Town in a Cinnamon Toast

by B. B. Haywood

  A NATURAL GUIDE TO SPRINGTIME PLANTING

  by Candy Holliday

  Gardening & Food Correspondent

  Special to the Cape Crier

  It’s hard to imagine, in the middle of winter, with so many feet of snow on the ground, that spring will surely arrive in a few months and gardens will grow again. It will, and they will!

  Even in the month of May it can be cold and—gulp!—even snow in Maine. But instead of wondering when the cold will ever end and when you can plant, you can follow the signs in nature and let them be your guide, rather than trying to figure it all out on your own and losing precious plants in the process.

  The following is the “natural” planting guide my father, Henry “Doc” Holliday, and I use every year out at Blueberry Acres. It hasn’t failed us yet, and should work for you as well. (Note: All these tips are for planting outside. A greenhouse or hoophouse will change your planting schedule, but the time to transplant outside remains the same.)

  One important tip is to not plant delicate plants or annuals before the last frost full moon in May. After the full moon in May, it is safe to plant.

  One of the first flowers to bloom is the snowdrop. When you see the beautiful white flowers open, it is safe to plant your peas, onion sets, and lettuce.

  The next flower we all look forward to seeing is the crocus. When the crocus blooms, it’s time to plant radishes and spinach.

  Next come those beautiful yellow, sweet-smelling daffodils! When the daffodils bloom, it is safe to plant half-hardy vegetables, which would be your chard, beets, and carrots.

  When the maple trees begin to leaf out, you can start planting perennials.

  When the fragrant apple blossoms bloom, it is safe to plant beans.

  The trees I always wait for are the lilacs. When the lilacs are in bloom, the world smells wonderful, and it is safe to plant annual flowers, cucumbers, squash, and basil.

  When the irises bloom, you can plant peppers and eggplants.

  Wait for the lily of the valley to bloom to transplant tomatoes. It’s hard to wait for that one!

  When the oak leaves are the size of mouse ears, it is safe to plant your corn.

  It has to be really warm for peonies to bloom, and then it is finally safe to plant melons.

  In all these cases, patience truly is a virtue, and it will save you from having to replant plants lost due to the cold. Happy spring, and happy gardening!

  CHARACTER LIST

  Principal Characters

  Candy Holliday—amateur sleuth, runs Holliday’s Blueberry Acres with her father, Doc

  Henry “Doc” Holliday—blueberry farmer, retired college professor, historian, and writer

  Maggie Tremont—Candy’s best friend, works at the bakery, lives in Fowler’s Corner

  Amanda Tremont—college student, daughter of Maggie, fiancée of Cameron Zimmerman

  Cameron Zimmerman—fiancé of Amanda, regional manager for an agricultural company

  Herr Georg Wolfsburger—renowned baker, owner of Black Forest Bakery, Maggie’s fiancé

  Ellie Chase—Maggie’s mother, visiting for the wedding

  Jack and Piper Chase—Maggie’s brother and sister-in-law, from Presque Isle

  Wanda Boyle—managing editor of the Cape Crier, the town’s weekly newspaper

  William “Bumpy” Brigham—retired attorney, part of Doc Holliday’s “posse”

  Artie Groves—retired engineer, bespectacled member of the posse

  Finn Woodbury—retired police officer, local play producer, member of the posse

  Neil Crawford—current owner of Crawford’s Berry Farm, son of Miles

  Random Crawford—Neil’s shaggy dog

  Ralph Henry and Malcolm Stevens Randolph—local gift shop owners, budding wedding planners

  Judicious F. P. Bosworth—World traveler and town mystic

  Others in Cape Willington, Maine

  Alben Alcott, commonly called “Alby”—assistant innkeeper at the Lightkeeper’s Inn

  Melody Barnes—owner of Melody’s Cafe and caterer for the reception and rehearsal dinner

  Marshall L. Bosworth—older brother of Judicious, attorney in Bangor

  Daniel Brewster—assistant librarian at the Pruitt Public Library

  Bob Bridges—maintenance staff at the English Point Lighthouse and Museum

  Ben Clayton—former editor of the Cape Crier

  Cotton Colby—cofounder of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League

