Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery)

by Haywood, B. B.

  “How did you get the shovel?” Candy asked.

  A small breath escaped from Mrs. Fairweather, but she pressed on. “I saw it in the backseat of Lydia’s car a while ago, when I had a late appointment at the beauty parlor. I noticed the initials on it, and remembered seeing Doc with it when he came out to knock the icicles off my house. I couldn’t figure out why Lydia had it. To be honest, I thought she was trying to steal it from you, and I wanted to make sure it got back to Blueberry Acres. So I took it from her car and put it in mine.”

  She managed to raise her head, looking up at Candy. “I want you to know that I had every intention of returning it to you. But I forgot about it, until Della started putting together her plan.” She sighed deeply. “I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I? But I’m trying to make things right now.”

  Candy had only a few more questions for her. “What about Morgan’s role in this?” she asked. “Did she know about your plan?”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “She tried to get me to do the opposite. She told me to stay out of it. She said she and her brother would take care of everything. But Miles was about to sell the place to someone else. Who knew what would happen then? So we decided to act while we could.”

  “And what about Della? Do you know where she’s at now?”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’ll turn up soon enough,” Mrs. Fairweather said vaguely.

  Candy nodded. “I think that explains just about everything,” she said, “but I have one final question. Last night, when I saw Lydia out at Blueberry Acres, she said she had one more stop to make before she left town. She didn’t happen to stop by your house, did she?”

  For the longest time Mrs. Fairweather studied Candy with her tired eyes. “You’re very perceptive,” she said finally. “It’s no wonder you have a reputation around town as a great detective. Della and I should have known better.”

  Candy pressed on. “Lydia knew—or suspected—that you took that shovel from her car, right?”

  The elderly woman nodded. “We saw each other on the street outside the beauty parlor that day. She must have realized I took it.” Her voice was becoming strained now, after all the talking she’d done. “You should eat your soup, dear. It’s getting cold.”

  Candy looked down at the bowl in front of her. “What’s in it?”

  “As I said, it’s an old family recipe.” Her eyes had become unfocused, as if she were gazing into the distance—or remembering a much earlier, happier time. “I used to make it with my mother. We used brown sugar and molasses, plus I added a little mustard, which is my own secret ingredient, and sautéed onions. And there are a few other things in there as well.”

  “Well,” Candy said, “it certainly looks delicious. And you’re right—it is getting cold.”

  She took up her spoon, scooped some of the soup into it, and raised it to her nose so she could sniff it. She noticed Mrs. Fairweather watching her every movement with great interest. “And it smells wonderful,” Candy said.

  She began to move the spoon to her open mouth. She opened her lips.

  “Wait,” Mrs. Fairweather said.

  The spoon hesitated in midair. Candy gave the elderly woman a questioning look.

  Mrs. Fairweather looked like she was about to faint. “I made a mistake. Don’t eat it.”

  “Why not? What’s in it?”

  She never received an answer.

  A short time later, when the ambulance arrived, Mrs. Fairweather was dead.

  FORTY-NINE

  “Well, that should just about do it,” Doc said, wiping his hands together. He surveyed his handiwork with a satisfied expression.

  He’d removed the sign that read, NO BERRY PICKING TODAY and replaced it with another: OPEN FOR BERRY PICKING.

  The unsettled weather of the previous evening had cleared out. They’d had a few overnight sprinkles but the dark clouds were gone, and the sun had returned. The ground was still damp throughout the strawberry fields, but it wouldn’t hinder the morning’s picking operations.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Doc said, shading his eyes against the sunlight as he gazed out over the surrounding fields. “Practically the whole town’s turned out this morning.”

  “They sure have,” Candy said. She stood beside her father, looking out over the fields as well.

  The first pickers had arrived right at eight that morning, and their numbers had increased steadily over the next hour. There were fifty or sixty people out there now, walking the fields, searching the low bushes for ripe red berries.

  Crates of them were now being loaded onto trucks and making their way to Town Park. Some of the league ladies were already back in town, overseeing last-minute preparations for the event, but Alice Rainesford was still here. She’d stationed herself at the tables just outside the barn at the berry farm, where she kept a close eye on who picked what, and how much, so she could make an accounting of everything for financial purposes. She and Candy had agreed to settle up at the end of the morning.

  But not all the berries were going to the Fair. Other villagers had turned out, couples and families and senior citizens, filling up baskets with the fresh berries, before the picking season was gone for another year.

  Candy heard a dog bark and glanced to her left. Random was playing fetch with a couple of kids, who were tossing a stick for him. He looked as happy as she’d ever seen him.

  “That dog is going to love it out here,” Doc said.

  Candy nodded her agreement. “Depending on what Neil decides to do. But he says he’s thinking of keeping the place and running it himself for a while.”

  As if on cue, Neil Crawford emerged from the farmhouse and walked over to where they stood at the edge of the fields. He had a bandage wrapped around his head, and one of his eyes was blackened, but he looked surprisingly upbeat. “I couldn’t have done any of this without your help,” he said to them as he approached. “And the villagers are wonderful. I can see why Dad loved this place, and stayed on here for so long.”

