Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  There were other suspects, of course, but whoever was behind these acts, what had been the goal? At the least, to create a certain amount of chaos around town, Candy thought. At worst, murder. Obviously, both goals had been achieved.

  And what about the target? Had it been general in nature, or someone specific?

  Ned Winetrop had dipped into the jar on Table Four, unnoticed and uninvited, and paid the price. But he obviously wasn’t the intended target. His involvement had been a random occurrence—something no one could have foreseen.

  So if not Ned, who? Who were the pickles meant for?

  Her first thought was, It could be anyone. Anyone in town. Anyone who was here today.

  But that immediately seemed wrong to her. If that was the plan, it was a bad one. Too broad and unpredictable—although unpredictability had interfered anyway. But whoever left the jar on Table Four could have had a more specific target in mind.

  So . . . who?

  Three individuals quickly came to mind: the three official judges.

  That thought struck Candy as one possibility that made sense, and she mulled it over as she turned and surveyed the remaining crowd with a more discerning eye.

  The official judges were almost guaranteed to taste-test the pickles—it was part of their job here today. Maybe that’s why the jar had been put out late, right before the official judges reached the table. That would have kept the honorary judges away from them, and made sure the tainted pickles were out on the table at exactly the right moment.

  Of course, Candy herself had aided in that process. She remembered with a shiver that Julia von Fleming had almost bitten into one of those pickles. If anything had happened to her, Candy could have been considered an accessory to attempted murder—or worse.

  As it was, she was already under suspicion. She decided she’d better figure this thing out, and fast, before both she and her father found themselves placed in handcuffs and hauled off to jail.

  The gym had largely emptied out following the demise of Ned Winetrop and the subsequent halt in the afternoon’s proceedings. Other than Doc, Finn, and a few others, most of the honorary judges had already left the building, though glancing out through the double doors Candy could see a few people still gathered in the parking lot outside, apparently hesitant to leave the scene just yet. They milled about or stood around in small groups, chatting with one another in lowered voices and shaking their heads in disbelief. A few were talking to police officers. Mason Flint and Elvira Tremble were both engaged in conversations with officers. Elvira looked especially animated as she pointed back toward the building and recounted her story, whatever that might be, to Officer Molly Prospect, who was dutifully writing down Elvira’s comments in a notebook and occasionally prompting her with a question.

  Turning her attention back inside, Candy noticed that all three of the official judges were still there, much to her surprise. She was even more surprised when she realized they were all huddled around the last of the food tables—and from what she could tell, they were still going about their business, judging the samples that remained.

  Candy felt a moment of gratitude at their dedication but she also became concerned, considering what had just happened with one of the food samples. Warning signals rising, she hurried over to them.

  “Herr Georg, Colin, Julia, what are you still doing here?” she asked in a hushed tone as she approached the group. “And, well, what exactly are you doing?”

  Three pairs of eyes shifted toward her. Herr Georg flashed a weak smile but Julia spoke for the group. “We talked it over and decided we should go ahead and finish the taste testing, as best we could,” she told Candy. “We’ve asked the volunteers to leave the entries on these last two tables so we could sample them. After all, wonderful townspeople prepared all these items, which deserve to be considered for the contest.”

  “But . . .” Candy hesitated. “But what if something else is . . . tainted.”

  “We talked about that,” Colin said with a great deal of seriousness, “and decided it’s unlikely. For one thing, that jar was an aberration. We all knew it. Because it was labeled, and wasn’t properly checked in, it didn’t belong in the contest anyway. We rightfully should have excluded it entirely, but, well, we got caught up in the moment.”

  “I’m afraid that’s all my fault,” Julia confessed to Candy, giving her a contrite look. “I pestered you about those pickles and bent the rules a little. It was an unregistered jar and should have stayed in that box, where you’d put it.”

  “As far as we can tell,” Herr Georg continued, “everything else out here on the tables has been registered, and can be traced to a specific person, so we don’t expect any more problems.”

  “We’ve asked a couple of the volunteers to re-verify all the samples for us,” Colin added, “just to make sure they’re legitimate.”

  Candy nodded her approval. “Good thinking.”

  “So, you see, we decided as a group there wasn’t much risk in finishing our job,” Herr Georg concluded with another smile, slightly stronger this time.

  It made sense. And at least it would alleviate one of her concerns—what to do about the article for the newspaper. She knew it was somewhat mercenary of her to think about filling pages at a time like this, right after someone had succumbed to a poisoned pickle practically right in front of her. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that there had been a real purpose behind today’s event. It had all been for the sake of an article in the paper’s bicentennial edition.

  She couldn’t help but feel a tinge of guilt that someone had died at an event essentially held for entertainment purposes.

  However, that raised another concern. Would all this cast a shadow over their planned special edition? Would readers—and subsequently advertisers—shy away due to a negative stigma?

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to think about that right now. Better to keep focused on a more positive outcome.

  Figure out what had happened here. Solve this mystery quickly. She couldn’t save Ned, but she could do the next best thing:

  Find the person who had poisoned him, before anyone else died.

