1 The Witch Who Settled the Account

by Emma Belmont

  With the chores done, Maris wandered back to her room, which had once been Aunt Glenda’s. As she passed the armoire, her gaze drifted up to her aunt’s silk brocade boudoir box. When she’d first arrived back at the B&B, Maris had found her aunt’s paperwork in it: insurance policies, the deed to the property, and miscellaneous receipts and warranties. But what had been conspicuous by its absence was a beautiful item from Maris’s childhood.

  Glenda had possessed a faceted green stone in the shape of an inverted cone. It’d been hung on a delicate silver chain and Maris had always wanted to wear it. But her aunt had told her that it wasn’t meant to be worn, because it wasn’t a pendant. Instead it was a pendulum.

  But when she’d found its small case in the boudoir box, it’d been empty.

  Ever since then, she’d wondered where the pendulum had gone, and the occasional bout of nostalgia and curiosity prompted her to search for it again, even though she knew the odds of finding it were slim.

  “It has to be somewhere,” she said.

  Over time, she had replaced her aunt’s clothes with her own, turning out the pockets before putting them away in storage to make sure the pendulum wasn’t tucked away somewhere. But so far, she had turned up nothing. Perhaps it had fallen into some nook or cranny that she just hadn’t noticed yet.

  Knowing her efforts were probably futile, she pulled the bed away from the wall and glanced behind it before checking the dresser drawers, the back of the armoire, the dressing table, and the nightstand.

  Nothing.

  Oh well, she thought, putting her hands on her hips. When it’s meant to turn up, it will turn up.

  A familiar meow made her look down to find Mojo looking back up at her.

  “Hey there, Mojo,” she said, stooping to pick him up.

  For a few moments she listened to his contented purring, until she realized he was staring at the wall. Was he watching a spider? But when she followed his gaze, it landed on something that made her frown. Hanging from an empty coat hook near the door was an old, intricate skeleton key.

  The key.

  She knew all too well where that key led: the basement door in the utility room––the dreaded basement. Maris glanced down at Mojo, raising her eyebrows.

  “You think the pendulum is in the basement?” she asked.

  He gave her a plaintive, little mew.

  “Really?” she said, looking at the key again. Just the sight of it made her palms damp.

  It had almost seemed fated that, during her constant travel from one poorly managed resort to another, she’d eventually get trapped in an elevator. Management had concluded that it was improper maintenance, but no matter the cause, she’d been stuck for three hours without communication or even emergency lighting. She’d considered jumping to reach the ceiling, maybe being able to punch through it and grab something to get out—like they did in the movies. But then she’d worried that landing with a thud after jumping might cause the whole thing to plummet to the ground. In the end she’d opted for standing as still as she could while she screamed for help. Eventually it came. But she’d been slightly claustrophobic ever since.

  Mojo still in her arms, Maris squared her shoulders, grabbed the key, and headed across her room to the utility room door. Inside there was a trapdoor on the floor that led to the basement.

  Maris shuddered.

  Large black hinges matched the heavy lock and handle. She could already hear the massive tumblers scraping against one another, the sound supplied by her memory. She’d watched Glenda open it many times as a child, and had delighted in running down its dark stairs.

  A cold sweat trickled in the small of her back. Nor did it help matters that Mojo had gone rigid and seemed to be glaring at the trapdoor. But more than anything, it was her photographic memory that made her feet feel rooted. She could remember every minute of those three hours in that elevator.

  The shrill ring of the cell phone in her pocket made her flinch, as Mojo yowled and leapt to the ground. When she finally managed to take a breath, she yanked out the phone. It was Mac.

  “Mac,” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness.”

  There was a pause on the other end before he said, “Ah, hi, Maris. Thank goodness?”

  She hurried out of the utility room and let the door close behind her. “Oh, it’s just that I was grateful for the distraction,” she said quickly. “Not that you’re a distraction. I just meant that… Never mind.” She took a breath. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve caught a break,” he said. “We found Edwin Martin’s car.”

  Maris stood still. “Really? Where?”

  “You know Jessica Cash at the credit union?” Mac asked.

  “Of course,” Maris said, remembering the tense exchange between Edwin and Jessica the day he had died. He’d been ordering her around like a personal servant.

  “It’s parked outside her apartment building.” Maris sucked in a breath. “It’s been impounded,” Mac continued. “Forensics is taking a look at it. But that’s not the only reason I’m calling. I’ve got a search warrant for the clinic.”

  “Should I meet you there?” Maris asked.

  “If you’d like,” Mac said. “I could use your…insight.”

  17

  Maris parked in front of Inklings New & Used Books which was adjacent to the medical clinic. Three stories tall and four windows wide, the Victorian storefront was white with blue trim and one of the bigger establishments on the Towne Plaza.

  The two larger display windows flanking the double doors held paperbacks, hardcovers, and what looked like a collection of antique maps and old photos. It was one of the few places in Pixie Point Bay that Maris had never particularly shopped at. Even as a child, she had been more interested in helping Aunt Glenda, or listening to her records, or playing with the ouija board.

