3 The Witch Who Filled in the Picture

by Emma Belmont

  Maris cocked her head at the paintings, turned a page to the next section, and a page back to the previous section, but there were only fourteen. “You’re sure these are all of his works?”

  In answer, Minako turned to the introduction, by Damien Previs. She scanned down the first paragraph with her index finger. When it stopped, she read, “the first ever collection of all my works.” She looked up at Maris. “I have to assume that is true.”

  If it was, Maris thought, then “Pedigreed Nurse” was a forgery.

  “I know it’s boxed up,” she said, “but can you take me to it anyway?”

  “Of course,” she said, “it’s out on the loading dock.”

  Maris followed Minako out to the back where they found Alfred using a manual forklift to move a pallet of book boxes. More importantly though, an armed uniformed guard was also there, bringing Maris up short. But as she looked around at the wooden crates, she immediately understood. There might be a small fortune in artwork here, and it couldn’t be locked up, nor would it fit in the store.

  “Maris, hello,” Alfred said. “I’d ask what brings you to the dock, but I suspect–”

  “It’s the Damien Previs nurse painting,” Minako said.

  Alfred’s eyebrows rose, and the security guard turned his head toward them. “Oh, well as you can see, all of the paintings were crated–”

  “Right after the exhibit,” Minako said, “to protect them from damage.”

  “Of course,” Maris said, eyeing the guard.

  Claribel had shown her the painting for a reason, and Maris had assumed that she should therefore see it. And yet that seemed like it was impossible.

  Playing for time, she said, “Do you know which crate it’s in?”

  “That’s easy,” Alfred said, stepping to the small mountain of wooden boxes.

  Minako pointed. “It’s the one in the back, the big one.”

  The guard finally stepped forward. “I’m afraid I can’t let anyone move the artwork,” he said.

  For a moment Maris considered invoking the murder investigation. But in reality, she knew that only a search warrant could compel anyone to do anything.

  She smiled and nodded to the guard. “I understand,” she said simply. “Thank you.”

  Alfred and Minako exchanged a look, then he shrugged. “I guess I’ll bring in the rest of the books.”

  As he went back to the forklift and lifted the pallet he’d slid it under, Maris said, “I’m sorry for troubling you two. Clearly you have plenty to do.” She’d just been about to turn away, when Alfred pulled the pallet toward him and something glinted on the floor where it had just been.

  Minako spotted it as well. “What is that?”

  Alfred stopped. “What is what?”

  But just as Minako bent down to pick it up, Maris said, “Stop!”

  Everyone on the dock froze, except for the guard whose hand went to the pistol on his belt.

  “Minako,” Maris said, as calmly as she could, “don’t touch that.” The diminutive woman took a step back. “Do you have a paper towel, or a plastic bag, or maybe some tissue?”

  She nodded and hurried back inside the store, as Maris stepped closer to take a look.

  “What is it?” Alfred asked, just behind her.

  Maris crouched down, staring at the finds. “A lipstick and an eyeliner.” Minako came running back from the store, and showed Maris a tissue, a paper towel, and a plastic bag. “Perfect.” Using the tissue, she picked up the lipstick without touching it and put it in the bag. Then she used the paper towel and did the same with the eyeliner. She held up the bag and they all gazed at the contents.

  “I think I’d better call Mac,” she said.

  29

  In the living room of the B&B, Maris surveyed the strange assembly of people. Jayde and Mikhail sat together on one side of the room, while Aurora and Clio sat together on the other. Mac stood near the door, and Maris stood opposite him in front of the fireplace. As usual, Aurora was easily the most flamboyant of the attendees, in vivid red robes with a matching head wrap and makeup. She was also the most impatient.

  “Aurora has a business to run,” she said to Maris. “She would appreciate your being quick.”

  Maris nodded to her. “I intend to do just that.” She gazed around at the group. “Thank you all for coming.”

  “Was there a choice?” Clio asked, glaring at Mac. Maris noted that her eyes were still puffy and red.

