by Emma Belmont
“Really,” Maris said. “I had no idea he was a songwriter.”
“People are still singing some of them,” he said, and glanced at the stage. “Not unlike some of this blues music.”
“By the way,” she said, “what is that thing that Bowdie wears on his finger. It looks like the neck of a wine bottle.”
“It’s probably the neck of a wine bottle,” he said. When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “It’s called a slide. Some players like to have them custom made, but I’ve read that Bowdie likes to go old school.”
Without a preamble, the guitarist turned to the musicians behind him, seemed to count off, and they started. This tune was a good deal faster—and she immediately liked it better. As Mac kept time with a tap on his leg, Maris bobbed her head. The high energy of the song was infectious.
“Aurora thinks it’s too loud,” said the storekeeper into Maris’s ear.
Maris turned to find Aurora Puddlefoot, in her gypsy garb. The older woman wore her usual creative makeup—bright red lipstick and matching dots arching over her eyebrows. Her platinum hair fell in long braids, though most of it was hidden by the colorful purple hair wrap that matched her robes.
“You don’t like the blues?” Maris asked, tapping her toes now.
“Aurora likes the business,” she said. “But the music?” She waved her hand as though swatting a fly. “No.” She eyed Mac, on the other side of Maris. “But Aurora sees that you are gaining an appreciation for the blues.” The older woman gave her a wink, briefly exposing her bright orange eye makeup. “Good for you.”
“I’m surprised,” Maris told her. “Helen mentioned that you’re this year’s head of the festival’s organizing committee.”
The older woman nodded. “This is true. Aurora wanted to see it done right.”
“Well, you’ve done a magnificent job.”
As the owner of Magical Finds, the largest store in the town, let alone on the plaza, Maris wasn’t surprised that Aurora wanted to make sure everything ran smoothly. “Business is brisk?” she asked.
Aurora nodded. “Excellent. Truly excellent.” She glanced toward her three story Victorian, a former hotel. But as another song started, she covered her ears. “Aurora will go back now,” she shouted, “but she saw you and wanted to say hello.”
They exchanged a brief hug. “Good to see you, Aurora.”
But as the storekeeper made her escape to the rear of the plaza, Maris’s gaze followed her. As it did, she noted that just around the corner from Magical Finds was Delia’s Smokehouse, and she couldn’t help but think of the missing credit card machine. Now it seemed that her B&B might also have been the victim of a theft.
But the only people who’d been there, aside from the usual contingent, were the guests. Maris watched Bowdie finish a solo as the crowd thundered it’s approval. Of all the B&B’s occupants, only he, Spats, and George would have a special interest in the album. Though she hated to think that any of them would be capable of stealing it, she knew where her investigation needed to start.
9
Though anxious to get to the bottom of the thefts, Maris knew the investigation would have to wait. She and Mac arrived inside Inklings just as a small acoustic group was starting up on the ground floor. Spats was playing a small, single snare drum, along with two guitarists and a harmonica player.
Mac leaned close. “This is the group I was talking about earlier,” he said. “A lot like the one on that album of your aunt’s.”
As the leader of the quartet began to sing, Maris eyed the crowd. Minako and Alfred were there, of course. Alfred was refilling the apple cider decanters that were always on hand in the bookstore. He must be doing double duty with the free drinks with so many people in the store. It looked like the bookshelves on this level had been moved away from the lobby area to make room for the low, square stage. Even so, Maris noted a number of coffee table volumes about blues music and musicians artfully placed in hard-to-miss locations. Like the other businesses in town, including hers, it looked like the bookstore was doing well too.
Behind the long counter, Maris once again admired the vertical garden on the wall behind it. Minako had cultivated succulents mixed with draping flowers, and the entire feel of it was lush and tranquil. Some of them stretched toward the large display windows at the front of the store, where sunlight poured in.
Maris also spotted George, her retired B&B guest, in one of the overstuffed chairs close to the small stage, listening intently and smiling. Another guest, journalist Megan Kantor, was also on hand—taking notes as always. Most of the crowd stood, as did she and Mac.
