Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  “I’d really like to get my hands on it. It could be important evidence.” Another thought came to her. “Was the note handwritten?”

  Marjorie nodded. “With a black felt-tip pen, printed in block letters. It was very neatly done.”

  “Did the handwriting on the note look familiar at all?”

  Marjorie said it had not.

  “So just about anyone could have written it,” Candy concluded.

  “Do you really think any of this is important?” Marjorie asked, looking to Candy for guidance.

  “I don’t know for sure, but at this point we have to follow every lead.”

  “What should we do?”

  Candy thought about that for a moment. “I think we should definitely let the police know, although I doubt there’s much they can do about it at this point. But maybe you should look around the gym one more time and see if you can spot that box before they’re all loaded up.”

  “Okay.” Marjorie nodded and started off, then stopped and turned back. “Who should I talk to from the police?”

  “Chief Durr, if you can find him. If not, then one of the officers who are taking statements. Here, I’ll go with you.”

  Together, they headed back down the walkway toward the gym, but before they reached the double doors, Candy’s attention was drawn to a small group of people gathered around Mason Flint. The group, which stood just outside the double doors, included Cotton Colby and Elvira Tremble, as well as the Reverend James P. Daisy of the local Unitarian church. Apparently, from the intense looks on their faces, they were discussing something of great importance.

  As Candy and Marjorie walked past, their voices trailed off and their eyes shifted in her direction. She couldn’t help but feel they were talking about her.

  She tapped Marjorie on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go on ahead and look for that box? If we can find that note, we might be able to tell who left it for you.”

  Marjorie looked worried. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to Mason real quick. I’ll join up with you shortly and we’ll go to the police together.”

  That seemed to reassure Marjorie a little, and with a final nod she headed the rest of the way toward the building, disappearing in through the double doors.

  Candy took a deep breath and made her way over to the small group gathered around Mason. For the most part they were silent as she approached, although she noticed Elvira whisper something to Cotton, who nodded with eyes squinted and mouth drawn tight.

  At the very least, Candy thought she might have to defend herself against whatever rumors those two might be spreading about her.

  She nodded to each of them in turn as she reached the group, and they nodded back. Although the Reverend Daisy seemed pleasant enough toward her, it was Mason Flint who broke the awkward silence.

  “Ms. Holliday,” he said with a strained expression, “we were just talking about you and your event. A rough afternoon, unfortunately.”

  “Yes, unfortunately.” She thought of saying more but held back.

  “Of course, we’re all devastated by Ned’s passing,” Mason went on. “But from what I’ve learned, it sounds like some sort of fluke occurrence. A tragic mistake. Those pickles weren’t intended for him, as I understand it, and he made a terrible error in judgment by eating them, against the protocol of the event. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Candy was careful with her response. “It does sound like an accident, yes—at least that part of it.”

  Feeling emboldened by her verification, Mason continued, “Whoever left that jar on the table must have surely done so by accident as well. It would be difficult to think someone in this town could have done something so deliberate.”

  Candy said nothing.

  “None of this might have happened had the event been better organized,” Elvira Tremble cut in, her tone sharp and accusatory. “I was just telling the chairman. These local events need to be better managed. Where was security when all this was going on? Who was in charge?”

  Candy admitted that she was in charge of the event, and a security officer was on standby outside the building. “And, of course, we had volunteers such as you and Cotton helping us out,” she said without a touch of sarcasm.

  “Yes, well, it all seemed a rather slipshod event—the way those pickles wound up on that table without anyone noticing. I would have thought you’d keep an eye out for such things.”

  Candy accepted the criticism, knowing Elvira was just letting off some steam. They were all concerned, she knew, not only about the town’s reputation, now that there had been another death, but for their own safety as well.

  And in a way Elvira was right, Candy thought, though she didn’t think it would matter much if she mentioned the fact that Wanda Boyle was supposed to run the whole show, and that Candy had stepped in when Wanda failed to make an appearance. They had indeed been shorthanded, which could have contributed to the confusion over the jar of poisoned pickles. All of that had been out of Candy’s control, though, but for the moment she wasn’t about to issue excuses, which might stir things up even more.

