3 The Witch Who Filled in the Picture

by Emma Belmont

  Maris noted that Mikhail had said virtually the same thing.

  Mac nodded. “That was the last time you saw Langston Spaulding?”

  “Him, yes,” Aurora agreed, “but not the wife. Afterward, Aurora went to the ladies room to…freshen her makeup.” She looked at Maris. “We were in conversation for a few minutes before Jayde Spaulding barged in.”

  “Barged in?” Mac said, looking at them both.

  Maris frowned a little. “She was in a hurry, it seemed, but then she left in a hurry as well.”

  “When she saw Aurora,” the shopkeeper said, “she quickly left.” She paused for a moment eyeing the sheriff’s notepad. “So in case you’re thinking of Aurora as a suspect, she has two witnesses that saw her in the bathroom.”

  Mac shook his head as he closed the notepad. “Although Mr. Spaulding’s death might have been instantaneous, the coroner has given me a two hour range for when it happened.” He tucked the pad back in his pocket. “Anyone at the gala could have done it.”

  “Oh,” Aurora said, looking down into her tea.

  He inclined his head to them. “Thank you both for your time,” he said with a smile, then checked his watch. “I’ve got to get to my appointment with Ms. Hearst.” He took a business card from his other pocket. “If you remember anything else, I’d appreciate it if you let me know.”

  Aurora took the card but gaped at him. “Clio Hearst? Surely you don’t think an artist could have done it. And certainly not Clio, with her…well, her artistic sensitivity.”

  “But she is an artist,” Mac said.

  Maris’s eyebrows drew together as she looked up at him. “Does being an artist have something to do with the murder?”

  The sheriff nodded. “It does in this case. The murder weapon was a painting knife.”

  11

  On her way back to the B&B, Maris stopped at Flour Power Sandwiches & Gas Station to kill two birds with one stone. A visual throwback to the 50s, the red vintage gas pumps were in the shadow of a large red and white striped awning which was an extension of the roof. Matching candy apple red doors and window frames fronted the small sandwich shop, and the attached garage and maintenance bay’s roll-up door was also red.

  Although Maris had known the place since she was a child, the former owners had long since retired. Maris’s Aunt Glenda had been good friends with the older couple, and she wondered if that didn’t explain the paperwork she’d found in her aunt’s pretty brocade box. Along with the deed to the property and the generous life insurance policy that had benefitted both her and Cookie, she also found a promissory note. Glenda had apparently helped to fund the transfer of the business to the new owners, Jude and Fabiola Toussaint, recent arrivals from Haiti.

  As Maris pulled up to the pump, Jude emerged from the open garage bay, wiping his hands with a rag. “Good to see you, Ms. Seaver. Fill her up?”

  Tall and slender but with wide shoulders, Jude was in his early thirties and the picture of radiant health. He wore his dark hair cropped short, and his black eyes glittered almost as brightly as his big and brilliant smile.

  “Jude,” she said getting out of the car. She put her hands on her hips and gave him a mock scowl. “We’ve been over this. It’s Maris.”

  He laughed, his bass voice rumbling a bit. “Yes, ma’am…er, Maris.”

  “Good,” she said. “And yes, please. Fill it up.” She reached inside and popped the tank cover.

  As she watched him unscrew the cap, she said. “I need your advice about something.”

  “Name it,” Jude said, grabbing the pump’s nozzle.

  “This car’s a rental,” she said looking at the compact. “When I was globetrotting for the job, I gave up having a car. It was more trouble than it was worth. But now that I’m settled…”

  “You’re thinking of buying something?” Jude asked as he inserted the nozzle and started the gas.

  “Sort of,” she said. “The thing is, we have a vehicle at the B&B.”

  Jude nodded. “Ah yes. I remember Glenda’s truck.”

  Maris grimaced a little. “That’s the one. It hasn’t even been started for months.”

  The gas nozzle clicked off, and Jude removed it. “That’s not too good,” he said. “I doubt that it will run.”

