by Emma Belmont
“Here you go,” Maris said as she brought the large plate of sliced bread over. Using a small juice glass, she’d pressed a hole through the center of each slice. “You know, Eggy-in-the-Basket has to be my all-time favorite.”
The chef cocked an eyebrow at her. “Uh huh.” On the large commercial stove, the breakfast potatoes were well underway. “Do you have the Gruyere?”
Maris nodded and headed back to the butcher block. She’d grated at least half a pound of the hard cheese. When she returned, Cookie already had a number of bread slices in pans and had cracked an egg into the hole.
“Good,” the chef said, taking the bowl of cheese from her. She liberally coated the egg and bread with it.
“My favorite,” Maris said, her mouth already watering. “Those smell delicious.”
Cookie laughed a little and shook her head. “Are the bagels sliced?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Maris said. “I’ll plate them now.”
Could she be blamed for having more than one breakfast favorite? Really, when you thought about it, it was Cookie’s fault.
Once the plating of the bagels and slicing of the fresh melon was complete, her last task would be taking all the warming trays to the dining room. The entire buffet wouldn’t fit on the sideboard, so Maris had brought in the one from the living room prior to the weekend.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Cookie asked.
“What’s nice? The Eggy-in-the-Basket?”
Cookie glanced back over her shoulder, smiling. “No. All of it. Cooking for this many guests. It’s always so much fun.”
Maris nearly gaped at the older woman. “Fun?” This wasn’t quite the word that Maris would have applied to putting on a big buffet—especially one as varied as the B&B usually served.
“Of course,” the chef declared. “It really gives us a chance to stretch our wings. Normally this kind of buffet would be wasted on just us and a few guests.” Her smiled genuinely beamed. “But now we get to go all out.” She turned back to the stove. “It doesn’t happen often enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
Maris had to grin. “Spoken like a true chef.”
Not half-an-hour later, both sideboards were completely covered, the coffee was in the carafe, and the sun had risen. Its dim glow began to brighten the fog outside the dining room’s window.
George was the first one down, followed by the McGraths. As the parents fetched plates for their kids, George concentrated on his options.
“It’s a breakfast fit for a king,” he said, turning to Maris and Cookie, who both held their plates. “You must have been up since last night.”
Maris had to laugh. “Not quite. But you can thank Cookie for the buffet. She does all the cooking.”
George stared at the diminutive woman. “All of it?” He gave a low whistle. “That’s pretty amazing.”
Cookie shook her head. “Not when you love what you do.” She inclined her head to Maris. “And you have your own sous-chef.”
George motioned ahead of him. The McGraths were already seated and eating. “Ladies first.”
Maris managed to limit herself to a single Eggy-in-the-Basket and some slices of melon. Cookie substituted the melon with breakfast potatoes. George, however, seemed to be determined to sample everything. The big man created a breakfast plate that might have been about three inches tall. As he took his seat, he was grinning, as well as humming to himself.
“I saw you at Inklings yesterday,” Maris said. “What did you think of the performance?”
George had already taken a big bite of the egg surrounded with toast. He rolled his eyes as he covered his mouth with a napkin. “Almost as good as this meal.” He took a sip of coffee. “They were fabulous.” He turned to Cookie. “Fabulous.”
She smiled and inclined her head to him.
“I think they were my favorite,” Maris told him.
But as everyone dug into their breakfasts, a silence settled on the room. Even the McGrath boys seemed completely occupied with their pancakes and maple syrup. The parents had selected the bagels, lox, and cream cheese and were almost done.
“Enjoying the sights?” Cookie asked them.
The older of the boys spoke right up, surprising Maris. “We went kayaking yesterday!” His father motioned for him to lower his voice. “It was the coolest thing ever!”
Although his mother smiled at him, she said, “Finish your pancakes, otherwise we can’t get going.” She turned to Cookie. “Today we’re going to see the redwoods.”
At her words, both boys bounced in their seats, even as they quickly resumed eating.
“We couldn’t have picked a better spot,” Tami said. “It’s so central to so many activities.”
“Exactly right,” the chef agreed. “I think that’s what contributed to the location of the town in the first place. All sorts of wonderful places are within an hour’s drive.”
“You might want to pay a visit to the Cheeseman Village Dairy,” Maris put in, as she sliced her melon into chunks. “They have a wonderful little tour, you can see the cows, and the ice cream is simply to die for.”
“Ice cream!” the two boys echoed.
“All right,” their father said. “Upstairs and get your backpacks.”
If Maris wasn’t mistaken, little cartoon curlicues trailed after them as they zipped out of the dining room and into the hall. She could hear them running up the stairs.
“I’d better go make sure they get everything,” their father said, as he and his wife got up. “Thanks for the delicious breakfast.”
