by Emma Belmont
“Tuna for me,” Cookie said.
Maris scooted one over to her. “And I think I’ll try the egg salad.”
For a few minutes they ate in companionable silence, and Maris decided that the egg salad was nothing short of a work of art. Not only was the balance of mayo and mustard just right, Fab had added diced celery for a wonderfully crunchy texture, and spices that brought out the creamy but nutty flavor of the yolk. Was that a hint of curry that she tasted?
“Mmm,” Bear said, already halfway through his first sandwich.
Cookie paused to pull out the tiny whole pickle that was part of each and every sandwich that the shop made. “I’ve never understood this,” the chef said. “But I like it.” She smiled and took a crisp bite.
As Maris settled back and took another sip of the iced tea, she remembered Mojo’s Ouija clue. Although she pondered it, nothing that related to the case occurred to her.
“Say, you two,” she said. “Let me pass something by you.”
“Shoot,” Cookie said, taking a napkin.
“Does the word ‘atrium’ mean anything to you?”
Cookie laughed. “Only that I’ve always wanted one.” She looked behind her at the B&B. “A glass covered one, of course. It’d be wonderful to have a sheltered place to start new seedlings, and a central courtyard in the house would be fabulous.” She turned back to them. “But not only is the B&B perfect as it is, it’s a registered historical building, so there’s no way we’re going to be putting in an atrium.”
Bear was opening his second sandwich but stopped. “Does it have to be in the house?”
“An atrium?” Cookie asked.
“No,” he said, “the glass.” He pointed at a spot just beyond the herb garden. “If you want a glass house, I can build one there.”
Cookie sat bolt upright, her eyes wide. “What did you say?”
Bear pointed again. “I can build a glass house.”
Cookie put a hand to her chest. “Well, I…I think that’d be wonderful.” She looked at Maris. “What do you think?”
Maris made a show of peering at the spot. “I think a Victorian hot house would be a great addition.” She nodded. “Very authentic.”
Cookie clapped her hands once. “I’ve always wanted one,” she exclaimed.
Bear resumed unwrapping his second sandwich just as the dryer in the utility room gave its end-of-cycle ding.
Maris jumped up. “I forgot,” she said. “I put that–”
Cookie took hold of Maris’s chair. “You sit down, young lady, and finish your lunch.”
In mid-bite, Bear flicked his eyes between the two of them.
“But I’m finished with my lunch,” Maris said. “I’m just going to–”
“Finish your tea, then,” Cookie said, pointedly looking at it. “It won’t take long.”
Although Maris was tempted to simply gulp it down and go, she knew what Cookie had in mind. Not only had Maris’s aunt died of a heart attack, but her mother as well. All the women in her family had seemed to struggle with their weight and cholesterol. Not only that, they’d all suffered from the same crazy Type A work ethic, though Maris classified herself as Type A+.
As Cookie picked up her sandwich, and Maris sat back down, the chef said, “What have you done to slow down today?”
The question almost didn’t make sense. Wasn’t doing something the opposite of slowing down? But Maris knew that she wasn’t going to let her off the hook. From trying to switch from coffee to tea, and learning to simply let the tea brew in its own good time, Cookie had been trying to chip away at Maris’s obsessive need to be busy. She did some quick thinking.
“I thought I might take an art class with Clio Hearst,” she said.
Cookie’s eyebrows rose, and Maris was aware that Bear was watching both of them.
“An art class,” Cookie said slowly. “Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with investigating the death of Langston Spaulding, would it?”
Maris tilted her head. “Well, obviously that’s how I came to learn that she teaches in Cheeseman Village and in town,” she admitted. “But maybe it’s time I tried to find a hobby.” She looked from Cookie to Bear. “Bear has his beekeeping when he’s not here.” The big man gave a single nod. “And you have your gardening,” she told the chef. “Maybe I can learn watercolors.”
“Good,” Cookie said with a little smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Maris took a sip of her tea, and suddenly remembered the conversation with Jude.
“By the way,” she said, “while I was picking up the sandwiches, I was chatting with Jude about trying to get the old truck started. I don’t think it makes sense for me to keep driving a rental.”
Cookie paused. “You’re going to drive that big old thing?”
“Actually, no. Jude thinks he might be able to sell it. Then I’ll buy something used from him, and turn in the rental. But I wanted to run it by you first, of course. I know you and Aunt Glenda shared it.”
Cookie shook her head. “I’m not interested in driving it, much less hauling heavy gardening supplies anymore.”
Bear wiped his mouth and beard with his napkin. “I can do the hauling.”
Cookie smiled at him, reached out, and touched his arm. “Don’t ever leave, Bear.”
As though she’d been perfectly serious, he said, “I won’t.”
Maris grinned at them both. “It’s settled then. I’ll let Jude know.”
14
Maris finished folding the sheets and towels and stacked them all neatly before she went to her room and booted up her rarely used laptop. Although she’d lugged it around the world a couple of times, it’d never really been her tool of choice for staying in touch. A phone call had always been faster and easier. But for research, it couldn’t be beat.
