Town in a Pumpkin Bash

by B. B. Haywood

“Who…the chief?” Candy laughed at the thought of it. “Unfortunately our relationship goes back a ways, and it hasn’t always been pleasant.”

  “I can’t imagine any encounter with you being unpleasant,” Tristan said with a grin.

  “Well, I guess you had to be there. Most of the time me and the chief are like an old married couple—we bicker a lot but we’re stuck with each other.”

  Now it was Tristan’s turn to laugh. But when he noticed the tape recorder in her hand, his tone turned serious. “I came in late and missed part of it. Anything new in the investigation?”

  Candy noticed her recorder was still on and flicked it off, then dropped it into her tote bag. “No—at least nothing official. They’re not releasing much.”

  “Maybe they don’t know much,” Tristan surmised.

  Candy’s tone turned serious as well. “To be honest, I think they’re worried.”

  “About what?”

  She took a moment to collect her thoughts, and finally said, “This is the sixth murder in town in less than three years. That’s not normal. I heard someone ask this morning if Cape Willington is becoming the murder capital of Maine. I can even see that in a headline somewhere, on a blog or something.”

  “So you think they’re worried it’s becoming an epidemic?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And here you are, stuck at the middle of it.”

  Candy nodded. “I think on one level that irks him,” she said, referring to the chief, “but on another level, he’s worried for me. I think he’s truly interested in protecting me, but he also realizes that in some weird way I may be part of what’s happening.”

  “Why do you say that?” Tristan asked with a touch of concern in his tone.

  “Well, this makes two mysteries in a row that have involved me directly—they’ve literally walked into my life,” Candy said.

  “What happened the first time?”

  Candy paused, recalling the incident. “Solomon Hatch, the town hermit, walked into the back field at Blueberry Acres and collapsed in front of me. He told me there was a dead body in the woods, and then he disappeared.”

  “Yes, I heard something about that.” Tristan’s jaw tightened. “That happened when? Earlier this year?”

  “January,” Candy said, remembering darkly how that mystery had ended—with another mystery.

  “And now this—a body found in the pumpkin patch you’ve been working in.”

  “Now this.”

  They were both distracted by the beep of a horn and turned to see Wanda Boyle, heading off in her minibus, apparently done for the day.

  “Listen,” Tristan said, and Candy turned her attention back to him, “you’ve had a few difficult days, and obviously you have a lot on your mind. But I’d like to see if I can help take your thoughts off these pressing matters for a few hours. Why don’t you let me buy you dinner?”

  Candy gave him a curious look. “At Pruitt Manor again?”

  “No, at an actual real restaurant this time. My treat.”

  “Where?” she asked in mock suspicion.

  “The Lightkeeper’s Inn. I have a reservation for eight fifteen.”

  “How can you have a reservation?” Candy asked. “They’ve been booked up for weeks.” She knew. She’d written a story last month about the inn’s rising popularity, thanks to its young French Canadian chef, Colin Trevor Jones.

  “You forget,” Tristan explained. “I’m a Pruitt.”

  “Ahh.” Candy’s eyebrows flicked upward. “Rank has its privileges, right?”

  “Plus I have a standing reservation there on weekends when I’m in town.”

  “Cook doesn’t know how to make your favorite dishes?” Candy guessed.

  He chuckled. “No, it’s not that. Let’s just say there are times when I feel like I need a little space. Aunt Helen can be…stifling at times.”

  Candy nodded. She could certainly understand that. She’d been intimidated by Mrs. Pruitt from the start. “Do you stay out at Pruitt Manor regularly?” Candy asked.

  He grinned. “Why don’t we discuss it over dinner?”

  She glanced at her watch, then out to the crowd.

  She felt she had so much to do, so much research and writing waiting for her.

  And then there was Ben.

  They’d never talked about their relationship being exclusive. It had always been more casual than that. On the other hand, she hadn’t gone out with anyone else since they’d met.

  She looked back at Tristan. “On one condition,” she said.

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s not a date. It’s a business dinner.”

