by Emma Belmont
Maris put away her wallet. “I’ll catch up with you later, Eugene. I can see you’re busy. Do put it on my tab.”
He gave her a grateful look. “Thank you, Maris.” As she headed to the door, he called out after her, “Keep your pepper dry.”
She smiled and gave him a quick wave, and then exited to the sidewalk.
“Phew,” she exhaled.
If she and Cookie thought they were busy, Delia’s Smokehouse was setting a new standard. Despite the new employees, Eugene was going to be exhausted at the end of the day.
But as Maris headed back to her car across the busy plaza, she realized two things: the disappearance of the credit card reader was the second missing item in as many visits, and she didn’t have a tab.
3
In the shade of the side porch of the B&B, Maris, Cookie, and Bear settled down for their lunch. Although the B&B’s diminutive chef and their outsized handyman would typically be working in the garden on such a beautiful day, it was all hands on deck when the lightkeeper’s house was full to capacity. Even so, they always made time for lunch. As usual, Maris placed two of the sandwiches in front of Bear, leaving one each for her and Cookie. The fresh lemonade had already been poured.
“Thank you, Maris,” he said, staring at the wrapped subs.
As usual, their handyman’s full beard was as nicely trimmed as his dark, short cropped hair. The white t-shirt, under the blue bib apron of his overalls, was clean and stretched just a bit over his burgeoning middle. With a delicate touch that belied the big hands, he carefully began to unwrap his first sandwich.
“You’re welcome, Bear,” she replied.
His face lit up when he saw what was inside. “Po’ Boys.”
“Really?” Cookie said, unwrapping hers as Maris did the same.
Ruth “Cookie” Calderon was a spry and petite seventy-year old. Aunt Glenda’s best friend, she’d been living and cooking at the B&B for decades. Her salt and pepper hair—though mostly salt now—fell straight and was shoulder length. As she regarded her sandwich, her dark eyes glimmered. She looked down at her food with a critical eye that made Maris pause.
“This must be a new menu item,” the chef said.
Though Bear had picked up his sandwich and was poised to take a bite, he paused as well.
“It is,” Maris said, watching the diminutive woman turn the opened wrapper, slowly spinning the sandwich in place.
“Good presentation,” Cookie said.
Barbecued jumbo shrimp with a nice helping of smoky sauce was cradled on pillowy soft New Orleans-style French rolls with paper thin crusts. Thin-sliced heirloom tomatoes were layered on the shrimp, and Delia’s house slaw topped the tomatoes.
The chef picked it up. “Very fresh bread,” she said nodding. “More important to a sandwich than most people realize. But the real test?”
She took a bite—not from the end and not from the middle, but somewhere in-between.
Maris exchanged a look with Bear, as Cookie slowly chewed.
Suddenly Cookie bobbed her head, and made the “Mmmm” sound that signaled something delicious. She set the sandwich down and gave them an emphatic okay sign.
Bear immediately took a bite, but Maris took a moment to breathe a little sigh of relief. She’d never known Delia or Eugene to serve anything but the freshest and best. But even they might be able to take a misstep with a new item. It was odd how the individual ingredients in a dish could be excellent, and yet the combination was off. As she took her first bite though, Maris knew they had another winner on their hands.
The bread was so soft as to be almost non-existent. Instead, it was the taste of the crispy shrimp that really came through. A touch of spice from the thick sauce, along with the smoke of the BBQ, helped to highlight the seafood. The cool and sweet tomato was a great compliment. But finally, it was the house slaw that provided that slight bit of crunchy texture that filled the mouth perfectly. Maris couldn’t help but bob her head too. The cole slaw was great on its own—a vibrant combination of green and red cabbage with shredded carrots, all enveloped in just a thin coating of dressing—but on the sandwich it was genius.
“Do you taste the Dijon mustard and celery seed in the slaw?” Cookie asked, smiling. “Very inventive.”
Maris covered her mouth with one hand. “I’d never have thought of putting shrimp in a sandwich.”