“Yes,” Tami said, picking up the family’s plates. “Everything was so fresh. It really was wonderful.” The sound of feet pounding upstairs was followed by peals of laughter. She smiled a little. “I guess I’d better go.”
“Have a nice day,” Maris said.
As she left, George stood and went to the sidebar for a second helping. By the time he’d filled his plate again, Cookie had finished her tea. But rather than get up and take her plate to the kitchen as she usually did, she sat and occasionally stole a look at George, smiling. Maris suspected that the chef enjoyed watching him eat with gusto.
The chef turned to Maris. “Are you and Mac off to the festival again?”
Maris nodded as she picked up her tea. “We are.” She took a sip. “I think there’ll be some new groups today.”
At that George looked up from his meal. “Two new groups. I’ve been wanting to catch both of them for some time now.”
The three of them chatted about the festival for a while, and eventually Cookie got up, taking her cup and plate. Just as she was leaving, Spats and Bowdie arrived.
“Good morning,” Spats said, staring at the sideboard as he clasped and then rubbed his hands. “I was afraid we’d be too late.” He went directly to the sideboard and picked up a plate.
“The smell of this breakfast upstairs actually woke me up,” Bowdie said. He turned to Cookie as she passed, “Good morning. It looks as good as it smells.”
Cookie gave him a smile. “Good morning. Let’s just hope it’s worth getting up early.” She headed for the kitchen.
“Early is right,” George said. “I’ll bet you two didn’t get in until pretty late.”
“That’s the music life,” Spats said over his shoulder. He put some potatoes on his plate. “I haven’t seen Egg-in-a-Hole for years. These look perfect.”
Maris had to smile at his name for the breakfast dish. “With melted Gruyere.”
Spats took a bite before he’d even sat down. “Oh,” he said. “I could eat this all day.”
George smiled at him, his newly full plate in front of him. “I’m gonna try.”
As Bowdie sat down with them, he leaned forward to pull his chair closer. But when he did, his enormous gold necklace clinked against the side of the table.
“Don’t go out on the water,” Spats said, as he dug his fork into the potatoes.
Bowdie frowned a little. “Who me? Why not?”
Sp
ats eyed the gold chain. “Because if you fall in, you’re gonna sink bling first.”
George laughed around a mouthful of food, and Maris had to chuckle a little.
Bowdie grinned at the drummer. “Lucky for me, I don’t intend to go near the water.”
Spats took a couple gulps of coffee before he regarded the young guitar player. “You know I’m just messing with you. If I could afford some bling, I’d probably break my neck with it.”
As talk turned to the festival and blues music, Maris excused herself. Cookie was no longer in the kitchen, probably starting her chores already. But as Maris rinsed her plate and juice glass, she thought of the three men in the dining room and the missing items. Though she and Mac were going to the festival later in the day, she was going to make time to do some investigating.
12
When Maris came back in the house from taking out the trash, she paused at the parlor. George was looking through the blues albums. Had it not been for the fact that one was missing, she’d have thought nothing of it. A blues fan would naturally want to see them, maybe even play them. She had stopped at the doorway and was thinking about how to begin the conversation when George noticed her.
“Say,” he said, standing up. “That is one serious collection you’ve got there. Pretty much all the classics.”
The records, probably about one hundred of them, lined the bottom two shelves of the stand that held the Victrola. Most were LPs but some were also singles.
“No doubt you recognize them,” Maris said, smiling.
“Oh, of course,” the big man said, nodding. “Masterpieces, most of them. It must have taken your auntie decades to collect it. If you wanted an education on the blues, you could just start at one end.” He pointed to the first album and then to the last. “And go straight through.”
Although Maris had been looking forward to the music festival, she’d never expected to learn so much about her aunt. She’d had no idea that the crazy records she’d played from time to time were a serious collection, years in the making. If George hadn’t mentioned it, she might never have known.
“I know you’re retired, George, but I don’t think you mentioned your work. Was it music?”
His chuckle rumbled from deep in his belly. “Oh no, not music. Textiles.”
Maris arched her eyebrows. “Textiles. Interesting. Somehow I didn’t see you as a fabric guy.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to look again,” he said, heading to one of the upholstered chairs. He touched the fabric on the back. “You’ve got a classic jacquard here. I could tell from across the room because of the intricate and variegated pattern.” He lightly ran his finger over it. “Very fine work, and very much in the style of the period.” Then he pointed to the curtains. “Your lace draperies have a classic English Ivy pattern. Elegant and almost sheer, but with enough material to reduce the direct sunlight into the room.”
