by Emma Belmont
Mac looked at Maris. “Ladies first.”
Maris smiled and looked up at the menu board, and then thought of the cheese she’d had at the dairy. “I think just a coffee for me.”
“Coffee for me,” Mac said, “and one of those bran muffins.”
“For here, or to go,” Fab asked.
“For here,” the sheriff said, and handed her some cash. “Keep the change.”
“Much appreciated,” she said, inclining her head. “I’ll bring it out to your table.”
As they took their seats at one of the high tables, Maris noted the new paintings again. “I can’t help but think I’m supposed to recognize these folks.”
Mac regarded them. “You wouldn’t unless you practiced voodoo.”
She stared at him. “Voodoo?”
Though she’d never asked the sheriff outright, she was fairly sure that he was not one of the magic folk. But more than that, she’d learned not long after arriving back in Pixie Point Bay that the Toussaints were in fact voodoo practitioners. But the unwritten rule was that the magic folk never revealed themselves to the regular people. It was even considered bad form for one magic person to inquire about what another’s gift might be. How had Mac learned that they practice voodoo?
“Actually, Fabiola says ‘vodun’. She said these are the saints and spirits, aka, the loa.”
“Really,” Maris said, seeing them in a completely new light. She cast a sideways glance at Fab, who was bringing their coffees and muffin. Maris was seeing her in a new light as well. “Interesting.”
“Two coffees and a muffin,” the proprietor said as she set them down.
“Thanks,” Mac said.
“Fab,” Maris said, eyeing her. “The sheriff was just telling me about your gorgeous vodun loa.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “We had rather a wide-ranging discussion on Haitian art. I credited Glenda with the idea. She was a big fan of the art too.” She gave them both a smile. “I’ll leave you two to your coffees.”
As Maris watched her go, Mac took a sip of his coffee. “Are you interested in art like your Aunt?” he asked.
For a moment Maris had thought that the young couple were departing from tradition and revealing their magic ability. But really it was just as Fab had said earlier—a touch of home. As far as visitors to the shop were concerned, it was simply Haitian art inspired by the traditional heritage of voodoo there.
Maris turned back to him. “Art? No, not really,” she said still thinking about Fab and Jude. Then, when she realized what she’d said, she quickly added, “Well, yes, but not particularly as a collector.”
“Oh?” he said, picking up the muffin.
“Actually,” she said, trying to think of how to change the subject. Then she realized that wasn’t needed. “It’s interesting that you ask because I took a watercolor class with Clio Hearst this morning.”
“How was it?” he asked, sounding genuinely interested.
“A lot more fun than I expected,” Maris admitted. She took a sip of her coffee. “And Clio is a great teacher.”
“So you’re going to be the next Frida Kahlo?” he asked, nibbling on a piece of muffin.
She laughed a little. “Or maybe Grandma Moses.” But she sobered as she thought of Clio sobbing. “I’m afraid Clio was very upset.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the sheriff said. “But I’m afraid I’m not too surprised. She was pretty emotional when I interviewed her. When I asked her about the painting knife, it was as if she thought I was accusing her.”
“Well, actually, she told me the same thing. Is she really a suspect?”
Mac grimaced a bit and shook his head. “My gut says she’s not a murderer. Sure, Spaulding attacked her work, but that seemed to be his MO with everyone.”
“He really did seem very mean spirited, if you ask me.”
Mac took another sip of his coffee and nodded. “And supremely unlucky, if you ask me.”
“Because someone killed him for being mean-spirited?”
“Oh no. It was the way he died. A knife directly to the heart is not an easy thing to achieve. There are a lot of bones in the rib cage meant to protect the vital organs. But the thin blade of the paint knife slipped right between two and pierced Spaulding’s right atrium. He died almost instantaneously.”
Maris gaped at him. “Did you say atrium?”
Mac set down his coffee. “Yes,” he said, his brows furrowing. “The right atrium. Why?”
