1 The Witch Who Settled the Account

by Emma Belmont

  “Only one person had access to everything that was needed for the crime,” Maris said. She began to tick the items off on her fingers. “The grapes, the fresh seafood, the keys to the credit union—for planting the receipt in Jessica’s desk and poisoning the grapes—and the keys to Edwin Martin’s car.” Slowly she turned to face Bryan. “The grapes disappeared after you arrived here, Bryan. You went into the kitchen to see your father, and you went by yourself. The doctor told you not to, but you didn’t listen. Then you went to the bathroom, and you were in there for quite some time. At first I thought you were sick from seeing your dead father, but I think you were really disposing of the grapes. Did you flush them? Is that what happened?”

  Millicent covered her mouth as she gasped, while Ashley and Jessica hugged each other. But all eyes, including Maris’s were now focused on Bryan.

  He raised his head and looked at her for a long time, not saying anything. Slowly, he crossed his arms in front of him and leaned back against the teller desk. If Maris didn’t know she’d just accused him of killing his own father, she’d say he was contemplating a chess move.

  “I guess this looks pretty bad for me, doesn’t it?” he asked at last, his voice calm but no longer surprisingly so.

  “Why did you do it, Bryan?” Maris asked.

  He pushed away from the desk and stepped closer to her. As she looked up at him, she hadn’t realized he was so tall. As Bryan stared down at her, Maris saw Mac stiffen out of the corner of her eye.

  “What do you want me to say?” the young man demanded. “That my dad was a cheapskate? That he cared about turning a profit more than his own son? Do you want me to tell you about how he starved me when I was a kid so I could ‘learn the value of money,’ or how I’m drowning in student debt because he refused to help me pay for school?” His reddening face twisted into a defiant glare. “Or what about how he kicked me out of the house, calling me a freeloader? Is that what you want to hear?” His hands bunched into fists at his sides, but his feet didn’t move.

  For a moment Maris caught a glimpse of a scared little boy and the father who didn’t give a fig for him. He glowered at all of them, turning in a slow circle. It was as if he was challenging them to say what he did was wrong.

  None of them did.

  “How cruel are the parents,” Mac said quietly, “who riches only prize.” Whether it was Robert Burns or Tom Hanks, it was incredibly appropriate, given the situation.

  Millicent set her crochet project on Edwin’s desk. “Terrible,” she muttered. “Just terrible.”

  Bryan turned to her, jutting out his chin.

  “Not this,” Millicent quickly added. “I mean that oxygen was too good for Edwin Martin, and I think we can all agree on that.”

  “I’d still have my family’s business,” Kristofer said quietly.

  “But,” Ashley said, tentatively, “what about Dr. Rossi?” She looked from Mac to Maris. “Who would want to kill him?”

  Maris fixed her gaze on Bryan again. “I’m sure you remember that day in the market when you cut your hand,” she said. “Dr. Rossi said he had something important to tell us about your father. I think he was planning to reveal the truth about his seafood allergy. You dropped the pickle jar as a diversion. In fact, you were willing to cut your own hand to keep him from talking.”

  Nostrils flaring and jaw muscles working, Bryan said, “Even if this all was true—which I’m not saying it is—you have no proof, Ms. Seaver, only accusations and theories.” His voice was chillingly calm.

  Millicent made a little “hmph” noise, but said nothing more.

  Mac gripped his utility belt and widened his stance. “I’m afraid that’s not true. Dr. Rossi has regained consciousness. He’s identified you as the driver in the hit and run, Bryan.”

  The young man’s expression fell, but he said nothing.

  “Bryan Martin,” Mac said, moving slowly across the room to him, “I am placing you under arrest for felony hit and run.” He reached behind him and brought out handcuffs.

  For a moment Maris wondered if Bryan was going to fight, or maybe make a break for it, but he seemed to deflate, even as she watched. As Mac recited his rights, the young man obliged by moving his hands behind his back. But when Mac was done, Bryan stared at Maris.

