by Emma Belmont
The Witch Who Settled the Account
Pixie Point Bay Book 1
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
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Copyright
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1
If Maris Seaver could have ordered perfect weather, it would have been like today’s. The sun blazed bright in an ultramarine sky while a soft, salty breeze wafted in from the nearby bay. As she strode across the quaint Towne Plaza, she marveled yet again at the charming climate and matching surroundings. To her delight and some relief, Pixie Point Bay had changed little since she’d been a child.
The Victorian buildings of the downtown area had been nicely maintained, their pastel colors radiant in the afternoon light. Even the grass of the plaza seemed freshly trimmed. Of the many places around the world where she had worked, from the beach resorts of Thailand to the alpine retreats of the Colorado Rockies, she’d never found anything to compare to the west coast’s Middle Kingdom, particularly this town. Apparently the residents felt that the more things remained the same, the better they were, and she agreed. Despite the unfortunate circumstances that had brought her back, she was glad to be here.
Pixie Point Bay was home.
She was just approaching the red Oriental gazebo in the center of the plaza when its occupant turned to her.
“Maris? Maris Seaver, is that you?”
Millicent Leclair was what Maris’s aunt had called the busiest busybody in the world. In her early eighties, she was the president of By Hook or Crook, the town’s crochet society. She and Aunt Glenda had known each other almost their entire lives. Millicent was exceptionally spry, with immaculately-groomed gray curls and the attitude of someone who would never die. For all Maris knew, she wouldn’t.
“Millicent,” Maris said, approaching the old woman. She stood in the shade of the gazebo, looking particularly small under the large structure, but with an enormous handbag slung over her shoulder. “What are you doing this fine afternoon?”
“Just watching the world go by,” Millicent replied. “You can learn a lot from people-watching, you know. I just had the loveliest chat with Robbie Grayson. He’s working on another model plane. Good with his hands, that one.” She pinned Maris with her black eyes. “How are the B&B and lighthouse?”
“The lighthouse,” Maris said, smiling like a proud parent, “has yet to miss a day of operation. And the B&B is, I’m happy to report, as busy as ever.”
It was a question that Maris was getting used to answering. When Aunt Glenda had died suddenly of a heart attack, Maris had inherited not only the Victorian Bed & Breakfast and attached lighthouse, but also the roles of lightkeeper and B&B owner. With Cookie’s help—the B&B’s chef for the past few decades—Maris felt she had settled in quite nicely. The townsfolk were naturally curious, of course, and had all been supportive. But it wasn’t lost on Maris that the B&B and lighthouse were a tourist draw for the entire region. Many of the local businesses depended, at least to some extent, on hers.
“Good news indeed,” Millicent said nodding crisply. She paused and seemed to look all over Maris. “Pixie Point Bay looks as though it’s been good for you. At the moment, though, you have the look of a woman on a mission.”
Maris chuckled. “I suppose you could say that. Errands won’t run themselves.”
“So true,” the other woman replied noncommittally. Then her eyes twinkled. “Are you planning on staying in Pixie Point Bay?”
This question was relatively new but Maris had known the answer for some time. After twenty-five years in the grinding hospitality industry, moving from one troubled hotel to another, and living out of her suitcase, the answer had been clear from the start. Although Maris had originally started in boutique hotel settings with an aim to provide gracious hospitality to weary travelers, she’d become one herself. By the time she’d arrived back in Pixie Point Bay, she was carrying too much extra weight, had a divorce under her belt, and was suffering from burnout at the age of fifty.
“Yes,” she said, emphatically, “I’ll be staying.”
Millicent bobbed her head. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. That lighthouse is important, bed and breakfast or not. I’m glad to know it will be staying in the Seaver family.” There was a pause, and she added, “It certainly must feel like a change of pace, though, coming all the way here from the big city.”
“You know,” Maris said, “not as much as you might think. I know that my Aunt’s death was sudden, but…” She shrugged. “It feels like, since coming here and taking over the B&B, that everything’s sort of fallen into place. Is that a bad thing to say?”
Millicent sniffed, thought for a moment, and shook her head. “I don’t think so. Sometimes it takes a new perspective to figure out what’s missing in your life.”
“Exactly,” agreed Maris.
“Well, since you’re here for good,” Millicent said, “you really should join By Hook or Crook. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to crochet. We’ll teach you, and the ladies and I have been itching for a new member for a while now.”
Maris smiled, wondering how many other townspeople Millicent had tried to recruit for the club. “I actually do know how to crochet,” she replied, leaving out the fact that the last scarf she made had looked like something her cat had shredded—and that was before he’d actually gotten his paws on it. Nonetheless, the idea of joining the club was appealing. Who knew? With practice, she might even become decent. “I’d love to visit sometime.”