  TEN

  She knew exactly where to focus her attention next—with the people right in front of her.

  She turned first to Julia von Fleming, who was taking a petite bite out of a caramel cluster. She held a napkin under her chin as daintily as possible to catch any falling crumbs. “Julia, can I ask you a question?”

  Still chewing, Julia nodded as she shifted her gaze to Candy.

  “Well, earlier, you said you’d heard a rumor about a jar of pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli. I’m just wondering where you heard that.”

  As Julia finished chewing and swallowed, she pointed with a pinky around the room. “Just whispers,” she said. “People talking.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  Julia thought a moment and shook her heard. “Not that I can recall. I don’t know many of the people around here anyway, so I don’t think I could name names.”

  Candy accepted that answer for the moment and shifted her gaze to Herr Georg and Colin. “Did either of you hear these rumors?”

  Colin just shrugged and shook his head, but Herr Georg said, “I heard some chattering. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t think much about it, though, until you brought out the jar.”

  “Right,” Candy said, moving on. “Did any of you notice who put the jar there?”

  All three considered the question but were soon shaking their heads. Julia said, “Personally, no, I didn’t notice anything strange. A lot of the volunteers were still putting out last-minute samples on the tables, so it could have been any of them. People were coming and going all afternoon, and all the tables had other judges hovering around them. There was so much activity that it blurred out everything else.” She paused and glanced at her fellow judges. “I don’t want to speak for Colin and Georg, but I was so absorbed in what I was doing that I simpl
y tuned everything else out.”

  “It’s the only way, really, to make a fair assessment of the samples,” Herr Georg agreed. “You have to concentrate on what you’re doing and not allow yourself to be distracted by the activity around you.”

  “So there’s nothing that sticks out?” Candy pressed. “Nothing that seemed out of place? Maybe something you overheard, or some sort of strange behavior from someone you might or might not know?”

  Again, all three of the judges contemplated the question, but in the end, all shook their heads.

  Candy wanted to ask more questions, but they seemed eager to return to their task and finish what they’d started. So she decided she’d leave them to it. She could always talk to them again later. “How much longer do you need?”

  “We’ll be finished here in less than ten minutes,” Herr Georg told her. He paused and glanced around at the others before turning back to Candy. “Do you need our scores today? We’re all a bit, well, off-kilter after what just happened. It would be nice to have the evening to collect our thoughts, review our notes, and determine the winners in each category.”

  Candy nodded. “I completely understand. Monday morning will be fine. That will give you the weekend. And once again, I want to thank all of you so much for doing this. We truly appreciate your time and expertise. I’m sorry it didn’t turn out the way we planned, but your assistance has been invaluable today.”

  She gave them a smile and was about to turn away, when Julia said in a solemn tone, “They were meant for us, weren’t they?”

  Candy stopped and turned back to face the woman. “What’s that?”

  “The pickles. They were meant for us—or one of us.”

  Herr Georg let out a breath and shook his head. When he spoke, he did so with a frustrated tone. “Now, Ms. von Fleming, you know we can’t say that for sure. Maybe it was an accident of some sort—”

  “That was no accident!” Julia said, and hushed herself when she realized her tone had sharpened. In a lowered voice, she continued, “Those pickles were meant for us—for the judges!”

  “But why would someone target you?” Candy asked, curious to hear what she had to say.

  Colin calmly intervened. “I think we’re all just a little overexcited by what happened here today. I’m not sure we should jump to any conclusions just yet.”

  “Here, here,” piped in Herr Georg. “This is all complete speculation.”

  “But someone died today,” Julia said, looking worried.

  “And we’re going to find out what happened as quickly as we can,” Candy said reassuringly. “Trust me on that.”

  “Was it . . . him?” Julia asked, her gaze shifting back and forth as her voice suddenly dropped to a mere whisper.

  Candy shook her head, not understanding. “Was it who?”

  “You know.” She waved a hand vaguely off toward town. “Maurice.”

  “Maurice?”

  Herr Georg cleared his throat. “She’s referring to Maurice Soufflé.”

  When Candy said she still didn’t understand, the baker clarified. “That’s what he called himself, at least. He was the owner of the Sweet Pickle Deli, before it closed down mysteriously one night a few years back. If you’re looking for the person behind this whole thing, perhaps you should start with him.”

  ELEVEN

  Who is Maurice Soufflé?

  Candy pondered this new bit of information as she turned away, leaving the judges to their task. The name vaguely rang a bell. She thought her father might have mentioned him years ago, when she first moved to town, but she hadn’t remembered that until now, and hadn’t made the connection in her mind, since she’d been focused on the town’s current residents as possible suspects behind today’s events, and not a ghost from the past.

  The cleanup effort was moving along quickly, and as she considered what she’d just learned, Candy jumped in to lend a hand. Working with Marjorie Coffin, she helped pack up dishes and food containers in cardboard boxes, which would be loaded into a van, taken back to the newspaper’s office, and returned to their owners over the next few days, something Wanda had promised to do. They’d originally planned to donate any leftover food to the local church, for distribution to those in need, but decided that was too risky now, given the current circumstances. Instead, any leftovers would simply have to be thrown out, for safety’s sake.

