8 The Witch Who Saw a Murder

by Emma Belmont

  “What are you doing?” Maris asked, cocking her head at the older woman. “Are they dirty?”

  “No,” the older woman said, but she showed her one. “They’re folded inside out.”

  “Oh for goodness sake,” Maris said. “How did that happen?” She reached for one, but Cookie scooted them out of reach.

  When she eyed the chef, the diminutive woman smiled placidly at her. “How did it happen?” She started to refold the napkins. “I think they call it multitasking.”

  Maris opened her mouth to protest, and then thought better of it. She could hardly argue with the fact that she’d been about to lose the duster—and probably spend fifteen minutes looking for it. But it hadn’t been the multitasking, she’d been thinking about the murders.

  “It’s a lot to think about,” Cookie said. “I know. But it doesn’t help to be in a rush, or try to get three things done at once.”

  Maris stared at the older woman. If she hadn’t already known that the chef was skilled with potions, she’d have said she was a mind-reader.

  As Cookie took her time refolding the napkins, she glanced at Maris. “Do yourself a favor, my friend, and slow down. We only have three guests at the moment, and low maintenance ones at that. It’s good to slow down.”

  Though she’d progressed in the battle to tame her Type A+ personality, she had to admit that she occasionally fell off the wagon. Even so, what was the harm in trying to be efficient? Could she help it if there’d been two murders in almost as many days? It was enough to keep anyone distracted.

  But Maris sighed. After enough discussions like this, she knew better than to argue.

  “Maybe I’ll go finish cleaning the fresnel lens,” Maris suggested.

  Cookie regarded her. “More work?”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” she admitted, “but it’s slow, quiet, and relaxing.” As Cookie seemed to consider it, Maris added, “Maybe not unlike gardening. It seems to me that you spend a goodly amount of labor to provide the B&B with fresh herbs and beautiful flowers.”

  “Touché,” the chef said, as she put away the napkins. She smiled as she turned back. “Have a nice time.”

  24

  As Maris stood and backed up a pace, she surveyed her work. The Old Girl was positively glittering. With the morning fog burned off, sunshine flooded the optics house, turning the fresnel lens into a cascade of twinkles.

  “So this is what it feels like,” she said, smiling to herself.

  For months she’d watched Bear start and complete projects, never seeming to rush. Likewise Cookie always seemed to be puttering in her garden, and yet new plants were always growing. Now she’d started and finished her own piece of work, taking her time and paying attention to the details. To say that it was satisfying didn’t even come close. There was a deep sense of accomplishment and she was already looking forward to the next task.

  For a few moments she walked around it, taking it all in, before looking out to the bay. She’d never really noticed how the water reflected the wispy clouds above. It turned the waves a dusty blue, a color that also seemed to be refracting through the lens. All of the elements played together, creating a tranquil space that was not simply a coincidence. She had no doubt that if she were here in the evening, the violet and orange hues would combine into something just as pretty and peaceful.

  Maris felt the footsteps before she heard them. Someone was coming up the spiral staircase. But it wasn’t Bear. Though nimble for a big man, his footfall was still heavy. No, whoever was climbing up was definitely lighter. Then she heard the voices.

  “Look, sweetie,” a young man’s voice said. “There’s a view through that window.”

  Maris smiled. It was the Yangs. She took off her nitrile gloves, and bent to pick up the used microfiber cloths.

  “Oh I see it,” Melanie said, her voice drawing closer.

  In another few moments, Andrew appeared and stepped up to the landing. “Wow,” he said, when he saw the view. He waited for his wife and took her hand as she stepped up.

  “Wow,” she whispered. “What a view.”

  Andrew glanced at Maris. “I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” Maris said.

  “Look,” Melanie said, pointing south. “There’s the pier.” She looked back at her husband. “We should go visit that, sweetie.”

  Maris, still carrying her cleaning cloths, came to the railing. “It’s a beautiful pier and kept in its historic condition. At the end of the day, the local fisherman process their catch in the warehouse on the far end.”

