The Witch Who Heard the Music (Pixie Point Bay Book 7): A Cozy Witch Mystery

by Emma Belmont

  “Is this you?” she asked.

  He nodded, grinning. “It’s hard to recognize me because it’s not my best side.”

  “Wow,” she said, smiling at him. Then she recalled him playing on the out-of-tune upright. “And in answer to your question, no, it’s not hard to believe at all.” She gazed at the parlor. “But your knowledge of fabrics…”

  He shook his head. “I know, I know. But I was a much younger man when this album was made. Full of vim and vigor, full of hope.”

  Maris looked at the vintage record it with a new appreciation, and not because of its value. “Full of talent, I’d say.”

  He inclined his head to her. “I thank you.”

  “So you were playing professionally in the early sixties?” she asked, heading to the parlor.

  “Uh huh,” he said, following her. “Then in the seventies I left the music biz to work in textiles. I just couldn’t make a go of it.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “The endless touring. The beer stained keyboards. The chincy pay.” He shook his head and smirked. “I cut my losses while I was behind.” As Maris put the album back in its place, he gazed at the piano. “I still enjoy playing, and I’m a big music fan, but trying to make a living at it was just eating me alive.” He smiled at her and patted his protruding stomach. “It’s hard to stay big if you can’t afford to eat.”

  She grinned back at him. “Speaking of which, I was just about to start preparing for the wine and cheese.”

  He gallantly gestured to the door. “That’s the last thing I’d want to delay.”

  As George took a seat in the living room, Maris was again on her way to the kitchen when the front door opened and Megan appeared. Heat flared in Maris’s face but she smoothly changed direction and intercepted the journalist.

  “Megan,” she said pleasantly, “I’m glad you’re back. Could I speak to you?”

  The woman’s sharp features showed surprise. “Of course.”

  “This way,” Maris said, leading her to the back, out through the vestibule, and onto the back porch.

  “Did you remember something about the history of the lighthouse?” she asked, her journal in hand as always.

  Maris paused at the railing and turned to her. “No. I remembered to look up your work on the internet.”

  That brought her up short, and her eyes became wary. “Oh yes?”

  Maris crossed her arms and nodded. “Yes. Very impressive.”

  Megan brightened. “Oh, yes.”

  “So I just want to let you know that…” Megan opened her journal. “…that the album that was placed in George’s luggage has now been returned to the parlor.”

  Though the journalist had clicked the ballpoint pen, she wasn’t writing. “The album…”

  “Furthermore,” Maris continued, “Bear may be a man of few words, but he is neither dull nor a potential thief for your story.”

  Megan gaped at her. When she realized her mouth had dropped open, she closed it and the journal, and clutched the small book to her chest. “How did you read what–”

  Maris held up a hand. “I haven’t touched your notebook,” she said truthfully but pointedly looking at it. “But there’s a certain pattern to your work and a certain tone that it takes.”

  “Speak plainly,” the journalist said, seeming suddenly impatient.

  “Fine,” Maris said. “I’m telling you that you’re not going to find success or win any prizes by writing a negative story about Pixie Point Bay and its people. Period. And I’m even going to tell you why that’s so.” She paused to let her words sink in. “Because it’s just not true. No amount of fiction, planted evidence, or fact spinning can make it true either. It will simply not be believable.”

  Megan dropped her hands to her sides. “I see. Are we done here?”

  “No, we’re not. I have one piece of plain-speaking advice for you. Then we’re done.”

  Though the journalist frowned and clenched her jaw, she said, “Say it.”

  Maris softened her tone and did her best to muster a smile as well. “You’re a talented writer. Of that there’s no doubt. But consider what might happen if you saw things for what they really were, and wrote that truth. There’s power in that kind of candor. Real power.”

  “Thanks,” Megan said, biting off the word. She turned on her heel, and strode back into the house.

  Maris sighed. “Well, I tried.”

