by Emma Belmont
“Really,” Maris said, interested. “I’ve never heard any of this.”
Megan smirked a little. “It took some digging. But a Wicca colony that magically disappears? That’s a good one.”
The last thing that the town would want is someone associating magic with it, so Maris decided not to comment rather than risk drawing attention to it.
The journalist turned back to the page where she was making new notes. “Okay, so it took about a hundred years for the colony to get its act together and build a lighthouse.” Maris forced herself not to frown. She wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way. “The bay has probably always been a natural harbor. It’d make sense in terms of money to keep the ships coming and going.”
This part of the lighthouse’s story was something Maris did know. “Ships that entered the harbor were charged a tonnage tax of one penny per ton, collected at the pier. It helped to pay for the upkeep and the lightkeeper.”
Megan rapidly jotted all of that down. “Interesting.” She looked up at Maris. “And the lightkeeper’s house?”
“Built five years after the lighthouse, in 1890. But the two weren’t connected until six years later.”
The journalist nodded as she wrote. “Got it.” She paused for a moment, and gazed around the kitchen. “And have there been a lot of modifications?”
Maris tilted her head a bit. “Not as many as you might think, and mostly for functionality. The electrical system and plumbing.” She indicated the large commercial refrigerator, range, and double ovens. “The kitchen has seen the most upgrades over the years. Although the decor is Victorian, the appliances are most definitely modern.”
The journalist noted that down. “So, it’s not a historic landmark.”
“Correct,” Maris confirmed.
“And the lighthouse?” Megan asked.
Maris shook her head. “It’s not a landmark either. The previous lightkeepers never sought that designation. As far as modifications, there’ve definitely been some for the sake of safety and continuous operation. For example, the light is provided by LEDs now, instead of an oil lamp.”
“An oil lamp,” Megan said, smiling a little, as she made a note.
“We still have it, actually. My Aunt Glenda kept it.”
That made Megan pause. Then she flipped back through the journal. “That reminds me. Something about that fire. Something I heard.” She stopped and ran her finger down the page, reading. “Uh huh. The previous lightkeeper was killed.”
Maris set the chain aside and recounted how Glenda had died. She’d come back to Pixie Point Bay for the funeral, and decided to stay.
“And what did you do before that?”
“I worked in the hospitality industry,” she replied. The longer she was here, the less she thought about that previous career. At this point, she couldn’t remember the last time it came to mind. “I spent a couple of decades trotting the globe for Luguan Imperial Resorts.”
Megan nodded as she scribbled a few notes. “Impressive. I stayed in one once.” She looked up at Maris. “We might even have crossed paths. Were you ever at the one in Manhattan?”
Maris smiled at her. “No.” Which meant it must have been run pretty well. “They’re headquartered in Miami.”
Megan nodded. “So you own the lighthouse and B&B now,” she said. “You inherited it.”
Maris nodded. “That’s right.”
“Interesting,” the journalist said as she made a note. “Pretty nice inheritance.” There was no disputing that, but Maris decided not to go into the details. The journalist smirked. “It’ll be a matter of public record—the value of the property and the circumstances around your aunt’s death.”
Maris pointedly picked up the chain again. “Of course it will.” She used the rag to dab more polish and applied it to the next section. “No doubt you’ve worn a rut to wherever those sorts of records are kept.”
“Let’s just say the sites are bookmarked on my computer,” the journalist replied. “I might also have a few numbers on speed dial.”
Megan closed her journal and snapped the rubber enclosure around it, but didn’t turn to go. When Maris gazed up at her, she’d stashed the notebook under her arm and was looking out the window. Though not as expansive a view as the bay windows gave, it nevertheless looked north along the rugged and undulating coast. Because its location on the rocky promontory gave the lighthouse an ideal placement, the views from any of the B&B’s windows were pretty stupendous.
At the moment, the sinking sun was bathing the buff cliffs in a soft rosy glow. The water below them had turned Prussian blue, with just a thin line of white surf against the shore.
“A truly magical location,” the journalist muttered. “I’m hard pressed to think of another quite like it.”
“Thank you,” Maris said simply.
As though startled from her thoughts, Megan peered at her. “Any idea where your chef is?”
Maris shook her head. At this time of day Cookie might be in her garden, or perhaps the greenhouse. But the last thing that Maris would inflict on her was a Q&A session with the reporter.
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Cookie handles the breakfast buffet, and I put on the evening wine and cheese, which will be in about an hour, by the way.”
Megan took another look around the kitchen, then turned to go. “Thanks for your time.”
“My pleasure,” Maris lied.
23
On the following and final day of the three day festival, Maris and Mac weren’t attending. Though he would have liked to and she certainly wouldn’t have minded, civic duty and hospitality would wait for no man or woman. With another breakfast buffet done and the dishwasher running, it was time to collect the trash.
But as Maris passed the parlor, she paused. Everyone but her and Cookie were gone, and ample time had passed since her quick conversation with Bowdie. She decided to do a quick check. As she crouched down in front of the album collection, she quickly flipped through the records and had to smile. The missing album had returned.
