2 The Witch Who Saw a Star

by Emma Belmont

  Falschung laughed and showed him the captain’s hat. “I was wearing this one night as part of an outfit, and he refused to start the engines until I took it off. I wanted to wear a hat on my own damn ship, and he had the nerve to tell me that I couldn’t. I was outraged. I had to take the thing off before we could leave port.” He put the hat back on, tugging it firmly down into place.

  “Where were you last night?” Mac asked.

  “In my cabin.”

  “Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?”

  “Kaitlyn was with me,” Falschung said, smirking. “All night, if you take my meaning.”

  Maris was now entirely unimpressed with this celebrity. She could care less about who was involved with who, or what they did. But at the same time, his tone set her nerves on edge—he was bragging.

  The director sat forward on the chair. “Does this mean I’m a suspect?” he asked, animated again. “This is fabulous.” He took out his small tablet and began recording notes to himself. Most of them dealt with how he felt about being a suspect: how he might fear for his freedom, or how he was offended, or if he should run. He also said “based on true events.”

  Next he’ll want to spend some time in a jail cell, Maris thought drily. As she watched Mac’s lips press into a thin line, she wondered if the sheriff would oblige him.

  “No one is a suspect yet,” Mac said. “We’re still gathering evidence.”

  Falschung waved him off with a dismissive gesture, before staring at Mac’s utility belt. “Why don’t you wear a gun?”

  Maris looked at Mac’s belt. She’d never noticed whether or not he wore a gun. If anything she’d just assumed that all law enforcement officials did. But as she discreetly raised a couple fingers to her temple and tapped—triggering her photographic memory—she called up images with the sheriff. In none of them did he wear a sidearm.

  “Are sheriff’s not allowed?” Fritz asked, taking out his tablet again.

  “Sheriffs are permitted to carry a sidearm at all times,” Mac replied. “I just choose not to.”

  Falschung gave him an incredulous look. “Why wouldn’t you if you could? I know I’d have one with me at all times.”

  “Their gun’s a burden on their shoulder,” Mac said.

  Although Maris suspected it was a quote from Mac’s favorite poet, the director cocked his head at him. “Who’s gun?” he asked.

  “It’s a quote from Robert Burns,” Mac said, not elaborating.

  A member of the crew carrying a clipboard entered the bridge, saw the three of them, and paused at the threshold.

  “Ah,” Fritz said. “First Mate Lloyd Kunkel. Looks like you’re running the ship now.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Falschung,” the first mate said. “I didn’t realize you were having a meeting.”

  Before Fritz could answer, Mac said, “We just finished. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”

  The first mate looked caught, glancing between the sheriff and the director.

  Fritz got up from the captain’s chair and pulled his robe tight around him. “The bridge is yours, first mate.” He grinned slyly at Maris. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  5

  Maris breathed a sigh of relief as the director departed. She should have known better than to expect the persona she’d seen in tabloids and sound bites. But she’d never have expected such an egotist.

  “I’ll need just a minute before we start,” the first mate said, and set down the clipboard. “I have to make some log entries.”

  She and Mac watched as the young officer turned on screens, flipped through columns of data, and what looked like weather charts, only to then copy and paste from one screen to another. In the next instant, he seemed to be looking at some kind of schematic of the ship, and Maris saw a little bar chart where the colored columns rose and fell in real time. Given that the yacht was docked, it was incredible how many systems seemed to be operating—or at least needed to be monitored. She and Mac exchanged impressed looks.

  Finally the first mate seemed to be satisfied about the state of the ship, switched off one of the monitors, and turned to them.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, “it’s just part of my rounds.”

  Maris smiled. “I didn’t realize that so much went into running a ship like this. It’s like a floating hotel with gauges.”

  The first mate laughed. “That’s a great analogy. I’m Lloyd Kunkel by the way.” He held out a hand to Maris and then Mac.

  Though Lloyd was bald under the white wheel cap, he looked to be in his early thirties. Trim, tan, and of average height, his hazel eyes were kind and his smile warm.

