Candy glanced at her watch. It was eleven fifteen. She was supposed to meet Maggie at the diner at twelve thirty for lunch, but she knew she’d have a hard time sitting still until then. She shook her head. “How ’bout I drop you off and meet you back there in a bit?”
“You got something planned?”
Candy shrugged, trying to dispel the disheartening feeling that had settled over her. “Ben asked me to stop by the Crier offices to pick up some files and sign a few forms, so I guess I’ll run over there and see what’s up.”
Doc nodded approvingly. “Good idea. While you’re there, see what you can find out about Ray’s case. Maybe Ben’s heard something. And I’ll talk to Finn and the boys. Then we can compare notes and see what our next move is.”
Candy felt only the faintest ray of hope, but at least they were doing something. “Sounds like a plan.”
She drove into town, turned onto Main Street, and pulled up to the curb in front of Duffy’s. Doc opened the passenger door and climbed out while the Jeep idled noisily.
“I’ll be back around in an hour or so,” Candy called to her father. “Will you be okay ’til then?”
“Don’t worry about me. Just don’t forget to pick me up on your way back through.”
She gave him an indulgent look. “I won’t forget, Dad.” Doc closed the door and, leaning in the window, smiled at her. “I know you won’t, pumpkin.”
“Dad . . .” she began, then allowed herself the briefest smile when she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“You know, you’re mighty pretty when you smile like that,” he said with a wink. Then, slapping the side of the Jeep in farewell, he ambled off toward Duffy’s Diner.
Candy pulled back out onto Main Street and made an almost immediate left onto Ocean Avenue, her eyes scanning both sides of the street for a parking spot. But not surprisingly, there was none to be found.
She swore under her breath and considered making a U-turn right there in the center of town but thought better of it when she saw a police car in her rearview mirror. So, with no other options, she decided she’d just have to circle back around on the Loop and make another pass along Main Street. Maybe, with luck, she’d find an open spot.
At the bottom of Ocean Avenue she dutifully put on her turn signal and, after pausing an appropriate amount of time at the stop sign, made a right turn onto the Loop, which took her southward along the coastline. A moist warm breeze blew in the window, bringing with it the heady, comforting smells of the sea.
She couldn’t help glancing off to her left, out over at the ocean, as she drove. It was a magnificent shade of deep blue today, rich and lively, a color that reminded her of nothing less than cool, ripe blueberries. The sea tossed restlessly. A sail or two could be seen on the hazy horizon. Flocks of gulls, cawing raucously, swarmed after whatever tidbits their dark questing eyes could find.
Candy loved being by the ocean. Despite the fact that she drove past it several times a week, she still marveled at it every time she saw it. There was something magical about the sea—perhaps, she thought, because it was constantly moving, always changing yet always the same, unending, unstoppable. It could be graceful and generous, yet dangerous and sometimes deadly, demanding respect.
But there was more to it than that. The sea had become almost spiritual to her. It had a way of flowing into her, inhabiting her, fulfilling her. For those few moments, as she gazed out over the ocean, the cares of the everyday world seemed trivial, so small in comparison to the vastness and majesty of the sea.
Whenever she was feeling down, or stressed, or overwhelmed by the constant jabs and distractions of the world, or when she felt she had lost her way, she had only to stand here upon these jutting black rocks that lined the coast and look out to the sea, and she would feel at peace again.
But she had no time to gaze too long at the sea today. The troubles of the world were pressing in, poking at her, like thorns on a rosebush.
Speaking of thorns . . .
As she angled southwestward along the Loop, the pointed rooftops of Pruitt Manor came into view above the tops of a few thick-trunked pines that had made a bold stand on Kimball Point. The place seemed to beckon to her, and she felt compelled to respond.
Before she knew what she was doing, Candy had flicked on her left-turn blinker and steered the Jeep sharply onto a private driveway that led between two five-foot-tall stone pillars. The iron gate stood open, so she drove on through, still not quite sure what she was doing. A small, tasteful sign alongside the road announced PRUITT MANOR—PRIVATE PROPERTY.
