Town in a Cinnamon Toast

by B. B. Haywood

  “I probably should have announced myself earlier,” he said in an offhanded manner. “I don’t want anyone to think I was eavesdropping on your conversation.”

  “Oh, no,” Edith put in, making a face. “No one would ever think that.”

  “Of course not,” Owen echoed, just to emphasize the point.

  “Thank you both for your support.” Porter sounded gracious enough, but Candy thought she detected an edge of sarcasm in his tone. It turned more serious as he continued.

  “While I have a moment, I would like to add my condolences on Julius’s death. I had the chance to meet him only once or twice, but he seemed like a wonderful gentleman. And obviously he was a very talented and beloved individual. I’m sure everyone there at the museum, and throughout the community, will feel his loss greatly.”

  “I’m sure,” Candy repeated, looking for a graceful way out of this situation.

  She should have realized Porter might be part of the conversation. He was on the museum’s board, after all, just like the others, and had been for the better part of a decade, even though he was rarely in town. But he had family roots here—deep roots, going back generations, as Doc had pointed out earlier today.

  That’s why Porter kept a finger in local affairs. It’s why he occasionally showed up around town, though he currently didn’t own a residence here.

  But, she thought, there was another reason he kept close tabs on local events and activities.

  He was after something.

  Something here on the cape. Something that had to do with the historical archives and the museum.

  The deeds. The ones that had once belonged to Silas Sykes and had allegedly been in his treasure box, found by Miles Crawford shortly before his death. The ones that had since disappeared.

  It all fit. Porter was after those old deeds. Julius had been researching deeds in the archives when he died. A list of names, including that of the Sykes family, had been on a piece of paper stuck into a book up in the archives—possibly put there by Julius, since it fell out of a book he’d been using for his research.

  The connections seemed obvious.

  The Sykes family had been looking for those deeds for years, going back to the death of an elderly villager named James Sedley. Mr. Sedley had been killed because he possessed a recipe book, which contained a secret recipe for his award-winning lobster stew. But it also supposedly contained details about a lost treasure, and a lost set of deeds.

  Various factions had been chasing those deeds ever since. It’s what the Sykes family had been after all these years, as well as Candy, her father, and Neil Crawford, Miles’s son. So far, no one had been successful in finding them. But maybe Julius had. And maybe Porter Sykes had known it. Who knew what spies he had around this place?

  From Candy’s experience, the current generation of the Sykes clan would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. She knew that, in one way or another, they’d left a trail of death and destruction in their wake. But they’d also been clever, for the most part, staying behind the scenes, manipulating local events in nefarious ways without drawing too much attention to themselves.

  Now here was Porter Sykes—the elder brother—on the phone, talking to her.

  What is he up to?

  Could he have had something to do with Julius’s murder? Could he have been behind it somehow? He said he was currently in Boston, but it was only a five-hour trip in each direction. Technically he could have been here in town last night and back home by morning. It was certainly possible, at least. And, she remembered, he’d done it before, one winter when they’d held an ice sculpting competition here in the village.

  Maybe he wasn’t even in Boston right now. She was taking his word for that. They all were. He could be anywhere, really, even right here in town, and they’d have no way of knowing it.

  Or maybe he was working with someone local, who had killed Julius for him.

  She looked around the room again.

  Maybe someone like Edith, or Gilbert . . . or Owen.

  Could any of them have had something to do with Julius’s death—maybe on Porter’s behalf?

  Could it be possible?

  She was determined to find out, for Julius’s sake, and for Maggie’s and Herr Georg’s. But not right now. Now, she thought, it was best to retreat, regroup, digest what she’d just learned, and think about her next move.

  So she said the first words that popped into her head. “Well, I hope someday we’ll be able to meet face-to-face. Now, if you’ll excuse . . .”

  But Porter cut in. “You know, that’s a wonderful idea. I believe a meeting between the two of us is long overdue—since we’ve never had the chance to talk in person, of course.” He paused a moment to clear his throat. “And as it so happens, I’m going to be up there in Cape Willington tomorrow. Perhaps we could set something up?”

  If Candy had been surprised before, she was stunned now. “You want to meet? With me? Face-to-face? For, um, the first time?”

  Despite what he was implying, and she was awkwardly confirming—for the benefit of the others in the room, obviously—they had met before. She’d had a run-in with him a while back, though she’d kept that fact to herself. She’d never told anyone about it, since it had been so surprising and unnerving. And Porter apparently had done the same. There were times she thought that encounter, which took place at the Sykes’s abandoned mansion, Whitefield, was nothing more than a dream, a mirage. The fact that the mansion burned down shortly after their meeting made it seem even more unreal.

  “Yes,” Porter said pleasantly over the phone. “Do you think that would be possible?”

  Candy didn’t know how to respond, not with the others in the room watching and listening in with great interest. “I suppose that would be okay,” she said finally after another awkward pause.

