“Well,” Maris said, “thank you anyway. But you say you put it in your truck and it disappeared?”
“After I stopped for gas at Flour Power,” he said. “I thought that if someone was really hungry enough to take it, they could have it. That was fine. The bees make a lot, so I can bring more tomorrow.”
Maris had to smile at the big softy.
“That was this morning?” Cookie asked him.
Bear nodded. “I went inside to pay my bill. When I came back it was gone.”
“Do you know what time?” Maris asked.
Bear slowly combed his fingers through his beard. “Close to eight o’clock.”
“Were there any strangers there?” Maris asked. “Anyone you didn’t recognize?”
He nodded. “Lots. It’s festival time. Fabiola and Jude were both busy.”
Flour Power Sandwiches & Gas was part filling station, part sandwich shop, and part auto repair. The young couple from Haiti were likely experiencing their first festival as well.
“Hmm,” Maris said, thinking back to the plaza. “I was at the market about three hours after you were at the station. Then I picked up the sandwiches about half past noon.”
“Plenty of time to make it from one spot to the next,” the chef concluded. She scooted back her chair. “Well, I’ve got to go move that laundry to the dryer.” She picked up her sandwich and turned to Maris. “Thanks for picking up lunch. That was fantastic.”
Bear stood as well. “Thank you, Maris. It was delicious.” He finished off his glass of juice with an appreciative “Ah.” Cookie took his glass along with hers. “Thank you, Cookie.” He looked at Maris as she stood too. “Time for the bearings.”
Maris picked up her sandwich and empty glass. “Thanks, Bear. For me, I think it’s time for some cleaning.”
4
As Maris followed Cookie into the house, one of the guests was just coming down the steps.
“Good timing,” Bowdie Johnson said.
Maris paused in the hallway, smiling. “Bowdie,” she said. “Timing is everything, they say.”
“In music and life,” the young man agreed.
Maris had already learned that the blues guitarist’s name was a sort of shortening of his real name: Beau de Glen Johnson. He was a young looking forty, with light brown hair, a stubble mustache, and steel blue eyes. Painfully thin, his oversized bling made him look even thinner. From the various festival posters, she also knew that he was one of the headliners. Like the other musicians, he’d arrived ahead of the start of the festival.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
He nodded at her sandwich leftovers. “I’m just about to head off and forage for lunch. I was wondering if you could give me a recommendation.”
“I’d be delighted,” she said, and hefted the sandwich. “And I can start with a whole hearted recommendation for Delia’s Smokehouse, specializing in all manner of barbecue, not to mention some sizzling sauces. We just enjoyed their BBQ Shrimp Po’ Boy sandwich. Truly excellent.”
“Smells great,” he agreed.
“I have some menus for Delia’s,” she said. “And, if BBQ and spice aren’t your thing, but sandwiches are, there’s Flour Power Sandwiches & Gas just outside of town. Excellent fresh coffee and pastries there too.” She gazed out the library’s large window toward the bay. “But if you have a little time and would appreciate something a bit more upscale, then I can recommend Plateau 7. You’ll need a reservation, but the French cuisine and the amazing view simply cannot be beat.”
He considered for a moment, and stuck his hands into the pockets of his black, skinny-fit jeans. “I think I’ll try the place on the bay.”
Maris smiled and nodded. “A great choice. Let me get one of their cards for you.” She went to the dining room, fetched an elegant and simple business card from a drawer of the sideboard, and brought it back. Bowdie had moved into the library and was looking out the window.
“I can’t believe how clear it is,” he said, “after that thick fog this morning.”
“Every morning,” she said, pausing to look out as well.
“Every morning?” he said. Then he glanced in the direction of the lighthouse. “I guess that’s why you need the beacon.”
“Exactly,” Maris said, handing him the business card. “It’s hard to make out the restaurant from here.” She pointed in its direction. “But you can definitely see the lighthouse from there.”
He looked up the coast and then gazed down at the card. “Super, thanks.”
As he tucked it into his back pocket, she said, “Will you have time on your visit to see any of the sights? We have kayaks and paddleboards at the dock below the lighthouse.”
He pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I’m not really one for sports. I had to give all that up when I was a kid.” He raised his hands and wriggled his fingers slightly. “I have to protect my hands.”
Maris nodded, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, of course. That should have occurred to me. Your hands are your living.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” he agreed. “But really, when I was young, there was no time. It was guitar, morning, noon, and night—mostly night.” He smiled a little. “While the other guys were shooting hoops or playing video games, I was sneaking into bars to hear the bands.”
Since he still looked like a gangly teenager, Maris could almost picture it. “So, not exactly a conventional childhood.”
Bowdie laughed. “It is if you play the blues. I even took up smoking to roughen up my voice, trying to sound and look older.” Maris’s eyebrows flew up, and he held up his hand. “But I’ve stopped. That was definitely not the smartest move of my life—plus it didn’t work. I’ve been thrown out of more bars than I can count.” He rubbed his stubble. “Until the facial hair. That was a life saver.”
Bowdie had a baritone quality to his voice. Not as rumbling and low as a deep bass, but still very pleasant. Maris couldn’t imagine actually trying to mar it.
Just then, the musician’s stomach rumbled, and he covered it