She had been here only once before that she could recall, when Mrs. Pruitt had opened the place to the Cape Willington Garden Society. Candy and Maggie were only occasional Society members, but they had made sure they were there that day, dressed in cool summer frocks like the other ladies, wearing broad-brimmed straw hats as they strolled the grounds under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Pruitt and her staff. They had even been invited into certain sections of the house—the foyer, the formal sitting room, the music room, and a few other rooms on the main level, plus the conservatory, a magnificent gabled glass-and-mahogany structure at the back of the house, from which double doors and a bluestone staircase led down to a wide lawn that stopped at a jumble of rocks perched above the roiling sea.
The place had taken Candy’s breath away. Mrs. Pruitt had even been reasonably hospitable that day, offering the ladies of the Society tea and trays full of finger foods as she pointed out her herb, rose, and perennial gardens abloom with pulmonarias, primulas, nepetas, and verbascums. That had been the first time Candy had noticed Hopkins (or whatever his name was), the pug-faced butler /chauffeur who never seemed to be too far from Mrs. Pruitt’s side.
Even now, as she followed the winding gravel driveway toward Pruitt Manor and pulled into the wide paved courtyard that fronted the house, Candy half expected the butler to dash suddenly from the mansion’s front door, arms flailing wildly in protest of her appearance here.
And, in truth, she did feel like a pauper in a princess’s court as she shut off the Jeep’s engine and leaned forward to gaze through the windshield, up at the imposing English Tudor façade of Pruitt Manor.
“Oh man,” she said softly to herself.
It took all the will she could muster to open the door and step out of the vehicle. She wished then that she had worn something more presentable, instead of her regular faded jeans and sleeveless cotton blouse. But no matter—she was here now. She might as well do what she had come here to do.
And what exactly is that? she wondered to herself.
“Girl, you’ve been doing some mighty strange things lately,” she muttered to herself with a shake of her head as she followed a flagstone walkway past impeccably manicured lawns and neatly clipped bushes to the manor’s recessed entryway. Taking a breath, she rang the doorbell. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in way over your head.”
She waited, trying to quickly sort out what she was going to say. Then, as she heard footsteps approaching inside, saw the door handle twist and the door inch open, she pasted her most pleasant smile on her face.
The door opened fully, and there, naturally, stood Hopkins (or whatever his name was).
He gazed at her without expression. “Yes?”
“Oh, hello, I’m, ah, I’m Candy Holliday. I was wondering if Mrs. Pruitt or Haley is here today?”
The butler was silent a moment, eyeing her up and down. “Yes?”
“Well, I was wondering if I might see them. I’m, um, I’m writing a story for the Cape Crier—the local newspaper, you know. And I, um, I wanted to ask Mrs. Pruitt a few questions about the pageant.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” Candy swallowed. “No, I don’t.”
The butler bowed his head slightly. “I shall inquire as to whether Mrs. Pruitt is available.” He held the door open a little further. “Won’t you come in?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Of course. Thank you,” Candy said again.
He nodded obliquely at her and disappeared through a side archway, into the room beyond.
“Well,” Candy said to herself as her gaze wandered up the grand staircase and to the ceiling high above, “at least you made it this far.”
The place was elegantly decorated in the English Tudor style, reflecting the exterior of the manor. Queen Anne-style chairs, ornate wood paneling, heraldic designs, and stylish floor tile featuring an oak leaf and acorn design gave the foyer a warm yet aristocratic feel. A chandelier suspended over her head—a hefty wood-beam and brass affair with lights that resembled thick candles—looked like something from a medieval hunting lodge. Portraits of austere, rich-looking folk, probably long dead, adorned the walls. They peered down their long noses at Candy, as if to inquire, quite snobbishly, about her presence here. She sneered back at them, hoping belatedly that some hidden security camera hadn’t captured the face she had just made.
