So here she was, a single woman again—at least for the moment.
As she drove south along the Coastal Loop with the sea on her right, she could see the peaks of Pruitt Manor just above the trees, most of which had lost their leaves. The color of autumn was gone. The pumpkins were gone, too, and the harvest was behind them. Even Halloween was gone. But they had Thanksgiving and the holidays to look forward to…and another winter.
Candy had surreptitiously kept tabs on the comings and goings at Pruitt Manor, and she had timed her visit carefully.
The last she’d heard, Olivia March had been transferred to the Maine Correctional Center in Windham, northwest of Portland, which had facilities for female prisoners. Given the fact that she’d been a reporter for the Boston Herald, there’d been quite a bit of media hype in the city over her arrest, and out-of-town reporters had invaded town for a few days. But most of them were gone now, moving on to the next story, and Candy—and the Pruitts—had largely managed to avoid the spotlight.
Candy had also spent a number of hours on two separate occasions at the Cape Willington Police Department, explaining everything she knew about the case—although she’d left out a few parts, since she hadn’t known them herself.
That was why she was driving out to Pruitt Manor today.
The courtyard in front of the manor was mostly deserted. But several of the garage doors in the adjacent building were opened. The Bentley sat in one of the bays. And as Candy had hoped, a certain butler was puttering around it, wearing an apron and gloves.
He stopped what he was doing and stared at her as she pulled the Jeep to a stop just outside the bay. She shut off the engine and climbed out.
“Afternoon, Hobbins,” she said, and she squinted as she looked up at the sky. It was a beautiful late-fall afternoon. The sky was bright blue, and the ocean beyond Pruitt Manor, visible through the trees along the side of the building, looked almost as vivid.
“It sure is,” he said, looking up with her. After a few moments he looked back down. “By the way, I don’t think I ever wished you a happy birthday. So happy birthday, Ms. Holliday. You had quite an eventful evening, from what I’ve heard.”
“You got that right.” She wandered casually into the garage bay, admiring the Bentley. “That’s quite a car,” she said, staring in the passenger-side window at the interior.
Hobbins smiled. “You’ve always been an admirer of this car, haven’t you? We talked about it before, a few years ago, if I remember correctly.”
“You do,” Candy said, straightening. “And you’re right. We did talk about this car a few years ago. It was the first time I visited Pruitt Manor.”
He nodded amiably. “Yes, that sounds about right, miss. You’ve been out here a few times since then, haven’t you?”
“I sure have,” Candy said. “I’m getting to be a regular visitor. Tell me, how long have the Pruitts owned this Bentley?”
“This one?” Hobbins scrunched up his face. “Well, if you remember correctly, miss, it’s a 1993 Brooklands Saloon.”
“That’s right,” Candy said. “A ’93.” She walked around the tail end of the car, admiring its lines and detail. “I assume you bought it new,” she said. “I can’t imagine the Pruitts would buy a used Bentley.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Hobbins said, walking to his workbench and removing his gloves, which he laid down carefully. “Is there something I could help you with, miss? I do have to finish up my work. I’m driving back to Boston later this afternoon. I just had to wrap up a few things here.”
“Actually,” Candy said, “I do have one or two questions to ask you. Nothing on the record, of course. Just trying to tie up a few loose ends.”
“Questions?” Hobbins gave her a wary look.
“There’s two things I haven’t quite been about to figure out,” Candy said, “concerning Emma Pruitt. You’ve heard about her, right?”
The expression on Hobbins’s face changed abruptly. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about that, miss. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“I’m sure you are,” Candy said, “and I admire the loyalty you and your father have shown to the Pruitt family. So since you can’t really say anything, I wonder if I could tell you a quick story? You just have to listen. It’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”
Hobbins looked skeptical, and glanced at his watch. Finally he nodded. “All right, miss. I suppose I can give you a few minutes. So what’s this story about?”
