by Emma Belmont
“Oh my god,” Pammy gasped.
“Why?” Felix demanded.
“He died under ‘suspicious circumstances’,” BJ said, using air quotes. “The sheriff asked me not to leave town.”
“Oh wow,” Felix said, sitting back. Eyes wide, he looked at each one of them in turn. “I can’t believe this.”
Pammy’s eyes teared up. “Are you sure?” she said to Maris. “I mean… Oh god.” Quietly, she began to cry.
Maris quickly fetched a tissue from a nearby box. “I’m afraid I’m quite sure, Pammy.” She handed her the tissue and set the box on the coffee table. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She gazed around the room. “All of you.”
For a few minutes the only sound was Pammy weeping and an occasional sniff.
“Could it have been a heart attack or a stroke?” Felix finally said.
“How could you tell just by looking?” BJ asked.
Felix shrugged. “I don’t know. He was pretty overweight.”
“He was still a young man,” Pammy protested. She took off her glasses and wiped her eyes.
“Since I’m the same age,” BJ said, “I agree.” He shook his head and looked at the floor. “We knew each other for a long time. Over twenty-five years.”
“Wow,” Felix said. “I didn’t know you guys went that far back.”
Just then a tiny, tinny harmonica-like meow drew Maris’s attention to the hallway. Mojo stood there, his big orange eyes fixed on hers. Then he turned and trotted off down the hall.
As the three colleagues continued their conversation, moving on to discuss the previous evening, Maris slipped from the room.
10
Out in the hallway, Maris was just in time to see Mojo disappear into the living room. As she followed him, she had to frown a little. She’d felt sure he was beckoning her to the parlor, where he could have jumped on the Ouija board to spell out a clue or used the tarot deck. If ever she needed a clue about a murder, it was now. But instead the little black cat jumped up on an embroidered chair, then its back, and finally up to the mantle of the fireplace. He took up a seat between the matching potpourri vases, his eyes nearly level with hers.
“Mojo,” she admonished him. “I thought you were going to help.”
As if in answer, he went to one of the ornate vases and pawed it.
“No,” Maris exclaimed, as it tipped from the shelf. She dashed forward and lunged, stretching out her arms and fingers. As potpourri flew through the air and pelted her face, she made a desperate grab for the vase. As she sat down hard on the floor, the porcelain landed in her palm, then bobbled for a second until her other hand clamped down on it. As though she were playing football, she hugged it to her stomach.
“Good grief,” she gasped.
Both of the vases were antiques. She held it out from her and looked all over it. It seemed completely undamaged.
“Mojo,” she muttered, “if this had–” Something amidst the scattered dried flowers and herbs caught her eye. “What?” It was a tarot card. Her brows furrowed as she reached over to pick it up. It must have been inside the vase. She turned it around.
“The Knight of Cups,” she murmured.
Against a background of orange mountains and a winding blue stream, an armored and helmeted knight rode on a beautiful white horse. In his hand he carried a golden goblet. Maris checked the doorway to the living room before she discreetly tapped her temple. Using her photographic memory she brought up the tarot interpretation booklet.
According to the description, the knight wore a brightly colored cloak covered with images of fish, the symbol of water, consciousness, and creativity. Both his helmet and boots were winged, in order to symbolize active and creative imagination as well as an appreciation for beautiful things.
“Hmm,” she said, as she looked more closely at the card. Finally she spotted the small fish and the wings on the boots. She pursed her lips remembering how the card had fallen. It’d been inverted. Calling up the booklet again she read that, in the reversed position, the Knight of Cups meant that a creative project was emerging but that its creator was not yet ready to act on it.
“A creative project,” she said. Was it referring to the murder-mystery game that they’d played last night? As she scooped the potpourri back into the vase, she thought about the golden cup. Could it represent poison?
She gazed up to the mantle where Mojo was watching her intently. With a little wave of the card, she said, “Sorry I doubted you.” How he’d gotten the card into the vase, she couldn’t quite imagine, but he’d done it.
