Brownies and Broomsticks: A Magical Bakery Mystery by Bailey Cates

Savannah isn’t all that big, you know. And firemen had better know where we’re going without some GPS babe telling us.”
    “Right.” I said, watching him from the passenger seat.
    Warm air winged in through the open windows of the king cab, carrying the scent of newly mown grass. It was a huge truck, with big tires, yet he didn’t seem like a guy who worried about the size of his … truck. Dark curls cut short enough to adhere to fire service regulations softened the edges of his broad, chiseled face. For a brief moment his blue eyes cut my way, and I was startled by how bright they were. The realization that I’d never seen him outside of the bakery slid into my consciousness as his lips turned up an infinitesimalamount. And darn if that didn’t show off the dimple in his cheek.
    Quickly looking out the window, I said, “Declan’s an Irish name, right?”
    “Declan McCarthy, displaced Irishman, at your service, lassie.” The soft round vowels and the relaxed tempo of his words foiled his game attempt to pull off the lilt of Eire.
    “Not first generation, I take it.”
    He laughed. “Gosh, how could you tell? No, I was born in Pooler, then went away to Florida State University. After college I tried living in Boston, in eastern Illinois, even down in Texas for a summer, but this area is home, even though all my people are gone now. Been back in Savannah for almost ten years.”
    “Your people are all gone?” Nosy me couldn’t help asking.
    “Oh, they’re not gone gone, just gone from around here. My mother remarried after my dad died, and now she lives in Boston—which is one reason I moved there for a while. My sisters—two married, one divorced, one single—are scattered all over.”
    “You have four sisters? No brothers?”
    “Nope, I’m the only boy, and smack-dab in the middle of them all. But I think I turned out reasonably well despite almost drowning in estrogen growing up. At least I can cook.”
    He caught my sidelong look and grinned. “You’ll have to let me make you dinner sometime. Prove my worth.”
    I had to admit the idea was pretty appealing. This guy was easy to be around, and practically family. Not that I thought of him as a brother, exactly.
    “You said you and Uncle Ben have been friends since you were a rookie.”
    “We have.”
    I waited, but he didn’t offer any additional information. Declan was still more or less a stranger to me, and even a rube from Ohio like me knew when it was better to shut up.
    We pulled into the driveway of a ranch-style home in a neighborhood full of the same. No mansions here. No antebellum anything, but plenty of treeless yards, the bright toys scattered in many of them indicating lots of new families.
    A skinny, sharp-featured woman about my age opened the door as we came up the walk and ushered us quickly inside. “No need to cool the outdoors,” she said, her voice abrupt and nasal, as she shut the door behind us.
    The air-conditioning was going great guns indeed, and I shivered immediately. The sofa was worth the sudden temperature drop, though. It was, in fact, a seven-foot-long fainting couch, the swooping curve of the back sloping from a high arm on one side to a next-to-nothing one at the other end. And best of all? It was a deep, dark purple.
    “This weird old thing was still in the house when we bought it. I’ll take seventy-five for it if you’ll just get it out of here.”
    It was utterly charming. I loved it. I opened my mouth to speak.
    Declan stepped forward. “How about fifty?”
    The woman hesitated, then waved her hand. “Whatever. Can you take it right now? Take that lamp, too, ifyou want it.” It was an old-fashioned brass affair with a purple fringed shade that matched the sofa.
    “You bet!” I pressed a bill into her hand. Declan took the larger end of the sofa, and together we managed to wrangle it out of the house and into the truck. The woman fretted the whole time the door was open, what with all that