  “A hit and run carries a maximum prison sentence of four years,” Bryan said slowly and deliberately, “and a maximum fine of ten thousand dollars.” His composure was unnerving. “That’s all I have to say.”

  Mac nodded to Maris, who said, “Thank you for coming, everyone. I think we’re done.”

  For a few seconds, no one moved but then Mac slowly ushered Bryan to the door. The young man was back to simply staring at the floor, but as they passed her, Mac smiled and simply said, “Good work.”

  Slowly the others began to file out as well.

  “I hope,” Kristofer said, “that they send him to a low-security prison, the kind with windows. Because I’ll visit him and cut the glass myself. Poor kid.” Shaking his head, he gave Maris a long look. “I have a glazing job I need to get to. I’ll see you back at the lighthouse, Maris.”

  “See you later, Kristofer,” Maris replied. “I’ll be home before too long.”

  As she watched him go, she saw Mac putting Bryan in the back seat of the SUV. He reached across him and buckled the seat belt.

  “I can’t believe this,” said a voice at Maris’s shoulder. She turned to see Jessica, who’d regained some color and stopped biting her nails. The tension seemed to have drained from her but been replaced by exhaustion. “I take it this means I’m free to go?”

  Maris smiled at her. “Yes. I’m sure you are.”

  Jessica exhaled and let her hands drop to her sides. “It’s over. I really thought they were going to put me away for it.” She looked into Maris’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  Maris touched her shoulder. “I’m glad I could help.”

  For the first time since Maris had initially come to the credit union, Jessica actually smiled. “Before we re-open, I think I’ll make a cup of tea.” She turned to go, but paused. “And I am never buying grapes ever again.”

  Mac started up the SUV, but paused to give Maris a wave before he drove away. Good work, he’d said. She smiled as she turned back to the credit union. It did feel like good work. Bear had been right. Doing the right thing was always the right thing to do.

  Carrying her satchel of crocheting supplies, Millicent nearly trotted through the front door. “No time to waste,” she said to Maris, her gray curls bobbing. “The ladies will want to know every detail.” She waved goodbye without looking back. “Come crochet with us any time,” she said over her shoulder.

  That left Maris on the porch with Ashley. For a moment, neither of them spoke, simply looking after Millicent as she passed the red gazebo.

  The young teller pushed her glasses up her nose. “The credit union board has made me the interim manager,” she said.

  “Good for you,” Maris said. “Well deserved, if I may say so.” Maris regarded the young woman. “Planning any changes?”

  Ashley shook her head. “It’s just an interim thing, so I won’t have any real authority. But I think I’ll dig into the records a bit and see about Dr. Rossi’s house and Kristofer’s family shop. Something there smacks of dubious business practices. At the very least, the board will want to know and there might be an opportunity for some form of restitution.”

  “Well,” Maris said, “it sounds like you’ll be busy.” She paused and looked over Ashley’s shoulder into the building. “But not too busy I hope.” Ashley eyed her for a moment. “Because I still need to open an account.”

  28

  The sun had nearly settled to the horizon by the time Maris returned to the B&B. The Longacre family had just left for an early dinner. It seemed Kristofer was still out on his job, since his truck wasn’t out front. That left Maris with a bit of time before the Wine Down. She found Cookie in the living room, the fire already going, a b
ook in her hands, and a cup of tea at her side.

  Cookie looked up and took off her glasses. “How’d it go?”

  “Pretty much as expected,” Maris said, taking a seat. “I’m sure Bryan Martin killed his father, but he’s been arrested for the hit and run that put Dr. Rossi in the hospital.”

  The chef frowned a bit. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain that.”

  Maris recounted everything that had happened at the credit union. She finished with, “So Jessica’s been released, Ashley’s in charge, and I even opened an account.”

  “Millicent must have been over the moon with the whole thing,” Cookie said.

  Maris laughed a little, looking over at the fire when an ember popped. “Over Jupiter, more like.” She watched the flames for a moment, remembering the older woman’s ecstatic smile.

  “Glenda would have been proud of you,” Cookie said.