  29

  Although the McGrath family had checked out earlier in the day, the boys already talking about their next destination, the musicians were all at the Wine Down. Soft evening light filtered in through the dining room’s bay window, while lively conversation took place. The last day of the festival had apparently been as big a hit as the others.

  As Maris passed Bowdie his glass of wine, she said, “How was attendance today? Was it a good-sized audience?”

  He beamed at her as he took the drink. “The best yet. Today was the biggest festival attendance ever. It broke a record.”

  Maris grinned back at him. “That’s wonderful news.”

  On his way to the sideboard, Spats clapped the guitarist on the shoulder. “This young man was on fire today.”

  “Really?” Maris said, pouring another two glasses at the table, one of red and one of white.

  Just then Megan appeared in the doorway, and Maris offered her a choice by holding up both glasses.

  The journalist managed a little smile and took the white. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Maris said, inclining her head. She nodded at the guitarist. “Bowdie was just telling us that the festival set a new attendance record today.”

  Megan arched her brows as she sipped her wine. “Oh really?” she said.

  Maris noticed that she hadn’t brought her journal.

  “Smashed it,” Bowdie replied. “And what a great crowd.”

  George was just returning with a plate full of cheese-dipped vegetables and lightly toasted sourdough croutons. “Boy, that crowd was so into it today,” he said. “Sort of like a last hurrah.”

  “I don’t know what it was,” Bowdie said, setting down his glass and picking up his own plate, already half-eaten. “I don’t care what it was. It was amazing.” He turned to Megan. “Were you there?”

  She nodded. “I was. And you’re right. There was definitely a different kind of energy today.”

  Spats returned at that point, plate in hand. “It just sort of lifts you up when an audience responds like that. The more they got into it, the more we got into it.” He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “Mmm, sweet.”

  “White or red?” Maris asked him. “I’m pouring a dry Chardonnay and a crisp Sangiovese tonight.”

  He glanced around at what everyone else was having. “The red please.”

  The conversation turned to the various performances, their favorite songs, and the new players. Maris refreshed both the fondue and the dippers, and opened more wine. It seemed the festival had come off without a hitch, and everyone was in a celebrating mood—which suited her just fine. It was great to see the festive weekend come to a pleasant conclusion.

  The older drummer regarded Megan. “How’s your story about the festival coming?”

  Though she hesitated for a moment and gave Maris a quick glance, the hawkish look turned softer as she smiled at Spats. “It turns out that it’s all about the personalities, past and present.” She was tentative at first, but gained some momentum. “From the woman who started the festival because of her love of the blues, to the people who actually play it; people from every walk of life brought together for one purpose–”

  “Great music,” Maris interjected, smiling.

  “Great wine,” Bowdie said, lifting his glass.

  “Great digs,” Spats added, lifting his glass too.

  “Great food,” George agreed, and lifted his plate. Everyone laughed with the big man.

  Megan finally lifted her glass as well. “To the musicians who made it possible,” she said, and ev
eryone drank with her.

  Maris eyed her retired guest for a moment. “I wonder if everyone knows that George is a musician as well.”

  “What?” Spats said. He turned to the big man. “You play?”

  George seemed to shrink a little under the sudden attention. “I used to.”

  Maris put down her wine, went to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “False modesty, I’m afraid. George was kind enough to play for Cookie, Mojo, and I the other day.”

  “So you’re holding out on us,” Bowdie said. “What do you play?”

  George smiled a bit shyly. “Piano.”

  “Blues piano,” Maris added.

  Spats set down his plate. “Well let’s hear some.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to make you–”

  Bowdie stepped forward. “We’ve been playing all day, man. It’d be great to listen.”

  George looked around the room. “Well, if you insist…”

  “We do,” Maris said.

  In a few moments they had all moved to the parlor, where George sat down and began to play. It was an upbeat tune, quick and peppy, that Maris seemed to recognize. Spats immediately beamed at Bowdie and the two men stepped closer to the piano. Heads bopped and toes tapped as the brief intro led into the song.

