5 The Witch Who Tasted Murder

by Emma Belmont

  “The lighthouse beam keeps shining,” she said smiling, “I’ve been enjoying Cookie’s breakfasts way too much, and I’m glad to be here.” Although she already knew what she’d be ordering, she took the menu anyway.

  Eugene’s face uncharacteristically sobered. “Did you hear about Dom Alegra?” he asked.

  Maris nodded with a grimace. “I did. In fact, I happened to be there.”

  Eugene’s eyes crinkled as he stared at her. “You were?”

  She recounted how she’d been there to make her usual wine purchase for the B&B and how Rosamel had given her a tour. Finally, she told him of how the morning had ended.

  “Poor girl,” Eugene said. He pointed to the wine display at the end of the counter, full of Alegra wines. “We’re customers too.” He shook his head. “I think Dom would have wanted her to continue the family tradition, but young people these days.” He shrugged. “I guess they have to go their own way.” But as he regarded the restaurant and then looked back at her, he smiled broadly. “I’m a lucky man. Delia is carrying on our tradition. I really don’t know what more I could ask for.”

  “Well, I couldn’t agree more,” she said. In essence, that’s what she had done as well, taking over the B&B and lighthouse when her aunt had died.

  “I’m guessing that you didn’t come here so I could tell you how wonderful my daughter is,” he said. “You already know that.” He winked at her. “What can I get for you today?”

  “I’d like to get four crab sandwiches,” she said, giving him the menu. “To go, please.”

  He nodded to her and put the menu away. “Coming right up.” Then he headed to the kitchen, pausing at a couple of the tables as he bussed some plates and refilled some glasses of water.

  Maris contented herself with watching the Towne Plaza out the front windows. The picturesque center of Pixie Point Bay was ringed with Victorian homes, most of which had been turned into businesses. Their pastel colors glowed under the midday sun. In the center of the trimmed grass stood the brilliant red gazebo designed in an elaborate Oriental style. A number of tourists seemed to be out, a mirror of the busy restaurant.

  “Here you go, Maris,” said a bubbly voice behind her.

  Maris turned to see Delia Burnside, a plump and curvaceous red-head with perfect ivory skin. Even if she hadn’t known that Delia was Eugene’s daughter, the inner light of their hazel eyes would have been a dead giveaway.

  “Four crab sandwiches,” she said, setting down a recycled lettuce box on an empty bench in the waiting area. Inside it were the four sandwiches, and also four bottles about the size of sodas.

  “What do we have here?” Maris asked, peering down.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever sampled our own homemade and world famous hot sauces,” Delia told her.

  Maris looked at her. “You’re absolutely right, since I didn’t even know you made hot sauces.”

  Delia nodded, causing her bright red curls to bob. “Oh yes, world famous,” she said again. She pointed to the bright label of each one in turn. “Delia’s Smoldering Smokehouse is mild. Delia’s Sizzling Smokehouse is medium spicy. Delia’s Searing Smokehouse is hot. And Delia’s Scorching Smokehouse is what I call nuclear.” She grinned at Maris. “It’s dad’s favorite.”

  “Well, how delightful,” Maris said. She hadn’t grown up with spicy food, but had definitely learned on the job. The many local cuisines around the world in the hotels where she’d worked had been one of the few plusses to that career. She’d first learned of Thai food in Bangkok, and authentic Mexican cuisine in Cabo San Lucas. Visiting the same types of restaurants back home it had sometimes shocked her at how different the meals were made in order to cater to more local tastes. In the end, everything here was considerably less spicy, even if it looked the same.

  Maris glanced down at the bottles. “I’m looking forward to trying them. What do I owe you?”

  Delia gave her the handwritten bill. “The hot sauce is on the house. But I’d really like to know what you and Cookie think.”

  Maris took out her credit card and handed it over. “Well, that’s awfully kind of you, Delia, but I’m very happy to pay.”

  Delia swiped the card and typed in some numbers on the machine. “Nonsense. Please just give me your honest feedback on them. That’ll be payment enough.”