Bear wiped his mouth and beard with a napkin. “Very good,” he declared quickly, before taking another bite.
For some moments, the three of them simply enjoyed their food outside in the glorious weather. Brilliant sunshine rained down on Cookie’s herb garden, and poured into the greenhouse beyond it. A light briny breeze from the bay gently stirred the plants as well as providing some relief from the midday heat.
“What are you working on today, Bear?” Cookie asked.
He was just opening his second sandwich and, for a moment, Maris wondered if she shouldn’t have got him three. His fingers paused, and he looked at the chef. “Time to take care of the Old Girl’s optic house.” When he looked to the top of the lighthouse, Cookie and Maris did the same. “I need to pack some grease into the ball bearings.”
Maris looked at him. “Ball bearings?”
“The mechanism that turns the fresnel lens,” he said, and made a small circling motion with his finger. “At the center of the base are the ball bearings that allow it to spin.”
Of course, Maris thought. It’d never occurred to her what it actually took to make the beam turn. As she continued to gaze up at it, she wondered what else she didn’t know about the Old Girl.
“You have to grease it?” Cookie asked, sandwich in hand.
Bear nodded his big head. “It’s not sealed.” He paused and, when there seemed to be no more questions, he dug into his next sandwich.
With still half of her sandwich remaining, Cookie put it down and wrapped it back up. “This will be good later.”
Though Maris could easily have eaten the whole thing, she did as the thinner and healthier chef did—though with some disappointment.
“How was town?” the chef asked, as she picked up her lemonade.
“Incredibly busy,” Maris said, wrapping the Po’ Boy. “And a little strange.”
“Oh?” Cookie said. “The busy I understand, since it’s festival time. But the strange?”
Maris recounted the two missing objects from the two different owners.
Cookie smirked a little. “A crystal ball, eh?” She nodded. “I’d have put him down as an astrologer with all his knowledge of the stars and such. Very interesting.”
“But someone stole it?” Bear asked.
He’d finished both his sandwiches and had been sitting back, but now leaned forward.
Maris nodded. “According to Howard, it’s always in the same spot and now it’s nowhere to be found.”
“Same with Eugene’s credit card reader?” Cookie asked.
“Yep,” Maris replied. “It’s always behind the hostess podium.” She picked up her lemonade. “I’ve seen him take it from there a dozen times at least.” She took a tart sip. “So that makes two.”
“Three,” Bear said. Maris and Cookie both whipped their heads around to stare at him. “My honey.”
“Oh no,” Cookie exclaimed. “From the hive?”
Bear shook his head quickly. “No. The bees wouldn’t permit it. I’m the only one allowed.” He gazed down at the deck. “I had a jar in my truck.” He ducked his head sheepishly. “I was bringing it to you.”
“Well,” Maris said, “thank you anyway. But you say you put it in your truck and it disappeared?”
“After I stopped for gas at Flour Power,” he said. “I thought that if someone was really hungry enough to take it, they could have it. That was fine. The bees make a lot, so I can bring more tomorrow.”
Maris had to smile at the big softy.
“That was this morning?” Cookie asked him.
Bear nodded. “I went inside to pay my bill
. When I came back it was gone.”
“Do you know what time?” Maris asked.
Bear slowly combed his fingers through his beard. “Close to eight o’clock.”
“Were there any strangers there?” Maris asked. “Anyone you didn’t recognize?”
He nodded. “Lots. It’s festival time. Fabiola and Jude were both busy.”
Flour Power Sandwiches & Gas was part filling station, part sandwich shop, and part auto repair. The young couple from Haiti were likely experiencing their first festival as well.
“Hmm,” Maris said, thinking back to the plaza. “I was at the market about three hours after you were at the station. Then I picked up the sandwiches about half past noon.”
“Plenty of time to make it from one spot to the next,” the chef concluded. She scooted back her chair. “Well, I’ve got to go move that laundry to the dryer.” She picked up her sandwich and turned to Maris. “Thanks for picking up lunch. That was fantastic.”
