by Emma Belmont
“Shellfish,” Maris said, and paced down the side of the herb patch.
Cookie gave a low whistle. “Must have made eating out pretty hard in Pixie Point Bay.”
“That’s what I said,” Maris agreed, turning around and walking back to where she’d started. “But it turns out it’s an allergy that came on recently.”
“Ah,” Cookie said. She bent over and pulled out a little weed, tossing it in a pail as she straightened up. “I guess that would explain it.”
“They also found Edwin Martin’s car,” Maris said, striding down a different side of the garden. “At the apartment building where Jessica Cash—the teller from the credit union—lives.”
“So the facts are adding up,” Cookie said, watching her. “That all sounds good.”
“Except none of it really fits,” Maris said, pacing back. “We have a stolen car, a doctor in a coma, a shellfish allergy but nothing that ties it all together. And now Jessica Cash is in the mix, but why would she want Dr. Rossi dead? Even if she had, why would she be foolish enough to park the car outside her apartment building? She didn’t strike me as particularly unintelligent.”
Cookie picked up her small gardening spade. “Sometimes people in turmoil don’t think straight.”
Maris had been about to respond when she glimpsed some movement in the house. It looked like Kristofer Klaas had returned. “There’s Kristofer,” she said, and turned on her heel.
“Hold on a minute,” Cookie said. “Just stop right there.”
Startled, Maris turned back to her. “What?” she said, and looked around.
“What’s the sudden hurry?” the chef and gardener asked.
Maris blinked. “Hurry? I’m not in a hurry.” Then she glanced over her shoulder. “I just had a question for Kristofer.”
Cookie sighed, tossing the trowel to the dirt. “Have you sat still for even one minute today?”
Maris was surprised all over again. “Sat still?”
Cookie beckoned her closer. “Humor me,” she said, with a little smile. “Come on.” Maris cocked her head at the diminutive gardener but obliged. “Take a look at this little plant that you’ve walked past about four times now.” She pointed to a few bunches of pink and white flowers. “That’s Valerian. It helps with insomnia. This,” she continued, indicating a cluster of delicate white flowers with yellow centers, like small daisies, “is chamomile. It’s used for relaxation and composure.” She deftly plucked a single flower and offered it to Maris. “Take a pinch and tell me what you smell.”
I’ll smell chamomile, Maris thought but she took the flower.
“Pinch it, close your eyes, and sniff,” Cookie said.
It was a good thing Maris had to close her eyes, since it stopped the eye-roll. But when she pinched one of the small leaves and brought it to her nose, it wasn’t what she’d expected. Eyes still closed, she frowned a little. It smelled sweet and, if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of fruit. Maybe apple? Yes, that was it. It had the faint scent of a Fuji apple.
When she slowly opened her eyes, she looked down at the group of white flowers. They looked so simple and yet their fragrance was incredibly complex. A warm breeze rustled them, wafting what looked like yellow dust into the air. Maris watched it drift toward the lighthouse and, when she lost sight of it, she imagined it carried out to the sea beyond. There it might travel the world, across the bay and then the ocean, taking a small bit of Cookie’s herb garden with it. Maris took in a deep breath and slowly let it go.
When she turned to Cookie, she wasn’t there. She’d moved to the other side of the patch of herbs and was tossing another weed in the bucket. As though she’d heard her name called, she looked up at Maris.
“Thank you,” Maris said quietly, knowing she wouldn’t be heard.
But Cookie understood all the same. “Your welcome,” she mouthed.
20
“Maris, there you are,” Kristofer said when she arrived in the living room.
He was sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs making notes in what looked like a day-planner. But when he saw her, he reached into his jacket pocket.
“Good afternoon, Kristofer,” she said, watching as he pulled a small, light green mouse from his pocket.
Except it wasn’t a green mouse, it was more like a crocheted ball with big ears, a long tail of twisted yarn, and three black dots for the eyes and nose. It was absolutely adorable.
