by Emma Belmont
As she cocked her head at the transfixed cat, the planchette went again to the “F”.
“Here we go again,” Cookie said under her breath.
But it wasn’t a repeat of the first word. Instead, Mojo had to stretch his leg almost all the way to the far side of the board—where the planchette stopped over the “O”.
Five for, Maris thought. Or maybe five fobs.
But the next letter, all the way across the board again, ended more speculation: L.
She and Cookie exchanged another look. Mojo had them stumped.
But as they watched, he slowly scooted the planchette back toward the middle of the board. It stuttered a little, as though it had caught on something—maybe the seam of the fold—and Maris found herself holding her breath. Finally though, it resumed its course and came to a stop on the “D”.
“Five fold?” Cookie whispered, just as Mojo sat back. With a blink of his big orange eyes, he stood and shook out his fur. Then he gave them one of his signature meows.
Maris smiled at the little creature. As she gently rubbed the soft fur on the top of his head, he nudged upward for a scratch behind the ears. “You’ve earned it,” she told him.
“Five fold,” Cookie said, frowning. She picked up the planchette and turned it over in her hands before looking up at Maris. “Do you have any idea what that means?”
Maris shook her head, as she picked up the fluffy cat, who immediately purred. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“It almost makes me want to check the laundry and see if it’s folded,” the chef said.
“Or if any of it is missing,” Maris suggested.
Without another word, they went to the linen closet in the utility room, at the extreme opposite end of the house. Cookie threw the cabinet doors open, but a quick check revealed that everything seemed to be in place. She patted each of the neat piles as she counted them off.
The chef shrugged. “Of course I’m not sure what missing sheets would have told us anyway.” She backed up a pace. “Now I really think it’s time for tea.” She closed the doors, gave Mojo a pet, and headed toward the kitchen.
Maris turned, giving the little black cat a long stroke. “And a snack for you, young man. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell us, but it’s appreciated all the same.”
He gave her a plaintive little mew as they followed Cookie down the hall.
6
Maris had barely had enough time to finish her tea, when it was time to start preparations for the Wine Down. She was going to need extra time this evening, since she was breaking with tradition. But it had always been something that she’d wanted to try, or rather revive: a fondue.
Some weeks ago she’d found the vintage copper fondue set tucked away in a low kitchen cupboard. She’d cleaned and polished it, along with the matching forks, and this evening was as good a time as any to give it a spin. Unlike modern electric models, it was heated with a can of gel fuel.
With the flame lit and warming the pot, Maris fetched the ingredients. For the fondue, she gathered the fresh cheeses from the dairy in Cheeseman Village: Fontina, Gouda, and Gruyere. As the cubes melted, she added the secret sauce ingredients that elevated this fondue from melted cheese to a luxurious taste experience. Sauvignon Blanc formed the base of the liquid ingredients, accompanied by a shot of brandy, a splash of lemon juice, and a dollop of Dijon mustard. Finally, cornstarch returned some of the thickness, and nutmeg finished off the flavor profile.
As the pot simmered, Maris assembled the dippers: boiled new baby potatoes, which she’d allowed to cool, steamed broccoli and cauliflower florets, asparagus, button mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and cubes of Cookie’s sourdough bread. As she laid them all out, she had to admit it was a beautiful spread, even if she did say so herself. The colorful vegetables might be something she’d add to the regular cheeseboard.
With the food set, she opened the wines she’d selected. The dry Prosecco would be able to cut through the cheese, while the Syrah, also dry but red, would do the same. A carafe of cranberry juice and a plate of oatmeal cookies, made sure even the kids could participate.
“Wow,” Bowdie said, from the door. “I thought the B&B didn’t provide dinner.”
Maris grinned at him, as she put down the last of the wine glasses. “Let’s just call it a blast from the past.”
He was too young to remember the fondue parties of the 70s, but her Aunt Glenda had shown Maris how it was done. On more than one occasion, she and Cookie and Maris had sat around the pot in the kitchen. They’d even let her light the flame and take charge of the melt.
Before she could ask Bowdie how lunch at Plateau 7 had been, the McGrath boys made a beeline for the cookies, running around the musician.
“Boys,” their mother said. “We’re going to dinner.”
Tami and Jim McGrath, though staying at the B&B during the festival, had come for the outdoor activities. The family spent almost no time at the B&B, so Maris had hardly seen them, but they were all a matched set. All four had coppery red hair in different lengths and cuts, as well as freckles.
“One each,” Jim McGrath said, coming up behind them. He nodded to Bowdie. “Sorry about that.”
The musician only laughed. “I know better than to stand between a hungry boy and his cookie.”
As the older McGraths herded the boys out of the room, Maris and Bowdie were joined by Spats Thackery.
“Oh,” said the blues drummer, and another player in the festival. He clasped his hands in front of his chest. “Now this is what I call Wine and Cheese.”
Maris smiled at the older man. He was completely bald and his dark skin was the tiniest bit shiny on the dome of his nicely shaped head. He wore a goatee that had yet to show any gray, but his hands showed his age—slightly gnarled though immaculately groomed. And true to his name, he wore white cloth spats over his patent black shoes. He was dressed in a dark plaid suit and vest, but no tie.