At the end of the song there was enthusiastic applause, and George used two fingers in his mouth to give a loud whistle. The rhythm guitarist launched right into the next song with a pounding strum that seemed familiar.
“I think I recognize this,” Maris said into Mac’s ear.
He grinned at her. “You should.”
After the lead guitarist played a few licks, the singer stepped up to the mic and belted out the fact that he “had the key to the highway,” to which most of the crowd sang along. Maris recognized it as one of Glenda’s favorites and had to smile. Though she didn’t know the entire song, she definitely hummed what she knew. The harmonica player took a particularly nice solo before the lead guitar took over again and finished the song. The room erupted in applause and whistles, with Maris and Mac clapping and cheering.
Three more numbers followed, enjoyed by the crowd with just as much enthusiasm as the first two. As the group signed off and left the stage, a number of fans crowded forward for autographs, with photos and pens in hand. Maris was pleased to see Spats signing a couple of CDs before he saw her and came over.
“Maris,” he said, “good to see you here. Thanks for listening.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said. “You and the band were wonderful.”
The older man bent his head to her. “Much obliged.” When he looked up, he noticed Mac.
“Spats Thackery,” she said to him. “This is Mac McKenna.”
As the two men shook, Mac said, “One of the best renditions of Key to the Highway I’ve ever heard. Just amazing.”
“Thank you, sir,” Spats said, smiling as the crowd dispersed around them.
“I gotta say,” Mac began, “I’ve been listening to you since–”
“Mr. Thackery,” Megan Kantor said, tapping the drummer on the shoulder. “I wonder if you’d answer some questions for a piece I’m writing.”
The interruption hadn’t exactly been rude, particularly given her profession. But the words ‘brusque’ and ‘abrasive’ sprang to Maris’s mind.
Spats turned and smiled at the woman. “I’m sure I’d be delighted, just as long as its quick, because I’m in the middle of talking to these good folks here.”
Maris smiled to herself. She hadn’t been the only one to notice the journalist’s butt-in attitude. But Megan wasn’t deterred in the least. She briskly opened her notebook and clicked her ballpoint pen.
“How does this festival compare with the others on the circuit?” she asked, already looking at the journal.
“It’s the best there is,” he said. “Bar none.” He nodded to himself. “And you might say I’ve been to a few.”
“Any one that stands out in your mind as the worst?” she asked.
Spats frowned at her—or the top of her head since she was looking down. “Worst? There’s no such thing.” He paused for a moment. “What’s that saying they have about fishing?”
Mac laughed a little. “The worst day fishing is better than the best day at the office.”
The drummer snapped his fingers and pointed at Mac. “That’s the one.” He turned back to Megan. “I get to play the blues for a living.” He nodded emphatically. “’Nuf said.”
“But the life of a musician,” the journalist replied. “It’s not the easiest.”
Spats cocked his head back. “Easy? No one ever said it was goi
ng to be easy.” He glanced at the empty stage where his snare drum was still set up. “I take my gear from town to town, bar to bar, joint to joint, and bang my heart out pretty much every day of the year. Not every place is as nice as Pixie Point Bay, not by a very long shot.”
Megan looked at him for the first time since the questions had started. “So you’re in it for the love of the music?”
Now Spats guffawed. “Well it ain’t the money,” he declared.
“Speaking of the money,” Megan said.
“Let’s not,” Spats said, cutting her off. Then he flashed a toothy grin at her. “Thanks for being so quick.”
Maris’s brows rose at the deft but very final conclusion to the interview. Megan must have heard it too.
She closed her notebook. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Thackery.”
Without a glance to anyone else, she turned on her heel and went to Alfred, opening her journal again.
Mac indicated the stage. “Can I help you with the drum?”
Spats clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Oh no, but thanks just the same. That little snare is something I could carry in my teeth.”
“All right,” Mac said, extending his hand. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up. Just wanted to say how much we enjoyed the show.”
“We really did,” Maris added.