“Well,” Candy said, leaning back against the Bentley and crossing her arms in front of her, “it’s about the wife of a very wealthy man. Now, this wife is a fairly serious woman, and she doesn’t put up with much nonsense. But she also knows the ways of the world, and she knows the value of being discreet. So when she finds out that her husband has fathered an illegitimate child with a young socialite from Boston, who’d been his mistress for a year or two, the wife knows she has to do something about it to protect the family’s reputation and fortune.” Candy paused and glanced over at Hobbins. “Are you with me so far?”
He nodded, expressionless. “I’m with you, miss.”
“Okay, so, this wealthy man’s wife tries to find out what happened to her husband’s illegitimate child. But she keeps running into dead ends. So one day she decides to hire a detective, and he finally tracks down the child—who is a teenager now—in an orphanage in Lewiston. She has all records of the child destroyed, and then takes her out to an old estate on an isolated island, where the girl is made a virtual prisoner. She waits until the child’s eighteenth birthday, when she is of legal age, and has her sign a document, disclaiming any rights to the Pruitt family fortune.”
Hobbins gave her a tight look. “I can neither confirm nor deny such a thing happened, miss. In fact, for all I know, it’s complete fantasy.”
Candy tapped a finger on her chin. “Yes, you know, you’re right—except for two things.”
Suspicion returned to cloud Hobbins’s eyes. “And what might those be, miss?”
“Well, for one, a Bentley”—Candy reached out and tapped the side of the freshly waxed car—“this Bentley, I believe, was spotted in the vicinity of the pumpkin patch, with its lights out, on the night Emma Pruitt died there, twenty years ago.”
It took him a long time to speak. “And the second one?”
“Who took Emma’s body out to Wren Island—on a boat—and made sure she was buried there?”
Again, Hobbins took a long time to reply. “Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer to either of those questions, miss.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Candy said, “and for the record, neither would I if I were in your place.” She paused, and her tone turned more serious. “But I do have a question I’d like an actual answer to, if you don’t mind—what really happened to Emma Pruitt that night?”
In response, Hobbins grabbed a clean chamois cloth and walked over to the Bentley, looking for spots that needed buffing. He sighed. “All I can tell you is that she died of natural causes,” he said finally in a low, confidential tone. “There was nothing sinister going on. The elder Mrs. Pruitt—the mother, Abigail—had been giving money to that young woman for years, especially after she had her baby, but Emma kept wanting more, even after Abigail’s death. It became…unmanageable. I was asked to make a final payment to her—to drop off the money. For some reason she wanted to meet at a field out of town. I wasn’t familiar with it and went looking for it, but I was never able to find her. I think she got the whole thing mixed up in her head. She went to the wrong place. There was no way to contact her….”
“And she waited for you to arrive but you never showed up? Is that it?” Candy asked.
Hobbins nodded. “Something like that, miss. It was no one’s fault. She was in a bad spot.”
“And after Emma’s death, you made sure she was buried on Wren Island, right?”
Again, it took him a long time to respond, but he finally nodded. “It was one of Abigail’s last wishes. She’d eve
n specified the inscriptions for Emma’s tombstone. I did as she asked. I took the body out in the family boat myself.”
“And you covered up the whole thing. As far as everyone knew, the body just disappeared.”
Hobbins gave her a pained look. “As far as anyone knew, she never existed, miss. I tried to give her a decent burial and a good resting place, out there where she spent so much time.”
Candy had suspected as much. It explained the last few pieces of the puzzle, and she decided not to press any further. She thanked Hobbins for his honesty, and was on her way back to the Jeep when she stopped and turned around. “Hobbins, another question,” she said. When he grimaced, she added, “Last one, I promise.”
“And what would that be, miss?”
“Well, I’m wondering, who told Emma about the missing key—and how to find it? You know, that little phrase she wrote down on a slip of paper and slid between the pages of a book on Pruitt history?”
