“Muckraker,” Maris read.
Lately Megan was characterized as someone who sought out scandal in order to make it public. It was a feel-bad style of reporting and writing that was most definitely no longer in vogue. Once lauded for asking the tough questions, now her journalism was sometimes labelled inflammatory.
One critic even wrote, “Rigorous takes a back seat to scurrilous.”
Maris sat back. “Hmm.” The thefts weren’t exactly a scandal, but could she make them seem that way? It was possible, if she tried hard enough. From what Maris had seen, trying hard was one of Megan’s strong suits.
In the many times that she had been with the journalist as she’d made notes, Maris had never seen what she was actually writing. She gave her temple a tap and called up the time she’d been interviewing Bear.
Although the notebook was upside-down, Maris was slowly able to read the text—and she had to frown.
“Bear Orsino,” she read. “Six foot, five inches. Heavy. Beard and short hair, light brown. Blue overalls, white t-shirt. Handyman. Too dull for a thief. Possible victim. Honey.”
Possible victim? Of course he was a victim. The honey had been taken from his truck. Plus Bear was anything but dull. He might be a man of few words—very few words—but he was neither dim nor dull.
Maris tapped her temple again and called up her time with Megan in the kitchen, when the journalist had asked her about the lighthouse and B&B.
“Death by fire,” the first note at the top of the page said, and Maris stopped reading.
Instead she seethed.
She had specifically told the woman exactly how Glenda had died. They were going to need to have a talk.
Just then Mojo jumped onto her lap, startling her for a second.
“Uh, come on up,” she said, petting his sizzling hot back. “What did I tell you?” He gave her a plaintive little meow. “Well maybe next time you’ll listen.” But as she gazed at his spot near the window, she realized how low the sun had sunk. She picked him up and put him on the floor before she stood. “Time to start the Wine Down.”
28
As Maris headed to the kitchen to start another fondue but with different dippers tonight, she ran across George. He was coming down the stairs with an album in his hand. But as Maris stared she realized it wasn’t just any album, it was the album: the one that had been missing and then reappeared. Before she could ask him about it, he lumbered to the bottom of the steps and showed it to her.
“Look what I found,” he said, staring at it himself. He handed it to her.
“Found?” she said. “Where?”
“Well,” he said, rubbing the top of his head and glancing back up the stairs, “you won’t believe it, because I sure don’t. But it was in my suitcase.”
Maris scowled at him. “Your suitcase?”
The big man nodded. “I’m afraid so.” She stared at him, incredulous, but then realization began to dawn. If he hadn’t put it there, she could guess who had. “I don’t know how it could have got there.”
“Well,” Maris said, seething again. “It seems to have a mind of its own. It’s gone missing a couple of times this weekend.”
“Missing?” George asked, seeming a bit alarmed. He pointed to it. “Then maybe you’d better put it in a safe place. It’s a keeper for sure.”
Maris nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told.”
George regarded her. “Well, did they tell you its probably worth seven or eight thousand dollars?”
Her mouth dropped open briefly, before she recovered. She gaped at the album in her hand. “This?”
“Mmm hmm,” George intoned. “That.”
She turned the album over in her hands, before staring at the front again. It was done in sepia tones, but it wasn’t a photo. It was a cartoon. The band was drawn playing together on a round stage, but the instruments and players were all a little out of proportion and angular.
“I had no idea,” she said, finally looking up at him. “But you do?”
He chuckled a little. “Let’s just say I keep tabs on the market value of a few select records.”
Her brows knit together. “As an investment maybe?”
Now he laughed. “Nah. It’s my ego.” He held out his hand for the album, and she gave it back to him. He turned it over. “Here,” he said, pointing at the credits on one of the songs.
Maris peered down at it. “Piano, Big George Brunell.” Her eyes widened. “You?”
He laughed again and handed the album back to her. “Is it really that hard to believe?”
As she read the credits for the other songs, it turned out he’d been the only piano player on the entire album, playing on most of the songs. She flipped it over to study the front, and pointed to the rotund shape playing the wonky piano.
“Is this you?” she asked.
He nodded, grinning. “It’s hard to recognize me because it’s not my best side.”
“Wow,” she said, smiling at him. Then she recalled him playing on the out-of-tune upright. “And in answer to your question, no, it’s not hard to believe at all.” She gazed at the parlor. “But your knowledge of fabrics…”
He shook his head. “I know, I know. But I was a much younger man when this album was made. Full of vim and vigor, full of hope.”
Maris looked at the vintage record it with a new appreciation, and not because of its value. “Full of talent, I’d say.”
He inclined his head to her. “I thank you.”
“So you were playing professionally in the early sixties?”