  The sheriff calmly looked at her. “Yes, and you could leave now, if you like.” He hooked his thumbs in his utility belt. “But I’d recommend you stay, for your own good.”

  “Gods,” she muttered, glaring at the floor as she put a tissue to her nose.

  Aurora patted her shoulder. “You will be fine.” Then she pointedly looked at Maris.

  “Only one person here had an altercation with Langston Spaulding,” Maris told her.

  Aurora sat up straighter and leveled a steady gaze at her. “Aurora begs to differ. She had two.”

  “According to descriptions from every quarter,” Maris said, “including your own, you two were at odds. You were at the gala that night, and according to the estimated time of death, you could have been on the loading dock when Langston Spaulding was killed.”

  “All true,” the shopkeeper replied. Her bright eyes darted around the room. “Also true for everyone here.”

  Maris turned to Clio. “Of course, the painting knife only implicates one person here.”

  Clio’s lips pressed into a thin line as she banged her fists on her legs. “How many times do I have to say this? I’m a watercolorist. I don’t use a paint knife. That’s for thick paints like oil or acrylic!”

  Maris shook her head. “You mostly paint with watercolor. It’s certainly what you’re known for. But if your studio was searched right now, are you saying you don’t even own one?”

  Clio glanced from side to side. “I don’t know!” she nearly wailed. “I might have one, and even a canvas.” Aurora patted her shoulder again. “I don’t know,” she said, hunching a bit and looking at the floor. “I have no idea.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” Maris said. “I also don’t doubt that you were never at odds with Langston. In fact, if I had to guess…” Maris looked at Mikhail and then back to Clio. “…I would imagine that the social media sparring between you two was arranged.” She gazed at Mikhail. “How many times have I heard that even bad publicity is still publicity?” Then Maris looked at Clio, who averted her gaze. “Enough times to understand that your public dislike of Langston was an act.” Though Maris waited, neither Mikhail nor Clio said anything—including denying it.

  Maris turned to Jayde. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, particularly after last night.”

  Though Mikhail stiffened, Jayde only smiled. “I apologize for getting drunk, and thank you for helping me to my room.”

  Maris smiled back. “In fact, I’d say your recovery is nothing short of remarkable. Without the slightest trace of a hangover.”

  Jayde’s smile faltered for a brief second and a wary look stole quickly across her face. “I took some aspirin and made sure to hydrate myself. Thank you.”

  Maris shook her head. “You’re not hungover, because you weren’t actually drunk.”

  “Really, Maris, what is your point?” Mikhail asked. He gestured around the room. “Why put her through all this? We all saw that she was drunk. Why bring it up now?”

  “Because she had a little secret to tell me about you, while she was supposedly drunk.”

  Mikhail scowled at her. “Nonsense,” he said, but he sounded less sure of himself. “I have no secrets.”

  “Or perhaps none that Jayde should have known about,” Maris said, looking into his eyes. “But you and Langston were working together.”

  Mikhail scoffed. “I despised the man,” he declared.

  “Like Clio,” Maris pointed out. “But unlike her, you and Langston were selling forgeries.”

  T
he art dealer’s head cocked back as though he’d been slapped. “What? This is preposterous.” He stood. “I thought we were here about the murder.”

  Mac took a step into the room. “We are, Mr. Galkin. If you’ll please have a seat, you’ll have your turn.” When Galkin wavered, Mac said, “Please sit down.”

  Maris looked at Jayde again, her expression supremely composed. “While it may be true that your husband and Mikhail sold forgeries, your bit of news about it was your second attempt to deflect suspicion.” Jayde only raised her eyebrows in response. “Your first was using the painting knife to cast suspicion on Clio.” Maris glanced at the artist. “When in fact Clio is the last person who wanted to kill Langston, since she was having an affair with him.”

  Aurora grimaced and stared at the young woman, who only buried her face in her hands and quietly cried.

  “Shut up,” Jayde told her. “Just shut up. I knew about the affair. I’ve known about all of them.”