  Porter didn’t seem to notice. “Good. Shall we say one o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Tomorrow?” Candy’s mind raced, thinking of all the wedding preparations still to be done, wondering if she had the time.

  “Is that a problem?” he asked.

  Something in the way he said it dug at her, and she remembered that someone had murdered the wedding’s best man, using a bottle of champagne Herr Georg had ordered for a dinner party. Her close friends were involved in this. She was determined to solve the mystery as quickly as possible. And maybe this was a good way to do that. “No, that’s not a problem. I can make it tomorrow at one.”

  “Then we have an agreement.” Porter sounded pleased. “We can meet out at the old Whitby estate across the bay. Do you know how to get over there?”

  That caught her off guard. “The Whitby place?”

  “We’ve kept all this hush-hush up until now,” Porter said, “but since all the papers have been signed, and the deal has officially closed, I guess there’s no harm in telling all of you that I bought the place myself. It will serve as our summer home for the foreseeable future, and will put all of my family a little closer to those of you there in Cape Willington.”

  A sudden buzzing sprung up from the other board members in the room, offering congratulations verbally while exchanging sideways glances with one another. Obviously this was new information for everyone.

  Except for Owen, who did not seem surprised by the revelation. In fact, he brushed the announcement aside, as if eager to get back to business. “Wonderful. I’m so glad you’ve worked that out,” he said, with his own hint of sarcasm. “And, of course, welcome to the community, Mr. Sykes. Now, Candy, I hope you’ll excuse us, but we have some fairly important business to attend to here, and we must get on with it.”

  That seemed to bring her part of the conversation to a close, and she began to back out of the door. But Porter spoke up again.

  “As I mentioned earlier,” he said, “maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for all of us to tak
e a five- or ten-minute break. Stretch our legs, eh? And I have a few calls to make. Candy, I believe you mentioned you’d like a word with Owen, didn’t you?”

  He’d given her an opening, so she took it, though again, she wondered about the motivation behind it. “Hmm, yes, that’s correct. I just have a few quick questions for him.”

  “Of a personal matter?” Porter asked.

  Candy thought it was an odd question, but answered anyway. “Something like that. It shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”

  Bluntly, he asked, “To reiterate what was said earlier, would these questions have anything to do with the Julius Seabury business?”

  Again, Candy hesitated. But she decided she had no other choice than to be forthright. “There might be one or two questions I have in mind about that, yes.”

  Edith Pring leaned forward in her chair, her stern face reflecting her concern. “Is that proper?”

  “I don’t think there’s any harm in it,” Plymouth said.

  “I agree,” said Porter. “We all know Candy has had some success in the past solving these kinds of . . . crimes, and the sooner we get this resolved, the sooner we can get the museum’s schedule back to normal. Owen, would you talk to her and see what you can do to help her out? Shall we reconvene in, say, ten minutes?”

  SEVENTEEN

  Out in the main hall, Owen was livid.

  Candy had stepped out of his office first, grateful to finally make a retreat. Owen followed, practically stomping his way across the wooden floorboards and pulling the office door closed behind him with a slam. Candy caught a final glance back into the office as the door was shutting on the three board members. Their expressions ranged from irritated to concerned to contemplative.

  Candy just hoped she hadn’t made any enemies in there.

  Or encountered a murderer.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” Owen demanded after he’d marched several steps away from the door before planting his feet and crossing his arms, his face florid. She could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. As he spoke, he struggled to keep his voice down, so he wouldn’t be heard by the board members through the door, but his words were quick and sharp. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m talking to some very important people in there.” For emphasis, he jabbed toward the office door with his finger. “Their time is very valuable, and so is mine. I really can’t afford to waste a moment on this kind of tomfoolery.”

  Candy raised an eyebrow but let the comment pass. Best not to fan the flames.

  “I’ll keep this brief then,” she said as calmly as possible. “It’s about the list of names you found upstairs last night, when you picked up the book off the floor. You remember it, right?”

  “You mean that worthless slip of paper?”

  Candy nodded. “I’m trying to determine if that ‘worthless slip of paper’ was actually a note written by Julius.”

  “Julius?” Owen’s gaze narrowed. “Is that what this is all about?”

  Candy pulled out the book she’d tucked under her arm and flipped it open to the title page. She turned it around and held it out to show Owen. “This is one of the books Julius wrote, and he signed it. That’s his handwriting.” She pointed to the inscription with the finger of her other hand, to make it easy for him to follow. “I’m wondering if it matches the handwriting on that note you saw last night. If we can match the handwriting, then it means it was written by Julius, which could be important.”

  Owen looked at her incredulously. “You’re serious?”

  She nodded, tight-lipped, and pointed at the inscription again. “So does this look familiar? Could the person who wrote this—Julius—also have written that note?”

  “How in the world would I know that?”