  “That’d be interesting to see,” Melanie said.

  “And even better to taste,” Andrew added.

  Maris nodded out at the ocean beyond the bay. “If you’ve had any seafood locally, then you’ve already tasted it.”

  “Oh really,” the optometrist said, turning to her. “That’s actually one of the reasons we came up here when we saw you.”

  “We were wondering,” Melanie said, coming to his side, “if you could recommend a restaurant.”

  “Absolutely,” Maris said. “Are you looking for a particular kind of cuisine or ambiance?”

  “We’re in the mood for something spicy,” Andrew said. “Something with a little kick.”

  Maris nodded. “Then I can highly recommend Delia’s Smokehouse, on the Towne Plaza.”

  “A smokehouse?” Melanie said, frowning. “You mean barbecue?”

  With a little grin, Maris shook her head. “I mean the most amazing Shrimp Po’ Boys or crab salads or smoked salmon you’ve ever had. You can specify your heat level or use their signature hot sauces, but beware ‘Delia’s Scorching Smokehouse.’ You have been warned.”

  Andrew beamed back at her. “Duly noted.” He turned to Melanie and arched his eyebrows at her.

  She hugged him to her side. “Sounds good.”

  He gave her a little peck on the forehead.

  Young love, Maris thought, smiling.

  Andrew turned his attention back to her. “And now to the second reason. You said the other day that you were cleaning the optics. I thought we might be able to watch for a bit.” He adjusted his glasses. “You might say I have a natural interest in glass of all kinds.”

  “And I teach science,” Melanie said. “This will fascinate the kids.”

  Maris lifted the dusty cloths. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve just finished, but I’d be glad to talk you through the process.”

  As Bear had done with her, she listed the do’s and don’ts, demonstrated the technique, and explained the rationale.

  “Forget about the kids,” Melanie said. “This is absolutely fascinating.” The young woman grinned at Maris. “And who doesn’t love lighthouses?”

  Maris laughed a little. “You are preaching to the lightkeeper on that one.”

  “Thanks so much for showing us all that,” Andrew said. “I’ll have a completely new appreciation for the fresnel lens every time I see a lighthouse now.” He gazed at his wife. “Shall we head to the smokehouse?”

  She nodded. “I’m starving.”

  As they began their descent, Maris picked up the discarded gloves and dust cloths again. It was too bad the young couple hadn’t wanted Italian food. She would have adored sending them to the pizzeria. Although it might be possible to stretch a point in order to find a motive for Max as far as Rudy’s death, she simply couldn’t believe he was capable of murder—let alone by poisoning someone’s food. She’d no more expect it of him than she would of Cookie.

  At the thought, Maris paused. It suddenly occurred to her how she might be able to help the pizzeria’s grand opening. It would just take a few visits to get everything arranged.

  While she descended the iron staircase, her mind moved from Max, the pizza, and the opening to the topic of botulism. She’d taken on face value the fact that it was highly deadly. But in reality, she had no idea how it actually worked. By the time she reached ground level, a plan had begun to form in her mind.
As long as she needed to make a few visits, she’d stop in at the medical clinic and have a talk with Jill Maxwell.

  25

  When Maris entered the Pixie Point Bay Medical Clinic, she was reminded of the pizzeria. It was as narrow a space as the Towne Plaza offered. But instead of rustic brick ovens and a giant cooktop, the interior of the medical facility was starkly modern, clean, and minimalist.

  Dressed in blue scrubs and sitting behind the white counter of the small lobby, Jill Maxwell, Nurse Practitioner, looked much as she had when Dr. Rossi had still been the head of the clinic. Although she welcomed patients as she’d always done, now she was also their primary physician.

  “Maris,” Jill said. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”

  “Hi, Jill,” Maris said and strolled over to the counter. “I was hoping you might have time to tell me a little about botulism.”

  “Anything in particular?” she asked.