As she reached for it, a tiny, tinny meow drew her attention to the door. Mojo stood there, his big orange eyes fixed on her.
“Hey there, Mojo,” she said, standing.
But as she approached him, he trotted off. Out in the hallway, she saw that he had paused and was watching her over his shoulder. He gave another meow, before disappearing into the living room.
She knew a summons when she heard one.
Maris followed Mojo to the living room but stopped in the doorway.
“What in the world?” she muttered.
Crouched low with his rump in the air, he was glaring at a lump in the rug.
She’d vacuumed this room just yesterday, and there’d hardly been a wrinkle in the Persian rug, let alone a bump.
“What’s going on?” Cookie said, coming up behind her.
Without a word, Maris stood aside and simply pointed to the scene in front of them.
Cookie put a hand to her chest. “Goodness. What is that?”
“I have no idea,” Maris said under her breath.
Rear end in the air, Mojo waggled his body back and forth, dug his claws into the thick pile of the rug, and pointed his whiskers ahead. Slowly and silently, he stalked forward, inch by careful inch.
Without warning, he pounced.
Cookie started and grabbed Maris’s arm while they both stared at the little black cat. He’d jumped into the air almost vertically and come down directly on the lump. As they silently watched, he seemed to be trampling it. Then he did something that Maris had never heard him do—he growled. It was a low guttural sound, even more alarming than his actions. It sent a quaking shudder into the pit of her stomach.
“What does he have under there?” Cookie whispered, her grip on Maris’s arm tightening.
Maris shook her head. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t there yesterday.”
“Or this morning,” Cookie agreed. “You’d better have a look.”
Maris stared at her. “Me?”
Cookie nodded at the still growling Mojo. “He’s your cat.”
As Maris looked back to him, he jumped up in place and came back down on the lump. Now he seemed to be prancing in place.
“Good grief,” Maris muttered. She looked down at the edge of the rug. But it was a good dozen feet to the lump. As she crouched down to take hold of the edge, Cookie backed up. Maris looked over her shoulder at her.
“What if something comes scurrying out?” the chef asked.
Maris grimaced. She hadn’t thought of that.
Good grief.
She wouldn’t mind backing up now too. But as Mojo continued to growl and stomp, she knew she had to look.
“Hurry,” Cookie urged her.
“Okay, okay,” she muttered.
But if it was some kind of rodent, she was going to scream.
Slowly, she lifted the edge of the ornate rug. It wasn’t as heavy as she’d expected, but without the light from the windows on the other side of the room, it was completely black underneath. A tiny lump of fear settled in her stomach and anxiety tightened her chest. A claustrophobic attack had been the last thing Maris had expected. But as she continued to lift the rug, creating more of a dark cavern below it, she understood why.
But then she had an idea. Instead of lifting it, she lowered it back to the floor.
“What are you doing?” Cookie asked.
“I am not crawling under there,” Maris said. She grasped the edge of the carpet and began to roll it. “Cookie,” she said, “can you scoot that ottoman out of the way?”
The chef darted forward, shoved it aside with her foot, and sprang back into the hallway. Though Maris knew that Cookie was spry and particularly fit for her age, she was still impressed. “Nice scooting.”
Bent over almost double, Maris pushed the growing roll toward the lump. The more rug she gathered in the uneven roll, the larger it became and the faster it went. In her anxiety to just be done with this, she was moving too fast. She was creating a tidal wave of fabric.
“Mojo,” she shouted. “Look out!”
The fluffy black cat looked up at her and saw the approaching wall of rolling rug. His orange eyes got huge.
“Mojo, move!” Cookie yelled.
Maris sank to her knees and grabbed the roll, trying to stop it, but only managed to slow it. Mojo leapt straight up into the air again, landed on the roll as it finally came to a stop, and then leapt down to the bare floor.
“Oh my god,” Cookie whispered. “What is that?”
Without looking, Maris scrambled to her feet and jumped backward. She stared down at what the rug had revealed and could hardly believe it. It was a giant red spider the size of her hand.
Mojo leapt at it.
“No!” she exclaimed, reaching out a hand to stop him, but it was too late.
He snatched it up in his jaws, swung his head back and forth, and tossed it at the door—where Cookie shrieked. Maris charged forward, scooped up her cat, and then brought her foot down hard on the red insect. But to her shock, she didn’t squish it. All she felt was a sort of cushy softness that gave way. As Mojo cocked his head at her foot, she stared down at it too. The spider’s red limbs, striped with black, were splayed out in all directions around her shoe.
“Did you get it?” Cookie said from the far side of the hall, her back against the wall. “Is it dead?”
But the more Maris stared down at the floor, the more she understood what it was. The limbs were fuzzy, but not in a spider fur kind of way. If she had to guess, she’d say it was terry cloth. Slowly she lifted her foot, and felt the ‘spider’ spring back into shape. She stepped back and smirked at it.
“Yeah, it’s dead,” she said, and smiled at the chef. “It’s a toy.”
Cookie exhaled. “Oh, thank goodness. A toy.”
