by Emma Belmont
The Witch Who Filled in the Picture
Pixie Point Bay Book 3
Emma Belmont
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Sneak Peek
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Copyright
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1
“Ms. Seaver,” someone called, loud enough to be heard above the din.
Inklings New & Used Books, the large three-story store on the Towne Plaza, was positively packed. Maris turned and peered into the crowd, and saw Mikhail Galkin hurrying toward her, both hands outstretched.
“I am delighted you could make it,” he said, with just a hint of an exotic Russian accent. He grasped both her hands and, cheek to cheek, gave her an air kiss on one side, and then the other. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Mr. Galkin,” she told him. “It’s not every day we have an international art exhibit in Pixie Point Bay.”
Tall, with sandy brown hair and a goatee to match, Maris guessed that he was in his mid-forties. He was looking very smart this evening in his tailored blue blazer and lavender turtleneck.
“Please,” he said, “call me Mikhail. When you say ‘Mr. Galkin’, I expect to turn around and see my father.” Then he gave her a wry smile. “Although in truth, he was Comrade Galkin.”
Maris laughed a little. “Very well, Mikhail. Then I must insist you call me Maris.”
From the beginning of his stay at the B&B, the art dealer had been a bit formal. She’d chalked it up to cultural differences, or perhaps that she owned the B&B and attached lighthouse. But here, at his temporary art exhibit, he seemed very much in his element.
He dropped her hands, bowed his head, and clicked his heels. “Of course, Maris,” he said grinning. “Now, may I show you the exhibit?”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, smiling and inclining her head.
As they made their way among the many bookshelves and people, Maris was glad she’d spent a little extra time picking her wardrobe. Although it was evening, most of the attendees wore business casual attire, as did she. Her black silk skirt with its small white floral print fell well below the knee, and matched her ruffled white blouse with black trim at the cuffs. The patent black heels were stylish, but low enough to be comfortable for the standing and walking she was anticipating.
Maris recognized a number of the people who were mingling with their plastic cups of wine. Long-time residents and shopkeepers mixed with the usual compliment of tourists, but the upscale dress of several people carrying the exhibit catalog spoke to prospective buyers.
The bookstore’s existing recessed lighting was bright and cheery, although Maris spotted extra spot lamps that had been brought in—some with colored film over their fronts. Interestingly they weren’t necessarily pointed at the artwork, but highlighted different parts of the ceiling with washes of color.
Mikhail made his way to the edge of the room and the large easels that were lined up in front of the books.
“First,” he said, “as you can see, this is a multi-artist show. Some of the talent is local, some from further afield. Many of the latter are old acquaintances whose work I like to display whenever I can. But one of my favorite painters is the Pixie Point Bay watercolorist Clio Hearst.”
“Clio Hearst,” Maris said, tilting her head. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with her work.”
“You are in the majority, but I would like to change that.” Mikhail led her to a small grouping of almost photorealistic images. “I think you might be particularly interested in her work because of the subject matter.” Smiling broadly, Mikhail turned back to Maris. “As you see, one of her favorite subjects might be familiar to you.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Maris exclaimed, “the lighthouse and B&B.” The details in the attached two-story Victorian were positively lifelike. The many gables and traditional windows were accurate, as was the coloring. The conical white tower topped with its glass optics house glowed against a stunningly vibrant sunset. “She’s really managed to capture the…spirit of the place.” Maris had to smile to herself, since the Old Girl actually did have a spirit. She regarded Mikhail. “They’re absolutely beautiful. I can definitely see why she’s one of your favorites.”
Mikhail nodded. “A local artist who makes the most of the local environment.” He gestured to the nearby paintings. “These are all part of her Coastside Series.”
Maris stepped closer and peered at the images of the bay and the pier. Tide pools seemed to brim with life, and the Pixie Point Bridge dramatically spanned a canyon on the coast. But no matter the subject, tiny brush strokes in their hundreds, maybe even thousands, created a vivd impression that seemed to surpass real life.
“These are remarkable,” she said.
“Please excuse us,” someone said from behind.
Maris and Mikhail turned to see Minako and Alfred Page, the owners of the bookstore and hosts for the evening’s gala. They were both holding platters of delicious looking hors d’oeuvres.
“May I offer you some warm salmon shumai,” Minako said, pointing to it, “also vegetable spring rolls, butternut squash with gouda pot stickers, and hand rolls of spicy yellowtail sushi.”
“You certainly may,” Maris said, taking a small paper plate and napkin from the tray. “Minako, you’ve really outdone yourself.”
The diminutive Asian store owner beamed at her, her sleek black hair swaying as she bobbed her head. “Thank you,” she said. “We also have some liquid refreshments.”