She blinked recalling Mojo’s Ouija clue. “Oh, um, nothing.” She returned his gaze. “You’re right. That was incredibly unlucky of him.” Then she remembered Claribel’s clue and what Clio had said about it. “Do you remember seeing a certain painting at the exhibit—the one of the nurse called ‘Pedigreed Nurse’?”
Mac scowled as though he’d tasted something sour. “I do remember it. It seemed so completely out of place.” He quickly held up a hand. “Not that I’m an art connoisseur, in any way, shape, or form. Why, was it something that you liked?”
She shook her head vigorously. “Oh no, not at all. But before class, Clio was telling me that the artist, Damien Previs, sells those types of paintings for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
Mac laughed. “‘The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art’.” He gave her a grin.
“Robert Burns?” Maris guessed. The Scottish poet held a special place for Mac.
Mac nodded. “I think Old Rabbie had my mundane taste in art.” He paused. “Even so, I find it hard to believe anyone would pay that much for that type of painting.”
Just then his telephone rang, and he took it from the holder on his utility belt. “McKenna.”
Though Maris couldn’t have agreed more about the nurse painting, she also noted that it didn’t seem to be part of Mac’s investigation. But should it?
He glanced at his watch. “I’m on my way.” Then he hung up. He gave Maris a sad smile. “I’m afraid I’ve got to go.” He got up. “Please stay and finish your coffee.” For a moment he looked torn, and then said, “I’m looking forward to the next time.”
Maris grinned at him, that teenage shiver going down her spine again. “As am I.”
19
When Maris arrived home, Bear was cutting the grass in front. As usual, he used an old push mower. Though at first Maris had thought it was a charming throwback, or maybe even Victorian gardening, he’d told her that he and Glenda had never liked all the noise of the modern ones. It was easier on the ears and also didn’t disturb the guests. As she got out of the car, she appreciated it anew and waved to him. He gave his quick and almost-too-dainty wave back.
As she grabbed her paint supplies from the passenger seat, she noted that the Schellings were gone but that both Mikhail’s and Jayde’s cars were parked in front. He must have taken her to town to pick up the car. From the back seat, she took the two bags from the dairy, and headed into the house.
The cheese went into the fridge, the other goods into the pantry, and her paint supplies on top of her bed, where a sleepy Mojo barely raised his head to look at her.
She gently patted his warm, fluffy side. “Back to sleep,” she whispered, and his head fell back to the comforter.
Despite the cars in front, the house was quiet. But when Maris checked the back porch she saw Mikhail sitting in the sun with a book. She smiled as she exited into the brightness.
He glanced up, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Maris, hello.” In contrast to the tailored suit he wore at the exhibit, he had on a faded pair of jeans and a bright red t-shirt. On the table was a glass of Cookie’s iced tea.
“Good afternoon, Mikhail,” she said with her usual cheer. His nose was looking almost back to normal. “You’re the picture of contentment.”
He smiled and held up the book. “Is there anything better than a warm afternoon, a cool drink, and a good book? I almost never get a chance to do any reading. At least the ongoing investigation has given me that.”
She sat down opposite
him. “What are you reading?”
“A novel from the old country,” he said and showed her the cover.
“Dr. Zhivago,” she said. Though she hadn’t read the book, she’d seen the movie as a teenager. “How lovely.” Then she tilted her head. “Why are you reading it in English instead of Russian?”
Mikhail smiled. “I read it as young man many years ago, in Russian of course. It is strange, but the English version feels almost as if I have never read it before.” Then he gave her a wry smile. “Add to that the fact that Inklings only carried the English version.”
“Ah,” she said, with mock seriousness. “Now the truth comes out.”
He laughed as he held the book to his chest. “I have been revealed.”
She recalled the Spaulding’s car out in front. “I assume Jayde is upstairs resting?”
His smile faded and he nodded. “Yes, I hope so. It has been quite awful for her, all of the legal matters and arrangements.” He glanced up at the second floor of the B&B. “At least someone in the world misses him.”
