The silver-haired volunteer nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, she certainly did. She mentioned it to me a number of times, about how sad it was that Mr. Crawford was all alone out there on that big farm, and how he needed a woman to look after him,” Doris said, warming to the story. “She used to ask me all kinds of questions about him—what time of the day he came in, and what days of the week. Where he went, and what he did. And if he ever mentioned her in particular by name. That sort of thing. When she thought no one was looking, she wrote down everything I said in a little notebook. But I saw what she was doing. She started dropping by earlier and earlier, and hanging around the long desk, waiting for him to come in. I think she was sweet on him. Or else she was keeping tabs on him.”
“Why would she do that?” Neil asked.
Doris shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. It was just a thought. And, of course, it wasn’t really any of my business, whatever she was doing. Still, it was a little odd, and I couldn’t help noticing things, could I?”
“Of course not,” Doc said reassuringly.
“Did Miles ever say what he was looking for?” Candy asked.
Doris didn’t have to ponder that question before answering. “No, and don’t think we didn’t try to find out. We have quite a few people who come in to dig around and do a little research, and they’re usually so excited about whatever they’re working on, they can’t stop talking about it. But Miles—well, he was different. A little secretive, to be honest. A few of us tried to get him to talk—to say hello, you know, chitchat. But Miles wasn’t the talkative type. He wasn’t impolite, of course, but he generally avoided us volunteers. We all got the impression he preferred to work on his own. I know where he spent most of his time, though. It was back in this other room here.”
Doris pointed out the door and around the corner, indicating the archives room.
“He usually liked to come in early in the day, first thing, when no one else was up here,” Doris said, “and since Roy and I are both early birds, and took the morning shifts, we tended to run into him fairly often. But then Elvira started showing up in the mornings, so he started coming in later. He spent hours up here, digging through the archives.”
Candy and Doc had both spent time in the archives room themselves, and knew many of its resources and materials. “Any particular section he might have been looking in?” Doc asked.
Again, Doris answered quickly, with some conviction, as if she’d checked up on him. “Local history, nineteenth century—and some of the old volumes on local property and land deeds.”
“Land deeds?” Neil said. “Why on earth would he have any interest in those?”
“Maybe it has something to do with that farm of yours,” Doc said, “and that box he dug up.”
Doris glanced over at the oaken chest on the table. “The treasure chest?” Her eyes widened. “You don’t think . . .” But her voice tapered off as they heard the sound of a bell ringing downstairs, and Roy chirping, “Avast, mateys! Shiver me timbers! Squawwwk!”
Doris’s ears perked right up. “Oops, it sounds like we got visitors! Gotta run!”
A moment later she was gone, headed back down the stairs, leaving the three of them arranged in a loose circle around the perimeter of the small room.
“So,” Doc said, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation, “nineteenth-century history and local land deeds. Sounds like a potent topic that’s begging for a closer look. It might even yield a few answers. Who’s on it with me?”
Neither Candy nor Neil spoke up at once, but finally Candy said with a hint of a smile, “Actually, Dad, I think that’s right up your alley, so we’ll leave you to it. Besides, I have a few stops to make this afternoon. Elvira Tremble deserves a visit, I believe, so I might start there. And I’m meeting Maggie at five.”
“And I’d better get back out to the farm,” Neil said thoughtfully, and he pulled the gold coin out of his pocket, holding it up for the others to see. “Maybe this is what he found inside that chest. And if there’s one, there might be more hidden around the house. I need to search it more thoroughly.”
Candy nodded her approval. “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll run you out to Blueberry Acres so you can get your car. But first we’ll make a quick swing by the bank, so you can put that money in a safe-deposit box. It should only take a few minutes.”
“Right!” Doc clapped his hands together. “Sounds like we have a plan, and I have an enlightening afternoon ahead of me.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost four. Why don’t we meet at the diner at six and compare notes? And I can introduce Neil to the boys. They’d sure love to meet you, since they all knew your dad.”
“Does that give you enough time to look around?” Candy asked Neil.
He nodded. “I’ll get a start on it, at least, and if I don’t finish, I’ll just go back later on.”
“Are you sleeping in the yurt tonight?” Doc asked.
“That was my plan—if it’s okay with you two.”
“Sure it is,” Doc said with a wave of his hand, “but we have a sofa downstairs, too, if you’d like something a little softer. You’re welcome to use it.”
“I appreciate that,” Neil said, his easy smile returning, “but I’ll be fine in the yurt for a few days, or at least until we figure this thing out. It’s comfortable enough, and I’m used to it.”
“Well, it’s all settled then,” Doc said. “The diner at six. I’ll have one of the boys hold the booth for us. And it’s Friday. You know what that means?”
“Fish fry night?” Candy asked.
Doc’s eyes lit up. “With homemade tartar sauce and their special blueberry coleslaw. Perfect summer meal. And I’m buying!”
His expression turned suddenly serious. “Listen, both of you: Be careful out there, okay? Remember, there’s still a killer on the loose, so don’t do anything dangerous. And if you see anything suspicious, call the police first, and then me, in that order.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Thirty minutes later, with Random sitting at her feet, Candy watched Neil drive off in his old red Saab, headed back out to Crawford’s Berry Farm.