He held it out to her. “I couldn’t find Mojo, but I got this for him.” He dropped it in her outstretched hand.
“How cute,” she exclaimed. “He’s going to love it.” It was so soft that it seemed more like a toy for a baby, which only made it better. “Thank you, Kristofer. I’ll give it to him the next time I see him. Normally at this time of day he’s in need of his siesta.”
Kristofer grinned. “Aren’t we all.”
The lifting of his bristly mustache reminded Maris of the bookstore. “You know, I wanted to mention a photo that I saw today that you might want to see.”
“A photo?” he said, leaving his pencil in the fold of the day-planner.
“This is going to sound crazy,” she said, “but I could’ve sworn I saw you today. It was in a Victorian photograph on display at Inklings New & Used Books. The man in the picture looked identical to you—except for the turn of the century clothing. It was uncanny. And he was standing outside a store called Klaas’s Glass.”
Kristofer chuckled. “Well, I wish I could say I looked good for my ancient age, but that would’ve been my grandfather, Karl Klaas. He started the business seventy-five years ago, after he came over from Estonia. He and my father taught me everything I know.”
Maris nodded, smiling. “Of course. It had to be something like that.” She paused for a moment. “So your family had a storefront in the Towne Plaza, once upon a time?”
His smile disappeared. “To be honest, that’s a bit of a sore point.”
Maris frowned sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that. Care to vent your spleen?”
He shrugged, but ran his hand through his hair. “I vented it years ago. But if you’re curious, you’ll hear the story in town, so you might as well hear it from me.” He looked at both his hands before setting them in his lap. “I’m a good glazier. My family saw to that. But I’m not the most…astute business man.”
Maris took a seat opposite him. “I’m sure you do very well,” she countered. “You seem very busy.”
He tilted his head a little. “Sure. I’m fine with working for myself, but running a brick and mortar, with employees, and everything that entails? Well, I just don’t have the head for it.” He looked out the window for several moments, and Maris wondered if he was remembering the old days. Then, he seemed to snap out of his reverie. “That guy who died a few days ago, Edwin Martin, he gave me a business loan a while back. I wasn’t sure about it, but he gave me the hard sell when I came in to the credit union to make a withdrawal. He said it would help me expand the business, triple my number of clients in the next year. He didn’t mention the balloon payment…” He grimaced. “The business, my grandfather’s business, ended up being seized.”
“The whole business?” Maris asked, eyes wide. The thought of losing a family business hit close to home.
Kristofer sighed. “The building and all the assets. The machinery, the glass, the tools, everything.”
Just like Dr. Rossi’s house, Maris thought. How awful.
“So that’s why there’s a photo of a glass shop on the plaza with my name on it,” he said, picking up his pencil. “And that’s also why I won’t miss Edwin Martin in the least.”
“Do you think he did it on purpose?” Maris asked.
Kristofer pressed his lips into a thin line. “In my mind, there’s no doubt. Good riddance to him, I say. A snake in a suit.”
Maris saw her opportunity. “A snake that maybe needed to be killed, would you say?”
He’d been about to make a note in the planner and looked up
in puzzlement. But as understanding dawned, he laughed, surprising her.
“If this glazier had wanted to kill him, he’d have put a shard of glass through his heart. Besides, I wasn’t in town when it happened. I was on my way from one job to another.”
Likely on the road without a witness, she thought.
He smiled at her. “I can see your mind going.” He looked back down at his planner, smiling. “Submit my name to the authorities, if you like. I wouldn’t mind in the least. It’ll only boost my credibility.”
21
The following morning, while Cookie was getting breakfast ready, Maris decided to call Mac from the lighthouse. She’d wrestled all evening with whether or not to tell him about Kristofer’s history with Edwin Martin. Even as she climbed the tower, she went back and forth.
After all, a man who would bring Mojo a cute toy was no murderer. He’d also seemed to enjoy the Wine Down as much as ever. But the glazier no longer lived in Pixie Point Bay, and visited the B&B only a few times a year. The chances that it was coincidence that he’d been in the region when the credit union manager had been killed were good, but not one-hundred percent.