“Spats Thackery,” Maris said, nodding to him. “May I introduce Bowdie Johnson.”
The drummer beamed at the guitarist. “No intros needed.” He stuck out his hand to the younger man. “Been a fan for some time now.”
“High praise indeed,” Bowdie said, grasping the man’s hand. “From the drummer who backed Spitfire Shaw for what—twelve years? Man, that gig in Monterey…”
As the two musicians fell into deep and detailed music conversation, Maris poured the wine, a glass of white and a glass of red, offering both to Bowdie, who took the white. Though she’d intended to pour another, so Spats could have his choice, he reached out for the red.
“Not so fast, young lady,” he said taking it. “I’m not particularly picky.” He grinned at Bowdie. “Shall we check out that amazing spread?”
“Please,” Maris said, extending her hand. “I hope you enjoy.”
As the two men picked up plates, fondue forks, and dippers, the final two guests of the B&B arrived. George Brunell was a heavy-set man. Darker skinned than Spats and about the same age, his hair had definitely begun to turn white. Maris’s brief chat with him when he’d arrived had told her that he was retired and here for the blues festival.
Megan Kantor trailed just behind him. In her mid-fifties with flaming red hair and a hawkish look to her narrow face, she was a journalist covering the festival for a travel magazine. Known for her Pulitzer award winning work—a mention of which she managed to work into their first conversation—her sharp eyes seemed to see everything.
Maris welcomed them and offered to pour wine. After all the introductions were done, Maris poured herself a glass of the Syrah. As everyone dipped and sipped, conversation naturally turned to the blues festival. It seemed as though George was a living encyclopedia about blues music, often filling in facts and dates that the two musicians were unsure about.
“Nope,” he was saying. “You’re talking about the third album they released. 1965.”
Spats thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “You
’re right.” He regarded the big man. “Again.”
Megan hung back, preferring to sit at the table and take notes. From time to time, she sipped her Prosecco and turned her watchful gaze on each of the other guests in turn. Mostly though, she scribbled in the medium sized journal that had an elastic band to keep it closed. Her writing was tiny.
For a moment, Maris thought back to Mojo’s clue: five fold. Right now in the dining room, there were five people, including herself. But if she were involved with the thefts, wouldn’t she know?
Bowdie turned to her. “Are you a blues fan, Maris?”
“I’m learning,” she said, honestly, prompting a bit of laughter. She used her wine glass to indicate the parlor room at the front of the house. “It was my aunt who created the collection of albums.”
“Oh, I saw that,” George said, with something like wonder in his deep voice. “Amazing collection.” He glanced at the guitarist and the drummer. “Well worth a look, and maybe even a listen.” He turned back to Maris. “Does the old Victrola work?”
Maris nodded. “It does. Glenda never kept antiques just for the sake of show.”
“So I take it you won’t be attending the festival?” Bowdie said.
Maris finished sipping her wine. “Oh no. I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it. I may not be an aficionado, but I have a friend who most definitely is. We’ll be attending the festival together.”
Spats lifted his glass to her. “Well however you can get there, young lady,” he gave her a wink, “I say get there.” He indicated the sideboard. “And before we dive back into the fondue pot, may I thank you for the good eats.”
“Here, here,” the other men chimed in.
George patted his stomach. “It was a meal.”
Maris beamed back at them. If the Wine Down was meant to do anything, it was exactly this—friendly conversation in a relaxed and welcoming setting. The evening had been perfect.
She lifted her glass in return. “To the hottest music in a blues festival ever. I honestly can’t wait.”
7
The next day, after the B&B’s chores were done—and Maris had changed her outfit three times—she was ready. The cream-colored, short-sleeved shirt flared at the bottom, and she used one of Aunt Glenda’s silver-trimmed belts to bring it in at the waist. She smiled at the nice slimming effect it had. The blouse extended over the top of her aqua blue skirt, which swished dramatically when she turned. A turquoise necklace and matching open-toed heels finished off the outfit.
She turned to the bed, where Mojo was lounging, sprawled on his side. “What do you think?” He raised his head, his sleepy orange eyes gazing dreamily at her. “Better?”
In answer, he rolled to his back, stretched his front legs up and over his head, then let them slowly fall to the comforter.
She smiled as she walked over and gave his soft belly a gentle rub. “I’ll take that as a double high five.” He only sighed in return.
As she gave herself one more quick check in the mirror, she adjusted the necklace. Though it wasn’t enough to highlight her blue eyes, the cream shirt was a good compliment to her curly, strawberry blond hair. She picked up her purse from the dressing table and quietly left the room.
She was halfway down the hall, when there was a knock at the front door. Since guests came and went at all hours of the day and night, Maris knew that had to be Mac. Though he could have simply come in, Maris had noted on previous occasions that he never did. He always knocked and waited for someone to answer. Initially she’d thought it might be some sort of police officer protocol, since his first visits had been on official business. But now she simply chalked it up to politeness. She could already see him through the front door’s beveled glass panels. He was smiling.
As she opened it, she said, “Good afternoon, Mac.”