She was debating whether to sit in one of the Queen Anne chairs when she heard approaching steps. It was the butler again, looking as stiff and disapproving as the people in the portraits.
“Madame will see you now,” he announced formally with a slight nod of his head. His elbows were held back against his sides as if he were pinioned. “If you will follow me, she will see you in the tea room.”
Ohh, the tea room! Candy thought excitedly, though to the butler she said, trying to match his formality, “That will be fine. Thank you.”
He turned abruptly and led her back through a hallway and past a series of rooms, each more ornate and stylish than the one before—a formal sitting room, a music room with a grand piano, an elegant dining room with a mahogany table large enough for a dozen or more dinner guests. Toward the rear of the house the roar of the ocean became louder, and as she entered the tea room she saw why.
It was a small sitting area that opened onto the conservatory and the gardens and ocean beyond. Mrs. Pruitt, perched nonchalantly in a wicker armchair, perusing a home and garden magazine, looked up as Candy and the butler approached.
“Ms. Candy Holliday to see you, madame,” the butler announced formally as he presented Candy to his mistress.
“Thank you, Hobbins. Would you tell Cook that she may serve us now?”
Hobbins! That’s the butler’s name! Candy made a mental effort to lock it into her brain.
“Of course, madame,” Hobbins the butler said, using a tone that was more polite and respectful than the one he’d used with Candy. He pivoted perfectly on his heel and left the room.
Mrs. Pruitt set aside her magazine and held out a hand without rising. “Candy dear, how nice to see you again,” she said, a practiced smile on her aging face.
She was a handsome enough woman, Candy now saw close up, though thin as a stork. Her gray hair was cleverly arranged and amazingly well maintained, even in the summer heat. Her eyes were intelligent and watchful, her complexion clear and creamy. Even her wrinkles looked artful, giving her a sophisticated appearance in keeping with her carefully honed image.
“Won’t you please sit down?” Mrs. Pruitt motioned to a chair opposite her.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Candy said as she settled into the wicker chair. “Your house is beautiful.”
“Well, thank you for saying so.” Mrs. Pruitt nodded graciously. “But you’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
Candy’s head bobbed up and down. “Three years ago, with the Garden Society.”
“Yes, I thought so. With your friend—her name was . . .”
“Maggie,” Candy finished for her. “Maggie Tremont.”
“That’s right. Maggie. A delightful woman. Wonderful sense of humor. She’s doing well, I hope?”
And so it continued as Mrs. Pruitt’s cook appeared bearing a sterling silver tray. Upon the tray sat a flowered china teapot in shades of pink and apricot, matching Royal Doulton teacups and saucers, and a silver serving plate piled high with cookies, cakes, and other assorted goodies.
Mrs. Pruitt poured, and gazing out over the sea, they sipped and chatted pleasantly about various community-related subjects and people until Mrs. Pruitt finally said quite pointedly, “I suppose you’re here to ask me about that Vine woman and the pageant.”
“Oh.” Candy had to set her teacup down so she could focus. “Well, yes, actually. That is why I wanted to talk to you. I’m working on a column for the Cape Crier about the event, and I wanted to ask you a few questions about that night.”
Mrs. Pruitt swiveled toward her, giving Candy her full attention. “What would you like to know?”
Candy paused a moment, organizing her thoughts. She wished she had brought a pen and notepad so she appeared more official. “Well, I was wondering”—she cleared her throat—“I was wondering if you could tell me your reaction to what happened that night.”
“My reaction?” Mrs. Pruitt frowned. “My reaction,” she repeated. “Hmm.” She considered this a moment. “Well, as you probably are aware, I was quite upset by the whole affair. It was simply horrendous of them to crown that Vine woman as the Blueberry Queen. Totally irresponsible, and a total travesty. To think that anyone on that stage was better than my Haley is simply ludicrous,” Mrs. Pruitt said with a flare of righteous anger. It was as if she had been waiting for days for someone to ask her opinion of what had happened that night, and it all came pouring out of her, but she quickly caught herself and, straightening her shoulders, adjusted her tone. “Of course, with what has happened in the past day or so, the events of that night have been completely overshadowed. Naturally, Ms. Vine’s untimely death is a terrible occurrence. Nonetheless, she did not deserve to win that crown.”