  “Timing,” Maris replied. “How long does it take for someone to show symptoms, once they been poisoned?”

  The nurse tilted her head. “Well, to paraphrase Paracelsus, the dose makes the poison. Tiny amounts injected below the skin,” she said, and pointed to her temple, where tiny wrinkles were just beginning, “is a cosmetic treatment. You’ve probably heard of Botox.”

  Maris blinked at her. “Good grief. I certainly have. Are you saying that Botox is made from botulinum toxin?”

  Jill nodded. “It’s a commercial strain, but yes. However, if botulinum toxin were injected into the bloodstream, death could result from mere nanograms. If you ingest it, a microgram.” When Maris frowned, she added, “It’d weigh less than, say, an eyelash.”

  “Good grief,” Maris said again. “An eyelash.” She thought for a moment. “And if you got that kind of dose, how long would it take for symptoms to appear?”

  “It’s difficult to say,” Jill said. “But it could be as long as three days.” She held up a finger. “But here is where Paracelsus comes in. If you were to get a massive dose, it wouldn’t be three days but more like three hours.”

  “Okay,” Maris said, “three hours to three days.”

  “Maybe even longer for minuscule doses,” Jill said. “And let me be clear, it’s not the bacteria that’s poisonous, it’s the neurotoxic protein that it creates. In other words, it stops nerve signal and creates paralysis.” Maris recalled both Joy and Rudy’s drooping eyelids. “Why the renewed interest?” the nurse asked. “Are you worried about something in particular? Because although the bacteria is present pretty much everywhere, it’s easily managed with proper food preparation and storage techniques.”

  Maris paused for a few moments, but finally said, “It’s likely that Rudy Schmid died of it.”

  “Ah,” Jill said, looking out the clinic’s front window. “I saw the commotion at the hardware store and heard that Rudy had died, but not of what.”

  “It’s not widely known,” Maris said, “and I hasten to add that it hasn’t yet been confirmed. Did you know Rudy?”

  The nurse shook her head. “Not at all, but I do know Heather. Poor thing. This is going to be hard for her. They didn’t have kids.”

  Though the death of a spouse was always going to be hard, Maris sensed something more than that—particularly since Heather hadn’t seemed racked with sorrow.

  “You mean all the arrangements to be made now?”

  Jill frowned a little. “Well, there is that too. But I was referring to their rather ‘dated’ lifestyle. Heather bakes, cans, gardens, cleans, sews… Well, she does everything in terms of keeping a home. How she’ll get by outside the house, it’s hard to imagine.”

  “You’re right,” Maris said. “That is going to be tough.” The front door of the clinic opened and a middle-aged couple entered. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks very much for all that information.”

  “Any time,” Jill said. Maris headed toward the door, passing the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Hill, please come in.”

  Maris let the door close behind her, then struck out across the grass toward Delia’s Smokehouse and her first request. But just before she reached it, she had to pause when something Jill said finally came to the forefront of her mind. She’d said that Heather canned.

  26

  Home for the evening, but without guests for the Wine Down, Maris sat with Cookie in the kitchen at the big butcher block. The chef had put together a simple Greek salad and also baked two generous portions of salmon. Maris gingerly opened their foil coverings to reveal the perfectly moist fish, topped with thin lemon slices and plenty of dill.

  “This smells amazing,” she said.

  “Just something light and easy,” Cookie said, as she served the salad.

  For a few minutes, they simply ate in companionable silence. The lettuce, avocado, cucumber, red onions, Kalamata olives and feta cheese had just the right amount of tangy vinaigrette.

  A little harmonica-like meow came from under the butcher block. Maris ducked her head to look under it.

  “Mojo,” she said. “When did you come in?”

  He gave her another meow and bounced over to his dish. He circled it once and then sat down next to it, his big orange eyes locked onto her.

  Cookie chuckled. “It would seem it’s dinner time for everyone.”

  Maris set her napkin aside as she stood. “So it would seem.”

