by Emma Belmont
In their room, Maris found Mojo lounging. He was sprawled on the bed, but lifted his head when she came in.
“Hey there, Mojo,” she said, depositing her purse next to him. She gave his soft flank a gentle pat. “Siesta time, eh?” He gave her a lazy little meow, languidly stretched, and then flopped back down. “I know what you mean.”
But as she was smoothing her fingers along his fluffy fur, the room faded to a misty white—and she froze. It was a precognitive vision. Though they didn’t happen often, she understood what to do now: nothing. It’d taken her some time to get used to the way her real vision disappeared without warning, but she found that if she could manage to relax, the precognition sometimes lasted longer.
A dim orange light appeared, small at first, but growing. A deepening darkness surrounded it, contrasting with the brightness at its center. But the more she looked at it, the more it looked like a flame. Yes, it was definitely a fire of some sort. It was flickering and smoke rose from it. As the circle of her vision widened, she realized there were trees. They were enormous, with deeply textured, red bark, some three stories tall.
That had to be the redwood forest east of town.
Suddenly the vision winked out, her eyesight returned, and she was looking into Mojo’s amber eyes. Her hand still rested on his side but he was watching her intently. She gave him a gentle pat.
“Sorry about that, Mojo. You know how it is.”
He gave her the briefest little signature meow, before getting up and jumping to the floor. As she watched him leave, she wondered about the fire. It’d definitely been in the redwood forest but it didn’t seem to be burning out of control. If anything, it’d looked like a campfire.
Did she know anyone who camped?
She was heading to the armoire to change into work clothes, when she saw her purse on the bed. After what Eunice had said about her missing phone, she picked it up. At the armoire, she stashed it towards the back. It didn’t hurt to be careful.
19
Finished with dusting the living room, Maris moved across the hallway to the parlor. But as she ran the duster over the coffee table and the Ouija board, she was reminded of Mojo’s clue.
“Five fold,” she muttered.
Neither she nor Cookie had any idea what it meant. But as she tried to puzzle it out, she looked out the bay window toward the long driveway. Bear was lifting a tool bag into the bed of his truck—and a thought occurred to her. As she exited the front door, the handyman was heading to the back of the house.
“Bear,” she called out to him, stopping him in his tracks. He looked over and watched her approach.
“Maris,” he said.
They stood at the corner of the house, with a view to the back and Cookie’s garden, and the greenhouse. It was another warm day and the light glistening from the bay was almost blinding. She held up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
“I have a strange question for you,” she said, still holding the duster. “Have you ever heard anyone use the words ‘five fold’?”
His heavy brows drew together as he looked down at her. She watched his lips move as he mouthed the words, though he didn’t make a sound. He pondered for another few moments, before he slowly shook his head.
“No,” he said.
Maris sighed a little and shrugged. “Okay. It was worth a shot.”
“Five is a lot,” he said.
She cocked her head at him. “A lot of what?”
He shook his head and smoothed down his beard. “A lot of folds.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “I see what you mean.”
“You’d have to start with a pretty big piece of paper if you wanted to fold it five times.” He thought for a second, before a light came on behind the brown eyes. “Maybe a map.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “I never thought of it that way.” Could something important be located on the fifth fold of a map? “A folded map,” she whispered. “That’s good thinking.” But what map could it be? A road map? Of the town? Or maybe of the county? She glanced back at the B&B. Did they have any maps inside?
“I have the honey,” he said, startling her from her train of thought.
“The what?” she asked.
“I brought more honey. Can I give it to you now?”
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “Of course. How nice of you.”
She followed him back to his truck, where he went to the passenger door and opened it. On the floor, in a small cardboard box that was just the right size, was the jar. He took it by its metal top and gingerly handed it to her.
“I hope you enjoy it,” he said, smiling a little awkwardly.
“I’m sure we will,” Maris said. “And also our guests. Cookie and I have it in our tea.” She held it up, admiring its light amber hue. “Like captured sunbeams.” She regarded the big man. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
But as he turned back to close the door, Maris said, “Wait a second.” Bear stopped and turned back to her. She pointed to the cardboard box. “Is that where the other honey was when it was stolen?”
He nodded. “Right there.”
“Would you mind if I have a look?”
He backed up a couple of paces. “Go ahead.”
She handed him the new jar of honey and the duster. “Thanks.”
The small box sat on the floor mat, near the stick shift. Either Bear kept the cab of his truck immaculate, or no one rode on the passenger side—perhaps both. If there was so much as a blade of grass, a leaf, or a bit of gravel, she couldn’t see it. Other than being clean, everything looked in order. Whoever had taken the honey hadn’t conveniently dropped a clue. She picked up the box. Nothing else was in it, and its top flaps had been folded down inside. For a moment she thought about asking Mac to fingerprint it. But there was no guarantee that the thief had touched it, and she still didn’t want to involve the sheriff if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
She was just about to set it back on the floor, when something at the cardboard rim caught her eye. When she rubbed a finger over it, it smudged. It was a tiny burn mark. She turned and showed it to Bear.
“It’s been burned,” she said, “but just a little.”