Millicent smiled, the gears turning behind her bright eyes. The old woman was making a mental note of everything Maris said, no doubt to be brought up later with the other club members. Still, there was something else in Millicent’s expression, something more perceptive than just the look of an old busybody.
I should ask Cookie if Millicent is one of the magic folk.
If anyone would know, Cookie would. She had been the one to break the news to Maris that, not only her aunt, but Maris herself were descended from a long line of witches, as was Cookie.
There was just something about Millicent that said there was more to her than met the eye.
“So what is this errand you’re on, Maris?” Millicent asked, still watching her.
“I’m actually on my way to the credit union,” Maris replied, glancing toward the building in question. “I think it’s about time I opened an account.”
As if she’d gotten a taste of something sour, Millicent’s mouth turned down, her eyes darkening. She turned to look toward the credit union, brow furrowing, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Her whole demeanor had changed in an instant, from lighthearted to indignant. Maris opened h
er mouth to ask her what was wrong, but Millicent cut her off with a brisk, “Have a nice day.” The older woman turned on her heel with astonishing speed. Before Maris could respond, she was already leaving the gazebo, her footsteps echoing on the concrete as she stomped away.
Maris blinked and stared after her. What in the world had gotten into the older woman? She’d already marched nearly halfway across the plaza. Sensing it would do no good to call out after her, Maris could only watch for another few moments before she shrugged. She would have to get to the bottom of that another time.
Without running into any other curious neighbors, Maris made it to the credit union in just a few minutes. Like most of the rest of the plaza buildings, it was a Victorian nestled on a grass lawn set back from the sidewalk. If fact, it looked more like someone’s home than what one would usually expect for a bank. Pulling open the antique blue door, Maris found herself in what looked like a renovated parlor with three massive oak desks—two in front and one at the back. The name plaques on the front ones identified the people behind them as tellers, although there was no glass barrier separating them from the customers.
“Welcome to the Pixie Point Bay Credit Union,” said a young woman, a petite brunette with glasses. She was standing and looking through a cabinet. According to her name plate, she was Ashley Pound.
Maris smiled at her, taking another step into the room, and said, “I was hoping to open up an account.”
“You’ll want to speak with Mr. Martin for that,” Ashley replied, indicating the desk in the back.
Seated behind it was a large, balding man with a goatee and round glasses. He hunched over a stack of papers with his back to the corner of the room. The plaque on his desk read, “Edwin Martin - Manager.”
The man looked up when he heard his name, his beady eyes fixing on Maris, and a moment later a smarmy smile spread across his face. “I can take care of you here,” he said, gesturing at the chair across from him.
Maris took a seat, holding out her hand. “My name is Maris Seaver,” she said. “I’m new to town.”
Edwin sized her up before taking her hand and giving it a lazy shake. His fingers were warm and sweaty.
“I’ve heard about you, Ms. Seaver. Yes, I have.” Turning to the other teller, a blonde girl who couldn’t have been much over twenty-five, he snapped his fingers and said, “Jessica, go get the fruit bowl in the back. We don’t want a new client going hungry, do we?”
Ashley, the brunette, glanced at him. “Do you want me to do it, Mr. Martin?” she asked. “I’m already up, and I think Jessica is in the middle of–”
“No,” Edwin answered, his tone curt. “Jessica can do it.” Snapping his fingers again, he pointed at the door to another room. “Jessica. Now, please.”
The blonde opened her mouth to speak, seemingly thought better of it, and stood up, looking resigned. Satisfied, Edwin turned back to Maris. “Now,” he said, “Ms. … What did you say your name was?”
“Maris,” she replied. “Maris Seav–”
“Do you want some coffee, Maris? I was thinking of having a cup, myself.”
Even if she hadn’t already had her caffeine fix for the day, the way he ordered the tellers around rankled her. Hoping to spare the women any more busywork, she said, “I’m fine. It’s a little late in the day for–”
“Jessica,” bellowed Edwin, “bring two coffees while you’re at it! And don’t forget the sugar and creamer!” Maris pressed her lips together. Edwin Martin might make a good banker but his people skills were adding up to a big zero. She was about to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand when Edwin said, “You’re the one who took over the B&B, right? Cute place. Never stayed there myself.”
She inclined her head. “My aunt left it to me.”
“Interesting idea, having it connected to a lighthouse. Makes it hard to value though, being so unique.”
“Well, I’m not particularly in the market to–”
“Finally,” Edwin said, and she turned to see Jessica emerging from the back room, carrying a silver tray.
