by Emma Belmont
“It’s worth a look,” Maris said, and the two of them got up and went to the kitchen. Maris hesitated just inside the threshold but now that the body was gone, it seemed like a sunny kitchen in a Victorian house.
Mac followed her gaze to the floor. “Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless others mourn,” he said, one hand on his utility belt and looking suddenly tired.
“What was that?” Maris asked, turning to him. It had the sound of something classical.
He met her gaze with his gray eyes. “Robert Burns,” he replied. “My favorite poet. He always seems to have the right words.”
“It’s beautiful,” Maris said. She paused for a moment and then added, “And quite apt.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Mac said, before turning to the refrigerator. Maris watched as he pulled open the stainless steel door. She peered over his shoulder as they both scanned the inside. There was plenty of food, fruit included, but no grapes to be seen.
“That’s odd,” she said, straightening as Mac stood back up.
“Agreed,” he said, still staring into the interior. “Edwin Martin’s death was likely an accident, or possibly a heart attack, but it never hurts to play it on the safe side.”
As Maris watched, he fetched a trash bag from under the sink and unloaded everything from the refrigerator into it: cans of soda, the remainder of the fruit, and some containers of leftovers, which he double bagged. In the freezer there were only trays of ice cubes. Out in the main room, he used a different trash bag and put the contents of the fruit bowl in it.
“While I don’t think there’s any reason to have forensics pay a visit,” he said, making a final note before tucking the small notepad in his breast pocket, “I don’t like the way the food remains don’t match your obviously superb memory.” He headed to the front door.
“That’s probably a good idea,” Maris said, grabbing her purse and holding the door open for him so he could step onto the porch. She followed him back outside.
Ashley, who had been leaning against the railing, went to the door. “I’m just going to fetch my purse and lock up. I’ll do the balancing and numbers tomorrow, since I guess I’ll have to be here early to open.”
“I guess you’ll be handling things for a while,” Maris said, sorry for the extra burden on the young woman.
Ashley shrugged. “It’s not like Mr. Martin did any real work, anyway.” She sighed and went back inside.
“Is there anything else you need from me, Sheriff?” Maris asked when they reached the sidewalk.
He shook his head. “Not for now. Thank you, Maris. You’ve been a great help.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, smiling, even though she wasn’t sure how true that statement was.
Ashley exited, locked the front door, and passed them as she headed to her car. “I need a warm bath and some serious snacks in bed tonight.” She waved to them.
“Sounds like a plan,” Maris said, waving back to her, as Mac put the bags of food in his SUV.
He closed the door. “I’ll meet with the coroner,” he said, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he gave her another one of his empathetic smiles, and Maris couldn’t help but smile back. There was a moment of silence and he looked like he was debating something. Though he opened his mouth as if to ask her a question, he closed it again and cleared his throat. “See you later, Maris.”
“See you later, Mac,” she replied. He gave her a cordial wave out the window as he started up the car, and then he was gone down the street, the sound of the engine fading.
As Maris made her way across the Towne Plaza, she passed the red gazebo in the middle and thought back to Millicent’s sudden change in demeanor when she’d told her she was on her way to the credit union. The way she had looked at the place struck her as doubly odd now, like it was tainted somehow, or poisoned.
Millicent Leclair’s home, where she hosted the By Hook or Crook Crochet Club, was just up ahead. Idly Maris wondered if the woman was there, watching the goings-on. No doubt she already knew what had happened to the credit union manager. Glancing up at the upstairs window, Maris saw a curtain suddenly come down. She smiled a little to herself and continued to where she had parked her rental car. No doubt Millicent knew more than she did.
As Maris settled into the driver’s seat, she stretched her neck, trying to relieve some of the achy stress. But as she did, her empty stomach finally gurgled loudly in protest. She stared at the glove compartment for a good three seconds before she leaned over, opened it, and took out the candy bars. She left two on the passenger seat, and quickly opened the third. It looked none the worse for its storage time so she bit into the chocolate-covered, caramel, peanuts and nougat, and had to sigh. It was everything she’d remembered: sweetness, creaminess, and just the right amount of crunch.
