Megan Kantor trailed just behind him. In her mid-fifties with flaming red hair and a hawkish look to her narrow face, she was a journalist covering the festival for a travel magazine. Known for her Pulitzer award winning work—a mention of which she managed to work into their first conversation—her sharp eyes seemed to see everything.
Maris welcomed them and offered to pour wine. After all the introductions were done, Maris poured herself a glass of the Syrah. As everyone dipped and sipped, conversation naturally turned to the blues festival. It seemed as though George was a living encyclopedia about blues music, often filling in facts and dates that the two musicians were unsure about.
“Nope,” he was saying. “You’re talking about the third album they released. 1965.”
Spats thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “You’re right.” He regarded the big man. “Again.”
Megan hung back, preferring to sit at the table and take notes. From time to time, she sipped her Prosecco and turned her watchful gaze on each of the other guests in turn. Mostly though, she scribbled in the medium sized journal that had an elastic band to keep it closed. Her writing was tiny.
For a moment, Maris thought back to Mojo’s clue: five fold. Right now in the dining room, there were five people, including herself. But if she were involved with the thefts, wouldn’t she know?
Bowdie turned to her. “Are you a blues fan, Maris?”
“I’m learning,” she said, honestly, prompting a bit of laughter. She used her wine glass to indicate the parlor room at the front of the house. “It was my aunt who created the collection of albums.”
“Oh, I saw that,” George said, with something like wonder in his deep voice. “Amazing collection.” He glanced at the guitarist and the drummer. “Well worth a look, and maybe even a listen.” He turned back to Maris. “Does the old Victrola work?”
Maris nodded. “It does. Glenda never kept antiques just for the sake of show.”
“So I take it you won’t be attending the festival?” Bowdie said.
Maris finished sipping her wine. “Oh no. I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it. I may not be an aficionado, but I have a friend who most definitely is. We’ll be attending the festival together.”
Spats lifted his glass to her. “Well however you can get there, young lady,” he gave her a wink, “I say get there.” He indicated the sideboard. “And before we dive back into the fondue pot, may I thank you for the good eats.”
“Here, here,” the other men chimed in.
George patted his stomach. “It was a meal.”
Maris beamed back at them. If the Wine Down was meant to do anything, it was exactly this—friendly conversation in a relaxed and welcoming setting. The evening had been perfect.
She lifted her glass in return. “To the hottest music in a blues festival ever. I honestly can’t wait.”
7
The next day, after the B&B’s chores were done—and Maris had changed her outfit three times—she was ready. The cream-colored, short-sleeved shirt flared at the bottom, and she used one of Aunt Glenda’s silver-trimmed belts to bring it in at the waist. She smiled at the nice slimming effect it had. The blouse extended over the top of her aqua blue skirt, which swished dramatically when she turned. A turquoise necklace and matching open-toed heels finished off the outfit.
She turned to the bed, where Mojo was lounging, sprawled on his side. “What do you think?” He raised his head, his sleepy orange eyes gazing dreamily at her. “Better?”
In answer, he rolled to his back, stretched his front legs up and over his head, then let them slowly fall to the comforter.
She smiled as she walked over and gave his soft belly a gentle rub. “I’ll take that as a double high five.” He only sighed in return.
As she gave herself one more quick check in the mirror, she adjusted the necklace. Though it wasn’t enough to highlight her blue eyes, the cream shirt was a good compliment to her curly, strawberry blond hair. She picked up her purse from the dressing table and quietly left the room.
She was halfway down the hall, when there was a knock at the front door. Since guests came and went at all hours of the day and night, Maris knew that had to be Mac. Though he could have simply come in, Maris had noted on previous occasions that he never did. He always knocked and waited for someone to answer. Initially she’d thought it might be some sort of police officer protocol, since his first visits had been on official business. But now she simply chalked it up to politeness. She could already see him through the front door’s beveled glass panels. He was smiling.
As she opened it, she said, “Good afternoon, Mac.”
His smile grew wider. “Good afternoon.”
Easily six feet tall and athletically built, Sheriff Daniel “Mac” McKenna was the most eligible bachelor in Medio County. His cool gray eyes were kind, and almost matched his salt and pepper hair. But it was his easy manner and sense of calm that Maris found most attractive. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was handsome.
“I don’t think I’ve seen this outfit before,” he said. “Very nice.”
He was dressed in light khaki slacks and a powder blue polo shirt. “We’re almost twinsies,” she said. “But in reverse.” She was just about to close the door when she remembered her phone. “Oh. Hang on just a second. I forgot my phone.”
As Mac stepped inside and closed the door behind him, Maris went back to her room. Mojo was in the exact same position, paws reaching over his head for the pillow. Quietly, she went to the bedside table, unplugged her phone, and crept out. When she went back up the