  Miles Crawford—former owner of Crawford’s Berry Farm (deceased)

  Gabriella Daisy—wife of the Reverend Daisy

  The Reverend James P. Daisy—pastor of the Cape Willington First Unitarian Church

  Charlotte Depew—past director of the English Point Lighthouse and Museum (deceased)

  Lucinda P. Dowling—librarian and local author of family histories

  Gilbert Ethingham—museum board member, descendant of the Ethingham founding family

  Mrs. (Rachel) Fairweather—town resident, lived in a bungalow on Shady Lane (deceased)

  Mason Flint—chairman of the town council

  Augustus “Gus” Gumm—owner of Gumm’s Hardware Store

  Colin Trevor Jones—executive chef at the Lightkeeper’s Inn

  Jesse Kidder—photographer and graphic designer for the Cape Crier

  Oliver LaForce—owner and head innkeeper of the Lightkeeper’s Inn

  Doris Oaks—volunteer at the English Point Lighthouse and Museum, owner of Roy the Parrot

  Plymouth Palfrey—museum board member, owner of the Kennebec Press

  Owen Peabody—director of the English Point Lighthouse and Museum

  Daisy Porter-Sykes—matriarch of the Sykes family, lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts

  Edith Pring—member of the museum’s board of directors

  Molly Prospect—officer of the Cape Willington Police Department

  Helen Ross Pruitt—matriarch of the Pruitt family, owner of Pruitt Manor

  Tristan Pruitt—nephew of Helen Ross Pruitt

  Alice Rainsford—member of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League

  Julius Seabury—local historian, self-published author, and tourist favorite

  James Sedley (known as Mr. Sedley)—town resident and recipe creator (deceased)

  Gideon Sykes—husband of Daisy Porter-Sykes (deceased)

  Morgan Sykes—sister to Porter and Roger, lives in New York City

  Porter Sykes—real estate developer, grandson of Gideon and Daisy Porter-Sykes

  Roger Sykes—Boston restaurateur, grandson of Gideon and Daisy Porter-Sykes

  Silas Sykes—ancestor of Porter, Roger, and Morgan Sykes (deceased)

  Elvira Tremble—cofounder of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League

  Wilma Mae Wendell—town resident, former winner of the Lobster Stew Cook-off

  Elias Whitby—previous owner of the Lightkeeper’s Inn and the Whitby estate

  Elliot Whitby—Poe impersonator, current owner of the Whitby estate

  Scotty Whitby—nephew of Elliot, waiter at the Lightkeeper’s Inn

  Marti Woodbury—wife of Finn, frequent visitor to Florida in the winter (with Finn!)

  For a complete character list spanning all seven books, visit hollidaysblueberryacres.com.

  Keep reading for an excerpt of the first book in B. B. Haywood’s Candy Holliday Murder Mysteries . . .

  TOWN IN A BLUEBERRY JAM

  Available from Berkley Prime Crime!

  PROLOGUE

  He was falling.

  A moment earlier he had been standing on solid ground, near the edge of the seaside cliff that dropped sharply to wet black rocks below. Now here he was, his face turned toward the night sky and nothing beneath
him but open air. His arms windmilled back and his legs pumped wildly as the memories of a life well lived flashed before his eyes with such speed and vividness it made him gasp.

  It really did happen like that, in the moments right before death. He could attest to the fact, if he lived long enough. But he knew he’d never get the chance.

  He could still feel the spot on his chest, like a hollow wound, where the hand had struck him hard, coming out of nowhere in a stab of anger. It had caught him so suddenly, so unexpectedly that he’d lost his footing and stumbled to the edge of the cliff, where he’d teetered as a terrifying surge of panic swept through him. An instant later his feet lost contact with solid ground. Now, as he fell, his mind exploded with disbelief and regret, and his face tightened as his mouth pulled back in a death grimace. And underneath it all he cursed himself. He should have seen it coming. All the signs were there. He should have been more attentive. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to the edge. But he’d lost his bearings in the argument. He’d let his emotions drive the wits from him—a fatal mistake, he realized now, and his whole body shuddered at the hard, horrifying realization:

  I have just been murdered!