  Clio raised her head and stared at the woman. “What? What do you mean all of them?”

  Jayde snorted. “You don’t seriously think you were the only one,” she sneered. “You’re the fifth.”

  “At first,” Mac said, “the puncture of your husband’s heart seemed a rather unlucky stroke. His death was instantaneous, and no chance for a rescue. But with some medical knowledge, someone might be able to tell exactly where to place the tip and easily push in the thin piece of metal.”

  Maris noted a sudden twitch in Jayde’s eye. “Jill Maxwell told me that you and she talked about your former profession: nursing.”

  Mikhail turned to stare at her, and inched away.

  “Do you recall that evening in the ladies room?” Maris continued. “Aurora and I were in front of the mirror.”

  “She rushed in,” Aurora said, recalling it. “She was going to put on lipstick.”

  “But when you checked your purse,” Maris said, “you realized you didn’t have any and left.”

  Jayde’s eye twitched, but she met Maris’s gaze. “I said not a word to either of you, and you’ve fabricated this entire scenario about what I did or didn’t want to do.”

  The sheriff held up an evidence bag. “Not exactly.” Everyone stared at the lipstick and eyeliner, including Jayde.

  “Did you drop your purse on the loading dock?” Maris asked. “I imagine it’d be hard not to, while stabbing someone.”

  Clio gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. Aurora crossed her arms and stared at Jayde. Mikhail whipped his head around to look at her.

  Though Jayde opened her mouth as though she might say something, she closed it.

  Mac lowered the bag. “I called in a favor,” he glanced at Maris. “Maybe a couple for the rush test. The DNA from the makeup, the DNA from the blade of the paint knife, and the DNA from your broken wine glass all match.” He strode toward her, setting the bag down on the coffee table. He removed the handcuffs from his belt and stopped in the middle of the room. “Jayde Spaulding, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of your husband.”

  Still not uttering a sound, she stood and put her hands behind her back.

  “You can have a seat, Mrs. Spaulding,” the sheriff told her. “These aren’t for you.” He looked at Mikhail, who’d gone pale. “We’ve been in touch with artist, Damien Previs. Not only does he not know you, there is no painting called ‘Pedigreed Nurse’.” He motioned for Galkin to stand. As he did, Mac turned him, drew his hands behind his back, and put on the cuffs. “Mikhail Galkin, I’m arresting you for fraud and transportation of stolen goods.” He nodded to Jayde. “The following applies to you both.” He recited their rights to them as Maris, Aurora, and a horrified Clio looked on. When he was done, he said, “Let’s go.”

  He picked up the evidence bag as he motioned for a docile Jayde to precede him and an apparently shell-shocked Mikhail. But before they left the room, Mac glanced over his shoulder. “Nice work,” he said to Maris.

  She felt some heat rise to her cheeks, but smiled and said, “Thanks.”

  Clio buried her face in her hands again. “I can’t believe it,” she said.

  Aurora stood and placed a hand on the artist’s shoulder. “Do you need a ride home?”

  Clio took in a deep breath and raised her head. “No, I’ve got a class to teach.” She gazed up at the shopkeeper. “But thank you.” She checked her watch. “In fact, I’m going to be late.” She stood and picked up her purse, but paused and looked at Maris. “I don’t know how you figured it out, but I’m glad you did.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and hurried away.

  Aurora watched her go, and shook her head. “Aurora thought the young lady had better taste.” Then she shrugged. “Still one doesn’t judge the artist, just the art. Aurora is disappointed but will continue to carry her work.” She regarded Maris for a moment. “Next time you’re in Magical Finds, stop by for tea.”

  Maris smiled at her. “I’ll do that.”

  30

  In the late afternoon, Maris sat on the back porch with her watercolors, paper and jars of water. Taking a page from Clio Hearst’s book, she decided that if you wanted a lovely painting, it couldn’t hurt to start with something lovely. Although Maris had never realized it before, the quality of light at the ocean was different. Maybe it was the moisture in the air, or perhaps the salt, but since she had started looking at scenes with an eye toward painting, she’d noticed that the light at the seaside was softer and more glowing.