  “A what?” he asked in mock horror.

  Candy smiled at his reaction. “Well, maybe not quite as serious as that. But you and your aunt asked me to find Abigail’s missing diary, so I thought we could talk about your family a little more. And Hobbins.”

  “Hobbins?” Tristan made a face. “Why would you want to talk about him? It’ll spoil our appetites for sure.”

  Candy laughed. “I promise that won’t happen. Do we have a deal?”

  Tristan sighed and rolled his eyes in a completely charming way, before a warm smile crept across his face. “You drive a hard bargain, Candy Holliday. What time should I pick you up?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  He arrived at Blueberry Acres promptly at eight, driving a classic forest green Jaguar with well-worn leather seats and burl walnut trim on the dash, doors, and center console.

  Doc walked out to greet him, admiring the car and shaking hands with Tristan, while Candy threw on a cocoa-colored wool shawl she’d bought the previous spring at a clearance sale at Macy’s up in Bangor. She wore it over tan slacks and a draping cream-colored, midsleeve blouse with a silver belt. Turquoise earrings and a silver-and-turquoise necklace added some color. She’d fixed up her hair as best she could, and put on some lipstick and makeup.

  It had taken her a while to decide on the toned-down outfit, and she still wasn’t sure she’d made the right choice. She’d spent the better part of an hour on the phone with Maggie trying to figure out what to wear. She’d tried on four or five dresses, including a low-cut red number and a less revealing black dress, but none looked right for the occasion. She wanted to make sure she emphasized the point that this was a business dinner, and not a date. So she’d finally opted for the slacks and shawl, which she thought were more casual yet appropriate for dinner at the inn.

  Doc was telling Tristan about his latest writing project when Candy came down off the porch and climbed into the Jaguar’s passenger seat. The leather felt warm underneath her. “Heated seats?” she asked of Tristan.

  He nodded. He was wearing a starched white shirt, open-collared, and a dark gray jacket. With gold cuff links. Which had diamond studs. And he was wearing aftershave. Something that smelled earthy and expensive.

  She eased down into the warm seat. “Perfect for a cool autumn evening.”

  Doc was just finishing up, and Candy waved to him out the driver’s side window, leaning across Tristan. “Would you check the chickens for me? I didn’t get a chance to look in on them this evening.”

  “Sure thing, pumpkin.” Doc slapped the roof of the car and backed away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “Okay, you two have a good time…doing whatever you’re doing,” he said.

  “It’s a business dinner, Dad!”

  “That’s right, I keep forgetting,” he said with a grin, and waved as they drove off.

  The Lightkeeper’s Inn was crowded and the parking lot was full, but Tristan dropped off the car with a valet, and they were promptly seated at one of the best tables in the dining room, in a softly lit alcove with a bay window overlooking the front of the inn toward the sea.

  It was a beautiful night, cool and crisp. The sky had cleared and the stars were bright. The moon was just rising above the horizon out over the ocean.

  As they’d come down Ocean Avenue, they’d seen some volunteers who were
just finishing up their work in Town Park, setting up display stands for the Pumpkin Bash festival taking place on Wednesday. And tonight, the inn was completely decorated for Halloween, with carved and lighted pumpkins on display outside and in, autumnal wall and floor arrangements with cornstalks and sheaves of multicolored leaves, and a general spiderweb and bat motif weaving through the banisters, chandeliers, and lounge area.

  A waitress came by, took their drink orders, and chatted briefly with Tristan, smiling widely the entire time, before heading off toward the bar. Tristan waved a friendly greeting to the bartender as well, and both Oliver LaForce, the head innkeeper, and Alben “Alby” Alcott, the assistant innkeeper, stopped by to say a quick hello. Mason Flint, the chairman of the town council, also paid his respects.

  “My,” Candy said as she sipped from a chilled glass of white wine, “you’re certainly a popular person tonight. When I agreed to have dinner with you, I didn’t know I’d be sitting at a table with a celebrity.”

