by Emma Belmont
“Oh how kind,” Maris said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “That’s so sweet of you.”
“Farm fresh tomatoes, carrots, and onions,” Cookie said, nodding toward the pot, “and garlic and herbs from the garden. It doesn’t get any fresher.”
“Or more comforting,” Maris agreed.
Cookie looked over her shoulder at her. “Would you like a taste?”
Maris laughed. “I thought you’d never ask.” She fetched a small spoon from the drawer, and dipped it in as Cookie stood aside. She blew on it a little, and then tasted just a bit. “Ohh,” she said. “I can taste the sweetness of the tomatoes and carrots.” She finished the rest of the spoon. “Mmm, yes. And the onions and garlic add just enough savory.” She squinted her eyes at the pot. “It’s incredibly complex.” She gave the chef a smile. “Another winner.”
The chef nodded at the oven, where Maris saw a loaf of bread baking. With the heady aroma of the soup, she’d completely missed the bread.
“Grilled cheese sandwiches,” Cookie said, “courtesy of a recent shopping trip to the Cheeseman Village dairy.”
“Perfect,” Maris said.
“Speaking of Cheeseman Village,” the chef said, returning her attention to the soup. “How was your art class?”
Maris smiled at her and then held up a finger. “I’ll show you.”
She fetched the paper block from the bag without disturbing Mojo, and brought it back to the kitchen. She opened the front cover and showed her the triptych. “This is my first attempt.”
Cookie’s eyes widened and she grinned. “First attempt? I’m impressed. That looks great.”
“Thanks,” Maris said, looking at it. “I really had a good and relaxing time.”
Cookie laughed a little. “So you’re glad you enrolled?”
Maris nodded as she set the paper block on the counter. “I really am. But I must say, I felt bad for Clio.”
Cookie frowned. “Felt bad for her? Why?”
“She was quite upset,” Maris said and described the constant dabbing of the eyes, and even the sobbing.
“I don’t understand,” Cookie said, and fetched the pot’s lid. She turned down the flame under the soup and covered it. “Because of the murder?”
“She hinted at that,” Maris agreed, “and being interviewed by Mac.”
Cookie opened the oven door and checked the bread. “Then I imagine that’s it.” She closed the oven and turned to Maris. “She can’t possibly be upset about Langston Spaulding himself. Not after what I heard the other day.”
Maris looked at her, surprised. “You heard something the other day? Here?” Cookie nodded as she fetched some cheddar from the refrigerator. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Cookie put the cheese on a cutting board, and shrugged. “One hates to speak ill of the dead.”
“One does,” Maris agreed. “One would also like to have as much information as possible.”
The diminutive chef, grimaced a little, but stopped what she was doing. “I heard him berating Jayde, actually shouting at her as they came downstairs.”
“Shouting at Jayde?”
“Something about putting their clothes away in the dresser. He obviously had been looking for a dress shirt he couldn’t find.”
“And he yelled at her about that?”
“I couldn’t believe it,” Cookie said. “But the worst part was the way that she kept apologizing for making him angry.” Cookie shook her head. “I don’t know how she put up with him.” But after she fetched the cheese cutter, she paused. “You want to hear my theory about people like Langston Spaulding?”
Maris nodded, unwrapping the aged cheddar. “Please,” she said.
“Only super nice folks can stand to be around people who are so rude and self-centered,” she declared. “All the normal people have fled. People like Langston Spaulding count on that.”
As Maris put the cheese on the board and picked up the cutter, she thought back on some of the more unsavory guests she’d dealt with in her hospitality career. From loud and obnoxious to demanding and belittling, it was hard to remember their companions. They’d simply been part of the background. Maybe Cookie was right. Maris regarded the chef. That wasn’t too surprising.
Cookie got a small spoon and went to the stove. She lifted the lid on the soup and sampled a bit. She nodded as she turned off the flame, then smiled at Maris. “I’d say that’s done. Shall we have some?”
