“Two feet thick?” she guessed. That had to help keep the temperature pretty even.
But on the second level—though it was hard to tell—the wall appeared to be slightly less thick. Finally, on the third level, the wall surrounding that window was almost a normal thickness. As the cone of the lighthouse tapered inward, the wall thinned, becoming more graceful as the building rose.
Maris had to smile at the small realization. After all this time, the Old Girl was still a surprise. As she climbed the last couple of steps, breathing a little hard but no longer having to pant, she ascended onto the metal landing and gazed around at all the glass—three hundred and sixty degrees of it. As she’d done on the way up, she took in the structure itself rather than just the views.
An elegant and finely wrought metal frame held the crystal clear windows, also known as storm panes. It made sense to her that the view ought to be as unobstructed as possible, allowing the lightkeeper to spot trouble, and those at sea to spot the beam. But she’d never really appreciated the beauty of the floor to ceiling glass itself. Bear kept the panes amazingly clean, doing the maintenance that Aunt Glenda had once done. But now Maris wondered if she wouldn’t enjoy taking on some of the upkeep herself—as long as heavy lifting wasn’t involved.
“Or greasy bearings,” she said.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t as icky as it sounded.
She crossed her arms, pondering it, as she paused to take in the view. Although the optics room was warmer than the tower below, it seemed to her that the panoramic view itself was bright and hot. So many blazing white sparkles reflected from the surface of the bay, it looked more like a mirror than water. The sky’s pale blue had taken on a powdery lightness, particularly over the distant horizon. Even the craggy rocks below glistened with ocean spray, and the green of the undulating coastline was dotted with wildflowers in brilliant hues of yellow.
Maris found herself smiling in every direction. It was simply gorgeous.
Finally she turned to a sight that was equally entrancing but in a different way—the fresnel lens. Although most people probably thought of it as the all-seeing-eye of the lighthouse, she thought of it as its heart. Complicated, multi-faceted, and filled with light, Maris considered it the core of the magical being.
“Hey there, Claribel,” she said to the giant steel and glass structure.
As she gazed into its myriad of shining pieces, most etched with fine concentric circles, she let her eyes unfocus. A rainbow of tiny sparkles danced inside the glass, refracting the brilliant sunlight. They floated to and fro, some of them swirling like the sea breeze outside. But eventually, as Maris watched, they began to coalesce. They formed a scene of something she recognized.
“The festival,” she murmured.
Two groups were performing in the plaza, one on the far stage and one in the gazebo. But as her view zoomed in, she was drawn to the other end of the town center. There on the sidewalk, she clearly saw Millicent. The president of the crochet club seemed to be listening to the music, though she stood at a distance, in front of her home and the club’s headquarters. People milled around her and, as usual, her eagle eye seemed to notice everything.
But then the vision winked out.
Maris had to blink. For a moment, she simply stared at the fresnel lens thinking about what she’d seen. It made sense that someone who lived on the plaza might step outside to enjoy the music, and yet something about that bothered her. She recalled the many times she’d visited Millicent in her home, sitting in the crochet circle. The club president often sat in front of the fireplace, but there was no bad seat in the circle because the large front room was bathed in light.
But at its back, Maris had noticed a white baby grand piano. Though it simply looked like another piece of furniture, there was sometimes music on its stand. As her brows drew together, she tapped her temple. She could just make out the large letters of the piece’s title: Piano Sonata No. 1. It had to be a classical piece.
“Hmm,” Maris muttered.
So Millicent played classical piano. Could she also be a fan of blues music? No doubt music lovers simply loved music, but the two genres seemed pretty far apart. Or perhaps her interest in the festival stemmed from being on the committee. Although Maris considered it for a second, there was really only one way to find out.
Maris smiled at the glittering glass in front of her, and patted the base of the lens.
“Thank you, Old Girl.”
26
As Maris exited the base of the lighthouse to the side yard, she immediately spotted Bear and Megan. She had her journal out, pen in hand, and seemed to be taking notes at a furious rate.
“Uh oh,” Maris muttered, and casually strolled over.
Although Bear stood at the entrance to the greenhouse with a caulking gun in his hand, he seemed frozen in place, his head turned to the reporter.
“You say it was in your truck when you pulled in for gas?” Megan was saying.
The journalist had obviously not let go of the thefts. The woman had dogged determination.
“Megan,” Maris said. “I’m surprised you’re not at the festival, especially since it’s the last day.” In fact, she wasn’t surprised in the least, but thought she’d try a hint.
The woman smirked at her. “It turns out there’s more to Pixie Point Bay than blues music.” She nodded at Bear. “Mr. Orsino here has been telling me about his missing jar of honey.”
“Whoever has it,” he said, “can keep it.”
“Yes, yes,” Megan said impatiently. “So you said. If someone hungry took it, they can have it. The bees always make more.” She fixed him with one of her hawkish looks. “But tell me, did you report it to the sheriff?”
Maris clenched her jaw,