  “How long have you been the first mate on the Copernicus?” Mac asked.

  He thought for a moment. “About two years,” he said. “I hired on in this position.”

  “And before that?” Mac asked, making a note.

  “One year as second mate on the Atlantia out of Rotterdam,” he said. “I’ve come up all the way from deckhand on different ships, starting nine years ago.”

  Although Lloyd hadn’t said so, Maris didn’t think he’d come up through the military, like the captain. His uniform was clean and pressed, and he seemed to have gone about his log duties efficiently, but he also had an easy manner about him, which didn’t seem particularly military.

  “You reported directly to the captain?” Maris asked.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Both Nadia…I mean Ms. Malakin. Both Ms. Malakin and I are…I’m sorry, were direct reports.” He took off his hat for a moment, passed a hand over his smooth head, and replaced the cap. “I haven’t quite wrapped my head around the fact that he’s gone.” He fixed his gaze on the captain’s chair, narrowing his eyes. “He was sitting there just yesterday.” He shook his head.

  “Fritz Falschung indicated that the captain was disliked,” Mac said, and Maris saw him waiting for Lloyd’s reaction.

  The first mate grimaced. “He’s hardly been dead a day,” he muttered looking at the chair. Then he met Mac’s gaze. “Captain ran a tight ship, no doubt. He wasn’t an easy man to work for but he was fair. The crew works long days on a ship like this. There’s bound to be some grousing.”

  It wasn’t the most ringing of endorsements that Maris had ever heard, but Lloyd seemed truly pained to hear that Hazelwood had been disparaged.

  “And this grousing,” Mac said, “do you think any of the crew took it more seriously?”

  Lloyd shook his head. “It’s just part of life at sea. Every boat has its share of drama and frayed nerves.”

  Mac crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s more than drama and frayed nerves when someone’s killed.”

  Lloyd spread his hands. “Look, most of the crew didn’t interact with the captain. He was old-school, all the way. There was a hierarchy and Captain Hazelwood enforced it. Everything went through myself or Nadia, depending on the issue. He wouldn’t have spoken to someone outside the chain of command. The crew only knew him second hand.”

  Mac made a quick note before asking, “Are all of your flare guns accounted for?”

  The first mate’s eyes darted to the window behind them, and then at the floor. He picked up his clipboard and took a pen from his pocket. “I’ll find out,” he said, making a note.

  Maris waited for him to finish. “Do you like your job?” she asked, switching topics.

  He paused at the sudden change. “It’s the best job in the world. I get to do something I love.” Now he smiled at Maris as he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Mr. Falschung loves to travel, and I figure that by the time I hang up my hat, I’ll have been around the world two or three times. Not many sailors can say that.”

  “Where were you at the time of the murder last night?” Mac asked, doing the same quick change that she had.

  Lloyd cocked his head and looked at Mac. “You mean you think that I might have killed Captain Hazelwood?” He looked from him to Maris and back again. “I didn’t. I was in my room last nig
ht, asleep.”

  “Alone?” Mac asked.

  After Falschung’s alibi, Maris had to inwardly cringe as she waited for the answer.

  “Alone,” the first mate affirmed. “The shifts here are typically fourteen hours, with one day off every other week. When I hit my bunk, I just want to sleep.”

  A soft chime rang throughout the bridge and Lloyd checked his watch. “Lunchtime. You’re more than welcome to stay. The chef puts on a spread like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Maris had no doubt that was true, given the opulent surroundings and Nadia managing. She might even learn a thing or two about the guests or how the ship was run. But she had her own B&B, and needed to make a run to Cheeseman Village as well.

  Mac smiled his thanks as he tucked his notepad into his breast pocket. “I’m going to meet with the coroner.”

  When the first mate looked at Maris, she said, “Artisanal cheese waits for no man.” Although she laughed a little, neither of the men did. She cleared her throat. “I’ve got to make a supply run for the B&B.”

  “Another time, then,” Lloyd said.

  “Perhaps,” Mac said, “because I’ll need you to stay in port until we’ve established more facts about the death, and I’ve had a chance to talk with everyone on-board.”

