by Emma Belmont
“Thanks for having me,” she said, as she took a seat. She fidgeted with her project and supplies for a moment, acutely aware of how scrambled her little scarf looked.
“It’s our absolute pleasure,” Millicent said, giving her a wide grin as she took her seat near the fire. “In fact,” she added, exchanging an unreadable look with the other women, “we were kind of hoping you would drop by, weren’t we, girls?”
The other ladies nodded, murmuring their agreement. “We heard you were at the credit union yesterday,” Vera said, glancing briefly at Millicent. “Terrible. Just terrible.” She looked over her glasses at Maris’s scarf and her eyebrows flew up.
Zarina shook her head, adding, “What a horrible way to spend your afternoon. I hope you’re feeling well.”
“I’m doing fine,” Maris replied, beginning to crochet. “But I don’t might telling you, it was a bit rattling.”
“Would you mind telling us what happened?” asked Helen, leaning forward in her chair a little. “Everyone in town is buzzing about it, but we still haven’t gotten anything from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
“Of course,” Maris said.
In truth, she’d been expecting exactly this conversation. If there was any new information to be had, surely it would have reached the ears of the crochet club by now. Maris would do her part by offering up her observations, and she would then expect something in return.
With the exception of the missing grapes, she explained everything that happened, starting with her trip to open an account and giving them as many details as she thought they’d want about the death itself. But she was careful not to embellish either, especially since this was her third telling, after Mac and Cookie.
As Maris told her story, she had their rapt and unflinching attention. The ladies nodded, shook their heads, and clicked their tongues almost as one.
“…and then Dr. Rossi showed up at the market,” she said, trying to untangle a knot in her yarn. “Bryan dropped a pickle jar and cut his hand on one of the broken pieces.”
Vera sucked in a sharp breath. “Ooh, is he okay?”
“He should be fine,” Maris said, giving up on the knot and taking out her scissors. “The doctor was escorting him to the clinic when I left. He said he would need stitches, but that it wasn’t serious.”
“Well, thank heaven for that,” Millicent said, deftly stitching a chain of three loops in a split second. Her project was also a scarf but it was a kaleidoscope of colors, and astonishingly bright.
Helen was crocheting a doily with a needle so small that Maris could barely see the hook. Eunice was creating a floppy white hat with a delicate pattern of gay flowers on the front.
Zarina looked up from her baby boot. “That poor boy has been through enough. Poor Dr. Rossi, too.”
Maris kept her expression bland and her voice neutral. “What do you mean, ‘poor Dr. Rossi’?”
Zarina glanced in Millicent’s direction, and the president of the club gave her a small nod. It was the moment that Maris had hoped for.
“The credit union foreclosed on his home,” Zarina said, dropping the volume of her voice a notch. “His wife divorced him after that. Probably just too much strain on their marriage. She left Pixie Point Bay and took their two daughters with her.”
“Terrible,” Vera remarked, shaking her head. “Just terrible.” The others murmured their agreement.
“Believe it or not,” Zarina continued, “Edwin Martin was the one who took possession of Dr. Rossi’s house. He lives in it, or rather, lived in it. Well, Bryan lives in it, at any rate. I guess he’ll be inheriting everything Edwin owned.”
“Did he own a lot?” Maris asked, tying a new piece of yarn to the string she’d cut.
“Oh, yes,” replied Zarina. “There’s the house, a yacht, and four rentals. That Edwin Martin made his fortune on the bad luck of other people.”
“The shameless, greedy man,” Millicent said, looking as if she could spit.
The ladies nodded their agreement. “Pixie Point Bay is better off without him,” Helen said, her expression grave. “Whoever killed him should get a medal, if you ask me.” Millicent loudly cleared her throat, and Helen dropped her gaze to the floor.
Maris, however, had already noticed the gaff. “Nobody said it was a murder,” she said quietly, looking around the circle of ladies.
