5 The Witch Who Tasted Murder

by Emma Belmont

  “I’m going to get some tea,” she said. “Can I get you a coffee or tea perhaps? Or a glass of water?”

  He actually seemed to consider it. “Tea would be nice,” he said.

  “Good,” Maris said. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the kitchen, she selected one of Cookie’s special mixes for the winemaker, something particularly relaxing. For herself, she picked something more invigorating. As they steeped, she put some of the homemade sugar cookies on a small plate. To the tray she added some lemon slices, sugar, and napkins. Then she took them all to the living room.

  Friedrich sat in one of the high back chairs, but had taken a small statue of a lighthouse from the nearby built-in bookcase.

  “You know,” he said, setting it back in its place with his long reach, “I knew your aunt.”

  Maris paused. “No, I didn’t know that.” She put the serving tray on the coffee table, picked up his tea, and handed it to him. “Lemon and sugar are here,” she said, pointing to the tray. “And these are some of our own sugar cookies. Excellent with the tea.” She took a seat on the couch. “How did you know her?”

  He took a sip of the tea and nodded a little. “This is very good,” he said, before setting the china cup back down in its saucer. “She was a frequent customer,” he said. “She made purchases for this B&B.”

  Though his voice hadn’t carried a hint of recrimination, she felt it nonetheless. In the months since she’d been running the B&B, she hadn’t made a single purchase from his winery.

  “That’s interesting that you say that,” she said, after sipping her tea. “We still have a supply of Crown Winery wine. I’m glad to know it’s a holdover from Aunt Glenda’s time.” She picked up the plate of cookies, pale yellow circles topped with a dusting of confetti colored sprinkles, and offered it to him.

  He took one and looked around the room, then out the window to the ocean. “As often as I saw Glenda,” he said, “I’ve never been here. It’s beautiful.” He took a bite of the cookie. “Oh, that’s good.” Then he sipped his tea again.

  As Maris watched, the vintner relaxed back into his chair and his expression even softened.

  “How long have you been making wine, Mr. Krone?” she asked.

  “All my life really,” he said. “First in Saxony, then in Provence, and finally here. I am a fifth generation vintner.”

  “Five generations,” she said, impressed. “Wine must run in your veins.”

  He laughed a little, and Maris glimpsed some of the charm that seemed to suffuse his son. “You could say that, I think.”

  “Did you learn from your father?”

  Friedrich nodded after taking another sip of tea. “He was a tough man, very exacting, but when he praised you, it was real. He didn’t coddle his family, his employees, or his grapes.” He smiled a little at that. “He always said that both people and grapes needed some stress to be as good as they could be.”

  Maris had to laugh a little. “I guess it worked, seeing as how you run your own winery.” She paused to sip her tea. “So that would make your son the sixth generation.”

  His expression suddenly clouded and, despite the effects of the tea, his jaw clenched. “Him,” he spat.

  “I happened to be at the winery this morning,” she said calmly. “In the crushing room.”

  “Oh were you?” he said, putting his saucer and cup on the coffee table, along with the unfinished cookie. “Along with everyone else it seems.”

  “Harlan?” she asked.

  The vintner’s hands came together in a tangle, his knuckles turning white. “I still can’t believe it. In the middle of our own harvest, volunteering at theirs. Of all places, theirs.” He shook his head and glared at the box of wine. “I’ve been over this already, with that policeman.” He showed her the pads of his fingers. Each was stained a faint black. “I was even fingerprinted.” He rubbed his hands together. “It’s hard to get off.” Again he shook his head, but this time he stood. “Well, small as my harvest may be, I’d better get back to it.” As Maris stood, he nodded to her. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Krone,” she said pleasantly.

  “May I leave the wine?” he asked, glaring at it again.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll let Charlie know you’ve brought it for him.” As she escorted him to the front door, she thought of asking him about seeing Charlie with Dom Alegra before he was murdered. But rather than risk another angry outburst, she asked about something else that puzzled her. “Is your harvest typically small, or is it perhaps the weather this year?”