“So good,” she muttered around a mouthful, just as her neck popped. She tilted her head from side to side, and got another couple of cracks. Before starting the engine, she took another, smaller bite.
I’ll just have half, she thought. That’ll be enough to get me home.
Although her hollow insides were feeling better as she backed the car up, Maris couldn’t shake a nagging feeling that there was more to Edwin Martin’s death than she’d seen.
And she still didn’t have a credit union account.
5
Maris drove her small compact over the familiar, manicured gravel of the B&B’s long driveway. The tires crunched to a stop as she steered the vehicle into one of the empty parking slots.
With a single grab, she picked up the three empty candy bar wrappers and stuffed them in her purse. The last thing she needed was for someone to see the remains of her precipitous fall off the diet wagon.
Beyond the grand and gabled two-story Victorian and the towering lighthouse just behind it, the sun was sinking toward a thin layer of iridescent clouds at the horizon. Maris got out and gazed up at the conical white tower, its beacon whirling in the dusky light. The sunset had bathed its flank in tones of rose gold.
“That color looks good on you, Old Girl,” Maris said quietly.
The moist sea breeze carried the scent of ocean spray from the rocks below the point, as well as the briny scent of seaweed. Maris let it wash over her as she closed the car door and ascended the steps of the front porch.
The interior of the grand Victorian home matched the outside, as though time had stood still. But as Maris passed the finely appointed front parlor, library, living room, and dining room, it wasn’t the period furnishings and decor that occupied her mind. She was already thinking about the evening wine and cheeseboard, affectionately known in the hospitality trade as the Wine Down.
In the kitchen, Maris went directly to the gleaming, stainless, industrial refrigerator. Like the rest of the B&B, the room’s decor was quaintly comfortable and in keeping with the period, but the appliances were all modern. Aunt Glenda had made sure that Cookie, the B&B’s chef for decades, hadn’t lacked for any modern convenience. From the double ovens to the six burner stovetop, extra wide broiler, oversize microwave, and double sinks, it was a kitchen that meant business.
“Let’s see what we’ve got to work with,” Maris said to herself, as she pulled open the heavy door.
As usual, she was on her own for the Wine Down. She and Cookie had fallen into their routine almost immediately. While the chef took care of the gourmet breakfast buffet, and the guests were on their own for lunch and dinner, Maris created the sumptuous spread for the evening wine and cheese.
As she surveyed the various artisanal varieties from Cheeseman Village, she let her creativity take over. Unlike the many hoteliers that she’d worked with over the years, Maris didn’t care for set formulas when it came to wine and cheese pairings. As she called up an image of the bottles available in the dining room’s wine cabinet, she compared it to the cheeses and fruits.
A tiny, tinny, harmonica-like meow, drew her attention to the fl
oor.
“Hello, Mojo,” she said to the fluffy black cat swirling around her ankles. “Come to help me pick?”
Her aunt had named the little guy after a famous blues harmonica player, George “Mojo” Buford. Whether his namesake was as friendly, Maris didn’t know. But the peculiar sound of his voice made the name only too fitting.
He stopped circling and looked up at her with his big orange eyes. Then he sat down and stared into the refrigerator.
Maris tilted her head at him. If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn he understood her. “Well?” she asked.
He gave his signature meow again, sounding exactly like a little metal instrument.
“I see,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s not much help.”
But as he began to lick one paw, a plan gelled in her mind. The pungent and crumbly bleu cheese would make the perfect foil for their locally bottled port wine, with its thick body and sweetness. Then, as a contrast, the saltiness of a hard parmesan would go nicely with a bubbly but dry Prosecco. As a bonus, those were both Italian.
