1 The Witch Who Settled the Account

by Emma Belmont

  Maris eyed the chef, wondering what else she might know.

  “So what happened to Edwin Martin?” Cookie asked, and expertly flipped the pancake.

  “He died,” Maris said.

  Cookie’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding. Of what?”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” Maris said. “No one’s quite sure, and I was even there.” She watched as Cookie cracked some eggs into a bowl. “Shall I make more pancakes while you mix the eggs?” Though Maris couldn’t be sure, she thought Cookie hesitated.

  “If you like,” the older woman said.

  Maris took a quick sip of her coffee and put some butter in the skillet. She recounted the entire afternoon at the credit union, trying to summarize the events without skipping the relevant details. Cookie listened as she started scrambling the eggs.

  When Maris finished, the chef said, “Of course, one thinks of heart attack, but then again…” Cookie eyed her. “We would.”

  Not only had Maris’s aunt died of one, but her mother as well. Maris had only been in high school. It was likely the reason that she’d never known she was a witch—her mother had thought she had time to tell her. Now it was Maris’s turn to struggle with her weight and cholesterol, not to mention her Type A+ personality.

  Maris shook her head as she poured some batter in the pan. “I don’t think it was a heart attack. He was coughing, not having chest pain.” She watched Cookie smoothly move the scrambled eggs around the pan, never letting them get too hard.

  “Tomatoes and capers?” Maris asked.

  “Yes,” Cookie said, smiling. “They’ll go quite nicely with the bagels and lox. We’ve got some very fresh cream cheese from Cheeseman Village too.”

  As Maris rinsed the tomatoes and put them on the cutting board, she saw a thin wisp of smoke out of the corner of her eye. “The pancake,” she gasped. She snatched up the spatula but managed to tip over her coffee cup with it. It crashed to the floor. “Oops!”

  Cookie calmly reached over and turned off the burner for the pancake. Even as she continued to stir the eggs, she took the paper towels from the holder and handed them to Maris.

  “Thanks,” Maris breathed. “Sorry.”

  As she bent down and cleaned up the broken cup and spilled coffee, Cookie said something indistinguishable. Something about getting a life? “I’m sorry, Cookie,” Maris said, still sopping up the liquid. “What was that?”

  “I said I was looking for a knife,” the chef said, not making eye contact.

  By the time that Maris had the floor cleaned, the tomatoes were sliced, the eggs and pancakes were in their warming trays, and Cookie was plating the lox.

  “Would you mind taking the warming trays to the dining room?” Cookie asked sweetly.

  Maris blinked. Had it taken her that long to clean up the coffee? The older woman looked over at her. “Maris?”

  “No,” Maris blurted out. “I mean, yes.” She paused and took a breath. “I mean I’d be glad to.”

  Though she had the distinct impression that she was being kept busy and out of the kitchen, she quickly went to the trays.

  “It’s not a race,” Cookie said, as Maris picked up the first one. “It’s an art.”

  Although Maris forced herself to move more slowly, it was only for Cookie’s sake. Of course it was a race. Everything was a race. The only way that true hospitality came off as elegant and unhurried was when the staff moved at lightning speed behind the scenes. She’d based her whole career on it.

  But as she fetched the next tray, she had to think about her career—the one that had burned her out. It’d been successful from the point of view of her employers, but what about her? As she set down the tray over the lit burner, she paused for just a moment to line the two trays up. She moved the butter as well. Cookie brought in the platter of bagels and lox. For a moment, the two of them simply admired the spread.

  Maybe Cookie was right. Maybe it was an art.

  As the diminutive chef headed back to the kitchen, she gave Maris a wink.

  Maris had to grin, but as she glanced up at the dining room window, she nearly shrieked. In the dim light of the early morning fog, she didn’t immediately recognize the hulking, bearded man standing outside and staring in at her.

  She put a hand over her chest. “Bear,” she said, feeling her heart thump.

