Town in a Pumpkin Bash

by B. B. Haywood

  “We checked them all,” Maggie continued as they headed back along the hallway, “and cleaned them all out but…”

  “But we could have missed something,” Candy said as she set the alarm and locked the office door behind them. “Like in a hidden zipped pocket.”

  “Or a little slip-in side pocket or something like that.”

  Because of the Pumpkin Bash celebration, they’d had to park in the lot behind the buildings on Main Street, and it took them several minutes to make their way up the street. The pumpkin displays were beginning to fill, and the carving stations were still churning out more jack-o’-lanterns. Downtown Cape Willington had taken on a festive feel for the afternoon. Candy was tempted to stop and shoot a few candid photos with Jesse’s camera, but she knew a life might be hanging in the balance, so they hurried along—though Candy wasn’t sure what else they could do at the moment other than follow up on their hunch. The meeting with the kidnapper of Olivia March wasn’t until nine. Would Olivia even still be alive by then? Should they call the police and report what was happening, and risk Olivia’s life? Or should they keep their mouths shut, as the kidnapper had told them to do?

  For the moment, Candy decided, all they could do was follow up on the current clue and see where it led.

  Less than ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of Sapphire Vine’s old place, and again they went around to the back door. Maggie hadn’t brought the house keys with her, so they used the one hidden above the window frame to get inside.

  The house was dark and gloomy. “No wonder people think this place is haunted when it looks like this,” Candy said as she stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light.

  The stairs to the basement led down from the hallway, through a door lined with shelves so it could double as a pantry. After Sapphire’s death, they’d cleaned out all the cans of peaches and sauerkraut and tomato paste, and old boxes of macaroni and potato flakes. The shelves were empty now.

  “You go down first,” Candy said as she pulled open the basement door and stood aside so Maggie could go through.

  “Why me? You always go first.”

  “Because I don’t like basements.”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  “But it was your idea to go down there in the first place.”

  “Yes, but it’s your investigation.”

  “Hmm. Okay,” Candy said after a moment. “Then we’ll just have to go down together.”

  “Great idea,” Maggie said, and she flicked on the basement light.

  But it didn’t go on.

  “Bulb’s probably burned out,” Candy observed grimly as she looked down the dark wooden staircase. “Got a flashlight? I think I left mine in my other bag.”

  Maggie kept one under the kitchen sink, and with their arms linked and the flashlight lighting their way, they descended the stairs into the basement.

  They found no dead bodies this time, but they did find several cardboard boxes sitting on a side shelf, filled with odd bric-a-brac, mostly yard sale and thrift shop material.

  At the far end of the shelf, they found a box filled with Sapphire Vine’s old tote bags and pocketbooks.

  And once they had the box back upstairs, after an exacting search, they found Abigail Pruitt’s diary, smelling a little damp and musty, hidden in a side pocket of a large red purse.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Tristan Pruitt arrived in the Jaguar just after eight to whisk her off to the masquerade ball.

  It had taken her more than an hour to get ready, and the entire time she’d wondered what she should tell Tristan—and what she should keep secret.

  Should she tell him that they’d found Abigail’s diary? Or that apparently the item sought by Sebastian J. Quinn—as well as by the person who had murdered him—was a key that Candy believed had been wedged into the diary’s binding by Abigail Pruitt?

  And should she tell him that she suspected the key hidden in the book’s binding would open the small document drawer in Abigail’s writing desk—a drawer no one had been able to open since her death?

  Should she tell him that she’d found the missing volume of Pruitt history, only to lose it again within an hour? And that the thief who had taken it had apparently also taken a hostage, and was now threatening that hostage’s life?

  Should she tell him she was to meet that same thief and kidnapper—and possible murderer—this very night, in an upstairs room at Pruitt Manor?

  And should she tell him the rest of it, the hardest part: that in her mind, at this point, everyone—including Mrs. Pruitt, Hobbins the butler, and even Tristan himself—was a suspect?