His smile grew wider. “Good afternoon.”
Easily six feet tall and athletically built, Sheriff Daniel “Mac” McKenna was the most eligible bachelor in Medio County. His cool gray eyes were kind, and almost matched his salt and pepper hair. But it was his easy manner and sense of calm that Maris found most attractive. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was handsome.
“I don’t think I’ve seen this outfit before,” he said. “Very nice.”
He was dressed in light khaki slacks and a powder blue polo shirt. “We’re almost twinsies,” she said. “But in reverse.” She was just about to close the door when she remembered her phone. “Oh. Hang on just a second. I forgot my phone.”
As Mac stepped inside and closed the door behind him, Maris went back to her room. Mojo was in the exact same position, paws reaching over his head for the pillow. Quietly, she went to the bedside table, unplugged her phone, and crept out. When she went back up the hallway though, she found Mac in the parlor, crouched in front of the old Victrola looking through Aunt Glenda’s collection of blues LPs.
When he noticed her at the door, he said, “I’m looking for that album of Woody Howard’s. I thought I’d play a little bit for you since we’re going to be hearing someone today who’s clearly influenced by the late great.” He flipped the vertical records back and forth. “But I don’t see it here.” He stood. “That’s a shame.”
Naturally he knew the collection better than her. “Well, maybe you can just describe it to me,” she suggested.
Mac rubbed his chin, still looking at the records. “It’s not that. It’s a shame if it’s missing because, not only is it one of the best examples of Delta Blues that was ever recorded, it’s a very collectible record. In fact, it’s pretty valuable.”
“Oh?” Maris said. It’d never occurred to her that any of Glenda’s old records would have more than sentimental value. “It’s probably just misplaced. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the guests had noticed it when they’d been looking through the collection. There was even some discussion of the albums last night at the Wine Down.”
“Your guests?” Mac asked.
She nodded. “Two of the festival’s performers are staying here, along with a retired blues fan, and a reporter covering the event. We’ve also got a young family, but I don’t think they have an interest in the blues.” She looked thoughtfully at the records, then back at him. “I’m sure it’s just been misplaced,” she concluded. “I’ll make a search for it when I get back.”
“Right,” Mac said, glancing at his watch. “We should get a move on.”
As they went to the front door, Maris suddenly thought of the missing crystal ball, the jar of honey, and the credit card machine. She frowned and glanced back at the parlor.
Had one of Glenda’s albums now joined their ranks?
Mac must have seen her look. “I’m sure it’ll turn up. As you say, it’s probably just lost in the shuffle.” He opened the door for her.
For a moment she considered telling him about the other missing items, but quickly discarded the notion. She’d hardly had a chance to do any of her own snooping. At this point, discretion would likely be the better course.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, stepping through.
8
Though Maris didn’t know much about the history of blues music, she had the feeling of being transported in time. As she and Mac stood with hundreds of other people in front of the red gazebo, they listened to Bowdie and the band backing him play a soulful rendition of a song that Maris didn’t recognize. Even so, there was something irresistible about the slow beat and the repetition of the various lyrics. Bowdie’s mournful lead guitar wailed and lilted, as he seemed to channel the notes right from the air. Maris wondered if the sound wasn’t helped by the glass tube that he used. He wore it over one of his fingers, sliding it up and down the neck of the guitar, and using a pick with the other hand.
The crowd around them were all bobbing their heads or tapping their toes, eyes riveted on the guitar player. As Maris scanned around them, she saw Minako not too far away. Minako noticed her as well, gave her a little wave, and came over.
&nbs
p; “Amazing,” the shorter Asian woman said into Maris’s ear. “Each year gets better than the last.”
“I wouldn’t know about previous years,” Maris said, leaning toward her, “but I’d have to agree that it’s pretty amazing.” She regarded the owner of the bookstore. “Are you a fan?”
Minako shook her head, smiling. “Not really.” She raised her phone for Maris to see. “But it’s a great photo op, and I’ve also done some videos.”
Maris recalled seeing the display of vintage photos from Pixie Point Bay’s past in one of her store’s front windows. Then she remembered Minako’s previous career.
“It must be an archivist’s dream,” Maris said.
Minako eagerly nodded. “Definitely. I’m already thinking of mounting a small exhibit at Inklings. Just the festival, over the years.”
“That sounds fabulous,” Maris said. “I’d love to see it, since I missed the rest.” No doubt there’d be pictures of Aunt Glenda. “Is Alfred minding the store?”
Minako and her husband owned Inklings New & Used Bookstore, one of the larger buildings on the plaza.
She nodded. “Getting ready for the performance there too.” She glanced at her phone. “In fact, I’d better go help him. I’ll see you later.”
“See you later,” Maris said.
As Bowdie finished, the crowd erupted in applause.
As he clapped, Mac grinned at her. “He’s really in fine form today.”
“He was wonderful,” she agreed.
“Harmonious concert rung in every part,” he said, “while simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.”
She grinned at him. “So Burns appreciated music?”
Mac nodded. “Oh yes. Many of Old Rabbie’s poems were made into songs. Or rather, he set his lyrics to the tunes of traditional music.”
