by Emma Belmont
Mac pursed his lips. “What was that about? I wasn’t particularly expecting anger.”
Maris shook her head. “I really don’t know. I haven’t seen any indication that Pammy was involved with any of the men, including Reggie.”
The sheriff regarded her. “Right,” he finally said. “And that wasn’t quite the reaction I’d have expected from someone who’d been hiding an affair.” He thought for a moment then glanced down the stairs. “The guests can have access to their rooms.”
“Good,” Maris said, as they turned to the stairs. “I’ll let them know.”
“Thanks,” Mac said. He checked his watch. “I think I’ll visit a certain chef about a certain catered dinner.”
Maris smiled at him, thinking about what Cookie had said about the fiery Frenchman. “Good luck,” she said, and meant it.
19
By the time Mac headed to Plateau 7, Felix and BJ had decided to leave as well—though they’d headed their separate ways. With all the guests gone, Maris and Cookie decided to tackle the daily chores, particularly since the investigative team had left a bit of a mess.
As Maris made the beds that the team had rumpled, she thought about Pammy. She’d seemed genuinely shocked by the socks. But there had also been that anger in her reaction, something Mac had noticed as well. The young artist with the thick circular glasses didn’t seem like a murderer, but Maris knew that meant little. Too many times she’d been shocked at what people of all types could do, particularly in a fit of passion.
Out in the hallway, she met Cookie who seemed to be finished as well.
“I don’t think we need dusting and vacuuming today,” Maris said, as they both went downstairs. None of the guests had spent much time at the B&B, nor were they a particularly untidy bunch.
“I agree,” the chef said. “Perhaps game designers are naturally neat.”
Maris smiled. “Maybe,” she allowed. “But I’d hate to see an office full of empty pizza boxes.”
Outside the fog had lifted, as it always did, and it looked as though the sky was perfectly clear. “It might be a nice day to spend outdoors,” Cookie said. “I think I hear the herb garden calling.”
“What amazing hearing you have,” Maris said, laughing a little.
The chef laughed a bit too. “Herbs will do that to you.” She regarded Maris. “And you?”
As they stood in the downstairs hallway, Maris considered for a moment. What she really wanted to do was get to the bottom of Reggie’s murder. With no suspects to quiz or scenes to investigate further, there was only one other option. Luckily, it was an excellent one.
“I think I’m going to visit Claribel,” she said. “You know, see what light the Old Girl can shed.”
“Quite a bit, I imagine,” Cookie said, as she headed toward the back porch with Maris following her.
Bear was working on the greenhouse and she waved at him. He paused for a moment and waved back, his motion almost too dainty, making Maris smile. As she approached the conical white tower, a light sea breeze wafted in from the bay, swirled in front of the door, and swung it ajar. As soon as Maris stepped through, it gently closed behind her.
“Good afternoon, Old Girl,” Maris greeted her.
As she climbed the spiral staircase, she thought back to her first encounter with the magical being. Though it’d been a shock to find out that her aunt had been a witch and that the family had possessed a special bond with the Old Girl, Maris now marveled at how natural it felt. As the current lightkeeper, she often sought Claribel’s help, and the Old Gril never failed to give it. Maris wondered now if it wasn’t something about the lighthouse being able to see so far that gave the Old Girl her unique abilities, as well as a North American record for saving sailors.
Finally at the top of the stairs, Maris stepped out onto the metal landing of the optics house and paused for a breather. “Phew!” she gasped, going to the window.
The view today was phenomenal, what she liked to call one-hundred mile visibility. Small, cottonball clouds dotted the sky in the distance, but the horizon below them was so clear that the line between ocean and sky looked as though it’d been drawn by a pencil. In the distance, a container ship with a cargo that looked like a patchwork quilt seemed to move at a glacial speed, and yet it left two lines of white waves in its wake. Little sailboats bobbed here and there, and Maris could even see the bright colors of the clothes that the boaters wore.
She held a hand against the sun to shield her eyes and took it all in. “Wow,” she murmured. It was a view that never got old.