  “It’s a good community,” Candy agreed.

  Doc had picked Neil up at the hospital that morning. The medical staff had wanted him to stay longer for observation, but he had insisted on being here when the picking started. He wanted to see the operation for himself, and he’d had a chance to meet many of the villagers.

  Maggie and Herr Georg were out there in the fields somewhere, filling a few baskets with berries before they opened the bakery for the day. Candy had spotted them holding hands just a little while ago. Judicious F. P. Bosworth had caught a ride out with Sally Ann Longfellow, who had wanted to bring along her goats but had trouble getting them into her car. Doris Oaks had showed up with Roy perched on her shoulder. Cotton Colby, Elvira Tremble, and Brenda Jenkins had all showed up as well, though none of them had much to say about the loss of two of their members. They seemed determined to get through today and then assess the damage to their organization and its reputation.

  Despite all that had happened over the past few days, the morning had a festive feel to it. But everyone involved with those recent events knew they had barely averted disaster.

  “I just want to say again how much I appreciate everything you’ve done, for me and my father,” Neil said, looking over at Candy and Doc. “Without your help, none of this would have been possible. And, well, I’m sure Dad’s happy with the way things turned out—wherever he is.”

  “It’s the least we could do,” Doc said. “You’re part of the community now, Neil. You’re one of us—if you want to be, that is.”

  Neil let out a big breath as he studied the buildings and the fields. “It’s a lot of work, that’s for sure. But this is where I grew up. I have a history here. It would be a shame to sell it—especially after all that’s happened.” He turned back to Candy, his brown eyes focusing on her. “And, of course, there’s no way I can possibly thank you for all you’ve done.

  Candy waved a hand casually, downplaying her role. “Oh, it was nothing, rea
lly,” she told him. “Like my dad said—it was the least I could do.”

  “No, it’s more than that.” Neil looked at her with great sincerity. “You saved my life last night.”

  Candy smiled. “I seem to remember it was the other way around.”

  A moment passed between them, as they stood looking at each other. But oblivious to that fact, Doc spoke up.

  “Well, it’s all behind us now.” He slipped his hands into the back pockets of his chinos and leaned his head back so he could look up at the bright blue sky. “And my, what a beautiful day it is.”

  They heard the toot of a horn behind them then, and turned to see Chief Durr pull up in his police cruiser. He spotted them, climbed out of the car, and walked over to join them.

  “Morning, everyone,” he said with a tip of his hat. “How’s everyone doing today?”

  “Just fine,” Doc said. “Taking in some sun, and about ready to go pick some more berries.”

  “I have instructions to pick up a few baskets myself,” the chief said, looking out over the fields. “Wendy’s going to make strawberry jam this weekend. She usually puts up a couple dozen jars. Lasts us most of the year.”

  Neil made a move toward a table that held baskets of berries. “I’ll put some in the car for you,” he said.

  “Hey, wait a minute. You’re injured,” Doc said. “I’ll help with that.” And together the two walked off, leaving Candy standing next to the chief.

  He was silent for a few moments, as he surveyed the activity around them, until he said, “Well, once again, Ms. Holliday, you’ve solved one of our local mysteries.” He turned to look at her with a tight expression on his weathered face. “You know you should have contacted us last night before you went over to Mrs. Fairweather’s place. You put yourself in danger—again.”

  Candy shrugged. “I know that, Chief, but it was just a hunch.”

  “It was a good one,” he said honestly.

  “Any idea what was in that soup of hers?”

  The chief nodded. “Hemlock, they think—lots of it, although we’re still running tests to verify that. Nasty stuff. Apparently it’s just some type of weed. They say it looks like parsnip, so it can be tricky to identify. And all parts of the plant are poisonous.”

  “Where’d she get it?” Candy asked.

  “We think she grew it somewhere in her garden. We have someone over at her place checking on it right now. Good thing you didn’t eat any of that soup yourself.”

  Candy nodded in agreement. “Good thing,” she said, and wondered why, at the last moment, Mrs. Fairweather had a change of heart and stopped her from eating that spoonful of soup—though Candy had never intended to eat it. She’d suspected it was poisoned. But she’d wanted to see if the elderly woman would actually let her.

  In the end, Mrs. Fairweather had done the right thing.

  Of course, Candy remembered, I did eat a slice of her strawberry pie yesterday. . . .

  Breaking into her thoughts, Chief Durr said, “Well, we’ll need you over at the station later on today so we can do a few interviews and close the book on this thing. And as I’ve said before, if you ever need a job, just let me know.”

  Candy gave him a warm smile. “I appreciate that, Chief. But I think I’ll stick to farming. It’s safer.”

  “I hear that.” He nodded firmly. “Well, I suppose I should get a move on. See you over at the Fair?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  “I’m looking forward to having some strawberry shortcake,” he said with a grin, and he started off toward the table to pay for his berries.

  But Candy stopped him. “Hey, Chief!” she called.

  Chief Durr stopped and turned back toward her with a questioning look. “Yeah?”

  “Any word about Della Swain?”