  Of course, capturing that on paper was a different matter.

  But rather than worry about it, Maris practiced what they’d learned in their first class: loose and flowing movements without striving for perfection. Footsteps just inside the house exited onto the porch, and Maris looked up to see the Schellings. They wore their backpacks and had their suitcases. Andrin carried a large thin paper-wrapped parcel under his arm.

  “How perfect,” he said, looking at what Maris was doing. “We visited the gift store in town yesterday and bought a painting of your lighthouse.” He hefted the parcel under his arm. “Ten times better than any photo we took.”

  “We just wanted to thank you for your hospitality,” Mia said. “We had a wonderful trip.”

  Maris smiled up at them. “I’m so glad,” she said. “It was fun for me to learn of your hobby, and I hope you’ll come back for another visit.”

  Mia nodded. “That will be our goal.”

  “After we see the rest of the lighthouses on our list,” Andrin said, but then he looked up at the Old Girl and smiled at his wife. “Maybe.”

  The pleasant young couple bid Maris their goodbyes and left, with just a couple more glances at Claribel. As Maris resumed painting, she remembered her remote viewing. Had the Old Girl been trying to tell her that the murderer was a nurse? And Mojo’s tarot card. Had the three swords represented Aurora, Mikhail and Jayde—the three people who had despised him?

  Another, softer set of footsteps drew Maris’s attention to the porch door. With a steaming mug in each hand, Cookie exited. Maris left her brush in one of the water jars, and accepted the mug.

  “Thank you, Cookie.” She inhaled the aroma. It was chamomile, likely from the chef’s own herb garden, with a dollop of honey. She blew on it and took a sip. “Mmm. Perfection.”

  “That’s really nice,” Cookie said, indicating the painting with her cup. “You’ve got a talent for this.”

  Maris chuckled. The Old Girl’s conical tower was crooked, the ocean behind it leaked into her windows, and the horizon was bowed.

  “I see you’ve left your reading glasses inside,” Maris said.

  Cookie grinned at her. “Oh I don’t mean that painting.” She squeezed Maris’s shoulder as she turned to go. “I meant the relaxing.”

  Maris had to laugh out loud. But as she gazed out toward the bay and the ocean beyond, she wondered if Cookie might not be right.

  Another Pixie Point Bay book awaits you in The Witch Who Knew the Game (Pixie Point Bay Book 4).


  For a sneak peek, turn the page.

  Sneak Peek

  The Witch Who Knew the Game

  Excerpt

  CHAPTER ONE

  Maris Seaver couldn’t remember the last time that dinner had been served at the Bed and Breakfast. But as she sat at the dining room table with Cookie and the B&B’s four guests, she had to wonder if it wouldn’t be a fun thing to do. Of course, since Cookie didn’t regularly prepare lunch or dinner, it’d have to be done as it was being done tonight.

  “For our first course,” Etienne Fournier said, bringing the small white plate to Maris’s place mat, “a salmon canapé.”

  The owner of Plateau 7, the five-star restaurant on the bay, was dressed in the traditional chef’s uniform and hat. In his early sixties, he was of medium height with dark hair and flinty black eyes, and a pointed mustache that was waxed to a precise perfection.

  “Local salmon on a fresh cucumber slice,” he continued, setting the next plate in front of Cookie. “Finished with a lemon truffle mayonnaise.”

  The French chef finished by serving the big man at the head of the table, Reggie Atkinson. A red-head with a matching red beard and hazel eyes, Reggie was the leader of the group. He’d reserved the entire B&B for the weekend and arranged for the catered dinner months ago. He called the get-together a company off-site for the key employees of his business: Whiz Kids Games.

  “Bon appétit,” the chef bid them.

  Reggie smiled down at the little morsel, and then at each member of his group. “Let’s start.”

  “This looks amazing,” Pammy said, reaching for it. But when the Filipino man next to her picked up his fork, she paused. Then she picked up hers.