  Just as he opened the front door, he stopped. “This year?” he demanded. “Every year. Every year it gets smaller, ever since Alegra Winery opened.” He held up a hand to her as if to stop her response, though she didn’t have any. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard all the theories about soil depletion and changing weather. But it started the day that Alegra broke ground.” His tightly closed, pursed lips moved as though he were chewing something. Suddenly, he erupted, as though he couldn’t stop. “They’re stealing my water! How do you grow grapes without water?”

  Maris’s eyebrows arched. “Stealing your water? I don’t understand how–”

  “From the water table,” he said, managing not to shout. “The underground water that runs under both our properties.”

  “But if it’s–”

  He waved her off. “I’ve been over this a million times already. No one wants to listen.” He gave her a curt nod. “Thank you again.”

  With that he stomped down the front porch steps and went to his large work van. Although Maris closed the door, she stood for a moment as the Crown Winery van pulled back.

  Why would a fifth generation vintner, who’d made wine in Germany, France, and here, be convinced that he was losing water if he actually wasn’t? As she went back to the living room, she gazed down at the small crate of wine. And was he bringing wine to Charlie in thanks for the rare bottle, or was he making an overture, now that Dominic was dead?

  As the afternoon wound on, Maris pondered these questions as she did some light housekeeping—straightening up the public rooms and emptying the trash. Bear was kind enough to take the magnums up to Charlie’s room before leaving for the day. Cookie retired early to her room and Charlie had yet to return.

  As the sun began to dip toward the purple line of the horizon, Maris reviewed the guest calendar. Although two couples were arriving today, it was going to be a late arrival—too late for the Wine Down. Though it didn’t happen often, Maris decided she wouldn’t be serving wine and cheese today.

  “Just as well,” she muttered.

  It’d been a long and too eventful day. She went to the library and took down a book at random. It’d be another couple of hours before the new guests arrived. After she turned on the Tiffany lamp and took a seat, she took a look at what she’d selected and opened it.

  “Trilby,” she read from the title page. “By George du Maurier. 1899.” She felt the brush of warm fur against her ankle, and looked down at the floor. “Mojo.” She patted her lap. “Come on up.” He lightly jumped up, did a single turn, and settled down into a fluffy ball, tucking his front paws underneath him. She showed him the book. “Have you read this one?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Me either.” She turned to the first page. “It was a fine, sunny, showery day in April,” she read, and Mojo purred.

  14

  In the morning, as they did every day, Maris and Mojo left the bedroom and followed the wonderful aroma of breakfast the short distance to the kitchen. From the giant stove at the far end, Cookie looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Good morning, you two. Sleep well?”

  “Like a log,” Maris said. “Both of us.” As though to echo her, Mojo gave his signature meow, making both Cookie and Maris laugh. “Couldn’t have said it better, Mojo.”

  “I swear that cat of yours understands us,” Cookie said, as Maris came to the stove to see what smelled so good. “Isn’t that
right, Mojo?”

  But in reply, he went to his bowl, sat down next to it, and started to clean his face.

  Maris smiled down at the chef. “Oh, he understands us all right. He’s just not letting on. That would be too easy.” She eyed the skillet and the thick handmade tortillas standing by. “Breakfast Burritos?”

  “Time to change it up a bit,” Cookie said, nodding.

  She was scrambling together eggs, crispy hash browns, local caught lox, and three local cheeses from Cheeseman Village. The aroma was absolutely intoxicating. “Oh,” Maris said. “My favorite.”

  Cookie regarded her as she put a hand on her hip. “Hold on. I thought ‘Breakfast Pie in a Skillet’ was your favorite.”

  Maris grinned at her. “Of course it is—until you make Breakfast Burritos.”

  “You can’t have two favorites,” the chef said, her brow furrowing as she turned back to the stove.

  “Sure I can,” Maris assured her. “It’s one of the many talents I possess, particularly with food.” She stood back to take in the rest of the kitchen and clasped her hands together, rubbing them. “What can I do to help?”

