“So you’re from Boston?” Candy asked.
“Actually, I’m working in New York City right now,” Morgan said. “I’m with a financial firm. We’re in commercial real estate, property management, investments, that sort of thing. It’s fairly dull work, so I like to get away and come up here whenever I can. Cape Willington is just so beautiful at this time of year, and of course Auntie always loves the company—as long as I don’t interfere with her gardening.”
It was clear Mrs. Fairweather spent a considerable amount of time in her gardens, for they were quite verdant, and smartly laid out, making them easy to tend, with pathways, stepping-stones, and numerous places to sit, relax, and enjoy the flowers. Candy paused frequently to admire a small lush strawberry patch, an herb garden thick with lavender and chives, the neat rows of black-eyed Susans and lupines, phlox, and asters.
They found Mrs. Fairweather in a small alcove near the back of the yard, seated in a bright yellow Adirondack chair, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, with a basket of fresh cuttings beside her. As Morgan had said, she was resting in the sun with her eyes closed. She appeared to be taking a nap.
“Oh, here you are, Auntie,” Morgan said as they approached. “Are you awake? I’ve brought some visitors. Candy and Doc Holliday have stopped by to see you.”
“Who?” Mrs. Fairweather’s eyes eased open and focused on her guests. A faint smile came to her face. “Oh, hello you two. What an unexpected surprise. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
That got the conversation started, and soon enough Doc was able to angle it around to the shovel, but again, they came up empty-handed.
“I remember that day when you came out,” Mrs. Fairweather told him. “And I vaguely remember the shovel. But I don’t remember seeing it anywhere around the house after you left. And I tend to pick up all my tools every afternoon—I don’t leave anything lying around these days. I keep everything locked up in the garage. You’re welcome to take a look if you’d like.” She pointed to a narrow, low-roofed building nearby.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Doc said.
“Got so full I have to keep the car in the driveway,” Mrs. Fairweather went one. “Can’t fit it in the garage anymore. But I’m going to clean it all out one of these days and have a yard sale. Maybe this summer yet, if I get around to it.”
“Well, if you need help doing that, just let me know. I’d be glad to lend a hand,” Doc said. They talked for a little while longer but had a schedule to keep. So after saying their good-byes—and declining an invitation to stay and have a slice of warm strawberry pie—they were off again, to see Sally Ann Longfellow.
ELEVEN
They drove over to Gleason Street and turned left, which took them past Sapphire Vine’s old house halfway up the block. Sapphire had been a local Blueberry Queen and community columnist for the newspaper, as well as a gossip and a blackmailer, before her untimely death in that house a few years ago. More recently, some spooky happenings had taken place there—Candy remembered them well, for she’d been a central part of them. But the house had finally given up all its secrets and let go of its ghosts, and like the rest of them, with the passage of time, it had moved on.
As they approached the house, Candy slowed the Jeep a little, so she could get a good look at the place. A young family had bought it and moved in last fall, and they were in the process of fixing it up. Bright curtains decorated the windows, well-used rockers swayed on the porch, the cocoa-colored trim around the outside had been recently painted, and a new swing set was set up in back. The yard was neatly trimmed, and the flower beds were in bloom. The house looked lived in again. Candy couldn’t help but feel a surge of happiness as they passed by.
Sally Ann Longfellow lived a little farther out, at the end of Gleason Street. She was a longtime resident of the town and something of a local legend. She claimed to have familial ties to the famous poet, and she apparently had a few dusty old volumes inscribed by the author as proof. In her rebellious youth she’d eloped and married a farrier from Dover-Foxcroft, who died suddenly right before his twenty-seventh birthday, kicked in the head by a horse he was shoeing. Sally never remarried and in time took back her maiden name, choosing to live by herself for the better part of half a century—until one day, on a lark, she purchased two female goats, whom she named Cleopatra and Guinevere. Sally Ann developed a great affection for the goats, and took them with her to events and parades around town. They were popular with children and families, but the neighbors weren’t quite as enamored with the animals, especially when they broke loose of their tethers or wheedled their way out of their pen, on a quest for greener pastures.
