1 The Witch Who Settled the Account

by Emma Belmont

  Uh oh, Maris thought.

  Mac’s face went stony and their conversation died as he watched the two tellers until their customers left. As soon as they were out the door, he approached Jessica, who looked spooked. “Yes, Sheriff?”

  “Jessica,” Mac said, obviously doing his best to be gentle with the questioning, “would you mind telling me about this receipt?”

  He handed her the little paper, and Jessica’s eyes almost seemed to bulge. “I, um…” She swallowed. “I mean, that was just a normal shopping trip. I always keep the receipts for the petty cash.” She was talking fast. “Mr. Martin was always asking for snacks, especially grapes. Those were his favorites. He started making me pick food up for him, lug the water bottles–”

  “Okay,” Mac said, motioning for her to slow down. “I get the picture. And when was the last time you bought grapes?”

  “I, um…” She bit her nail and looked at the floor. “I can’t remember.”

  Maris didn’t like the direction this was headed but was helpless to stop it.

  “All right,” Mac said, putting the receipt back in the envelope. “Would you know what happened to the grapes Mr. Martin was eating before he died? They disappeared after his death.”

  “No,” Jessica replied in such a small voice that Maris could barely hear her. “I’m sorry.” Her lower lip began to tremble.

  Still, that didn’t stop the next words that the sheriff spoke: “I’m sorry, Jessica, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to the station. I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Edwin Martin.”

  23

  Chocolate chips, Maris told herself for the tenth time as she pulled up outside the Main Street Market. After the startling and unwelcome events at the credit union, it would be like her to forget the chocolate chips and lunch. The truth was that—despite the car, the receipt, and the motive—she just couldn’t see Jessica as a killer.

  Inside the market, Howard waved to her from behind the front counter as Maris made a bee line to the baking section. Finding chocolate was a superpower of hers, and within seconds she had the bag of semi-sweet morsels in hand. But on her way back to the front of the store, she made a point of looking for Bryan.

  He was in the refrigerated section again, loading what looked like jumbo shrimp into the case. “Hey, Bryan,” she said.

  “Oh, hey, Ms. Seaver,” Bryan replied, looking up from his work.

  Although he was wearing rubber gloves, Maris could see a bit of white gauze peeking out. “How’s your hand?”

  “It’s pretty good,” he said, flexing his fingers. “It only needed a few stitches. And I’m still able to work, so…” He shrugged. “It could be worse, I guess.”

  “And how are you doing?” she asked.

  For a moment he seemed surprised by the question, but then his shoulders sagged. “I’m okay,” he said. “You know…”

  Although he was far from his smiling self, he also seemed to be eating and had good color. But she also knew that the shock of it all might yet to have really hit home.

  “In fact,” Maris said, “I do know something about losing a loved one when you’re young.” When he stared at the floor, she continued, “So if you ever need an ear to bend, you know where to find me.” He nodded. “And by that, I mean the chocolate aisle,” she added, hefting the bag of morsels and trying to coax a smile from him, but he just looked at her feet.

  “All right,” Maris said quietly. It looked like a career in standup wouldn’t be happening any time soon. “I don’t want to keep you from your work. Or cause another accident. I’ll see you later.”

  “See you later, Ms. Seaver,” Bryan said, turning back to his task.

  As Maris made her way back to the front of the store she found that her homing instinct had brought her down the candy, peanuts and popcorn aisle. Her feet came to a slow stop opposite the candy bar section. Howard kept an excellent assortment on hand. All of her favorites were here: the crispy wafers, the almond and coconut, and the peanut, caramel, and nougat. Maybe she ought to keep one in the car for emergencies. But even as the thought crept into her mind, so did the digital readout on the scale. She took a step back.

  The only emergency she had to worry about was not being able to fit into her clothes. She strode away without looking back.

  When Maris arrived at the counter, she could see Howard wiping down the screen of the new digital checkout system. “I see Bryan convinced you to replace the cash register,” she remarked as she set the chocolate chips down. “I was wondering if you’d actually go through with it.”

