“How does this festival compare with the others on the circuit?” she asked, already looking at the journal.
“It’s the best there is,” he said. “Bar none.” He nodded to himself. “And you might say I’ve been to a few.”
“Any one that stands out in your mind as the worst?” she asked.
Spats frowned at her—or the top of her head since she was looking down. “Worst? There’s no such thing.” He paused for a moment. “What’s that saying they have about fishing?”
Mac laughed a little. “The worst day fishing is better than the best day at the office.”
The drummer snapped his fingers and pointed at Mac. “That’s the one.” He turned back to Megan. “I get to play the blues for a living.” He nodded emphatically. “’Nuf said.”
“But the life of a musician,” the journalist replied. “It’s not the easiest.”
Spats cocked his head back. “Easy? No one ever said it was going to be easy.” He glanced at the empty stage where his snare drum was still set up. “I take my gear from town to town, bar to bar, joint to joint, and bang my heart out pretty much every day of the year. Not every place is as nice as Pixie Point Bay, not by a very long shot.”
Megan looked at him for the first time since the questions had started. “So you’re in it for the love of the music?”
Now Spats guffawed. “Well it ain’t the money,” he declared.
“Speaking of the money,” Megan said.
“Let’s not,” Spats said, cutting her off. Then he flashed a toothy grin at her. “Thanks for being so quick.”
Maris’s brows rose at the deft but very final conclusion to the interview. Megan must have heard it too.
She closed her notebook. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Thackery.”
Without a glance to anyone else, she turned on her heel and went to Alfred, opening her journal again.
Mac indicated the stage. “Can I help you with the drum?”
Spats clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Oh no, but thanks just the same. That little snare is something I could carry in my teeth.”
“All right,” Mac said, extending his hand. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up. Just wanted to say how much we enjoyed the show.”
“We really did,” Maris added.
“Now that’s what I call music to these ears,” he said smiling as he shook Mac’s hand again. “Thank you.”
10
Outside, in the late afternoon sun, Maris and Mac crossed the still bustling Towne Plaza. Yet another group was playing in the red gazebo, Bowdie was signing autographs in a booth, and Eugene was serving BBQ buyers at the restaurant’s tent. But as evening approached, Maris needed to get back to the B&B and prepare for the Wine Down.
“What was your favorite band today?” Mac asked her.
Maris pursed her lips and thought. “Well, Bowdie is obviously an amazing guitar player, but…I think the acoustic group inside, the one with Spats, has to be my favorite.” She smiled. “Or maybe I just liked the songs.”
Mac smiled back at her. “Sometimes they go together.”
“And you?” Maris asked him, as they stepped up to the sidewalk.
“Same,” he said. “That band’s energy, how in sync they were, it all added up to an amazing bunch of songs.”
Because regular parking was not to be had anywhere in Pixie Point Bay, Maris had arranged with Ryan Quigg for them to park in one of the spaces behind his fishing and tackle shop. As they approached Castaways, Maris saw Zarina on the sidewalk.
“Maris,” she said, as they all came to a stop outside Castaways. “Good to see you.”
Although her enormous glasses dwarfed her face, they only made her dark eyes seem larger. As usual, the older woman wore her brunette hair up in a bright, floral head scarf. Maris guessed her to be about the same age as Millicent, the president of the crochet club where she had met Zarina—putting her in her late seventies or early eighties.
“Zarina,” Maris said, “you’re looking very well.” She indicated Mac. “Have you met Mac McKenna?”
Zarina extended her hand. “I only know our sheriff by his fine reputation.” She smiled brightly at him as he gently took her hand.
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Zarina and I sometimes crochet together,” Maris said. She nodded at the club’s building, which was also Millicent’s house. “At By Hook or Crook.”
“Crocheting,” Mac said. “My mother crocheted. I still have a few of her things.”
“Oh,” Zarina said, her face lighting up. “Thread or yarn?”
Mac’s brows drew together. “You know, I’m not sure.” As he cast his eyes to the ground, thinking, Zarina looked at Maris but tilted her head toward Mac and gave Maris a knowing waggle of her eyebrows. By the time Mac looked up, she was gazing placidly at him. “It must have been thread, it was so small.”
“Mmm hmm,” Zarina intoned. “Like our Helen. How she can see those doilies that she does is beyond me.” There was a brief pause as Zarina looked at the two of them. “Well, I best be off. My great grandchildren will be too big for their booties if I don’t finish them soon.” She beamed at Mac. “Wonderful to meet you at last.” Then she grinned at Maris. “See you in the circle, young lady.”
“See you later,” Maris replied, before Zarina turned and trundled off toward the plaza.
Inside Castaways, a couple of shoppers were idly browsing the completely jam-packed store. Fishing gear of every type either hung, was shelved, or binned from floor to ceiling. In the corner there was a manikin dressed in a pair of large rubber boots with an apron that came up to the chest. Around its neck there were at least half-a-dozen wicker baskets and canvas shoulder bags, and it also wore a floppy hat.
Although she and Mac could have proceeded through and exited the back door to get to his truck, they both paused.
“Where is he?” the sheriff asked.
“Here,” Ryan said, his muffled voice coming from
