“Great,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”
16
As Maris moved toward the shade cast by the gazebo, she saw someone on an intercept course—and bristled. The woman had nerve, Maris thought. She would have to grant her that.
“Maris,” Megan said, approaching her, journal in hand. “I’m glad I saw you.”
Maris couldn’t return the sentiment. “Megan. What can I do for you?”
“I understand there have been a couple of thefts in town,” the journalist said. “Is that normal for Pixie Point Bay?”
Maris did her best not to show surprise as her mind raced. Could any of the magick folk have mentioned the missing items to her? She very much doubted that. More than likely, the journalist had been eavesdropping.
“I’m afraid I don’t know about any thefts,” Maris said evenly.
“Someone stole some fishing weights from the tackle shop,” she said, flipping through her notes. “Castaways.”
“Fishing weights,” Maris said, pretending to think about it. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“And,” Megan said, turning the page, “a package of postcards from Inklings.”
Now Maris didn’t have to lie. “I’m afraid I didn’t know about that either.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Have you noticed any suspicious activity?”
Other than you snooping in my room? Maris thought, but said, “It’s awfully crowded this weekend.”
“Ah,” Megan said. “So you think it’s one of the visitors?” She was jotting down notes furiously.
“I didn’t say that,” Maris said. “Nor did I mean that.”
“Is there a history of theft among the residents?”
“None of which I’m aware,” Maris said.
It suddenly occurred to Maris what these scattershot questions actually were: a fishing expedition. Megan had no clue where to look or who to interview. Though irritated and wary at first, Maris relaxed.
“I’ve seen that the shop owners here are pretty lax about security,” the journalist said. “It pretty much invites a thief to steal.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Maris said. “It would seem you know more about my town than I do.”
The older red head slowly closed her journal and met Maris’s gaze with her hawkish one. “I sincerely doubt that.” Although she paused for several seconds, Maris let the silence stretch. “How long have you owned the B&B?”
“Since my aunt died,” Maris said.
“In the fire,” the journalist said. “Yes, I remember reading about that in my research.” She seemed to be making a mental note. “And how long has your chef worked there?”
Maris frowned a little. She’d never thought of Cookie as ‘her chef’ or the fact that she ‘worked’ at the B&B. Both she and Cookie—and Glenda before her—were simply doing what they loved. Maris forced a smile. “You’d have to ask Cookie.”
“I see,” Megan said, casting an eye around the busy plaza. “I suppose you know pretty much everyone here.”
Again, Maris let the silence stretch, but finally said, “Not everyone.”
“Really,” the journalist said, smirking a little. “I’m told you manage to get around while you investigate murders. It’s interesting that you and crime seem to…go together, shall we say.”
More fishing, Maris thought. Or possibly an implication. It didn’t matter. If Megan wanted to wander down the wrong line of inquiry, then Maris would let her.
“I’d have to say you’re right,” Maris agreed, genuinely smiling now.
“Oh?” the journalist said, blinking. “Really?”
“I do get around,” she replied. “Once upon a time I opened a checking account.” She pointed to the credit union. “Right over there. Another time I visited a yacht. That was at the pier. Then there was the time I took an art class.”
Megan’s face soured. “I see.”
In fact, Maris thought, Megan did not see—not in the slightest.
Just then Minako passed them, phone in hand, catching Megan’s attention. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, not waiting for Maris’s reply. She trotted to catch up with her.
“With pleasure,” Maris muttered under her breath.
17
Although Maris turned to see if she could catch sight of Mac and Bowdie, it was Millicent and Eunice that she saw approaching. The two older ladies ignored the musical equipment, speakers, and cables, and took their customary seat inside the gazebo. Millicent beckoned for Maris to join them.
“Maris,” the president of the crochet club said. “Enjoying the festival?”
In her early eighties, she was dressed in one of her elegant silk dresses, today in peach, the long, sheer sleeves billowing as she gestured to the plaza.
“I am,” Maris said, as she stepped around a microphone and then a speaker to stand at the railing near them. “Have you ladies seen any of the performances?”
Eunice, whose mouth was normally downturned, frowned a bit deeper. “Only from a distance.” Unlike Millicent, she dyed her hair. This month the shoulder length curls were the color of an open flame.
“Not a fan of the blues?” Maris asked.
Eunice pushed her glasses back up her nose and peered at the surroundings. “The music is fine. It’s these crowds.” She shook her head. “Too many strangers in town.”
“But it makes for good commerce,” Maris said. “It’s hard to argue with the way these strangers keep the businesses hopping.”
“Yours included,” Millicent replied. “I understand you’re full up.”
No doubt the head of the crocheting cabal knew more about the B&B’s guests than Maris did. In fact, she and her cohort might know something about the thefts.
Maris nodded. “Full up is right. Two of the musicians are staying with us, along with a journalist, a young family, and a retiree.” She leaned back against the railing, taking a casual pose. “Naturally there’s been a good deal of talk about the festival and some about music.” She paused for a moment. “In fact, it seems as though one of Glenda’s blues albums seems to have been…misplaced.”
Although Eunice had been glaring at the crowd around one of the autograph tables, her gaze flicked back to Maris. Millicent leaned forward, a sly look stealing across her face.
“You don’t say,” she said, and exchanged a look with Eunice. Millicent nodded to her.
“My phone disappeared this morning,” Eunice said, her tone a bit angry. “Not that I used it much, but still.”
“Your
