“You always have been.” She paused. “You going to see Finn this morning at the diner?”
“Sure. I’m headed over there now. He’ll be there.”
“I wonder if you could give him a message for me,” she said, and she proceeded to tell her father about their encounter with Scotty Whitby the day before. She didn’t tell him everything—there was just too much to cover—but she gave him the basics and explained her dilemma. When she’d finished, Doc anticipated her request.
“You want me to ask Finn what he thinks you should do?”
“No, more than that. I wonder if you’d ask him to contact his source inside the police department and relay a rumor he’s just heard—that Scotty was spotted out at the Whitby estate sometime early last night. Sort of an anonymous tip, but coming from him it might have some weight to it. Like a back-door-channel type of thing. That way they’d know about all this at the station, but, well, it would . . .”
“Keep your name out of it?” Doc finished.
Candy smiled. “Yes, exactly. For now, at least.”
Doc thought it over a moment before he nodded. “I’ll talk to Finn and see what he says, and we’ll deliver the word to the police, one way or another. Of course, you know it won’t take Chief Durr long to figure out where this rumor came from. He’s a pretty smart guy, you know.”
“I know, and that’s fine. I’ll deal with the repercussions when I get to that point.” She leaned forward and gave him a quick hug before she pointed at the Jeep. “But for now, I have to run, and help the bride-to-be bake a cake!”
THIRTY-NINE
She found Maggie in the kitchen of her home in Fowler’s Corner, up to her elbows in flour. Ellie was hovering nearby, helping out wherever she could but mostly trying to stay out of the way.
“For some reason I decided to make it from scratch,” Maggie said with a look of mild dismay. “Is that crazy of me?”
Candy patted her friend reassuringly on the shoulder. “Well, maybe just a little, with everything that’s going on today, but you wanted it to be special, so I completely understand. We’ll all work on it together. So”—she rubbed her hands together—“where are we?”
Maggie quickly returned to an upbeat mood. “Well, as I mentioned yesterday, it’s a chocolate groom’s cake with blueberry cream frosting, decorated with candied flowers. I’ve already made the flowers with sugar syrup, so they’ll be edible, of course. They’re in the fridge.”
“What color are the pansies?” Candy asked, surveying all the items Maggie had laid out on her countertop in preparation for baking.
“White and a sort of a bluish purple, like a blueberry—as close as I can get to the color of Georg’s eyes.”
Candy looked around for an apron. “Okay, what can I do to help?”
They divvied up the tasks and spent the next two hours working together in Maggie’s kitchen, mixing, melting chocolate, beating, pouring, baking, cooling, assembling, frosting, and decorating. Amanda showed up mid-morning and pitched in, and the whole process went as smoothly as possible. And when they were finished, they had something marvelous.
Maggie surveyed their handiwork. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
“I think he’ll love it,” Candy said.
“He’ll be thrilled,” Ellie agreed.
“It’s beautiful, Mom,” Amanda added, admiring their handiwork.
Maggie beamed. “It did turn out pretty amazing, didn’t it? As good as I’d hoped. Of course, it’s not quite up to Georg’s level of achievement.”
“You’re getting there,” Candy said supportively.
“A few more years and you’ll be outbaking him!” Ellie put in.
Leaning closer to Candy and speaking in a stage whisper, Maggie asked, “Have you been over to the shop to see what he’s baking?”
“I haven’t. He hasn’t told me anything about it, except what he said at the dinner party, about it being from an old family recipe.”
“I heard he was in the shop at five this morning,” Maggie said.
Candy arched her eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”
Maggie gently bumped her friend in the hip. “I have my sources, you know. Wanda Boyle isn’t the only one around here with spies.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. It might come in handy someday.”
“I’m sure he’s whipping up something wonderful, just like we did,” Amanda piped in.
As they were putting their final touches on the cake and starting to clean up, their conversation turned to other matters.
“How goes the investigation?” Maggie asked.
“It’s going,” Candy said, and she checked her watch.
“Close to solving it?”
“I might be. I’ll let you know this afternoon.”
“Why, what’s happening this afternoon?”
Candy didn’t reply right away, and for a moment an awkward silence filled the kitchen. But Amanda quickly figured out what was going on. She’d heard enough about Candy’s investigations from her mother. Discreetly she cleared her throat and turned to Ellie. “Umm, Grandma, why don’t you and I take a break? Maybe a short walk? It’s beautiful outside right now.”
“Why, what’s happening?” Ellie asked, looking slightly confused.
Maggie said, “Mom, Candy and I just need a few minutes together . . . to talk about something. You know, bride, maid of honor, that sort of thing. Girl talk. Why don’t you go on a quick walk with Amanda and we’ll press on with the rest of the preparations when you get back.”