  As Maris signed the credit card slip, she said, “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She put away the card, tucked the receipt into the box, and picked it up. “I’m sure our guests will be delighted to sample them as well.”

  “Oh,” Delia said, pretending to be surprised and doing a poor job. She smiled. “Well, if your guests have any feedback I’d be doubly glad.” She grabbed a few paper menus from under the podium and dropped them into the box. “Just in case,” she said and gave Maris the same exact wink that Eugene had.

  Maris nodded as Delia held the door open for her. “Absolutely, and thank you.”

  11

  “Hot sauce?” Cookie said, sounding alarmed. “At the breakfast buffet?”

  Bear was eating his second sandwich but stopped in mid-chew as his big brown eyes flicked to her face.

  Maris had arrived home with the box from Delia’s and brought everything to the back porch, noting that Charlie’s Bentley was gone. Hopefully he’d managed to calm down and gone out, either to eat, or maybe even get some sunshine and fresh air. As usual, the B&B guests were on their own for lunch and dinner—unlike the occupants or their handyman.

  They’d all dug into the sandwiches straight away, and it was Cookie who’d noticed the various bottles. Although Maris had been excited for the guests to sample them, apparently that opinion wasn’t universally shared.

  “Not necessarily at breakfast,” Maris said carefully. “I was thinking more the Wine Down.”

  Although the evening wine and cheese didn’t particularly lend itself to pairings that involved hot sauce, Cookie was clearly not interested in them appearing at the morning buffet.

  “The breakfast buffet is designed as a whole,” Cookie said, putting down her sandwich. Bear put his down as well. “The flavors are meant to compliment one another, not compete, or get drowned out.”

  Maris held up a hand. “My mistake,” she said quickly. “I meant the Wine Down, of course. The buffet is perfect as is.” She eyed Bear.

  He nodded as he swallowed his last bite. “Perfect.”

  Cookie sniffed as she picked up her sandwich. “Well, I wouldn’t call them perfect, but I do try.” She regarded her lunch. “Speaking of which, Delia makes a mean crab salad sandwich.”

  When she took a bite, Bear picked up his sandwich and did the same. Then a thought occurred to Maris. She reached over to the box and selected one of the bottles.

  “Perhaps they’d go well with Delia’s food,” she suggested.

  She’d picked Delia’s Smoldering Smokehouse, the mild sauce. The label was brightly colored, and Maris recognized not only the illustration of the smokehouse, but a cartoon version of the sauce’s namesake. In her slightly comedic caricature form, Delia was smiling and holding a saucepan that looked like it was on fire.

  With a little twist of the plastic red cap, Maris opened it. Then she gave it a sniff. There was definitely a vinegar base to it, maybe some garlic, and definitely red peppers. But the aroma was much more complex than just those ingredients and Maris suspected there were several spices involved as well. She shook out a few drops on her plate, as Cookie and Bear watched. Then she dabbed her finger in the little puddle and tried it on the tip of her tongue.

  A burst of flavor with just a hint of heat blossomed and spread in her mouth. Having become a fan of spicy food, Maris analyzed the flavor. It almost reminded her of the hot sauce she’d had when she’d worked at the resort in Bali—what was its name—Sambal. Delia’s sauce had just a touch of the grilled shrimp paste and lime juice that had given the Indonesian sauce its special tang but the chili was different.

  She sprinkled a few drops on the crab salad of her
sandwich and took a bite. Her eyes narrowed and she nodded to Cookie. Covering her mouth she said, “It goes perfectly with this sandwich.”

  Cookie smiled at her. “Good. But I’m a bit of a purist, so I think I’ll have mine without.”

  Bear, however, picked up a different bottle from the box. “Delia’s Searing Smokehouse,” he read. “Hot.”

  Although the background of the bright label seemed the same, the image of Delia was slightly different. Though she was still smiling, she held a saucepan in one hand, and two in another, all with flames rising from them.

  As he twisted the cap off, Cookie warned him. “Be careful with that, young man.”