Once she was sure she’d gathered all the potpourri, she got up and put the vase back in its place. Then she gently took Mojo from the mantle where he sat—as though he was waiting for her.
She put her lips against the soft fur between his ears. “Next time, try not to destroy the antiques,” she whispered. His only reply was to purr. “Come on,” she said to him, heading out. “Let’s go text Mac that the others have returned. Then we can put away this card.”
11
Late afternoon at the B&B meant a warm breeze from the sea, and the usual healthy dose of sunshine. Maris had decided to take advantage of the weather and wait for Mac outdoors. But rather than be in the sun, she took shelter on the B&B’s front porch, rocking gently in the bench swing. Although a favorite with visiting children, and even a romantic couple or two, Maris had rarely taken the time to simply sit and rock. Though the view from the front of the house couldn’t match the view from the back, Maris found herself enjoying it nonetheless.
The verdant hills just to the east hid the winding road to town. Beyond them, the coastal mountain range that was home to the redwoods rose up in dark tones of green. The two together reminded Maris of a resort in Switzerland where she’d once worked. At the time it had seemed like the set of a movie and yet now, it was the view from her porch.
The sheriff’s SUV pulled off the coast highway in the distance, and eventually made it’s way up the B&B’s long gravel drive. Maris watched as Mac got out and greeted her with his usual smile.
“A welcoming committee,” he said as he came up the steps. “I could get used to this.”
She stood, smiling back. “You might have heard, but we’re known for our hospitality here.”
He tilted his head to her. “Within your dear mansion may wayward contention or withering envy ne'er enter.”
Now she had to grin. “Robert Burns?” The sheriff had a fondness for the Scottish poet and frequently demonstrated his knowledge of the man’s works.
Mac nodded. “I imagine that good old Rabbie would have appreciated your mansion.” He glanced up at the gables, but as he looked at the front door his smile faded. “Are they all still here?”
“In the library,” she said, nodding. “They all know that Reggie’s dead. I told Pammy and Felix that he died under suspicious circumstances, but nothing more. I also didn’t tell them that you were coming.”
“Good,” Mac said, regarding her. As they went to the entrance, he added, “We’re going to make a deputy out of you yet.” He opened the door for her and they went directly to the library. Though the threesome were talking quietly, the conversation died abruptly when she and Mac appeared in the doorway.
“Good afternoon,” the sheriff said.
Although Felix and Pammy gaped at him, BJ said, “Good afternoon, sheriff.”
Maris indicated Felix. “This is Felix Ong, and this is Pammy Sheehan. Along with BJ Ridder, they work at Whiz Kid Games and are staying with us.”
Mac nodded to them. “Ms. Sheehan, may I speak to you alone?”
Her hand flew to her chest. “Me?” Her circular black glasses made her wide eyes seem even larger.
“I just have a few routine questions for you,” he assured her.
BJ caught Felix’s eye. “We’ll be outside,” he said, and nodded toward the porch door.
As the two men left, Pammy’s gaze followed them with something that looked to Maris like longing
combined with envy.
“Ms. Sheehan,” Mac said, sitting opposite her and taking his notepad from his breast pocket. “How long had you known Reggie Atkinson?”
She brought her attention back to the sheriff. “Well, since I started at the company. I guess about seven years now.”
“And what do you do there?” he asked, as Maris took a seat.
“I’m the artistic director,” she said, but then shrugged. “Which anymore means the artist.”
Mac gave her a quizzical look. “Anymore?”
“Back when I hired on, there was a small staff of artists, maybe three or four depending on the project. That was when the company was doing well. Now…it’s just me.”
“So the company isn’t doing well?” he asked.
“Not like before, for sure.” She tilted her head toward the porch. “BJ’s hit game was what made the company. When sales eventually started to fade, we didn’t have another hit.”
“Not one?” Maris asked.
Pammy grimaced. “Not one.”
