“Good morning,” Spats said, staring at the sideboard as he clasped and then rubbed his hands. “I was afraid we’d be too late.” He went directly to the sideboard and picked up a plate.
“The smell of this breakfast upstairs actually woke me up,” Bowdie said. He turned to Cookie as she passed, “Good morning. It looks as good as it smells.”
Cookie gave him a smile. “Good morning. Let’s just hope it’s worth getting up early.” She headed for the kitchen.
“Early is right,” George said. “I’ll bet you two didn’t get in until pretty late.”
“That’s the music life,” Spats said over his shoulder. He put some potatoes on his plate. “I haven’t seen Egg-in-a-Hole for years. These look perfect.”
Maris had to smile at his name for the breakfast dish. “With melted Gruyere.”
Spats took a bite before he’d even sat down. “Oh,” he said. “I could eat this all day.”
George smiled at him, his newly full plate in front of him. “I’m gonna try.”
As Bowdie sat down with them, he leaned forward to pull his chair closer. But when he did, his enormous gold necklace clinked against the side of the table.
“Don’t go out on the water,” Spats said, as he dug his fork into the potatoes.
Bowdie frowned a little. “Who me? Why not?”
Spats eyed the gold chain. “Because if you fall in, you’re gonna sink bling first.”
George laughed around a mouthful of food, and Maris had to chuckle a little.
Bowdie grinned at the drummer. “Lucky for me, I don’t intend to go near the water.”
Spats took a couple gulps of coffee before he regarded the young guitar player. “You know I’m just messing with you. If I could afford some bling, I’d probably break my neck with it.”
As talk turned to the festival and blues music, Maris excused herself. Cookie was no longer in the kitchen, probably starting her chores already. But as Maris rinsed her plate and juice glass, she thought of the three men in the dining room and the missing items. Though she and Mac were going to the festival later in the day, she was going to make time to do some investigating.
12
When Maris came back in the house from taking out the trash, she paused at the parlor. George was looking through the blues albums. Had it not been for the fact that one was missing, she’d have thought nothing of it. A blues fan would naturally want to see them, maybe even play them. She had stopped at the doorway and was thinking about how to begin the conversation when George noticed her.
“Say,” he said, standing up. “That is one serious collection you’ve got there. Pretty much all the classics.”
The records, probably about one hundred of them, lined the bottom two shelves of the stand that held the Victrola. Most were LPs but some were also singles.
“No doubt you recognize them,” Maris said, smiling.
“Oh, of course,” the big man said, nodding. “Masterpieces, most of them. It must have taken your auntie decades to collect it. If you wanted an education on the blues, you could just start at one end.” He pointed to the first album and then to the last. “And go straight through.”
Although Maris had been looking forward to the music festival, she’d never expected to learn so much about her aunt. She’d had no idea that the crazy records she’d played from time to time were a serious collection, years in the making. If George hadn’t mentioned it, she might never have known.
“I know you’re retired, George, but I don’t think you mentioned your work. Was it music?”
His chuckle rumbled from deep in his belly. “Oh no, not music. Textiles.”
Maris arched her eyebrows. “Textiles. Interesting. Somehow I didn’t see you as a fabric guy.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to look again,” he said, heading to one of the upholstered chairs. He touched the fabric on the back. “You’ve got a classic jacquard here. I could tell from across the room because of the intricate and variegated pattern.” He lightly ran his finger over it. “Very fine work, and very much in the style of the period.” Then he pointed to the curtains. “Your lace draperies have a classic English Ivy pattern. Elegant and almost sheer, but with enough material to reduce the direct sunlight into the room.”
Maris stared at the pattern as though she’d never seen it before. “I had no idea that was English Ivy. But now that you say it, of course I can see it.” She gazed at the chair as well. “You know, it’s always been a little fear of mine that when the time comes to reupholster the furniture, I won’t be able to find the right fabric. I can’t imagine it’s vintage, but still…”
“When that day arrives, call me,” George told her. “I’ll steer you in the right direction. You’re right that this isn’t the original. It’d never hold up with daily use. But there are a number of shops that make Victorian inspired cloth, exactly for this purpose. There are even some that make period replicas.”
Maris smiled at him. “Well, thank you, George. I might just take you up on that—though I hope it’s not for a while.” She paused for a moment, considering the albums. “So your love of the blues, that’s more of a hobby.”
He laughed that rumbling, deep laugh again. “More like love at first listen. And now that I’m retired, I can indulge myself.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
He pointed to the upright piano against the far wall. “That one right there.” He grinned at her. “Care to hear a little?”
“I’d be delighted,” Maris said.
But as George pulled out the bench and lifted the keyboard cover, a thought occurred to her. “I don’t know the last time that was tuned. And here by the ocean…”
“Not a problem,” he said, taking a seat. “I’m not a stickler for right notes.” His thick fingers