  But as it sometimes does, reading had grown on her as she’d gotten older. No matter where she’d had to travel in the world, she found that a book was not just a reliable companion but a respite. Now she found herself eyeing the pretty bookshop from the rental car, wondering if she would be able to sneak in before having to meet Mac. Judging by the fact that his SUV wasn’t anywhere in the plaza, she could assume he hadn’t arrived yet.

  As if on cue, her phone chimed and she fetched it from her purse. It was a text from Mac. He’d run into traffic and was going to be late.

  That settles it, she thought, as she grabbed her purse and got out. It’s time for some window shopping.

  She walked up to the display on the left, where there was an arrangement of new releases by authors she recognized as well as ones that were new to her. Of course her favorite books often involved travel to faraway places. Sometimes she’d even been lucky enough to match a book to the spot on the globe where she was working. Fiction or non-fiction, it didn’t matter. She’d read anything from memoirs and travelogues to romances and thrillers. Even now she could see a few titles that looked interesting.

  But before she went inside, she was drawn to the maps and photos in the other display window. Some of the old photographs were printed on glossy paper, while others had a matte finish. A few were yellowing and tattered around the edges, preserved in plastic sleeves. But upon closer examination, Maris could see that these weren’t just any collection of antique images. They were old pictures of the town.

  Maris peered in at them and couldn’t help but wonder if there might be one of the lighthouse, or Aunt Glenda, or maybe other relatives. Her family had been in Pixie Point Bay for multiple generations. Seeing all the photos of the town and its people, she wondered if it might be nice to frame something genealogical to display at the B&B. She decided to get a closer look.

  Inside, the bookstore was as lovely as the outside, and incredibly clean and tidy. Bookshelves with neatly organized books ran the length of the building. Tucked in the corners were shiny wooden tables with comfortable reading chairs arranged around them. Tiffany lamps cast their soft, multi-colored light, givin
g the place an almost enchanted glow. Potted plants of all shapes and sizes hung from the ceiling, taking advantage of the ample sunlight afforded by the front windows. There was even a tangle of ivy on the back wall. Maris hadn’t even thought it was possible to grow ivy indoors. On the front counter, sat a large, glass dispenser of what smelled like apple cider next to a stack of paper cups.

  Maris chided herself for not having visited earlier. As she headed towards another arrangement of photos she spotted towards the back, a young Asian woman appeared from one of the aisles.

  “Welcome to Inklings,” she said, smiling and holding a few books in her arms. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Just browsing,” Maris said, smiling back at the diminutive woman. With long black hair, and sparkling eyes, she appeared to be in her mid-forties. “I’m just fascinated with these photos you have displayed. Do you have any of the lighthouse? I’m the owner.”

  “Oh,” the woman exclaimed. She set her books on the nearest shelf and extended a hand. “I’m Minako Page. My husband, Alfred, and I are the owners.”

  Maris shook her hand. “I’m Maris Seaver. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Welcome to Pixie Point Bay,” Minako said, cheerily. “I don’t mind telling you that when Glenda passed away, some folks were worried that would be the end of the B&B. Or worse, that it would be bought up by developers and turned into some kind of mega-resort. With a property like that, it wouldn’t surprise me.” She picked up the books again.“Anyway, it’s nice to see it stay in the family.”

  “I appreciate you saying that,” Maris told her, as they walked to the other photo display.

  Minako turned to the pictures. “I don’t think we have any of the lighthouse on display right now, but undoubtedly there are some in storage.”

  “How’d you manage to track them down? Some of them look ancient.”

  “I was an archivist in another life,” Minako replied, “and archives are forever, as they say.” She laughed a little. “I find myself researching all manner of Pixie Point Bay history. But it’s more of a hobby now.”

  “No kidding,” Maris said. “That sounds fascinating.” She gestured to the photos. “And it makes for a wonderful display.”

  “Alfred seems to think so,” Minako replied, her eyes smiling.

  One photo in particular jumped out at Maris. It was of a Victorian storefront marked “Klaas’s Glass.” In front of the store stood a man who was…Kristofer Klaas. Although the man in the image wore period clothing that included a bowler hat, the face was Kristofer’s, right down to the handlebar mustache. Of course it couldn’t be him, since he wasn’t over one-hundred years old, but the resemblance was nothing short of astonishing.

  She was just about to ask Minako about it, when there was movement outside the store, in the corner of her eye. Mac’s SUV was pulling up outside the medical clinic.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got to go,” she told the store owner. “But you have a lovely shop, and I’ll most definitely be back. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” Minako said, inclining her head, before Maris headed to the door.

  18

  By the time Maris made it out to the front of the medical clinic, Mac was already standing outside.

  “Maris,” he said, his expression brightening. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I got detoured around construction.”

  Maris shook her head, happy to see him. “Not at all. I was just browsing that wonderful bookstore.”

  Mac looked over her shoulder at it for a moment before he said, “Shall we go inside?”

  Jill was still at the reception desk, typing away at a computer. She looked up when they entered. “Back already, Sheriff?”

  “Yes,” Mac replied, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. “I have a search warrant for the clinic’s medical records.” He opened the envelope, pulled out the search warrant, and handed it to her. He waited as she looked it over. When she gazed back up at him, he said, “Can you show us where they are?”