At that Hobbins visibly lightened, and he gave her a quick wink and a sly smile. “Well, miss, that’s an easy one to answer. I had to give her a fighting chance, didn’t I? After all, she was a Pruitt.”
“Indeed she was,” Candy said, and she nodded to herself as she turned back to the Jeep. “Indeed she was.”
EPILOGUE
As was their custom, he arrived at the house in Marblehead on Sunday afternoon precisely at four P.M. for tea.
Daisy Porter-Sykes was proper that way. She insisted on punctuality. She insisted on proper dress. And she insisted on good manners. So when he found her sitting in her dark living room, he was on his best behavior. “Good afternoon, Grandmother. You’re looking lovely today as usual.”
The ninety-one-year-old woman scowled as she turned up a cheek to her grandson, accepting his grazing kiss. “Don’t get smart with me, young man.”
He laughed softly. “You really must learn how to accept a compliment.” He unbuttoned his sport coat and settled himself in the chair opposite her. “So, have you been well?”
“I wish I were better,” Daisy said with a coolness in her tone, “but I suppose I’m as well as anyone can be at my age.”
“Look at it this way. As least you’re still alive.”
“Don’t remind me,” Daisy said sourly as she leaned forward and poured out cups of tea for the both of them. “My quest for revenge keeps me alive.”
“More precisely, your hatred of the Pruitts,” her grandson said matter-of-factly.
At that, Daisy’s thin lips curled up in a crinkled smile. “You know me all too well, don’t you? Sugar?”
Porter Sykes waved a dismissive hand. “You know I can’t stand that stuff. I’ll take a strong cup of coffee if you have it. Or a brandy.”
The old woman scowled at her grandson again. “You’ll have tea with me!” she said sharply. “That’s the whole point of our visits.”
“Hmm, I thought the point was that you wanted me to give you a report,” he said. “And since you insist, I’ll take one sugar.”
His grandmother complied, dropping a sugar cube into the cup and passing it to him. “And, yes, I do want you to report, as you call it. So tell me: What have you found out?”
He let out a breath as he leaned forward to accept the teacup, then settled back again in his chair, crossing his legs and arranging his coat around him. “Well, you were right, of course. The documents were in Abigail Pruitt’s room, locked in a drawer in her desk. Apparently no one had been able to open it since her death. Why they didn’t just take an ax to it is anyone’s guess. As it turns out, they didn’t know where the key was until Candy Holliday found it in Sapphire Vine’s house. And, oh, yes, the authorities have arrested Emma’s daughter—your granddaughter, I might point out.”
“Don’t call her that,” Daisy sniped at him. “Her mother may have grown inside my womb, but she was a Pruitt. She was always a Pruitt—and so’s the daughter. I did what I thought best at the time to protect our family, and I’ve never regretted my decisions. I had the situation well contained. I made sure there were no traces of her birth and stuck her in that orphanage. Neither Cornelius Pruitt nor your grandfather knew anything about it. But then Abigail Pruitt had to start snooping around. She was the most stubborn, damnable woman!”
Coolly, Porter responded, “Well, it was bound to all come out sooner or later, wasn’t it? This way everything’s on the table. We’ve scared all the rats out of their nests and into the open. It’s a start. But surely you must have some regret that your granddaughter has to spend the rest of her life in prison?”
Daisy took a sip of tea, trying to swallow down her bitterness. “She’s the grandchild of Cornelius—and that’s all she is. That’s all she’ll ever be. The offspring of the man who destroyed me, and forced my husband—your grandfather—to take his own life at that wretched mansion up in Maine. Cornelius Pruitt launched a vendetta against this family and tried to destroy us all—and he almost succeeded a couple of times. But he’s long gone, and now it’s my turn to take revenge on his family.”
Porter was silent. He’d heard all this before. His grandmother had lived with her simmering hatred of the Pruitts for more than sixty years, constantly plotting ways to strike back. Now she’d pulled him and his siblings into her web, and for some reason he’d let her do it.