  The first mate glanced at the captain’s chair, as though he was expecting a countermanding order, but finally said, “Understood.”

  “It’s standard operating procedure,” Mac said as he headed to the door. As Maris followed him, he opened it for her. “But I’ll make it as quick as possible. We’ll be back at…” He gave Maris a look. “Nine a.m.?”

  When she nodded, the sheriff looked at Lloyd, who also nodded. “I’m sure we’d all appreciate it.”

  6

  Maris set up her GPS and, from the Pixie Point Bay Pier, took the dramatic and scenic highway north. Where it skirted the coastline, the view to the rocks below was dizzying. Buff cliffs surrounded much of the bay and, at this time of day, they were undulating curtains of dusky terra cotta ringing a sparkling turquoise basin.

  The view from the Pixie Point Bridge was equally impressive, including the bridge itself. It’s high stone arches rounded upward from the sides of the deep ravine that it crossed. A small river flowed far below, winding its way to a small estuary. Even from this elevation, Maris could make out the blue dots of tide pools around its craggy rim.

  Although Maris had her fears—to be sure—heights was thankfully not one of them.

  One of these days, she vowed to herself, I’m going to park this car and have a good, long look.

  As the panoramic drive wound inland, she passed through the grassy rolling hills that surrounded Cheeseman Village. The dairy’s black and white cows dotted the landscape, heads down, cropping the sweet countryside. A few were lying down under the shade of the occasional oaks. Some even seemed to be running after one another and cavorting. As the cows became more dense, she began to pass some barns as well, before entering the village proper.

  Small, single-story homes with mailboxes on the two-lane highway began to appear, eventually giving way to larger tracts of houses. But the suburban outskirts of Cheeseman Village didn’t sprawl. Despite the huge acreage devoted to the herds, the village itself was compact. In no time, following the GPS directions, Maris found herself in a pleasant downtown district where the cars all parked at a diagonal to the sidewalk in front of colorful shops. Finally though, at the town’s center, she arrived at the Cheeseman Village Dairy.

  Despite the last century feel of the surrounding area, the dairy itself was a thoroughly modern building. It’s slanted metal roof rested on two-story high windows all around. As Maris parked the car and got out, she decided that it was more than a dairy—it was also a welcome center and it certainly looked the part.

  As the glass entry doors slid open, a young woman with a tray of cheese cubes greeted her.

  “Welcome to the Cheeseman Village Dairy,” she said, wearing jeans, a bright yellow polo shirt that sported the dairy’s two-cow logo, and a matching baseball cap. “Would you care to sample some cheese?”

  Maris could already feel her stomach rumbling. After dashing out to the pier before breakfast and lunchtime rolling by on the yacht, she was ready for something—anything. She stepped right up to the tray. It looked like a scrumptious selection.

  The young woman pointed with a gloved hand. “Cheddar, Gouda, Monterey Jack, Muenster, and Colby.”

  Using the toothpicks from the cow-shaped holder built into the tray, Maris quickly made her selection. “Gouda,” she said, spearing a cube. “The gateway cheese to the world of the artisanal. And Muenster, and Colby.” The flavorful cheeses were her favorites. “I’ll start with these,” she said.

  The young woman beamed at her. “Excellent choices. You know your cheese.”

  Maris patted her tummy with her free hand. “A little too well,” she said.

  “Please let any of the associates on the floor know if you have any questions,” she said cheerily, as Maris turned to head into the store.

  “I’ll do that,” Maris said, and popped the Muenster in her mouth and almost rolled her eyes. It was perfect—with its smooth texture and the lovely, sweet, and nutty flavor of its bright orange rind. She would be picking up some Muenster for sure.

  She picked up a store shopping basket, and went on the hunt. It wasn’t the first time she’d shopped at the dairy, but the choices were mind-numbing. The market took up the entire floor of the building, with refrigerated cases as far as the eye could see. On the second level, at the back of the expansive room, there was a loft. Maris knew from the signs near the stairs that it held an observation deck that looked down on part of the packaging plant. Like the drive over the bridge, she promised herself that one day she’d make time to go up there. If nothing else, it might be something that the B&B guests would be interested in seeing. But Maris knew she couldn’t recommend something unless she’d seen it, heard it, tasted it, or done it. It had long been a hospitality rule of her own making.

