by Emma Belmont
“Claribel,” she said, and quickened her pace.
Though she might not have time to ask some questions in town today, there was one course of investigation of which she had yet to avail herself.
25
As Maris approached the door to the lighthouse, a warm sea breeze swirled all around her. She held her hair back from her face with one hand, and gripped the edge of the door that was opening with the other. As she moved inside, she let it go and it gently closed behind her.
“Good morning, Old Girl,” she said.
Although the interior of the conical tower was lit by windows as well as the light that poured down from the top, Maris realized for the first time that it was cool inside. Despite the blazing sun outside, the temperature here was more like that of early evening. As she wound her way up the wrought iron, spiral staircase, with its ornamental black balustrades and textured steps, she thought about the temperature and looked out through the first window. Though she was often taken with the views that it afforded, today she noticed the wall in which it was set.
“Two feet thick?” she guessed. That had to help keep the temperature pretty even.
But on the second level—though it was hard to tell—the wall appeared to be slightly less thick. Finally, on the third level, the wall surrounding that window was almost a normal thickness. As the cone of the lighthouse tapered inward, the wall thinned, becoming more graceful as the building rose.
Maris had to smile at the small realization. After all this time, the Old Girl was still a surprise. As she climbed the last couple of steps, breathing a little hard but no longer having to pant, she ascended onto the metal landing and gazed around at all the glass—three hundred and sixty degrees of it. As she’d done on the way up, she took in the structure itself rather than just the views.
An elegant and finely wrought metal frame held the crystal clear windows, also known as storm panes. It made sense to her that the view ought to be as unobstructed as possible, allowing the lightkeeper to spot trouble, and those at sea to spot the beam. But she’d never really appreciated the beauty of the floor to ceiling glass itself. Bear kept the panes amazingly clean, doing the maintenance that Aunt Glenda had once done. But now Maris wondered if she wouldn’t enjoy taking on some of the upkeep herself—as long as heavy lifting wasn’t involved.
“Or greasy bearings,” she said.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t as icky as it sounded.
She crossed her arms, pondering it, as she paused to take in the view. Although the optics room was warmer than the tower below, it seemed to her that the panoramic view itself was bright and hot. So many blazing white sparkles reflected from the surface of the bay, it looked more like a mirror than water. The sky’s pale blue had taken on a powdery lightness, particularly over the distant horizon. Even the craggy rocks below glistened with ocean spray, and the green of the undulating coastline was dotted with wildflowers in brilliant hues of yellow.
Maris found herself smiling in every direction. It was simply gorgeous.
Finally she turned to a sight that was equally entrancing but in a different way—the fresnel lens. Although most people probably thought of it as the all-seeing-eye of the lighthouse, she thought of it as its heart. Complicated, multi-faceted, and filled with light, Maris considered it the core of the magical being.
“Hey there, Claribel,” she said to the giant steel and glass structure.
As she gazed into its myriad of shining pieces, most etched with fine concentric circles, she let her eyes unfocus. A rainbow of tiny sparkles danced inside the glass, refracting the brilliant sunlight. They floated to and fro, some of them swirling like the sea breeze outside. But eventually, as Maris watched, they began to coalesce. They formed a scene of something she recognized.
“The festival,” she murmured.
Two groups were performing in the plaza, one on the far stage and one in the gazebo. But as her view zoomed in, she was drawn to the other end of the town center. There on the sidewalk, she clearly saw Millicent. The president of the crochet club seemed to be listening to the music, though she stood at a distance, in front of her home and the club’s headquarters. People milled around her and, as usual, her eagle eye seemed to notice everything.
But then the vision winked out.
Maris had to blink. For a moment, she simply stared at the fresnel lens thinking about what she’d seen. It made sense that someone who lived on the plaza might step outside to enjoy the music, and yet something about that bothered her. She recalled the many times she’d visited Millicent in her home, sitting in the crochet circle. The club president often sat in front of the fireplace, but there was no bad seat in the circle because the large front room was bathed in light.
But at its back, Maris had noticed a white baby grand piano. Though it simply looked like another piece of furniture, there was sometimes music on its stand. As her brows drew together, she tapped her temple. She could just make out the large letters of the piece’s title: Piano Sonata No. 1. It had to be a classical piece.
“Hmm,” Maris muttered.
So Millicent played classical piano. Could she also be a fan of blues music? No doubt music lovers simply loved music, but the two genres seemed pretty far apart. Or perhaps her interest in the festival stemmed from being on the committee. Although Maris considered it for a second, there was really only one way to find out.
Maris smiled at the glittering glass in front of her, and patted the base of the lens.
“Thank you, Old Girl.”
26
As Maris exited the base of the lighthouse to the side yard, she immediately spotted Bear and Megan. She had her journal out, pen in hand, and seemed to be taking notes at a furious rate.
“Uh oh,” Maris muttered, and casually strolled over.
Although Bear stood at the entrance to the greenhouse with a caulking gun in his hand, he seemed frozen in place, his head turned to the reporter.
