by Emma Belmont
More bookcases were filled with not only books but what looked like piles of magazines. Antique trunks squatted next to wooden crates and cardboard boxes. An antique chest of drawers sat against the wall, with a well-used leather suitcase covered in faded stickers on top of it. Next to that was a tall pile of hat boxes.
The size of the room helped her to manage the welling tide of anxiety in her chest but didn’t stop it. Perhaps she’d made enough progress for one day. As she turned to sprint back up the stairs, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Mojo had jumped up to the top of the column of hat boxes—which was tilting.
“No,” Maris exclaimed, running towards the leaning tower.
She reached it just in time, hands outstretched, but eventually had to brace it with her entire body. As she shoved them back into place with her back, Mojo leaped through the air, landing on the chest of drawers.
As she stood back and brushed the hair out of her eyes, she admonished the little cat. “You could have been hurt,” she told him. Luckily the hat boxes had been light or she would never have managed it. “In fact,” she said, “I’m going to make sure you don’t do that again.” Quickly, she unstacked the column, creating new ones only two boxes high. “There.”
Again she turned to go. “Come on. We’ve been down here long enough.”
But again, Mojo wasn’t ready. Instead he leaped onto one of the new short stacks, went directly to the box that had been on top, and pawed the ribbon that tied it closed. She paused, glancing up the steps, then back at Mojo. For a moment she thought of simply grabbing him and running up the stairs. Then she had a better idea.
“Just for you,” she said, taking a hold of the big round box as he leapt off. “Let’s go.”
As she bounded up the steps, Mojo zoomed past her. In another few moments, breathing hard and heart pounding, she closed and locked the hatch. With her back to the wall, she slowly slid down it to have a seat. She put the hat box down on the floor next to her.
“Phew,” she breathed, using the back of her hand to wipe her damp brow. “Now that’s what I call progress.”
Mojo immediately came to her side and climbed into her lap. His big orange eyes stared up at her, and he gently rested a paw on her tummy.
She smiled down at him. “Thanks, Mojo. I’m all right.” As she stroked his back, she eyed the hat box. “Shall we see what we’ve got?”
From the first time that she’d spotted the hat boxes, Maris had been intrigued. As far as she could recall, Aunt Glenda had never worn hats—certainly not the type that needed to be stored in a traditional box. Then again, she also hadn’t known that Glenda was a witch. The box was a bit taller than it was wide, cream colored, with a burgundy top. It was held closed by a matching cream and crimson ribbon, tied in a simple bow. Gently, she took one end of the bow and tugged. As it came undone and the ribbon fell away, Mojo climbed off her lap. He gingerly touched his nose to the lid, then gave his tiny, tinny meow.
“I’m getting there,” she said, putting the ribbon aside. She put her fingers under the rim of the box’s top. “Here we go.” She lifted it off and looked inside.
It was empty.
Maris scowled down at it, and then had to smile. Then she had to laugh. For a second there, she actually thought she might find a witch’s hat.
Mojo, however, was more intrigued than ever. He jumped inside.
“Well,” Maris said to him, as he disappeared below the rim. “At least you’ve got a new place to play.”
His head popped up, his orange eyes twinkling at her, and in his mouth, he held a toy.
“What?” she muttered, staring at him. She hadn’t seen the very bottom of the box nearest her, but a toy? Two blue and white striped yarn balls were each suspended on a yarn string and tied together at the top, like a pair of cherries. “How in the world…”
Toy still in his mouth, he hopped out and took his new possession to the bedroom. Maris tilted the hat box toward her so that she could see all the way down.
Now it was empty.
She glanced toward her room, and had to smile. Yet again, Mojo seemed to have resurrected a toy that she had never seen. She looked down at the hatch door. Could the basement possibly be where he kept his stash? She shook her head. If it was, there was no hurry to find it.
Finally she got up, dusted off her backside, and picked up the empty hat box. It was time to find her glass of wine.
26
In the morning, Maris could not only smell breakfast cooking, she could tell what it was.
“Waffles,” she said to Mojo, as she opened her door and he bolted into the hallway. The sweet smell of the batter in the griddle and the prospect of maple syrup nearly made Maris want to bolt to the kitchen as well. But before she got inside, she heard the back porch door close. Someone was up early.
From the living room and through the vestibule that led to the back, Maris saw Pammy settling down in one of the chairs. She’d bundled up in a fleece jacket against the early morning fog. As Maris watched, she opened what looked like a large black art journal and then uncapped a pen.
Maris had just been about to turn away and return to the kitchen, when she remembered her brief flash of precognition. She had seen this moment yesterday. Her eyes narrowed. Somehow what Pammy was doing was important, but Maris wasn’t going to be able to see anything by staying inside.
But as she exited onto the porch, she surprised Pammy, causing her to flip the journal and her pen to the porch deck.
“Oh my goodness,” Maris said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The journal had landed face down, almost in front of her. She bent to pick it up.
Pammy had put a hand to her chest, but now stooped from her seat to retrieve the pen. “No worries,” she said, and sat up. “I was just lost in thought.”