Those goat adventures had caused quite a bit of friction in the small, close-knit community, especially in the early years. In time, though, the villagers became accustomed to the animals—or at least learned to tolerate them—and accepted them as part of the landscape, despite their sometimes cantankerous nature, which could mirror their owner’s at times.
Sally Ann was not known for her social graces. She could be civil when she wanted to be, but that wasn’t very often. She lived on a tight budget and rarely updated her wardrobe, so she could appear a bit raggedy at times, much to the consternation of out-of-towners, who sometimes mistook her for a bag lady and offered her a meal or a place to stay. Needless to say, Sally Ann did not take to such insults kindly, however well intentioned they might be.
Whatever her eccentricities, she was also solid New England stock. She was tall and strongly built, with a mane of long gray hair that fell halfway down her back. She combed it out every day and sometimes put it in a braid, or wore a headband or straw hat. Her hands were big, those of a laborer. Her word was her bond. She spent a lot of time by herself, respected other people’s privacy, and expected the same. But should anyone be in need, she was always among the first to offer help.
Her house was nothing fancy on the outside—just white clapboard and black shutters, with a low side profile, high end gables, a steeply pitched roof, and a small red-brick chimney protruding from the top. Behind the house was a small animal shed with a sloped tin roof and an attached pen, but there were no other outbuildings. A long dirt driveway, fringed with leftover gravel, led to a parking area beside the house. A pile of recently delivered firewood stood to one side, ready for stacking. Shade trees—maples and oaks and chestnuts, dressed in the fresh green of spring—populated the front and side yards, but the back was given over to extensive gardens. Along one side, a line of lilac bushes insulated the house from the road. And the two goats were tethered in the front yard, morosely cropping at the thick grass while intently looking around for something better.
As Candy and Doc pulled into the driveway, the goats bleated belligerently and the kitchen curtains fluttered. A few moments later the side door opened and Sally Ann emerged from the house. She was dressed in her work clothes—baggy khaki pants, a red flannel shirt, a dark green down vest, and brown clogs. She stood with one hand shading her eyes, the other on her hip, as she watched her visitors emerge from the Jeep. “I was just having lunch,” she said when they were within hearing distance, “but you might as well come on in.”
Doc slowed. “Oh, now, Sally Ann, we didn’t mean to interrupt your meal,” he said apologetically. “We can come back another time.”
Sally Ann waved a hand, more annoyed that he was thinking of leaving rather than staying. “Heck no, it don’t matter. I can always reheat it anyway. Nothing too fancy, just chicken noodle soup and crackers. So what brings you two out today?” Sally Ann gave them a firm look that was not unfriendly, but not necessarily friendly either.
“Well, we’ve come on farm business,” Doc said. “We’re looking for a shovel that I might have left out here a few months back, when I dropped by to knock the icicles off your house. I brought it along with me from Blueberry Acres. It had the initials B.A. on the handle. Does that ring a bell?”
Sally Ann nodded and answered right away, without having to give it
any thought. “Yup, I remember that,” she said. “Have you lost it again?”
“Again?” Doc echoed, surprised.
“Yeah, the shovel with the initials on the handle, right?”
“That’s the one, but . . . you’ve seen it again?” Doc didn’t quite understand what she meant.
“No, just the one time, when you left it here a few months ago.”
“Oh, well, that’s what we’re inquiring about,” Doc said, brightening, and he looked over at Candy and winked. “So do you know what happened to it?”
“I sent it back to your place—months ago.”
Doc’s brow furrowed. “But we never got it. Did you give it to one of us personally?”
