8 The Witch Who Saw a Murder

by Emma Belmont

  As Maris watched, she saw Bear do something she’d never seen before—he frowned. “He’s not a very nice man.”

  From anyone else, it might have described someone who took money from the tip jar. From Bear, it was a condemnation.

  The big man shrugged. “It’s the only hardware store in town.”

  “Right,” Maris said, preceding him and then starting down. “Right.”

  6

  If the wine and cheese had a theme, Maris decided that tonight’s would be contrast. As usual, she took the large cheeseboard and all of its ingredients to the sideboard in the dining room where she would assemble it. Occasionally a guest would wander in early, get a preview taste, or simply watch her work. It was a system she’d stumbled upon years ago in her hotel work. That particular Wine Down had been more relaxed, chatty, and convivial than any other that had preceded it. She’d stuck with the winning recipe ever since.

  First, of course, she opened tonight’s local wines: a Riesling from Crown Winery and a port from Alegra. While the white varietal of German origin was dry and crisp, the port’s sweetness was thick bodied. That was the first contrast. She placed them on the dining room table along with enough glasses for all of her guests to sample each.

  The fresh cheeses from the Cheeseman Village Dairy complimented the wines: the pungent and crumbly bleu cheese was the perfect foil for the port, while the sweet and tangy ricotta cheese paired wonderfully with the Riesling.

  As she sliced a little of the cheese and arranged it on the cheeseboard, her mind wandered back to the picnic.

  “Contrast again,” she said lowly.

  In the span of a few seconds, the pleasant meal had turned deadly. They’d gone from being pleasantly assailed by Max and his free pizza, to an argument in their midst, and then a death. Though the two latter events seemed related, Maris had to wonder. From what the forensics investigator had said, the earliest symptoms of botulinum toxin would take three hours to surface. Joy must have eaten something before the argument.

  “Am I early?” a woman’s voice asked from the doorway.

  Maris turned to see Patricia Linn-Baker at the dining room entrance and smiled at the large woman. “There’s no such thing when it comes to wine and cheese.”

  As she entered the room, her green eyes went immediately to the cheeseboard. “Oh, how lovely.”

  Maris had recognized not only her guest’s name but also her face. The renowned food critic had columns in newspapers and magazines all over the country. Formerly of Michelin, she was independent now.

  “Can I pour you some port or a dry Riesling?” Maris said, setting aside the cheese knife and using a dish towel to wipe her hands.

  “Mmm,” Patricia said. “Decisions, decisions.” Although the cheeseboard wasn’t complete, she surveyed the other ingredients: baby pickles, green olives, and spicy mustard to accompany the German wine; candied pecan halves, honey roasted almonds, and dried apricots and cherries for the port. Slices of a sourdough baguette with some crispy bread sticks rounded out the assortment.

  Patricia’s brunette hair was tinted red and her lipstick matched the pink of her dress. Over it she wore a black jacket that barely managed to cover her rotund form.

  “I’ll start with Riesling,” she said, and held up a hand. “But I don’t mind pouring for myself.” She grinned, her plump cheeks rising. “You have very important business there.”

  Maris chuckled. “Then I’ll just finish this up.”

  While being a food critic and sampling the offerings of all the finest restaurants might seem like a dream job, it carried an obvious downside as well—one with which Maris could sympathize. Though Patricia and she were the same height, the other woman was ten years her junior and easily fifty pounds heavier. The constant travel and eating pretty much guaranteed an unhealthy lifestyle.

  “Ooh, the Riesling,” Patricia murmured. “Very nice.” She peered at the label. “Crown Winery.”

  “Just thirty minutes south of here,” Maris said, adding the pecans to the board as a final touch. “The owner, Friedrich Krone, learned winemaking in Germany.”

  “Well, it shows,” Patricia said.

  Behind her the other two guests arrived. “Good evening, Andrew,” Maris said, nodding to him and then his wife. “Melanie.”

  Wine in hand, Patricia had been headed to the sideboard to pick up a plate, but politely paused.

