2 The Witch Who Saw a Star

by Emma Belmont

  The Witch Who Saw A Star

  Pixie Point Bay Book 2

  Emma Belmont

  Contents

  EMMA ONLINE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Sneak Peek

  FREE BOOK

  Copyright

  EMMA ONLINE

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  Website: emmabelmont.com

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  Thanks!

  1

  Maris Seaver looked at her watch and frowned. Despite the fog that surrounded the optics room of the lighthouse, she had expected to hear Slick’s boat as he went by. Yet, at the appointed time when the three short toots of the horn would have sounded, she had heard nothing.

  Could I have missed him?

  Slick and Seas the Day, his commercial fishing boat, were as punctual as Big Ben and as consistent as the rise of the sun. Nor did the fog deter him. Water was second-nature to the elderly mariner. He’d been boating in Pixie Point Bay, and the ocean beyond, for decades. Although the Old Girl’s beam was circling up above as it always did, Maris knew he didn’t need it.

  She brought the watch to her ear—it was ticking. Once again she peered out into the soupy white mist but the view of the bay was completely obscured. Only the lighthouse’s small dock and the rocks directly below were visible.

  I must have missed him.

  As she checked the time yet again, she realized how late the hour was becoming. She had a B&B to run, and it was time—past time—to get back to it. With a sigh, she reluctantly turned away from the bay.

  But as she passed the fresnel lens, she gave its base a gentle pat and said, “Keep an eye out for him, Claribel.” If anyone could, it was the magical lighthouse.

  Maris made her way down the spiral metal staircase and exited the conical white tower, choosing to walk down the side of the two-story Victorian home. The cool and salty mist enveloped her, and she could hear the waves on the rocks below the point. She mounted the steps to the back porch, passed through its vestibule and the front rooms, and followed her nose.

  “What smells like heaven?” Maris asked, as she entered the kitchen. Cookie was at the stove.

  “Just a little something I whipped up,” Cookie said, with a smile. She eyed Maris’s skirt and heels. “That’s a pretty combination.”

  Like her Aunt Glenda, Maris favored skirts, low heels, and frilly blouses. Today she was dressed in a cornflower blue layered skirt, matching open-toed shoes, and a ruffled white blouse.

  Ruth “Cookie” Calderon was wearing a short-sleeved cotton dress with her usual large, bright floral print, though it was mostly covered with an apron.

  “Thank you,” Maris said. “And you’re looking your usual vibrant self.” She looked over the smaller woman’s shoulder. French toast was turning a golden brown in one of the skillets and she could see that Cookie was using her own homemade Italian panettone as the bread. “Genius,” Maris said, her mouth watering at the wonderfully sweet scent. “What can I do to help?”

  Though Maris wasn’t sure, she thought Cookie hesitated.

  After twenty-five grinding years in the hospitality industry, Maris pitched in wherever she could at the B&B, almost out of habit. But she also didn’t want the seventy year old chef overdoing it. With shoulder length, salt and pepper hair that was more salt than pepper these days, Cookie had been at the B&B with Maris’s aunt for decades.

  “Eggs, sunny side up, are on the menu today,” the older woman said. “And sliced almond bread for toast.”

  “I’m on it,” Maris said.

  She took one of the skillets standing by, lit a burner for it, and set it in place. After she added the butter, she went to the egg basket and fetched three fresh eggs. As she waited for the butter to melt, she unwrapped the loaf of almond bread.

  Seeing that the butter was beginning to sizzle, Maris turned down the heat, picked up an egg and cracked it on the edge of the iron skillet. But as she opened it over the pan, a tiny bit of shell fell with the raw egg.

  “Rats,” she said, looking around for something to fetch it out. She spotted the butter knife. But the shell was under the egg white, which was already cooking. As she tried to scrape it to the edge, she accidentally hit the yolk, which began to run. “Rats.”

  “Over hard,” Cookie said calmly. “I like eggs that way as well.”

  Maris looked at her, and Cookie must have realized she didn’t understand. With a deft movement, she used the spatula already in her hand and flipped the egg over. Now the shell was on top. She held her hand out for the butter knife, and used it to flick the bit of shell onto the counter.

  “Never crack an egg on the edge of the pan or a bowl,” she said quietly, as she picked one up. “You basically force the broken shell up into the egg.” She held it over the cutting board on the counter. “Always on the side, against something flat.” Using just one hand, she cracked it, took it to the pan, and opened it. A perfectly whole yolk landed in the middle of the white, without a trace of shell. By now the first egg was done, and Cookie moved that to a waiting plate. She smiled at Maris. “Your turn.”

  But no matter how hard she tried, Maris simply couldn’t keep from breaking the yolk: they caught on the shell; the yolk landed too hard; she even dropped the broken shell halves on top of one. She eyed the egg basket and how many were left.

  “Shall I finish that?” Cookie asked, apparently seeing the same thing.

