by Emma Belmont
“Maris,” Alfred said. “I thought that was you. Can I help you find something?”
She smiled at him. “Not at all,” she said, picking up the book and tucking it under her arm. “I think I’ve found it.”
He glanced at the cover as she finished her cider. “That’s an excellent choice. The author tells the most amazing story of their life cycles, as though they were people, not plants. I’ve certainly never looked at them the same way since reading it.”
“I’m looking forward to sitting down with it,” she said. “But actually, I wasn’t really here to shop. I just wanted to stop by and see how you and Minako were holding up. You know, after yesterday.”
He grimaced a little. “Well, I think Nurse Maxwell is probably going to block my number soon. But she’s really been wonderful, answering all of our questions. I start to cough, probably because I’m dusting, and I wonder if that’s a symptom of something, so I call her.”
Maris gave him an understanding smile. “I’m sure I’d do the same, and I’m equally sure Jill is fine with it.”
Minako joined them then. “Fine with what?” she said, looking inquisitively between them.
“With my calling her every five minutes,” Alfred said.
Minako put a hand on his arm. “I know. Both of us.” She looked at Maris. “I had a stomachache, probably from all the worry, and Alfred was kind enough to call.” She took a phone from her back pocket. “And I’ve been searching the internet…”
“…for all kinds of food poisoning,” Alfred said.
“It was botulism,” Maris told them. “They found the toxin in the salsa.”
Minako gasped a little as her eyes went wide, but covered her mouth.
“So the forensics person was right,” Alfred said.
“Lucille Trahan,” Maris said, “the senior investigator. Yes, she called it.”
Minako shook her head, as her eyes misted up. “Poor Joy. She was much too young.”
Alfred nodded as his arm went around his wife’s shoulders. “And so full of life. We’re…” He used a finger behind his glasses to wipe a tear from his eye.
“We’re going to miss her,” Minako said.
Maris sighed. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. Though she’d come here to ask questions about their friend, this was clearly not the time. The shock of her death—and witnessing it—had obviously hit them hard.
“You know the worst thing?” Minako said quietly.
Maris shook her head. “No.”
Minako looked up at Alfred, who whispered, “We feel like we’ve dodged a bullet.”
“We feel so lucky to be alive,” she said, then covered her eyes with both hands. “It’s awful.”
Maris put a hand on her arm. “Listen to me.” She glanced at Alfred. “Both of you. It’s never wrong to feel good about being alive. You feel lucky, because you are lucky. Not just at avoiding a neurotoxin, but also that you have each other.”
Minako wiped her eyes, and managed a smile. “True.”
Alfred nodded quickly. “All true.” He smiled down at his wife. “She’d have been glad for us, you know?”
She looked up and genuinely smiled at him. “I do know.” She stood up a little straighter and Alfred let her go. Together, they took in a deep breath of air and looked at Maris. “Thank you,” they both said.
“I didn’t do a thing,” she said. Then she hefted the book and grinned. “Except find my next read.”
“If you’re ready,” Minako said. “I’d be happy to ring you up.”
“Sounds good,” Maris said, and followed her to the counter.
14
Before going back to her car, Maris decided to check Pizza del Popolo. Since Bear’s truck was nowhere in sight, she assumed he was finished. Inside the bright pizzeria, Max was humming something that sounded operatic while he chopped fresh tomatoes. He was just placing them in an enormous metal pot on the stove when she stepped up to the counter.
“Ciao, Bella!” he said, grinning. “Twice in one day?” He waggled a finger at her. “I’m going to make you Italian.”
Maris smiled and set down her book. “Actually, I’m not here for your glorious food. I was wondering if Bear managed to help you out?”
The Italian chef cocked his head back. “Help me? Help me? Help is the understatement.” He grasped the black metal door of the oven by both its handles, removed it, and stood aside. “Look.” He pointed to a spot at the bottom of the oven’s dome. “Good as new.”