He frowned down at it. “How was it burned?” He looked at the interior of the cab.
“I don’t imagine you smoke,” she said to him.
“Oh no,” he said quickly. “Never.”
“What was originally in the box?”
“An empty jar,” he said. He held up the honey. “This one.”
“Hmm,” Maris said, looking at the little carbonized area. She looked up at the big man. “Would you mind if I keep it?”
He shook his head and offered her the honey, which she put in the box. Then he gave her the duster.
What it could possibly mean, Maris had no idea, but it might be evidence—and the only clue so far. “Thanks again,” she told him.
20
Coming slowly down the stairs, Maris ran the duster over its elegant oak banister and balustrades. Despite its many years of use, the golden wood gleamed. Like the vintage furniture, it had been well cared for. Maris made a mental note to check with Cookie and Bear about whether there was a schedule for varnish or polish. It might be the type of project she’d like to tackle.
But as she took another slow step downward, she saw Mojo pass by the bottom of the stairs. Though it wasn’t unusual to see her little black cat in the hallway, she was pretty sure she’d never seen him carrying a toy before.
Was he taking it to his secret stash?
Moving as quickly and quietly as she could, she went down the rest of the steps and peeked into the hall. He was heading toward their room. She followed him, watching him disappear through the door. Tip-toeing as fast as possible, she hurried to the bedroom and just saw his tail vanish into the utility room on the other side. Trotting now, she went to the doorway, only to find him sitting on the door to the basement. Toy still in mouth, he calmly looke
d at her.
She put her hands on her hips. “Seriously? The basement?”
They’d been there several times and she’d never seen anything that resembled a pile of toys.
But in answer, he dropped the stuffed toy in front of him—a googly-eyed green frog wearing a little pink bow—and gave her a loud, tinny, and insistent meow.
Maris frowned at him, then blew out a breath. “I’ll get the key.”
The big black skeleton key turned the lock’s gears. The familiar grinding noise filled the quiet room, echoing a bit, until there was a final clunk. Mojo cocked his head down at the door as the key began to turn freely. As Maris grasped the handle, he picked up his stuffed frog.
“You’re about to go for a ride,” she warned him, and began to lift the wood door.
Not only did he not seem to get the hint, he remained on the door until it seemed he would have to slide off. But at the last possible moment he lightly leapt down, and disappeared down the stairs into the dark.
“Wait,” she called after him, determined to see his stash. Quickly, she trotted down the first few steps, hit the light switch, and saw him at the bottom of the stairs. Then he darted off.
Moving fast, she headed to the bottom, keeping an eye on him. As she stepped to the floor, she turned to follow him and saw him leap up onto the antique dresser—where he came to a stop and took a seat.
“The dresser?” she said, striding over to stand in front of it.
How could he possibly open it?
As she paused to consider the little puzzle, it slowly dawned on her what she’d done. She glanced back at the steps, which she’d practically run down. A cold shiver raced down her spine as she pictured herself simply marching into the enclosed space. Though the ceiling wasn’t particularly low, looking up at it made her heart beat faster. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath. Only seconds ago, when she’d been worried about losing sight of Mojo, she’d been fine.
Was that the key to avoiding her mild claustrophobia? To have a purpose? Or simply something else to think about?
A tiny thud from the dresser startled her. With a hand over her heart, she turned to see that Mojo had dropped his toy again. He gave her his signature meow.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I’m opening the drawer.”
Though she’d noticed the dresser on previous visits, she’d never taken the time to investigate it. She’d come down here to get a glimpse of Mojo’s secret stash, but she also had Glenda’s pendulum in mind. Though she’d found its box in her aunt’s room, the pretty green stone was gone. Even now she still held out hope that it would someday reappear.
As she opened the top drawer though, it was neither the pendulum nor Mojo’s toys that greeted her. Instead, it was a stash of a different kind.
“Posters,” she said, taking out the short stack. “Blues on the Bay.”
After what Helen had told her, it made sense. No doubt Glenda had kept them as mementos of the festival she’d helped to found. Maris rifled through them, in reverse chronological order, going back to the very first festival. With a strange sense of history repeating itself, she imagined her aunt coming down to this very spot at the end of every year’s event and depositing them. She smiled a little to herself. Now she would be the one to add to the pile. She put them back in.
As she grasped the drawer handle to slide it back in, something in the front corner caught her eye, glinting. She slid the drawer out even further and had to gasp.
“The silver chain,” she whispered.
She snatched it out and held it up to the long fluorescent lights overhead. There was no doubt about it. It was completely unique. This was the silver chain from which the pendulum had hung.
About a foot and a half long, it was thick, composed of a tiny floral motif of woven flowers and minuscule leaves. The ornate ball clasp was hollow and at least a quarter inch in diameter. Though it could use a good polish, Maris would recognize it anywhere.
Eagerly, she took out the posters again, pulled the drawer as far open as it would go, and ran her fingers around the bottom of it.
Nothing.