  For a long moment Cookie said nothing, and Maris had to stifle an impish grin. She knew she was a disaster in the kitchen. They both knew it. There was nothing, even something as simple as cracking an egg, that she couldn’t manage to muff. Even so, she couldn’t help but take just a tiny bit of a naughty-girl delight in teasing her friend.

  “I know,” Maris exclaimed, as though she’d just thought of something. “I’ll get the warming trays ready.”

  Cookie’s shoulders relaxed a little. “If you think can manage,” she said, looking over her shoulder and giving Maris a wink.

  Maris narrowed her eyes at the older woman. Who had been teasing who, she wondered.

  When Maris moved the first warming tray to the dining room’s sideboard, she found that Cookie had already brought out sides of guacamole, pico de gallo, and even Delia’s hot sauces. It was the perfect breakfast for guests to try them. As Maris turned on the tray, it occurred to her that the choice of Breakfast Burritos had been by design.

  Back in the kitchen, Mojo’s orange eyes followed her and he gave a plaintive little meow. Properly washed, he was ready for his breakfast. Maris took his smoked salmon from the refrigerator and put a portion in his dish. Before she could get out of his way, he used the top of his head to nudge her hand aside.

  “Um,” she said, backing up. “Bon appétit.”

  “While you’re there,” Cookie said, when Maris was stowing the salmon, “could you get the blueberry yogurt?”

  “Of course,” Maris said.

  “I think that turquoise-colored glass bowl would work for it.” The chef began moving the finished burritos to the metal tray.

  “Good idea,” Maris said.

  With the yogurt complete and beautifully displayed next to the homemade granola at the beginning of the buffet, Cookie placed a bowl of fresh berries just behind it. The two of them stood back for a moment, and nodded simultaneously.

  Fresh sourdough bread next to the toaster, along with small cylindrical curls of the ultra creamy butter from the Cheeseman Village dairy, finished off the breakfast buffet, and not a moment too soon.

  “Good morning, Maris,” Charlie said. “Good morning, Cookie.”

  Though he smiled pleasantly, the boyish grin had gone and the dark circles under his eyes said he hadn’t slept well. The shock of Dominic Alegra’s death—or possibly the shock of being a suspect—could easily account for being sleepless. But as usual, he wore a crisply pressed dark blue shirt, matching tie, and a nicely tailored business suit.

  “Good morning, Charlie,” Maris said. “There’s freshly squeezed orange juice in the decanter, and just brewed coffee in the carafe.”

  He picked up one of the china cups and a saucer. “I think I’ll just start with some coffee.”

  “Did you get the wine magnums that Mr. Krone brought by?” she asked, as she picked up a plate and Cookie began to make some tea.

  “Oh, is that how that got there?” he said and smiled. “I should have guessed.” He looked at her. “Yes, I did get those. Thank you.”

  A young couple appeared in the doorway. “Good morning,” the woman said. Kate Palmer and her husband George looked to be in their early to mid thirties. A petite, dark-eyed brunette, she contrasted with her tall, lanky, and already graying husband.

  “Good morning, Kate, George,” Maris said. They’d arrived with another couple last night, all of them traveling together. “Cookie’s to-die-for Breakfast Burritos are in the warming trays, and we’ve also got homemade granola with blueberry yogurt which is made locally.”

  George’s eyes lit up as he surveyed the buffet. “It looks wonderful.” He picked up a plate and served himself a burrito, followed by Kate, who did the same.

  Not five seconds later, their friends arrived. “I see we’re not the only early risers,” Sarah Kelton said smiling. “Good morning, everybody.

  Her husband William followed her. “I’m on vacation,” he said. “There’s no such thing as early rising.”

  Like their friends, the second couple were the same age and just as upbeat. While William was dark complected with an artful stubble of beard, his wife was fair-haired and green-eyed. Also like the other couple, something about their perfectly coiffed hair, upscale fashion sense, and expensive jewelry spoke to them all being affluent.

  Maris took her plate to the long table, making sure not to sit with Cookie. Eating with the guests was a tradition at the B&B, one to which Maris had easily warmed. It encouraged conversation, and she enjoyed hearing about the lives and jobs of their visitors.