“Now that’s what I call music to these ears,” he said smiling as he shook Mac’s hand again. “Thank you.”
10
Outside, in the late afternoon sun, Maris and Mac crossed the still bustling Towne Plaza. Yet another group was playing in the red gazebo, Bowdie was signing autographs in a booth, and Eugene was serving BBQ buyers at the restaurant’s tent. But as evening approached, Maris needed to get back to the B&B and prepare for the Wine Down.
“What was your favorite band today?” Mac asked her.
Maris pursed her lips and thought. “Well, Bowdie is obviously an amazing guitar player, but…I think the acoustic group inside, the one with Spats, has to be my favorite.” She smiled. “Or maybe I just liked the songs.”
Mac smiled back at her. “Sometimes they go together.”
“And you?” Maris asked him, as they stepped up to the sidewalk.
“Same,” he said. “That band’s energy, how in sync they were, it all added up to an amazing bunch of songs.”
Because regular parking was not to be had anywhere in Pixie Point Bay, Maris had arranged with Ryan Quigg for them to park in one of the spaces behind his fishing and tackle shop. As they approached Castaways, Maris saw Zarina on the sidewalk.
“Maris,” she said, as they all came to a stop outside Castaways. “Good to see you.”
Although her enormous glasses dwarfed her face, they only made her dark eyes seem larger. As usual, the older woman wore her brunette hair up in a bright, floral head scarf. Maris guessed her to be about the same age as Millicent, the president of the crochet club where she had met Zarina—putting her in her late seventies or early eighties.
“Zarina,” Maris said, “you’re looking very well.” She indicated Mac. “Have you met Mac McKenna?”
Zarina extended her hand. “I only know our sheriff by his fine reputation.” She smiled brightly at him as he gently took her hand.
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Zarina and I sometimes crochet together,” Maris said. She nodded at the club’s building, which was also Millicent’s house. “At By Hook or Crook.”
“Crocheting,” Mac said. “My mother crocheted. I still have a few of her things.”
“Oh,” Zarina said, her face lighting up. “Thread or yarn?”
Mac’s brows drew together. “You know, I’m not sure.” As he cast his eyes to the ground, thinking, Zarina looked at Maris but tilted her head toward Mac and gave Maris a knowing waggle of her eyebrows. By the time Mac looked up, she was gazing placidly at him. “It must have been thread, it was so small.”
“Mmm hmm,” Zarina intoned. “Like our Helen. How she can see those doilies that she does is beyond me.” There was a brief pause as Zarina looked at the two of them. “Well, I best be off. My great grandchildren will be too big for their booties if I don’t finish them soon.” She beamed at Mac. “Wonderful to meet you at last.” Then she grinned at Maris. “See you in the circle, young lady.”
“See you later,” Maris replied, before Zarina turned and trundled off toward the plaza.
Inside Castaways, a couple of shoppers were idly browsing the completely jam-packed store. Fishing gear of every type either hung, was shelved, or binned from floor to ceiling. In the corner there was a manikin dressed in a pair of large rubber boots with an apron that came up to the chest. Around its neck there were at least half-a-dozen wicker baskets and canvas shoulder bags, and it also wore a floppy hat.
Although she and Mac could have proceeded through and exited the back door to get to his truck, they both paused.
“Where is he?” the sheriff asked.
“Here,” Ryan said, his muffled voice coming from behind the glass counter. His hands appeared at the top of the display box first, then the red hair pulled back in a pony tail, and then he hoisted himself up. “Hi.”
“Ryan,” Maris said, looking at the concerned look on the young man’s face. “Is everything all right?”
He looked down at the floor behind the counter. “Kind of,” he said. Then he looked at the glass case and craned his head to look at the floor on the other side of it. He finally turned his gaze to them. “I’ve misplaced a bag of sinkers.”
“Oh?” Mac said, stepping forward. “Where did you last see them?”
The hair on the back of Maris’s neck rose. She’d been hoping to keep the investigation into the series of thefts to herself. But it seemed that Mac had already slipped into sheriff mode. If he’d been in uniform he’d have his notepad out.