Quickly, she opened the drawers below it. One after another she rummaged through lace tablecloths and napkins, a collection of baby clothes, some beautiful scarves and handkerchiefs, and finally packages of silk stockings. Under any other circumstance, Maris might have happily looked through all of the interesting finds. But now she had but a single goal in mind. Though she searched each of the drawers completely—twice—the pendulum simply wasn’t there.
She blew out a breath as she slowly closed the bottom drawer and finally stood.
Again she held up the silver chain.
How had it gotten separated from the pendulum?
As she tried to imagine what might have happened, she suddenly realized that Mojo was no longer on the dresser.
“Hey,” she said, turning to look around her. He was sitting on the stairs, watching her, with no toy in sight. She put a hand on her hip. “Wait a minute. What happened to that toy?”
In answer, he simply spun around and bounded up the stairs.
“Good grief,” she muttered, hurrying over. “Wait for me.”
21
As Maris was taking the silver chain to the kitchen where they kept the polish, the front door opened and Bowdie came through. For a moment she recalled the lunch they’d shared earlier in the day. But now she also remembered that even earlier, she’d watched Bear help him start his car. As she put the two images together, a thought occurred to her. She paused as he closed the door. With none of the other guests here, Maris saw her opportunity.
“Bowdie,” she said, smiling. “The performances must be over.”
He smiled back at her. “Yeah. I think I’ve seen my fill too. Or at least my feet are telling me that.” He took a deep breath. “It’s time to kick back for a bit.”
“That sounds good,” she agreed. “By the way, I wanted to ask you about what you thought of the sandwich from Delia’s Smokehouse?”
His face beamed. “Oh, it was excellent! I had the Shrimp Po’ Boy. Wow, what a meal. It had the cole slaw right in with the shrimp. Super tasty.”
“Good to hear,” she said. “I know I’m a fan of Delia’s but I like to keep tabs on what others think. It helps me make recommendations when people ask.”
“Well it gets a big thumbs up from me,” he said. “And that was very nice of your friend to buy lunch.”
“Mac is wonderful,” Maris said, smiling. “You’d never suspect that he’s the Medio County Sheriff.”
Bowdie’s eyebrows arched. “Mac? He’s a sheriff?”
“The sheriff,” Maris corrected. “For the entire region.”
“Oh wow,” Bowdie said. “You’re right. You’d never know. He seems so laid back.”
She grinned. “He is laid back. That’s what Pixie Point Bay does to you.” She glanced at the open door to the parlor. “But he’s also a blues fan, as you know. In fact, yesterday he noticed that one of the more collectible albums in the parlor was missing.”
Bowdie’s smile slipped just a little. “Oh really? You don’t say.”
“Of course I told him that, with all the blues folks at the B&B right now, it’s just been misplaced.”
“Right,” Bowdie said quietly. “Right.”
“But he’s a law enforcement officer, through and through,” she said. “Next thing you know, he’ll be fingerprinting that entire room.”
“Fingerprinting?” Bowdie said, trying to sound nonchalant but not succeeding. “I mean, seriously?”
Maris nodded. “Oh yes. He liked that album.” She watched as a tiny bit of sweat glistened on the thin man’s furrowed brow. “Of course as soon as it turns up—as I’m sure it will—he’ll drop the whole thing.”
Bowdie rubbed his chin. “I see.”
Maris pretended to fidget with the silver chain. “Well, I was headed to the kitchen for some polish. Is there anything that I can get for you before I go to van
quish some tarnish?”
Bowdie had been staring at the parlor. “Uh, no. Thanks.” He headed toward the stairs. “I think I’ll just lie down for a bit.”
22
In the kitchen, Maris took the silver polish from under the sink, fetched a couple of rags, and went to work on the counter. Working on one small section of the silver chain at a time, she carefully applied the thick paste in tiny back and forth motions. Once the polish was wiped off, the gleam of the metal provided immediate gratification. This was how she remembered the chain, each bunch of flowers shining.
“There you are,” said Megan from the doorway.
Suppressing a sigh, Maris smiled instead, and looked over her shoulder at the approaching journalist. “Megan. The festival must be over for the day.”
“The music’s done for today, but the work doesn’t stop.” She focused her hawkish gaze on the silver chain for a moment, then looked around the kitchen, before returning her attention to Maris. “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions about the lighthouse?”
“Not at all,” Maris said, dabbing a bit more polish on the next section of the chain. “Go right ahead.”
Megan opened her journal. “When was it built?”
“The lighthouse itself was built in 1885,” Maris told her.
“Who built it?” the journalist asked as she made a note.
“The town of Pixie Point Bay commissioned its design and paid for it.”
“Hmm,” Megan said, flipping back several pages in her journal. “Let’s see. So the town was founded in 1771 by Wicca practitioners who’d fled the witch trials.”
Maris looked at her. “I didn’t know that.”
Although Megan didn’t look up from her notes, she nodded. “That’s according to Alfred Page over at Inklings. But it’s his wife who’s the historian.” She flipped back another page. “Right. It was a colony back then, whose location has since been lost.” The journalist peered back at her. “The lost Pixie Point Bay Colony of 1771. Apparently no one seems to know where it was actually located.”