  “Andrew and Melanie Yang,” Maris said, “may I introduce Patricia Linn-Baker. Patricia, these are the Yangs.”

  The young Asian couple stepped forward, and Andrew shook Patricia’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  His wife did likewise. “Good to meet you.”

  “My pleasure,” the food critic replied, “I’m sure.”

  If Maris had to guess, she’d put the young couple in their late twenties. Both wore glasses and were slim, and Melanie wore her straight black hair sweeping gracefully down to her shoulders.

  Andrew took a moment to look at both bottles. “Hon, can I pour you the white wine?”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” she said, smiling. “I’ll get us a plate.”

  As the two women made their selections, Maris poured some port for herself.

  “You have a wonderful place here,” Andrew said to her, as he finished pouring two Rieslings.

  “Thank you,” Maris said smiling. “I’m lucky enough to call it home.”

  His wife brought over a plate which she set down on the table, as she took her wine from him. “I imagine a property like this is a lot of work.”

  Maris grinned a little. “I’m just now beginning to figure that out.”

  As the guests enjoyed their food, Maris fetched a plate and gave herself an ample helping of the dried fruits and sweet nuts.

  “Your eyeglasses,” Patricia was saying to Melanie. “They’re very stylish.”

  Maris had noticed them as well. Large and almost circular, the elegant frames were a pretty plum color.

  “Thank you,” Andrew replied, making both Maris and Patricia look at him. His wife gave him a playful thump on the arm, before she turned back to the food critic. “My husband, the optometrist.”

  “Ah,” Patricia said, knowingly. When Maris joined them, the food critic pointed to the ricotta cheese on her plate. “This is wonderful, by the way. I have never come across ricotta on a cheeseboard before. Nicely done.”

  “High praise, indeed,” Maris said, arching her brows. She gestured to the big woman, and said to the young couple, “Patricia is a food critic. You might have seen her columns in newspapers and magazines.”

  “Oh goodness,” Melanie said, then turned to her husband. “I told you I thought she looked familiar.”

  As the quartet noshed and sipped, Patricia talked about her work and her current tour of the coast’s eateries. The Yangs, it turned out, were celebrating their first anniversary. Andrew had surprised his wife with a paper airline ticket. Melanie was a high school science teacher, and they were making a quick trip before the new school year started.

  Outside, the last rays of the setting sun were fading. Overnight the usual coastal fog would enshroud them. But for now, Maris simply enjoyed the warm atmosphere inside, and getting to know her guests.

  7

  The following morning, after the buffet and chores had been completed, Maris went back up to the optics house. Bear was already working on the outside walkway, cleaning the storm panes with a squeegee. Tall enough to reach their tops without a ladder, he worked carefully and methodically.

  “Good morning,” she mouthed and gave him a little wave, and he used the squeegee to wave back.

  Inside, she saw that he had left the step ladder, microfiber cloths, and a pair of cotton gloves for her. She’d been careful not to wear any type of metal or jewelry, opting for terry cloth sweatpants and a simple t-shirt. It wasn’t the most stylish of outfits but the safety of the optics outweighed everything else. For a moment, she considered her options. With all the pieces of glass, she wanted to
make sure she didn’t miss any. She would be methodical, like Bear. She would work in rows, starting at the top, circling around to complete the top tier, before proceeding to the next.

  She moved the ladder into place, put the microfiber cloths on its top shelf, and picked up the gloves. But before she even got them on, she could see that they would be too big. They’d fit Bear, but she could fit both of her hands into a single glove. Though she was anxious to actually begin the job of cleaning the lens, she didn’t want to risk not doing it right. At the back of the optics house, she opened the small door that was metal on the bottom and glass on the top, and stepped out onto the outer landing. She closed the door behind her—something that Aunt Glenda had drilled into her. Keeping the dust to a minimum was vital.

  As she circled around to the front of the optics house, she tried to remember the last time she’d been out here. The fog had lifted although a slight haze hung in the air. The light breeze was cool and fresh and a gull cried out as it passed by. Bear was just finishing one panel as she approached. He set down the squeegee and picked up a rag.

