Megan Kantor was there.
Even with her back to Maris, her red hair was unmistakable. Although Maris couldn’t be sure, it looked as though she’d just closed the middle drawer of the dressing table. Maris went still.
Let’s just see what she’s looking for, she thought.
But it appeared she’d finished with the dressing table because she turned to the door. Rather than try to jump back out of sight, Maris simply stood there.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Though she’d anticipated startling the snooping journalist, Megan simply raised her gaze and looked at her. Her narrow face didn’t show the least surprise—or even an ounce of embarrassment. “Is this your room?”
Maris took a step in. “In fact it is. And this part of the house is–”
“I got lost,” Megan said. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I was in the lighthouse and realized there were two doors. I went through the wrong one, I guess. I found myself in some kind of laundry room, and then in here.”
Unfortunately, that was only too plausible. The lightkeeper’s house had been attached to the lighthouse not long after it was built. The other door, that led to the side yard and Cookie’s garden, was the original.
“You can exit this way,” Maris said, indicating the door behind her.
“Good,” the older woman said, and brushed past. Without a word of apology or backward glance, she simply went out into the hall. Maris could hear her footsteps steadily retreating.
Now that she thought of it, Megan hadn’t been at breakfast this morning.
Had she been snooping this whole time?
Maris went into the hallway and saw that the journalist had disappeared, but she paused when she looked at the nearby door to Cookie’s room. They had never worried about security or privacy and, like her own bedroom door, Cookie’s was open. She went to it and peeked inside. Everything seemed neat and in order. But as she backed out, she pulled the door closed. When she went back to her room, she entered, closed the door, and locked it. It couldn’t hurt to be too careful.
15
On the second day of Blues on the Bay, the crowd in the Towne Plaza was even bigger. Maris and Mac stood nearer to the red gazebo today, so she could see.
“I guess they’re staying in Cheeseman Village,” he said, smiling.
“Oh?” Maris said, grinning. “What makes you think that?”
All five of the young musicians were wearing the distinct, yellow, cheese wedge hats that the dairy sold.
The band started their next song, a loping and lilting tune. The lead singer played mandolin, backed by a standup bass, a fiddle, banjo, and guitar—all acoustic. Unlike the thrumming music of the other blues bands, this group had more of a country vibe to them. The singer’s high, reedy voice implored the blue moon of Kentucky to shine on. When the song finished to a rousing round of applause, Maris leaned in toward Mac.
“I wouldn’t have thought this kind of music was called the blues,” she said.
He nodded as he clapped. “More bluegrass really. But in the end, it all falls under the rubric of the blues.”
Maris looked around at the appreciative audience. Clearly they thought so too.
Not a yard away from them, Bowdie stood clapping as well. She gave him a little wave when he noticed her. Then he came over to join her and Mac.
“Great group aren’t they?” Bowdie said.
“Super fun to listen to,” Maris said.
Mac nodded. “Amazingly talented, especially for such youngsters.”
Bowdie watched them as they left the stage. “They’re all from the same extended family. The singer and banjo player are brother and sister. The rhythm section are their cousins. They’ve all been playing together since they could hold instruments. As I recall, both sets of parents come from musical families too.”
“Ah,” Mac said. “A musical pedigree. Well that would explain it.” He paused for a moment. “And you, Bowdie. Do you have a musical pedigree too?”
The guitarist ran his hand through his hair and chuckled. “Not at all. In fact, I guess you could say I’m a musical mongrel. Neither of my parents played an instrument. My earliest recollection of the blues is from friend’s records and the TV. Hearing those songs was like hearing a door open.”
“And you stepped through,” Maris said.
“Oh, I jumped,” Bowdie agreed. “With both feet.” He paused for a moment. “And never looked back really. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done.”
“It helps to be talented,” Mac said.
Bowdie laughed off the compliment. “Talent’s overrated. But being in the right place, at the right time? You can’t buy that.” Hands in pockets, he shrugged. “It’s like Johnny Mathis said. ‘It’s just that some people are lucky.’”
“Lucky,” Mac said, smiling at the quote. “Well, I can’t disagree with you or Johnny on that. Luck trumps just about everything.” He checked his watch and regarded Maris. “I could use some lunch. How about you?”
“Definitely,” Maris said. It was getting close to one o’clock.
Mac scanned the plaza. “I see Delia’s Smokehouse has a booth. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” Maris said.
“Bowdie,” the sheriff said, “can I buy you lunch?” He grinned at the younger man. “Always happy to support the arts.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I think I could eat something.” He gave Maris a little grin. “Then again, I think I could always eat something.”
“If you want to wait in the shade,” Mac said to her, “I’d be glad to go get it.”
Maris smiled at him. This was definitely something she could get used to. “I’m always happy to wait in the shade.”
Mac nodded. “Good. Do you know what you might like?”
Though Maris practically knew the menu by heart, she wasn’t sure what Eugene