  So she just let Elvira go on a little more, agreeing with the other woman as she expressed her dismay at the recent developments and her concern for their effect on the town’s image, with some support from Cotton Colby.

  “As you know, our group has been trying to shine a positive light on our village,” Cotton said primly. “That’s the main mission of the Heritage Protection League. Unfortunately, today’s events did not help at all. Not at all.” She shook her head in dismay.

  Thankfully, the Reverend Daisy cleared his throat and spoke up on Candy’s behalf. “I’m not sure this is the proper time to lay blame, Cotton, especially since we don’t know all the facts.” He nodded toward Candy. “The whole purpose of this event was to spotlight all the wonderful cooks we have in our community, and it was an admirable endeavor. No one could have foreseen the set of circumstances that led to Ned’s death. Isn’t that right, Ms. Holliday?”

  Grateful for the opening, Candy said, in as nonconfrontational a tone as possible, “Our intentions—mine and Wanda’s—were only the best, of course, for the benefit of the community. But it didn’t turn out the way we’d hoped.”

  “It certainly didn’t,” Elvira said, emphasizing the point with a sharp nod of her head.

  Candy decided to leave it at that. She turned back to Mason. “Could I get a few minutes of your time to talk—in private?”

  He nodded brusquely. “I was just on my way to my car. Walk with me.” He turned to those around him. “Ladies and gentleman, I hope you’ll excuse me but I have to get back to work.”

  As he turned away he pulled out his phone and checked it, walking at a quick pace along the sidewalk, angling toward the far side of the parking lot. Candy hurried after him.

  When she caught up with him, he stopped, glanced back behind them to make sure they were out of earshot of the others, and then said to her in a tone tinged with exasperation, “Candy, would you please tell me just what the hell is going on around here? Pardon my French, but this is not what I expected to happen when I got out of bed this morning. What exactly are we dealing with here?”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her gaze as she looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. Despite what I said to that little group just now, there’s no way that jar was left there by accident. Someone sabotaged that event, plain and simple. And I’d like to know who and why. Can you tell me why someone would want to do something like that?”

  Candy let out a breath and shook her head. “I don’t have any answers right now.”

  “Well, we’d better find some—and fast. This town is in a pickle, both literally and figuratively. You and I both know that. Given what’s happened over the past few years, if I didn’t know better I’d say we’re being targeted by some unknown assailant, or assailants, who for whatever reason are trying to damage our reputa
tion—or worse.”

  Candy was about to interject, but Mason held up his hand and continued. “The league ladies have certainly picked up on this. Everyone in town has. All these deaths and murders that have taken place over the past five or six years are not . . . natural. Not for a small village in Maine like ours. So we need to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible. We need to figure out exactly what’s going on here, and find out who’s behind it.”

  “So you think this is all some sort of . . . conspiracy?”

  Mason leaned in closer, and his voice lowered. When he spoke, his gaze sharpened and he showed lots of teeth. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think. But lots of people are looking to me for answers, and since I don’t have any right now, I’m looking to you. You’ve solved a bunch of these murder mysteries. You have some expertise with these sorts of things. You must have some theory as to whether there’s a larger story going on here.”

  “But that’s just it,” Candy said. “I have lots of theories, but there’s nothing I can prove—at least, not right now.”

  “Then get on with it,” Mason said, straightening as he checked his phone again. “Solve this mystery. Find out who’s behind that jar of pickles, and why it was left there. I want answers, Candy, and I want them today. If there’s any way I can help, let me know.”

  That gave Candy the opening she was looking for. “Actually, I do need your help with something. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. What can you tell me about Maurice Soufflé?”

  “Maurice?” At the mention of the deli owner’s name, Mason’s face tightened and his lips grew thin. “I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I dealt with him a number of times, unfortunately. He was an antisocial troublemaker who never had a kind word for anyone, but he also was one of the best chefs to ever work in this town. Maybe the best.”

  “Why do you say he was antisocial?”

  “Well, there was no pleasing the man, no matter how far we bent over backward to accommodate him. He was always complaining about something—his neighbors, the water pressure in his restaurant, his electricity bill, how quickly we cleared out the snow from the parking spaces in front of his shop, community interference—”

  “Interference?”