  “That’s pretty much what I was thinking,” Maris agreed.

  “I’d be glad to come over and take a look at it,” he said, replacing the pump nozzle and smiling at her. “Just let me know what day and time would be good.”

  “Oh, thank you, Jude,” she said, exhaling. “You’re a lifesaver.” She opened the car door as he put the cap back on. “I’m going to pick up some of your wife’s wonderful sandwiches. Can I pay for everything inside?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Just let Fab know.”

  Maris parked the compact in one of the parking spots in front of the sandwich shop and headed inside—and instantly saw they’d redecorated. As far as the location of the counter and the general layout of the high tables and stools, little had changed. But the decor was now a radical departure from the 50s look outside. It was as though the Mexican Day of the Dead was celebrated all year.

  Vibrantly colored miniature skulls dotted the shelves, accompanied by candles and small vases of flowers. On the walls were neon paintings on black velvet that looked like people Maris ought to know—holding items of apparent significance or wearing special hats and jewelry. Yet she didn’t recognize a single one. Nor did she really think that the skulls and candles were a tradition from Mexico. More than likely they came from Haiti, like the Toussaints, and might possibly be related to the voodoo—or vodun as they called it—that Maris had learned that they practiced.

  “Maris,” the woman behind the counter said. “Good morning.” Fabiola was as beautiful as her husband was handsome. With straight hair that fell almost to her trim waist, and just a touch of makeup, she could easily have been a supermodel. Her incredible smile was the icing on the cake.

  “Good morning, Fab,” Maris said, smiling in return. She gestured to the shop. “I adore this new look.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I thought it was time for a little touch of home.” She paused for a moment and then looked Maris in the eye. “You know who first suggested it? Your aunt.”

  “Really?” Maris said, giving it a new look. “Well, kudos to Aunt Glenda. It’s looking positively magical.”

  Fabiola smiled knowingly. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Maris shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve reached my caffeine limit for the day. But I would like to order some sandwiches to go.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “What can I make for you?”

  Maris looked up at the menu board. Not only were there different types of sandwiches, customers had their choice of bread, all kinds of condiments, plus a selection of fresh vegetable toppings. It was a bit overwhelming.

  “Is there something in particular that you could recommend?” Maris asked.

  “I have just this very minute finished making both tuna salad and egg salad. Maybe those two?”

  Maris nodded. “That sounds like a winner. Maybe three of each.”

  “Coming right up,” Fab said.

  As Maris waited, she glanced at the rental car parked outside and a new thought occurred to her. “I’m just going to go ask Jude a quick question,” she told Fab. “Be right back.”

  “Sure thing,” she called back.

  Maris headed through the door that connected the shop to the garage—but it was empty except for an enormous gold Cadillac El Dorado.

  “Jude?” Maris said.

  “Maris?” he said, his voice muffled and coming from under the car. She crouched down and peered underneath it. He was lying on his back on a rolling board, and their adorable dachshund was next to him. The little wiener dog gave a yelp, and tried to run to Maris, though the short legs gave him a decidedly lopsided gate.

  “Gherkin,” she said, clapping her hands. “Come here, boy.”
/>   Although he collided with her ankles, he seemed not to notice and instead flopped onto his back to have his stomach scratched.

  Jude rolled himself out from under the car and sat up, eyeing the dog. “Watch out for the shop’s attack dog.”

  Maris laughed. “I have subdued said attack dog with belly rubs.” She glanced at the big Caddy. “Am I interrupting you?”

  “Not at all,” he said as he stood and wiped his hands on an rag. “This old hog is a work in progress.”

  “Okay,” she said, still rubbing Gherkin’s belly. “I was wondering if it’s really worth getting the old pickup running. I’m not particularly fond of trucks. So maybe I should just buy a new car. Or maybe a used one—except that I don’t want to get stuck with a clunker.”

  “I always prefer used cars,” he said.

  Maris’s eyebrows arched. “Really. Why is that?”