  Maris nodded. “That’s the third hottest and, judging from the mild, that might have a pretty good kick to it.”

  The bottle looked too small in his meaty hand as he shook out several drops onto the crab salad and bread. When he set the bottle aside, Cookie and Maris exchanged a quick look, then watched as he took a bite.

  “Mmm,” he said grinning as he chewed. But then his brow furrowed. “Mmm?” Pink rose to his cheeks. “Uh oh,” he mumbled. As his face turned red, he put the sandwich down. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He looked around him and then jumped to his feet. With a speed Maris hadn’t expected for his size, he raced down the steps of the porch and ran to the garden hose.

  Cookie chuckled a bit as he drank what appeared to be a few gallons of water. Maris reached to the box and turned the two remaining bottles around to see the labels.

  “You’ve got to wonder about the nuclear version,” Maris said. She showed it to Cookie. “Apparently it’s Eugene’s favorite.”

  Cookie gave her a wry smile. “Fire elementals. They could probably eat a five-alarm chili and not bat an eye.”

  “Fire elementals?” Maris asked.

  “I’ve always suspected as much,” Cookie said. “Witches who can control fire. They’ve got a pretty high tolerance for heat.” She nodded at the hot sauces. “In any form.”

  “Including fire?” Maris asked, blinking.

  Cookie nodded. “Fire, smoke, spice. They thrive on it.”

  Maris sat back in her chair. Delia’s Smokehouse. It made so much sense. No wonder Eugene’s daughter followed in his footsteps. Cookie pointed to the bottle that she still held.

  “Be careful with that,” the chef said. “If you open it, make sure to wash your hands afterward. And whatever you do, don’t touch your face or eyes.”

  Maris quickly put the bottle back. “No problem, since I don’t think I’ll be opening it.”

  Cookie wrapped up the rest of her sandwich and sat back, patting her flat stomach. “I think that’s all I can eat, but it was wonderful. Thank you for picking these up.”

  Although Maris could easily have polished off the second half of her sandwich, she gazed down at her tummy. Though she’d managed to drop a few pounds since returning to Pixie Point Bay, she had some ways to go before she was near a normal weight for her height. She wrapped up her sandwich too. Years ago she’d been told if she wanted to be thin, then she should stick with a thin person and do what they do. Maris had noticed that, despite being a chef, Cookie ate sparingly, and she never said she was ‘full.’

  “These will make for good leftovers,” Maris said. As she got up, she put the two half sandwiches in the box, along with all the bottles of hot sauce. “I’ll put the sandwiches in the fridge.”

  Cookie looked up at her. “I’ll wait for our young man to finish his lunch.” They both looked toward the garden where Bear was fanning his mouth, before drinking more water. “Assuming he can.”

  As Maris took the leftovers through the vestibule and into the house, she thought about Eugene and Delia. He’d said that he hoped Rosamel would follow in the family tradition, the way Delia had in theirs. Did that mean that the Alegras shared some magic ability that had to do with their business?

  But before she could ponder it further, a tiny, tinny harmonica-like meow drew her attention to the floor in the hallway.

  “Mojo,” Maris said, smiling down at her fluffy black cat. “Where have you been?”

  His big amber eyes looked up at her and he meowed again. Then he turned and trotted to the dining room. But at the threshold he paused, looked over his shoulder at her, and meowed again.

  She was being paged.

  12

  In the dining room, Maris set the box of leftovers and hot sauces on the table and watched as Mojo bounced toward the second door that led through to the pantry and then into the kitchen.

  The original Victorian had been designed with a flow that lent itself to regularly serving big meals. When it had been built in the late 1800’s, out here on the remote point of the bay, there’d been little else nearby. So the pantry was generous and meant to stock a goodly amount of supplies. It only made sense that it was connected both to the dining room and the kitchen, the three rooms together that were devoted to food.

  “Oh, I see,” she said, following the pudgy black cat. “Is it snack time?”

  But rather than go to the kitchen, he took a sharp turn and angled off into the pantry. Maris frowned as she followed him. His smoked salmon was in the refrigerator, as he well knew. What could he want in the pantry?