Neil had tried to coax the dog into the car’s front passenger seat—one of the few spaces available in the loaded vehicle—but Random had quietly refused, remaining firmly planted at Candy’s side.
“I’ve never seen him do this,” Neil said, sounding perplexed after multiple attempts to communicate with his dog. “He usually loves to go for trips, and we’re best buddies, but . . . I think he’s ignoring me.”
It was true. Random refused to even look at him.
“Maybe he’s just happy here,” Candy said helpfully. She reached down and scratched the top of the dog’s head, which made him look up at her with affection. “You like it here, don’t you, Random? Tell you what—you can spend the rest of the afternoon with me, okay?”
This seemed to please Random to no end, and his big tail thumped heavily on the ground, signaling his approval.
“Well, fine, then,” Neil said, sounding a little exasperated. “I’ll just go by myself.” He shut the passenger side door and looked at Candy as he came around the back of the car. “You okay with this?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Candy said. “Have fun out at the berry farm. See you at the diner.”
She waved as Neil drove off, and as dust rose on the dirt lane in the Saab’s wake, she walked around to the coop behind the barn and checked on the chickens, with Random on her heels. He was particularly interested in the chickens, but she had a quick talk with him, telling him they were off-limits. “Your job,” she said, “is to help protect them from foxes.”
The two of them made a quick tour of the property, surveying the blueberry fields and vegetable gardens, which were coming along nicely. She’d have tomatoes to pick shortly, and cucumbers and radishes as well. She was tempted to linger and pull a few weeds, but she knew she had to get going; she had a lot of ground to cover before six.
During their excur
sion around the farm, Random had made a few detours into the underbrush, so he needed a little cleaning up before she let him into the house. He quickly found a comfortable spot in the kitchen. After putting out a bowl of water for him, Candy grabbed her laptop computer from the desk in a corner of the living room and settled at the kitchen table, where she could look out the side window to the barn and blueberry fields behind the house.
“I just need to research something real quick,” she told the dog, “and then we’ll head out.”
Random’s ears stood up and he tilted his head curiously as she started clicking away on her keyboard.
In the search field of her browser window, she typed in the words she remembered seeing on the real estate firm’s letterhead out at the berry farm: Wyborne Whittle Kingsbury LLC.
She had meant to do this while Neil was still around, but he’d been so anxious to get going she never had a chance to say anything to him about it.
She leaned in to get a better look at the search results.
One of the top links looked promising, so she clicked on it.
It opened a fairly sedate-looking web page with a businesslike design in blues and grays, with simple headlines in block letters and lots of text. Candy skimmed through the copy on the home page. A box of text described the firm’s history, properties, and investment strategies in general terms. Across the top of the page were a series of buttons, opening windows that provided more in-depth details about the firm’s portfolio, services, partners, and locations, as well as its founders, mission, management, and staff.
Candy clicked through the buttons quickly, scanning the content, searching for anything that might give her some sort of clue as to why this firm had made so many offers for the Crawford place. What was the connection? Why the interest in the berry farm?
Could it have had anything to do with Silas Sykes’s treasure chest? Candy wondered.
Nothing caught her eye until she stopped on the management and staff page. Here were typical dry business bios and boring head shots, listing the names of the founders, principals, associates, and other staff members.
Scanning the list of names, one jumped out of her: Morgan S. Kingsbury, Executive Vice President.
Morgan . . .
A unique name. She’d met a woman named Morgan yesterday morning out at Mrs. Fairweather’s place. Her niece, didn’t she say? Or grand-niece?
Candy recalled their conversation—in particular, something Morgan had said to her as they’d been walking into the backyard to meet with Mrs. Fairweather: I’m working in New York City right now. I’m with a financial firm. We’re in commercial real estate, property management, investments, that sort of thing. . . .
New York City.
Morgan S. Kingsbury.
Candy clicked on the name, which took her to another page with a longer bio and a photo.
She felt a sudden chill.
Slim. Dark haired. Dark brown eyes with long eyelashes. Her hair was pinned up. She was dressed in a dark business suit instead of a flowery print dress.
But it was the same woman.
Morgan S. Kingsbury.
Candy focused in on the middle initial.
S.
Her feeling of trepidation grew as she scanned down through the bio copy, looking for a specific fact.
And there it was. Morgan S. Kingsbury’s maiden name.
She’d been born Morgan Sykes.
THIRTY-NINE
The full weight of what she’d just learned hit her a moment later.
Mrs. Fairweather’s niece is Morgan Sykes Kingsbury, executive vice president of the New York–based Wyborne Whittle Kingsbury LLC—the same firm that was secretly trying to buy Crawford’s Berry Farm.
Her eyes opened wide as she let out a long breath. That could mean a thousand things, she thought—or it could mean nothing at all. It could provide an explanation for the murder of Miles Crawford—or it could simply be a coincidence, a strange, unconnected sequence of events and incriminating facts that could be easily explained away once she talked to the right people.