But as her breathing recovered and her pulse settled down, she turned to the heart of the lighthouse, its fresnel lens. As always the word lens amused her. If anything it was a work of art, a sculpture of crystal clear glass supported by gleaming steel. Its overall shape was that of an egg, though it was as tall as her. Most of the pieces of glass, all different shapes and sizes, were grooved with finely etched concentric circles. Maris had finally learned that these concentric grooves and the stepped arrangement of the pieces of glass were what gave the lens its name, after the French inventor.
As she watched, light bounced around inside them, fracturing into thousands of sparkles in every color imaginable. It was mesmerizing and she could watch all day, but slowly an image began to form. It was Bear working on the greenhouse.
Maris’s brows drew together as she took a closer look. It was like looking through a telescope with an enlarged view. The steel structure of the greenhouse was done and Bear was starting to put in some glass.
But as suddenly as the vision had begun, it ended, simply winking out. Maris blinked.
What in the world could Bear or the greenhouse have to do with Reggie’s death? What could Claribel be trying to tell her?
She went to the window that looked down on the property. Bear was indeed in the greenhouse installing a glass panel and Cookie was in her garden, both of them working. Often the lighthouse would show her remote visions, places that she could never have seen directly even with binoculars. But this one had been close to home.
“Hmm,” she muttered. Maybe she ought to go down and see what their handyman was doing.
With a smile she gently patted the base of the lens. “Thanks, Old Girl,” she said quietly.
The trip down was much quicker than the trip up. When she reached Bear, he was in virtually the same place, fitting a glass panel into the side of the steel structure. Once he’d done that he bent to pick up a giant tube of caulk, but paused when he saw Maris watching him.
“Hello, Maris,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Bear. I wonder if I could trouble you with a question.”
He straightened up. “It’s no trouble.”
She paused for a moment, not quite sure how to put this. “It may sound odd, but I was wondering if there’s anything that you can tell me about Reggie Atkinson’s death.”
Rather than appear surprised or even mildly puzzled, the big handyman simply appeared to be thinking. “I was home by dark that day,” he said. “I didn’t talk to the visitors.” He looked at the B&B for a moment. “I see them on the porch, but they don’t come to look at what I’m doing.” His gaze settled back on her. “I don’t know anything about his death,” he concluded. Then he shrugged, and gave her a little smile. But as he did his stomach gurgled loudly. His cheeks flushed a bright pink and he used a big hand to cover his bulging middle, but it didn’t help the sound.
Maris smiled at him. “I’m going to pick up some lunch for us, so hold that thought.”
He smiled sheepishly at her. “Okay.” Then he turned back to the glass panel with the caulk gun.
As she strode toward the herb garden, she thought about what Claribel had shown her. It hadn’t surprised her that Bear didn’t know anything about the murder. But the Old Girl never showed her something without a reason. She’d have to keep it in mind.
Cookie was pulling weeds but paused and stood up as Maris approached. As she smoothed the hair out of her face with
a gloved hand, she said, “Any insights?”
Maris shook her head. “I’m afraid all I learned is that it’s time to get lunch.”
“Not a bad thing to learn,” the gardener said. “Where are you thinking of going?”
Maris glanced across the bay. Mac would be done talking to Chef Fournier by now. “I think Plateau 7 might be nice.” Cookie raised an eyebrow at her but Maris grinned in return. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
20
Though the views from Plateau 7 couldn’t rival those from the B&B and lighthouse, they were still magnificent. The blindingly white two-story structure was almost all glass. Situated at the edge of the rocks, the floor to ceiling windows gave the feeling that you were nearly in the bay. Small and large tables draped in immaculate white tablecloths were spaced a good distance apart, giving each a beautiful oceanfront view. On occasion, a light spray of water splashed up from the boulders below.
A dramatic glass staircase led up to the second floor, where Maris could glimpse more tables. No doubt the view there was even better. She was wondering how long the wait list was for reservations, when a Maitre D’ wearing a crisp black business suit approached her at the podium.