  But that just confused her even more. Why would Mrs. Pruitt hire her, Candy, to find a missing diary in the first place, if Mrs. Pruitt herself was implicated in the crime? Or her butler? Or her nephew?

  And what if someone else was involved—someone she hadn’t counted on? Like someone from the Sykes family?

  Was she in danger? Were the Pruitts in danger? Was Olivia March really in danger—or was it all just a ruse?

  She didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. So until she did, she decided to tell Tristan none of these things. Better to wait until she had all the facts before she started pointing fingers.

  She’d figured out part of the puzzle, yes—or, at least, she thought she had. But the person behind it all, and that person’s motivations, were still a mystery to her—though she could make a few educated guesses. But until she knew the whole story, she was hesitant to discuss her discoveries—and her secrets—with anyone.

  Maggie knew a lot of it, but she had promised to keep quiet until after the evening’s events played out—though, naturally, she was worried about her best friend.

  “Just don’t go getting yourself killed on your birthday,” she’d said before they’d parted earlier in the day. “That would be a real bummer. And try to have a great time!”

  Candy would, she decided, do exactly that—it was, after all, her birthday. And she’d also try to avoid getting herself—or anyone else—killed. But she knew she might need help in that particular area, so just in case, she’d made a last-minute phone call. Then she pushed aside her doubts and concerns, and mentally prepared herself for the evening ahead.

  So at eight o’clock on the night of her fortieth birthday, dressed as a Blueberry Queen, wearing an altered prom dress, sparkly blue shoes, and a silver tiara with fake blueberries hot-glued onto it, and carrying a sequin- and feather-decorated mask attached to a ribbon-swirled stick—some fantastique-style fashion accessory Maggie had picked up at a flea market a few years back—Candy locked the farmhouse door behind her and walked down off the porch toward the Jaguar. She was wrapped in a white cashmere shawl against the chilly night air, and carried in one hand a nondescript silver clutch purse, one just large enough to hold a slim diary, as well as a few other things she thought she might need.

  Tristan held the car door open for her. “Good evening, and happy birthday,” he said as he glanced up and down at her. “You look absolutely amazing.”

  “You think so?” she asked, spinning for him in the driveway, showing off her costume.

  He crossed his arms appraisingly across his chest. “Yes. Blue is definitely your color.”

  “You look pretty amazing yourself,” she said, letting out a bit of a laugh as she studied his outfit. He was dressed in white breeches, knee-high boots, a blue waist-length, gold-buttoned jacket with epaulets and braids, and a tricorn hat with a feather. “Very dashing. You’re a sea captain, right?” She gathered her dress around her and slid past him into the front passenger seat—again, luxuriously heated. It was, she thought, just about the best car accessory ever invented.

  “Something like that,” he said easily as he closed her door, quickly rounded the car, and tossed his hat into the back before dropping into the driver’s seat beside her. He pulled the gear shift into drive and they started off toward town. “To tell you the truth, I was instructed by Aunt Helen to dre
ss as a commodore, but this was the closest thing I could come up with.”

  Candy laughed again. “Why a commodore?”

  “Excellent question. First, you’d have to understand my aunt. And second, it was sort of a nickname of mine when I was growing up around here during the summers. The family owns a couple of boats, including one we keep here in Cape Willington. When I was around fourteen or fifteen, I had this brilliant idea one summer that I was going to start my own ferry service, just like Cornelius Vanderbilt did—and that’s what they used to call him, you know. The Commodore. So when I took the boats out, I insisted that everyone call me that, and it stuck for a summer or two.”

  Candy found all this quite amusing. “But why commodore instead of captain?”

  “Well, in my way of thinking as a fifteen-year-old, it was a more accurate description of my rank.”

  “And how’s that?”

  He flicked his gaze toward her and grinned. “Commodore’s a higher rank, you see, although it’s not used much anymore. Essentially a captain is in charge of a ship, but a commodore is in charge of a squadron or a wing or a task force—that sort of thing.”