On it was an ornate china bowl filled to the brim with grapes, apricots, plums, and cherries, which the teller set down between the two of them. Her movements stiff, she shifted saucers and coffee cups to the desk. She reminded Maris of someone who was being made to touch something dirty, keeping as much distance between herself and Edwin’s desk as possible. She was practically stretching just to set the china down while avoiding eye contact.
Edwin either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and poured an ample amount of cream into his coffee, along with a small mountain of sugar. He raised his eyebrows, holding the bowl out for Maris, but she shook her head, thinking about the weight she needed to shed.
Edwin shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Reaching out with a plump hand, he plucked a handful of grapes out of the bowl and began to shovel them into his mouth. “So,” he said between bites, “what kind of account do you want to open?”
“A savings account, I think.”
He swallowed and took another grape. “If you’re not planning to move your funds around any time soon, I’d recommend share certificates. They’re like CDs, but the interest rate is higher than a normal savings account. I would–” He coughed, cleared his throat, and continued. “That’s my advice, at any rate. Here.” He rummaged in a drawer for a moment, producing a brochure. “Take a look.”
As Maris glanced down at it, Edwin began to cough again, spluttering like there was something in his throat.
“Mr. Martin, are you–” she began, but he held up a finger.
“Yes,” he said between dry hacks. “Fine. I’m just going to get some water.” Still coughing, he pushed back from the desk—no small feat for someone his size—and retreated in the direction of the back room.
Maris was left to look over the brochure, which was mostly fine print, but had trouble concentrating as Edwin’s coughs continued from the other room. There was the sound of water running, and the hacking kept up, seeming to grow more harsh even after he paused to take a drink. She could hear him sputtering, and then, all of a sudden, there was the sound of something—a piece of furniture maybe—toppling over. Then glass shattered, followed by a loud, meaty thump. Maris’s head snapped up and she looked at the two tellers, who were still in their seats, eyes wide as they looked from her to each other.
Without thinking, she sprang to her feet and hurried in the direction of the sound. “Mr. Martin?” she called. “Are you all right in there?”
Rushing down a short hall, Maris pushed through a half-open door and found herself in a brightly lit kitchen. For a moment she stood in the doorway, confused, before her eyes drifted downward and her hand flew to her mouth.
Edwin Martin was sprawled face-up on the kitchen floor, his mouth open but completely slack. His glassy eyes stared at nothing. She dashed to his side, knelt, and pressed two fingers to his neck—no pulse. Staring at his unmoving chest, she tried again but the result was the same. She sat back on her heels as an icy cold sank into her stomach.
The man was dead.
2
By the time Maris had gotten over the initial shock, it had been too late to prevent the two younger women from coming in. Struggling to her feet, Maris turned to them, their faces white.
“Jessica,” Maris said to her as she blocked her view. “Call 911.” The blonde teller blinked once, then again. “Jessica,” Maris said, gently taking her arm and turning her toward the door. “911. Please.”
Without looking back, the young woman left and Maris heard her run back to the front room.
“I’ll call Dr. Rossi,” Ashley said, pointedly averting her gaze. “His clinic is just across the plaza.”
“Thank you,” Maris said, touching her shoulder, and then hurried from the room with her.
While Jessica gave the 911 dispatcher the address, Ashley called the doctor. The two conversations took place side by side, Ashley finishing first, as the emergency dispatcher kept Jessica on t
he phone.
Ashley glanced back down the hallway. “What happened?” she whispered.
Just as Jessica hung up, the front door flew open and Dr. Rossi ran into the credit union. Slim, middle-aged, and wearing a white doctor’s coat that matched his hair, he was carrying a medical kit.
“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from one woman to the next.
“It’s…it’s Mr. Martin,” Jessica said, her voice cracking. “He’s…” She turned to Maris.
“I think he’s dead,” Maris said, her mouth suddenly dry. “He was coughing and couldn’t seem to stop, and when he went to the kitchen to get water, there was a crash. I went in and…found him on the floor.”
“Okay,” said the doctor. “Okay. Stay here. Which way is the kitchen?” Ashley pointed, and he ran past them down the hallway.
As far as Maris knew, Rossi was the only doctor in Pixie Point Bay. For a town with so few residents, there wasn’t really a need for more. In emergencies, the hospital in Cheeseman Village, to the north, was within striking distance.
As the three of them waited, Jessica couldn’t seem to stand still. The tall blonde shifted her weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Ashley, the shorter brunette, pushed her glasses up her nose, hugged herself, and stared at the hallway. Maris couldn’t help but think of the cemetery on the hill overlooking the town. She’d visited her aunt’s grave there only last week. As she imagined another plot being dug, she shuddered and closed her eyes.