Maris glanced outside, where the two men were sitting. “But you’ve still got all the same people who created the first one?”
The artist shrugged again. “Sure. But it’s about the market too. What’s hot right now. It’s like trying to get lightning to strike twice.” When Maris and Mac just looked at her, she added, “If game companies could predict what would be the next big hit, we’d all be doing it. But we don’t—or at least we haven’t.”
“I’m surprised,” Maris said. “When Reggie called, he was very clear that he wanted to reserve the entire B&B for the weekend. And a five course meal from Plateau 7 wouldn’t be cheap either.” She looked at Mac and then back to Pammy. “But you’re saying the company isn’t doing well.”
Pammy shook her head. “I was surprised too. I mean…” She lowered her voice. “I haven’t been paid my salary for two weeks.” As Mac made a note his eyebrows arched. “I thought maybe Reggie was going to announce some big sale coming down the pike.”
Maris thought back to the dinner. “Didn’t he though? He said he’d sold the game to…something or someone called Hario.”
Pammy made a sour face. “Reggie punted. Hario is a competitor. He obviously didn’t think we could get our distributors to order enough copies. Or maybe he didn’t think it’d take off in the gaming community.”
“So, this sale to Hario, would you call it a last ditch effort to save the company?” Mac asked.
The artist blew out some air, then lifted her hands. “Honestly, I don’t really know what to call it. It’s not really my area. I’m just an artist.” But she paused as she thought of something and then dropped her hands. “An artist who is now out of a job.”
“Where were you last night, after the game broke up?” the sheriff asked.
She blinked at him, her mouth falling open a bit. “Where was I?” She glanced at Maris. “Well, in my room, of course.”
Mac nodded. “Were you alone?”
Her face flushed a vivid red. “Of course I was.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. Atkinson?” the sheriff asked.
“We weren’t in a relationship,” she said vehemently.
Maris frowned a little. To quote a different poet, it seemed that Pammy “doth protest too much.”
“I meant your work relationship,” Mac said calmly.
“Oh.” She blinked at him, then paused and took a breath. “Oh, right.” She pursed her lips. “It was good.”
“Never an argument about the art?” he asked. “No disagreements about anything?”
Pammy smiled sadly as she shook her head. “It’s the best job I’ve ever had.” Her voice began to tremble. “Reggie was…a great boss.” She began to cry again, and Maris scooted the box of tissues closer to her. She quickly took one and put it to her nose.
“All right, Ms. Sheehan,” Mac said standing. He gave Maris a look and nodded to the porch. “Thank you for your time.” He took out a business card and put it on the table. “If there’s anything else you remember that you think might be at all relevant, please contact me.”
Maris stood as Pammy only nodded, and she and Mac headed to the back porch.
12
“Looks like it’s your turn,” BJ said to Felix. “I’ll be inside.”
They’d been standing at the railing looking out at the bay. A few sailboats skimmed the sparkling blue waters, while someone on a jet ski nearer to shore kicked up a rooster tail of streaming water. A warm scented breeze wafted through Cookie’s herb garden, while Bear worked on erecting the metal supports of the future greenhouse.
Maris eyed the structure. If he kept up this pace, he’d have it done by sunset. Then again, their shifter handyman liked to be home before dark. With the sun already sinking toward the west, he would likely be leaving soon.
As BJ went back inside, Mac said to Felix, “Mr. Ong, would you like to have a seat?”
“Honestly,” Felix said, “I was sitting almost all day in a kayak. I’d prefer to stand.”
Mac nodded. “Can you tell me where you were last night, after the game broke up?”
“Sure,” he said. “I went to my room, and took my glass of Merlot with me. I finished it up there, while I looked at my phone. I was probably asleep within an hour.” He looked at Mac and then Maris, frowning. “Why? Am I a suspect?”
“These are just routine questions, Mr. Ong,” the sheriff said smoothly. “I’m asking everyone who was here to tell me about their whereabouts.” He made a note. “I understand there was some heated discussion during dinner and also before the game ended.”
