by Emma Belmont
Mac looked at her. “We also know something else. We’ve got the DNA results from the socks found in your bed. They belonged to Reggie.”
Now it was Felix and BJ’s turn to stare at her. The young artist flushed a deep red. “That’s ridiculous. Reggie was never even in my room. He was never–”
Maris held up a hand to her. “I believe you.”
Although Pammy sputtered for a few moments, she managed to calm herself, “Well, I hope so.”
“Because Reggie had rejected your advances,” Maris finished.
Eyes wide, Pammy’s mouth hung open as she stared at her. BJ cocked his head back, staring between Pammy and Maris, while Felix looked at the artist as though she’d grown another head.
“When the sheriff told you about the socks,” Maris said to her, “you said ‘They couldn’t be Reggie’s because he said–’” Maris paused. “Said what?”
Pammy’s mouth flattened into a thin line as she glared at the table.
“When you dropped your art journal,” Maris continued, “I couldn’t help but see some of the drawings and calligraphy in it—particularly the early pages.” Pammy looked as though she swallowed something bitter. “I saw that you had hand lettered your name along with Reggie’s,” Maris prompted. “Like a wedding invitation.”
“Oh my god, fine,” Pammy spat out. “I had a crush on the boss.” She stared defiantly at Felix and then BJ as though daring them to say something. When neither of them did, she added, “But when I said something to him, he said…” She glanced at Maris. “…that he didn’t feel that way about me. He just wanted us to be friends.”
“That’s when you drew the big X through your names,” Maris said.
Pammy slowly nodded. “Right,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting down to the table. Then she sat up straighter and lifted her head. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted to see him dead. He didn’t want me to be his girlfriend but…”
“That hadn’t changed how you felt about him,” Maris concluded. Pammy only nodded.
“But it wasn’t for unrequited love or poaching employees that Reggie was killed.” Maris turned to BJ. “It was for money.” The game developer’s stoney face returned her gaze. “I overheard the argument upstairs last night. You’ve apparently sold a game recently?”
When BJ didn’t answer, Felix said, “A murder mystery game.” He turned to BJ. “Betrayal at the Boarding House. I saw it on the internet.”
“It must have surprised you at dinner,” Maris said, “when Reggie announced he’d sold it too.”
“That’s right,” Cookie said, speaking up for the first time. “Some company named…Hario?”
“Exactly,” Pammy agreed. “He said he’d sold it.” Then she looked at BJ. “You weren’t too pleased.”
“He sold it to Hario,” Felix said. “You sold it to Game Fame.” The producer narrowed his eyes. “That was never going to work.”
Finally BJ spoke up. “Having two similar but different versions of a game is nothing new,” he scoffed. “Reggie and I had worked it out.”
Felix scoffed in return. “It has nothing to do with what you and Reggie had ‘worked out.’ It’s what Hario and Game Fame think when they start suing each other. Reggie would have known that. In fact, so should you.”
“For the rest of the evening,” Maris said, “you were on your phone.” She nodded at the bag on the table. “Did you search for oil of mirbane?”
“What?” Cookie said. “Bear’s finish?”
Maris nodded at her. “The very one.”
BJ glanced at the phones, beads of sweat on his upper lip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Maris smiled at him. “Then let me explain it. Oil of mirbane is another way of saying nitrobenzene. It’s a common part of polishes and household cleaners—and it’s highly toxic. Absolutely deadly. Is that what your internet searches revealed? It must have seemed like a dream come true when you learned that nitrobenzene smells of almonds and tastes sweet.”
“Reggie got drunk so fast,” Pammy whispered, eyes wide.
“This is ridiculous,” BJ declared, unable to keep from glancing at the phones. “If I searched for poisons while we play tested, it only makes sense. That’s what the whole mystery was about.”
“We’ll be pulling the entire search history,” Mac told him. “I wonder if you might have been curious about time of death, or signs of poisoning.”
