by Emma Belmont
Maris saw her purse on the floor next to the chair and picked it up. “That may not be a good idea,” she said gently, as she handed the purse over.
“But–” Jayde sputtered, clearly panicked.
“I’m afraid you won’t be permitted to ride in the coroner’s van,” Mac said.
“I don’t care,” she nearly shrieked. “I don’t care. I’m going with him.”
Jill put a hand on her arm. “The sheriff is right.” She glanced at him. “But I’ll give you a ride.”
The woman was trembling now, but nodded repeatedly. “Yes. I’d appreciate that. I’d so appreciate that, Jill.” She looked toward the stairs. “I…I just don’t want him to be…alone.”
Maris felt a lump in her throat, and Jill grimaced a little but nodded. “I understand.”
“The B&B’s front door will be open,” Maris said quietly to the nurse. “Just knock on my door, first floor, end of the hall, if you need anything.”
6
As Maris and Mac watched Jill help Jayde down the stairs, the sheriff turned to her. “You’ll need to point out Mikhail Galkin and Clio Hearst to me, if they’re still here.”
After a quick search of the second floor, Maris led Mac up to the third floor. As expected, most of the guests had gone. But as Maris had guessed, the Pages were still cleaning up. Alfred pointed toward the area where most of the easels were located. Mikhail was with someone who looked like a buyer.
As they got closer, Maris said, “Here he is.”
Both the art dealer and his prospective client saw them approaching. Mikhail quickly shook hands with the man. “I will call you tomorrow to finalize.”
The customer only nodded, glanced at Mac, and hurried away.
Mikhail smiled at them, his nose swollen and red. “I assumed that you did not need to speak with the customers.” His voice was a bit nasally, as if he had a cold.
“Correct,” Mac said. “Mikhail Galkin?”
“At your service,” he said, with a quick bow of his head and a click of his heels.
“Sheriff McKenna.” Mac pointedly looked at Mikhail’s nose. “Who punched you?”
The art dealer’s eyebrows shot up. “No one.” Then he gingerly touched his nose. “This was an accident. Hands and fingers were flying everywhere. As they say in the old country, I made the mistake of coming between the hammer and the anvil.”
“So no idea?” Mac asked.
Mikhail shook his head. “It would please me to no end to say that it was Spaulding, God rest his soul, but I really do not know.”
Mac took out his note pad. “And why would you like to say it was Spaulding?”
Mikhail smiled. “I would wear it as a badge of honor.” But when Mac made a note, Mikhail’s smile slipped. “I have known Langston Spaulding for over twenty years. The man was as tasteless as he was vulgar. He was being purposely provocative regarding the work of Clio Hearst. In fact, there was no artist too big or successful—and I have known a few—who he did not deride with his particular brand of inflammatory rhetoric. ”
“You were not an admirer,” Mac concluded.
“He had none,” Mikhail said, as though it was obvious.
Except for Jayde, Maris thought.
“Where were you when he was killed?” Mac asked.
He smiled at the sheriff. “I am pleased to say that I was with a number of different buyers—and I mean pleased for the sake of my clients, particularly Clio.”
“Is she still here?” Maris asked.
The art dealer shook his head. “She found the whole thing very distressing when she learned of Spaulding’s death. I believe she has gone home.”
Mac looked up from his notes. “I’ll need the names of the buyers you mentioned.”
“Of course,” Mikhail said. “I will be happy to provide them to you.”
Mac nodded and closed his notepad. “That’ll be it for tonight,” he said. “But I’d like you to stay in town.”
Mikhail paused for a moment and then looked at Maris. “I would be delighted to spend more time in this charming town, but I am not sure of my accommodations.”
Maris smiled at them both. “I’m happy to say that the B&B would be delighted to extend your stay.”
“Fine,” Mac said. “I’ll have to speak with Ms. Puddlefoot and Ms. Hearst tomorrow.” He nodded to them both. “Thank you for your time.”