  “Sure did,” replied Howard. “Isn’t she beautiful? I’m thinking of calling her Gertie. Or maybe Patricia. What do you think?”

  “She looks more like a Maude to me,” Maris replied, eyeing the computer.

  “Maude,” mused Howard as he rang her up. “Yeah, I like that. It’s a strong name. At any rate, I’m glad I took the plunge. You’re never too old to learn new tech, and the boy’s enough of a wizard that he had the thing up and running in under an hour, if you can believe it.”

  “I can,” Maris said. She glanced over her shoulder, where she could still see Bryan. He had moved to the frozen cases and was methodically stacking boxed microwave dinners. “How’s he holding up?” she asked quietly. “I mean, not just from the injury, but from everything else.”

  “I think he’s doing well,” Howard replied. “I’ve offered to let him take some time off, but he keeps insisting it’s no trouble. Bryan’s a hard worker, no doubt. He didn’t even file a workers’ comp request after that little pickle accident, even when I suggested he should. I guess he must not have been hurt that badly.” Howard smiled at her as he reached into one of the jars behind the counter and offered Maris a familiar striped candy stick. “Barber pole for the little lady?”

  Though Maris knew she’d have to save this for another—weight reduced—time, she smiled as she accepted the stick. “Thank you, Howard.”

  24

  Maris surveyed the Towne Plaza and considered what to pick up for lunch, when she suddenly recalled her precognitive vision. Although she might have expected to see events at the credit union, she’d seen a certain restaurant instead. This would be the perfect opportunity to visit Delia’s Smokehouse.

  After stowing the morsels in her car, Maris decided to leg it over to the smokehouse, across the Towne Plaza. She passed the red oriental gazebo, and in minutes was outside the restaurant. Pushing open the big red door, Maris was immediately and pleasantly struck by the smell of the grill. The scent of spices like paprika, chili, and pepper was mixed with the sweet smell of brown sugar.

  Maris also noted with some satisfaction that it was exactly as it had been in her vision. The long, roughly hewn plank tables were flanked by simple wooden chairs filled by a moderately sized crowd. At the left of the giant dining area was the wood counter with its padded brown leather stools. At the right was the steel salad bar, and the open kitchen beyond it. Over the center of the entire room hung a giant wagon wheel with flickering electric candles.

  A loud rumbling erupted from Maris’s stomach, but thankfully no one was close enough to hear. She picked up a menu from the rack attached to the hostess stand and started her happy search.

  “Maris,” said a woman’s voice, bringing her attention up. “It’s good to see you.”

  Delia Burnside was a plump woman of forty, with a head of tight red curls and dancing hazel eyes. She never seemed to be in anything other than a jovial mood, and was the culinary genius behind the restaurant. A transplant from somewhere in the Southwest, her smoking abilities made her a hot commodity. Her award-winning recipes often drew hungry tourists from the whole region and beyond.

  “Delia,” Maris answered, smiling. “Good to see you too.”

  The chef set a stack of folded menus into the rack. “You’re still in town.”

  Maris grinned at her. “I’ve decided to stay.”

  “Well,” Delia said, smiling b
ack, “that’s the best news I’ve heard all day. So what kept you away from the smokehouse for so long? It’s not my cooking, is it?”

  Maris had to laugh “Oh far from it,” she said. “It’s the battle of the bulge that I’ve been waging. It keeps me pretty close to the vegetable and fruit aisles.” And the candy counter, she thought, with just the slightest twinge of guilt.

  “Don’t eat too much of that healthy stuff,” Delia said. “Men like ladies with some meat on their bones.” She gave her a little wink. “Kind of like good home barbecue.”

  Maris grinned, just as Delia’s father approached from behind the wood counter.

  “Well I’ll be peppered,” he said, his thick white mustache curving up with his smile. “If it isn’t Maris.”