  “Got my mojo working,” the three men sang, “but it just won’t work on you. Got my mojo working but it just won’t work on you.”

  Maris joined in as well. “Got my mojo working but it just won’t work on you.”

  Just then Mojo appeared in the doorway, and Maris went to pick him up, singing, “I want to love you so bad.” She hugged the fluffy black cat close. “But I just don’t know what to do.”

  Although Megan grinned at Mojo, the men hadn’t seen him, concentrating on the song. As they belted out the rest of the verse, Bowdie sang a harmony and Spats began to clap in time. George’s fingers flew over the keyboard, and it was over all too soon.

  Applause erupted and Mojo meowed his signature sound in appreciation, making everyone laugh.

  Bowdie and Spats patted George on the shoulders.

  “We’ve got a natural here,” Spats said.

  Bowdie nodded. “We make a good band,” he declared.

  Spats thought for a moment, as George swiveled around. “You know what, I think we do.”

  “I’d have to agree,” Megan said. “That was pretty nice.”

  “A small band can be tight,” Bowdie said, the gears turning behind his eyes. He looked down at the still seated piano player. “You know what I mean?”

  The big man nodded. “Oh, definitely. A band’s got to gel. If the magic isn’t there, it just isn’t.”

  The younger guitarist nodded. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Takes more than musicianship,” Spats agreed. He glanced at Maris. “We can all play our part, but it takes real teamwork to pull off a song that sounds so together.”

  Maris smiled at him. “I never thought of that.”

  “Say, George,” Bowdie said to him. “You wouldn’t be interested in maybe getting together with me and Spats for a little studio time, would you?”

  George seemed to be bursting at the seams. “You bet I would. I haven’t seen the inside of a studio for decades.”

  Megan had taken one of the napkins and clicked her pen. When Maris glanced at her, she said, “Just want to note the date, the time, and the place.” She lowered her voice. “I think we might just have seen the birth of something special.”

  Mojo squirmed to be put down and trotted immediately over to George, who patted his lap. “Come on up, little fella.”

  “Let’s do another,” Spats said. “George, you want to start us off?”

  Mojo remained in the big man’s lap as he turned to the piano and started playing.

  Maris had to smile. Megan could be right. They might be witnessing the start of the next big blues band.

  But as she watched the trio, her thoughts went unexpectedly back to the thefts. Something in the back of her mind, suddenly jumped to the front, and she understood why the missing items had made no sense. More importantly, she knew who was responsible for the larceny. She smiled even wider. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

  30

  The next morning was a whirlwind of activity. After breakfast, the guests had all departed, with fervent wishes for a return visit next year. Maris and Cookie worked until noon stripping the beds and bathrooms and putting on fresh linens. Though new guests weren’t expected for a couple of days, they both liked to see the B&B looking good.

  “An unmade bed…” Cookie said, as she took up the fresh towels, passing Maris on the stairs.

  “Is a messy bed,” Maris said, taking down the trash.

  In her hospitality career, she had always been a stickler for having everything in readiness. Though their next guests might not be expected until later in the week, now they were ready for a traveler who might simply be stopping by. The bonus was knowing that everything was neat and tidy as well.

  Once the upstairs was ready, they met in the kitchen.

  “I think I’ll skip the dusting and vacuuming today,” Maris said, taking a seat at the butcher block.

  Cookie was heating some water for tea. “Me too,” she said. “There are some plants in the garden that are feeling pretty neglected.”

  Maris glanced toward the back. “Is Bear working today?”

  “I don’t think so,” Cookie said. She poured the hot water into the two waiting china cups. “Why do you ask?” She brought the cups over and took a seat as well.

  Maris accepted one of the cups. “Thank you. That smells wonderful.” She inhaled the wonderful aroma of chamomile deeply. “I’ve got an errand in town and thought I’d pick up lunch from Flour Power.”