Bear stood as well. “Thank you, Maris. It was delicious.” He finished off his glass of juice with an appreciative “Ah.” Cookie took his glass along with hers. “Thank you, Cookie.” He looked at Maris as she stood too. “Time for the bearings.”
Maris picked up her sandwich and empty glass. “Thanks, Bear. For me, I think it’s time for some cleaning.”
4
As Maris followed Cookie into the house, one of the guests was just coming down the steps.
“Good timing,” Bowdie Johnson said.
Maris paused in the hallway, smiling. “Bowdie,” she said. “Timing is everything, they say.”
“In music and life,” the young man agreed.
Maris had already learned that the blues guitarist’s name was a sort of shortening of his real name: Beau de Glen Johnson. He was a young looking forty, with light brown hair, a stubble mustache, and steel blue eyes. Painfully thin, his oversized bling made him look even thinner. From the various festival posters, she also knew that he was one of the headliners. Like the other musicians, he’d arrived ahead of the start of the festival.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
He nodded at her sandwich leftovers. “I’m just about to head off and forage for lunch. I was wondering if you could give me a recommendation.”
“I’d be delighted,” she said, and hefted the sandwich. “And I can start with a whole hearted recommendation for Delia’s Smokehouse, specializing in all manner of barbecue, not to mention some sizzling sauces. We just enjoyed their BBQ Shrimp Po’ Boy sandwich. Truly excellent.”
“Smells great,” he agreed.
“I have some menus for Delia’s,” she said. “And, if BBQ and spice aren’t your thing, but sandwiches are, there’s Flour Power Sandwiches & Gas just outside of town. Excellent fresh coffee and pastries there too.” She gazed out the library’s large window toward the bay. “But if you have a little time and would appreciate something a bit more upscale, then I can recommend Plateau 7. You’ll need a reservation, but the French cuisine and the amazing view simply cannot be beat.”
He considered for a moment, and stuck his hands into the pockets of his black, skinny-fit jeans. “I think I’ll try the place on the bay.”
Maris smiled and nodded. “A great choice. Let me get one of their cards for you.” She went to the dining room, fetched an elegant and simple business card from a drawer of the sideboard, and brought it back. Bowdie had moved into the library and was looking out the window.
“I can’t believe how clear it is,” he said, “after that thick fog this morning.”
“Every morning,” she said, pausing to look out as well.
“Every morning?” he said. Then he glanced in the direction of the lighthouse. “I guess that’s why you need the beacon.”
“Exactly,” Maris said, handing him the business card. “It’s hard to make out the restaurant from here.” She pointed in its direction. “But you can definitely see the lighthouse from there.”
He looked up the coast and then gazed down at the card. “Super, thanks.”
As he tucked it into his back pocket, she said, “Will you have time on your visit to see any of the sights? We have kayaks and paddleboards at the dock below the lighthouse.”
He pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I’m not really one for sports. I had to give all that up when I was a kid.” He raised his hands and wriggled his fingers slightly. “I have to protect my hands.”
Maris nodded, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, of course. That should have occurred to me. Your hands are your living.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” he agreed. “But really, when I was young, there was no time. It was guitar, morning, noon, and night—mostly night.” He smiled a little. “While the other guys were shooting hoops or playing video games, I was sneaking into bars to hear the bands.”
Since he still looked like a gangly teenager, Maris could almost picture it. “So, not exactly a conventional childhood.”
Bowdie laughed. “It is if you play the blues. I even took up smoking to roughen up my voice, trying to sound and look older.” Maris’s eyebrows flew up, and he held up his hand. “But I’ve stopped. That was definitely not the smartest move of my life—plus it didn’t work. I’ve been thrown out of more bars than I can count.” He rubbed his stubble. “Until the facial hair. That was a life saver.”
Bowdie had a baritone quality to his voice. Not as rumbling and low as a deep bass, but still very pleasant. Maris couldn’t imagine actually trying to mar it.