In the sudden silence of the room, the ticking of the antique clock sounded like hammer blows. Vera sniffed, Zarina stared down at her project, and Millicent pursed her lips. The silence stretched on for another few seconds before Millicent said, “So what are you crocheting, Maris?”
11
It’s never as straightforward as they make it look on TV, Maris thought as she turned off the engine of her rental car. She fished the dish soap and canvas bag out of the back seat, and stepped out onto the manicured gravel in front of the B&B. The detectives on the shows always got the information in the exact order they needed it, with no contradictions and no dead ends. And yet here she was, with the help of a magical lighthouse no less, and nothing was adding up. There was no trail to follow, and she had even been there.
Maris let herself in the front door. Judging from the lack of cars in the parking slots, the guests were all out for the day.
“Cookie?” she called, pulling her purse off her shoulder.
“In here,” came Cookie’s voice from the living room. Maris followed the sound to where the chef was sitting in one of the high back chairs, an open book in her lap. “Did you get lost?” she joked, quirking an eyebrow at Maris as she sat down across from her.
“No,” Maris replied, putting the plastic container of soap pods on the coffee table. “I did poke around a little, though. About Edwin Martin.”
“Oh?” Cookie said, closing her book and removing her glasses. “And where did you do this poking around?”
“I started by talking to Dr. Rossi,” Maris said as she settled into her chair. “He wasn’t able to tell me much. Then, when I was at the supermarket getting the dish soap, I talked a little bit to Bryan Martin.”
“How’s he doing?” Cookie asked.
“Surprisingly well,” Maris replied. “I think he might just be a bit numb to the whole thing.” She shook her head and continued. “The doctor startled us and Bryan dropped a jar of pickles, then cut himself cleaning up the broken glass.”
Cookie’s brow furrowed. “Is he all right?”
“I think so,” Maris said. “Rossi took him back to his clinic for stitches. Speaking of which,” she added, pulling her mess of a crochet project out of her bag, “I stopped by the By Hook or Crook Crochet Club on my way back.”
“Is that right?” asked Cookie, putting her book aside. “How’s Millicent?”
“She seems very well,” Maris told her. “She was working on a scarf that was just out of this world. The colors were simply unreal. It was like a kaleidoscope.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Cookie said. “I happen to know that she reads auras.”
“Auras?” Maris’s eyes widened. “As in spiritual energies?”
“Exactly,” the chef said. “She crochets with colors that are out of this world because she sees colors that are out of this world. Have you ever thought about how she always seems to know exactly what’s going on in town, and in everyone’s personal lives?”
“Of course,” Maris said. “I thought that was just because she was a busybody.”
“Well actually, that doesn’t hurt,” Cookie conceded.
“Huh,” Maris said, tilting her head. “It makes sense. I had a feeling she might be one of the magic folk, but I would never have guessed aura reader.”
“If anyone has the pulse of the town,” Cookie said, “it’s Millicent and her bunch.”
Maris couldn’t agree more. “They told me Edwin took possession of the doctor’s house.”
“Oh yes, I heard about that,” Cookie said.
“So it’s true, then?”
“Oh indeed. Th
e town was buzzing about it for a while after it happened. Nobody should have to lose their house and family all at once like that. And somehow Edwin always managed to come out on top—which of course makes you wonder about Bryan.”
“What do you mean?”
“His father was one of the wealthiest men in Pixie Point Bay,” Cookie replied. “Why would his son need to work a job at the supermarket?”
“That’s a good point,” Maris said, considering for a few moments. Was it perhaps part of Bryan’s determination to be busy?
“Don’t forget about Millicent,” Cookie added. “She would have seen Edwin's aura. Maybe she could shed some light on his situation.”
“Definitely. Did I mention that Helen, one of the other women at the club, said whoever killed Edwin should get a medal?” She narrowed her eyes. “The crochet club knows more than they’re saying.”