As Maris picked up the journal and turned it over, the pages flipped by, almost to the beginning. She tried to dust if off a bit before she closed it and handed it back. “I hope it’s not ruined.”
Pammy scoffed a little. “Oh, it’s just my morning pages. No biggie.”
Maris cocked her head at the artist. “Morning pages?”
Pammy smiled up at her. “It’s my morning ritual. As soon as I get up, I draw.” She circled the pen in the air, next to her head. “Helps clear out the cobwebs. If something’s on my mind, I get it down on paper, and then it’s out. Then I can get on with other things.”
“Really,” Maris said. “That’s fascinating. So you just draw the first thing that pops into your head?”
“Right,” Pammy said. “No filter. No thinking. Just start drawing.”
“Interesting,” Maris said. She’d never heard of such a thing, and yet it somehow made sense. If you were trying to be creative, it might help to start with a blank slate—or at least without mental baggage.
Pammy regarded her. “Are you an artist as well as an innkeeper?”
Maris shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all. I’ve taken up watercolors lately though. I find it helps me to relax.”
“Ah,” Pammy said nodding. “Watercolor painting. I haven’t done any in years.” She used the thin black pen to jot down a note on a blank page in the journal. “That’s a good reminder.” Then she closed it again.
A few seconds went by, and then Maris realized that the artist was waiting for her to leave. She said, “Well, sorry again for interrupting. I’ve got to get back inside and see what damage I can do in the kitchen.”
Pammy laughed a little. “No worries.”
“See you at breakfast,” Maris said, before heading back inside.
27
Maris went to the kitchen where she found Mojo having his usual smoked salmon breakfast and Cookie finishing with the warming trays. The crispy Belgian waffles were stacked like fallen dominoes in one tray, poached eggs were in another accompanied by a gravy boat of hollandaise sauce, and finally a tray of golden, oven-baked tater tots.
“Good morning,” Maris said, pick
ing up the first tray. “Looks like it’s classics done classy today.”
It never ceased to amaze her how Cookie could take the simplest of ingredients and create a breakfast buffet that rivaled those of any of the resorts where she’d worked. It didn’t take a million mediocre foods to impress, just a few outstanding ones.
“Good morning,” Cookie answered, in her usual cheery tone. “Sometimes it’s good to get back to basics.”
Once all the warming trays were in place, Maris fetched the freshly squeezed orange juice in its pretty glass pitcher, the coffee in its large carafe, and made sure the hot water dispenser did indeed have hot water. She thought about letting Pammy know that breakfast was on, but didn’t want to interrupt her morning pages again. But there was no need, when she saw the artist with her journal tucked under arm enter the dining room.
“Belgian waffles,” she exclaimed. “My favorite.” She set the journal down on the table.
Cookie came in, took a plate, and began to heap it high with two or three of everything. Maris smiled at the diminutive chef. “Is Bear here?”
Cookie winked at her. “Just arrived. We’ve got to keep that young man fueled.”
When Cookie was done, Maris took a plate for herself. But as she watched Pammy take a seat and slide her journal out of the way, Maris thought about when it’d fallen. When she’d picked it up, the pages had fanned by. At the time, they’d simply streamed through her vision without her actually registering what they were. But now it occurred to her that she could take her time. With Pammy’s back to her, Maris discreetly reached up to her temple and tapped it. Her photographic memory did the rest.
One by one, Maris was able to stop the journal in mid page flip, and look at what had been drawn. Sketches of rooms with period furniture reminded her of the murder mystery game. That made sense. There were intricate paisleys that covered an entire page. The artist also seemed to enjoy hand lettering, in all types of styles. But near the beginning of the journal was a piece of text in a beautiful copperplate font that surprised her—particularly since it had a big “X” through it.
“Maris,” Cookie said, bringing her back to the room. Maris blinked and looked over to the door. The chef’s dark eyes were glittering and the woman was grinning madly. “Come see the greenhouse,” she said, and disappeared.
Maris turned to Pammy. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said with mock seriousness. “I have been summoned.”
28
Outside, Maris could hardly believe what she was seeing. The greenhouse was finished. There was even a wood table in the back. Cookie and Bear were inside and she was nearly ricocheting around him, while he stood in the middle, holding his plate and eating. Maris entered through the new glass door.
Cookie came to a stop and beamed at her. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s amazing,” Maris said, her voice full of awe. “And beautiful.”
All of the metal gleamed in deep forest green, and all the panes of glass had been cleaned to perfect clarity. The structure’s joins and corners had received extra attention, hidden by small decorative flourishes in the shapes of dragonflies and bees. While the hopper window in the roof was cracked open just a couple of inches, the louvered window on the opposite side was fully open. Despite the foggy morning outside and the ventilation, the little glass house was very comfortable inside.
“I can’t wait to start using it,” Cookie crowed.
Bear shook his head a little, then quickly swallowed. “I need to finish the table.”
She and Maris both eyed it. “It looks finished to me,” the chef said.
It’d obviously been made from different types of wood, but it was as solid looking and nicely detailed as the surrounding structure. There was even a small shelf underneath the table top.