  “Or a fleet?”

  He nodded. “And since the Pruitts owned a fleet of exactly two boats, technically I was a commodore. Anyway, it must have stuck in my aunt’s mind, because when she heard I was coming to her party this year, she insisted I dress this way.”

  “Well, it seems fitting then,” Candy agreed. “In fact, it suits you.”

  Tristan took the compliment with a shrug. “It’s not like I have much of a choice. It’s a required obligation for family members when we’re in town. That’s why most of us usually stay away.”

  “So why did you come up at this time of year?” Candy asked mischievously. “Certainly not because you wanted to dress as a commodore?”

  “Certainly not. But I had some business I needed to attend to. And I wanted to meet you. So here we are.”

  “Here we are,” Candy agreed.

  They’d made a left onto the Coastal Loop and were already approaching Pruitt Manor. He pointed ahead, out the windshield. “We’re a little early. Do you mind if we make a brief side trip?”

  She shook her head. “No, of course not. What do you have in mind?”

  “A quick walk through the park?”

  Traffic grew heavier as they drove down the Coastal Loop past the Lobster Shack, which sat alongside the ocean on their right. By the time they reached the downtown area and the turnoff on the left for Main Street, they’d slowed to a crawl. The village’s business area was blocked off to traffic for the festival, but they could see along the street, and all the jack-o’-lanterns that had been carved and lit for the evening—hundreds and hundreds of them on display.

  “It looks beautiful,” Candy said as they drove by.

  “It sure does. Let’s have a look.”

  A little farther on, Tristan flicked on the turn signal and swung into the parking lot behind the Lightkeeper’s Inn. He pulled into a spot marked PRIVATE.

  Candy indicated the sign. “Let me guess. You know the owners?”

  He grinned. “Like I said, being a Pruitt has its benefits.” He shut off the engine. “Hang on, I’ll get your door.”

  Once he’d locked the car, he led her up the steps onto the inn’s wraparound porch, festively decorated for the holiday. “Just a brief stop,” he said, bouncing his keys in his hand, “for a quick celebration.”

  He had a table waiting for them in the lounge, with red roses as a centerpiece and a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice. “A little prelude to our evening,” he told her as they were seated, “and to celebrate your birthday in proper fashion, as befitting a Blueberry Queen and her escort, the Commodore.”

  The sommelier poured for them, and Tristan raised his glass. “To the queen of the evening, the birthday girl—and the most beautiful woman in town. Happy birthday, Candy Holliday.”

  She blushed, and they drank together.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Both the head innkeeper, Oliver LaForce, and the assistant innkeeper, Alby Alcott, stopped by their table to say hello and wish Candy a happy birthday. Several waiters, waitresses, and bartenders, many of whom both Candy and Tristan knew by name, stopped by as well to give Candy their best wishes and say hello to the “commodore.” And Colin Trevor Jones, the inn’s young French Canadian executive chef, popped out of the kitchen personally to deliver a selection of hors d’oeuvres he’d prepared especially for them.

  After they’d had a glass or two of champagne and sampled the hors d’oeuvres, they headed outside to take in the sights and sounds of the Pumpkin Bash. Ghosts, vampires, and witches ruled the night, though superheroes, robots, and princesses were also well represented. Entire families were dressed up, moving from booth to booth and display to display, pointing out their favorite jack-o’-lanterns and stopping by the storefronts, where costumed employees handed out candy and prizes to the kids.

  Candy and Tristan wandered up one side of Ocean Avenue and down the other, pausing to admire the various pumpkin displays, including a particularly impressive one in front of the Pruitt Opera House. At the bottom of the street, they angled into Town Park, and managed to catch an impromptu reading of “The Raven” by local thespian Elliot Whitby, dressed in period garb.