  She took the container of smoked salmon from the refrigerator, separated a nice piece, and took it to his bowl. Mojo stood as she placed it down—and then pounced. Maris quickly yanked her hand away.

  “Um, bon appétit,” she said.

  When she sat down at the butcher block again, Cookie said, “Move just a little more slowly next time, and you’ll pull back a stump.”

  Maris laughed. “Maybe I should get a glove.”

  “Speaking of which, how goes the fresnel lens cleaning?”

  “You know,” Maris said, spearing an olive, avocado cube, and slice of red onion all at once, “I’m a little sad to be done.”

  Cookie regarded her. “But do you have to be done?” She ate a forkful of salmon and cucumber combined.

  Maris shrugged a little. “Well, I suppose I could just keep cleaning it, maybe start back at the beginning. But knowing me, I’d wear the glass pieces down to just wafers.”

  “Or you could move on to something else,” Cookie said. “Like I do in the garden.”

  “Oh?” Maris said, and popped the vegetables in her mouth.

  “It’s a cycle of sorts,” the chef said. “Planting seeds, seeing them germinate, transplanting them, and harvesting. That’s one cycle. But there are also different areas of the garden, and different plants in them that mature in different seasons. There’s always something new to keep me busy.”

  Maris considered that. Certainly Bear’s list of maintenance chores for the optics house had been lengthy. But would any of those tasks prove as enjoyable? But the more she thought of Bear going about his jobs, the more she realized that he seemed to treat them all the same. Maybe it wasn’t so much the job itself, but her attitude.

  “You know what,” Maris said smiling, “I’m going to talk to Bear about it.”

  “Good,” Cookie said.

  By the time they’d finished dinner, the sun had set. Though they couldn’t see it, the lighthouse’s beam would be turning up above. The house was so quiet that the distant sound of the surf on the rocks below the point could be heard.

  Finished with her meal, Cookie got up and took her plate to the sink.

  “Nope,” Maris said, also finished and following her. “I’m on kitchen patrol tonight. You did the cooking.”

  Without missing a beat, Cookie said, “Fine by me. I was looking at that new coffee table book. I think that might be some good reading material for tonight.”

  “The Secret Life of Redwoods?” Maris asked, turning on the tap.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” Cookie said. Maris watched her fetch her unfinished tea, and head to the doorway.
The diminutive chef glanced back over her shoulder. “You two have a nice night.”

  Mojo, who had been cleaning his face, stopped and gave a short little mew.

  “Sweet dreams,” Maris said. “See you tomorrow.”

  As she rinsed the plates and utensils and put them in the dishwasher, Mojo circled around her ankles. “What should we do tonight?” she asked him.

  Although he gave her no answer, he stopped his circling and looked up at her. It wasn’t often that they had the evening to themselves. But then a thought occurred to her. She stowed the dish towel, reached down to his face, and gave his nose a light little boop. “Follow me, young man.”

  27

  In her bedroom, Maris took the black skeleton key from its hook next to the door. The last time she’d searched for her aunt’s missing pendulum, she’d found its ornate silver chain. In the interim, she’d convinced herself that the beautiful green stone that had once hung from it couldn’t be far behind.

  She’d also been making good progress with venturing farther into the enclosed basement. The mild claustrophobia that had been brought on by being trapped in an elevator was gradually easing. While her photographic memory almost always worked in her favor, it turned out that unpleasant experiences were sometimes remembered better than nice ones. Although Maris suspected that she’d never be completely free of anxiety when it came to being in confined spaces, she felt good about what she’d achieved so far.

  Mojo trotted past her, through the bedroom to the far door—the one that led to the utility room that connected the lightkeeper’s house with the lighthouse. It was also the only way to access the basement.

  An impatient little mew told her that she was taking too long.

  “I’m coming,” she said.

  On the floor of the utility room, the little black cat sat next to the door and was already peering at the massive black lock.

  “Here we go,” she said quietly, inserting the key into it.