  “It is a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?” Tristan said sheepishly, as a half smile slipped out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s just that I’ve known some of these folks for the better part of my life. I spent most of my summers here when I was a kid. We used to eat here at the inn way back when the place was owned by the Whitby family. They eventually sold out to Oliver, whom I’ve known for almost twenty years. And I’ve known Alby since he started here eight years ago or so.” He pointed toward the bar. “I’ve known Hank since I was in high school—I dated his daughter one summer when we were both teenagers—and I played pool with Ted Frank, whose dad owned Zeke’s back in those days. We had insurance through Stone and Milbury, until they closed down. I’ve been to Town Hall and met with the town council a number of times over the years on the family’s behalf. I’ve worked with some of the local charities, we support local arts through the opera house, and of course I know most of the business leaders in town.”

  “Of course,” Candy said, lazily twirling her finger around the rim of the wineglass.

  “Well, you probably do too,” Tristan said, motioning toward her, “with your job as the community columnist.”

  “True. And at the bakery as well,” Candy added. “And, yes, I’ve gotten to know many of the people around town. If I haven’t interviewed someone for the newspaper, then I’ve seen them at Herr Georg’s place.” Herr Georg Wolfsburger ran the Black Forest Bakery, where Candy worked during the spring and summer. But the place had closed for the season a few weeks earlier, and as far as Candy knew, Herr Georg had already left town, heading south to warmer climes.

  Their drinks arrived, with an appetizer—courtesy of Oliver LaForce. It was one of Chef Colin’s seasonal creations—lobster dumplings with goat cheese, accompanied by a spicy apple dipping sauce, and on another warmed plate, roasted butternut-squash bruschetta sprinkled with olive oil and aromatic herb seasoning. They were also treated to glasses of authentic Colonial cider, prepared especially for Chef Colin’s kitchen.

  As they dipped, munched, and drank, Candy felt herself loosening up, and finally decided to segue into the questions that were burning in her mind, using a tactful approach.

  “So…tell me a bit more about Pruitt Manor,” she said, starting broadly.

  Tristan tilted his head. “What do you want to know?”

  She played coy, at least for the moment. “Well, what was it like visiting there in the summers—you know, hanging out with your family, and the help, like Cook and Hobbins, and all those folks?”

  He made a face. “Why would you want to know about them?”

  Candy’s gave him an enigmatic smile. “Humor me.”

  He studied her for a few moments, until the waitress came and took their dinner orders. He watched Candy the entire time as she chose blackened tilapia with rice pilaf and a fall vegetable medley, and then she watched with interest as he scanned the menu, flipped it closed, and crisply handed it back to the waitress. “I’ll have the usual.”

  “And what’s that?” Candy asked curiously.

  He shrugged. “Their prime rib here is excellent. Chef Colin uses this amazing bourbon glaze.”

  “What, you’re not ordering a cigar too?” she asked, amused.

  “That comes later.”

  After the waitress left, he dropped his eyes into a half squint as his gaze narrowed in on Candy. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?” he asked.

  She batted her eyes, feigning puzzlement. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “There’s something going on, isn’t there?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, the way you’re fishing for information. The way you’re dressed…”

  She leaned back. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” she asked, looking down at her carefully selected wardrobe.

  “The ensemble looks quite beautiful on you, I’ll admit, but it does seem like you’re attending a business meeting,” he said simply, gesturing with his hand. “I thought you were joking about that, but apparently you weren’t. Honestly, it’s not what a woman wears to a dinner engagement unless she’s trying to deliver a message. And I’m reading yours loud and clear.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “So, Miss Detective, what can I help you with?”

  Candy’s heart sped up just a bit at the way he’d seen through her charade so easily. This one is not easily fooled, she thought, and vowed to be wary of that during future encounters with him.

  At the same time, she found herself liking this right-to-the-point Tristan Pruitt, and she gave him a quick smile, before it faded. “Okay, here goes: How long has Hobbins been employed out at Pruitt Manor?”