“The next morning,” Maris said, “you were the last one down. Is that when you took Reggie’s socks and put them in Pammy’s bed?”
“You people are insane.” BJ shook his head and pushed back from the table. “But more to the point, this is all just coffee house conjecture.” He stood up. “You don’t have a single thread of hard evidence that connects anyone with Reggie’s death, let alone me.”
“Mr. Ridder,” Mac said, shifting his stance. “Please have a seat. We’re not done.”
Although the game developer looked as though he might make a dash for it, he slowly sat back down. Mac nodded to Maris.
“There’s just one more thing,” she said. “It didn’t seem like anything at the time, except maybe the wrong thing in the wrong trash bin.” She looked at them all. “I was taking out the recyclables and found a t-shirt in the blue bin.”
“Clothes aren’t recyclable,” Cookie said.
“No,” Maris agreed. “They’re not. So I picked it out. It looked in good shape so I thought I could wash it and donate it to the thrift store in Cheeseman Village.” She smiled at the chef. “But, as instructed, I didn’t do the laundry that day. I did some painting instead. I never did wash it.”
Mac took a step toward BJ. “Forensics has confirmed that it has traces of nitrobenzene. DNA will take another day.” He looked pointedly at BJ. “We’ll be comparing it to yours.”
Though BJ stood, he made no move to leave. “I want a lawyer.”
Mac removed the handcuffs from his utility belt. “I think that’d be advisable, Mr. Ridder. Please put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for the murder of Reggie Atkinson.”
30
As Maris took another pot of herbs into the greenhouse, Bear set down the big bag of potting soil next to the table.
“Rosemary,” Cookie said, as she took the pot from Maris and put it on the gleaming table with the others. She slid her fingers along the smooth surface. “It’s hard to imagine that something that makes a piece of furniture so pretty could also kill someone.”
Bear straightened up. “Always use gloves with polish and cleaners. Always.”
All three of them headed back to the garden for the rest of the pots. “How did you make the connection?” Cookie asked.
“It was Bear,” Maris said, picking up a pot.
He paused, one bunch of potted herbs in each hand. “Me?”
Maris nodded. “When you took out your phone,” she said, as Cookie handed her another planting. “It reminded me of BJ and how he’d been looking at his phone all evening.” As they headed back to the greenhouse, Maris added, “And Mojo, of course.”
“Aha,” Cookie said, grinning. “And what did our feline medium channel for you?”
Maris glanced to the B&B and saw him watching them from Cookie’s bedroom window. She gave him a little wave, and saw him meow.
“On the Ouija board, he spelled the word oil.” In the greenhouse, Cookie and Bear stared at her. “I kid you not.”
As they placed the last herbs in place, Maris indicated the lighthouse. “The Old Girl showed me this greenhouse. So I knew that it would have something to do with the murder.”
“The oil of mirbane again,” Bear said.
“Exactly,” Maris said, dusting off her hands. “It was the tarot clue that I finally had to give up on. I had to do a few internet searches.”
“Tarot clue?” Cookie said, arranging the pots into rows.
“Mojo had picked the Knight of Cups.”
“Cups for the poison?” Bear asked.
“That’s what I thought,” Maris said. “But when I did a search for Barney Jaeger Ridder, I recalled that he’d said his name was Danish. I then discovered that his last name in Danish means knight.”
“Wow,” Cookie said, as they all looked back at the B&B, but Mojo was no longer in the window.
In the late morning sun the Victorian greenhouse was getting warm. Bear lifted the hopper window and propped it open for a breath of sea air. “Everything is done?” he asked.
Whether he meant the greenhouse or the murder, Maris wasn’t sure. But Cookie said, “Yes. Pammy and Felix have checked out and were headed to the sheriff’s station for their phones. So it’s time to wash all the laundry and get the rooms ready for the next guests.”
But as the chef turned to go, Maris put a hand on her arm. “Not so fast.” She gazed out at the herb garden and then at the aromatic pots on the table, before she smiled at her companions. “Perhaps we can just take a moment. You know, slow down for a bit. Just enjoy what we have here.”
