The Witch Who Heard the Music (Pixie Point Bay Book 7): A Cozy Witch Mystery, стр. 7
Maris shook her head, as she picked up the fluffy cat, who immediately purred. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“It almost makes me want to check the laundry and see if it’s folded,” the chef said.
“Or if any of it is missing,” Maris suggested.
Without another word, they went to the linen closet in the utility room, at the extreme opposite end of the house. Cookie threw the cabinet doors open, but a quick check revealed that everything seemed to be in place. She patted each of the neat piles as she counted them off.
The chef shrugged. “Of course I’m not sure what missing sheets would have told us anyway.” She backed up a pace. “Now I really think it’s time for tea.” She closed the doors, gave Mojo a pet, and headed toward the kitchen.
Maris turned, giving the little black cat a long stroke. “And a snack for you, young man. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell us, but it’s appreciated all the same.”
He gave her a plaintive little mew as they followed Cookie down the hall.
6
Maris had barely had enough time to finish her tea, when it was time to start preparations for the Wine Down. She was going to need extra time this evening, since she was breaking with tradition. But it had always been something that she’d wanted to try, or rather revive: a fondue.
Some weeks ago she’d found the vintage copper fondue set tucked away in a low kitchen cupboard. She’d cleaned and polished it, along with the matching forks, and this evening was as good a time as any to give it a spin. Unlike modern electric models, it was heated with a can of gel fuel.
With the flame lit and warming the pot, Maris fetched the ingredients. For the fondue, she gathered the fresh cheeses from the dairy in Cheeseman Village: Fontina, Gouda, and Gruyere. As the cubes melted, she added the secret sauce ingredients that elevated this fondue from melted cheese to a luxurious taste experience. Sauvignon Blanc formed the base of the liquid ingredients, accompanied by a shot of brandy, a splash of lemon juice, and a dollop of Dijon mustard. Finally, cornstarch returned some of the thickness, and nutmeg finished off the flavor profile.
As the pot simmered, Maris assembled the dippers: boiled new baby potatoes, which she’d allowed to cool, steamed broccoli and cauliflower florets, asparagus, button mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and cubes of Cookie’s sourdough bread. As she laid them all out, she had to admit it was a beautiful spread, even if she did say so herself. The colorful vegetables might be something she’d add to the regular cheeseboard.
With the food set, she opened the wines she’d selected. The dry Prosecco would be able to cut through the cheese, while the Syrah, also dry but red, would do the same. A carafe of cranberry juice and a plate of oatmeal cookies, made sure even the kids could participate.
“Wow,” Bowdie said, from the door. “I thought the B&B didn’t provide dinner.”
Maris grinned at him, as she put down the last of the wine glasses. “Let’s just call it a blast from the past.”
He was too young to remember the fondue parties of the 70s, but her Aunt Glenda had shown Maris how it was done. On more than one occasion, she and Cookie and Maris had sat around the pot in the kitchen. They’d even let her light the flame and take charge of the melt.
Before she could ask Bowdie how lunch at Plateau 7 had been, the McGrath boys made a beeline for the cookies, running around the musician.
“Boys,” their mother said. “We’re going to dinner.”
Tami and Jim McGrath, though staying at the B&B during the festival, had come for the outdoor activities. The family spent almost no time at the B&B, so Maris had hardly seen them, but they were all a matched set. All four had coppery red hair in different lengths and cuts, as well as freckles.
“One each,” Jim McGrath said, coming up behind them. He nodded to Bowdie. “Sorry about that.”
The musician only laughed. “I know better than to stand between a hungry boy and his cookie.”
As the older McGraths herded the boys out of the room, Maris and Bowdie were joined by Spats Thackery.
“Oh,” said the blues drummer, and another player in the festival. He clasped his hands in front of his chest. “Now this is what I call Wine and Cheese.”
Maris smiled at the older man. He was completely bald and his dark skin was the tiniest bit shiny on the dome of his nicely shaped head. He wore a goatee that had yet to show any gray, but his hands showed his age—slightly gnarled though immaculately groomed. And true to his name, he wore white cloth spats over his patent black shoes. He was dressed in a dark plaid suit and vest, but no tie.
“Spats Thackery,” Maris said, nodding to him. “May I introduce Bowdie Johnson.”
The drummer beamed at the guitarist. “No intros needed.” He stuck out his hand to the younger man. “Been a fan for some time now.”
“High praise indeed,” Bowdie said, grasping the man’s hand. “From the drummer who backed Spitfire Shaw for what—twelve years? Man, that gig in Monterey…”
As the two musicians fell into deep and detailed music conversation, Maris poured the wine, a glass of white and a glass of red, offering both to Bowdie, who took the white. Though she’d intended to pour another, so Spats could have his choice, he reached out for the red.
“Not so fast, young lady,” he said taking it. “I’m not particularly picky.” He grinned at Bowdie. “Shall we check out that amazing spread?”
“Please,” Maris said, extending her hand. “I hope you enjoy.”
As the two men picked up plates, fondue forks, and dippers, the final two guests of the B&B arrived. George Brunell was a