“Table for one?” he said. Middle-aged and trim, and perhaps a bit prim, Maris was just a little disappointed that he didn’t have a French accent.
“I’d like to order take-out,” she said, suddenly wondering if such an upscale restaurant even did to-go orders.
“Of course,” the man said, and removed a tall black menu from behind the podium. He handed it to her. “Please, take your time,” he said, before bustling off.
The lunch offerings were stupendous, capitalizing on the fresh seafood that she now knew was the chef’s passion. From the lobster Thermidor to the stuffed and breaded mussels to the pan fried Sole meunière, everything looked delicious. It was impossible to decide—until she spotted the bouillabaisse. The classic fish stew was based on the Pixie Point Bay catches of the day. She caught the Maitre D’s eye. As she handed him the menu, she said, “The bouillabaisse please. I’ll need four servings.” Like Bear himself, the handyman’s appetite was outsized.
The Maitre D’ bowed a little. “An excellent choice.” He put the menu back and turned to head toward the nearby computer station.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but I was wondering if Chef Fournier is here today?”
The man turned back to her and sniffed. “He is always here, Miss. Who can I say is inquiring?”
She smiled pleasantly. “Maris Seaver.”
He nodded curtly before bringing out his phone and texting. Puzzled, she watched him send the message. “I thought the chef was here?”
The Maitre D’ nodded to the kitchen door. “In the kitchen.” He lowered his voice. “No one is permitted there except for the chef himself.”
Maris frowned at him. That didn’t make sense. A restaurant like Plateau 7 would have all kinds of sous chefs, pastry chefs, and perhaps even a saucier at work. When Chef Fournier had catered Reggie’s dinner at the B&B, he’d seemed quite certain that the restaurant had been left in good hands.
Just then, Etienne Fournier, in his white chef’s outfit and hat, burst from the kitchen and nearly ran to her. The Maitre D’ excused himself, went to the computer station, and touched the screen.
“What is the meaning of that man coming here to ask me questions?” Fournier demanded. “Me!”
Apparently, Mac had indeed visited. She held up her hands. “I’m sure it’s routine, Chef. Everyone at the B&B has been questioned too. More than once, including me and Cookie.”
“It is not possible that the food is in question,” he declared. “Yes, I was there. But whose house is it? Yours. Yours!”
“I agree,” she said quickly. “We were searched this morning. I assume the restaurant wasn’t searched?”
His eyes widened and his paper hat quivered. “Searched? No!” He lowered his voice. “That could ruin me,” he whispered fiercely.
She held up her hands again. “The dinner was beyond reproach. No one doubts the food.”
“I should hope not!”
She nodded. “Which is why you weren’t searched.” She paused to let that sink in. “In fact, the food was incredible, as you know.”
“Of course it was,” he agreed. “Of course.” He tugged down his tunic, and took a moment to shift his hat a little. “The meal was perfection. Training tells.”
Maris smiled at him. “Indeed it does. I’m sure the sheriff was only trying to see if there was something else you might have noticed. You were in a particularly good position to observe everyone during that stupendous dinner.”
He seemed to be thinking as he smoothed his waxed mustache, but when he didn’t reply, Maris said, “This is my first time to Plateau 7.” She gazed appreciatively at the surroundings. “I must say, it lives up to its reputation.”
He stood up a little straighter. “It is Plateau Sept, not seven.”
“Oh,” she said. “My apologies. Plateau Sept.”
He nodded his approval and then checked left and right before leaning in closer. “I did happen to notice a little something that evening,” he said lowly. “I know I can tell you since we are both…shall we say, kindred kind.”
Maris nodded to him. “Exactly so.”
His dark eyes twinkled. “It didn’t escape my notice that the young Asian man was infatuated with the woman.” The chef checked left and right again. “But she only had eyes for the boss man.”
Maris’s brows rose. How had she missed that? “Are you sure?”
He held up his finger. “It was only a glance or two, when they thought they were unobserved. After all,” he continued, touching his chest, “it was only the server who came and went. It is often the case that the server disappears.”