  Maris blinked at the sudden pronouncement and then looked at Cookie and grinned. “Do you really think so? I mean, after all, I’m the lightkeeper, not a police officer.”

  “Nonsense,” Cookie said, picking up her book. “What is a lightkeeper, after all? You tend and care for the lighthouse. In turn, it looks out for those in trouble.” She put her glasses back on. “I’d say you were doing exactly what you needed to be doing. She’d be proud.” With that, she went back to her book.

  Of all the things that Maris had expected from helping to solve the murder, feeling warm and fuzzy wasn’t one of them—but she’d take it. She got up and headed in the direction of the kitchen to start thinking about the cheeseboard and wine. But a telltale, harmonica-like meowing drew her attention to the floor.

  Mojo stood there, looking up at her with his big orange eyes. But when she stooped down to pick him up, he bounced away down the hallway. He paused, looked over his shoulder at her, and meowed again.

  Maris grinned at the little cat. She still had plenty of time before she needed to start the cheeseboard, so she followed him. He went all the way back to her room, through it, and pawed the utility room door.

  “I’ll open it,” she told him sternly. “But we are not going into that basement.”

  Then, to her surprise when she opened the door, he bounded right across the narrow room to the doorway that led to the lighthouse tower. He pawed that one too.

  “You want to visit Claribel?” she asked, opening that door as well.

  He trotted through, went directly to the first stair, and jumped up to it. As Maris approached him, he sat down but looked up the spiral staircase.

  “Oh,” she said, hands on hips. “So you don’t want to be picked up in the house, but now that we’re out here, you won’t climb up.”

  He gave his signature meow.

  Although she shook her head, she scooped him up. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she muttered. But she was immediately rewarded with a soft purr.

  At the top of the tower, the evening was clear and gorgeous. The amber ball of the sun had begun to flatten against the skyline. Claribel’s beam circled slowly above, as it always had. But to Maris’s eyes, it seemed to sparkle brighter today. When Mojo squirmed and she let him down, she suddenly remembered his moment on the ouija board. He’d pushed the planchette over the sun symbol.

  “Did you mean ‘son’ as in Bryan?” she asked him, hardly believing she was saying it out loud.

  Although he ignored her as he sat and licked his front paw, her mind flashed back to him picking a tarot card as well. She and Cookie had looked at it.

  “The one with the moon and crayfish,” she muttered in amazement. Had that been an allusion to the shellfish allergy? There was no way Maris could be sure, but she resolved to take more interest in Mojo’s talent with magical objects.

  The sound of a horn giving three short toots drew her attention back to the water. Seas the Day was passing by, Slick returning after a day of fishing. She gave the old man’s silhouette a wave, smiling even though he couldn’t see her. He’d told her to follow her heading and it’d lead her to the truth. But what it’d really led her to was a new life and a sense of belonging in it.

  “You know, Mojo,” she said, stooping and picking him up. She ran her fingers through the soft hair between his ears. “I think I’m going to like this lightkeeper’s gig.”

  As if in answer, he nuzzled her hand and gave her a tiny, tinny meow.

  Another Pixie Point Bay book awaits you in The Witch Who Saw A Star (Pixie Point Bay Book 2).

  For a sneak peek, turn the page.

  Sneak Peek

  The Witch Who Saw A Star

  Excerpt

  CHAPTER ONE

  Maris Seaver looked at her watch and frowned. Despite the fog that surrounded the optics room of the lighthouse, she had expected to hear Slick’s boat as he went by. Yet, at the appointed time when the three short toots of the horn would have sounded, she had heard nothing.

  Could I have missed him?

  Slick and Seas the Day, his commercial fishing boat, were as punctual as Big Ben and as consistent as the rise of the sun. Nor did the fog deter him. Water was second-nature to the elderly mariner. He’d been boating in Pixie Point Bay, and the ocean beyond, for decades. Although the Old Girl’s beam was circling up above as it always did, Maris knew he didn’t need it.