Mojo squirmed to be put down and Maris lowered him to the floor. As soon as she let go of him, he grabbed the spider in his jaws and scampered from the room. She could hear him galloping down the hallway.
Cookie shook her finger at him. “Next time, young man, I’m going to send you in after it.” Then she lowered her voice. “As soon as I’m done having a heart attack.”
Maris had to chuckle. Mojo and his toys. Next time she’d probably find one under her pillow. But at the thought of finding a spider toy there, she shuddered and had to shake it off.
She turned to unroll the rug, but she saw something else on the floor. “What’s this?” she said lowly.
“Oh no,” Cookie said, freezing in place. “Not more.”
“It’s okay,” Maris said, bending down to pick it up. “It’s just a card.” She turned it over. “A tarot card.”
“What in the world is it doing under the rug?” the diminutive chef said, finally coming into the room.
Maris shrugged. “Same thing as the toy I suppose.”
Cookie tsked, but peered down at the card. “The five of pentacles.”
A man on crutches and a woman clutching a shawl were trudging through the snow. Behind them was a stone wall with a beautiful stained glass window. The design featured five yellow circles, a star in each.
Maris gave her temple a little tap and brought up an image of the tarot guidebook that came with the deck. “The two people are destitute, living in poverty. The woman is in bare feet in the snow, and the man has been injured.” She examined the card again. The couple really did look pitiful. “Behind them is a church, lit up from within and exuding warmth. Found in the upright position it means recovery from financial loss, or recovery from spiritual poverty.” She handed the card to Cookie.
The chef examined it, turning it over once. “Financial loss.” She looked up at Maris. “Could that mean the thefts?”
Maris tilted her head and pursed her lips. “It could be.” She thought for a second. “Or maybe the church has something to do with it. Or the stained glass?”
Cookie sighed. “Right.”
Maris turned back to the rug and, using her foot, unrolled it all the way back to the door. “Next time Mojo has a tarot clue for us, I hope it won’t be so much work.” She checked her watch. “Or time consuming. I thought today would be my catch-up day.”
“You’re not going to the festival?” Cookie asked as they left the room.
Maris shook her head. “Mac and I both had too much to do.”
Cookie paused, card still in hand. “I know we’re full up, but there’s always a way to make a little time for ourselves.”
Maris regarded her. “Oh really. I haven’t seen you in the garden recently.”
Cookie shook the card at her. “That’s exactly right. You haven’t seen me.” She smiled. “But I always make time for it. Even just a little bit of weeding, watering, or fertilizing. I never skip it.”
Maris stared at her. “Really?”
“Really,” the chef confirmed. “It doesn’t have to take long.” She shook the card at her before turning toward the parlor. “Before you do another thing in this house, take some time for yourself.” Although she’d disappeared inside, Maris could still hear her. “I always do.” There was a pause. “Now where is that box?”
24
Rather than bring her watercolors out to enjoy the fine weather and sunshine, Maris decided to simply take a walk. The entire property was larger than it first appeared, because a low wooden railing fenced off most of it. For the safety of visitors and guests, particularly the children, most of the rocky promontory on which the lighthouse sat was off limits. Though scaling the rocks down to the narrow bit of sand could certainly be done, you had to be fit as well as wear the right kind of shoes. Maris contented herself with a stroll along the small white fence, as she looked down on the jagged shore.
Like the larger tide pools north of the bay, on the scenic drive to Cheeseman Village, smaller versions dotted the natural ledges of dark rock below. Even from this distance, Maris could make out a few dots of color among the sand and seaweed, mostly deep
oranges and bright blues. As a girl she’d climbed all over the area, watching the little creatures in the pools for hours. She’d then searched the field guides that Glenda kept in the library, which were still there.
“Take them with you,” her aunt had urged. “That’s what they’re for.”
Eventually she’d been able to identify some of the starfish, at least one type of crab, and the sea urchins too.
But as she walked along the fence, hands clasped behind her back, it wasn’t the little ecosystem’s creatures that occupied her mind—it was the thefts. She went over them again in her mind. Now that the album had been restored to its rightful place, it was down to Howard’s crystal ball, Eugene’s credit card machine, Ryan’s weights, Eunice’s phone, postcards from Inklings, and Bear’s honey. Though she hadn’t had the time to systematically question the business owners who weren’t magick folk, the pattern thus far pointed to magic practitioners losing items—sometimes items involved with magic.
“Magic,” she muttered.
That had to be the connection. The items themselves were so random, or at least they appeared to be.
Was there any way to use them together? One was a machine. One was food. One was a solid rock.
“No,” Maris said, shaking her head. It’d be impossible to use them together.
Or perhaps the five of pentacles tied them together. She counted up the items. There were six. So that aspect didn’t jive.
As she turned back to the B&B, she was surprised by how far she’d come. She’d been completely lost in thought. But as she headed back, she had to smile. She felt less harried, less in a hurry, and much more relaxed. She shielded her eyes with her hand out to the sun. It was another gorgeous day on the bay. The only better view would be from the lighthouse.
She gazed up at it, the faceted optics house gleaming in the sunlight.