She cautioned herself to think everything through carefully before she proceeded.
And that was exactly what she intended to do.
Morgan Sykes.
In the past few years, Candy had dealt with two other members of the Sykes family—brothers Roger and Porter Sykes, scions of the wealthy Massachusetts-based clan—and those encounters had not been totally pleasant. Were the brothers related to Morgan? Siblings, perhaps? Cousins? Distant relatives?
Certainly there must be some connection.
No matter which way she looked at it, the coincidences were just too obvious to ignore, she decided.
That led to a trickier question:
Could Morgan Sykes Kingsbury have killed Miles Crawford—and then poisoned Lydia St. Graves, leading to her death in a car accident?
She’d certainly had the opportunity. Morgan had been in town yesterday—Doc and Candy had met her at Mrs. Fairweather’s place, where she’d seemed pleasant, easygoing, and a somewhat carefree woman—not at all like someone who had just murdered a berry farmer.
But what about the physical reality of it? Could she have surprised Miles in the hoophouse, swung the shovel at his head, dropped the murder weapon beside the body, made her way back to Mrs. Fairweather’s house, and casually greeted the Hollidays from her perch on the front porch, looking as if she’d just come from a morning at the spa?
Candy ran over the timeline again in her head. She and Doc had stopped by to see Mrs. Fairweather late in the morning. Miles had died a few hours earlier, sometime between eight and ten A.M., as best she could establish. Could Morgan have killed Miles and made it back to Mrs. Fairweather’s in time?
It was certainly within the realm of possibilities, Candy admitted. In fact, Morgan might have had enough time to get a manicure on the way back.
But was she that good an actress? Could she have so easily glossed over a crime like that only a couple hours after committing it?
Candy shook her head. Some people, she knew, were capable of just about anything, as unlikely as it might seem.
More to the point, this latest discovery could provide a reasonable motivation behind Miles’s death.
Sometime in the past half year or so, Candy surmised, Miles had learned of the existence of Silas Sykes’s buried chest, researched it, located it, and dug it up. And once he’d opened it a month or two ago, he’d apparently taken what was inside.
But did he have a right to the treasure, even though he’d found it on his land? Candy wondered what claim Miles could make to it. More than likely, she guessed, the chest wasn’t his. It belonged to Silas Sykes and his heirs. And there was probably some sort of family link between Silas and Morgan. He was, more than likely, an ancestor of hers. It was possible she’d found out about the box, too, and learned Miles had dug it up.
But had that driven her to murder?
It all depended on the contents of that wooden box.
Gold coins? Land deeds?
Candy couldn’t quite figure out how those were connected.
Whatever Miles had found in the chest, it all clicked into place a little too easily. And that made her wary.
Too many things in this case seemed all too convenient, like the shovel, left beside Miles’s body, which had led back to Lydia St. Graves—only now she knew, almost certainly, that the shovel had been a plant.
But if Morgan had indeed killed Miles, why leave the shovel there? And how had she gotten her hands on it in the first place?
Too many questions, Candy thought, and too few answers.
And there were other questions rolling around in her mind as well. What about the boots with the star pattern on the bottom? What about the strawberry-picking baskets Chief Durr and his team had found out in the hoophouse—the ones with the initials M.R.S. woven into them?
Morgan Sykes?
Again, it fit too easily. Why would Morgan be crazy enough to leave baskets
at a crime scene with her initials on them?
The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. When looked at from one direction, all the pieces appeared to fit together. But from another viewpoint, they all seemed scattered.
As Random rose lazily to lap at the bowl of water, Candy gazed out the window thoughtfully, then turned back to her computer. She again moved the cursor to the browser’s search window and keyed in the name Morgan Sykes.
She spent the next ten minutes clicking through page after page on the Web, looking for the one fact that might tie at least some strands of this mystery together—a middle name, or at least a middle initial, for Morgan Sykes. Her full birth name.
If Candy could identify Morgan as M.R.S., then she could tie the dark-haired woman, at least circumstantially, to the scene of the crime.
But her efforts turned up nothing. All the references and biographical information Candy found online mentioned either Morgan Kingsbury or Morgan S. Kingsbury, though there were a few older references that identified her simply as Morgan Sykes, presumably from a time before she’d married. Nothing Candy could find gave the woman’s middle name.
Her search for information on the Internet wasn’t working, she finally decided. It was time to go to the source—the one person from whom she believed she could learn the truth behind what was going on.
Random had resettled himself into a corner of the kitchen, but he rose quickly and stretched as Candy powered off her laptop, closed the lid, and placed it back on her desk. She gathered her things, moved the water bowl onto the porch, and ushered Random outside before locking up the house. Then she headed toward the Jeep at a quick pace, but after several steps she realized Random was not at her heels, as he’d been before.
“Random?” She stopped and turned back.
The dog was sitting on the porch, watching her expectantly.
She patted her thigh lightly. “Come, Random! Let’s go! I have to get back into town.”
But the dog did not seem interested in traveling into town. He looked quite content on the porch. In fact, to make his point, he lay down noisily.
Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery) Page 22