  In response, he awkwardly lifted his giant hand and gave her the daintiest wave.

  She exhaled and motioned the handyman toward the side porch. As she headed that way, she popped her head in the kitchen. “Bear is here,” she told Cookie.

  The older woman smiled. “I’ll bring a tray.”

  William “Bear” Orsino was a mountain of a man, but as gentle as he was outsized. The upkeep on the Victorian buildings was almost constant, and the young man had become a fixture around the place. He was also one of the few magic folk about whom Maris knew any details.

  When she met him on the porch, he ducked his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Oh goodness,” Maris said, smiling, “of course not. I’d never think that, even if I, you know, act like that.”

  She knew from Cookie that Bear was a shifter. Since he wanted to be home before nightfall, he liked to start his days early. He was dressed in his usual white t-shirt and bib overalls.

  “Please,” Maris said, indicating the patio’s table and chair. “Have a seat.”

  His kind brown eyes looked to the back of the house. “Well, there’s lots of work to do today. The back shutters need painting.”

  Cookie appeared with the breakfast tray and set it on the table. “Good morning, Bear.”

  Though he never took his eyes from the food, he said, “Good morning, Cookie.” Maris noticed that the chef had used two plates, and heaped both full.

  As though she heard his unasked question, the older woman said, “This is for you. I hope you enjoy it.” With that, she retreated into the house.

  His face lit up but he still hung back. Maris took out the chair for him. “Please, Bear. Sit and enjoy before it gets cold.” Then it occurred to her that he might be shy because she was watching. “I’m going to…head to the lighthouse.”

  “Thank you,” he said, sitting down and eagerly digging in.

  “You’re quite welcome,” she said, and turned toward the tower.

  Though it’d really just been an excuse to leave Bear in peace, Maris didn’t know why she’d chosen the direction of the lighthouse until she was nearly there. If anyone could shed some light on the strange death of Edwin Martin, it would be the Old Girl. Just before she reached the doorway, a gusty breeze kicked up, swirling the fog and opening the tower’s door.

  7

  The Pixie Point Bay lighthouse was a sturdy building whose white exterior and red trim matched the bed and breakfast perfectly. Nestled up against a craggy section of shoreline, it had originally been built in the late nineteenth century, with the lighthouse keeper’s house being built the following year. Eventually the two buildings were connected together, although Maris always preferred to make the walk from one to the other outside in the fresh air.

  Inside, as she flipped on the light switch, she said, “Good morning, Claribel.”

  Though there was no response, the door gently blew closed behind her.

  Despite the fact that there were no furnishings, the interior had a timeless feel. The heavy metal staircase spiraled upward, its elegant curves accentuated by the decorative, vertical balusters. As she began the climb, Maris tried to imagine the craftsmen who had created it and wondered if they’d be pleased to know it was still in use.

  By the time she had climbed to the second story, she was breathing hard but kept trudging upward. She gazed out the window on that level, grateful yet again that the builders had taken the trouble to install them. Finally at the top, she climbed the last step out onto the metal landing.

  “Phew!” she exhaled as she paused for a moment taking in the view—and catching he
r breath.

  Though the bay was still enshrouded in white mist, she could see the rocks below. The small waves rhythmically broke against them, their soothing sound easily audible in the early morning stillness. In the other direction Bear still sat on the porch enjoying his breakfast. It occurred to Maris that this view had likely changed very little in the last one hundred years. Although the original oil lamp that provided light for the lens had been replaced by LEDs, few other upgrades had been made. In fact, should those fail, she knew that Aunt Glenda had kept the lamp in storage.

  The fresnel lens itself was more like a glass sculpture than something that anyone would recognize from a pair of glasses. Shaped almost like a giant egg, dozens of individual pieces of glass, some grooved with concentric circles, were tightly fitted together on a gleaming steel frame. It rose from its waist high pedestal up to nearly the top of the circular glass house where she stood. Its thousands of reflective surfaces bounced light in every direction, and it glowed as though it had a life of its own.