  “Sure thing,” Jill replied, setting down the paperwork before showing them to a room at the very end of the hall. She pulled the door open to reveal a row of filing cabinets as well as stacks of cardboard boxes. If Maris had to guess, she’d say the complete medical records of everyone in Pixie Point Bay were in here.

  Possibly everyone in the county, she thought.

  “Whose record are you looking for?” Jill asked.

  “Edwin Martin’s,” Mac replied.

  “Of course,” Jill said. She looked from one filing cabinet drawer to the next, reading their labels. Finally she crouched down and pulled out the bottom drawer of one. “Let’s see,” she said to herself. “M, A, R…” Her fingers walked across the tops of the different colored folders, and stopped on one in particular. “Martin,” she said, and pulled it out with a small grunt from the tightly packed drawer. She stood and handed it over to Mac. “That should have everything: immunizations, visit notes, prescriptions, the works.”

  “Great,” Mac said, taking it. For a moment, there was an awkward pause.

  “Right,” Jill said quickly. “I’ll let you get to it. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “Thank you,” Mac said and began to rifle through the manilla folder. When the door closed, he said, “What I didn’t mention to Nurse Maxwell is that I have the coroner’s report. What I’m here to do is corroborate something.”

  “Oh,” Maris said, and waited for him to complete his search. Corroborate what, she thought, but let him work in silence.

  Finally he stopped, and pulled out one of the papers. “Here it is.”

  “What does it say?” Maris asked, not bothering to ask what ‘it’ might be.

  Mac read silently for a moment, his gray eyes scanning back and forth over the page. Finally he stopped and closed the folder. “This confirms it.”

  “Confirms what?” Maris replied, about to burst.

  “Edwin didn’t choke to death on the food he was eating,” Mac replied. “He died of anaphylaxis.”

  “An allergic reaction?” she asked, surprised. “Are people allergic to grapes?”

  “It’s a rare allergy, from what I’ve been told,” the sheriff said. “I think it’s more likely that it was a reaction to something on the grapes.”

  “Any idea what Edwin was allergic to?” Maris asked.

  “According to Dr. Rossi,” Mac said, running a finger down the page and stopping. “Shellfish, according to this allergy test.” He looked up at her. “The coroner found traces of seafood protein in his stomach, along with high histamine levels. That points to an allergic reaction. The thing is, none of the food at the credit union tested positive for those proteins.”

  “That points to the grapes,” Maris said. “Whoever killed Edwin must have done something to them and then disposed of them.”

  “Exactly,” Mac agreed.

  “It can’t have been easy to live in a place like Pixie Point Bay with a shellfish allergy,” Maris remarked, glancing back down at the coroner’s report.

  “According to this, Edwin didn’t develop the allergy until he was an adult,” Mac said. “It was a recent thing. Which the coroner said can happen sometimes—a person developing an allergy later in life.”

  “I see,” Maris said, frowning. There’d been no hint of shellfish of any sort at the credit union that day. Had he eaten something earlier?

  Mac folded up the medical file with the coroner’s report inside. “I’ve got to go over to Jessica Cash’s apartment building.”

  “You don’t actually think Jessica had something to do with this, do you?” Maris asked him. As nasty as Edwin had been to the young teller that day, she couldn’t imagine her being the mastermind behind his… Allergic reaction? Poisoning?

  He tucked the folder under his arm. “Frankly, my gut says no,” he said. “But I don’t get to make that call. Edwin Martin’s car was found at her building. I’m going to question all of the residents a
bout their whereabouts at the time of the hit-and-run, not just her. It’s plain old fashioned police work.”

  “Well, good,” Maris said, as he went to the door, “I’m glad she’s not a primary suspect.”

  Mac opened the door and held it for her. “We can choose either to approach our fellow human beings with suspicion,” he said, “or to approach them with an open mind, a dash of optimism and a great deal of candor.”

  Maris looked sideways at him. “More Robert Burns?”

  Mac smiled at her. “Tom Hanks.”

  19

  Maris made the short car trip from downtown Pixie Point Bay to the lighthouse, a pretty journey under any circumstance, but particularly now as dappled sunlight filtered through the oaks that lined the road. Maybe it was the vintage photos at the bookstore, or that she was returning to her own Victorian home, but somehow she had the distinct feeling of traveling back in time. The drive and its lush views of the green countryside had probably changed little, even from an era when cars had not been commonplace. By the time Maris parked at the B&B she felt as if she’d traveled lightyears from the town.

  As usual for this time of day, the house was empty and Cookie was out in the back. Maris found her among the patch of herbs that she tended as if it were her child.

  “Maris,” Cookie said, looking up from her digging and dusting the dirt off her hands. “Where are you coming from?”

  “The medical clinic,” Maris replied. “The sheriff asked me to meet him there. He had some more information about Edwin Martin.”

  “Oh?” Cookie said, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “It turns out he didn’t choke on grapes,” Maris said. “He died from an allergic reaction.”

  “Good heavens,” Cookie said, dropping her hand. “It must have been a severe allergy. What was he allergic to?”