The Witch Who Heard the Music (Pixie Point Bay Book 7): A Cozy Witch Mystery

by Emma Belmont

  Bear went to his truck and brought back a rag, which he handed to Bowdie, who wiped his hands. The handyman did the same, and the two men shook hands.

  There was a brief exchange of words, and then Bowdie climbed in the classic car and backed away. As he made his three point turn, he gave Bear a wave and headed up the drive.

  The handyman waved back, went to his truck, and got his tool bag.

  Among all the other things that Bear managed to do around the lighthouse and B&B, Maris would now have to add the titles mechanic and Good Samaritan.

  14

  A quick check of the clock on the mantle of the fireplace in the library told Maris it was time to get ready. Mac was picking her up again for the festival. If she started now, she’d have plenty of time to dither about which outfit was most flattering. But as she entered her room, she was brought up short.

  Megan Kantor was there.

  Even with her back to Maris, her red hair was unmistakable. Although Maris couldn’t be sure, it looked as though she’d just closed the middle drawer of the dressing table. Maris went still.

  Let’s just see what she’s looking for, she thought.

  But it appeared she’d finished with the dressing table because she turned to the door. Rather than try to jump back out of sight, Maris simply stood there.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  Though she’d anticipated startling the snooping journalist, Megan simply raised her gaze and looked at her. Her narrow face didn’t show the least surprise—or even an ounce of embarrassment. “Is this your room?”

  Maris took a step in. “In fact it is. And this part of the house is–”

  “I got lost,” Megan said. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I was in the lighthouse and realized there were two doors. I went through the wrong one, I guess. I found myself in some kind of laundry room, and then in here.”

  Unfortunately, that was only too plausible. The lightkeeper’s house had been attached to the lighthouse not long after it was built. The other door, that led to the side yard and Cookie’s garden, was the original.

  “You can exit this way,” Maris said, indicating the door behind her.

  “Good,” the older woman said, and brushed past. Without a word of apology or backward glance, she simply went out into the hall. Maris could hear her footsteps steadily retreating.

  Now that she thought of it, Megan hadn’t been at breakfast this morning.

  Had she been snooping this whole time?

  Maris went into the hallway and saw that the journalist had disappeared, but she paused when she looked at the nearby door to Cookie’s room. They had never worried about security or privacy and, like her own bedroom door, Cookie’s was open. She went to it and peeked inside. Everything seemed neat and in order. But as she backed out, she pulled the door closed. When she went back to her room, she entered, closed the door, and locked it. It couldn’t hurt to be too careful.

  15

  On the second day of Blues on the Bay, the crowd in the Towne Plaza was even bigger. Maris and Mac stood nearer to the red gazebo today, so she could see.

  “I guess they’re staying in Cheeseman Village,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh?” Maris said, grinning. “What makes you think that?”

  All five of the young musicians were wearing the distinct, yellow, cheese wedge hats that the dairy sold.

  The band started their next song, a loping and lilting tune. The lead singer played mandolin, backed by a standup bass, a fiddle, banjo, and guitar—all acoustic. Unlike the thrumming music of the other blues bands, this group had more of a country vibe to them. The singer’s high, reedy voice implored the blue moon of Kentucky to shine on. When the song finished to a rousing round of applause, Maris leaned in toward Mac.

  “I wouldn’t have thought this kind of music was called the blues,” she said.

  He nodded as he clapped. “More bluegrass really. But in the end, it all falls under the rubric of the blues.”

  Maris looked around at the appreciative audience. Clearly they thought so too.

  Not a yard away from them, Bowdie stood clapping as well. She gave him a little wave when he noticed her. Then he came over to join her and Mac.

  “Great group aren’t they?” Bowdie said.

  “Super fun to listen to,” Maris said.

  Mac nodded. “Amazingly talented, especially for such youngsters.”