Maris could see a slightly different color of mortar and what looked like two new bricks, much thinner than the rest. The late afternoon sun that slanted through the front windows illuminated it like a spotlight.
“Oh, look at that,” she exclaimed. “So the problem was the bricks?”
Max shook his head. “The mortar, but he had to take the bricks out. He explained everything perfectly. The bricks had to be destroyed to get to the mortar.”
“Ah,” Maris said. “He does do a great job of explaining.”
“A natural born teacher,” Max agreed, “and a problem-solver.”
“Problem-solver?” she said, cocking her head and looking again at the repair.
Max measured his hand against one of the old bricks. “Superior Hardware didn’t have the original style brick, or the mortar either. So Bear made his own mixture, and used the small bricks that they had to make it work.”
Though the new, thinner bricks no longer matched the rest of the oven, if it worked, it worked. Bear had obviously been meticulous in placing the new material to match the contour of the dome and the new mortar had been used sparingly and neatly.
“That’s fabulous,” Maris said, wondering how many times the consummate handyman had been a problem-solver at the B&B.
Max pointed to the narrow space at the back of the oven. “The big Bear had to find a way to get himself in there to really take a good look.”
Maris regarded the small area. It would have been tight. “Wow.” She couldn’t quite imagine it.
“I told him that if he needed to knock down that wall, he had my permission.” Max gave her a wry smile. “Maybe my restaurant could be wider.”
Maris chuckled as she gazed at it. “No doubt the hardware store would be happy to donate the space to you.”
For a few moments they both simply gazed at the repair work, Max smiling broadly as he crossed his arms over his chest. In the back of the domed oven, a small pile of wood logs and kindling was waiting. Just above that area, a metal pipe emerged and went straight up to the ceiling.
“I invited him to stay for dinner,” the chef said, “but he said he likes to be home before dark.”
“Right,” Maris said. Cookie had let her know that their handyman was a shifter. Though Maris didn’t know the details, it was somehow good for him not to be out at night. “He likes to start early and finish early.”
Max nodded and returned his gaze to the repair. “I am to let it set for twenty four hours, then heat it, but not too high. The next day, it can get a little hotter. It has to cure.”
“Just in time,” Maris said. She paused for a moment. “I also wanted to let you know that the autopsy report has come back.”
At that, the Italian chef’s smile vanished, making his crooked nose seem even more bent. His dark eyes peered at her. “And?”
“Joy Castro died of botulinum toxin that was present in her homemade salsa,” Maris said. “None of the other food was tainted in the least, including your pizza.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled. “Uff,” he muttered and fingered his cauliflower ear.
Maris smiled at the nervous gesture and gave him a moment to savor the good news. “There was never any doubt.”
He looked at her, his big smile returning. “Thank you, Bella.”
She gave the new repair a final look. “I’ve got to get back to the B&B for the evening wine and cheese.”
“And I must return to my tomato sauce,” he said.
As
she turned to go, she said, “I’ll catch you later.”
“Ciao, Bella,” he called out.
15
In the morning, Maris was up earlier than usual. Even so, as she got dressed, she could smell the aromas of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. Cookie had likely been up for at least an hour, in her element. Mojo, however, was not yet ready for the day. He still lay curled up on the bed in the spot that she’d vacated.
As she gave him a gentle pet, she turned off the nightstand’s Tiffany lamp. “See you in a bit,” she said quietly. Eyes closed, he simply sighed in return.
In the kitchen, Cookie was just moving the last quiche dish into the bottom oven. When she stood, she adjusted her apron and smiled at Maris. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Maris said, peeking through the oven glass. “Is that what I think it is?”
Cookie eyed her. “Let me guess. Your favorite?”
Maris gave her a mock scowl. “I don’t even know what’s in it.”
The diminutive chef grinned as she went to the stove. “It’s my Japanese Quiche.”