“You say it was in your truck when you pulled in for gas?” Megan was saying.
The journalist had obviously not let go of the thefts. The woman had dogged determination.
“Megan,” Maris said. “I’m surprised you’re not at the festival, especially since it’s the last day.” In fact, she wasn’t surprised in the least, but thought she’d try a hint.
The woman smirked at her. “It turns out there’s more to Pixie Point Bay than blues music.” She nodded at Bear. “Mr. Orsino here has been telling me about his missing jar of honey.”
“Whoever has it,” he said, “can keep it.”
“Yes, yes,” Megan said impatiently. “So you said. If someone hungry took it, they can have it. The bees always make more.” She fixed him with one of her hawkish looks. “But tell me, did you report it to the sheriff?”
Maris clenched her jaw, but kept silent.
“No,” Bear said simply, still holding the caulking gun as though he was ready to work on the greenhouse door.
“And why not?” the journalist asked.
Bear simply shrugged.
“No reason?” she asked.
Bear shook his head.
Although Megan tried to wait him out, Bear apparently had no more to add. Although the journalist frowned, Maris had to suppress a small smile. Megan had no idea who she was dealing with. If she was hoping to get him to say more than he wanted or coax something out of him, she might need to stand here all day. Even then, Maris had her doubts. As the journalist made a note, Maris exchanged a look with Bear, who gave her just the hint of a grin. When Megan looked back up at him, it instantly vanished. A suspicious look replaced her penetrating one, as she glanced between them.
“No matter,” Megan said, closing the journal with finality. “I think I’ve figured out who the thief is.”
Maris cocked her head back. “Oh?” A little knot of dread tightened in her chest.
The reported glanced back at the B&B and lowered her voice. “George, your retired guest.”
Maris scowle
d at the woman. Bear however turned back to the greenhouse and pulled the long trigger on the caulk gun, applying a bead of clear caulk near the top of the door. Megan ignored him.
“George?” Maris said. “Why in the world would you think it was George?”
“He’s been everywhere that there’s been a theft,” the reporter declared. “Every single place.”
“You realize, of course,” Maris said, “that’s entirely circumstantial. Do you have any evidence?” Although the keen glare had returned, Maris simply stared back at her.
“Of all the people that I’ve interviewed,” Megan said, “and that’s quite a lot, he is the only person who can be placed at all of the theft locations.”
A little relieved, Maris smiled at the woman. “So that would be a ‘no.’ You don’t have any evidence.” She crossed her arms. “That might hold up for some story you’d write, but not in a court of law. You couldn’t even get a search warrant based on what you know.” Maris paused for a moment. “Or what you think you know.”
Megan gave her an icy smile. “Well then lucky for me, I’m a writer and not a cop.” She glanced at Bear’s back and then at Maris. “I think I’ll head to the festival now. I expect that’s where I’ll find George.”
The woman turned on her heel and left, barely avoiding stepping on some of the plants in the garden. When she’d gone into the house and slammed the porch door behind her, Maris turned to Bear who was looking at the closed door.
“Not the most pleasant guest we’ve had,” she said.
“No,” was all he said.
But as he turned back to the greenhouse, Maris interrupted him. “Bear, I was wondering something.” He stopped again and turned to her. “I was thinking that I might like to do some of the maintenance duties for the lighthouse. I remember Glenda cleaning the storm panes, for example. Is that something that I could tackle?”
He looked up at the optics house, then back to her. “You could do that, but you need a ladder to reach up high. It would be safer with two people.”
“Oh,” she said. She gazed up at the lighthouse’s windows. “I see.” Then she glanced at Bear. “I suppose you’re tall enough that you don’t need a ladder?”
He smiled at her. “Yes.” Then he paused, and stroked his beard. “But inside the optics house, you could use a ladder.”
She grinned. “So I could clean the inside of the storm panes, while you clean the outside.”
He shook his head a little. “I was thinking you could clean the fresnel lens.”
Maris’s heart leaped into her throat, and she nearly hopped in place. “Could I? That’d be wonderful!”
His smiled broadened. “I would be happy to show you.”
She beamed back at him. “It’s a deal. Next time it needs to be cleaned. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” he said, and turned back to the greenhouse.
Maris went to the back porch and entered just in time to see Megan heading out the front door. Her high at the thought of cleaning Claribel’s lens dimmed a little. Then she thought of George. She could hardly imagine that the affable and knowledgeable retiree would be a thief.
What could he possibly want with a jar of honey or some fishing weights?
Though she didn’t want to see one of her guests hound another, she was also pretty sure that the journalist was on the wrong track. It would come to nothing except a waste of time, which would give her a chance to actually find the real thief—after she finished her chores.
27
With the B&B ship-shape, clean, and toys removed from under rugs, Maris went to her bedroom. All day she’d thought about what Megan had said and her suspicions of George. She’d obviously done a lot of investigative work to be able to tie him to all the locations, but it had been Millicent who’d pointed out how suspicious the journalist behaved. As Maris entered her bedroom, she recalled finding Megan snooping in it. If she hadn’t seen her leaving, Maris fully expected to find her snooping again. But the only other person in the room was Mojo.