“Japanese whisky and sake,” Alfred said, holding his tray forward. It was covered in little ceramic sake glasses of all shapes and colors, some with amber liquid, and some with clear. The heady scent of the alcohol mixed nicely with the aromatic smell of the warm food.
Mikhail selected a shot of whisky. “Thank you,” he said, and lifted the little glass to both of them. “And thank you again for hosting the gala. You have done a magnificent job.”
As one of the largest establishments in Pixie Point Bay, Maris was hard-pressed to think of another place that could have hosted it. Certainly there was no other that could have done it with as much style.
“I’ll try these scrumptious delights to begin with,” she said as she chose the salmon shumai and the spicy yellowtail hand roll. Though she would have loved to take two of everything, her ongoing quest for lower cholesterol and weight loss stopped her. “Thank you.”
“Truly,” Alfred said smiling. “It’s very much–”
“Our pleasure,” Minako said.
Maris grinned at them as they resumed circulating among the guests. Though Alfred was of a medium height and bu
ild, he still towered over his petite wife. And with his blonde hair and bespectacled blue eyes, they couldn’t have looked more different. But Maris couldn’t think of another couple that she’d met that seemed so together.
As the warm salmon shumai melted in her mouth, she detected a hint of scallion and ginger. The combination was perfect.
“Good, is it not?” Mikhail said smiling. Maris could only nod, as she enjoyed the tender texture and just the right amount of soy sauce seasoning. “I think I ate a whole tray during the setup. Minako and Alfred made everything themselves.”
Maris covered her mouth with the napkin. “Wow,” she muttered. She was going to have to see if they’d be willing to share the recipe.
“If you can stand my company for just another minute,” Mikhail said, “may I introduce you to Clio?”
“Mmm,” Maris said, nodding after she swallowed. “I’d love to meet her.”
He glanced around the room. “Ah, there she is.”
Maris followed him to a slim woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. Her auburn hair had been gathered and pinned behind her head and her bright blue eyes gazed at them as they approached. She was holding a tiny sake cup, and chatting with a few people. But as Mikhail approached, she excused herself and came forward to meet them.
“Maris Seaver,” Mikhail said to her, “I would like you to meet the artist who painted the lovely photos of your lighthouse.” He inclined his head to her. “Clio Hearst.”
Clio’s eyes widened and she smiled as she thrust out her hand. “You own the lighthouse?” she asked.
“I do,” Maris said, shaking her hand.
“I absolutely adore it. It’s one of my favorite subjects.”
Maris glanced back at the artwork. “So I saw. And I must say, you’ve really managed to capture the magic of the place.”
“Oh thank you,” Clio said, glancing downward. “I hope I did it justice. But it’s wonderful to hear you approve.”
“How could she not?” Mikhail said. “But if you two ladies will excuse me, I think I might see a prospective buyer.” He gave them a quick bow and hurried off.
Maris turned to the artist. “Really, all of your work is amazing. Not just the lighthouse—even if it’s my favorite. I can see why Mikhail chose to feature you.”
A little color rose to Clio’s cheeks. “That’s so kind of you. I–”
The sound of raised voices interrupted her. Maris turned to see Aurora Puddlefoot arguing heatedly with a well-dressed man that she recognized. Like Mikhail, art critic Langston Spaulding and his wife were guests at the B&B and had come for the express purpose of the art gala. But at the moment the artsy couple were being assailed by the owner of the town’s gift store, Magical Finds.
The older woman, dressed in her typical exotic attire, was gesticulating wildly. The long sleeves of her bright red robes fluttered, and her long platinum braids swayed to and fro. Her exaggerated makeup and bright red lipstick made it easy to see her facial expression, which was consternated anger. Even her violet cloth head wrap was tilting to one side.
“That despicable man,” Clio said vehemently. “He has always belittled my work.”
Now Maris realized that the art critic and Aurora were standing in front of one of Clio’s paintings.
Langston was worked up as well, jabbing his finger nearly in Aurora’s face. He was wearing a dapper black suit, black shirt and black tie, while his wife was wearing a deeply cut, burgundy evening dress. But as Maris watched in disbelief, he took off his designer glasses as though he was getting ready to fight.
“Good grief,” Maris muttered. Certainly he wasn’t actually going to have a physical altercation with Aurora. Although probably only in her late fifties, she was twenty years older than Langston and a foot shorter.
Maris had just been about to say something when Mikhail rushed to them and interposed himself. Although both parties managed to back up a pace, and their voices dropped a notch, they were still pointing at each other—until Mikhail’s head jerked back and he grabbed his nose.
Everyone froze and there was stunned silence in the room.
“Oh my god,” Clio whispered.
Blood was dripping down Mikhail’s chin.
Alfred hurried to them and gently grasped Aurora’s shoulders and led her away.