“It was right here on the counter,” Ryan said pointing to the spot. “At least, I think it was.”
The sheriff nodded. “With everything else being equal and without overthinking it, what would you have normally done with it?”
The store owner thought for a moment. “I’d just have fetched the bag of weights from the box back here, put it on the counter, put the box away, then put the sinkers in the right bin.” He nodded to the far wall. “In that gray tray labelled one ounce disc sinkers.”
But as Mac turned to see the intended destination, something on the floor caught Maris’s eye. She stooped low to pick it up. It was a skinny, almost cylindrical lead weight.
“Is this one of them?” she asked.
Ryan held out his hand and Mac watched her deposit it in his palm. But the young man only frowned down at it. “No. I mean it’s a sinker, but not a disc sinker.” He scratched his head. “But where did it come from?”
All three of them scanned the rest of the floor, but Maris had spotted the only item to be found.
“Oh wait,” Ryan said and looked up at the ceiling. “It must have fallen from there.”
To Maris’s surprise, the ceiling held a large collection of rods and reels suspended under its entire expanse. There were long, elegant poles with giant circular reels, regular poles like the ones used on the pier, and even some tiny ones in bright rainbow colors that must be meant for kids.
“Wow,” Mac said. “That’s quite the display.”
Ryan pointed. “From that one.” He looked at Mac and Maris. “Can you see it?” He went over to stand right under a particular one. “There are the hooks, but look at the line. It’s missing this weight.”
How he could have picked out the single pole that was missing something, Maris couldn’t fathom. She could barely make out the clear nylon thread where he pointed. “Could it have come untied?”
The young man shrugged. “I guess it must have.” He tossed the weight lightly in his hand. “It’s definitely not the heaviest one I carry, but still, it’s a good thing no one was standing under it.”
Maris almost winced at the thought of it landing o
n someone’s head. “That would have been an unwelcome little surprise.”
“But that doesn’t tell us where your bag of sinkers went,” Mac said.
The three of them paused and stood gazing around the shop. With all of the merchandise displayed in every nook and corner, a bag of sinkers might be anywhere.
The two shoppers who appeared to be together brought over a boxed set of lures.
Ryan smiled and said to Mac, “I’m sure it’ll turn up. I do that a lot. Set things down, and then have no idea where they are.” He turned to his customers. “Did you find everything you needed?”
Ryan headed toward the cash register, and Mac said, “Thanks again for letting us park. We’ll let you get back to work.”
The young man waved at him and smiled. “Any time.” He took the plastic box from the young woman. “This is a great set of lures. Pretty much all purpose for saltwater. I made them myself.”
Maris and Mac made their way to the back and into the short hallway.
“You made them?” the young woman said behind them, surprise in her voice.
They exited through the back door to the alley, with its parking spaces and large trash bins.
Although Mac didn’t mention the missing sinkers on their way to the truck, Maris couldn’t help but recall the other absent items: a crystal ball, a credit card charger, a jar of honey, an album, and now some fishing weights. There was absolutely nothing that the items had in common. But now a new thought occurred to her.
What if it wasn’t the items themselves, but perhaps the owners that had something in common?
11
On the morning of the second day of the festival, Maris had made sure to show up to the kitchen extra early. But in order to ensure that breakfast would be on time, she stayed well away from the stove. Instead, she was at the butcher block.
“Is the bread ready?” Cookie said over her shoulder.
Together they had confirmed what Maris had always suspected—she was a disaster in the kitchen. But over time, they’d figured out a way that she could contribute. While Cookie did all the actual baking and cooking, Maris got the fruit and vegetables cleaned, potatoes and onions chopped, and orange juice squeezed. In the dining room she made sure the coffee and hot water were ready, and also the warming trays. This morning she was also in charge of creating the cold plate of lox, tomatoes, cucumbers, and red onions, sprinkled with capers. By the time she’d arrived, Cookie had already finished the blueberry pancakes.