7
In the morning, Maris headed down the B&B’s hallway to the kitchen. If she hadn’t known the way, she could simply have closed her eyes and followed her nose. The delicious smells of breakfast that wafted through the air were the culinary world’s equivalent of a siren’s call.
At the kitchen door, she didn’t pause for an instant. “Good morning,” she said, with her usual cheer. “What smells so incredible?”
As usual, Cookie was at the stove and looked over her shoulder smiling. “One of my specialties—and good morning.”
It seemed that no matter how early Maris got up, Cookie was in the kitchen before her. Nor did Maris ever hear the diminutive chef, even though their rooms were close. She was as quiet and dependable as the daily fog.
In her early seventies, Ruth “Cookie” Calderon had been with Maris’s Aunt Glenda for decades. The two of them had established a now time-honored routine, which Maris had quickly adopted: she took care of the evening wine and cheese, while Cookie prepared the breakfast buffet. The guests were on their own for lunch and dinner.
Maris looked over Cookie’s shoulder. “Breakfast Pie in a Skillet,” she said, her mouth already watering. “My favorite.”
Cookie nodded, her graying pony tail bobbing. She wore a short-sleeved cotton dress with a large floral print, though it was mostly covered with her apron.
In one of the big iron skillets that Cookie favored were layers of eggs, cheese, mushrooms, onions, and peppers. It was a delicious combination of textures and flavors that brought out the best in the ingredients. On occasion the B&B hosted returning guests who sometimes requested it.
Maris went to the lighted double oven and saw red-skinned potatoes roasting on cookie sheets with a light dusting of sea salt. On the nearby counter were fresh strawberries and Cookie’s oversized blueberry muffins.
“I guess I’ll squeeze the orange juice,” Maris said.
“That would be wonderful,” Cookie replied.
As with the rest of the kitchen, the Victorian look was only a veneer. The large period butcher block, matching wooden stools, and the lace curtains gave the big room a period feel. But underneath it all was professional equipment, from the extra large microwave and immense brushed steel refrigerator to the generous double sinks and double oven. Maris brought out the state-of-the-art juicer and began to peel the oranges and drop the segments inside.
“How was the art gala last night?” Cookie asked, as she began moving the roasted potatoes to a warming tray.
Although a cardinal rule of the hospitality trade was to never stop working when you talked, Maris did just that as she turned to the chef. “Langston Spaulding was murdered.”
Cookie stopped as well, her eyes wide as she gaped at Maris. “Our guest?” She glanced upward and back to Maris. “Murdered?”
Maris nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“By who?”
Maris put a few more segments of orange into the juicer. “That’s the question.”
“Well you’d better have more details than that for me,” Cookie said, as she moved the rest of the potatoes over.
Maris recounted the entire evening, including the argument with Aurora Puddlefoot.
“A hot-tempered one, Aurora,” Cookie said, as she sliced the Breakfast Pie.
“To say the least,” Maris said, pouring the fresh juice into a beautiful glass decanter. “Poor Mikhail got a bloody nose out of that little altercation.”
Again Cookie stopped. “One of our guests was injured?”
Maris nodded. “I don’t think it was bad though.” She picked up the juice. “
The one I’m worried about is Jayde.”
Cookie put a hand to her chest for a moment. “The poor thing.” She shook her head. Then her eyes went to the ceiling. “I did hear a car on the gravel late last night. Was that her?”
“I imagine so,” Maris said, heading to the dining room. “Jill Maxwell was kind enough to give her a ride.” She looked at the full warming trays. “Be right back for those.”
After a few trips, the entire breakfast buffet was ready, including fresh coffee and hot water on tap. Maris took a moment and poured herself a nice cup of steaming java.
Back in the kitchen, Cookie was steeping some tea. “I hope Jayde is resting,” the chef said. “I’ll set aside a plate for her, for later.”
“That’d be lovely, Cookie. Thank you.”
A tiny, tinny harmonica-like meow drew their attention to the kitchen floor.
“Good morning, Mojo,” Maris said.