  “Bear?” Maris said. “You wouldn’t happen to have another pair of gloves would you? A smaller pair.”

  His eyebrows arched over his soft brown eyes as he looked down at her hands. “Too big.” Then he shook his head. “Those are the only ones.” His gaze shifted to the fresnel lens, then quickly back to her. “Glenda had a pair, but I don’t know where they are.”

  Maris thought for a moment. “Hmm.” She’d never run across a pair of cotton gloves, or any nitrile ones for that matter. “I have no idea where they’d be.” She gazed past the lens toward the house and beyond. “I think I’m just going to have to go into town and get some. I imagine the hardware store will have something.”

  At that, Bear dropped his rag next to his bucket. “I can go get them.”

  She waved him off. “Oh no, please. The last thing I want to do is slow you down due to my ‘helping.’ Besides, I might need to try them on.”

  Though he didn’t say anything, she could guess what he was thinking: she might have a run-in with Rudy Schmid. She wasn’t the type to court trouble, but she hadn’t cared for his attitude at the picnic. Since she’d never actually spoken to him, it was hard to say what he was really like. Though she wasn’t looking forward to it, maybe it was time to find out.

  “I’ll make sure to be quick,” she said, and a thought occurred to her. “As long as I’m out, I can stop somewhere to pick up lunch. Any ideas?”

  “Pizza del Popolo?” he said quickly.

  She grinned at him. “Sounds great. I’ll be right back.”

  8

  By the time Maris arrived at the pizzeria, the sun was out in all its glory. It lit the narrow interior of the restaurant, bathing it in warm hues. The polished wood counter gleamed as did the two metal stools off to the side, parked at a narrow shelf that served as a tiny dining area. It wasn’t difficult to see to the back of the space, lined with brick ovens, gleaming metal work surfaces, and a large grill. But the owner was nowhere in sight.

  “Hello?” Maris called out. “Anybody here?”

  “Hello!” came the immediate reply from somewhere on the other side of the counter, maybe the floor.

  Maris took a step closer and peered over it. Max was on his knees, in front of the first oven. Maris hadn’t realized before that the area underneath each one was stacked with small logs of wood.

  He dusted off his hands and sprang up. “Ah, Bella,” he said smiling at her, making his crooked nose crinkle. “Buongiorno.”

  “Good morning,” she said, eying the charcoal smudge on his chef’s shirt. Then she regarded the oven. “Trouble in pizza paradise?”

  His smile faltered. “The oven,” he said. “It broke this morning.”

  “Oh no,” she said, “broke?”

  He pointed at the circular temperature indicator on its front, then tugged on his cauliflower ear. “It cannot maintain temperature.”

  Maris frowned at it. “Pretty important for an oven.”

  “Yes,” he said turning to it. He waved an arm toward the rest of the narrow space. “Even in my tiny restaurant, I have another, naturalmente. But a pizzeria with only one oven?” He tsked. “Like playing bocce without enough balls.” He looked back at her as though she’d just walked in. “But you did not come here to hear of my woes.” He beamed at her and his smile was infectious. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to order lunch,” she said. Although she pulled one of the paper menus from the display, she already knew the short list of items and what she would order. She laid it on the counter and pointed to her selections. “Four Calzone Vesuvios and the Creamy Caesar Salad.”

  “Eccelente,” he said. “Coming right up.”

  “No hurry,” she added quickly. “I’ve got to go next door and find some gloves.”

  He seemed as though he was going to turn away and get the meals started, but then paused. For a moment, he looked at her, and then looked away.

  “Yes, Max?” she said.

  He wrung his hands together. “Have you heard about the autopsy report for Joy?”

  She gave him a sympathetic smile and shook her head. “No. I’m afraid not. But I’ll let you know when I do.”

  His smile returned, and he bowed a little. “Thank you. Lunch will be ready when you return.”