22
Though Mikhail had not been tempted by grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup—apparently Russian comfort food was borscht with a dollop of sour cream—Maris had thoroughly enjoyed both. Once they’d cleaned up, Cookie had decided to use the B&B’s typical afternoon lull to work in the herb garden. But back in her room, Maris was nagged by a different task. She glanced to the top of the armoire where Glenda’s pretty silk brocade boudoir box sat, but she didn’t need to bring it down. Inside, she knew exactly what she’d find. More importantly, though, she knew exactly what was missing.
As a child, Maris had always admired and wanted to wear a particularly pretty pendant that Glenda had kept there. But later her aunt had told her that the faceted green stone wasn’t a necklace at all, but a pendulum. But when Maris had opened the box where it had always been kept, it was empty. Over time she’d searched every inch of the room, looking in every pants’ pocket and even moving furniture, but to no avail.
With a sigh, she stared at the big metal skeleton key hanging on the hook next to the door, then stood up straighter, strode to the key, and took it. In the utility room, she shut the door behind her and looked down at the large, black metal lock in the floor. Below it was the basement.
“Basement,” she muttered to herself. “Not elevator.”
It’d probably been unavoidable that, in her many stays at many hotels with many problems, she’d eventually run across a malfunctioning elevator. Though the manager had later assured her that her life had never really been in danger, it certainly hadn’t felt like that. The few hours that she’d spent trapped in total darkness and without communication had seemed dangerous in the extreme. Though it’d been years and thousands of miles ago, she hadn’t forgot it. Her photographic memory had seen to that.
She gripped the key tightly in her sweaty hand, turned it in the heavy metal mechanism, and heard the familiar scrape and clunk of the metal tumblers. Once the key turned freely, she pulled the big wooden hatch open. The stairs below descended into darkness.
Rather than stare down into it, she quickly laid the hatch to the side, went down a few steps, and flicked on the light switch. The long fluorescent bulbs below hummed and tinked for a few seconds and then blinked to life.
“That’s better,” she said, exhaling. The light always made it more tolerable.
As she sat on the steps, she closed her eyes and took a deep and calming breath.
“It’s just a basement,” she whispered, and felt for the hatch door. “The door is open.”
When she opened her eyes, she looked down the stairs. “You’re fine,” she told herself, and moved down to sit on the next step. “You’re fine.”
But the words didn’t stop the rising tide of anxiety that had started in the pit of her stomach. As she gazed at the steps and the brick floor below, her chest started to tighten. Quickly, she looked to the bookcase that paralleled the stairs. Instantly she felt a little calmer, and reached out to touch the lustrous leather spines with their gold lettering. Aunt Glenda must have amassed the small library recently, since Maris didn’t remember it from her youth. As she gazed at the various volumes, a question occurred to her, and she picked up the book titled Magick Folk. She turned to the index in the back.
Presto.
It was the word she’d heard Aurora say twice when she’d sold the grill. She found an entry immediately and turned to the page. It seemed that presto, like abracadabra, was part of a broader category called magic words. They were used with a few different types of magical abilities, in
cluding one to control the weak-minded. A suggestion, followed by the magic word, could trigger the weak-minded to obey it.
Maris thought back to Aurora and the couple buying the grill. That had to be it. They’d initially balked at the price but quickly changed their minds. She smiled a little to herself. That type of magical ability must come in quite handy in the retail business. But as she recalled the altercation with Langston Spaulding, her smile faded. Could Aurora have used the power of controlling the weak-minded to somehow kill him?
She put the book back in its place and steeled herself for another attempt to descend. Again, she scooted down a step, such that her shoulders were level with the utility room floor. Then, before she could overthink it, she went down yet another stair, still sitting. Determined to make at least a little progress, she gripped the edges of the hatch opening. Then, with a deep breath, she ducked her head low and peered into the basement, her eyes just below the level of its ceiling.