  Like the kitchen, the storage room had been completely updated. The architecture remained the same, with its curved ceiling coves and the decorative plaster medallions overhead, but the rolling shelves were shallow enough to view all of the essentials. The drawers at their bottoms were done in clear plexiglass, revealing all the contents, and the spice cabinets folded out from the walls to minimize the waste of space. At the far end was a short metal refrigerator used only for wine.

  As Maris watched, Mojo jumped up to one of the shelves. On it were Cookie’s baking supplies.

  “Careful now,” she warned him. “You don’t want to mess with that stuff.”

  But of course he ignored her, reaching out a paw. As Maris rushed over to him, it looked as though he’d been reaching for the plastic container of confectioner’s sugar. But now it seemed he wanted the pastry flour next to it. Finally though, when she could see past him, his paw was wedged between the two.

  “What are you doing?” she muttered, gently picking him up. “What’s in there?”

  As she drew him into her arms, his paw came out from the darkness, its claws dragging something with it. For a moment she dreaded seeing some type of dead rodent, but when it finally emerged it was a…tarot deck.

  “What?” she said, gingerly disengaging his claws from it. “Why is this in here?”

  Normally the tarot deck would be in the parlor, along with the Ouija board. Both were available to guests for their enjoyment or entertainment, although Mojo seemed to get more use out of them than anyone.

  But as she looked at the box of cards, she realized it was open and one was sticking out. Mojo tried to paw it, so she held it at arm’s length, then set it on the shelf. With the tips of her fingers, she removed the protruding card.

  “The Magician,” she said, laying it down. As Mojo purred, she tapped her temple, calling up the little booklet of tarot interpretation in her photographic memory.

  The Magician stood with an arm stretched upward toward the universe, while the other pointed down to the earth. There was a table in front of him and on it were the four symbols of the tarot suits: a cup, a wand, a pentacle, and a sword. They each symbolized an element: water, fire, earth, and air. Above his head was the infinity symbol and around his waist was a snake that was biting its own tail, both symbolizing unlimited potential. In the foreground were flowers and greenery meant to show his aspirations coming to fruition.

  Maris was immediately drawn to the cup. It looked like a wine goblet, which made sense. The wand, if you squinted, looked more like a club.

  Was Mojo trying to tell her about the blunt force trauma in the wine cellar?

  Or was he trying to say that one of the magic folk of Pixie Point Bay was responsible?

  But before
she could question him, there was a knock at the front door. She checked through the pantry’s window toward the front of the house and saw a car that she didn’t recognize.

  Who would be knocking?

  She packed up the tarot cards and put Mojo down.

  “Thank you, Mojo,” she said to him. As he sat and began to lick his paw, she headed back to the hallway.

  13

  Friedrich Krone stood on the front porch holding a small wooden box in front of him.

  “Mr. Krone,” Maris said, as she opened the door. “What a pleasant surprise. Please come in.”

  “Thank you,” he said, in a pleasant baritone. As Maris stood aside it occurred to her that she’d never heard him speak in a normal tone of voice. His faint German accent was even stronger when he wasn’t shouting.

  “Is Charlie Gorian here?” the vintner asked, looking around.

  As Maris closed the door, she said, “Although Charlie is a guest here, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.” She motioned him through to the living room. “Would you like to put that down and have a seat?”

  Although she suspected from the frown on Friedrich’s face that he wanted nothing more than to simply drop the box and leave, he managed to muster some old-world politeness.

  “Yes,” he said, wearing a forced smile. “That would be…nice.”

  She indicated the ottoman. “You can set the box there if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” he said. The tall man lowered it and gently put it down. Maris could see that the Crown symbol of the winery had been burned into the small wood planks of its top. “A couple of magnums.”

  “How nice,” she said, smiling. “No doubt Charlie will be pleased.”

  “Well,” the vintner said, sounding as though that might be true, “it’s the least I could do.”

  Maris recalled what Charlie had said about the 1947 St-Emilion.