Maybe more than one someone, she thought, but then she spoke what he’d obviously left unsaid. “But not you.”
The art dealer shrugged. “Even bad publicity is publicity, but that is all I will miss about him.”
The altercation with Aurora at the exhibit, let alone Spaulding’s death, had certainly provided that. For a moment she thought of the exhibit’s closing and Mikhail packing up the paintings at the bookstore. “By the way,” she said. “I wanted to ask you about a painting at the exhibit, the portrait of the nurse.”
Mikhail perked up. “It is by the artist Damien Previs, a personal friend of mine.”
“I’d never heard of him before the exhibit.” Maris said.
“His work is very much in demand,” the art dealer said. “At this point, he can name his price.”
“Really?” she said, feigning surprise.
Mikhail nodded. “Absolutely. For example, for that particular painting I happen to know he would not part with it for less than sixty-five thousand dollars.”
“Sixty-five thousand?” she said, scowling. She distinctly recalled Clio saying that they sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Mikhail nodded. “If you are not active in the art world, the amounts can seem exorbitant. But collectors not only indulge their passions, they are making calculated investments.”
“Investments,” she muttered. “I see.”
He seemed to study her and then smiled. “Care to make an offer?”
She had to laugh. Not only would she not speculate with that kind of money, but certainly not on a painting that she didn’t care for. “I’m afraid it’s too rich for my blood. But thanks for the opportunity.” At the reduced price, she thought.
He shrugged. “I have a potential buyer for it in La Jolla.” Then the wry smile returned. “But you could save me the cost of shipping. I can speak with Damien on your behalf.”
The sound of an engine and tires on the gravel of the driveway drew her attention. It was probably Jude.
She stood and inclined her head. “I’ll keep that in mind if we ever decide to redecorate.”
Mikhail picked up his book. “As they say in the old country, morning is wiser than the evening.” When he saw her look of puzzlement, he smiled and added, “Sleep on it.”
20
Maris headed down the side of the B&B toward the front, when suddenly her surroundings disappeared. Although not quite used to the flashes of precognition to which she was prone, she at least recognized them now and managed to stop without tripping. Instead of the grassy side lawn and porch, Maris was looking at Mikhail Galkin, who she’d just left. As she watched, his hands were being put behind his back. She heard the sound of cufflinks closing. He was being arrested. But as she stared at his unhappy face, the vision winked out. In an instant, she was once again standing on the side lawn of the B&B.
She glanced over her shoulder at Mikhail, who had resumed reading. Could he really have wanted the art critic dead? Just now he’d welcomed the negative publicity, but he didn’t seem to have disliked the man nearly as much as Aurora.
As Maris rounded the front of the building she spotted Jude’s tow truck. He was just getting out. Bear had begun mowing the other side of the driveway.
“Long time,” she said to Jude as he got out of the truck.
He laughed a little. “I’ve been busy.”
Maris chuckled. “Shall I open the garage?”
“I’ll do it,” Bear said, appearing next to the tow truck. “Hi, Jude.”
“Good afternoon, my friend,” Jude replied smiling, as the two men shook hands. Maris noted that they were nearly identical in height, but their completely different builds had not made that apparent.
Bear opened the two wide swinging doors on the garage, which he’d already unlocked for the lawn mower. The powder blue tailgate of the old truck greeted them, just inside.
“Shall we?” Jude said to Bear, who went to the front bumper of the truck.
Maris went to the tailgate and took a grip.
“We can get it,” Jude said to her. “You don’t want to get dirty.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t want to get dirty. But I do want to help. Call it a matter of principle.”
Jude inclined his head to her. “As you wish then.”
He went to the driver’s door, and he cocked his head at what he saw inside. “The keys are in the ignition?”
Maris smiled at him. “We don’t particularly have a problem with car theft around here. Plus the doors to the garage are generally locked so we can keep kids away from all the tools.”