“Oh,” Maris exclaimed. She knew it by heart. “Eggs, shiitake and enoki mushrooms, spinach, sharp Cheddar and Monterey Jack cheeses, and just a hint of that lovely bunching onion.” Maris peered into the oven again. “My favorite,” she whispered.
Cookie chuckled. “There’s some tea brewing in that kettle. And you can grate some potatoes for the hash browns whenever you’re ready.”
“Tea first,” Maris said. “Can I make a cup for you?”
“That’d be great,” the chef said, as she got her mixer ready. “Did Max get his oven back up and running?”
Maris retrieved two tea cups from the cupboard. “He’s already firing it up. There’s a process called curing where he needs to fire it higher and higher each day. Bear got it patched up quite nicely, and Max should have the oven ready for the grand opening.”
“Good to hear,” Cookie said, as she began to add ingredients to the mixer bowl.
As Maris put just a bit of lemon into the tea, Cookie poured flour into the bowl. Baking powder, sugar, and salt followed.
“Here you go,” Maris said, bringing over the cup and setting it on the counter.
“Thanks,” Cookie said, and added the milk and vegetable oil.
She paused for a moment as they both took a sip. Maris had instantly recognized the earthy and woody aroma of the ginseng tea. The addition of the honey—a gift from Bear—added just the right amount of sweetness.
“That’s going to go well with the quiche,” Maris said.
The diminutive chef grinned at her. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
When she returned to the mixer, she added the spices. It looked like this morning they were also serving Belgian waffles.
Maris peeled the potatoes, grated them, and used dish towels to remove the excess moisture from them. Then she fetched the fresh berries, and added them to a large china bowl with a serving spoon. Cookie had just finished the batter and set it aside.
“I think we’ll put out the DIY-Waffle-Flip-and-Cook iron today. Let the guests have a little fun with making fresh waffles.”
Maris brought over the uncooked hash browns. “That sounds great. I’ll go set it up.”
As the distant sun slowly lit the gray mist surrounding the B&B, Maris brought each of the finished buffet foods to the warming trays on the dining room’s sideboard: slices of the Japanese quiche, with its super flavorful mushrooms; crispy hash browns; the fresh berries, as well as toast and the Belgian waffle batter. Maple and raspberry syrup stood by, as did a bowl of whipped cream from the dairy in Cheeseman Village.
Not surprisingly, Patricia was the first one down. The food critic surveyed the sideboard with a smile. Then she glanced at Cookie. “I followed my nose. It never fails. Few people really appreciate how one of the most important elements in good food is the aroma. It can tell you so much about what you’re about to experience.” She picked up a plate. “And my nose tells me that we are in for something wonderful.”
Maris winked at Cookie, who waggled her eyebrows a bit. Both of them waited as the big woman went immediately to the waffle maker. As she poured in the batter, Maris motioned for Cookie to precede her. The chef served herself a slice of the quiche and some berries. Maris did likewise.
As Patricia waited for the waffle iron, she peered closely at the quiche. “Wait a minute,” she said and looked behind her at Cookie. “Are those Japanese mushrooms?”
Cookie nodded. “And bunching onions too.”
Just then the waffle maker dinged and Patricia flipped the iron over.
“Good morning,” said Andrew from the doorway.
“More early risers,” Maris said to Andrew and Melanie. “Good morning.” She motioned to the sideboard. “Please help yourself. There’s fresh coffee in the carafe and hot water in the dispenser. Cookie has some of her ginseng blend in those infusers.”
“I’d adore some morning ginseng,” Melanie said. She paused and looked at her husband. “Coffee for you, sweetie?”
“Yep,” he said. “I’ve got to have that morning jolt.”
As they moved to the sideboard, Patricia removed her golden browned waffle from the iron with a fork, then put a dollop of whipped cream on the side, and filled the little openings with maple syrup. If Maris was having one, she’d do exactly the same. Then the critic fetched herself a glass of orange juice and joined Cookie at the dining room table.