The basement was huge. Not only were there more bookcases filled with books and piles of magazines, there were also a couple of antique trunks, some wooden crates, and cardboard boxes. Beyond the bookcase there was an old chest of drawers that looked like an antique. On top of it was a battered old leather suitcase, complete with faded stickers. On top of the suitcase sat what looked like a carved wooden duck. If Maris wasn’t mistaken, there was a pile of hat boxes as well. She frowned a little. As far as she could recall, Aunt Glenda hadn’t worn hats.
A light scratching from the utility room door made her jerk upright.
“Gads,” she exclaimed, gasping and putting a hand over her thumping heart.
Then a plaintive, harmonica-like meow came from the door, followed by more scratching.
“Mojo,” she breathed.
With relief, she got up from the steps and opened the door. But rather than come inside, as he had in the past, he simply looked up at her with his big orange eyes, gave his signature meow again, and trotted off across her room.
“Really?” she said, a bit exasperated. “You’re not even going to come in?”
He stopped at her open bedroom door, looked over his shoulder at her, and meowed again. Then he disappeared into the hallway. Now she had to frown. What in the world was he up to? But then she checked her watch.
Of course. It was his dinnertime.
Back on the stairs to the basement, she turned off the light, then closed the hatch and locked it. As she went back into her room and hung the skeleton key she smiled a little. At least she’d made a bit of progress.
23
As Maris headed to the kitchen, she passed the parlor and had to stop. Mojo was sitting on the floor in the midst of a spilled box of tarot cards.
When she’d first returned to Pixie Point Bay, she had admonished the little black cat for making this kind of mess. But now she knew better. His skill with the Ouija board was matched by his talent for the tarot. As she watched, he got to his feet and sauntered among the scattered cards, some face up and others face down. But at one in particular, he stopped. Gingerly, he picked it up in his mouth—and began to chew.
Before he could really gnaw on it, Maris quickly scooped him up.
“No,” she said quietly and took the card in her fingers. “This is not dinner. Let me have it.” But his big eyes only seemed to get bigger as he stared at her. “Let it go,” she insisted, and tugged on it. “Come on, Mojo. Let it go.” He began to squirm, and she gave him a stern look. “I’m not putting you down with this card in your mouth.” She looked into his eyes. “Period.”
Suddenly he stopped his squirming and his jaw dropped open. Maris quickly took the card and looked at it.
“The three of swords,” she said, and shuddered a little at the image. Against a background of clouds and rain, three long, gray swords pierced a big red heart that hovered in the air. “Good grief,” she muttered.
There was no doubt that Mojo had once again chosen an apt card, but it shed no new light on Langston Spaulding’s murder. Yes, the man had been stabbed through the right atrium, but not three times.
“Mojo,” Cookie called from the kitchen. “Salmon.”
Executing a near back flip, Mojo jumped from her arms.
“Be careful,” she said, though she needn’t have, as he landed lightly on his feet. He sped from the room, galloping toward the kitchen.
As she picked up the rest of the cards, she kept the three of swords on top of the deck, pondering it. She gently tapped her temple, brought up a memory of the interpretation booklet, and read the card’s meaning. When dealt in a spread, the three of swords represented unhappiness, heartache, and sorrow. Maris frowned at it.
Again, that all applied to Langston’s death, but wouldn’t it to anyone’s?
With a little sigh, she put the cards back in the box and replaced them on the bookshelf. It had to mean more than that but, as usual, she’d likely have to wait to find out.
24
In the kitchen, Maris was pleasantly surprised to discover Jayde sitting at the butcher block and having some of Cookie’s tomato soup. “Jayde, I’m so glad to see you eating.”
The slim woman wiped her mouth with a napkin, and smiled. “I could hardly resist. The smell upstairs was just divine.” She glanced at the near empty bowl. “And the actual flavor was even better.”
“There’s plenty more,” Cookie said from the counter. “How about another bowl?”
Jayde shook her head and held her tummy. “I am positively full, but thank you. It was wonderful.”