  Bowdie watched them as they left the stage. “They’re all from the same extended family. The singer and banjo player are brother and sister. The rhythm section are their cousins. They’ve all been playing together since they could hold instruments. As I recall, both sets of parents come from musical families too.”

  “Ah,” Mac said. “A musical pedigree. Well that would explain it.” He paused for a moment. “And you, Bowdie. Do you have a musical pedigree too?”

  The guitarist ran his hand through his hair and chuckled. “Not at all. In fact, I guess you could say I’m a musical mongrel. Neither of my parents played an instrument. My earliest recollection of the blues is from friend’s records and the TV. Hearing those songs was like hearing a door open.”

  “And you stepped through,” Maris said.

  “Oh, I jumped,” Bowdie agreed. “With both feet.” He paused for a moment. “And never looked back really. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done.”

  “It helps to be talented,” Mac said.

  Bowdie laughed off the compliment. “Talent’s overrated. But being in the right place, at the right time? You can’t buy that.” Hands in pockets, he shrugged. “It’s like Johnny Mathis said. ‘It’s just that some people are lucky.’”

  “Lucky,” Mac said, smiling at the quote. “Well, I can’t disagree with you or Johnny on that. Luck trumps just about everything.” He checked his watch and regarded Maris. “I could use some lunch. How about you?”

  “Definitely,” Maris said. It was getting close to one o’clock.

  Mac scanned the plaza. “I see Delia’s Smokehouse has a booth. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect,” Maris said.

  “Bowdie,” the sheriff said, “can I buy you lunch?” He grinned at the younger man. “Always happy to support the arts.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I think I could eat something.” He gave Maris a little grin. “Then again, I think I could always eat something.”

  “If you want to wait in the shade,” Mac said to her, “I’d be glad to go get it.”

  Maris smiled at him. This was definitely something she could get used to. “I’m always happy to wait in the shade.”

  Mac nodded. “Good. Do you know what you might like?”

  Though Maris practically knew the menu by heart, she wasn’t sure what Eugene might have at the booth. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Great,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”

  16

  As Maris moved toward the shade cast by the gazebo, she saw someone on an intercept course—and bristled. The woman had nerve, Maris thought. She would have to grant her that.

  “Maris,” Megan said, approaching her, journal in hand. “I’m glad I saw you.”

  Maris couldn’t return the sentiment. “Megan. What can I do for you?”

  “I understand there have been a couple of thefts in town,” the journalist said. “Is that normal for Pixie Point Bay?”

  Maris did her best not to show surprise as her mind raced. Could any of the magick folk have mentioned the missing items to her? She very much doubted that. More than likely, the journalist had been eavesdropping.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know about any thefts,” Maris said evenly.

  “Someone stole some fishing weights from the tackle shop,” she said, flipping through her notes. “Castaways.”

  “Fishing weights,” Maris said, pretending to think about it. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “And,” Megan said, turning the page, “a package of postcards from Inklings.”

  Now M
aris didn’t have to lie. “I’m afraid I didn’t know about that either.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Have you noticed any suspicious activity?”

  Other than you snooping in my room? Maris thought, but said, “It’s awfully crowded this weekend.”

  “Ah,” Megan said. “So you think it’s one of the visitors?” She was jotting down notes furiously.

  “I didn’t say that,” Maris said. “Nor did I mean that.”

  “Is there a history of theft among the residents?”

  “None of which I’m aware,” Maris said.

  It suddenly occurred to Maris what these scattershot questions actually were: a fishing expedition. Megan had no clue where to look or who to interview. Though irritated and wary at first, Maris relaxed.

  “I’ve seen that the shop owners here are pretty lax about security,” the journalist said. “It pretty much invites a thief to steal.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Maris said. “It would seem you know more about my town than I do.”

  The older red head slowly closed her journal and met Maris’s gaze with her hawkish one. “I sincerely doubt that.” Although she paused for several seconds, Maris let the silence stretch. “How long have you owned the B&B?”

  “Since my aunt died,” Maris said.