She took everything to the dining room’s sideboard, including the cheeseboard itself, where she would slice and assemble. This was a reception technique that she’d stumbled upon by accident. Instead of getting everything ready in the kitchen and bringing it out as a fait accompli, she found that guests liked to observe, nibble a little as she sliced, and chat.
First, though, she popped the cork on the Prosecco, opened the port, and filled a decanter with fresh cranberry juice. She set these beside the wine glasses, and then fetched a selection of round water crackers, some plain and some sprinkled with cracked pepper, as well as a few tart green apples. She was ready.
As she sliced the parmesan and laid it out next to the water crackers, she noticed the sun slanting lower through the bay window. In the distance, the sky was turning a deep shade of crimson just above the band of clouds at the horizon. Above, it transitioned to a deep indigo, where the lighthouse beam rhythmically passed. That didn’t make it any less spectacular, however, and Maris let out a long breath. Even now she was thankful for having given up her corporate troubleshooting job. It’d taken no time to get used to the speed of things in Pixie Point Bay.
When Maris heard footsteps on the stairs, she turned away from the window, and a moment later, Kristofer Klaas entered the dining room. According to the B&B’s records, he’d been a regular guest over the years, preferring Pixie Point Bay to the hotel in Cheeseman Village, even for longer stays. Although his bristly handlebar mustache was magnificent, it was his twinkling brown eyes that gave him a sense of youth that belied his probably middle aged years.
“Kristofer,” she said, with a smile. She began to slice the green apples. “How nice to see you. I hope you’ve settled in well.”
“Better than well, Ms. Seaver,” Kristofer replied, taking a plate and beginning to serve himself cheese. “I wanted to thank you for keeping me so well fed. It makes things so much more pleasant when the evening wine and cheese can almost be a dinner.” He poured some port for himself before turning back to her.
“I’m with you there,” Maris said. “Maybe a little too with you,” she added, taking a self-conscious glance down at her muffin top. Looking back up at him, she said, “And please call me Maris. What is it that you do for a living, Kristofer?”
“I’m a glazier,” he replied, taking a bite out of an apple slice.
“A glazier?”
“Someone who fits glass,” he said. “It’s the family business, actually. My grandfather brought the craft with him when he immigrated from Estonia.”
“Estonia,” Maris said. “Goodness, the old country is far away.” She finished with the blue cheese and arranged it artfully on the board. “And what brings a glazier to Pixie Point Bay?”
“Restoration work,” Kristofer replied. “It’s sort of my specialty. I travel all over the area, taking appointments.” He glanced out the window toward the ocean. “I must say, I’m impressed by the amount of work that’s been put into this place. I guess there’s a reason they call it the most beautiful lighthouse in the Middle Kingdom.”
It didn’t hurt that it was also located in one of the most picturesque spots on the West Coast. The pristine bay was nearly circular and ringed by dramatic cliffs. The lighthouse occupied the rocky point that jutted out at its southern end.
“You’re preaching to the choir on that one,” Maris agreed, laughing. “Even if I do say so myself.”
He raised a hand. “Just telling it like it is.”
The sound of more footsteps came from the stairs, and the pair turned to see the Longacre family making their way into the dining room.
“Not too much,” Jen was saying to one of the twin daughters as she made a beeline for the snacks. “Don’t spoil your dinner. We’re going out for seafood.” She gave Maris a polite smile as she and Tim, her husband, made their way to the refreshments. “Sorry about that,” she said, nodding at her daughters, who were already loading up their plates. “They’re just excited to be on vacation.”
“No need to apologize,” Maris replied, and made the introductions.
“Where are you folks coming from?” Kristofer asked.
“Colorado,” answered Tim. “Boulder. We’re here for the next week.” He looked at Maris. “Thank you again for letting us take two of the rooms. It’s a real treat for the girls.”
“My pleasure,” Maris said. “We’re only at half capacity. Besides, I’m still settling in too.”