  “How are you today, Old Girl?” Maris asked, careful not to look into the beam.

  The lighthouse made no reply, but a sense of calm washed over her and a tingling warmth radiated from the lens. She closed her eyes for a moment before reopening them and gazed down into the faceted base of Claribel’s lens. Sunlight danced within it like a prism, throwing out flecks of rainbow light that were entrancing. But suddenly an image began to form among the sparkles.

  It was like looking through a telescope at the Towne Plaza. The buildings passed by, one by one, and Maris expected that the credit union would soon come into view. But the viewing stopped at the medical clinic, its distinctly narrow front and yellow color unmistakable.

  Maris’s eyes narrowed. Why the medical clinic?

  But as quickly as the image had popped into view, it vanished. Though she waited for another few moments, it seemed the remote viewing was over.

  “Thank you,” she said, and gave the pedestal an affectionate pat before beginning her descent.

  Back outside on the ground level, the porch was empty so Bear must have finished his breakfast. But as Maris was approaching the porch door, he came down the side of the house from the gravel driveway.

  “Maris?” he said, and held out a small jar to her. “This is for you and Cookie.”

  “Oh,” she said, taking it from him. Inside the glass was the most deeply amber honey she’d ever seen. “What beautiful honey.”

  He ducked his head, looked at the ground, and folded his hands in front of his burgeoning middle. “I keep bees in my spare time.”

  “Do you?” she said. “Well thank you. I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, though he didn’t look up. Without another word, he headed back down the steps and toward the rear of the house.

  Back inside, Maris saw that Kristofer was sitting at the dining room table. True to his word, he was getting an early start on his day.

  “Good morning,” she said to him, pausing on her way back to the kitchen.

  “It’s a great morning,” he said, spreading cream cheese on a bagel. “Would you tell Cookie that these are the fluffiest scrambled eggs that I have ever had? Marvelous. Who knew something so simple could be so good?”

  Maris grinned back at him. “I’d be happy to pass that along. Do you have everything you need?”

  He had just taken a bite of the bagel, tomato, cream cheese, and lox sandwich that he’d made. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and gave her an emphatic okay sign.

  In the kitchen, Cookie was rinsing more tomatoes as Maris passed behind her. “Your scrambled eggs have conquered another happy stomach in the dining room. Kristofer Klaas sends his compliments.” She placed the honey on the counter. “And Bear has given us some of his home grown honey.”

  Cookie dried her hands on her apron and picked up the jar. “Now this makes my day. I don’t know what those bees eat, but you’ve never tasted anything as smooth and sweet.”

  “Shall I slice those?” Maris asked, indicating the tomatoes.

  “Actually,” Cookie said, picking up an empty plastic bin. “We’re out of dishwasher soap pods. Would you be a dear and get some in town?”

  There was that feeling again, as though what Cookie really needed was to simply get on with her work. Maris had never really learned to cook. Ironically, her hospitality career had precluded it. But pitching in to help was part of the life.

  Then again, if you weren’t a help?

  “I’d be glad to get some in town,” Maris replied, smiling.

  Cookie took off her apron. “After we’ve had something to eat,” she said.

  This was a tradition at the Pixie Point Bay Lighthouse B&B that Maris had warmed to immediately. Rather than hide in the kitchen to eat, Cookie liked to share the morning meal with the guests.

  Maris inclined her head and motioned for Cookie to precede her. “After we’ve had something to eat,” she agreed.

  8

  Although Maris parked in front of the Main Street Market, she headed instead to the Pixie Point Bay Medical Clinic. Though she had no idea if Dr. Rossi would have any new information on Edwin Martin’s death, Claribel hadn’t shown her the clinic for no reason.