  As they were working, Candy looked over at Marjorie. She was short and squat, with plump cheeks, a reddened face, and farmer’s hands. Her long brown hair, dulled by prolonged exposure to the sun and showing streaks of gray, was pulled into a ponytail. Dressed casually in jeans, a sweater, and sneakers, she was quick and efficient in her work. She ran a farm outside of town with her husband, Pierre, and had gained a reputation around town for her jams, pies, and especially her honey.

  “So, Marjorie, how many entries did you have in today’s cook-off?” Candy asked, trying to ease the tension in the room with some light conversation.

  “I entered a pie, of course,” Marjorie replied in a high, birdlike voice. “Strawberry rhubarb. And raspberry jam, and some honeycakes.”

  Candy nodded. “That sounds like a good assortment.” She paused. “You’ve been in town awhile, right?”

  “Sure have,” Marjorie said, still working quickly as they talked. “I was raised just up the coast. I’ve lived here with Pierre for almost thirty years now.”

  “So you probably can remember a lot of the people who came and went, right? I mean, people who lived here for a while and then moved on?”

  Marjorie seemed to stiffen just a bit, as if anticipating what was to come. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone named Maurice Soufflé?”

  Marjorie stopped, her hands pausing in midair as her face tightened. “You don’t think he’s behind this, do you?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Candy acknowledged. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “We used to supply him with some of his produce, back when we did that sort of thing,” Marjorie said. “He believed in using local ingredients long before it was popular. But he was also a hard man to deal with. Very difficult.”

  “In what way?”

  Marjorie shrugged as she started moving again, filling up more boxes. “He always thought we were cheating him—shorting him on this or that, or overcharging him. He’d reweigh boxes, recount the number of flats, that sort of thing. He was a very distrustful person. But—” she hesitated. “You don’t think he’s back, do you?”

  “Like I said, it’s a possibility, but for the moment it’s just conjecture.”

  Marjorie’s face had suddenly gone pale. “Could he be the one who left that box out on my car this afternoon?”

  “What box?”

  Marjorie paused again, looking quite uncomfortable. “Well, it’s probably nothing, really. Just my imagination getting away from me.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Candy urged.

  “I’m not sure it’s that important,” Marjorie said, “but after the judging started I talked to Trudy Watkins, who told me that someone had left a cardboard box on the hood of my car, so I ran out to check it. There was a note on the box, saying some last-minute entries were inside. And that’s what I saw—several jars of pickled items, as far as I could tell. Well, I don’t mind telling you I was a little upset. It was almost too late to get them out on the tables.”

  “Do you know who put it there?” Candy asked.

  “No, that’s just it. There was no name attached—nothing to indicate where the box came from. So I brought it inside and stashed it under one of the tables. I meant to come back later and put out some of the items but I never had a chance.”

  “Do you remember if one of the jars had a label on it from the Sweet Pickle Deli?”

  Marjorie shook her head. “If I knew for sure I would have mentioned it to the police. But I was just in too much of a hurry. I didn’t pay that much attention to the jars themselves. But, well, I sup
pose I could be the person responsible for bringing that jar in here—though it was completely unintentional.”

  “Is the box still around?” Candy asked.

  Marjorie shook her head. “I looked for it a little while ago. Someone must have already picked it up.” She bit her lip. “Do I need to tell the police about this?”

  “I think it would be a good idea,” Candy said, “but why don’t we walk out to your car first? I’d like to have a look around. Maybe we’ll find something that will tell us who left that box for you.”

  TWELVE

  They finished packing up quickly before venturing outside together. Marjorie appeared nervous as they walked toward the parking lot, her short legs and arms pumping in her haste. “I just hope I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, her voice trembling just a bit. “If I’m the one who brought that jar into the building, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Even if you did, no one could hold you responsible,” Candy said reassuringly. “You had no idea what was in it. Besides, like I said, it’s all just conjecture at this point. No one really knows what happened yet. We’re just trying to put all the pieces together.”

  Marjorie said nothing for several steps, then pointed. “My car is over there.”

  She’d driven an old Buick sedan with a large trunk and a big backseat. As they approached, she pointed toward the vehicle’s wide hood. “I found the box sitting right there. Strangest thing.”

  Candy stopped beside the Buick and looked around. Earlier the lot had been full, but now most of the cars had cleared out. Candy surveyed the ones still parked near Marjorie’s Buick but didn’t recognize any of the vehicles. They could belong to anyone—even the school’s faculty members or staff. It would be impossible to determine if someone who owned one of the cars had left the box for Marjorie to find.

  “You said there was a note on it,” Candy said, turning back to Marjorie. “Do you think it’s still with the box?”

  Marjorie shrugged, looking more worried by the moment. “I don’t know. I have no idea where the box went or who picked it up.”