They continued to make small talk as Jen went to get some juice for the twins. Tim poured wine for the adults, and Maris decided to sample the Prosecco. But all of them watched as the sun finally sank into the ocean, creating a rich, red reflection in the water that looked more like a mystical trail than a sunset. Maris finally felt the strangeness of the day retreating and her shoulders relaxed.
“Mojo,” Kristofer said.
Maris looked down to see him squeezing past the glazier to get a better look at everyone. But as Kristofer stooped down and ran his fingers gently through the fluffy fur, the cat paused and purred. When he gazed up at the man, he gave his signature meow.
The twin girls descended on him when they heard the sound, squealing about how cute he was. Mojo, of course, waited patiently while they fawned over him.
“He’s the perfect host,” Jen said, smiling down at the trio.
Tim set down his empty glass, caught Jen’s eye, and tapped on his watch. She nodded and finished her port.
“Here we go, girls,” their father said. “Dinner time.”
Although there was a small protest, and a few last, long pets for Mojo, the Longacres headed out.
Kristofer loaded up a plate and poured another port before he turned to Maris with a smile under his spectacular mustache. “I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow so I think I’d better turn in.” He lifted the glass to her. “Thank you again for another lovely evening.”
She lifted her glass in return. “Sleep well.”
Maris put away the uneaten refreshments, rinsed off the plates, and returned the port to its shelf. But when she opened the refrigerator to put the cheese and Prosecco away, she recalled the image of the fruit bowl back at the credit union. It had been brimming with grapes. Of that she was sure.
As she made her way back to her own room, with Mojo trotting behind, she puzzled over the entire day. From the moment that Millicent’s face had soured to when she’d left the credit union, there were simply too many unanswered questions. But as she closed her door and Mojo jumped up on the bed, she knew the answers would have to wait until tomorrow.
6
In the morning, the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted up the hallway as Maris approached the kitchen. Though she considered herself an early riser, Cookie was invariably in the kitchen first. Though their rooms were only a few feet apart, she never heard the chef get up or start cooking. But that didn’t mean that Maris couldn’t pitch in and help.
&nbs
p; “Good morning,” she said, with her usual morning cheer.
Cookie Calderon was standing in front of the stove, with heaping plates of food already next to her on the counter. Though she was a petite woman, and spry for her seventy years, Maris had no doubt she could still heft the iron skillets and dutch ovens that she favored.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling at Maris over her shoulder. “How did you sleep?”
Cookie’s straight, shoulder length hair was more salt than pepper these days, but her dark eyes still glinted with an inner light that never seemed to fade.
“Very well, actually,” Maris replied, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“So what’s the news?” Cookie asked, still focused on the stove. “Trouble in town I take it.”
Maris regarded her. “I didn’t think you’d hear about Edwin so fast.”
“Edwin?” Cookie asked, sliding a pancake onto one of the plates. “Edwin Martin at the credit union? I haven’t heard anything. The Old Girl flashed her beam towards downtown while you were out yesterday.” She nodded toward the back of the Victorian, where the lighthouse was located.
“Wait,” Maris said, setting down her coffee. “The Old Girl, Claribel, pointed her beam at the town?”
Cookie glanced at her. “Didn’t I mention she could do that?”
“I’m pretty sure not,” Maris said, as Cookie poured more batter. “She points her beam?”
“She has a knack for finding trouble,” Cookie said and gestured with her spatula. “When she points at something you can be sure there’s bad business afoot.”
“Interesting,” Maris said, drawing the word out.
“Your aunt and I used to wonder if that wasn’t how the Old Girl compiled the best record of sea rescues in North America.”
“No doubt magic helps,” Maris said.
Cookie winked at her. “No doubt.”
Maris and her aunt had shared not only the gift of precognition, but also the ability to remotely view something with the help of Claribel’s fresnel lens. Cookie was a skilled maker of potions, and now it seemed the Old Girl had her own talent, aside from being a magical entity, of course.