  “In the fire,” the journalist said. “Yes, I remember reading about that in my research.” She seemed to be making a mental note. “And how long has your chef worked there?”

  Maris frowned a little. She’d never thought of Cookie as ‘her chef’ or the fact that she ‘worked’ at the B&B. Both she and Cookie—and Glenda before her—were simply doing what they loved. Maris forced a smile. “You’d have to ask Cookie.”

  “I see,” Megan said, casting an eye around the busy plaza. “I suppose you know pretty much everyone here.”

  Again, Maris let the silence stretch, but finally said, “Not everyone.”

  “Really,” the journalist said, smirking a little. “I’m told you manage to get around while you investigate murders. It’s interesting that you and crime seem to…go together, shall we say.”

  More fishing, Maris thought. Or possibly an implication. It didn’t matter. If Megan wanted to wander down the wrong line of inquiry, then Maris would let her.

  “I’d have to say you’re right,” Maris agreed, genuinely smiling now.

  “Oh?” the journalist said, blinking. “Really?”

  “I do get around,” she replied. “Once upon a time I opened a checking account.” She pointed to the credit union. “Right over there. Another time I visited a yacht. That was at the pier. Then there was the time I took an art class.”

  Megan’s face soured. “I see.”

  In fact, Maris thought, Megan did not see—not in the slightest.

  Just then Minako passed them, phone in hand, catching Megan’s attention. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, not waiting for Maris’s reply. She trotted to catch up with her.

  “With pleasure,” Maris muttered under her breath.

  17

  Although Maris turned to see if she could catch sight of Mac and Bowdie, it was Millicent and Eunice that she saw approaching. The two older ladies ignored the musical equipment, speakers, and cables, and took their customary seat inside the gazebo. Millicent beckoned for Maris to join them.

  “Maris,” the president of the crochet club said. “Enjoying the festival?”

  In her early eighties, she was dressed in one of her elegant silk dresses, today in peach, the long, sheer sleeves billowing as she gestured to the plaza.

  “I am,” Maris said, as she stepped around a microphone and then a speaker to stand at the railing near them. “Have you ladies seen any of the performances?”

  Eunice, whose mouth was normally downturned, frowned a bit deeper. “Only from a distance.” Unlike Millicent, she dyed her hair. This month the shoulder length curls were the color of an open flame.

  “Not a fan of the blues?” Maris asked.

  Eunice pushed her glasses back up her nose and peered at the surroundings. “The music is fine. It’s these crowds.” She shook her head. “Too many strangers in town.”

  “But it makes for good commerce,” Maris said. “It’s hard to argue with the way these strangers keep the businesses hopping.”

  “Yours included,” Millicent replied. “I understand you’re full up.”

  No doubt the head of the crocheting cabal knew more about the B&B’s guests than Maris did. In fact, she and her cohort might know something about the thefts.

  Maris nodded. “Full up is right. Two of the musicians are staying with us, along with a journalist, a young family, and a retiree.” She leaned back against the railing, taking a casual pose. “Naturally there’s been a good deal of talk about the festival and some about music.” She paused for a moment. “In fact, it seems as though one of Glenda’s blues albums seems to have been…misplaced.”

  Although Eunice had been glaring at the crowd around one of the autograph tables, her gaze flicked back to Maris. Millicent leaned forward, a sly look stealing across her face.

  “You don’t say,” she said, and exchanged a look with Eunice. Millicent nodded to her.

  “My phone disappeared this morning,” Eunice said, her tone a bit angry. “Not that I used it much, but still.”

  “Your phone?” Maris asked. “Where was it?”

  The thin older lady patted her enormous purse. “Where it always is—or was.”

  “When did you discover it was missing?” Maris asked.

  Eunice glanced at Millicent before answering. “A couple of hours ago.” She clutched her purse a bit closer. “Right after I was cornered by that reporter.”