“Of course they do,” Cookie replied. “That’s because they’re not a crochet club. Not really.” Seeing Maris’s look of confusion, she added, “They’re more like a cabal of busybodies. Practically a syndicate of spies, if you ask me. Those women see and hear everything, and it all ends up finding its way back to Millicent.”
“Interesting,” Maris said. “Sounds like it’s worth doing some more digging.”
A tiny, tinny, harmonica-like meow interrupted them, and drew Maris’s attention to the hallway. Mojo stood there, his orange eyes fixed on her. He meowed again, turned back to the hallway, and then looked at her over his shoulder. With one final meow, he padded away.
“I think I’m being paged,” Maris said, standing. Cookie got up as well and they both followed Mojo into the hallway, where he disappeared into the parlor.
In the elegant entertaining room, the ouija board sat in its usual place on the coffee table. What had once been a novelty for guests had become an object of greater interest for Maris since she’d discovered that Mojo liked to interact with it. Not only did he occasionally move the planchette, he sometimes spelled complete words.
This time, however, the fluffy cat ignored the ouija board, instead bouncing over to a box of tarot cards, which had overturned on the floor, the cards scattered everywhere. Cookie muttered something under her breath and moved to start picking them up, but Maris held a hand out.
“Hang on a second,” she said, watching as Mojo took a seat by the pile. He waited patiently, as if to make sure he had their attention, and then, ever so gently, he touched one of the cards with his paw. After a second or two, he reached out and touched it again, his movements deliberate.
As Mojo watched in seeming fascination, Maris picked it up. Turning it over, and then right side up, she read its title. “The Moon.”
Not surprisingly, it held an illustration of a crescent moon in the night sky. It hung low between two towers, illuminating a small body of water in the foreground. Out of this pool crawled a small crayfish, and beyond it in a grassy field were a dog and a wolf, their snouts turned upward as they howled.
“Any idea what this means?” she asked, handing the card to Cookie.
“Not a clue,” she said, “but there should be a little booklet that comes with the deck.”
Maris found it, still inside the box. “Let’s see,” she said. “According to this, I picked it up in the reversed position. In that case, the moon corresponds to repressed emotion, inner confusion, and the release of fear.”
She gave Cookie a puzzled look, while the chef lifted her shoulders as she handed the card back to Maris. “I’m not feeling particularly repressed.”
“And I don’t think either of us has much fear,” Maris said and looked down at Mojo, who seemed to be listening to them. “And you, Mojo, are you experiencing inner confusion?”
In answer, he simply gave his signature meow, and bounced out of the room.
Cookie stooped to pick up the cards. “Looks like Mojo found something else as well.” She picked it up and handed it to Maris. It was a candy bar wrapper.
Grimacing and feeling heat rise in her cheeks, Maris took it from her. Mojo must have gone into her purse. She’d need to start making sure it was zipped closed. She crumpled the wrapper in the palm of her hand.
“Looks like there’s more than one sleuth in the family,” Cookie remarked drily, but was good enough not to mention Maris’s diet.
“I’ll put away the cards,” Maris said, and quickly bent to the task.
12
With another successful evening of wine and cheese behind her, and the guests in their rooms or out to dinner, Maris rinsed the last few dishes before loading them in the dishwasher. Once that was done, she added the soap pod, set the machine running, and began the breakfast setup. Though she never managed to make it to the kitchen before Cookie in the morning, she tried to do her part. She ground just the right amount of coffee beans and put the grounds in a sealed container. She added water to the brewer and also the hot water dispenser. But there was no need to clean the stove, ovens, or microwave. Like any good craftsman, Cookie always left everything clean and organized for the next meal.
Maris was reaching out to the light switch to flick it off, when the sound of gentle tapping came from the back porch door. As she made her way through the hallway and front rooms, then back toward the porch’s vestibule, she couldn’t imagine who would be knocking at this hour. But when she saw through the glass who stood there, she was doubly puzzled.