Felix scowled. “You could say that.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We were all told it was going to be a company off-site—just for recreation. We’d been pushing hard on that game, and Reggie said we all needed a break. Then he pulled it out for a play test.” He glanced at Maris then back to Mac. “I think we all felt a little betrayed.”
“And angry?” Mac suggested.
“And angry,” Felix said. “There’s no point in denying it.”
“How long have you been at Whiz Kid Games and what do you do there, Mr. Ong?”
“I joined a couple of years ago. I’m a producer,” he shrugged his shoulders and dropped his hands. “The only producer at this point.”
“And what does a producer do?” Mac asked.
“Production,” Felix said curtly. But when Mac fixed him with a stern look, he quickly added, “Budget and schedule mostly. I handle all the contracts too. In my copious free time I also fact-check the games.”
“Fact-checking would involve research?” Mac asked, still looking directly at him.
“Sure,” Felix said. “Sometimes the worlds for the games are pretty obscure.” He gestured to the B&B. “Like a Victorian period home: what it looks like, what they ate, what they wore. I have to fact-check everything.”
“Then you must have researched the murder method in the game,” Mac concluded. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, was poison. In fact, you likely know about many poisons for these types of games.”
Felix crossed his arms again. “That was the first murder mystery game we’ve ever produced. All I know about poisons or the Victorian era is from that game—which isn’t much.”
As Mac made a note, Maris said, “Pammy told us that she hasn’t been paid in a couple of weeks.”
Felix grimaced. “Right. Me either.” But when Mac finished with his notepad, he said, “And that’s why none of us can be a suspect.”
Mac tucked the pad in his breast pocket. “How do you figure?”
Felix nodded toward the library. “All of us had a vested interest in Reggie being alive. That game was his baby. He was the one pushing it. Besides, without him, there isn’t really a company. Sure it wasn’t doing well, but there was at least some light at the end of the tunnel.” He shook his head. “Now, I’ll be scrambling for a job.”
“The light at the end of the tunnel,” the sheriff sa
id. “You’re referring to the sale of the game to Hario?”
“Right,” Felix said.
“Why would Pammy call that a punt?” Maris asked.
“Because he didn’t trust his own team with it,” Felix said. “He didn’t think we could get distributors excited enough about it. Our last handful of games have been duds. So he sold it to a competitor, who probably got a deal on it. In return, Reggie got a quick cash influx to help the bottom line—and pay us.”
As Mac handed him a business card, Maris took a mental note. Both Felix and Pammy had begun to worry about their jobs, no longer in shock over Reggie’s death.
“If you can think of anything else that might be relevant to Mr. Atkinson’s death,” the sheriff said, “please let me know.”
The producer took it and read it, before looking up at him. “I suppose we’re all supposed to stay in town?”
Mac nodded. “I’d appreciate that, at least for the remainder of your reservation. Thanks for your time.”
“Sure,” Felix replied, before he headed inside.
Cookie passed him in the vestibule, as she headed out. She glanced at Maris. “Thought I’d check with Bear before he leaves for the day.”
“Cookie,” the sheriff said, “good.” He nodded to the greenhouse. “Would you join Maris and I?”
13
As Maris, Mac, and Cookie made their way to the back edge of the herb garden, Bear was packing up his tools and another gorgeous sunset was beginning over the ocean. Gossamer wisps of clouds blossomed from the horizon in a giant pink fan. It spread high over their heads and was reflected in the darkening bay below it.
Mac came to a stop just beyond the garden and not quite to the greenhouse. “Three disgruntled employees doesn’t make a motive for murder.”
Maris nodded and said to Cookie, “Apparently Pammy and Felix haven’t been paid for two weeks.”
Cookie scowled. “Haven’t been paid? But Reggie rented the entire B&B.” She glanced across the bay. “And had Chef Fournier cater a five-course meal.”