Cookie grinned and winked at her, before she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, slowly letting it go. Bear tilted his head from side to side, cracking his neck, before he stood tall and put his palms against the ceiling, stretching. Maris bent over a pot of rosemary and inhaled its fresh and slightly pine-like scent. By the time she straightened, she found Cookie and Bear smiling at her. On impulse, she pulled them into a group hug.
The chef immediately hugged her close and, although Bear stiffened at first, his big arms eventually settled around their shoulders.
“I’m glad to be here with you guys,” Maris said.
“Ditto,” Cookie answered.
“Me too,” said the big man, just as someone’s stomach gurgled.
With the three of them standing so close, it was impossible to tell who was hungry, but all three of them backed up and simultaneously held their stomachs. As Maris and Cookie burst into laughter, Bear quietly chuckled.
“Show of hands for who wants lunch?” Maris said, as she raised her hand, followed quickly by Bear and Cookie. “Good,” she said grinning. “I’ll pick up sandwiches in town.”
As Maris headed back to the house, she paused for a moment and looked back. Bear was moving another bag of potting soil into the greenhouse, and Cookie was looking through her packets of seed. Beyond them the bay glittered with sapphire tones under the blazing yellow circle of the sun. Maris smiled as she turned away, already looking forward to coming back.
Another Pixie Point Bay book awaits you in The Witch Who Tasted Murder (Pixie Point Bay Book 5).
For a sneak peek, turn the page.
Sneak Peek
The Witch Who Tasted Murder
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
If only Maris Seaver’s guests knew what she had to endure for the sake of wine. It was too warm; it was crowded; and it was loud. Somehow the idyllic scene she’d envisioned for the fall harvest of Alegra Winery’s Zinfandel crop had not included heavy machinery. Her companion, Rosamel Alegra, had to raise her voice to be heard above the din.
“These were on the vine not thirty minutes ago,” the young woman said, pointing to one of the many large plastic containers. It was heaped high and overflowing with long bunches of dusky purple grapes.
Maris guessed that Rosamel was in her late twenties. Olive skinned and short, she wore her long and tightly curled hair in a dark cascade around her shoulders and down her back.
Where she was pointing, a forklift raised the container up some twenty feet in the air, then rolled over to park next to a machine that looked like an enormous cigar. It had to be ten feet long, with a V-shaped hopper at the top. As they watched, the operator rotated the full container in midair, tipping its juicy contents into the big metal V. Hundreds of bunches of grapes, along with some leaves and stems, fell into the machine. Although some of the fruit managed to escape by clinging to the container before falling to the floor, no one paused to pick it up. The forklift was already backing away for the next batch. The pace was almost manic.
Rosamel leaned in and put her mouth near Maris’s ear. “That’s the crusher,” she said.
A couple of men in rubber aprons and boots quickly adjusted the location of the enormous metal pan underneath it. Though the aroma of freshly picked fruit was thick, the wide waterfall of juice that now splashed into the pan filled the air with a new scent that was sweet and spicy at the same time.
“Amazing,” Maris said, almost shouting. “From the vineyard to juice in under an hour.”
Rosamel nodded. “Let’s step outside.” She pointed to the front of the cement room and headed that way.
Maris followed her through the cavernous opening into the dirt yard just beyond. Outside, the vineyard proper was only yards away. Acres upon acres of vines spread out in every direction. On what had to be one of the last warm days of the season, the sun blazed down from a powder blue sky to the heated soil.
As she and Rosamel neared the immaculate rows of plants, the young woman came to a stop and turned back to the winery. The bustle of the harvest was finally far enough away to talk.
“We do the sorting out here,” she said, pointing to a conveyor belt.