  By the time Maris looked up from her collection of ruined eggs, the French toast and hash browns were in their warming trays—all done. Maris blinked at them.

  Cookie moved the egg skillet to her side of the stove. “The warming trays are ready if you want to take those out.”

  It was time to admit defeat. “I’d be glad to,” Maris said, which was completely true.

  One by one she took them to the dining room, then the maple syrup, and the freshly squeezed orange juice in its pretty glass decanter. Back in the kitchen she filled the carafe with fresh coffee, brought it to the sideboard, and made sure the hot water dispenser was hot.

  When she returned to the kitchen to wait for the eggs, she said, “By the way, I didn’t hear Slick this morning. I’m sure I’m just a worrywart, and he’s just taking a day off, but I thought it was strange.”

  Cookie snorted. “Slick doesn’t take days off. He lives to fish, and he knows that most of the restaurants in Pixie Point Bay rely on him for their fresh seafood. More than a few places would be hard pressed to serve meals if he decided to take a few ‘days off’.”

  Hard pressed to serve meals? It wasn’t like Cookie to exaggerate, but did Slick really bring in that much fresh catch?

  “Whatever the reason, I didn’t hear him today.” She shook her head and grimaced a little. “Hopefully he came by earlier or later than usual.”

  Cookie took two china teacups from the cupboard. “How about some tea?” the chef asked.

  Although Mari
s’s magic gift, like her aunt’s, was precognition, Cookie’s was making potions. If she made tea, you could rest assured it was just what you needed.

  Maris smiled at her. “Do you have an anti-worrywart tea?”

  Cookie gave her a mischievous grin. “I might. We can have it with our eggs.” As she steeped their tea in a lovely china pot decorated with bouquets, she said, “I checked the cheeses so I could include some in tomorrow’s breakfast, but we might be running a bit low.”

  Maris went to the stainless steel, double door fridge, and pulled out one of the clear drawers. “We could definitely do with a run to Cheeseman Village,” she agreed. “I’ll do that today.”

  The B&B’s landline telephone rang just then, making both Maris and Cookie look at the time on the microwave. It was a bit early to call for a reservation but, then again, sometimes people called from faraway time zones. Maris went to the library and picked up the handset of the antique rotary phone.

  “Pixie Point Bay Lighthouse and B&B,” she said pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

  “By coming to the pier,” a familiar voice said.

  “Slick?” Maris exclaimed. “Is that you? Are you all right?”

  Cookie stood at the entry to the library and they exchanged worried looks.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and Maris let the breath she’d been holding go. She gave Cookie the okay sign, who put a hand over her heart and smiled.

  “When I didn’t hear your horn this morning,” Maris said, “I started to worry.”

  “You can still worry,” Slick replied. “I’m afraid I need a favor.”

  Maris’s eyebrows drew together. “Anything,” she said. “Just name it.

  “I wonder if you could come to the pier.”

  “The pier?” Maris looked over at Cookie, who was vigorously nodding and shooing her with one hand. “Of course. I can leave right now. Can you tell me what this is about?”

  Slick was silent for a few moments before he said, “There’s been a murder.” He paused again. “On my boat.”

  2

  On any other day at the Pixie Point Bay Pier, Maris loved the smell of the salt air and the frenetic atmosphere created by the mingling of the fishermen and tourists. More than one out-of-town visitor looked over the catch of the day, and decided where to eat based on the haul. But today she couldn’t take the time to linger. Instead she went directly to where she knew Seas the Day would be docked.

  Onboard, she saw Sheriff Mac McKenna and someone she presumed to be a coroner bending over a man’s body on the deck. She gasped, and realized that somehow she’d been hoping that Slick was wrong. Another man wearing gloves was snapping photos.

  “Thanks for traveling at a rate of knots,” a raspy voice said behind her, and Maris jumped. “I hope you drove safely.”

  “Slick,” she exclaimed as she turned. She embraced him in a hug, which he gently returned. Though tall and wiry, the old mariner had a strength born from decades of hard physical labor. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Ship shape,” he said, letting her go. He wore his signature yellow slicker with matching hat. “It takes more than a dead body to rattle a Duff.” His sea green eyes sparkled under thick white brows that matched his long beard.

  Maris glanced behind her to the fishing boat. “Who died?”

  “Captain––if you can call him that––Gregory Hazelwood of the Copernicus.” Slick spoke the words with unvarnished contempt, and nodded at the immense yacht docked next to his vessel. “Worst sailor to ever skim the waters of Pixie Point Bay.”

  Maris looked over at the enormous white yacht. A gloved forensic technician was working at the railing, at a spot just above where the body lay on Seas the Day. There were evidence bags of various shapes and sizes everywhere.

  “How did he get on your boat?” she asked. “Did you know each other?”