  How could this be happening? The surrealism of the moment threatened to overwhelm him, to send him into deep shock. His eyes rolled back, his fingers tingled unnaturally, and his chest felt cold, colder than he would have thought possible. His breath was pulled from him by the rushing air as he felt death closing in on him all too quickly.

  In those last moments anger spewed forth from him, a hot blast of furor, and he tried to fling curse words back up at the shadowed figure that stood at the edge of the cliff above, watching him with a shocked expression, eyes wide, hands out, grasping at emptiness. But he could bring nothing forth—not a curse, not a scream, nor a grunt or even a spasm of sound. His throat constricted with preternatural fear, all words and sounds choked off, for death was racing toward him at an incalculable speed. How much time did he have left? A heartbeat? Two? Was his heart even still beating? He heard a roaring in his ears as he considered the question within the space of a millisecond. He decided to measure the remainder of his life not in heartbeats, nor in seconds, nor in the blinks of a watery eye, but in the beats of a hummingbird’s wings. Surely he had a few dozen of those left, perhaps even a hundred. It would give him a small bit of time to ponder his life before it was crushed achingly from him.

  And there was much to ponder, for the memories were coming lightning fast now, like rapid bursts of fire from an automatic weapon. His first remembered glimpse of his parents’ faces, younger than he’d ever remembered them before. Touching tiny toes in a retreating wave at the beach. Seagulls whirling overhead. Skipping rocks on a quiet stream, fishing with his father, hockey on the ice pond, his first moments underwater in a wading pool. Then the passion that consumed him, compelled him through life, a life as a professional swimmer. Racing with his friends in the ocean’s rough surf—and always winning. Indoor pools at the YMCA, his earliest lessons, and soon after, his first formal swim meet. The cheers of the crowd and the odor of chlorine in his nostrils like the breath of life. The faces of coaches and trainers and myriad competitors, every face remembered. Endless meetings and practices, the tension and excitement of race day, followed by powerful surges of adrenaline for bare moments in the water that became his sole reason for existence. Controlling his rhythm and holding back just a bit of extra energy for the finish. The roars of the crowds growing louder as the crowds themselves grew. Awards and honors, “Oh Say Can You See,” feeling the tug of heavy medals draped around his neck, the way they gleamed in the spotlights. Sitting around the kitchen table, talking to his folks about the greater goal. The worry but determination on their faces as they considered the costs, the struggles, the uncertainty of such an unimaginable future. Driving in his dad’s old truck to statewide meets, his first time on a plane as he flew off to Nationals, then his first trip overseas with his father, to Europe. Where he won. And continued winning, so many meets, so many wins, so many steps along the way, all laid out like pages of an aged scrapbook that flipped rapidly across his vision. Then to Tokyo and the Olympic Village and the Parade of Nations, all passing by him with such detail, such clarity that he could remember the sounds and the smells as if he stood there now. And his eyes watered as he wondered where it had all gone, how it had slipped away too fast, too fast. . . .

  Back home, with the parades and speeches, the handshakes and hugs, the looks of pride, admiration, and often jealousy—those last looks were the ones he came to love the most, for they empowered him, gave him a sense of worth and accomplishment.

  And the women. Lots of women. They had always come easily to him, attracted by his confidence, his skills, his lean body, his good looks, and that burst of unruly, always uncombed red hair that became his trademark. Even cut short for swim meets it was noticeable, but after his retirement he let it grow out again, and the women couldn’t keep their hands off it. Through all the years of traveling, of broadcasting and commentating, of commercials and special appearances, milking his celebrity for every cent he could get out of it, his hair was his calling card.

  But in the end it had not saved him. In fact, more than likely it had, in some not-so-small way, led to this moment, his literal downfall.

  That almost made him laugh as the hummingbird’s wings beat a few more times, and the hard black rocks raced toward him with astonishing swiftness.