  Nine months ago, at the center of this very park, an ice sculpting exhibition had taken place, and Candy had found a clue buried in the ice. Tonight, in the spot where the ice sculptures had once stood, rose the tallest of the pumpkin displays, a pyramid-shaped affair with the high point nearly twenty feet above the ground. There were hundreds of pumpkins lined up on this display alone, all lit, giving the night a spooky orange glow.

  They lingered for a while in the park, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the festive atmosphere, full of laughter and excitement, until Tristan glanced at his watch and said, “It’s time to go.”

  He put his arm around her, and she couldn’t help leaning against him as they headed back to the Jaguar and drove out to Pruitt Manor.

  The mansion looked particularly spooky tonight. It, too, was decorated with jack-o’-lanterns as well as Halloween displays of ghosts, tombstones, and witches, along with several large autumnal-themed arrangements. As they drove into the courtyard, they saw that guests were still arriving for the ball. Several cars were lined up near the entrance, their passengers awaiting to alight for the evening’s high-society affair. They idled in line for a few minutes until the other cars cleared out, and Tristan pulled the Jaguar up in front of the manor. It had barely come to a stop when he jumped out and tossed the keys to a waiting valet, while another valet, dressed as a zombie, opened the door on Candy’s side.

  “Ma’am,” the young valet said as he took her hand and helped her out of the car.

  As she stepped out, Candy looked up at the manor’s facade. Its English Tudor–style exterior was brightly lit with colored spotlights, though most of the upstairs windows were dark. She could hear voices coming from inside, and music, mixed with the sound of the ocean breaking on the rocky shore behind the house.

  “You know, there should be a pretty interesting crowd here tonight,” Tristan said as he came around the car and held out his arm for her, so he could escort her inside. “Aunt Helen’s parties always draw a lot of movers and shakers from the area. There’s usually a senator or two, a couple of mayors, a few famous writers and TV personalities. Of course,” he said as they passed through the front door into the foyer, “everyone’s in costume, so technically we’re not supposed to know who anyone is. But I’ll point them out to you when I see them.”

  He’d put on a black mask and his hat as well. The voices and music grew louder, and Candy raised her mask to her face, too, as they traversed the foyer and entered the room on their right.

  It had been a large sitting room, Candy recalled, but now it was transformed. Colorfully dressed partygoers were everywhere, all wearing masks and costumes, some quite elaborate. The place had been festively d
ecorated for Halloween, and a three-piece band played in one corner. As Candy and Tristan entered, several people around them applauded and welcomed them, and a waiter swept past carrying a tray with flutes of champagne. Tristan expertly plucked off two and held one toward Candy, then nodded at the crowd. “Shall we mingle?”

  One of the first people they ran into was Helen Ross Pruitt herself, dressed regally in purple silk and chiffon, with a high white wig and a mole on her cheek, reminding Candy of someone who might have been right at home in the Sun King’s court at Versailles.

  “You look stunning, as always,” Tristan said as he greeted his aunt with a kiss on her cheek. “Marie Antoinette would be jealous.”

  “Let’s only hope I don’t meet her fate,” Mrs. Pruitt said dryly.

  “A good turnout, I see,” Tristan pressed on, looking around the room.

  Mrs. Pruitt jutted out her chin. “Of course it is. I know how to throw a party.” She reached out then and took Candy’s arm. “You look lovely tonight, dear. The color blue suits you.”

  They chitchatted for a few minutes, and Mrs. Pruitt pointed out a few prominent personalities in the crowd, before she went off to greet several of them herself, and Candy and Tristan continued to make the rounds as well.

  All the while, Candy kept an eye on the discreet silver-banded wristwatch she wore, right next to the blueberry bracelet Doc had given her that morning. The nine o’clock hour was approaching, and she nervously scanned the crowd, wondering when, and if, she should head upstairs for her rendezvous with Olivia March’s kidnapper.

  She didn’t have to wonder about it too long, for something odd caught her eye.

  At the far end of the room, moving slowly through the crowd in her general direction, she saw someone wearing a skeleton costume and mask, carrying a black plastic pitchfork.