  “Because you saw it. As far as I know, you’re the only person who saw it—up close, I mean—unless you’ve handed it over to the police.”

  Owen’s silence told her he hadn’t—just as she’d suspected. His mouth turned down at the corners. Finally he said, “Why is this important?”

  “Because it could be a clue.”

  “To what?”

  “To Julius’s death. To finding out who struck him over the head with that bottle of champagne.”

  At this somewhat graphic description, Owen visibly flinched. He looked for a moment like he wanted to forget entirely about the murder at his museum, but also seemed to reluctantly accept that it wasn’t possible.

  Best to pass the buck.

  “Ms. Holliday—Candy. There are plenty of experts involved in solving this . . . unfortunate crime, so there’s no need for any of us to get involved. In fact, I would strongly recommend against it. My job, as I see it—”

  Candy tried to interrupt but Owen talked over her, forcing her to stop while he continued.

  “—my job,” he emphasized, “is to discuss the current situation with the board members and decide how best to proceed at this difficult time, while cooperating fully with the police investigation and ensuring the stainless reputation of this institution, until this case is resolved, in whichever way that happens. And that’s exactly what I intend to do. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  He paused, his expression as hard as New Hampshire granite. “I do hope I’ve made myself clear. Now, if you’ll please excuse me . . .”

  With a firm nod of his head, he turned on his heel and started back toward his office.

  But Candy wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

  “Where’s the note, anyway?” she called after him. “Do you have it with you? We can compare the handwriting right now. It will only take a moment.”

  Owen’s shoulders stiffened as he slowed, then stopped. He took a deep, dramatic breath and turned back toward her, his gaze menacing. “You are persistent, aren’t you?”

  “It’s one of my better traits,” she said with a reassuring smile.

  He was silent a moment, as if thinking it over. “Very well,” he finally breathed out with great effort. “Perhaps it’s best to just get this over with.” He patted at his jacket pockets on both sides, and dipped a hand into the inside pockets as well. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he pressed his eyes closed and shook his head, as if suddenly remembering.

  “I don’t have it on me,” he informed her. “I changed jackets this morning, as I now recall. I must have left it at home.”

  “Can you check on it?” Candy asked. “Later, when you get back to your place? And let me know?”

  In response, Owen rolled his eyes. “If I remember,” he said, obviously with great effort to maintain his composure. “But as you may realize, I have other, more pressing matters on my mind today.”

  Candy held out the book toward him. “Would you like to take this with you? So you can compare the handwriting?”

  Owen looked down at the book warily, as if it were something distasteful. “That’s not the only book he signed, you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my meeting.”

  Candy took a last-minute different tack. “Did you know Porter Sykes bought the Whitby place? What’s that all about?” she asked in a loud stage whisper.

  Owen just glared at her and, without another word, turned and walked the rest of the way to his office, opened the door, and disappeared inside. Candy could hear murmuring voices briefly as he entered, but they faded to nothing as Owen closed the door firmly, shutting her out.

  A moment later, she thought she heard a faint click.

  Had he locked the door behind him? To prevent any further interruptions?

  By her?

  “Well, the nerve!” Candy said with an indignant shake of her head. “I guess that didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

  She wasn’t quite sure what to make of Owen’s behavior. No doubt he was under a great deal of stress, especially when dealing with the board members.
There’d been a murder in the building he managed. No one knew how long the police would have the place shut down. Money would be lost. Employees might not get paid. Owen might even be thinking his livelihood was in jeopardy. Certainly enough to account for his uncooperative behavior.

  But why was he neglecting to hand the note over to the police? Did he really not understand its possible value?

  Or was he trying to hide something?

  Standing all alone in the dim room, eyes cast downward, Candy thought back over the encounter she’d just had with him and the board members. She’d learned a few things this morning, like the fact that Plymouth Palfrey was in town, and Gilbert Ethingham had been drawn out of his nest. And she’d learned that Porter Sykes was involved in this, which was interesting—and not unexpected, once she thought about it.

  But she hadn’t accomplished what she’d come here to do. She hadn’t verified that the note found by Owen had been written by Julius. For the moment, however, she decided to assume it was, though she knew the evidence to support her theory was sketchy.

  Owen was right about one thing—that note could have been written by anyone. It could be of unknown age, just a forgotten slip of paper tucked between the pages of a book, like so many others, only to be discovered again by whoever turned those pages years later. If that was true, then there was no point in suspecting Owen of anything. It was a nonissue.

  But it had fallen out of a book Julius had been using for his research. The book must have been sitting on the table before being thrown to the floor, probably during the struggle between Julius and his attacker. It was probable, even likely, that he’d written the note and left it in that book to remind himself of something. A note about his research.

  But she thought it was more than that.

  She thought it could have something to do with his death.

  She thought back over the names on the list: Bosworth, Ethingham, Whitby, Rainsford, Palfrey, Sykes.