Maris had to nod. Even she had not kept track of Etienne as he’d served the meal. She gazed into his eyes. “Thank you.”
Calmer now, he simply waved her off. “Think nothing of it.” Then, as though an alarm had sounded, he said, “I will check on your food.” He turned on his heel and was gone. She noticed that he stopped at one of the tables next to the window where two women were having dessert, before proceeding back to the kitchen.
Before she could even think back on the dinner, and try to remember a moment when Felix would have gazed meaningfully at Pammy, or her at Reggie, the French chef was on his way back, carrying her order and also a silver coffee pot. He stopped at an empty table and set down the food, before pouring coffee for the two women. Then he picked up her order, and brought it to the podium. As Maris took her wallet from her purse, he simply put the large cardboard to-go box in her hands.
“With my compliments,” he said gallantly.
The smell of the bouillabaisse wafted up and she could also see paper wrapped baguettes and a cucumber salad.
“Oh no,” she said taking it from him. “I couldn’t.”
“But of course you can,” the chef said. “I am afraid I must insist. You will also find menus included. Perhaps your future guests will find them of interest.”
She beamed back at him. “I’ll be sure to bring them to their attention. Thank you.”
“Bon appétit,” he said.
21
Maris dabbed the remainder of her baguette into the last little bit of soup at the bottom of her bowl. The bouillabaisse had been extraordinary. Shrimp, mussels, and crab had accompanied generous chunks of salmon and potato, all simmered to perfection in the tomato-based soup.
“I can’t remember the last time I had bouillabaisse,” Cookie said, sitting back in her porch chair.
Bear was just finishing as well. “Bouillabaisse,” he said, as though trying the word out. He was sopping up the last of his as well. It turned out that the fish stew had been the right choice. Lunch had passed in almost complete silence.
As Maris wiped her mouth with a napkin, she remembered what Etienne had said and turned to Cookie. “I almost forgot. It turns out that Chef
Fournier was being observant that night at dinner. He’s of the opinion that Felix had eyes for Pammy, but that she in turn had eyes for Reggie.”
Cookie frowned a bit, and cocked her head. “I must say that escaped my notice.” She paused, her gaze drifting back to the house. “Then again, I was so focused on that amazing meal.” She smiled at Maris. “If they’d been ogling each other and batting their eyelashes I probably wouldn’t have noticed.”
Maris laughed a little. “Me too. But I do recall how the chef was aware when everyone had stopped eating.”
Cookie nodded. “Yes, I remember that. He was none too pleased, and rightly so. But yes, a good server is always going to be watching.”
“Speaking of which,” Maris said, her brow furrowing. “At the restaurant, it looked like the chef was waiting tables, and the Maitre D’ said that no one was allowed in the kitchen.”
Cookie blinked at her. “No one?”
“That’s what he said. And when I asked to speak with the chef, the Maitre D’ texted him.”
Cookie’s expression became guarded. “Huh,” she said. “That’s interesting.”
“If he’s that controlling,” Maris asked, “how could he ever have left his restaurant to come here and cater Reggie’s event?”
Cookie eyed them both, then leaned in toward them. “I don’t think he did,” she whispered.
Bear’s bushy eyebrows went up as he tucked the last bit of bread and broth into his mouth.
Maris shook her head. “But we saw him. He served us that entire five course meal.”
The diminutive chef shook her head. “I think it looked like him.” She checked behind her. “But it was probably a fetch. I’ll bet the waiter at the restaurant was a fetch too.”
“A fetch?” Maris asked, looking from Cookie to Bear, who only shrugged his big shoulders. She looked back to Cookie. “What’s a fetch?”
Cookie pursed her lips for a moment. “Think of it as a clone, a double. Maybe even a triple. Just think of how much you could get done if there were three of you.” Maris sat back, staring at her. This was not a magical ability that she had ever heard of. “That has to be it,” Cookie continued. “I’d bet my bottom, middle, and top dollar on it.”