A half-dozen men and women stood on either side of it, hands and arms flying, picking out mostly twigs and clumps of leaves, but also the occasional cluster of grapes. They simply tossed the unwanted material to the ground. The fruit that made it through sorting was dumped by the conveyor belt into one of the large containers at the end. On the other end of the belt, a small tractor brought over a long cart full of stacked crates. As Maris watched, the forklift went to work again, lifting each crate and dumping it on the moving belt.
“It’s not what you thought,” Rosamel said. “Is it.”
Maris had to laugh. “Not quite.” Images of plump peasants in bare feet who were happily stomping grapes in giant wooden vats would have to be banished.
“It’s a business,” the young woman said.
“And quite a successful one,” Maris observed, “judging by the number of employees.” There had to be twenty or thirty people sorting and crushing. She gazed out to the rolling vineyard with its lush green plants as far as the eye could see. Who knows how many more people were in the fields?
Now it was Rosamel’s turn to laugh. “A lot of these wonderful folks are volunteers.”
Maris frowned and looked at her, and then at the sorters. They were sweaty and filthy and working a mile a minute. “You’re kidding.”
Rosamel shook her head, smiling. “Nope. It’s a time-honored tradition. We’ll be feeding them and I can guarantee you that the wine will flow.” She nodded toward the conveyor belt. “We’ve got volunteers who’ve been with us for ten years running.” The young woman crooked up one dark eyebrow. “It helps when you win awards.”
“Ah,” Maris said, nodding. In essence, that was also why she was here. Alegra Winery had been producing gold medal winners since their first release ten years ago. She had made them a staple at the B&B, her go-to wine, which was the reason for her visit today. She bought by the case. “It would seem that nothing succeeds like success.”
Yet something about Rosamel and the winery’s amazing achievements felt like more than know-how and elbow grease. If Maris wasn’t mistaken, something a bit magical might be at work as well.
Rosamel lowered her voice. “We even have a buyer for this year’s releases.”
Maris regarded her. “A buyer?”
The young woman nodded, her mass of dark curls bobbing. “He wants the entire release.”
Maris stared at her. “Wait. Are you saying he wants to buy everything?” She glanced at the conveyor belt and all the containers waiting to be poured onto it. “And it has yet to be made into wine?”
Rosamel grinned at her. “You’ve got it.”
“Every varietal?” Maris asked, still trying to wrap her head around a purchase of that size. She gestured to the scene in front of them and then the surrounding vines.
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“The entire release,” Rosamel confirmed.
Maris’s eyebrows rose as she went through the numbers in her head. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bottles of wine that were yet to be made were already spoken for. It had to be hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of wine.
“A single buyer wants it all?” Maris asked, still a bit incredulous. “Even if you drink a bottle every…”
Rosamel shook her head quickly. “Oh no. I’m sure he’ll sample it, of course. But it’s an investment. He’ll sit on it for…who knows how long.” She lifted her shoulders and hands. “Ten years? Twenty? Fifty?” She crossed her arms over her chest, watching the volunteers sorting. Another giant container of grapes was dumped on the belt. “He’ll let go of a few cases here, a few cases there, a few at auction.”
“Wow,” Maris said. It was like buying artwork, or maybe stocks.
“It’s an investment,” Rosamel said again, “and a smart one, even if I do say so myself.” She gave Maris a little elbow. “But don’t worry. I’m going to set aside your usual purchase at your usual price. The deal hasn’t been cinched yet.”
Maris’s eyes widened. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
The young woman nodded to her. “You’re very welcome. We local folk gotta stick together.” She glanced back to the winery. “Speaking of which, shall we go back to the tasting room? I’m sure today’s purchase will be ready by now.”
As they headed back toward the crushing room, Maris said, “Thank you very much for the tour as well—especially at this busy time of year. It’s been incredibly interesting.”
Rosamel waved a hand. “My busy time is over, thank goodness. Now that the harvest is almost all in, it’s up to my father to make the wine. He’s the one who’ll–”
Despite the cacophony of the machinery, loud voices rose above it. When Maris looked over, a young man at the crusher was being grabbed from behind by an older man, who had him by the collar.