  Tristan frowned, looked down at the table, and played with his fork. “Hobbins again.” He sighed and considered his answer carefully before speaking. “The Hobbins family has served the Pruitts for decades—I believe since the time of Cornelius, my grandfather. Possibly back even further. I’d have to check on it, really. It’s all detailed in our family history, but I confess I haven’t read all those dusty volumes, so I suppose I don’t really know the answer to your question—not precisely, at least.” He paused. “Aunt Helen would though.” He paused again as his gaze rose to her. “Why?”

  Now it was Candy’s turn to take several moments to formulate an answer. What should I tell him? she wondered. Do I want him to know what I know?

  She looked back over one shoulder, then the other, and leaning across the table, she finally said in a low voice, “I think Hobbins—or someone from Pruitt Manor—might have been involved in a death that took place out at the pumpkin patch twenty years ago.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A little more than an hour and a half later, they walked out to the Jaguar and drove to Pruitt Manor.

  It was just past ten in the evening, and the bar and lounge at the inn were still fairly active—for a Sunday night. But outside, the streets of Cape Willington were deserted, strafed only by the fallen leaves that tumbled down the dark pavement toward the sea. A light fog had rolled in, and might have been a problem if they were traveling far, but Pruitt Manor stood nearby, on the rocky point just a short drive down the Coastal Loop. Tristan barely had time to warm up the Jaguar’s cabin before they were pulling into the manor’s cobblestoned courtyard.

  “I think Hobbins is off tonight,” he said, motioning to one of the empty stalls in the garage. “His Explorer’s missing.”

  “Does he ever drive the Bentley when he’s out alone—on errands or that sort of thing?” Candy asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of. He usually takes his own vehicle. The only time he drives the Bentley is when he’s chauffeuring Aunt Helen around. Come on, let’s go inside. Most likely she’s gone to bed, but we can still dig around in the library a little, if we do it quietly.”

  Over dinner, Candy had explained what she’d heard earlier in the day—that a Bentley had allegedly been seen in the vicinity of the pumpkin patch twenty years ago, around the time the body of an unidentified female was found th
ere. Of course, the Bentley could have belonged to someone other than the Pruitts. But how many Bentleys were there in Down East Maine? She knew of only one. And if it had belonged to the Pruitts, then its appearance on that particular road on that long-ago night could simply have been a coincidence—and most likely that’s exactly what it was, she and Tristan had concluded together after talking it through. But as they’d considered other alternatives, the implications became trickier. For instance, could someone in the Bentley have dropped off the body in the pumpkin patch—dumped it there and then driven away with the headlights out, so as not to be seen?

  If so, why? And who?

  Over dessert—creamy pumpkin sherbet spiced with cinnamon and accompanied by a thin wedge of dark chocolate, along with hot tea for Candy and a bourbon on the rocks for Tristan (he’d decided to eschew the cigar for now, despite mischievous prompting from Candy)—they’d come up with several scenarios, none of which shined a positive light on Pruitt Manor, or whomever had been in occupancy at the time.

  It had been Tristan’s idea to search the library, and specifically the volumes of Pruitt history, for clues. “At least we can find out who might have been living in the house at that time, and who was on staff. Neither Aunt Helen nor Hobbins would probably remember details from that long ago anyway, so the histories are the best place to start.”

  But then the realization had struck Candy—the missing volume of Pruitt history that had been noted by the library, prompting the removal of the collection and its return to Pruitt Manor. What had the dates been? she’d wondered. She wished she’d brought the photocopy of the index card with her.

  But one way or another, she thought, she was about to get some answers.

  Tristan braked to a stop, shut off the engine, and told Candy, “Wait a minute.” Then he dashed smartly around the front of the car to open her door for her. As Candy climbed out, she looked up. The place rose above them in the moonlit night, its angled rooftops and elaborate nautical weather vane silhouetted against the rising moon. Several exterior lights illuminated their way, but the large oak door sat in a shadowed recess, and Tristan had to search for the right key. “Someone should put a light out here,” he muttered.