Jude opened the door. “I guess you always know where the keys will be.” He checked Bear, and then Maris before releasing the parking brake and putting the truck in reverse. As he braced one hand on the truck’s cab, he put his other on the steering wheel. “Nice and slow.”
Although Maris didn’t think there was any other choice, she heeded his words and didn’t use all her strength to tug on the tailgate. To her shock, the truck actually moved. Slowly, the giant vehicle with its rounded fenders and back window emerged into the sun.
But when Maris paused to adjust her grip, the vehicle kept moving and she realized that her contribution was a token one at best. She looked through the cab and over the hood to see that Bear had his head down and his arms completely outstretched. He was leaning so far forward he was almost horizontal.
“That’s good,” Jude said, and the truck slowly came to a stop as Bear stood.
The mechanic put the column shift in park and set the brake. He closed the driver door with a solid sounding thunk. Slowly the three of them circumnavigated the vehicle. Jude ran his fingers along the fenders, actually kicked a tire, and smoothed away a fine layer of dust from the chrome rear bumper.
Jude nodded at his reflection, and they proceeded down the other side of the truck. Soon, all three of them were gathered around the front. Although a fine layer of dust covered the entire thing, Maris was relieved to see its remarkable condition. Her aunt had driven and cared for the truck as long as she could remember. She’d taken special pains to attack any rust as soon as it appeared. In the salty sea air, it’d been a constant battle.
“Nice,” Jude said, swiping his hand over the hood to reveal the true lustre beneath. Then he reached under the front edge of the hood with both hands. He grinned at Bear and Maris. “The moment of truth.”
Though Maris knew the giant curved hood must have weighed a ton, Jude seemed to lift it as though it were aluminum. He propped it open, stuck his head inside—and laughed.
“What?” Maris asked, her brows drawing together.
Jude reached inside, pulled something out and lightly tossed it to her.
She only just managed to control her shriek as some little furry animal flew through the air. Through sheer instinct, she managed to catch it with both hands.
“Oh, my goodness,” Maris gasped, staring down at
it. “It’s one of Mojo’s toys.”
That Mojo, she thought, as she examined what appeared to be a little stuffed hedgehog. She’d never seen the same toy twice, and she had yet to discover where he kept his secret stash.
As she and Bear watched over Jude’s shoulder, he poked and wiggled a few things, ducking his head left and right. Apparently satisfied, he finally stood back.
“Do you think it’ll start?” Maris asked.
He nodded. “It’s in much better condition than I thought it would be.” He closed the hood with a heavy clunk. “But I won’t try to start it now. I’d just pull all the oil that’s sitting in the bottom of the pan through the engine. Time for some preventative maintenance first.”
Maris exhaled with relief. “Wonderful,” she said, and Bear patted the hood with a smile.
Jude took his keys from his pocket. “I’ll just hook it up on the tow truck, get it back to the garage, and start work on it right away.”
“There’s no hurry,” Maris said. “Cookie and I aren’t in a rush.”
He paused and smiled at her. “You’re not in a hurry but the new owner is.” He arched his eyebrows at her. “I’ve already got a buyer.”
21
Back inside the B&B, Maris had to pause. She took a deep sniff.
“What is that wonderful smell?” she muttered, as she followed her nose to the only place it could be coming from. As usual, Cookie stood in front of the stove. But rather than scrambling eggs, she was stirring something in a tall iron pot.
“Cookie,” Maris said, looking over the diminutive chef’s shoulder. “What’s this?”
“Homemade tomato soup,” she replied with a smile.
Though the aroma was positively delicious, Maris stared at her. They’d settled into their routine quickly. Cookie took care of the breakfast, while Maris hosted the Wine Down. The guests were always on their own for lunch and dinner.
“What can I say?” Cookie said, slowly stirring. “I love to cook.” Then she glanced over Maris’s shoulder. “And I thought maybe Jayde could use some comfort food.”