“That man is an idiot,” Aurora declared, looking at the art critic over her shoulder. “An idiot.”
Minako ran to Mikhail with a wad of napkins, which he took and put under his nose. At the same time Jayde Langston clutched her husband’s arm and pulled him in the opposite direction. Gingerly holding his nose, Mikhail headed toward the men’s room.
Clio frowned and shook her head. “Of all the people who would come here,” she muttered under her breath. When Maris looked at her, she added, “He’s called my work ‘Thomas Kinkade meets Bob Ross’ and ‘a derivative mashup of derivative mashups’.” Maris’s eyebrows rose as she watched the Langstons disappear into the crowd. “That’s how people like him make their living.” Clio finished her sake in a single gulp. “By being pretentious and picking public fights.” She looked at her empty cup. “I think I’ll get another.”
As she left, Minako and Alfred appeared in the center of the room, each smiling and holding a platter. “Please, everyone. We invite you to try–”
“Our famous spicy edamame,” Alfred said. They moved in opposite directions toward the small clusters of guests. “It’s a secret recipe–”
“Handed down in my family for three generations,” Minako said, offering the tray to some guests, who smiled and took the little paper cups filled to the brim with the shelled soy beans.
Slowly, the murmur of conversation returned.
Maris glanced across the room and spied Jill Maxwell. When the nurse practitioner saw her, she smiled and waved. Maris waved back. As Jill turned to answer a woman who’d spoken to her, Maris watched as they both faced the painting behind them. The nurse was pointing to the old fashioned nurse’s hat that the subject of the painting was wearing, and then she made a motion as if she were putting one on. The two women laughed, just before a group of other attendees obscured them from view.
As the gathering returned to normal, Maris drifted to one of the third floor’s large front windows. To her pleasant surprise, she could just make out the revolving beam of the lighthouse in the distance. But then, to her shock, the beam winked at her. Maris nearly dropped her spicy yellowtail handroll. The Old Girl was signaling to her that trouble was brewing.
Not only did the Pixie Point Bay lighthouse have the best record of rescues in North America, it was a magical being named Claribel. Maris had no doubt that the later fact had helped to create the former. Although she had a special bond with the Old Girl—like her ancestors before her—she’d never seen her signal before. For a moment she could only stare, but the beam had already resumed its constant rotation.
As she considered for a moment, she thought back on the scuffle between Aurora, Langston, and Mikhail. That had to be it, and of course Claribel had known. Maris smiled at the rotating beam and whispered, “Thanks, Old Girl.”
2
As Maris finished her delectable yellowtail handroll she decided it was time to freshen her lipstick—and get away from the hors d’oeuvres. Inside the women’s room, Maris set her purse on the long counter in front of the mirror and took out her lipstick. But as she pulled off the cap, she realized someone else was at the far end of the mirror.
Strangely enough, she and Aurora Puddlefoot had never met. Though Maris had passed her gift shop often, she’d never taken the time to stop in. The shop owner was touching up her rather eccentric makeup, which now Maris could clearly see. Over her immaculate eyebrows were two graceful arches of tiny red dots that matched her brilliant lipstick. The effect was unusual and yet somehow not unpleasant. Maris picked up her purse and moved next to her.
“Good evening, Ms. Puddlefoot,” she said. “My name is Maris Seaver.”
“Aurora
knows who you are,” she said to her own reflection as she finished with the red dots, “and is pleased to meet you.”
For a moment, Maris frowned and was tempted to look behind her. It was as though Aurora was speaking of someone else in the room.
The shopkeeper glanced sideways at her. “Aurora believes you are the owner of the lighthouse and B&B. Is she correct?”
“She is correct,” Maris said, still trying to get her bearings. Was Aurora referring to herself in the third person?
“Ah yes,” she said, turning back to the mirror with the lip gloss applicator. “The very same as in the paintings outside. Quite beautiful.”
Maris turned to the mirror with her own lipstick. “I couldn’t agree more, both in terms of the lighthouse and the paintings.”
“Aurora is glad to hear it,” she said, touching up her lipstick. “Clio Hearst is a supremely talented young lady.” She cast a disdainful glance at the bathroom door. “No matter what that idiot says.” She put away the lipstick and took out some blush. “Do you know that this fool was in Aurora’s establishment today? Oh yes. She kicked him out after he asked if her makeup was inspired by Ronald McDonald or Bozo.”
Maris had to stifle a laugh. Suddenly the door to the restroom swung open, and Jayde Spaulding rushed inside. Without looking to the right or left she hurried to the mirror and gave her hair a quick finger brush. Then she puckered her lips and frowned. She opened her purse and began to rummage through it, but froze when she realized she wasn’t alone. Her eyebrows shot up when she saw Aurora, and she grabbed her purse and rushed out the door.