  Cookie smiled, wrapping her hands around the cup. “I’m sure he’ll be sorry to miss that.” She took a sip of her tea and set it back on the block. “But one of Fab’s sandwiches sounds, well, fab.”

  Maris sipped her tea as well. It had just the right amount of Bear’s honey. She smiled at the diminutive chef. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “What are you doing in town?”

  Maris set her cup down. “I’ll be catching a thief.”

  Sitting in the circle with the others, Maris took the potholder from her canvas bag. The other ladies all peered at it for a moment, before returning to their own work.

  “Another potholder?” Zarina asked, leaning forward. Her huge glasses were a vibrant purple today, matching the floral head scarf.

  Maris flushed a little. “No. Same one.”

  “Ah,” said the plump woman, settling back with a little smile.

  “You know,” Eunice said, putting her crochet project in her lap, “if you worked on that at home too, you might actually finish it.”

  “Now, now, Eunice,” Millicent said smoothly. “We’re not all as blazingly fast as you, you know.”

  Maris only smiled at the the older woman with the too red hair. “I’ve been a bit busy.”

  “Oh heavens,” said Helen, as she continued work on her doily. “Haven’t we all been? But the festival was another great success.”

  “Better every year,” Vera agreed. She moved her glasses up her nose a bit to look out the front window. “I don’t know how the plaza could have held any more people.”

  “I wasn’t busy with the festival,” Maris said to no one in particular. “Or the B&B. No, I was busy figuring out who stole all the missing items.”

  As one, everyone stopped crocheting, and yet no one lifted their gaze. Maris suppressed a knowing smile as she recalled how quickly Millicent and Eunice had implicated the journalist, and also Claribel’s remote vision of the president of the club.

  It was Millicent who finally broke the awkward silence. “And have you?” she asked, her tone almost bored.

  Maris let the potholder rest in her lap. “It was you,” she replied. She let her glance take in the entire circle. “All
of you.”

  Eventually everyone’s work slowly lowered and their gazes went to Millicent, who then calmly looked at Maris. “Well, I suppose there’s really no point in denying it.”

  “No,” Maris said. “There isn’t. But what I don’t know is why?”

  A flurry of looks were exchanged, but Maris simply waited. Millicent nodded to Helen, who cleared her throat.

  “As an earth elemental,” she said, “I was in charge of taking Howard’s crystal ball.” She snapped her fingers. “Easiest thing in the world to get it.”

  Maris’s eyebrows arched at the revelation. For a moment, she could only sit, stunned. She’d run into Helen outside the market that day before the festival. But as she thought of that morning, and poor Howard when he’d found his crystal ball was gone, she said, “Will he be getting it back?”

  Helen shook her head, smiling. “You’ll let him know he needs a new one?”

  Maris frowned at the incongruous smile. “Sure.”

  The elderly woman waved a hand at her. “Oh it was cracked anyway. He’d do better with a new one.”

  “I’m a gravity elemental,” Zarina said. “Did you know?” When Maris shook her head, she said, “I took the fishing weights from Ryan Quigg’s shop.”

  “Okay,” Maris said quietly, feeling a bit bewildered.

  “Air elemental,” Vera said, holding up her hand as though she was swearing an oath. “Aurora will discover that she’s missing some wind chimes.”

  Maris looked at Eunice, who actually smiled for a change. “I’m a fire elemental,” the older woman said. “I took some gasoline from Flour Power. The honey from Bear was just a bonus.”

  “But we like him,” Millicent added, “so we decided to keep it.”

  “You like him,” Maris echoed, trying to puzzle it out. “And that’s why you’ll keep it.” She frowned a little as the ladies all grinned at her. If they liked someone, they stole from them? Then she recalled the credit card machine.

  “And Eugene?”

  Millicent chuckled a little. “Oh, that was all him. We didn’t take his credit card machine. He misplaced it. Delia found it at their booth in the plaza. We took one of their menus.”