Just then, the musician’s stomach rumbled, and he covered it with both hands. He laughed a little. “But man does not live on a steady diet of the blues alone. I guess I better get a move on. Thanks for the tips.”
She watched as he headed to the front door, before turning toward the kitchen. He was right—the Po’ Boy leftovers did smell good. She’d better put them away before she finished them.
5
As the late afternoon sun slanted through the B&B’s many gabled windows, the day’s chores were just coming under control. Maris and Cookie had spent almost the entire day with all their usual tasks. While the chef saw to her kitchen and the bathrooms, Maris took care of turning down the beds, dusting, and vacuuming. Cookie washed the sheets and towels, and Maris folded and put everything away. As she took out the trash, Cookie made sure that enough toiletries and healthy snacks were on hand. Occasionally the phone would ring for a reservation, but mostly they bustled back and forth.
Downstairs in the hallway, Cookie had paused outside the kitchen, and caught Maris’s eye as she left the library. The chef put her hands on her hips. “I’d say we’ve earned a nice cup of tea.”
“If not the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval,” Maris agreed. “Let me just put away this duster.”
Cookie chuckled. “I’ll put the water on the boil.”
But as they started for the kitchen, a tiny, tinny harmonica-like meow stopped them.
“Mojo,” Maris said. “Where have you been?”
More than likely her slightly pudgy and entirely fluffy little black cat had been taking his usual nap in their room. His big orange eyes stared up at her and, in answer, he gave her another meow, sounding a bit insistent now.
“I think you’re being paged,” the chef said.
Although Maris went over to give him a pet, he didn’t wait for her. Instead he quickly turned and bounced into the parlor.
“Bait and switch,” Cookie said, but the two of them followed him in.
There, he lightly leapt up to the coffee table and sat next to the Ouija board.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Maris said lowly.
Cookie came to her side. “Do you think this has to do with the thefts?” she whispered.
Maris shrugged a little. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, “but I sure hope so.”
As they fell silent, Mojo seemed to settle in, his eyes focused on some unseen place in the distance. His tail went still and his whiskers froze in p
lace, while all the energy of his little body seemed to be channeled into his ears. The downy triangles went into overdrive, spinning one way and then the other, as though his “voices of the spirits” radar was homing in on something only he could hear.
Maris and Cookie exchanged a look. As many times as Maris had seen this, she could still hardly believe it was happening. Neither she nor the chef doubted Mojo’s ability any longer. But if she was going to take advantage of these sessions, she would need to seriously up her interpretive ability when it came to solving crimes. Maybe it was the nature of the Ouija in the first place, the way the board doled out a clue of several letters at most. But she was determined to figure it out.
Slowly, Mojo’s paw moved to the heart-shaped planchette, and Maris and Cookie both leaned forward a bit. He pushed it steadily until it came to a brief rest over the first letter: F. Maris immediately started to imagine names that started with F. Fabiola Toussaint? She and her husband owned and operated Flour Power. But as the planchette moved on, it traveled just a short distance to the “I”.
Well, it’s not Fabiola, Maris thought. Not that she could have imagined the gorgeous woman as a thief. Nor were there any other people in Pixie Point Bay whose names, first or last, started with the letters F and I.
As she and Cookie stared at the board, Mojo’s paw seemed to twitch and the clear lens of the planchette centered itself directly over the “V”. Then it was just a short distance back up to the first row, ending on the “E”.
“Five?” Cookie whispered.
Maris had to shake her head. Of all the vague clues that Mojo had spelled out, this had to be the worst.
Five.
It could be part of an address, a phone number, the number of people in a family, the number of countries they’d recently visited. It could be anything.
“Good grief,” Maris muttered.
She began to turn away when Cookie put a hand on her arm. “There’s more.”
Maris stared at the chef. There was never any more, no matter how many times she’d asked the little cat. But as she turned to look at the board, she had to watch in disbelief. Mojo was spelling something else.