Maris stared at the pattern as though she’d never seen it before. “I had no idea that was English Ivy. But now that you say it, of course I can see it.” She gazed at the chair as well. “You know, it’s always been a little fear of mine that when the time comes to reupholster the furniture, I won’t be able to find the right fabric. I can’t imagine it’s vintage, but still…”
“When that day arrives, call me,” George told her. “I’ll steer you in the right direction. You’re right that this isn’t the original. It’d never hold up with daily use. But there are a number of shops that make Victorian inspired cloth, exactly for this purpose. There are even some that make period replicas.”
Maris smiled at him. “Well, thank you, George. I might just take you up on that—though I hope it’s not for a while.” She paused for a moment, considering the albums. “So your love of the blues, that’s more of a hobby.”
He laughed that rumbling, deep laugh again. “More like love at first listen. And now that I’m retired, I can indulge myself.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
He pointed to the upright piano against the far wall. “That one right there.” He grinned at her. “Care to hear a little?”
“I’d be delighted,” Maris said.
But as George pulled out the bench and lifted the keyboard cover, a thought occurred to her. “I don’t know the last time that was tuned. And here by the ocean…”
“Not a problem,” he said, taking a seat. “I’m not a stickler for right notes.” His thick fingers nimbly played a scale up and down the keys. He smiled over his shoulder at her. “Not bad at all.”
The next thing Maris knew, she was listening to a him play a walking bass with his left hand. After a few measures, he added the right hand, his touch light but sure. The song shuffled through one verse and then another, before he changed it up with what seemed like an improvised solo. Despite the few out of tune keys, the music was absolutely delightful, and George seemed as comfortable as though he’d been born playing the instrument—even an out of tune one.
She thought for a moment of how he’d talked about the album collection.
Would someone who’d stolen one draw attention to it? Would they even let themselves be seen looking at it?
Cookie appeared in the doorway, a rag in her gloved hand. She exchanged a smile with Maris, before turning her attention to George. In another few moments, Mojo appeared as well. He trotted directly over to the piano, sitting as close to George’s feet as he could, despite the fact that the big man was working one of the pedals.
The music was upbeat, though not cheery, and always expressive, and by the time George played the last notes, he’d won his audience over.
“Bravo,” Cookie said, as she clapped. “Bravo.”
“That was wonderful,” Maris exclaimed, as she clapped.
Even Mojo gave George his tiny, tinny meow.
The big man laughed and reached down to give the pudgy cat a scratch behind the ears. “Thank you, Mojo.” He twisted on the bench to see behind him. “Thank you, kind listeners.”
“You play wonderfully,” Cookie said. “It’s so nice to have music in the house again.”
George gazed around the room. “This is a great place for it too. Perfect acoustics.”
Maris looked around, appreciating the parlor anew. “Well, I think we can thank Aunt Glenda for that. I haven’t changed a thing.”
Cookie nodded in agreement. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen,” she said. “But thanks very much for the musical interlude.”
George got up from the bench. “My pleasure.” He closed the keyboard cover.
“You don’t have to stop on my account,” the chef said.
As the big man put the bench back in place, he said, “It’s time to head into town.” When he was done, he looked at them. “But how about if I take a raincheck on that?”
Maris grinned at him. “You’ve got it.”
13
Back upstairs to do a bit of vacuuming, Maris happened to glance out the windows facing the front of the B&B. Although she’d been under the impression that Bowdie had left around the same time as George, his car was still parked in the gravel drive. More than that, she realized as she took a closer look, the hood was open and he was looking at the engine. Though the classic sixties era car might fit well with his blues player persona, it seemed that the older vehicle also came with some maintenance downsides.
“I wonder if I should call Jude?” she muttered.
The mechanic and owner of Flour Power Sandwiches & Gas was a wizard with all things auto related. He’d even gotten Maris her current car. If Bowdie was meant to perform today—which based on the poster and schedule he was—he might need to get some help.
But as she watched the musician duck his head under the hood, Bear’s truck appeared in the distance. It slowly approached, winding down the long drive from the coast highway. Though Bowdie must have heard the tires crunching on the gravel, he didn’t look up. He had his hands in the engine doing something. Bear parked next to him and got out.
The musician went to the driver’s side and got in, while Bear went to his truck.
“Oh,” she said. “Maybe he just needs a jump.”
But then Bear returned with a tool that Maris couldn’t make out.
“Maybe a screwdriver?” she said lowly. “Or a wrench?”
She had no clue about engines, let alone what tools were used on them.
Bear took up a position at the car’s engine where the musician had been. While he kept his eye on Bowdie, the handyman reached over to the motor with the tool. With his other hand, he gave Bowdie a signal. Even through the closed window, Maris could hear the engine fire up. Bear stood back for a few moments, just looking at the engine. Then he pocketed the tool, lifted the hood and stowed it’s support, then closed it.
By that time, Bowdie had gotten out and said something to Bear, reaching out his hand. But before the big man could grab it, the musician quickly took it back, looking at it. He rubbed his two hands together, but then shook his head.