  She brought the watch to her ear—it was ticking. Once again she peered out into the soupy white mist but the view of the bay was completely obscured. Only the lighthouse’s small dock and the rocks directly below were visible.

  I must have missed him.

  As she checked the time yet again, she realized how late the hour was becoming. She had a B&B to run, and it was time—past time—to get back to it. With a sigh, she reluctantly turned away from the bay.

  But as she passed the fresnel lens, she gave its base a gentle pat and said, “Keep an eye out for him, Claribel.” If anyone could, it was the magical lighthouse.

  Maris made her way down the spiral metal staircase and exited the conical white tower, choosing to walk down the side of the two-story Victorian home. The cool and salty mist enveloped her, and she could hear the waves on the rocks below the point. She mounted the steps to the back porch, passed through its vestibule and the front rooms, and followed her nose.

  “What smells like heaven?” Maris asked, as she entered the kitchen. Cookie was at the stove.

  “Just a little something I whipped up,” Cookie said, with a smile. She eyed Maris’s skirt and heels. “That’s a pretty combination.”

  Like her Aunt Glenda, Maris favored skirts, low heels, and frilly blouses. Today she was dressed in a cornflower blue layered skirt, matching open-toed shoes, and a ruffled white blouse.

  Ruth “Cookie” Calderon was wearing a short-sleeved cotton dress with her usual large, bright floral print, though it was mostly covered with an apron.

  “Thank you,” Maris said. “And you’re looking your usual vibrant self.” She looked over the smaller woman’s shoulder. French toast was turning a golden brown in one of the skillets and she could see that Cookie was using her own homemade Italian panettone as the bread. “Genius,” Maris said, her mouth watering at the wonderfully sweet scent. “What can I do to help?”

  Though Maris wasn’t sure, she thought Cookie hesitated.

  After twenty-five grinding years in the hospitality industry, Maris pitched in wherever she could at the B&B, almost out of habit. But she also didn’t want the seventy year old chef overdoing it. With shoulder length, salt and pepper hair that was more salt than pepper these days, Cookie had been at the B&B with Maris’s aunt for decades.

  “Eggs, sunny side up, are on the menu today,” the older woman said. “And sliced almond bread for toast.”

  “I’m on it,” Maris said.

  She took one of the skillets standing by, lit a burner for it, and set it in place. After she added the butter, she went to the egg basket and fetched three fresh eggs. As she waited for the butter to melt, she unwrapped the loaf of almond bread.<
br />
  Seeing that the butter was beginning to sizzle, Maris turned down the heat, picked up an egg and cracked it on the edge of the iron skillet. But as she opened it over the pan, a tiny bit of shell fell with the raw egg.

  “Rats,” she said, looking around for something to fetch it out. She spotted the butter knife. But the shell was under the egg white, which was already cooking. As she tried to scrape it to the edge, she accidentally hit the yolk, which began to run. “Rats.”

  “Over hard,” Cookie said calmly. “I like eggs that way as well.”

  Maris looked at her, and Cookie must have realized she didn’t understand. With a deft movement, she used the spatula already in her hand and flipped the egg over. Now the shell was on top. She held her hand out for the butter knife, and used it to flick the bit of shell onto the counter.

  “Never crack an egg on the edge of the pan or a bowl,” she said quietly, as she picked one up. “You basically force the broken shell up into the egg.” She held it over the cutting board on the counter. “Always on the side, against something flat.” Using just one hand, she cracked it, took it to the pan, and opened it. A perfectly whole yolk landed in the middle of the white, without a trace of shell. By now the first egg was done, and Cookie moved that to a waiting plate. She smiled at Maris. “Your turn.”

  But no matter how hard she tried, Maris simply couldn’t keep from breaking the yolk: they caught on the shell; the yolk landed too hard; she even dropped the broken shell halves on top of one. She eyed the egg basket and how many were left.

  “Shall I finish that?” Cookie asked, apparently seeing the same thing.

  By the time Maris looked up from her collection of ruined eggs, the French toast and hash browns were in their warming trays—all done. Maris blinked at them.