The Witch Who Heard the Music (Pixie Point Bay Book 7): A Cozy Witch Mystery, стр. 10
“You don’t like the blues?” Maris asked, tapping her toes now.
“Aurora likes the business,” she said. “But the music?” She waved her hand as though swatting a fly. “No.” She eyed Mac, on the other side of Maris. “But Aurora sees that you are gaining an appreciation for the blues.” The older woman gave her a wink, briefly exposing her bright orange eye makeup. “Good for you.”
“I’m surprised,” Maris told her. “Helen mentioned that you’re this year’s head of the festival’s organizing committee.”
The older woman nodded. “This is true. Aurora wanted to see it done right.”
“Well, you’ve done a magnificent job.”
As the owner of Magical Finds, the largest store in the town, let alone on the plaza, Maris wasn’t surprised that Aurora wanted to make sure everything ran smoothly. “Business is brisk?” she asked.
Aurora nodded. “Excellent. Truly excellent.” She glanced toward her three story Victorian, a former hotel. But as another song started, she covered her ears. “Aurora will go back now,” she shouted, “but she saw you and wanted to say hello.”
They exchanged a brief hug. “Good to see you, Aurora.”
But as the storekeeper made her escape to the rear of the plaza, Maris’s gaze followed her. As it did, she noted that just around the corner from Magical Finds was Delia’s Smokehouse, and she couldn’t help but think of the missing credit card machine. Now it seemed that her B&B might also have been the victim of a theft.
But the only people who’d been there, aside from the usual contingent, were the guests. Maris watched Bowdie finish a solo as the crowd thundered it’s approval. Of all the B&B’s occupants, only he, Spats, and George would have a special interest in the album. Though she hated to think that any of them would be capable of stealing it, she knew where her investigation needed to start.
9
Though anxious to get to the bottom of the thefts, Maris knew the investigation would have to wait. She and Mac arrived inside Inklings just as a small acoustic group was starting up on the ground floor. Spats was playing a small, single snare drum, along with two guitarists and a harmonica player.
Mac leaned close. “This is the group I was talking about earlier,” he said. “A lot like the one on that album of your aunt’s.”
As the leader of the quartet began to sing, Maris eyed the crowd. Minako and Alfred were there, of course. Alfred was refilling the apple cider decanters that were always on hand in the bookstore. He must be doing double duty with the free drinks with so many people in the store. It looked like the bookshelves on this level had been moved away from the lobby area to make room for the low, square stage. Even so, Maris noted a number of coffee table volumes about blues music and musicians artfully placed in hard-to-miss locations. Like the other businesses in town, including hers, it looked like the bookstore was doing well too.
Behind the long counter, Maris once again admired the vertical garden on the wall behind it. Minako had cultivated succulents mixed with draping flowers, and the entire feel of it was lush and tranquil. Some of them stretched toward the large display windows at the front of the store, where sunlight poured in.
Maris also spotted George, her retired B&B guest, in one of the overstuffed chairs close to the small stage, listening intently and smiling. Another guest, journalist Megan Kantor, was also on hand—taking notes as always. Most of the crowd stood, as did she and Mac.
At the end of the song there was enthusiastic applause, and George used two fingers in his mouth to give a loud whistle. The rhythm guitarist launched right into the next song with a pounding strum that seemed familiar.
“I think I recognize this,” Maris said into Mac’s ear.
He grinned at her. “You should.”
After the lead guitarist played a few licks, the singer stepped up to the mic and belted out the fact that he “had the key to the highway,” to which most of the crowd sang along. Maris recognized it as one of Glenda’s favorites and had to smile. Though she didn’t know the entire song, she definitely hummed what she knew. The harmonica player took a particularly nice solo before the lead guitar took over again and finished the song. The room erupted in applause and whistles, with Maris and Mac clapping and cheering.
Three more numbers followed, enjoyed by the crowd with just as much enthusiasm as the first two. As the group signed off and left the stage, a number of fans crowded forward for autographs, with photos and pens in hand. Maris was pleased to see Spats signing a couple of CDs before he saw her and came over.
“Maris,” he said, “good to see you here. Thanks for listening.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said. “You and the band were wonderful.”
The older man bent his head to her. “Much obliged.” When he looked up, he noticed Mac.
“Spats Thackery,” she said to him. “This is Mac McKenna.”
As the two men shook, Mac said, “One of the best renditions of Key to the Highway I’ve ever heard. Just amazing.”
“Thank you, sir,” Spats said, smiling as the crowd dispersed around them.
“I gotta say,” Mac began, “I’ve been listening to you since–”
“Mr. Thackery,” Megan Kantor said, tapping the drummer on the shoulder. “I wonder if you’d answer some questions for a piece I’m writing.”
The interruption hadn’t exactly been rude, particularly given her profession. But the words ‘brusque’ and ‘abrasive’ sprang to Maris’s mind.
Spats turned and smiled at the woman. “I’m sure I’d be delighted, just as long as its quick, because I’m in the middle of talking to these good folks here.”
Maris smiled to herself. She hadn’t been the only one to notice the journalist’s butt-in attitude. But Megan wasn’t