  “When you buy a new car, you’re paying for the newness.” He tossed the rag onto a nearby tool bin. “As soon as the tires leave the lot, you can expect the value to drop right there and then.”

  “So it’s a waste of money.”

  He shook his head. “It all depends. I have customers who lease, and never want to own. They like having the latest model and the latest gadgets. The car means a lot to them.” He watched Gherkin lay placidly on his back. “It’s not a waste of money if the car is important. Is a car important to you?”

  Maris gave Gherkin a final pat and stood up. “No. I’m afraid it’s not. Not only do I not know the first thing about them, but I haven’t owned one for years, or been able to keep track of all the new gadgets. At this point, it’s just a way for me to get around and shop for the B&B.”

  “Then I’d like to recommend looking for a used car,” he said, picking up Gherkin. “Good for the bank account, and good for the planet.”

  Maris grinned at him. “You’ve convinced me.” She watched him give Gherkin a gentle scratch under the chin. “I guess I’d better start looking in the paper.”

  “There’s no need for that,” he said, as they walked toward the sandwich shop door. “I get a constant stream of car owners who are getting their vehicles ready to trade in, or sell themselves. If you’re willing to wait for a bit, I’m sure I’ll come across something.”

  Maris could have hugged him. “Really? Well that would be perfect.” It was a no-brainer. There was no one she’d trust more about vehicles than Jude.

  “Once I get the truck running,” he said as they stopped at the door, “I’m sure I can find a buyer for that too. There’s actually quite a bit of demand for trucks like that.”

  She opened the door to the sandwich shop. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a nice man?”

  Jude laughed but Fab must have heard them. “I have,” she called out to Maris. She waved a receipt in the air. “Your sandwiches are ready.”

  “Perfect,” Maris said.

  Jude held the door open for another second and Gherkin peeked inside. “You have a great day, Maris.”

  “I think I already have,” she said, grinning.

  12

  Back at the B&B, Maris noticed that there were no cars parked outside. No doubt the Schellings were out trying to get a photo of Claribel. As she brought in the sandwiches, she decided that Mikhail might have some organizing to do at Inklings to get the exhibit packed away. Of course the Spaulding’s car was absent as well. Since Jill had brought Jayde back to the B&B last night, her car would still be in town. Fetching it would probably not be high on the list of priorities. Hopefully Jayde was resting upstairs.

  Since it wasn’t quite lunchtime, Maris stowed the sandwiches in the fridge. She peeked out back and saw that Cookie and Bear were taking advantage of the warm and sunny day to work in the herb garden. Maris, however, had a list of chores that took place inside. Then again, she didn’t want to make a lot of noise if Jayde was finally resting. Quietly, she went upstairs to check on her. But to Maris’s surprise, the door to her room was open and she was gone.

  “Hmm,” she muttered, frowning. Perhaps Mikhail had given her a ride to pick up her car. But since the B&B appeared to be empty, now was the time to get a few things done.

  Downstairs, she started a load of wash before she fetched the vacuum from the utility room and ran it through the guest rooms and hallways upstairs first, before anyone returned. She turned down all the beds, and saw that Cookie had already cleaned the bathrooms and set out fresh towels and toiletries. Before she finished upstairs, she quickly fetched a garbage bag and gathered up all the trash, before bringing it and the vacuum cleaner downstairs.

  On the first floor, she moved the washed sheets and towels to the dryer. Then she dusted all the public rooms first, and was about to finish by running the vacuum through them when she passed the parlor for maybe the twentieth time. Except now Mojo was on the Ouija board.

  She came to an immediate stop and backed up a pace. His big orange eyes had that strange faraway stare. With the exception of his ears, which continually cocked in every direction, he sat so still that not even his tail twitched. For all the world he looked exactly as though he was listening to the spirits.

  “Here we go,” Maris muttered to herself, as she went in to watch.

  In the beginning, she had assumed that when Mojo played with the planchette, he was doing just that—playing. But over time she’d come to realize that what he did wasn’t random at all. Perhaps he played in the parlor at other times when she hadn’t watched. But every time she’d seen him on the Ouija board, he’d spelled something relevant, if not inscrutable.