  Seemingly squeezed in as an afterthought, the four-story building was as narrow as any she’d seen, even in the backstreets of ancient European towns. It was painted a bright and cheery yellow, and its elegant front French doors were welcoming. As Maris entered, however, it was like walking into a different world. The quaint exterior belied a sleek, modern and ultra clean interior.

  A blonde, middle-aged woman wearing blue scrubs sat behind the reception counter. Embroidered near the V of her neckline was “Jill Maxwell, NP”. It seemed that the clinic’s nurse practitioner doubled as the receptionist.

  She looked up from her computer screen and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering if it would be possible to see Dr. Rossi today.”

  “Certainly,” she said, using the computer mouse to click something on the screen. “He’s with a patient right now but he should be available shortly. Do you have an appointment, Ms. …?”

  “Seaver,” Maris replied. “Maris Seaver.”

  Jill typed in her name. “And what’s the reason for your visit today, Ms. Seaver?”

  Maris fumbled for a moment before saying, “My cholesterol.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t a lie.

  The nurse typed some notes. “I’ll let him know you’re here for a walk-in. Please have a seat. He shouldn’t be long.”

  “Thank you,” Maris replied and headed to one of the modern white sofas.

  As she sat down, she idly moved the magazines on the coffee table around. She found the latest issues of Bassmaster, Saltwater Sportsman, and Fly Fisherman, but Maris was neither the sporting type nor a fisherman. She was on the verge of leaving them be when she spotted the corner of the winter edition of Lighthouse Digest. She pulled it out of the stack to see a photo of a snow-dusted bridge leading to a charming lighthouse. She had just opened the front cover when the door to the back room opened and Dr. Rossi stepped out, accompanied by a mother and daughter, the latter of whom was sporting a bandaged knee.

  “Thank you, Dr. Rossi,” the mother was saying, giving him a warm smile.

  “It’s no trouble, really,” the doctor assured her, returning the smile in kind. “Just keep it covered and clean and she’ll be healed in no time. Call me if you have any questions.”

  He waved at them as they left the office, and then turned his attention to the next patient. But the moment he saw who it was, his face fell for a fraction of a second. Then his professional smile was back in place, and he beckoned to her.

  “Ms. Seaver, this way, please.”

  She stood and followed him down the hallway into a small examination room. He gestured to the exam table with its covering of thin paper. She took a seat, as he closed the door.

  He sat on a rolli
ng stool on the other side of the room. “Well, what seems to be the problem, Ms. Seaver?”

  “It’s not a medical problem, actually,” Maris replied, crossing her legs. “I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about what happened yesterday at the credit union, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Since you were there before me,” the doctor said, “I doubt there’s anything that I can add. But since I don’t have a patient waiting, perhaps I can ease your mind about something.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Maris cleared her throat, wondering briefly where to start. “Ashley was the one who called you yesterday?”

  “Yes,” he said, taking the stethoscope from his neck and putting it in his coat pocket. “She said she thought he may have choked on something. As you know, he was dead by the time I arrived.”

  “Right,” Maris said. “I’m curious about how he seemed the last time you saw him. Was he in good health?”

  “I’m afraid Patient-Physician privilege doesn’t end with death,” Rossi replied. “But I also understand the need to come to grips with a tragedy.” He paused for a moment, as though weighing his words. “Frankly, I can’t remember the last time I saw him before yesterday. You might say that he wasn’t one for regular checkups.”

  “Regular checkups?” Maris said, cocking her head. “But you’d have seen him in the credit union. It’s the only bank in Pixie Point Bay.”

  “I don’t do my banking there,” Rossi replied. “I bank in Cheeseman Village. Better interest rates. Besides, it’s all online nowadays, anyway.”

  “True enough,” Maris said. She considered for a moment. Patient-Physician privilege extending beyond death hadn’t occurred to her. The only real questions she’d had for the doctor were medical in nature. “I guess that’s really it, then. Thanks for your time, Doctor. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Seaver,” Dr. Rossi replied, standing. He opened the door. “This way out.”