  As she munched on the rest of her samples, she perused the longest cheese case in the market. Artfully arranged, it was organized in no particular order, or at least none that she could discern. With an eye toward wine pairings, accompanied by crackers, bread, nuts, and fruits, she let her creativity reign. When she spotted a cheese that appealed, she simply picked it up, trusting her instincts. At the age of fifty, including twenty-five years of wine and cheese boards, they were instincts that were finely honed.

  In the middle of the market were islands of goods that were obviously grouped. At each one she made a stop, picking up savory crackers at the first, pretzel sticks at another, dried fruit at yet another, and finally some brown mustard. She’d have to tell Nadia about the dairy. No doubt the yacht’s galley was fully stocked, but the dairy might provide a nice change of pace.

  Thinking of her former colleague, Maris couldn’t help but remember the way Falschung had treated her. Even now it made her angry, along with him bragging about his conquest. He’d also told them that the captain had been roundly disliked. But their conversation with the first mate hadn’t confirmed that.

  Maris could easily see how the director and the captain would have been at loggerheads. But the question was: enough for murder?

  “Uh oh,” she muttered, as she looked up to find herself in the ice cream aisle.

  Her chocolate-finding superpower had unerringly led her directly to the triple fudge ice cream. The image on the carton used the two-cow logo standing next to a small mountain of luscious brown ice cream scoops, sitting in the landscape of the surrounding green hills. Maris knew only too well that little cubes of fudge brownie were hidden within the scoops. Although she gazed at the container for another long few seconds, she made herself step away. Today she was winning the battle of the bulge.

  But as she headed toward the checkout stands, her surroundings vanished and she came to an abrupt stop. By now Maris understood that her magical gift
was taking over. Like her aunt, she’d been blessed with the ability of precognition. When her vision returned, she wasn’t surprised to find that she no longer saw the dairy. Instead, she saw a boat. In fact, she was on it. As she took in the details, she realized it was Seas the Day, although Slick was nowhere in sight. But along with the vision came the scents of the scene as well. Maris frowned when her nose was greeted by an astringent odor instead of the briny smell of the sea. Though she didn’t associate it with the pier, Maris knew that smell—from hotels under renovation.

  “Turpentine,” she muttered.

  Suddenly, the dairy popped back into view.

  As usual with her magic ability, she didn’t know quite what to make of it. That the vision had to do with the murder, she had no doubt, especially since it had been on Slick’s boat. But for now she would have to trust that the meaning of the turpentine would become clear later.

  She checked her basket of goods and then headed to the cash registers.

  7

  Maris pulled into one of the manicured gravel parking slots in front of the B&B, alongside an SUV which she knew belonged to the Magnusons, a retired couple staying as guests. She managed to bring in both bags from the dairy at once and took them directly to the kitchen. The cheese went into the big refrigerator, but the other goods went into the B&B’s larder.

  Like the traditionally styled kitchen, the quaint charm of the larder was only a facade. Beneath the traditional curved coves that connected the walls to the ceiling, and the decorative plaster medallions overhead, the pantry was all business. The rolling shelves were shallow enough to allow a view of all the essentials. Drawers at their bottoms were fronted with clear plexiglass for the same reason. Spice cabinets folded out from the walls and a glass and metal wine refrigerator occupied the far end. Maris took care to store her goods according to Cookie’s very organized scheme.

  Once that was done, she peeked out the back porch door and saw the chef in the herb garden, as she was most every afternoon. But as voices drifted to her from the hallway, Maris wandered in their direction. In the parlor she found the Magnuson’s, Gayle and Mark, together on the green velvet divan and Mojo curled up on the ottoman. The small but slightly pudgy black cat was apparently enjoying the company and his afternoon siesta.