  Maybe a little more stout and quite a bit grayer than his daughter, Eugene Burnside nevertheless had the same buoyant personality. Now that Delia had taken over the business, he mostly waited tables. He was carrying a platter loaded down with empty plates and used utensils, but the weight of it didn’t seem to bother him. It certainly didn’t stop him from making a detour to them.

  “How are things going at the old B&B?” he asked.

  “Not too bad,” Maris replied. “We’ve got a few guests right now, not full up, but not too empty either. I was just in town to pick up some supplies.”

  “Ah,” Eugene said, “so you decided to stop by for lunch?”

  “I was actually hoping to get some takeout,” Maris replied. “I’m thinking maybe four barbecue sandwiches.”

  “Good choice,” Delia said, nodding her approval. “Good for takeout too. Which sandwich did you have in mind?”

  “The salmon, I think,” Maris said. “The menu said it’s locally caught.”

  “By Slick Duff himself,” Delia said, “I’m happy to say. I’ll put the order in right now.” With that, she took the platter of empty dishes from her father and bustled off in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Superb sandwiches,” Eugene said, turning to her. “Between you and me, that’s the best thing on the menu.”

  “Oh really?” Maris asked. “The barbecue salmon sandwich?”

  Eugene nodded. “I’ve always been a fish guy myself, but there’s something in Delia’s seasoning that just knocks it out of the park.”

  “Well,” Maris replied, “I guess that would explain why every time I pick it up, my cat goes wild for it.”

  “Mojo?” he asked, which made Maris grin as she wondered if more people knew her cat than her.

  “It’s like he can smell it even before I open the car door,” she said. “But—and here’s the strangest part—he never does it when I bring fish home from the market.”

  “Oh, well, that’s an easy one,” Eugene replied. “That’s because fresh fish doesn’t smell.” Seeing her perplexed look, Eugene leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Here’s an industry secret for you. Seafood only smells after it’s been cooked, smoked, or brined—or when it’s gone bad.”

  Maris blinked. “I always thought fresh fish was supposed to smell like…well, fish, I guess.”

  “Spoken like someone who hasn’t been shown,” Eugene said. “Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Be right back.”

  Before Maris had time to ask what he was doing, Eugene was hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving her to wait by the hostess stand. She idly perused the menu again, and picked up a couple of paper ones she could take back to the B&B. When she looked up, Eugene was making his way back. In one hand was a plastic bag of gray, raw shrimp and in the other a plate of plump, white and pink, skewered shrimp.

  His smile was extra broad. “First, shrimp from the barbie,” he said, handing the plate to her. “Take a whiff.”

  As Maris did, she found her mouth watering. It was the most scrumptious shrimp she’d ever smelled, something like a cross between the mildest fish and a slight charcoal scent.

  “Wonderful,” she said, passing it back.

  He gave her the bag. “Slick brought these in last night. Caught them yesterday. Take a whiff. Go ahead.”

  Normally Maris wouldn’t be sticking her nose in a bag of raw anything, but Eugene had gone to the trouble of trying to educate her. So she brought the bag to her nose and took a tentative sniff. She frowned a little. There was no smell at all. She opened the bag wider, and took a good inhale. Again, there was simply no scent to it.

  “That’s…” she said, just as a thought occurred to her, “…amazing.” She looked from the bag to the plate, and back again.

  “Maris,” Eugene said, watching her. “Are you all right?”

  “Never better,” she said. “I’m going to step outside and make a quick call.”

  25

  “I’m sorry, Maris,” Mac said, sounding confused on the other end of the phone. “You want me to do what?”

  “I know,” Maris replied, “It sounds crazy, I agree.” In fact the more she thought about it, the crazier it seemed.

  She was pacing outside of the smokehouse, not thinking about the barbecue anymore. Eugene had seemed confused when she’d excused herself, but the look on her face must have told him something. He hadn’t followed her out to the sidewalk or brought her order to her.