“I mean finish, not finish,” the big man said.
Cookie looked at him “You’ve lost me.”
“Me too,” Maris added.
He went to the table and smoothed his thick fingers over it. “Raw wood without a finish,” he said, looking down at it. “Without a finish, it will pick up moisture and stain.”
“Oh,” Cookie said. “You mean finish like a polish?”
The big man nodded and picked up a forkful of tater tots. “Furniture polish.”
“Do we have any?” the chef asked.
As he chewed, he nodded.
“I’ve seen that sort of thing in the utility room,” Maris said. “On those shelves at the end.” She looked at Bear. “Will any one do?”
He shook his head. “We should have some oil of mirbane. I used it before. That would be good.”
Cookie touched the table’s surface. “You’re going to oil it?”
Bear shook his head again. “Oil of mirbane is in polish. The polish has a different name.” He held out his plate to Maris. “Could you hold this?”
“Um, sure,” Maris said, exchanging a look with Cookie. As he took his phone from the deep front pocket of his bib overalls, he saw them looking at each other. “Can’t put the plate on the table until it’s finished.”
“Ah,” Maris said, as she watched Bear type in the word oil.
She went still.
Oil.
Mojo had spelled that word on the Ouija board. But as Bear spelled out “mirbane” another image popped into her mind. The big man was standing there, head bent over his phone, using it to do a search. She glanced back at the house. Then she handed the plate to Cookie. “I’ve got to go call the sheriff.”
29
With the buffet breakfast cleared away, everyone took a seat. It was a different seating arrangement from the murder mystery dinner, but Maris couldn’t help but see the parallel. Pammy and Felix sat next to each other on one side of the long table, as they had that night, while BJ and Cookie sat on the other. Maris stood at the end, near the bay windows, while the sheriff stood opposite her, near the door.
“I assume this means you’ve made progress,” Felix said to the sheriff.
Mac nodded. He opened the manila folder that was on the table in front of him. “I have a search warrant.”
“Another one?” Pammy said, a bit of a whine in her voice.
“Yes,” the sheriff said. “I’d like everyone to take out their cell phones and place them on the table.”
“Oh, come on,” BJ said. “Our phones? We need our phones.”
Mac held up the search warrant. “You’ll get them back.”
Maris had already known that the phones would be confiscated and brought hers with her. She laid it on the table in front of her.
As Pammy reached to her back pants pocket, Felix and BJ took their phones from their front pockets. Felix laid his on the table first. “It’s new,” he said, a hint of anger in his voice. “So don’t damage it.”
Soon everyone’s cell phone was on the table—except for Cookie’s. When Mac looked at her, she shrugged. “I don’t own one.”
Mac smiled at her and nodded then took the notepad from his breast pocket. “Passcodes?” He looked around the table. “Maris, we’ll start with you. Type it into your phone as you say it out loud and show me that it works.”
She quickly provided it and unlocked her phone. Pammy then did the same, but Felix said, “I don’t have a security code on mine.”
Pammy frowned at him. “You know that’s not very safe, right?”
“BJ?” Mac asked, and BJ recited his passcode as he unlocked his phone.
“Good,” the sheriff said. He set down the notepad, took out an evidence bag, and went around the table gathering up the phones. “When these are returned to you, I’d advise you to change your passcodes.”
As he set the bag of phones onto the table next to the search warrant, he looked up at Maris. “Maybe you could tell us all what you’ve discovered.”
In the silent room, all eyes turned to her.
“Of course,” she said and looked around at the expectant faces. The back of her shoulders and neck tightened but she took a breat
h, then turned to Felix.
“After Reggie’s death, when we were all in the living room,” Maris said, nodding in that direction, “you told us that you’d started your own gaming company.”
“That had nothing to do with his death,” Felix quickly protested. “I’ve been working on my business plan for months. I have documentation to prove it.”
“And your business loan has just been approved,” Maris said, agreeing. “But I think you’d have to concur that the timing of his death was rather…fortuitous.”
Felix scowled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t have anything to gain from his death. I wouldn’t have worked for him any more.”
“Exactly,” Maris said. “You wouldn’t have been an employee, you’d have been a competitor.”
When BJ and Pammy both looked at him, he paled. “Hey,” he said, “I don’t even have a damn company yet. I was going to start it on the side.” He looked at them both. “It’s not like I could live without a salary. I wasn’t going to quit my job.”
“You were going to work a full-time job and start a company?” BJ asked.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing all these months anyway,” Felix answered hotly. “I’ve worked my butt off just to get this far.”
“You had a lot to protect,” Maris said.
“That’s not what I meant,” he shot back, his dark eyes flashing at her.
She leveled a steady gaze at him. “The one thing we do know,” Maris said calmly, “based on the reenactment, is that everyone here had the opportunity to put poison in Reggie’s wine glass.”
Felix glared at her, and then at Mac. “Well I didn’t have any poison. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t plan on killing him, and I didn’t bring any poison.”
“The poison was already here in the house,” Mac told him, “just like in the game.”
“What?” Pammy exclaimed. “You know the poison?”