  In silence, she approached the board so she could see through the clear part of the planchette, and watched in fascination as Mojo gently put his paw on it. Slowly it moved over the letter A at the far edge of the board. Then he moved it to the center.

  “T,” Maris whispered.

  With a quick movement, he almost seemed to flick it over the R.

  Maris scowled at him. A, T, R?

  But he wasn’t through. Moving slowly again, his paw seemed to ride the gliding planchette to a stop over the I, then the U almost below it in the second row, and then the M.

  “Atrium,” Maris murmured. She frowned. “Atrium?” What did an atrium have to do with anything, particularly murder at an art exhibit?

  Although she waited on the off chance that perhaps there’d be another word, Mojo was done. He stood, shook out his fur, and lightly jumped to the floor.

  As he bounced past her, she said to him, “Atrium? Really?” But without so much as a backward glance, he trotted down the hall. “Thanks,” she called out after him.

  13

  The rumbling of Maris’s stomach signaled the arrival of lunch. She fetched the sandwiches from the refrigerator along with a pitcher of iced tea. After loading them and three glasses on a tray, she headed to the back porch.

  In the herb garden, Bear was following Cookie with a potted plant in each hand. As usual, their bearded handyman wore a plain white t-shirt under blue bib overalls, neither of which did much to hide his massive size and burgeoning middle. Maris set down the tray and descended the steps to the grassy area.

  “Good afternoon, you two,” she said. “Lunch is served.”

  Cookie smoothed some hair out of her face with the back of her gloved hand. “That sounds good,” she said. She glanced up at Bear who had immediately focused on the tray, though he still held the pots of what looked like rosemary. “You can set those down right there, Bear,” she told him. “Let’s eat.”

  He did exactly as he was told, but politely waited for Cookie to precede him. As she headed down the row to where Maris waited, she took off her gloves and lightly tossed them into a bucket.

  “I guess Jayde won’t be joining us,” the chef said.

  Maris climbed the porch steps with her. “I saw that she was gone, and Mikhail as well.”

  “There was some paperwork at the coroner’s office,” Cookie said, “and he was kind enough to take her.”

  “O
h,” Maris said, as they took a seat. Although she’d hoped there might be a more upbeat reason for the poor woman to have gone out, paperwork unfortunately made sense. Insurance companies, banking institutions, even lawyers and the government were all going to get involved. It’d taken her and Cookie months to sort everything out, despite the fact that Glenda had left so much in order.

  Cookie poured three iced teas as Maris unpacked the sandwiches. “I’ve tried a new sun-brewed recipe,” the herb gardener said. “But I haven’t tasted it yet.”

  Although Bear had been watching the sandwiches intently, all three of them now focused on the glasses. As though they were a synchronized tasting team, they picked up their drinks and took a sip.

  “Oooh,” Maris said. “That is really wonderful. Black tea with a hint of…lemon?” She took another sip. “Mmm, yes, that’s so refreshing.”

  Bear gave an appreciative “Ahh,” as he set down his glass, now half-empty. “It’s good.”

  Cookie smiled as she finished her taste. “I’m glad you both enjoy it.” She regarded her glass and then held it up to the sun, squinting at it. “I think it turned out rather well.”

  As Maris unpacked the sandwiches, she said, “Rather well? I hope you’ve kept the recipe.” She placed the foil and paper wrapped sub sandwiches in two piles. “Egg salad and tuna salad. Fresh from the sandwich board of Fabiola Toussaint.”

  “There are six,” Bear said. He glanced at the house. “Even if Jayde and Mikhail were here, that’s too many.”

  Maris smiled at him. “There are always two for you, Bear.” She looked at Cookie. “I don’t have a preference. Do either of you?”

  Bear folded his big hands on the table in front of him. “One of each, please.”

  “Tuna salad and egg salad for the hungry gardener,” she said, placing them in front of him.

  He bobbed his big head. “Thank you.”