“Do I smell nutmeg?” she asked, her face clearly delighted.
“You do,” Cookie answered. “That’s quite an accurate sense of smell you’ve got. Most people would have guessed sugar.”
But Patricia was too busy to make a reply. As she took her first bite of the waffle, Cookie speared a strawberry with her fork and Maris tried hard not to watch the food critic. The woman’s brows furrowed and for a moment, Maris felt a knot of dread drop in her stomach. But as Patricia chewed and eagerly cut another piece, she nodded.
Finally she said, “The vanilla and cinnamon together with the nutmeg…” She dipped the second piece in the whipped cream. “It’s…it’s just beautiful.”
Maris exhaled a little, and Cookie simply nodded.
Andrew had also made a waffle for himself, but Melanie returned with a slice of quiche. But as they’d done at the Wine Down, they shared both plates.
“What have you two got planned for today?” Maris asked.
“Well,” Andrew said, “inspired by the wine and cheese last night, we’re going to go take the tour at Alegra Winery.”
“Mmm,” Maris said, setting down her tea. “That’s a wonderful tour. I’d have to say that their tasting room is one of the most generous, in terms of wine and food, that I’ve ever come across.” She smiled at them. “Which is saying something, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“Oh my god,” Melanie said. “This quiche is amazing.” Patricia’s head whipped around so fast that her bangs fell in her eyes. “Honey,” the young woman said to her husband, “have you tried this?” She used the side of her fork to cut off a piece and offered it to him, placing the morsel into his mouth.
“The cheese is fresh from the Cheeseman Village Dairy,” Maris told them.
“Wow,” Andrew said nodding.
“Right,” Patricia said, almost shooting up from her seat. “I’ve got to try that.”
In another few moments she was at the sideboard serving herself a piece. She held it up in front of her, examining it from all sides. Then she put it directly under her nose and inhaled deeply.
“Ginger?” she asked.
“Very good,” Cookie said.
Patricia took a bite. For several long moments she simply stood there chewing and examining the slice with her fork. “Delicious,” she finally said. “Just a hint of soy sauce.”
“From the shiitake,” Cookie confirmed.
As the big woman brought her plate back to the table, she said, “I’m on a tour of the coast’s eateries, bu
t it seems that overlooking this B&B has been quite the oversight.” She was looking at her plate and sounded as if she was thinking out loud. As Maris and Cookie exchanged a satisfied look, the food critic added, “I wonder what my editor would say about broadening the definition of a restaurant.”
16
Once the dishwasher was loaded, Maris was headed to her room to check on Mojo when the hallway went completely white.
“Again?” she said quietly. It was a precognitive vision. “But why?” As she put a hand to the wall to steady herself, a blurry image came into focus. “Superior Hardware.”
Why was she not surprised?
As though she was standing in the Towne Plaza, she watched as the coroner removed a gurney with a black body bag on it from the front of the store. Meanwhile, the forensics team passed him on their way inside. Some onlookers on the sidewalk, heads together, were pointing at the coroner’s van.
Dread welled up in Maris’s chest, and she put a hand to it. Someone at Superior Hardware was going to die. But before she could tell who, the vision winked out. She was staring at her open bedroom door. In the next instant, she dashed through it, startled Mojo on the bed, and then grabbed her phone and purse.
“Sorry, Mojo,” she gasped.
For a moment she considered calling the store, or maybe even Mac. But the first problem would be that no one would believe her. The second problem would arise when someone died, and it appeared that she knew.
As she ran back into the hallway, she almost collided with Cookie, who deftly moved aside.
“Whoa,” the older woman said, her back to the wall and clutching a rag to her chest.
“Sorry!” Maris called back over her shoulder. “Someone’s going to die at Superior Hardware.”
17
Encouraged by the fact that no coroner’s van was parked in front of the store, Maris hastily parked and ran inside—only to be brought up short. Guy was helping a customer in the aisle directly in front of her, and they both looked up at her in surprise.