As she exited into the glass room at the top, she paused for a moment to catch her breath. Just above her, Claribel’s brilliant beam rotated, slicing through the fog. Down below the thick mist made the rocky coast barely visible. A lone seagull glided past, heading inland. By the time it disappeared, Maris’s breathing had slowed. She dialed Mac.
“Hi, Maris,” he said, answering on the second ring. It amazed her how he always sounded so chipper. As the only law officer for miles in every direction, he must have a lot on his plate. Maybe that’s why he didn’t mind including her in the investigation.
“Good morning,” she said, “I have some new information.”
“Already? About Edwin Martin?” he asked, immediately interested. “What have you got?”
“You know Kristofer Klaas?” Maris asked.
“The glass guy?” Mac said. “I know of him, but we’ve never met.”
She decided to skip the photo in the bookshop and get right to the interesting part. “His shop was repossessed by the credit union. It had been in his family for three generations.”
“Oh really,” Mac said. “Interesting.”
“Apparently Edwin pressured Kristofer into accepting a loan with a balloon payment.”
“Ouch,” Mac said. “I’m getting the sense that more people wanted Edwin Martin dead than alive.”
“Me too,” she agreed, and realized that was really the reason she’d called. She didn’t think Kristofer was capable of killing someone, glass shard or not. But an image of Edwin Martin was forming that wasn’t particularly rosy.
“How did you come across this information?” the sheriff asked.
“Kristofer is staying at the B&B while he’s working in the region and, after he gave me a toy for Mojo, he told me all about it.”
Mac laughed a little. “A suspect who gives toys to cats.”
“I know,” Maris said, smiling, relieved that Mac was seeing it the way she was. “Not exactly a prime suspect.”
“I appreciate it all the same,” he said. “On this end, forensics got nothing from the car, as expected. But after the coroner’s report about the anaphylaxis, I’ve got a search warrant for the credit union. I’ll be heading there shortly if you’d like to join me.”
“Absolutely,” Maris answered quickly. “I just need to take care of a few things here, then I’ll head over.”
“Great,” he said. “See you then.”
They ended the call, and Maris hurried down to the house. She was on her way past the parlor when she caught a glimpse of fluffy black fur. She stopped, backpeddled a few steps, and paused. Mojo was on the ouija board, his fur standing up, and a distant look in his big orange eyes. His soft triangular ears were swiveling like radar dishes and, for all the world, it looked like he was listening to something.
Slowly he sat down on the board and, as Maris watched in amazement, he settled a front paw on the planchette. With a movement that looked deliberate, he pushed it just a little ways until it stopped. Maris quickly stepped over and looked through the plastic window to see what he might spell. But the planchette hadn’t landed on a letter. It was the small drawing of the sun.
“The sun?” she asked him softly. “Is it something about the time of day? Is that it?”
But in response, the little cat simply blinked his eyes, shook out his fur, and jumped to the ground. On his way out of the room, he stopped to pick up the new yarn mouse from Kristofer. Then without so much as a glance over his shoulder, he bounced out of the room and disappeared.
Maris threw her hands in the air and then shrugged. “Thanks,” she called after him.
In the kitchen she found Cookie setting up the warming trays.
“Hey Cookie,” Maris said. “I’ve got to go into town to meet the sheriff. Need anything?”
“Yes, actually,” the chef said, raising a finger. “I’m glad you asked. I’d like to spruce up the pancakes tomorrow morning for the Longacre girls. Would you be a dear and pick up some semi-sweet chocolate morsels?”
“You’ve got it,” replied Maris. “I’ll grab lunch while I’m out, too.”
22
As Maris pulled up outside the credit union once again, she could see the sheriff through the front room window. It looked like he was searching Edwin's desk in the corner.
When she entered, she saw that he wasn’t alone. Standing off to the side behind their desks were Ashley Pound and Jessica Cash, the latter looking worried and a bit frazzled.