  “Maris,” Mac said, sounding every bit the voice of reason. “It’s a bit of a, shall we say, an unusual request.”

  Maybe he was right. Maybe she was kidding herself.

  “I know,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. Her mind was moving so fast that she was having a hard time keeping her thoughts straight—let alone articulating them. “It’s hard to explain why. I’m not sure I really know myself. But they can hardly refuse a request from you.” There was only silence on the other end. “Besides, what do you have to lose?” She stopped her pacing and listened intently.

  There was another pause, but then he said, “Since it’s almost lunchtime, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to reach everyone. But I’ll give it a try.”

  “Thank you, Mac,” Maris said, sighing with huge relief.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “What time are you thinking?”

  She glanced inside the restaurant to see Eugene leaving her to-go order on the hostess stand. “Maybe a couple of hours?” It’d be just enough time to get the sandwiches home.

  “All right,” he said.

  She headed to the restaurant door. “Great, I’ve got to–”

  “Hold on,” he said quickly, stopping her. “Don’t hang up just yet.” She heard some rustling of the phone as though it was being repositioned. “Let me get a pencil and paper.” She waited for a few moments. “Okay. What were those names again?”

  Maris had only just hung up with Mac when her phone rang. She stared at the screen.

  “Miami?” she muttered, recognizing the prefix for the Luguan Imperial Resorts headquarters. Had something happened to Genie?

  “Hello,” she said, “this is Maris Seaver.”

  “Good afternoon, Maris,” said a woman’s voice. “This is Pam Watson.”

  Maris pressed her lips into a firm line. “Pam, how nice to hear from you,” she lied.

  “How is life treating you in…Pixel Bay?”

  Maris’s teeth ground a little. “Pixie Point Bay,” she corrected. “Life is treating me well.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Pam said, no doubt also lying. There was a pause. “Shall we cut to the chase?”

  Maris gripped her phone tightly. “I’d say that’d be prudent.”

  “I’m offering you Geneva Tharald’s job, including a signing bonus, a relocation package, and six weeks off per year.”

  Maris’s mouth fell open and for several seconds she couldn’t speak.

  “Maris,” Pam said, “are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here,” Maris said, ready to throw the phone into the plaza. “And here is where I’m staying.”

  “You haven’t heard about the bonus,” Pam said, sounding smug.

  “Listen to me,” Maris said, squeezing her
eyes shut. “And hear me. There is nothing on this earth that could make me take that job. If there’s anyone who deserves that bonus, it’s Genie. She’ll need it for the day when she’s burned out, when her health is on the line, and she is done.”

  “Maris, you’re one of a kind,” Pam said, her tone unemotional. “I’m willing to put a very high value on your uniqueness.”

  That tore it.

  “Pam, my best advice to you is to stop seeing people as paychecks. If you can manage to see them as people and treat them as people, then you won’t have to hear the following.”

  Maris hit the call end button. Then she blocked that number.

  26

  Maris took the sandwiches directly to the back of the property, down the side of the B&B to where she suspected her lunch companions were working. Sure enough, Bear was following Cookie and pushing a wheelbarrow of soil.

  Maris waved at them. “Hey, you two.” She lifted the to-go bag in her other hand. “Lunch is on.”

  As they joined her on the porch, Maris laid the sandwiches out on the table: one each for Cookie and her, and two for Bear. Although he sat down with her, Cookie paused and looked down at her grimy fingers.

  “I’ve had my hands in the dirt all morning,” she said. “I’m going to go wash up.” She headed to the back porch door. “Don’t wait for me,” she called to them over her shoulder.

  Somehow Maris’s growling stomach had given way to butterflies. Only now did it occur to her that the sheriff did have something to lose. This scheme of hers wouldn’t just be a waste of time. He was risking his stature in the community—at the very least the opinion of others—if she wasn’t right.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Maris?” Bear asked.

  He’d politely been waiting for her to start. “Oh, um, sure,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich. She watched as his thick fingers worked nimbly to undo the paper and foil.