In under a minute, she had her information. Clio Hearst was offering a watercolor class in Cheeseman Village that started tomorrow. The artist’s web site named the supplies each student would need and listed three or four places that sold them. The closest was Robbie’s Hobbies, located in the Pixie Point Bay Towne Plaza.
She grabbed her purse and went back into the house. Although she’d been about to head out to the garden, she found Cookie in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher.
“Just wanted to let you know that one of Clio Hearst’s art classes opens tomorrow in Cheeseman Village. I looked it up online. And there’s a list of supplies each student will need and places where you can buy them.”
“So you’re off on a supply run then?” the chef said, stacking some dishes on the counter.
“I am. I’ve just registered and paid the class fee. So I’m off to Robbie’s Hobbies to buy the things I’ll need.”
“Good for you,” Cookie said, smiling. “Have fun.”
“Will do,” Maris replied.
She made the short car trip from the B&B to the Towne Plaza, a pretty journey on any day, but particularly in the afternoon as dappled sunlight filtered through the oaks that lined the road. Perhaps she was thinking of Clio’s watercolors, but she had the distinct feeling that she was traveling through a painted landscape of lush green countryside. By the time she arrived at the quaint plaza, she was already wondering what she herself might paint. The opportunity in the local environs were almost limitless. From the flower fields of the Pixie Petal farms, to the towering redwoods just inland, and of course the bay, there would be no dearth of interesting subjects.
But first things first, she thought, as she parked in front of Robbie’s Hobbies. Not only was it time to get all the tools, it was time to pay her first visit to the town’s hobby store.
Bright green wood trim surrounded the large and positively packed display windows. All three were filled with boxes of models that included planes, boats, and cars. The second story of the Victorian was finished in red brick, and the windows there were also framed in green and decorated with floral print curtains that were drawn closed.
Maris smiled at the myriad styles and time periods as well, from the triple-winged Red Baron to a space shuttle.
“Wow,” she muttered.
“Hello,” a voice said, “and welcome.” Maris turned to find a man behind a glass counter that she hadn’t noticed, likely because the display case was full of miniature trees, people, and buildings, and the wall behind the man was completely full of bins that held balsa wood, paper, and metal cans of glue.
In fact, as Maris approached the man, the distinct smell of airplane glue became more and more apparent. The tall thin man who’d greeted her was working on what appeared to be a World War II bomber.
“Can I help you find something?” he asked.
Maris guessed he might be in his sixties, short cropped gray hair, and his brown eyes the size of saucers behind the magnifier headset he wore. Bright red suspenders held up his pants.
“Hello,” Marilyn said. “I’m looking for watercolor painting supplies.”
“Ah,” he said, taking off the magnifiers. “You’ll be taking one of Clio Hearst’s art classes.”
“I will indeed,” Maris said, surprised. “How did you know?”
His smile broadened as he picked up a flyer and handed it to her. “Clio buys many of her own supplies here, which is why she recommends me.”
“Oh,” Maris said, as he came around the counter. “Excellent.”
“Right this way,” he said.
She followed him through the maze of kits and supplies, past a section filled with small bits of electronics, and finally to the fine art section. As with the rest of the store, there was a bewildering array of choices. She glanced at the flyer and then at the papers, brushes, and paints.
“Shall I pick out her recommendations?” he asked.
Maris exhaled and smiled. “I’d appreciate that.”
As he selected a block of watercolor paper, he said, “You live around here?” He handed it to her.
“Yes,” she said, taking the block and extending her other hand. “Maris Seaver.”
He paused and turned to her. “Seaver?” He shook her hand. “Related to Glenda?”
Maris smiled. “Her niece. I’m running the B&B and lighthouse now.”
“Robbie Grayson,” he said smiling. “At your service. I’m glad to see the place stay in the family.”
“Pleased to meet you, Robbie, and thanks.”
Next he selected the paintbrushes, and then a tray of pigments with a metal lid that he popped open. On its underside were small depressions. “The lid doubles as a paint tray,” he explained. “One less thing to buy.”
“Very nice,” Maris said. She held out the paper block, and he put the paint and brushes there.
As they went back to the register, he said, “Bad business about that art critic.”
Maris nodded. “Very,” she said and glanced out a front window. “I hope that Alfred and Minako are getting back to normal.”
“For sure,” he said, ringing up her purchases. “And Clio. It’s got to be hard to focus after something like that.”
Maris handed him her credit card. “I’m sure that’s true.” She hadn’t seen Clio after the murder, but could easily imagine that the artist would be shaken. In fact, now she recalled that Mikhail had said as much.
With the purchase complete, Robbie tucked the goods and the flyer in a paper bag and handed it to her. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy her class.”
“Thank you, Robbie,” she said smiling. “I’m sure I will.”
15
It was a rare evening at the B&B when there was no Wine Down. But since none of the guests had returned, Maris decided to skip the evening wine and cheese. Mikhail might still be with Jayde, and perhaps they’d found a way to keep themselves busy. More than likely though, she was still dealing with the aftermath of her husband’s death. As for the Schellings, Maris hoped the young couple were enjoying themselves by checking out Claribel from a satisfying number of angles.