  For a few minutes, the foursome explained that the two men were financial analysts and the two women were real estate agents. The women had known each other first, and then found that their husbands knew each other as well.

  “Talk about a small world,” Sarah said, smiling.

  “Are you planning on seeing any of the local sights?” Cookie asked. To Maris’s surprise she was sprinkling some of Delia’s hot sauce onto her plate.

  “If that includes the wineries down south,” William said, “then yes.”

  “We’re here for the wine harvest,” his wife Sarah said.

  “All the way from Canada,” Kate added. “But we’ve always heard so many great things about it.”

  At the talk of wine, Charlie perked up. “You heard right,” he said. “You’re going to visit one of the best wineries at the best time of year. Bar none.”

  Maris nodded to him. “Charlie Gorian, may I introduce Sarah, Kate, George, and William. They joined us last night. Everyone, Charlie Gorian.” There were murmurs of acknowledgement all around.

  “So, Charlie,” George said, sprinkling some hot sauce on his pico de gallo. “You’ve already been to the wineries here?”

  “Many times,” he said, his boyish smile back. “I’m a repeat offender.”

  “And not just here,” Maris prompted.

  “Oh?” said Sarah, her pencil thin eyebrow raised. “We travel for wine too. Maybe we’ve visited some of the same wineries.”

  But by the time Charlie finished rattling off the extensive list of worldwide wine regions he’d visited, the four other guests stared at him in stunned silence. As though talking of wine had improved his appetite, Charlie finally went to the sideboard and took a burrito.

  He lifted the plate to his nose. “This smells amazing.”

  Cookie nodded to him. “Thank you.”

  “Are you saying you’ve tasted wine at….all of those locations?” William asked.

  Charlie decided to stand and eat. As he chopped into the burrito with the side of his fork, he shrugged. “That’s my job.”

  “Your job,” Kate said, envy in her voice. She glanced at her companions. “Nice work if you can get it.”

  Charlie grinned at her. “You won’t hear me complaining.” Then he took a bite of the burrito and made an appreciati
ve sound. He nodded his head, swallowing. “Wonderful.” He looked at the four other guests. “You hear a lot about the charm and hospitality of the Bordeaux region, or Champagne, but believe me when I tell you that the Lighthouse and B&B of Pixie Point Bay outshines them all.”

  Maris grinned and lifted her orange juice to him. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “Anything local you care to recommend, Charlie?” George asked. “You know, in terms of wine or tasting.”

  Although the young man took a breath and seemed about to launch into an answer, he paused. Then he eyed the other guests. “I’ll tell you what. Rather than have me tell you, I can show you.” He looked at Maris. “Perhaps this evening? I could maybe host a little tasting?”

  “Really?” Sarah crowed. “That’d be amazing.”

  “With our host’s permission, of course,” Charlie said, inclining his head to Maris.

  “I think that would be delightful,” Maris said. “We usually begin our Wine Down around sunset.”

  “Wine Down,” Charlie muttered and laughed a little. “I’m going to have to steal that one from you.” He chopped into his burrito again. “Sunset it is, if everyone is game?”

  “Absolutely,” Sarah said, reinforced by yeses from the others.

  For a few moments, they ate in silence.

  “I must say,” Cookie said to Maris. “These hot sauces from Delia’s are really wonderful.”

  Maris nodded. “I have to agree—in moderation.”

  “This one is wonderful,” George said, picking up the bottle. “Delia’s Sizzling Smokehouse of Pixie Point Bay. I might have to get some before we leave.” He eyed Charlie’s plate. “You not a spice fan, Charlie?”

  The young wine investor shook his head, as he finished his burrito. Then he quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’m tasting later today. I want to keep my palate neutral.”

  For an awkward moment, the other four guests stared down at their plates.

  Finally, Kate said, “Oh.”

  “But let me give you a tip before you go,” Charlie said. “Something only the pros really do.” Almost as one, the two couples leaned toward him. “No cologne or perfume.”