The slightly pudgy and very fluffy little black cat looked up at her. Maris’s Aunt Glenda, a blues music fan, had named him after George “Mojo” Buford, the harmonica player for legendary musician Muddy Waters. As his big orange eyes fixed on her, he meowed again, sounding exactly like a miniature version of the instrument.
“Breakfast time?” Maris asked. This time he closed his eyes as he meowed. She reached down and smoothed her hand gently over the soft fur between his ears. “Gotcha.”
Mojo lightly bounced over to his bowl as Maris went to the refrigerator. Inside she found the plastic container dedicated to his meals and opened it. The smell of smoked salmon wafted out, making Maris’s stomach rumble.
“They say seafood increases the IQ,” Cookie said, and sipped her tea. “At this point, Mojo must be a genius.”
As the little cat waited patiently by his bowl, Maris filled it with salmon. “Is that true, Mojo?” In answer, he almost dove face first into the waiting fish, devouring it in great gulps. “Uh, yes.” Maris laughed a little. “I see.”
“Shall we?” Cookie asked, gesturing to the door.
This was a hospitality technique to which Maris had warmed immediately. Rather than hide in the kitchen for their meals, Cookie insisted they eat with the guests. It encouraged relaxed conversation all around, even between the guests themselves.
Maris served herself a not-too-large helping of the Breakfast Pie, a few strawberries, and decided to skip the blueberry muffins. Just as she was sitting down across from Cookie, the Schellings came down.
“Good morning,” Maris said, smiling at the young Swiss couple.
Andrin and Mia Schelling appeared to be in their mid-thirties. He was at least six feet tall and slim, with brunette hair and dark eyes, while she was nearly the opposite: short, blonde, blue-eyed, and a little chunky.
“Good morning,” Andrin said, with an almost German-sounding accent. He grinned at the buffet and wasted no time in heading directly for it.
“Good morning,” Mia said, pausing for a moment as she took in the room and the bay window. “Another beautiful foggy morning here in Pixie Point Bay.”
“As always,” Cookie said. “And then at mid-morning, it lifts. As always.”
Mia smiled. “It’s remarkable. And the lighthouse itself.” She glanced behind her. “The most picturesque we’ve ever seen.”
“And we’ve seen a few,” Andrin said, bringing over a plate that was piled high.
“Is that right?” Maris said, then paused as she considered for a moment. “But not in Switzerland.” The country was land locked.
“Exactly,” Andrin said, as Mia went to the buffet. “You might say this is a hobby of ours.”
“Visiting lighthouses?” Cookie asked as she used the side of her fork to cut her slice of pie.
“Exactly,” he said again. “On our vacations.” He took a bite of the Breakfast Pie, made an appreciative sound, and gave Cookie the thumbs up sign. She smiled and nodded back.
“And what is it that you do when you’re home?” Maris asked.
“Andrin is an investment banker,” Mia said, “and I’m a digital artist. We live in Zurich.”
Maris had, of course, been to their home town. In her twenty-five years of globetrotting from one hotel to another, she’d been to every major city in the world.
“Oh I adored that wonderful monastery in Einsedeln,” she said.
Andrin quickly swallowed. “You know it?” he exclaimed. “Kloster Einsedeln?”
“Beautiful,” Maris said, picking up a strawberry. “The Gregorian chanting was ethereal.”
For a few minutes the young couple chatted about the wonders in their part of the world, but eventually the conversation came back to Pixie Point Bay.
“We like to take photos of the lighthouses we visit,” Andrin said, peeling the top off of his blueberry muffin and slathering the underside with butter. “In your opinion, where will we get the best view.”
“I like to use them in my artwork,” Mia added.
“Without a doubt,” Maris said, “the best view is from the water.”
“Oh!” Andrin said. “I would never have guessed.”
“You capture not only the lighthouse and the bay,” Maris said, “but the rocky coastline, the rolling hills above it, and the mountains to the east.”
He exchanged an excited look with Mia. “Perfect.”
“We have kayaks at the dock below,” Maris said, “if you’re in a sporting mood. But you can also charter a boat at the pier.”
“Hmm,” Mia said, considering. “From the kayak, we’d be pretty close to the water….”