Ellie didn’t quite understand what was going on but complied. And when they were gone, Candy proceeded to tell her friend all that had happened over the past day or so—her encounter with the members of the museum’s board yesterday afternoon, including the disembodied voice of Porter Sykes; his invite to meet at the Whitby estate at one P.M. today; the fact that three board members plus Marshall Bosworth had been spotted at the inn on Wednesday night, lending credence to a possible conspiracy of some sort; Candy and Georg’s discovery of Foul Mouth and Scotty Whitby; and the young man’s sudden disappearance into the night.
Maggie whistled. “Wow, you’ve been busy! And you’ve been keeping my fiancé occupied, which I appreciate—although I’m not crazy about that rock-climbing part. And I’m not sure what to do about Scotty Whitby. But you’re not going back out to that place again this afternoon, are you? Not alone? Not after what you told me about Porter Sykes in the past.”
“I don’t know,” Candy said. “I really don’t have any sort of plan in mind. I should probably go to the police with all this. That would be the proper thing to do, but . . .”
“You don’t want to get into a tussle with the chief?”
Candy nodded. “That’s certainly part of it.”
“But you don’t want to get accused of withholding evidence?”
“That would get me deeper in hot water, yes.”
“Sort of damned if you do and damned if you don’t?”
“Exactly. I’ve asked Dad to talk to Finn about it. That should buy me a little time.”
Maggie thought for a few moments. “You know,” she finally said, “if you could just find the murderer yourself, that would get you off the hook, right?”
“Not entirely, but it would probably help. At least the water I’m deep into wouldn’t be quite so hot.”
“True. So,” said Maggie excitedly, “let’s see if we can solve it!”
They talked about the suspects then, and the long trail of clues Candy had followed so far. “I can’t help but think that it all goes back to the list of names Julius left for us to find in the books. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he made that list, and I think he must have been trying to tell us something. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. If I could just crack that code, it might be the piece I need to finally so
lve this thing.”
“Well, let’s have a look at this famous list of yours then,” Maggie said. “Two heads are better than one, right? Maybe we can figure it out together before you head over to the Whitby place. At least maybe we can come to a conclusion, one way or another, about Porter Sykes, before you put yourself at his mercy.”
“I don’t have the list with me,” Candy said as she looked around for something to write on. “Owen had it, and hopefully the police have it by now. But I can re-create it from memory.”
Maggie found some paper and a pen for her, and Candy wrote down the list of names Owen had recited that night in the archives.
Bosworth.
Ethingham.
Whitby.
Rainsford.
Palfrey.
Sykes.
She also added the initials L. B. and the words Foul Mouth at the bottom of the page, but told Maggie, “I think I’ve solved these two parts. L. B. refers to Marshall Lex Bosworth, and I’ve told you about Foul Mouth, but it’s these names that have me stumped.” She ran her finger down the list. “As far as I can tell, they’re not in any particular order. They’re not alphabetical, or arranged by publication date, or follow any sort of format that I can figure out.”
“What makes you think they’re important?”
“Well, because the list was repeated. It was on the slip of paper Owen found two nights ago in a book up in the archives, and yesterday I found books about these families arranged on a shelf in this particular order.”
“So you think this slip of paper with the list of family names, and the books on the shelf, could have been put there specifically by Julius as a message of some sort?”
Candy acknowledged that was her theory.
Maggie rubbed her chin as she studied the list again, leaving a small smudge of flour behind. “Well, then, if he was leaving a message for you—because, let’s face it, you’re the only one who could discover something like this, and he probably knew that—then the answer to whatever he might have been trying to say is staring us right in the face.”
“How do you mean?” Candy asked.
“Well, you said it’s a code of some sort, right?”
Candy looked back down at the list. “That’s what it seems like. What do you suppose it means?”
“Well, I don’t know. Something with the names, right? Their order?” She was rubbing at her chin again, thinking. “Let’s try something simple,” she said, and stepped away briefly, returning with a folded slip of paper, which she put over all the letters in the names except for the initial capitals:
B.
E.
W.
R.
P.
S.
Candy leaned in for a closer look as Maggie read out the letters:
“B-E-W-R-P-S.”
“Bewerps?” Candy said, trying to pronounce the word Maggie had revealed. She leaned back and scrunched up her face. “But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just gibberish.”
“No,” Maggie said. “It’s a code, like you said. Look at it again.”
And they both did.
“Draw a line between the R and the P,” Maggie suggested.
Candy finally saw it. “B-E-W-R. Beware!”
“Right! He was trying to tell you to beware of something. But what?”
Candy studied the last two letters, and gasped. She could feel the blood suddenly pounding through her. “That’s it! You figured it out!” And she pointed at the initials with her finger. “Palfrey. And Sykes.” She looked up at her friend. “P-S! He was trying to tell me to beware of Porter Sykes!”
FORTY
Maggie wouldn’t let Candy leave for the Whitby place without having some sort of backup in place. “If you’re wandering into the house of a possible murderer, someone Julius took the time to specifically warn you about, you have to take someone else with you.” She paused. “I’d go myself, of course, but . . .”
