“My fingerprints?” the young woman said, looking alarmed.
“It’s standard procedure,” Maris said. “Mine are already on file.”
“That’s right on both counts,” Mac said. “It really is just a formality.” He indicated the dresser. “If you’ll step over here, it’ll only take a moment.”
Though she still seemed a bit shaky, Julia stood at the dresser in silence as Mac took each print. But by the time he produced the cleaning towelette and a business card, the young woman’s face had gone decidedly pale.
“Maybe you should have a seat,” Maris said.
But Julia quickly shook her head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
She staggered to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. As Mac put away the fingerprint card and pad, they could clearly hear that Julia was indeed sick. He laid the card and towelette on the nightstand, before he and Maris went back downstairs.
“I’ll check on her in a bit,” Maris said quietly.
Joseph was pacing outside, beyond Cookie’s garden, still on the phone. It was already late afternoon, the sun beginning its descent to the sea. A thin layer of clouds at the horizon were gleaming a pale pink that Maris knew would soon turn violet.
Only now did she realize she’d missed lunch. Somehow her appetite had gone. But hungry or not, the setting sun signaled that it was time to prepare the evening’s wine and cheese.
As she and Mac moved toward the front of the house, Maris said, “Looks like it’s time to get the cheeseboard started.”
He regarded her as they reached the front door. “You really think that Toler or Mendes is going to be in the mood?”
“Oh no,” Maris said, with a little smile. “I sincerely doubt it. No, we have two other guests here this week. They might be back soon, so I’ll need to get ready.” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Honestly, having additional people has helped to ease the tension here. Everyone has been on good behavior.”
Mac grimaced. “Until today.”
Maris’s smile fell. “Right,” she muttered. “Until today.”
Mac opened the door. “After I’ve been in touch with Ms. Graisser’s next of kin, I’ll pack up her belongings. If you could just lock her room until then, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure thing,” Maris said.
“Thanks for all your help, as usual, Maris. I’ll be in touch when I know more.”
“Thanks, Mac.”
When he turned to go, she gently closed the door behind him. Those coroner and forensics reports couldn’t come soon enough.
6
In the kitchen, Maris went to the giant steel refrigerator and took a look at the day’s cheese assortment. As she was pondering their possibilities, a tiny, tinny harmonica like meow called her attention to the floor.
“Mojo,” she said, to her little but pudgy black cat. “Your hearing is as good as ever.” His big orange eyes gazed up at her, and she had to smile. No matter what happened during the day, his presence always managed to comfort her. Inquisitive and affectionate, he never changed. “What do you say to a snack?” In answer, he gave an even louder meow. Named after harmonica player George “Mojo” Buford, he sounded more like his namesake than ever. Maris had to chuckle. “Never turn down a snack. Words to live by.”
She removed a couple of cheeses from the refrigerator, as well as his container of smoked salmon, and took them to the counter. Rather than follow her, he bounced lightly across the tile floor to wait by his bowl. She used a serving spoon to dish up a nice portion of the fish, and took it to the bowl. His glittering eyes followed her every move and no sooner had the fish landed in his dish, he lunged forward, burying his nose.
“Um, you’re welcome,” Maris said.
At least someone had a good appetite.
Hopefully the fact that she’d missed lunch would work in her favor at the usual morning weigh-in. It was always the last bunch of pounds that were the slowest to come off. But her clothes were definitely feeling more comfortable, and she had started to see the good results in the mirror.
As she washed her hands and took the cheeseboard and cheeses to the dining room’s sideboard, she turned her thoughts to what wines would compliment them. Often hosts would choose the wine first. Typically it was the more expensive component. But to Maris it didn’t matter where you started, as long as you ended up pleasing your guests.
As she sliced the aged Gouda—fresh from the dairy in Cheeseman Village—she decided its nutty flavor would stand up well to the full body of a cabernet. The fruity Gruyere, however, would go very nicely with a Chardonnay. From the pantry she brought out some water crackers, dates, and dried cherries. As a special treat, mostly for herself, she used her chocolate superpower to easily sniff out the Belgian dark chocolate she’d been saving.
Back in the dining room, she had just finished the last touches on the cheeseboard when the door to the back porch opened. A few seconds later, Lydia Urbonas joined her.
“Lydia,” Maris said, smiling. “Your timing is impeccable. I’m just about to open the wine. Chardonnay or Cabernet for you?”
The young brunette flashed her bright smile. “Oh, Cabernet please. Thank you.”
Maris judged Lydia’s age to be somewhere in her early thirties. Of average height and weight, she was incredibly fit—not chunky, but not a waif either. If there was a single word that Maris would pick to describe her, it would be solid. She wore a fitted t-shirt and shorts, and carried a towel, which she set on a chair.
Maris brought out a glass for red wine to the dining table and poured, while Lydia took a small plate and began to serve herself at the sideboard. “I’ll leave your wine here.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said.
Maris