  9

  Superior Hardware lived up to its name. The moment Maris stepped in, it was like entering another world. The store’s aisles came right up to the entrance, with a small counter off to the side that had a cash register. Each aisle was labelled with a small sign at the top with names like “Electrical,” “Plumbing,” and “Hardware.”

  “Hardware,” she muttered, frowning a little.

  Wasn’t the entire store a hardware store?

  No one was at the cash register, nor did she hear anyone in conversation—and had to admit she was a little relieved. It’d be good to have a little look around before getting tossed out by the owner. She picked the aisle labelled “Hardware.”

  As soon as she entered it, she understood. Hardware meant cabinet and door hardware. Each area was clearly marked and there were even little drawings attached to the pull-out bins, showing you what was inside. It was clean, and neat, and not what she’d expected at all. For a few moments she simply took it all in, slowly ambling up the aisle. At its end she saw that the store was divided into two sections, and another set of aisles waited at the back. In the corner, she glimpsed a staircase that presumably led up to a second story.

  “Can I help you find something?” said a male voice, startling her from behind.

  She jumped a little and turned, hand to chest. “Uh, yes.”

  But the man who stood in front of her wasn’t Rudy Schmid. This man was considerably younger and considerably more muscular. If it wasn’t for the baggy hardware store shirt, she’d have said that he was a professional weight lifter.

  “I need to get some gloves,” she said, noticing the soul patch on his chin, the small scar near his eye, and the tattoos on his neck. “Either soft cotton or nitrile.”

  “Then we want to look in ‘Workwear’,” he said smiling. “This way.”

  As he headed toward the back of the store, he angled off for the stairs. Like his shirt, his work pants were a bit big for him, and Maris could see that the back of his neck was tattooed as well. He wore his red hair cropped so short, he looked almost bald.

  “What do you need the gloves for?” he asked, when he reached the second story.

  It was equally packed with many aisles of goods.

  “I’m going to be cleaning some glass,” she said, following him into one of the aisles and passing a few other shoppers. “The fresnel lens at the lighthouse.”

  “Oh really?” he said, sounding interested. “That’s a new one.”

  Maris laughed a little. “You can say that again.”

  “Here we are,” he said and pointed to a stack of boxes of nitrile glove
s. “I’m afraid we don’t have cotton gloves in stock, but if the nitrile will do, we’ve got those.” He regarded her. “So, are you in charge of the lighthouse?”

  Maris smiled and extended her hand. “Maris Seaver,” she said. “I’m the owner of the lighthouse and the attached B&B.”

  “Oh wow,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” He daintily took her hand by just the fingers. “Guy Koch.”

  The calluses on his big hands felt like sandpaper and Maris was glad for the lady’s handshake. “Good to meet you, Guy.”

  She looked at the boxes. “Well, I know that extra large and large aren’t going to fit.”

  He picked up the one marked medium and handed it to her. “These will be perfect.”

  “Great,” she said, looking at it more closely. “They’re purple?”

  He grimaced a little. “I’m afraid so. That’s the only color we have in medium. In fact, it’s the last box.”

  “Oh not a problem at all,” she said smiling. “I think purple is going to be pretty.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, smiling as well. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Maris shook her head. “I think that’s it.”

  “Then I’ll ring you up,” he said, turning back toward the stairs.

  As she followed him down, she got a better view of the first floor. Though she hadn’t seen them before, there were a few shoppers scattered in the many aisles. But the person she didn’t see was the owner.

  “Is Mr. Schmid here today?” she asked as they headed to the register.

  Guy glanced over his shoulder. “He’s here every day. But right now he’s on the dock in the back doing inventory, and has been all morning. Did you want to speak to him?”

  Maris shook her head as she put her box of gloves on the counter next to the stack of green, white, and red coupons for Pizza del Popolo’s grand opening. “It’s nothing urgent. I just thought I’d introduce myself, since I’ve never been in the store before.” Guy aimed the scanner at the price tag. “I understand he’s a bit…gruff with his female clients.” She handed over her credit card.