“Well, no,” Sally Ann said. “I gave it to Ray Hutchins.” She was referring to a local handyman, who often did small jobs for Candy and Doc out at the farm. “He stopped by in April to help me take down the pen in the kitchen. He helps me with that pen every year. I keep the girls inside during the winter, you know,” she said, pointing with her chin toward the goats. “Just in the kitchen—they’re not allowed in the rest of the house. Me and Ray block off a little area for them.” She squinted. “’Course, they don’t make great house guests, and they practically eat me out of the place, and they’re noisier than a bar full of drunks, but the shed gets too cold for them in the dead of winter, and I can’t let them freeze, can I?”
“Well, no,” Candy agreed. “It makes perfect sense. We talked about your goats a year or two ago, if you recall. I wrote a story about them for the paper’s community column. We had great response to it.” Candy paused. “So you gave the shovel to Ray?” she prompted.
“That’s right. He spotted it leaning up against the house. I didn’t even notice it—I just get so busy around here. He said he was headed out to your place and he’d make sure it got back to you.” She eyed the both of them. “And since you’re here looking for it, I guess I can assume that didn’t happen.”
“Unfortunately, no, it didn’t,” Doc said. “I wish it had, though.”
“Then Ray’s still got it,” Sally Ann assured him. “He must have just forgotten he had it—though that’s not like him. He’s usually pretty careful about things like that. He’s as honest as the day is long, you know. That’s why I like him. It’s just a mix-up. Give him a call, and you’ll get to the bottom of this in a jiffy.”
TWELVE
“So,” Candy said when they were back out in the Jeep, “the plot thickens.” She turned toward her father, a contemplative look on her face. “What’s the likelihood Ray killed Miles Crawford with that shovel?”
“Zero. Zilch,” Doc said, scoffing at the very idea of it. “You know as well as I do that’s just not possible. We went through this once before with him. He’s just not capable of such a thing. Ray’s a gentle sort.”
Candy nodded and reached for the phone in her back pocket. “I agree completely,” she said as she swiped the screen and poked at it, looking for Ray’s number. “But Sally Ann’s right about one thing— Ray’s usually a pretty conscientious person. He wouldn’t just forget to return the shovel to us. Something must have happened to it between Sally Ann’s place and Blueberry Acres. And whatever it was, Ray’s the only one who knows.”
It took three rings but Ray Hutchins finally answered. He was out on a job, he told her, down at the docks along the English River, working on a motor for a boat crane. It took Candy several attempts to try to explain why she was calling, since he was distracted by his present job and anxious to get back to it. But he finally focused in on what she was saying and recalled the incident. “Oh, that’s right, the shovel. I remember it now. I found it out at Sally Ann’s house. I offered to return it to you.”
“We never got it back, Ray,” Candy said in a nonaccusatory tone. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened to it. We thought you could help us out.”
Ray sounded surprised by this revelation, and the story quickly came out. He’d been planning to head out to Blueberry Acres with the shovel, he told her, but before he could swing by, he got a call from Judicious F. P. Bosworth, another villager who was a bit of a recluse. Judicious lived in an isolated log cabin on the outskirts of town, on family-owned property along the river. The place had once belonged to his father, and his father before him, both judges, so it had a fairly extensive library, with a heavy focus on law and politics. But Judicious had avoided the family profession, choosing instead to travel to Europe and Asia, where he sought enlightenment. Decades later he returned to Cape Willington as a quiet man in his forties, with the fervent belief that he could turn himself invisible. It was an outlandish claim, and no one really believed he had such a skill, but over the past few years he had convinced at least a few people around town that he could, indeed, disappear at will.
Despite his unique ability, however, Judicious still apparently faced real-world problems around the house. One day while walking home, so the story went, Judicious flagged down Ray and asked for his help getting an old tree stump out of the ground at his place by the river. With Ray on a long-handled pickax and Judicious on a shovel, they’d managed to get the stump out of the ground, but the effort had cost Judicious his tool. The handle of the shovel cracked down near the blade. As Judicious had more work he needed to finish up, Ray loaned him the shovel from Blueberry Acres, with the promise that Judicious would return it to Doc and Candy when he’d finished with it. And that’s what Ray assumed had happened.
