead man is, and Steve can’t accuse me of betraying
     him.” I took a triumphant bite and let the salty ham play over my tongue.
    “I’m confused.”
    “I’ll explain later. Right now I need to make a phone call.”
    Shoving my plate aside, I hurried into the office and retrieved my cell phone. Peter
     Quinn’s direct line at the police precinct was still in my contact list. I dialed
     it, expecting to get his voice mail at six a.m. However, the man himself picked up
     on the third