Outside the kitchen’s window, the sky was growing dusky as evening approached. Though it was a tad on the early side for the Wine Down, Maris decided to get started with the setup, hoping it might encourage Jayde to eat a little more.
As Maris went to the fridge for the cheese, Jayde asked, “How old is Mojo?” She was watching the pudgy black cat contentedly eating his smoked salmon in the corner.
“Our best guess,” Cookie said, “is about five years. He was a rescue.”
“A rescue,” Jayde said, putting her elbow on the large wood block and resting her chin in her hand. “It’s hard to imagine anyone not wanting such a pretty cat.”
Maris smiled at her as she set down the cheeses on the block. “I couldn’t agree more.” She fetched the cheeseboard from a shelf. When Jayde made to get up, Maris held up a hand. “You’re perfectly fine there,” she said. “There’s plenty of room.” The slim woman sat back down.
Though Maris would have typically put together the Wine Down in the dining room to encourage conversation and a relaxed atmosphere, she decided she already had that in the kitchen and started to slice the cheese. As she prepared the different varieties, she chatted with Jayde about the dairy in Cheeseman Village and how much she’d enjoyed the factory tour.
“This cheese is local?” she asked, taking an interest in it for the first time.
Maris nodded, speared a slice of parmesan and offered it to her. “It’s as local and fresh as it could possibly be.” She watched as Jayde took the slice and gave it a tiny bite.
“Mmm,” she said. “Very tasty.” But Maris noted that she didn’t immediately eat the rest.
“Tonight I’ll be pairing it with our local wine,” Maris said. “So it’ll be an ‘all local’ wine and cheese tonight.”
“Really?” Jayde said, with more interest. “You have local wineries?”
“Cheese from up north,” Maris replied, “and wine from down south.” She picked up the nearly finished cheeseboard. “Here,” she said, “I’ll show you.”
As Maris had hoped, Jayde followed her into the dining room. After she set down the cheeseboard, she turned to the wine cabinet, removed a Merlot and opened it. She poured a bit into two of the waiting wine glasses, and offered one to Jayde.
“The Alegra winery has been winning awards almost since their first release,” Maris said. She lifted her wine glass to Jayde. “Cheers.”
Jayde clinked her glass and then took a sip. “Oh, that’s smo
oth,” she said, and took another little bite from the parmesan she’d brought. “Oh, yes, that’s a perfect combination.”
Maris smiled. “I’m glad you think so.” She set down her glass. “I’m just going to get a few more things from the pantry. Be right back.”
By the time she returned with the nuts, dried fruits, and chilled Chenin Blanc, Jayde had poured herself a full glass of the Merlot. Maris heard the front door open, and the Schellings quickly appeared at the dining room entry, looking a bit bedraggled. As Maris opened the Chenin Blanc, she said, “Long day out?”
Mia set her backpack on the floor next to the wall, and Andrin did the same. “Hundreds of photos,” she said, “and not a single one does it justice.” She nodded to Jayde and went to pour herself a glass of the white wine. “I’m giving up.”
As Maris arranged the fruits and nuts, Andrin took a plate and began serving himself. “It’s uncanny,” he said, and popped a dried apricot in his mouth. “It’s as though the light is somehow different.” Mia handed him the wine. “I don’t understand it.” He took a long swig.
As Maris poured more wine for herself, and then Jayde, she said, “I assume you’re talking about the lighthouse?”
“The most beautiful lighthouse,” Mia said, taking some Gorgonzola from her husband’s plate.
Maris turned to Jayde. “The Schellings are lighthouse enthusiasts. They travel the world visiting them.”
“Is that right?” Jayde said.
As they fell into conversation about their travels, Maris saw that the Merlot was almost empty and opened another. She’d just set the cork aside when Mikhail appeared.
“I hope I am not too late,” he said, smiling at them all, his book tucked under his arm.
“Of course not,” Maris said, returning his smile. “And there’s more where this came from. Please, help yourself.”
