by Emma Belmont
That might also explain why no one was allowed in the kitchen. Maris pictured an army of Etiennes moving at light speed around the stoves and ovens. She smirked a little. He was his own sous chef and saucier, and never had to worry that anything wasn’t done exactly the way he wanted it.
For a few moments, the three of them sat quietly. Now Maris had to wonder if she’d spoken to the chef himself, or one of his fetches. She’d been about to ask Cookie if there was any way to tell them apart, when Bear broke the silence.
“Where do you want the door?” he asked Cookie.
“The door?” she said, sitting forward. “You’re already doing the door? Ooh, let’s see.”
Maris stood with them and started to gather up the bowls, but Cookie put a hand on her arm. “Leave those for a minute. Let’s go look at where the door should be.”
Maris grinned as she set everything down. “Let’s.”
As they neared it, Maris could see that the glass in the roof was in place. “Bear, this is amazing.” The sturdy metal supports and bracing had been painted a deep forest green. Large bolts secured it to the paving stone floor.
“Is this a louvered window?” Cookie asked, going to the back corner.
“For air flow,” Bear said, stooping down to turn the small crank. The slats of glass raised up. Then he turned and went to the opposite side, reaching up to where the roof met the wall. There was another crank, which he turned, raising the hinged roof panel just above it. “It goes with this hopper window.”
“That is genius!” Cookie exclaimed.
Maris stood in the middle with hands on hips. “You ought to be a builder.”
The little bit of his cheeks that showed above his thick beard pinked a little. “I am building.”
“So you are, my friend,” Cookie said, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. “So you are.”
He smiled down at her. “The door can go on the north side or the south.” He indicated the two directions.
“Oh I think south,” Cookie said. “Facing the garden.” She looked at Maris. “What do you think?”
Maris nodded. “That makes sense. You’ll be carrying your seedlings to and fro.”
Just then a familiar toot-toot-toot sounded from the bay. All three of them turned to see Slick motor past in his fishing boat. As usual at this time of day, he was returning to the pier with his fresh catch. As one, they waved to him.
“The seedlings,” Bear said as they watched Slick go past. “Do you want a table or shelves? I have some leftover wood in the truck.”
“Oh,” Cookie exclaimed, turning around. “Door there,” she said, pointing at the garden. Then she did an about face. “Table here.” She turned to Bear and clasped her hands together, beaming at him. “I can hardly wait.”
“Me too,” he said, smiling back at her.
“Then we’ll leave you to it,” she replied.
With that settled, Maris and Cookie took in the bowls and plates and started to load the dishwasher. “Once this is done,” Maris said, “I’ll start the laundry.”
“We probably have enough towels and sheets for a week,” the diminutive chef said. Although Maris held out her hand for the rinsed bowl, Cookie placed it in the dishwasher herself. “What have you done today to slow down?”
Maris knew she ought to be expecting these little check-ins by now and have an answer ready. Yet somehow she didn’t. “I had a wonderful lunch and the grand tour of your future greenhouse.”
As Cookie rinsed the next bowl, she gave her a stern look over her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
Maris did. Though she’d managed to finally drop a few pounds since returning to Pixie Point Bay, her cholesterol was another matter. It seemed to be the curse of the Seaver women. Add to that the Type A+ personality that they all shared, and it was the perfect combination for a cardiac arrest—something that had killed both her mother and her aunt. Maris didn’t want to share the same fate, and yet she struggled with taking down time.
She sighed. “Maybe I’ll grab my watercolors and do a little painting?” she said.
Cookie gave her a wink. “Now you’re talking.” She shooed her away. “Off with you.”
But before she left, Maris grabbed the box and to-go containers from Plateau 7, but left the menus. “I’ll just put this in the trash on my way.”
22
Outside, in back of the house, Maris went to the various colored trash containers, careful to separate out the recyclables. But just as she was about to drop the cardboard box into the blue barrel, she spotted a t-shirt.
“That’s not recyclable, is it?” she muttered. She consulted the plastic poster on top of the lid. Clothes were not included. “Nope, it’s not.”
Carefully she picked it out and took it to the black bin, but stopped before she tossed it in. It seemed in good condition, and might make a nice donation to the thrift store in Cheeseman Village—after it was washed. The charity had accepted several of her aunt’s outfits as well as her lightly used shoes. Maris took it back into the house, through to the utility room, where she tossed it onto the mound of waiting towels.
In her bedroom, she found Mojo having his daily siesta on the bed. Though she would have sworn she’d made no sound as she took her paint supplies from the desk, he raised his head and gave her a sleepy look. She gave the top of his head a gentle rub. “Back to sleep,” she whispered. As though her words had drugged him, his head fell back to the comforter and his orange eyes closed.
Out on the north porch under the balcony, Maris set up two jars of water, her paper, and the pigment trays on the table. As she took a seat, she was glad to be in the shade. The afternoon sun was not only bright, but warm as well. Combined with the moisture from the bay, the air had just a tinge of sultriness to it. Maybe Mojo had the right idea with his siesta. But, as long as she was here and all set up, she might as well paint.