“No way.” Candy waved a hand in the air. “I’m not putting you in a potentially harmful situation on the day before your wedding. I did that last night with your fiancé, and we were lucky we escaped with no injuries, but I don’t think I should do it again. Besides, I’m sure you still have plenty to do around here to get ready for tonight and tomorrow.”
“It’s true,” Maggie said, “but I’m not letting you waltz into that place all alone.”
“I’ll try not to waltz in,” Candy said with a half smile, “but honestly I don’t see any other way. I have to find out what he wants, and I don’t think he’ll talk if I bring someone along with me. Of course, that doesn’t mean . . .”
Her mind worked for a few moments before she pulled out her cell phone and placed a call to Finn Woodbury. He was still at the diner with her father, and he’d already had a conversation with Doc, so he had a good idea why she was calling. But she had another request for him. It took a little convincing, but finally he agreed to do as she asked.
“Just backup,” she clarified. “Don’t come in with your guns blazing.”
“Unless you need my help.”
“Right. Unless I need your help.”
“I’ve got you covered,” Finn said. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You just do what you have to do.”
“What did he say?” asked Maggie, who had overheard Candy telling Finn her plan.
“He’s in. If anyone has to back me up, Finn is the guy,” she said as she began to gather her things. It was nearly twelve thirty, and she had a twenty-five-minute drive over to the Whitby estate. It was time to leave if she wanted to be there on time.
Maggie gave her a hug. “You be careful. Take care of yourself!”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
With that, Candy headed out the door and toward her Jeep. As she fired it up and turned the steering wheel north and east, she still wasn’t certain she was doing the right thing.
Her uncertainty continued as she drove out of Cape Willington and up the road along the bay, before crossing over to the next peninsula. As she turned south again and the roads deteriorated to dirt, she decided that, whatever happened, she was doing what she had to do, just like Finn said.
She had to find out what was going on, and right now Porter Sykes was the person who held all the cards—at least, she hoped so.
One way or another, she’d find some answers soon.
The Whitby estate looked different this morning than it had the day before, when they’d been out here chasing down mysterious footprints along a dirt path. On this bright, clear afternoon, the place didn’t look so gloomy, thanks to the sunlight filtering down through the trees. The brownstone looked more elegant, the windows not so dark, the landscape around it not as looming and claustrophobic.
And there were cars in the driveway this time—three of them, including what looked like a fairly new Cadillac.
Candy pulled the Jeep to a stop in the gravel driveway in front of the house. She shut off the engine, grabbed her tote, and climbed out.
Holding the tote close to her chest, she stood for a few moments beside the Jeep, taking deep breaths, preparing herself for what might come next. Then, as determined as she’d ever be, she walked up to the house and knocked firmly on the front door.
The knock seemed to resonate inside, making the building sound hollow and un-lived-in. Which, she imagined, it was—or had been until this morning.
She thought she heard a distant, deep thudding noise from somewhere inside, possibly toward the back of the house. It was there briefly and then gone.
She waited, trying to calm the uneasiness she felt. She was just about to knock again when she heard echoing footsteps from inside, approaching the door. A few moments later, a lock turned and the door creaked open.
A tall, fiftyish man with a sharp nose, intelligent eyes, and dark hair graying
at the sides stood before her. For a moment he looked surprised to see her, but he recovered quickly and held out a hand. “Hello there, I’m Marshall Bosworth. How can I help you?”
“Oh, hi, Marshall,” Candy said as casually as possible. “I know your brother, Judicious.” She watched for a reaction from him but saw none. “I’m Candy Holliday. I believe I have a one o’clock appointment to meet with the new owner, Porter Sykes.”
Marshall’s eyes widened. “Oh, right, I think he mentioned something about that. They haven’t arrived yet, but why don’t you come on in and you can wait for them. They should be here any minute.”
He checked his watch as he opened the door a little farther, and she was about to ask who “they” were, when she heard the sound of an engine coming along the dirt track into the parking lot behind her. Both she and Marshall turned toward the sound.
It was a black town car, the kind often used as a limousine, with a driver and two passengers. It did a wide circle of the parking area, coming around 180 degrees, so the right side was aimed toward the door, toward Candy and Marshall, as it came to a stop.
A face looked out at her from the front passenger seat. It was a man who looked to be in his mid-forties now, with thick brown hair and an aristocratic nose on his rugged face.
He nodded in greeting, and smiled at her through the window.
Candy recognized that devious smile. She knew right away who it was.
Porter Sykes.
But it was the face of the second passenger, the one in the backseat, that drew her attention. It was the visage of a much older woman, frail-looking, dressed impeccably, right down to her pillbox-style hat and gloved hands.
Porter jumped out of the car and came toward Candy first, his hand outstretched. “You must be Candy Holliday,” he said, that unsettling smile never leaving his face. “How good it is to finally meet you in person. Sorry for our delay, but we got a late start. Grandmother had a few things to take care of before we left Marblehead—and, of course, she wanted to make sure she looked her best for her grand entrance back into Cape Willington society”—he paused to look around the place—“such as it is.”
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