She was probably selecting a cake for one of her famous soirees, but her aura radiated judgment. “Oh, you’re that young man,” she said, pausing near our table. “My nephew’s former servant. I suppose criminals can’tstay in his employ.”
Wickham narrowed his eyes at her without response. As she walked away, his aura flickered deep red for an instant. “Imagine when she hears about Alex,” he murmured under his breath.
“You swore never to hurt anyone,” I whispered in a singsong voice. “She’s not worth it.”
"Lucky for her." Heset down his fork. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
Outside, a thin layer of snow coated Wickham’s black Jeep. The frosty air bit into my face and hands, and as soon as I got inside the car, I cranked the heat.
“She’s just a gossipy old lady,” I said. “And her outfit wasn’t even cute.”
“I’m worried this will get worse. Every time something goes wrong, I’m always the first blamed.” Wickham scowled.
“Then we’ll figure out who really killed Alex,” I held onto my determination.
Wickham shifted the Jeep into drive and pulled out of the parking lot. “Thanks for coming to breakfast. But this really isn’t your problem.”
My mind raced with ideas. There had to be an answer.
After a short drive through town, he parked in front of the bakery.
“Hold on,” I said, before exiting the car. “What if we do an open mic for Alex? Invite everyone, raise money for his family, and maybe draw out clues?”
“That’s a lot of work, and I don’t want anyone in danger,” Wickham said, though his aura brightened a little.
“We’re a family of witches,” I reminded him, raising a shoulder. “You don’t need to worry. And I love planning events.”
He rubbed his chin. “If it isn’t too much trouble… Of course, the band would have to help.”
“Perfect. I already have ideas. I can watch auras for anyone acting… off.”
“Let me know what you need,” he agreed. "That really is generous of you."
“If your band can meet tomorrow, prep in the afternoon, and start after we close at eight, we’ll try it.” I clapped my hands together.
“Plan on the Grey Doors showing up,” he said, helping me out of the Jeep. “Thank you for being supportive, Lydia. I don’t deserve it.”
“Of course you do.” I paused, wanting to kiss him goodbye but held back, unsure what our official status was.
The scent of caramelized pecans and fresh bread engulfed me as I returned to the bakery, reminding me I’d promised to help with the sticky rolls that afternoon. I took a moment to visualize how we'd set up for the open mic on the restaurant floor. The opportunity to build my relationship with Wickham beckoned. If he wanted a supportive girlfriend—-ahem, potential girlfriend—-I’d show him the most supportive potential girlfriend on the planet... well, not like crazy-stalker supportive. Just the perfectly well-balanced kind of supportive that every guy dreams of.
I zipped through the main bakery floor and into the back kitchen, where Mom and Mary were kneading bread and covered in flour up to their elbows.
“Lydia Josephine Bennet!” Mom roared as I walked through the swinging door. Yelling was not the norm in our relationship. “What have you been doing? I’m going to have a heart attack from all this stress.”
I stared at my mom for a moment, unsure what to say. I loved her, but she was more mercurial than a thunderstorm.
“Mom, why are you freaking out?” I asked as I pulled my hair back into a ponytail andgrabbed an apron.
She raised her hands and shook her head. “Mrs. Long called and filled me in. I just found out my baby is dating a delinquent, a possible criminal.”
“Sounds like gossip, Mom,” I muttered, rolling my eyes and tying the apron strings in a bow behind my back. “Everything’s going to be fine. But I’ll fill you in.”
“I don’t like this.” She brushed off her hands, had a seat on a barstool, and looked at me expectantly.
“I knew this would stress you out, so I didn’t say anything. Wickham and I found a murder victim after our date on New Year’s Eve. The guy was in his band, so Wickham is on the list of people the police have questioned. But I was with him that evening. He’s not a delinquent. He's actually a rock star.” I patted her shoulder. Then, I lit the lavender candle I’d picked up last summer from my friend Charlotte, hoping the scent would mellow her out.
Mom nodded and blinked about a hundred times, processing.