Like Sally Ann, he was apologetic for not following up. But they all trusted one another, as those in a close-knit community do, and assumed their neighbors could be counted on to follow through on a promise.
It all made sense, in a Cape Willington sort of way, Candy thought as she keyed off the phone—and even thought it a little amusing that their shovel had turned into a hot potato, making its way from hand to hand. Good thing Doc marked their tools.
Her father caught the gist of the conversation with Ray and furrowed his brow. “So Judicious had it next, right?”
“Sounds like it got passed around quite a bit.” Candy slipped the phone back into her pocket and snapped on her seat belt. “Up for one more stop?”
She had no phone number for Judicious, and honestly didn’t know if he even owned a phone. Neither did she know his address, since he rarely shared personal information. Like others in town, he kept to himself, but he could be social when he wanted to. It just didn’t happen very often.
Candy knew where he lived, though, so they drove out Edgewood Road to the Coastal Loop and turned left, heading northward.
A five-minute drive brought them to a single-lane dirt turnoff on the right, which led down toward the river. The lane was tight, with low trees and shrubbery pressing in on either side, and at times thin limbs and branches reached out to rake the sides of the vehicle. The lane twisted first one direction, then the other, and passed under a thick canopy before emerging into a clearing. A small log cabin, half-hidden by foliage, was nestled back among the trees. The lane continued on a little farther to the river.
No car was parked in front of the cabin— Judicious didn’t own one, as far as Candy knew. On nice days he sometimes rode a bike, but mostly he walked, following a trail that wound along the river, past other small cabins and fish camps. It eventually ended near the River Road bridge and boat docks, where Ray Hutchins was currently working.
Judicious came into town once or twice a week, when he needed something from the general store or wanted to attend an event. He was always at the Town Hall meetings every March, and usually made appearances at the community’s frequent festivals, cook-offs, bashes, and fairs—though most times he hovered around the edges of the activities, preferring to keep a low profile and rarely taking a central part in them.
Candy parked in front of the cabin and they both got out. This time Candy walked up on the porch and knocked, while Doc surveyed the territory. It was mostly natural landscape. No flower or vegetable gardens that Doc could see. Just trees
and shrubbery, mostly pines and undergrowth. The cabin sat on a slight rise, putting it above the river’s floodplain. A screen of trees on the north side probably did a good job sheltering it from the fiercest winds in the winter, while a cleared area to the south and west allowed some sunlight through the canopy. Several paths led off into the woods in various directions, many in the general direction of the river. Doc noticed a couple of fishing rods leaned up against one side of the cabin. And he spotted an area of disturbed earth nearby, where it looked as if a few tree stumps had been removed.
A few minutes later Candy was back down beside her father. “No answer,” she said.
Doc glanced around, narrowing his gaze. “Maybe he’s gone into town.” He pointed toward the river. “Let’s check over that way.”
They walked rather than drove, since it was just a short distance to the riverbank. After little more than two dozen paces, the woods fell behind them and the landscape opened to give them good views both upstream and down. The English River flowed from left to right, zigzagging between rocky banks and a grassy, wildflower-strewn stretch before curving around a dogleg farther along and disappearing from view as it made its way toward the village and the sea beyond. To their left, they could see a fairly long distance upstream, until the river curved farther up as well. Silently they studied both directions for several moments, turning one way, then the other, then back, scanning the banks and the surrounding woods and fields. But they saw no one.
Doc let out a sigh and slid his hands into his back pockets. “Well, I suppose we could search the woods,” he said, “though I’d hate to get lost, and I have no idea which direction he might have—”
“Hullo!” a voice called suddenly from behind them.
They both turned.
A figure was walking along the dirt lane toward them, waving a hand in the air. He was tall and lanky, with long dark hair, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat that shadowed his face, a loose-fitting shirt, dark pants, and black rubber boots. In one hand he carried a thick walking stick made from a tree branch. Across his chest was a tan canvas strap attached to a bag that hung at his hip.
Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery) Page 8
