“Built five years after the lighthouse, in 1890. But the two weren’t connected until six years later.”
The journalist nodded as she wrote. “Got it.” She paused for a moment, and gazed around the kitchen. “And have there been a lot of modifications?”
Maris tilted her head a bit. “Not as many as you might think, and mostly for functionality. The electrical system and plumbing.” She indicated the large commercial refrigerator, range, and double ovens. “The kitchen has seen the most upgrades over the years. Although the decor is Victorian, the appliances are most definitely modern.”
The journalist noted that down. “So, it’s not a historic landmark.”
“Correct,” Maris confirmed.
“And the lighthouse?” Megan asked.
Maris shook her head. “It’s not a landmark either. The previous lightkeepers never sought that designation. As far as modifications, there’ve definitely been some for the sake of safety and continuous operation. For example, the light is provided by LEDs now, instead of an oil lamp.”
“An oil lamp,” Megan said, smiling a little, as she made a note.
“We still have it, actually. My Aunt Glenda kept it.”
That made Megan pause. Then she flipped back through the journal. “That reminds me. Something about that fire. Something I heard.” She stopped and ran her finger down the page, reading. “Uh huh. The previous lightkeeper was killed.”
Maris set the chain aside and recounted how Glenda had died. She’d come back to Pixie Point Bay for the funeral, and decided to stay.
“And what did you do before that?”
“I worked in the hospitality industry,” she replied. The longer she was here, the less she thought about that previous career. At this point, she couldn’t remember the last time it came to mind. “I spent a couple of decades trotting the globe for Luguan Imperial Resorts.”
Megan nodded as she scribbled a few notes. “Impressive. I stayed in one once.” She looked up at Maris. “We might even have crossed paths. Were you ever at the one in Manhattan?”
Maris smiled at her. “No.” Which meant it must have been run pretty well. “They’re headquartered in Miami.”
Megan nodded. “So you own the lighthouse and B&B now,” she said. “You inherited it.”
Maris nodded. “That’s right.”
“Interesting,” the journalist said as she made a note. “Pretty nice inheritance.” There was no disputing that, but Maris decided not to go into the details. The journalist smirked. “It’ll be a matter of public record—the value of the property and the circumstances around your aunt’s death.”
Maris pointedly picked up the chain again. “Of course it will.” She used the rag to dab more polish and applied it to the next section. “No doubt you’ve worn a rut to wherever those sorts of records are kept.”
“Let’s just say the sites are bookmarked on my computer,” the journalist replied. “I might also have a few numbers on speed dial.”
Megan closed her journal and snapped the rubber enclosure around it, but didn’t turn to go. When Maris gazed up at her, she’d stashed the notebook under her arm and was looking out the window. Though not as expansive a view as the bay windows gave, it nevertheless looked north along the rugged and undulating coast. Because its location on the rocky promontory gave the lighthouse an ideal placement, the views from any of the B&B’s windows were pretty stupendous.
At the moment, the sinking sun was bathing the buff cliffs in a soft rosy glow. The water below them had turned Prussian blue, with just a thin line of white surf against the shore.
“A truly magical location,” the journalist muttered. “I’m hard pressed to think of another quite like it.”
“Thank you,” Maris said simply.
As though startled from her thoughts, Megan peered at her. “Any idea where your chef is?”
Maris shook her head. At this time of day Cookie might be in her garden, or perhaps the greenhouse. But the last thing that Maris would inflict on her was a Q&A session with the reporter.
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Cookie handles the breakfast buffet, and I put on the evening wine and cheese, which will be in about an hour, by the way.”
Megan took another look around the kitchen, then turned to go. “Thanks for your time.”
“My pleasure,” Maris lied.
23
On the following and final day of the three day festival, Maris and Mac weren’t attending. Though he would have liked to and she certainly wouldn’t have minded, civic duty and hospitality would wait for no man or woman. With another breakfast buffet done and the dishwasher running, it was time to collect the trash.
But as Maris passed the parlor, she paused. Everyone but her and Cookie were gone, and ample time had passed since her quick conversation with Bowdie. She decided to do a quick check. As she crouched down in front of the album collection, she quickly flipped through the records and had to smile. The missing album had returned.
As she reached for it, a tiny, tinny meow drew her attention to the door. Mojo stood there, his big orange eyes fixed on her.
“Hey there, Mojo,” she said, standing.
But as she approached him, he trotted off. Out in the hallway, she saw that he had paused and was watching her over his shoulder. He gave another meow, before disappearing into the living room.
She knew a summons when she heard one.
Maris followed Mojo to the living room but stopped in the doorway.
“What in the world?” she muttered.
Crouched low with his rump in the air, he was glaring at a lump in the rug.
She’d vacuumed this room just yesterday, and there’d hardly been a wrinkle in the Persian rug, let alone a bump.
“What’s going on?” Cookie said, coming up behind her.
Without a word, Maris stood aside and simply pointed to the scene in front of them.
Cookie put a hand to her chest. “Goodness. What is that?”
“I have no idea,” Maris said under her breath.
Rear end in the air, Mojo waggled his body back and forth, dug his claws into the thick pile of the rug, and pointed his whiskers ahead. Slowly and silently,