“Maybe too close,” Andrin said, “too much water in the foreground…”
“Let’s go to the pier,” Mia said.
They smiled at one another and Andrin said, “It’s settled then.” He got up and returned to the buffet for another plate. “This dish is wonderful, Cookie. What is it called?”
“Breakfast Pie in a Skillet,” the chef said. “A specialty of the B&B.”
“Breakfast Pie in a Skillet,” he repeated, serving himself another slice. But when he returned to the table, he looked out the window at the fog. “Mia, maybe we can eat on the back porch and watch the lighthouse beam. What do you think?”
“Wonderful idea,” she said, getting up and taking her plate. She smiled at Maris and Cookie. “It’s not often we get this kind of opportunity. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Maris said. “The beam up close in the fog is not to be missed. It almost seems to shimmer.”
Mia and Andrin exchanged a quick look. “Let’s go,” he said.
As the Schellings headed toward the back of the house, Maris was surprised to see Jayde appear at the dining room door.
8
“Jayde,” Maris said, standing. The poor woman looked like hell. Black circles underlined her puffy red eyes, and her hair was in total disarray. Though she’d changed into a pair of slacks and a t-shirt, she hadn’t bothered to put on shoes. She clutched a wad of tissues in one hand. “I didn’t expect you down this early.”
“I couldn’t stay alone in my room any more,” she said, her voice raspy and thin, “and I don’t seem to be able to stop crying.”
“Oh, Jayde,” Maris said, going to her and helping her to a seat. “Of course you’re going to cry. It’s only natural.”
“I didn’t sleep,” she said. “I can’t get the image of him at the morgue out of my mind.” Maris exchanged a look with Cookie, who got up and went to the kitchen. Tears pooled up in Jayde’s eyes. “I…I wish I hadn’t gone.”
Maris took her hand. “Here’s what you can do,” she said. “Instead of dwelling on that image, search your memory for a happy one.” When Jayde didn’t respond, Maris squeezed her hand. “Can you think of a happy time with Langston? Did you ever laugh together at something?”
Jayde shook her head a little. “I…I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything.”
“Maybe a time when you were in the car together, or at home, or maybe at a movie, or–”
> “Oh,” she said, perking up. “We were at the movies and he was bringing popcorn.” She smiled a little. “But just as he sat down, the bucket tipped over—into my lap. You should have seen the look on his face.” She laughed a little. “I told him to leave it there. That was my half.” She dabbed at her eyes.
“And now,” Maris said gently, “hold that thought. When another one comes up, if it’s unpleasant in any way, remember that popcorn bucket. Pull that memory up instantly.” She patted Jayde’s hand. “I guarantee it’ll work.”
Just then Cookie returned with a cup of tea, and a plate that held two pieces of toast with butter and honey.
“Have a sip of tea,” the chef said, sitting the cup in front of Jayde. “It’s a special brew of mine.”
Maris had to smile to herself. Not only was Cookie an amazing chef, her magical gift was for making potions. No matter what ailed you, Cookie’s tea could help.
“You need to stay hydrated, Jayde,” Maris said. “And I must say, it smells wonderful.”
Jayde gingerly took the china teacup’s handle, and took a little sip. Her eyebrows went up, and she took another. “It tastes wonderful,” she whispered, and cleared her throat. She took yet another sip. “Mmm. Yes, that really helps.”
Maris sighed with a bit of relief, and gave Cookie a grateful look before the chef returned to the kitchen. Some of Jayde’s color was returning, and she glanced at the toast. Maris pushed the plate a bit closer.
“I’m going to get some strawberries,” she said, standing up. She hoped that if she ate, it would encourage Jayde. “Can I get you some? Or maybe a slice of Breakfast Pie?”
Jayde shook her head. “I’m really not that hungry,” she glanced at the toast again. “But maybe just a bite of toast.”
By the time Maris sat down with her, Jayde had finished the first piece, and Maris had to smile. You could always trust Cookie and her teas. But as Jayde reached for the second piece she stopped, and her face screwed up.
“What is it?” Maris asked.