  “Megan Kantor,” Millicent confirmed. “The same woman who’s staying at the B&B.”

  The same woman that Maris had found in her bedroom. She looked sideways to where Megan was interviewing Minako. Millicent and Eunice followed her gaze.

  “Yes, that’s her,” Millicent said.

  Eunice clucked her tongue. “Pushy and nosy. Up to no good, if you ask me.”

  “Very nosy,” Maris had to agree.

  For a few moments the three of them simply stared at her. Millicent was the first to look away.

  “She goes everywhere,” the head of the club noted. “She has every opportunity.” Millicent nodded toward Castaways. “She had been interviewing Ryan shortly before those lead weights went missing.”

  So they knew about the other thefts, at least some of them. Of course they did. And they were right about the journalist likely being at each of the crime scenes.

  “Huh,” Maris muttered, as all three of them returned their gazes to the woman.

  But what Maris couldn’t fathom was what her motivation might be.

  As though Eunice had heard her thoughts, she said, “Maybe she needs the money. Those shoes of hers, completely worn out.”

  Millicent put a hand to her chin. “Or perhaps she’s a kleptomaniac.” Maris regarded the older woman, who made a circling motion near her temple. “You know, maybe a bit unbalanced.”

  “Or both,” Eunice said. She glared at the reporter for another moment or two. “Maybe I’ll leave my wallet at the club the next time we’re out.”

  “A sensible precaution,” Millicent agreed.

  “Ms. Leclair,” Mac said, from behind Maris. She turned to see him and Bowdie, there hands full of sandwiches and cold drinks. He glanced at Eunice.

  “Sheriff,” Millicent said, standing. “May I introduce Eunice Harridan?” Mac inclined his head to her as she also got up.

  “Ms. Harridan,” Mac said, smiling. “A pleasure.” He nodded toward Bowdie. “Bowdie Johnson, one of the festival’s headliners.”

  The young man smiled at them. “Ladies.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” Millicent said smiling, though Eunice’s mouth remained downturned. “We were just telling Maris how nice it was to see the festival be so successful.” She glanced in th
e direction of her home. “But I think we’ve got to be going and find some cooler air.” Eunice glared at the crowd as she descended the few steps of the gazebo. “We’ll leave you to your lunch then.” With a last glance at Maris, Millicent followed Eunice.

  Mac handed Maris a sandwich. “Crab salad sandwiches. I hope that works for you.” He gestured to the empty bench.

  She smiled at him as she took her seat. “Sounds perfect.”

  Bowdie handed her a drink. “Sweet tea.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s going to be great on a day like this.”

  The musician smiled at her. “That’s what we were thinking.” He looked at Mac as they sat on either side of her. “Thanks again for lunch.”

  As the three of them unwrapped and dug into their meals, Maris thought back on what Millicent and Eunice had said about Megan. Something in the back of her mind was bothering her. She agreed wholeheartedly with Eunice about the woman being up to no good. Millicent was likely also right about her being at all the theft locations. It wasn’t the facts that troubled her but something else…

  Maris nearly choked on her crab salad sandwich when she realized what it was.

  There’d been no negotiation.

  When dealing with the cabal, information was currency. There was always a bit of tit for tat and secretive wrangling. But today, they’d essentially given her a freebie—and Maris knew why.

  They wanted the thief caught just as much as she did.

  18

  As Mac backed his truck away from the B&B, Maris gave him a wave, and he gave a brief honk of the horn. She’d had a wonderful time, as usual, but both she and Mac needed to get back to work. Bowdie had another performance later in the day, so he’d decided to stay in town, and had also mentioned listening to a few of the other bands.

  But as Maris closed the front door, she couldn’t help but think about Megan’s motivation. Millicent and Eunice had seemed to zero in on the journalist without any doubt. Although she was pushy and nosy, she simply didn’t strike Maris as a thief, particularly poor, or mentally disturbed. Being gruff and not terribly likable didn’t equate with stealing.