  Slick shook his head. “No. I mean, I recognize the man and that thing he calls a boat, but he’s not a real sailor, so we kept our distance from each other.”

  “I see,” Maris said, watching Mac confer with the coroner. “And yet they found him on your boat.”

  Slick nodded. “That’d be enough trouble for one morning. But I’m afraid that they’re going to think that I did it.”

  Maris’s eyebrows drew together. “Why would they think that?” she asked. Other than the fact that the body is on your boat.

  “On account of the murder weapon,” he admitted.

  “Which was?” she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “I’m guessing the cause of death was a flare gun,” Slick said.

  Maris scowled. “A flare gun?” She glanced at the body. “I wouldn’t even think that’d be possible.”

  He took a pipe from his raincoat pocket. “Yup, me either.” He lit the pipe and took a few puffs.

  Maris waited for him to continue and, when he didn’t, she said, “Then why would you say it was a flare gun?”

  He took another puff before withdrawing the pipe. “Because I found it on my deck,” he said and paused, casting his gaze to the wide planks of the dock. Then he mumbled something indistinct.

  “I’m sorry,” Maris said, leaning closer. “What was that?”

  He mumbled again, barely audible.

  “Slick, you’ll have to speak up, I can’t–”

  “And I picked it up,” he almost yelled, and leveled his gaze at her. He quickly put the pipe back in his mouth and clamped down on it.

  “Slick,” Maris moaned. “You picked it up? Haven’t you watched any crime shows? You never pick up the murder weapon.”

  “In my own defense, I saw the flare gun first,” he replied, pointing to Seas the Day with his pipe. “It was on the deck over there. I picked it up so I could stow it, and that’s when I saw the body.”

  “So the murder weapon was your flare gun?” Maris asked. That would not be good.

  Slick shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. The police came before I could look for mine, and booted me off my own boat.”

  Maris glanced at Mac and the coroner, who were still bent over the body. She wondered what was taking them so long. If Slick was right and Hazelwood had been shot with a flare gun, you’d think the cause of death would be obvious.

  “If they think I did it,” Slick said, “they’re taking the wrong tack.” He took a puff on his pipe. “Plenty of the boaters here disliked Hazelwood. He was a poor sailor, despite his background.”

  “His background?” Maris asked.

  “The Navy,” the old man replied. “But retired now. Scuttlebutt is that he tried to run that yacht like a ship of war.” Slick chuckled a little. “But all you had to know was some math to figure out he’d never served in war time.” He puffed on his pipe and seemed to remember something. “Did you ever hear about the time that Copernicus nearly cut Seas the Day in half?”

  Maris doubted if an actual answer to the question would change the fact that Slick was about to regale her with one of his tall sea tales. She smiled a little as he began.

  “It was four summers ago when I was out following a school of salmon. Big one too. Nearly half a nautical mile wide.” Maris scowled. A school of salmon that big would have to be as many as there were along the entire coast. “I don’t mind telling you that school would have been a good deal smaller once I was done with it.” He nodded to himself and took a puff on the pipe. “Clear sky, calm seas, and nigh unto a hundred mile visibility. I was hauling in a good catch, when I looked up to see Copernicus bearing down on me. Hazelwood gave that giant horn of his a few long blows, but didn’t change course. I had to leave the net and just barely had time to steer the ship out of the way. The fool came within five feet of me and I nearly went into the drink. Lost most of that haul. You’d never seen such happy salmon.” He grinned a little at the memory, and took another puff. “Even so I managed to salvage enough of the catch to set a record for the pier. Most fish caught in a day. Record still stands.” He took another few puffs and eyed her. “Bu
t I didn’t ask you here so you could listen to me spin a yarn about the tons that got away.”

  “No,” Maris agreed, “I expect you didn’t.”

  Slick put a hand on her shoulder. “You can get to the bottom of this, just like you did with your Aunt Glenda’s death, and the murder of that credit union manager. You follow your heading, Maris, and I know you’ll find the truth.”

  Mac and the coroner had finished their inspection, and the sheriff was leaving the boat.

  Maris put her hand over his. “I’ll do everything I can, and I’ll start by seeing the sheriff.”

  3

  Maris left Slick on the pier and met Mac on the gangway. “Good morning, Mac,” she said smiling. He was in full uniform, wearing a khaki long-sleeved shirt that was crisply pressed. His matching trousers had a brown stripe down the sides, the same color as his tie. Above the breast pocket was a name tag and over that a gold badge in the shape of a six-pointed star. The patch on the sleeve was the same shape and read “Medio County Sheriff.” He must have left his campaign hat in the car.

  “Maris,” he said, smiling warmly back at her, “it’s good to see you, as always. What brings you here?”

  She looked over his shoulder at Seas the Day. “A certain body on a certain friend’s boat.”

  He glanced up at the pier where Slick was smoking his pipe. “Of course,” he said, as if remembering. “I know that you and Slick are close.”