Mrs. Pruitt nodded her head sharply, as if to put a fine point on her statement.
Candy picked up the teacup again and took a sip of tea before proceeding, holding the cup with both hands, giving herself a moment to form her next question. “So is it your opinion that you—or, er, Haley was unfairly treated?”
“Of course! It’s obvious the judges were in error,” Mrs. Pruitt stated adamantly. “As I have said, Haley clearly was the best contestant in the pageant. Anyone who was there could see that. Talentwise, she was far superior to the other girls.” Mrs. Pruitt sharpened her gaze on Candy. “Do you believe otherwise?”
Candy had to admit that she didn’t. “Haley’s performance was clearly the best.”
Mrs. Pruitt nodded approvingly.
“But if that’s true—and we both agree that it is,” Candy went on, thinking out loud, “and if it was as obvious to others in the audience, including the judges, as it is to you and me, then how did Sapphire win? Why wasn’t Haley crowned the Blueberry Queen?”
“An excellent question,” said Mrs. Pruitt. “You said you work for the newspaper. Perhaps you should investigate.”
“Perhaps I should,” Candy said thoughtfully. She leaned forward in her chair. “You don’t suppose . . .” she trailed off, thinking.
After a moment, Mrs. Pruitt prompted, “What, dear?” Candy let out a breath. She decided that she might as well say what was on her mind. “Well, you don’t suppose there was something . . . strange going on?”
“Bribery, you mean?”
“Bribery?” That wasn’t what Candy had been thinking, and it surprised her, though she seemed to recall Maggie saying something about bribery also. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes.”
“One of the judges?”
Mrs. Pruitt nodded.
Candy mulled that over. “I would have thought it would have been something a little less . . . conspiratorial. An error in scoring, perhaps.”
Mrs. Pruitt made a somewhat surprising noise through her nose. “If you believe that, you really are as naive as you look.”
I look naive? Candy thought sadly.
And Sapphire thought I was lonely. I really must do something about my image. . . .
“But if what you say is true,” Candy went on, “that someone was being bribed by Sapphire, then which of the judges was it?”
Mrs. Pruitt shrugged. “Probably all of them.”
Candy’s mouth nearly dropped open. “All of them?”
Mrs. Pruitt seemed annoyed by the question. “I wouldn’t put it past that Sapphire Vine woman. You saw her up there. You know what she’s like. She would have stopped at nothing to win that pageant.” Mrs. Pruitt leaned forward in her chair, and said emphatically, “Nothing.”
“But how?” Candy asked, clearly taken aback.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, dear. I’m sure you can follow the clues.”
That sparked another thought. “You don’t suppose there’s a link between her death and the fact that she won the Blueberry Queen Pageant, do you?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Pruitt evenly as she refreshed Candy’s cup of tea, “that’s the big question, isn’t it? So, tell me, how is your blueberry farm doing?”
Caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation, Candy answered quickly. “Oh, well, fine, just fine, thank you.”
“You know, my grandfather once owned that property . . .”
Some time later, with the interview complete, Candy thanked Mrs. Pruitt, who rose and showed her to the door. Hobbins, it appeared, was preoccupied.
As Candy was in the foyer about to leave, Haley Pruitt came dashing down the grand staircase, though she came to an abrupt stop when she saw her grandmother.
“Ah, here’s Haley now,” said Mrs. Pruitt, giving her granddaughter a disapproving look. To Haley, she said, “Candy Holliday stopped by to talk about the pageant, dear.”
“Isn’t it exciting?” Haley asked, crossing to her grandmother’s side. She practically bubbled. “I’m going to be the Blueberry Queen!”
Town In a Blueberrry Jam Page 14