“Slick,” she said, opening the door for the aged fisherman. “Goodness. What are you doing here?” She paused when she realized how that must have sounded. “I mean, it’s wonderful to see you.” She held her arms out for a hug. “But what brings you out at this hour?”
Like clockwork, in the early morning and late afternoon, he and his commercial fishing boat passed the lighthouse on his way to and from the open ocean. Even at this moment, he was dressed for the job wearing his bright yellow slicker and matching hat.
He took the pipe out of his mouth to return her embrace, his long white beard draping behind her shoulder. “Maris Seaver,” he said, holding her gently. Maris closed her eyes and breathed in the warm scent of a sunlit ocean. After a few moments he pulled back, but he held her at the shoulders. “How much you remind me of your aunt.”
Though he smiled, his soft voice carried a tinge of sadness, and Maris knew why. Though he and Glenda had both been in their eighties, they’d had a relationship. There was a familiar twinge in her chest.
“I miss her too,” Maris said.
His deeply green eyes seemed a bit misty, but he just nodded once as he let her go. Then he peered past her into the B&B. “There’s things that need to be discussed,” he said. “Alone. Why don’t you come down to the boat with me.”
That sounds ominous, Maris thought, but said, “Of course,” as she closed the door behind her.
Together they made their way down the stone steps carved into the rocks below the lighthouse, then out onto the narrow wood dock. Slick’s sky blue boat with its red and white trim, Seas the Day, was roped to the pier’s cleats. Above them, Claribel’s beam easily penetrated the darkness and revolved in a slow, comforting circle.
“Here,” he said, climbing aboard before extending a hand to her. “Come sit with me for a while.”
“Thank you,” Maris said, allowing him to help her up onto the boat.
Though tall and thin, Slick was incredibly strong, and Maris wondered if it was from his lifetime of fishing. He turned over a crate, brushed it off with his hand, and gestured for her to take a seat. Maris gratefully did so, not expecting to feel quite so unbalanced with just the small waves from the bay. Slick seemed to be having no problem at all.
Maris gazed around at the cluttered deck. “What’s that cage for?” she asked.
He picked it up. “Crabs,” he said, as though he was amused. “Did I ever tell you about the one that got away?” Maris shook her head. “It was as big as a suitcase.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Oh really. If it were that big, it wouldn’t have f
it in that cage.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Slick agreed. “I didn’t catch it in a cage. I was line fishing for striped marlin that day. Reeled it in by accident.”
Maris gave him an indulgent smile. “I see. And was it a world record of some sort? Biggest crab ever caught?”
Slick shook his head, a look of regret passing over his face. “Like I said, it got away.”
He nodded to the railing on the far edge of the boat. “Grabbed the boat right there.”
Maris obliged him with a glance to the railing, but then did a double take. Large, regular gouges scarred the edge and the side of it, the paint stripped in places. Though she might have only eaten crab a dozen times in her life, she could picture how the notches of an enormous claw could leave those marks. Her eyebrows rose.
“Just about had him aboard when he used his other claw to snip the line.” He made a cutting motion with his fingers. “Never seen the like.”
“No,” she said, finally taking her eyes from the damage. “I don’t imagine you have.”
For a few moments there was silence, nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the boat.
“But I didn’t bring you down here to tell you stories about crabs,” Slick said, setting aside the cage.
“No,” Maris agreed. “I expect you didn’t.”
“I’ll scupper the chit chat, then,” Slick said. “I heard that Martin guy—the credit union manager—died yesterday. Is that right?”
“Yes, I was there.”
“Right, that’s what I heard,” Slick said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” He took the pipe from his pocket. “You have a nose for these things, Maris.” He took out a plastic lighter. “I pass the man’s yacht when I’m coming and going at the pier. It’s moored not too far from where I dock.” He lit the pipe and took a few deep puffs.
“And?” Maris asked, leaning forward.
“I’m getting to it,” Slick replied, motioning her to slow down. “You and Glenda,” he said, teasingly, but looked into her eyes. “I saw someone on the yacht.”