  “Oh, that.” He nodded. “I meant to tell you. I heard just a little while ago. They found her car in an abandoned barn up on the north side of the Cape. She was still inside it.”

  “Did she have the coins and gold?”

  “She did,” the chief said. “We’ve recovered just about everything.”

  “Did she have any deeds with her?”

  “Deeds?” The chief gave her a quizzical look. “Don’t know anything about any deeds.”

  He turned and started away again, but Candy had a final question for him.

  “So was she alive when they found her?”

  The chief stopped and turned back, shaking his head. “No, unfortunately she was dead. There was an opened plastic container on the seat beside her. It looked like she’d been ill. It was the same thing we suspect happened to Lydia St. Graves. Apparently they both ate some bad soup.”

  EPILOGUE

  Morgan Sykes Kingsbury stood at her office window on the seventh floor overlooking Park Avenue in Manhattan and frowned. “Of course I had no idea about this,” she said into the phone cupped to her ear. “I told her repeatedly to stay out of it. But she grew too stubborn in her old age. She wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “She was loyal to the family,” said the male voice at the other end of the line. “Perhaps she thought she was helping us.”

  “Of course that’s what she thought,” Morgan replied somewhat testily, “but she was in way over her head. And look where it led her.”

  “Yes, her passing is unfortunate. But she helped us locate that treasure box. We’re one step closer to our goal. Let’s at least give her credit for that.”

  Morgan let out a sigh. Sometimes she thought her brother was an idiot. “How do you see that? The last time I checked, none of us have access to that treasure. It’s locked up in a police vault somewhere. We’ll never get our hands on it now. It was a wasted effort.”

  “Not necessarily so,” Porter Sykes told her calmly. “It’s out in the open now. We know where it’s at. The rest is just a matter of logistics.”

  “How do you see that?” Morgan was losing her patience. She’d worked for the better part of two years trying to get Miles Crawford to sell his farm. Now it seemed all her efforts were in vain.

  “You forget who we’re dealing with. A small-town police force. Backwoods folks. We’ll just spread a little money around. Bribes can make people extremely cooperative, I’ve found—even those in the law enforcement business.”

  Morgan’s bad mood eased just a bit. “You know someone in the police department up there?”

  “I have my sources,” her brother replied. “This is not over yet—not by a long shot. As I said, the hard part is done.”

  “So you think you can get your hands on that treasure?”

  “The gold?” Porter laughed softly. “Who cares about that?”

  “What about the deeds?”

  “Ahh, yes, the deeds. The Holy Grail for the Sykes family.”

  There was silence for a few moments on the other end of the phone, prompting Morgan to say in an exasperated tone, “Well?”

  “They were in the box, obviously, just as we suspected. But they seem to have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? To where?”

  “No one knows, but my guess is that Crawford hid them somewhere before he died. Or maybe he just destroyed them. That’s what we—you and I—have to figure out.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  Morgan wondered what he meant, but put that aside for the moment. “How’s Grandmother?”

  “Daisy? Ornery as ever. She wants this over.”

  “As do we all,” Morgan said. “So what’s our next step?”

  “I’m putting out some feelers now,” Porter said, “but I suggest you lie low for a while. You were at Aunt Rachel’s house while all this was going on. You don’t want to get on their radar up there.”

  Morgan didn’t want to tell her brother that she feared she already was. That local blueberry farmer, Candy Holliday, and her father had come snooping around her aunt’s house just at the wrong time. Morgan had barely had enough time to get herself
and her aunt situated at the house before they’d shown up looking for that damned shovel.

  Morgan’s gaze drifted across the floor of her office, to where a pair of black rubber boots sat in the corner. She’d bought them in Europe, on a spending spree six months earlier. She’d liked their design, but they had a distinctive star pattern on the heels, and she was concerned she’d left footprints when she’d gone out to the berry farm that morning to try to prevent her aunt from doing something stupid. But she’d been too late. The other woman, Della, had already fled, and Morgan had found her aunt hovering near the body of the dead man, frozen with fear and regret. It was all she could do to get the woman back home and safely seated in her garden in an effort to calm her down. Fortunately, they’d both been good actresses when the Hollidays had showed up unexpectedly.

  Now she’d have to get rid of the boots. Too bad. She liked them a lot.

  And she had a feeling this was just the beginning of the sacrifices she’d have to make for her family’s schemes. She wasn’t sure she liked where all this was headed.

  “It’s getting too dangerous,” Morgan said into the phone. “Maybe we should back off—just let it go.”

  Porter laughed again, his voice sounding harsh and mocking over the phone. “Losing your nerve, little sister? Just when it’s getting good? Well, you’d better steel yourself, because the ride’s going to get a lot rougher before it’s done. But look on the bright side—we have a front-row seat for all the fun. The villagers of Cape Willington, Maine, have no idea what’s about to happen. For them, the worst is yet to come.”

  RECIPES

  Herr Georg’s Obstkuchen

  German Strawberry Torte

  Cake/Crust

  3 eggs

  3/8 cup sugar

  3 tablespoons cinnamon sugar*