But, no, that wasn’t entirely true. His brother and sister were the ones who had initially bought into their grandmother’s schemes. He’d only been persuaded later—and now one part of him regretted that he’d ever let it get this far.
But another part was intrigued by the possibilities that still lay ahead.
“We’re getting closer,” Daisy said, as if reading his mind. “I can feel it. Once we find those old land deeds that belonged to Silas Sykes, we’ll be in a position to destroy the Pruitts once and for all.”
“Ah, yes, the famous land deeds,” Porter said skeptically, longing for something stronger to drink. “Roger thought he had those in hand, didn’t he? Or at least a clue to their whereabouts, supposedly written down in Old Man Sedley’s journal. But it was another dead end, wasn’t it? At this point, I’m not even sure they exist.”
His grandmother looked as if she wanted to slap him. “Don’t talk like that!” she admonished him. “Of course they exist. I know it. We’ll find them. We have to.”
They both sat in silence for a long time, mulling their individual thoughts, until Porter shrugged and said, in a facetious tone, “I suppose we could just hire Candy Holliday to find the deeds for us. She’s had quite a bit of success at that sort of thing lately.”
His grandmother snorted at the suggestion. “You’re taken with her, aren’t you?”
Porter arched an eyebrow. “I’ll admit I like her, yes. She’s spunky.”
“Is that why you arranged to have her boyfriend shipped off to the West Coast?”
At that, Porter frowned. “Ben Clayton? I had to get him out of the way. I knew if I made him the right offer, he’d never be able to refuse it. He was getting too close to the truth, anyway. I just had to make sure he didn’t know who was behind the offer.”
“So what now?” Daisy Porter-Sykes asked, her eyes hooded, her expression vengeful. “What’s next for Cape Willington, Maine?”
Porter Sykes mulled over his grandmother’s question for a long, long time, sipping his tea as the room darkened with the setting sun.
He had poked the hornet’s nest several times now, getting interesting reactions. His latest effort, unknown to his grandmother, had been a discreet offer, made through back channels, for the Pruitt’s private library collection. He’d heard rumors about what the collection might contain, and had taken a chance. It was possible, he thought, that there might be valuable information hidden away in some of those old volumes. He hadn’t been surprised when the Pruitts refused the offer, or by the events that had followed. But he still hadn’t quite figured out how to leverage it all to his—and his family’s—advantage.
Finally, softly, he said, “I’m
still working on that. But I can promise you we’re not done with those people. We’ve only just begun. But we must bide our time, Grandmother, and wait for the right opportunity to come our way.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t take too long,” Daisy Porter-Sykes said bitterly. “I want to walk the halls of Pruitt Manor before I die.”
“And you will, Grandmother, you will. I have a feeling that before this is over, you’ll not only own Pruitt Manor, but half of Cape Willington—and Blueberry Acres as well.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While the Cranberry Isles are real, Wren Island is fictional. You won’t find it on any map. However, the Cranberry Isles ferries do exist, along with a great number of working ferries and mail boats providing seasonal and daily service to the islands along the Maine coast. Thanks once again to Todd Merrill of Merrill Blueberry Farms in Ellsworth, Maine, for providing details about fall mowing and burning procedures. Thanks also to the many fans, family, and friends who continue to support the series. For more information on the Candy Holliday Mysteries and Holliday’s Blueberry Acres, visit www.hollidaysblueberryacres.com.
RECIPES
Holly Holliday’s Pumpkin
Chocolate Chip Bread
1 ½ cups flour
½ cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup pumpkin, fresh or canned
½ cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
¼ cup water or milk
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup chocolate chips
½ cup walnuts, chopped (optional)
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Mix together the flour, sugars, and baking soda.
In a second bowl, mix the pumpkin, oil, eggs, water, and spices together.
Combine the pumpkin mixture with the dry flour mixture.
Add the chocolate chips and nuts.
Pour into a well-buttered loaf pan.
Town in a Pumpkin Bash Page 28