Though it’d been some time since she’d taken a watercolor class with local artist Clio Hearst, she’d actually stuck with the practice. As she’d been taught, she wet the thick paper with a thin sheen of water before beginning to apply the first layer of pigment.
The view down the undulating coastline was a spectacular combination of steep, buff cliffs that dropped down to meet the glittering aquamarine of the ocean. She took a bit of sienna and mixed it with some ochre and water and used broad vertical strokes for the cliffs. Purposefully preferring practice to perfection, she let her hand move quickly, watching with delight as the colors merged and spread, darkening in spots and lightening in others as the pigment flowed in the water. Satisfied with the land, she cleaned off her brush in the warm color water jar, and began to mix the blue she’d use for the ocean. But as she took a bit of ultramarine pigment on her brush, the pigment trays and everything else suddenly vanished.
Maris froze. She knew immediately that it was a flash of precognition, the magical ability that she shared with her aunt. She was just about to receive a glimpse of the future.
She saw Pammy, lounging on one of the deck chairs. But she had her knees drawn up and a sketch book resting against them. She seemed to be idly doodling, tilting her head one way and then the other. In her hand was a thin black marker and the page seemed to have some sort of large, ornate writing on it. But before Maris could make out the letters, the vision winked out.
She was staring at her paint set again, and the brush with ultramarine.
“Huh,” she muttered. “Pammy.” She filed the image away.
Once again she dabbed at the pigment on the mixing tray and compared it to the ocean, but it was too light. As she looked out at the bay she realized why. The sun was getting low and the water was darkening. Somehow a good chunk of the afternoon had escaped her. Although the painting was only half done, she smiled. Perhaps it was better if she let it dry before moving on to paint the water anyway. Besides, it had already accomplished its mission for the day: she’d relaxed with no sense whatsoever of time passing by.
“Nice,”
she said to herself as she began packing up. It was almost time to start the wine and cheese.
23
As Maris took her art supplies back to her bedroom, she passed the parlor—and had to stop. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mojo perched on the Ouija board.
“What?” she quietly muttered.
Without so much as a tiny meow or scratch at the door to alert her, it looked as though he’d started on his own. Just as she stepped into the room, his paw landed on the planchette.
“Hold on,” she whispered, still carrying her supplies as she hurried quietly to his side.
But the pudgy little cat took no notice of her. Instead, his glittering orange eyes seemed fixed on some faraway point beyond the confines of the room. His velvety ears cocked in every direction, spinning to and fro like small radar dishes. For all the world, he looked exactly like someone who was hearing the spirits. His fuzzy paw moved the planchette to the first letter: O.
She frowned down through the clear plastic lens. There was no one at the B&B whose name started with O. In fact, come to think of it, there was no one in Pixie Point Bay either. But as she watched, he quickly slid the heart-shaped plank to the next letter, coming to an abrupt stop over the letter I.
“O, I?” she whispered.
For a moment she wondered if he was spelling something French. Her mind flashed back to the fiery chef at Plateau 7 and a fellow magic person. But she couldn’t think of any French words that started with OI—not that she knew much French to begin with. But then his paw twitched and the planchette moved a short distance before it stopped over the L.
Her brows arched upward. “Oil?”
As though uttering the word had signaled the end of the session, Mojo blinked, shook out his fur, and jumped to the floor. Without so much as a backward glance, he trotted from the room.
“Oil,” she said again, staring down at the board. Like the oil in a car? Or maybe like the oil in a cruet? She thought of the lighthouse. Or maybe even like the oil in a lamp.
She shook her head and blew out a breath. There were simply too many possibilities.
Out in the hallway, she was surprised to find Mojo sitting there, cleaning his face. “Oil?” she said to him.
He looked up at her with his big orange eyes, and gave her his signature meow, and a loud one.
“Okay,” she said. “I wasn’t questioning your ability. You said oil. But there’s a million kinds.” To that he only returned to licking his paw, and then rubbed it over his forehead. “So that’s it? Just oil? Are you sure you don’t want to spell something else?”
In answer, he simply got up and headed toward the kitchen.
“Of course not,” she muttered, watching him go. “Thanks.”
24
At the dining room sideboard, Maris sliced some of the leftover Gruyere from the morning’s breakfast. It’s delicately flavored, slightly nutty taste would pair nicely with a light Pinot Noir. Outside the bay window, another beautiful sunset was unfolding, its dusky purple light filling the room. It looked as though she’d started preparing the Wine Down not a moment too soon.
As if to confirm that, the front door opened and closed. But rather than come down the hall, she heard heavy footsteps take the first set of stairs at the front of the house. Sometimes guests liked to freshen up or have a shower before the wine and cheese. She opened the Pinot Noir and set it near the glasses, along with the Sauvignon Blanc in its iced metal cooler. When she returned to the cheeseboard to add the final touches, the front door opened again but this time light footsteps headed to the second floor. That was probably Pammy. But then Maris heard two bedroom doors close.
“Hmm,” she murmured.