“Hi, Jessica,” she said, smiling to the two women. “Ashley.”
“Ms. Seaver,” Ashley, the short brunette, said, returning her smile. “I’m surprised to see you back here so soon.”
“Actually,” Maris replied, “I’m here to meet the sheriff.”
“Ah,” Ashley said, “Well, you’ve found him.”
Jessica had yet to acknowledge or even look at her. Instead she was staring at Mac performing his search.
“I wonder,” Maris said to Ashley quietly. “If you could show me where the glasses are in the kitchen?”
When Ashley gave her a quizzical look, Maris nodded subtly in the direction of that room and headed that way.
Though Ashley paused for a moment, she said, “Sure, you bet,” and followed.
When the kitchen door closed, Maris turned to the young teller. “Let me just be clear that I’m trying to help Jessica. But you’re under no obligation to answer my questions.”
Ashley considered for a second. “I’d like to help Jessica too. I know that Mr. Martin’s car was found at her apartment building.” She glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “What is it that you want to know?”
Maris leaned in and said quietly. “It was obvious to me that there was some, shall we say, tension between Jessica and Mr. Martin. Do you know why?”
“Take this with a grain of salt,” Ashley said, “because I just overheard it. Okay?” Maris nodded, and Ashley continued. “It was a while ago, maybe three or four months. I was heading to the closet to get a new roll of paper for my adding machine, but then I heard Jessica yelling.”
Maris cocked her head at the teller. “From inside the closet?”
“That’s right,” Ashley said. “Then I heard a loud slapping sound. At the time, I wasn’t sure what it was, so I pulled the door open. I thought maybe she’d fallen, or knocked something down from one of the shelves. Anyway, as soon as I opened the door, Mr. Martin stormed out. There was a bright red handprint on his cheek.”
Maris’s eyes narrowed and she felt anger begin to burn in her chest. “Any idea what happened between them?”
“No,” Ashley said, shaking her head. “Jessica came out sobbing a minute later and ran to the bathroom. I tried to ask her what happened, but she wouldn’t tell me. Still, I think it’s pretty obvious.”
“He was harassing her and she rejected h
im,” Maris said, her voice tight.
“Exactly,” Ashley agreed. “And ever since then, he made a point to make her wait on him hand and foot. It was always something menial and inconvenient, and no matter how many times I offered to help, he forced her to be the one to do it.”
“So you think he was getting back at her for rebuffing him?”
“I’m almost positive,” Ashley replied. She put her hand on Maris’s arm. “Please don’t tell anyone, though. She’s upset enough as it is.”
“It’s all right,” Maris reassured her.
By the time they returned to the front, Mac had moved on to Jessica’s desk. She was standing in front of it, watching his every movement, and biting one of her already distressed looking nails. Ashley went to her, put a comforting arm around her shoulders, and murmured something to her.
Behind them two customers came in, brought up short by the sight of Mac behind one of the desks.
“Do you want me to take them, Jessica?” Ashley asked.
“No,” the blonde teller said, taking a shaky breath. “No, it’s okay. I can do it.”
They each greeted a customer and escorted them in—Ashley to her desk and Jessica to a coffee table in the small waiting area.
Maris approached Mac. “Hey,” she said, watching as he rummaged in a drawer.
“Hey,” Mac said, not looking up.
“So what is it you’re looking for?” she asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jessica shoot them an uneasy glance as she went to Mr. Martin’s desk and used the cash drawer.
“Nothing in particular,” the sheriff replied. “Missing stuff, things that seem out of place, anything that might be useful.” His brow furrowed, and he straightened up, an envelope in his hands. He opened it and thumbed through the contents.
“Are those receipts?” Maris asked.
“Gas station,” Mac said nodding. “Flour Power… Wait a minute.” He frowned, holding up a small sales ticket. She recognized it immediately. It was the type issued by Bertha, the antique cash register at the Main Street Market. It was dated the day before the murder, and on the back was written one word: grapes.