  He’d heard the rumors around town, the whispers, the surreptitious nods in his direction, the looks askance, and the occasional finger-pointing when they thought he wasn’t watching. Folks liked to talk about the plethora of redheaded children around town, though no one ever said anything to him directly about it. And what problem was it to him anyway? Just because he never married, and made little distinction between married and unmarried women—were any of those kids his fault? But that hadn’t stopped the threats, the lawsuits, the angry husbands, and sullen stares from jilted lovers. The worst were the clingy ones, who expected more from him than he ever wanted to give. Their emotions spun on a dime, moving from adoration to terrifying rage with a speed that always left him cold and confused, cautious, and ultimately uninterested in any form of intimacy and attachment.

  But again, that had been part of his attractiveness, what drew the women to him. There were many who accepted him for what he was, of course, and those were the ones who figured most prominently in his final thoughts. He recalled them all fondly as he fell back, his head below his feet now, his gaze rolling up. The stars in the black sky above glowed brightly before him, so close, so distinctively sharp, elegant pinpricks in a restless infinity. Its beauty struck him with such force that he was distracted from the memories, and in the last moments those memories were lost to him, fading away like a foamy wave rolling off a sandy beach, drawn back into the greater ocean.

  The ocean. Water. It had always been his sustenance, his greatest love, his only mistress. It would accept him for a final time now, and he would give himself fully to it.

  But still, he had regrets. Too much left undone, too much life still left to be lived. And again, he wondered— how had this happened? How had he come to this moment?

  His mind raced in those final few flutters of the hummingbird’s wings, and it was only then, in the last milliseconds of his life, as his body broke on the rocks, crushing the air from his lungs and stealing away his life, that the final flash of memory and realization shot through his screaming brain. The clarity of it was striking, and he knew in that last instant who had driven him to his death. No, she hadn’t pushed him off the cliff herself. Her hand wasn’t the one that had struck him in the chest, ending his life. But she’d been there in spirit, in the dark shadows of motivation. Hers was the hand behind the hand, her words the whispers in the ear, her thoughts the seeds that led to this tragic end. Scheming and manipulating behind the scenes, she’d driven the killer to murder, flicki
ng domino-block events out to this final, inexorable moment.

  It had been her, he was certain of it.

  His last thought was of Sapphire Vine.

  From the Cape Crier

  Cape Willington, Maine

  July 23rd Edition

  THE WEEKLY GRAPEVINE

  by Sapphire Vine

  Special Correspondent

  BLUEBERRIES FOR EVERYONE!

  Are you ready to par-tay? Of course you are! Once again, good citizens, it’s time for Cape Willington’s world-famous Blueberry Festival! As I’m sure you well know, the fabulously fruity festival is an all-day event scheduled for Saturday, July 27, and it’s usually the town’s busiest day of the year. (Tourists are everywhere!) Festivities kick off at 7:30 A.M. at Legion Hall, with other events taking place around Cape throughout the day. The Blueberry Parade begins at 3 P.M., with Olympic Gold Medal winner Jock Larson serving as the Grand Marshal (again!). Most important, the Blueberry Queen Pageant will take place at 6 P.M at Town Hall. There are many lovely contestants taking part this year, including Yours Truly—moi! Do wish me luck!

  Don’t forget to check out the many wonderful booths that will be lined up along Main Street and Ocean Avenue during the festival. There will be plenty of goodies for everyone. See you there!

  CELEBRITIES ABOUND

  Seems like our attractive little town has been a celebrity magnet lately. A few weeks ago we reported sightings of big-time chunky-hunky TV and movie star Patrick Dempsey (he’s sooooo McDreamy!) and the lovely missus, who toddled about town with their brood and sampled the wares at a local restaurant. (Patrick was born in Lewiston, you know.) Now a more literary celeb is gracing the starstruck streets of our village—none other than Sebastian J. Quinn, he of the revered poetic tome, The Bell of Chaos. And we’re thrilled to report that the esteemed Mr. Quinn has consented to serve as a judge at this week’s prestigious Blueberry Queen Pageant. Remember, you read it here first!