He was curled up on the seat of the bay window, in a little patch of late afternoon sunlight. She went over to him and ran her hand down the warm fur along his spine.
“It’s too hot over here,” she said to him. In response, his sleepy eyes rolled to look at her, before closing again. “Bake away then, but don’t say I didn’t tell you.”
As her thoughts returned to the reporter again, she decided to do a little investigating from the comfort of her desk. She took out her little used laptop, booted it up, and did a search for Megan Kantor.
Her name was everywhere.
It was probably to be expected, since she was a writer. Most of the web pages were articles that she had written. Often her name was linked with the Pulitzer Prize—again no surprise. But as Maris scrolled through the search results, one page after another, a strange pattern appeared. Some of the articles weren’t by Megan, but rather about her. They pointed out how her gritty stories tended to feature ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. It was a style that had gotten her the prestigious writing award. But the prize was now some decades in the past.
“Muckraker,” Maris read.
Lately Megan was characterized as someone who sought out scandal in order to make it public. It was a feel-bad style of reporting and writing that was most definitely no longer in vogue. Once lauded for asking the tough questions, now her journalism was sometimes labelled inflammatory.
One critic even wrote, “Rigorous takes a back seat to scurrilous.”
Maris sat back. “Hmm.” The thefts weren’t exactly a scandal, but could she make them seem that way? It was possible, if she tried hard enough. From what Maris had seen, trying hard was one of Megan’s strong suits.
In the many times that she had been with the journalist as she’d made notes, Maris had never seen what she was actually writing. She gave her temple a tap and called up the time she’d been interviewing Bear.
Although the notebook was upside-down, Maris was slowly able to read the text—and she had to frown.
“Bear Orsino,” she read. “Six foot, five inches. Heavy. Beard and short hair, light brown. Blue overalls, white t-shirt. Handyman. Too dull for a thief. Possible victim. Honey.”
Possible victim? Of course he was a victim. The honey had been taken from his truck. Plus Bear was anything but dull. He might be a man of few words—very few words—but he was neither dim nor dull.
Maris tapped her temple again and called up her time with Megan in the kitchen, when the journalist had asked her about the lighthouse and B&B.
“Death by fire,” the first note at the top of the page said, and Maris stopped reading.
Instead she seethed.
She had specifically told the woman exactly how Glenda had died. They were going to need to have a talk.
Just then Mojo jumped onto her lap, startling her for a second.
“Uh, come on up,” she said, petting his sizzling hot back. “What did I tell you?” He gave her a plaintive little meow. “Well maybe next time you’ll listen.” But as she gazed at his spot near the window, she realized how low the sun had sunk. She picked him up and put him on the floor before she stood. “Time to start the Wine Down.”
28
As Maris headed to the kitchen to start another fondue but with different dippers tonight, she ran across George. He was coming down the stairs with an album in his hand. But as Maris stared she realized it wasn’t just any album, it was the album: the one that had been missing and then reappeared. Before she could ask him about it, he lumbered to the bottom of the steps and showed it to her.
“Look what I found,” he said, staring at it himself. He handed it to her.
“Found?” she said. “Where?”
“Well,” he said, rubbing the top of his head and glancing back up the stairs, “you won’t believe it, because I sure don’t. But it was in my suitcase.”
Maris scowled at him. “Your suitcase?”
The big man nodded. “I’m afra
id so.” She stared at him, incredulous, but then realization began to dawn. If he hadn’t put it there, she could guess who had. “I don’t know how it could have got there.”
“Well,” Maris said, seething again. “It seems to have a mind of its own. It’s gone missing a couple of times this weekend.”
“Missing?” George asked, seeming a bit alarmed. He pointed to it. “Then maybe you’d better put it in a safe place. It’s a keeper for sure.”
Maris nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told.”
George regarded her. “Well, did they tell you its probably worth seven or eight thousand dollars?”
Her mouth dropped open briefly, before she recovered. She gaped at the album in her hand. “This?”
“Mmm hmm,” George intoned. “That.”
She turned the album over in her hands, before staring at the front again. It was done in sepia tones, but it wasn’t a photo. It was a cartoon. The band was drawn playing together on a round stage, but the instruments and players were all a little out of proportion and angular.
“I had no idea,” she said, finally looking up at him. “But you do?”
He chuckled a little. “Let’s just say I keep tabs on the market value of a few select records.”
Her brows knit together. “As an investment maybe?”
Now he laughed. “Nah. It’s my ego.” He held out his hand for the album, and she gave it back to him. He turned it over. “Here,” he said, pointing at the credits on one of the songs.
Maris peered down at it. “Piano, Big George Brunell.” Her eyes widened. “You?”
He laughed again and handed the album back to her. “Is it really that hard to believe?”
As she read the credits for the other songs, it turned out he’d been the only piano player on the entire album, playing on most of the songs. She flipped it over to study the front, and pointed to the rotund shape playing the wonky piano.