Cookie had retired for the evening, and Bear liked to be home before dark. So Maris wandered out to the garden in the last rays of the setting sun. The chef and her brawny helper had got a lot done. There was a new row of freshly planted herbs, including the rosemary that Bear had been carrying. In the still air of the evening, the aroma was wonderful. The red-gold light from the horizon bathed the plants in warm colors and had them casting shadows that made them seem as tall as trees. Maris took her time walking up the row, and let the tips of her fingers skim the tops of the various plants. As she brought her hand to her nose, she smiled. Not only had rosemary been planted but dill as well. She could hardly wait to find out what Cookie had planned for it.
As she gazed out at the shimmering bay, she thought back on the busy day. Though she’d been bustling from morning until now, she was nagged by the feeling that little progress had been made on the murder of Langston Spaulding. Although she’d be seeing Clio tomorrow, Maris glanced up at the lighthouse. Perhaps the Old Girl would be able to help her in the meantime.
Just before Maris reached the door, a light breeze seemed to swirl in front of it, and it swung open. Maris smiled as she stepped inside and turned on the light switch.
“Good evening, Claribel,” she said, as the door closed softly behind her.
She climbed the spiral metal staircase slowly, pacing herself for the three stories of stairs to come. As she ascended, she took a moment to glance out the windows on each level. Like miniature works of art, they showed the bay and the coast, bathed in the surreal colors of the sinking sun.
By the time she reached the top, as usual, she had to pause for a breath.
“Phew!” she exhaled, and took in the panoramic view.
It wasn’t often she could be up in the lighthouse’s optic house at this beautiful time of day. Though she enjoyed the Wine Down and the lovely views from the B&B’s bay windows, none of them could match this. It was like being on top of the world. Not a single cloud was in the sky, and its blue vault quickly turned to indigo overhead. The inky waters of the ocean glittered like black diamonds. A single small sailboat skimmed the water below, heading for the pier, and keeping well away from the rocky shore.
Claribel shone her light just a few feet above Maris’s head, whirling in her continuing responsibility to keep sailors like the ones below safe. Even through Glenda’s death and the fire in the base of the tower, the Old Girl had never missed a day on the job. Bear had cleaned the smoky haze from the fresnel lens and restored it to its pristine glory. The lens itself was more like a sculpture than a simple piece of glass. It was shaped like a giant egg, with dozens of individual pieces of glass, some grooved with concentric circles, fitted together on a gleaming steel frame. It rose from its waist high pedestal up to nearly the top of the circular glass house.
Careful to avoid the beam, Maris looked into the glass base and past the surface. A rainbow of glittering sparkles danced within the clear glass, as though a dozen prisms were scattering the light. But as she watched, a faint image began to form. It was the bookstore and there was Mikhail. He was dismantling the exhibit and carefully packing up the paintings. Despite having the help of a few workers, he looked a bit harried, as well as tired.
Suddenly, Claribel zoomed in on one of the paintings that had yet to be packed. It was that strange portrait of a nurse, the one that Jill Maxwell had been near. The subject wore a vintage white nurse’s uniform and hat, and a surgical mask covered her mouth and nose. At the top of the painting were the words “Pedigreed Nurse,” as though it was some type of pulp fiction cover.
&n
bsp; “What in the world?” Maris muttered, just as the vision winked out.
She recalled the painting, of course, and yet what it had to do with Langston Spaulding she couldn’t fathom. As the last glimmer of direct sunlight faded behind her, Maris sighed.
“Thanks, Old Girl,” she murmured, and then gave the base of the lens a gentle pat.
16
“You’re sure?” Maris asked.
Cookie smiled, and made a shooing motion with her spatula. “I’m almost finished,” she said. “Going classic today after the Breakfast Pie: eggs scrambled with Parmesan and basil; bagels with onions, lox, and cream cheese; and country potatoes with red and green peppers and just a touch of garlic.”
Although Maris needed to leave early for her art class in Cheeseman Village and had felt bad about leaving everything to Cookie, now she felt bad about missing the wonderful breakfast. Cookie obviously had everything under control.
The chef pointed to a small plastic bag on the counter. “Made you a bagel sandwich to go.” She nodded to a travel mug. “And a morning pick-me-up tea.”
Maris beamed at her. “Cookie, you are an angel in an apron.”
“Remember that when you’re lugging home cheese from the dairy,” she said.
“Are we in need?” Maris asked, picking up her sandwich and tea. Then she opened the refrigerator for a quick check. The cheese supply was indeed running low. “Got it,” she said, closing the door.
“Have a nice time,” Cookie said, smiling as she turned back to the stove.
“I think I will,” Maris said and really meant it.
The drive north to Cheeseman Village in the morning fog was a slow one, but uneventful. She sipped her tea as she crossed the dramatic Pixie Point Bridge, and munched her glorious bagel, egg and cream cheese sandwich as she headed inland and into the morning sun. The black and white dairy cows dotted the grassy landscape, their heads low, having their own breakfast. Maris smiled at a pair of young calves who seemed to be frolicking by kicking up their heels.