But by the time the third guest returned and also promptly went to their room and shut the door, Maris had to frown down at the cheeseboard. It seemed as though the three colleagues had yet to iron out their differences, probably all of them having spent their day alone. Pammy had been extremely upset by the findings of the investigative team, but Felix and BJ apparently weren’t ready to be gregarious either.
It was a shame, and not because the food was ready. Sometimes people could come together and be polite for the sake of others, like herself. In the aftermath of a death, it sometimes helped to reminisce about the departed and swap old stories. At the very least, the Wine Down really was a chance to unwind. After the stress and anxiety over Reggie’s death, all of them could use at least a little of that.
But as Maris listened, there was no sound of a shower or water running in a sink. No one was freshening up. She decided to wait before opening the white wine, and poured herself a little of the local red. She’d barely had a taste, when a door slammed up above and there was the sound of raised voices. From the foot of the stairs, she heard Felix shouting.
“You sold it?” he yelled. “You sold it to Game Fame? How could you do that? It’s not even yours to sell!”
“It is mine,” BJ yelled back. “What I sold to Game Fame is mine. I developed that murder mystery game years ago.”
“Well isn’t that convenient?” Felix yelled. “You just happen to sell it right after we all work on it?”
“Wait a minute,” Pammy said, her voice less angry than Felix’s. “How do you know he sold Betrayal at the B&B?”
“Because I can read the internet,” Felix said snidely. “Betrayal at the Boarding House? For pity’s sake. You couldn’t even think of a different name?”
“Look,” BJ said, “That’s my game. Reggie saw the murder mystery market heating up and resurrected an old version. But Betrayal at the Boarding House is mine.”
“Where did you see it?” Pammy demanded.
“Where didn’t I?” Felix screamed. “It’s all over every forum, with his name attached. Where did you have it printed? Overseas?”
“It’s none of your business,” BJ shot back. “Literally.”
For a moment there was silence, and then three doors slammed closed.
Maris looked down into her wine glass. There was definitely not going to be a Wine Down.
25
With the evening suddenly and unexpectedly to herself, Maris put away the Gruyere and Sauvignon Blanc, corked the Pinot Noir, and gathered the other leftovers. An evening of shared wine and cheese that might help the gaming trio settle their differences, or at least behave civilly, would have to wait. In the kitchen, she cleaned and stowed the cheeseboard to dry, before wandering out into the hall.
Darkness had descended and Maris knew that the Old Girl’s beam would be whirling around up above. Cookie had retired early, as was her usual. Quietly, Maris made her way to the end of the hall and found Mojo already waiting on the bed in her room.
“Ready to turn in early?” she asked him. In answer, he flopped to his side, stretched, and yawned, before letting his head fall to the comforter. “I see.”
Maybe she’d curl up with a good book and the rest of her wine. But when she set down her glass and went back to the bedroom door to close it, her gaze fell on the hook next to it. From it hung the large black skeleton key. Most of the time as she came and went from her room, she was in a hurry and didn’t see it. But tonight, it was practically glaring at her.
Maris grit her teeth. It’d been weeks since she’d made any…progress.
“Hmm,” she muttered, grimacing at it.
When she’d first returned to Pixie Point Bay, she’d searched for Aunt Glenda’s beautiful green pendulum after finding its conspicuously empty jewelry case in her aunt’s silk boudoir box. Her gaze went up to the top of the armoire where it still rested. As she’d slowly cleared out her aunt’s belongings, she’d kept it in mind and searched everything, but to no avail. With nowhere else to look but the basement, Maris had finally braved a few trips below the B&B. But of late her forays had become less about the missing green stone and more about confronting her secret: claustrophobia. The combination of a photographic memory and being trapped in a dark elevator made sure that enclosed spaces were a white-kn
uckle experience.
With an already sweaty hand, she slowly reached out and took the key. Little by little she’d ventured further down the basement’s staircase, even dipping her head below the utility room’s floor level last time. As she turned toward the utility room door at the back of her room, Mojo sat up on the bed, watching her intently.
She smiled over at him. “Care to join me?” He jumped off the bed and went to the closed door at the back, giving it a light scratch. Maris laughed a little. “Anxious, are we?”
Inside, he trotted over to the heavy wood door in the floor and sat down next to the big black lock that matched the key in her hand. But rather than draw out the anxiety and overthinking that accompanied a trip to the basement, Maris decided to change tactics. She strode quickly to the door, unlocked, and opened it. Despite her thumping heart, she was going to “walk the walk.” She was going to go through the motions that a normal person would. She was simply going to pretend that the confined space didn’t bother her.
Mojo flew past her and down into the darkness—making her stomach flop.
“Don’t stop now,” she said to herself.
As she took the steps down after him, she flicked on the light switch. The long fluorescent bulbs hummed to life and illuminated the diagonal bookcase that paralleled the stairs to the left. Rather than take a seat to investigate the beautiful collection of antique tomes, she kept walking. It was just a few more steps to the floor—and she was determined to achieve that milestone, even if she only stayed for a moment. She took the last steps with a light hop, feigning the confidence she didn’t feel. As she touched bottom, she quickly glanced at the rest of the room. It was much bigger than she’d thought.