  Mason waved a hand impatiently. “He wanted to put some tables and chairs on the sidewalk outside his place. We told him he needed a permit for that. He disagreed and fought us for six months about it. He even brought in a lawyer from Boston. But here’s the thing: The permit costs only forty-five dollars. Why not just pay it and move on? But he said it was the principle of the thing. He was the most argumentative and infuriating man I ever met. He fought that permit just for the purpose of fighting it. That’s the kind of person he was.”

  “Did he ever get the permit?”

  Mason shook his head. “Said he’d rather die than pay forty-five dollars. He called it highway robbery, if I remember correctly.”

  “Did he have any friends around town—any acquaintances I might talk to, any family or buddies?”

  Mason thought a moment. “Not that I know of. He was a loner. But I know he made a lot of enemies while he was here.”

  “And who were his enemies?”

  At that, Mason almost laughed. “Just about everyone in town—including, from what I’ve heard, your friend Maggie Tremont.”

  “Maggie?” That surprised Candy. “But Maggie doesn’t have an enemy in the world. What would she and Maurice fight about?”

  “Why don’t you ask her? Ask your father? Ask just about anyone in town. They’ll all tell you stories about that man.”

  Candy had one last question. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  Mason pursed his lips. “Well, that’s the damnedest thing. He just disappeared one night. Turned off the lights, locked up the restaurant, and left town. No one knows why. It was quite a mess to untangle his business affairs. We had to hire an accountant and our own lawyer to sort through all the details. If I remember correctly, he owed a lot of back taxes, as well as payments to vendors and suppliers. Eventually we had to auction off the fixtures in the restaurant to pay some of his bills, but he still owes the town. So if you happen to stumble across him, would you let him know we’d sure like payment from him? We’ll even accept a check—though I doubt it would clear.”

  Just then his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen and held up a finger. “Excuse me a moment. I have to take this.”

  He turned away as he held the phone to his ear, said “Flint here,” and listened intently. Even though his face was angled away from her, she could see his complexion turn paler as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. Finally he said into the phone, “Thanks for letting me know. Keep me posted.”

  As he keyed off the phone he turned back to Candy. “That was Chief Durr. They’ve found another one.”

  Candy gave him a confused look. “Another what?”

  “Another jar of pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli. This one showed up in the mailbox of some elderly woman up north of Cherryfield.”

  “Cherryfield? But that’s, what, half an hour, forty minutes from here? How did a jar of pickles get up there?”

  Mason’s intense gaze zeroed in on her. “That’s what you have to figure out. You’ve done it before, and I believe you can do it again. Someone has our town—and apparently some neighboring towns—in his crosshairs, and I want to know who and why. The sooner you solve this business, the sooner we can put it behind us and get back to normal.”

  With that, he turned on his heels and walked to his car, once again pressing the mobile phone to his ear.

  THIRTEEN

  As Candy headed toward the gymnasium, a whirlwind of thoughts swept through her mind. She felt she’d learned quite a bit in a short period of time. Now she just had to make sense of it all, and figure out where it all led.

  She found Mason’s comments about a possible conspiracy interesting, since they echoed feelings she’d had herself over the past few years. And she’d experienced a few encounters while investigating previous murders that led her to believe certain individuals were targeting their town for unknown reasons. But what she’d told Mason was true. At this point it was all speculation, conjecture, theories. She had no proof or evidence. And how the poisoned pickles or the death of Ned Winetrop might tie into that conspiracy, she had no idea.

  However, this newest revelation about a third jar was key, she mused. Whatever else it might mean, it seemed to establish, once and for all, that the appearance of these jars was not some random act or accident. If a jar of pickles—presumably poisoned like the others—was placed in someone’s mailbox, then it was almost certainly a deliberate act.

  That was one point, at least, she could more or less accept as fact.

  And it could mean, as Bumpy had said earlier, that others in town might be in danger.

  But who was behind it? Maurice Soufflé? Sally Ann Longfellow? Marjorie Coffin, who had brought in a box that possibly contained the tainted jar of pickles? Or someone else none of them had thought of yet?

  Candy decided to assume, for the moment, that all three jars had come from the same person. The next step, she knew, was to identify the intended targets. She’d already established that the first two jars were most likely meant for someone at the cook-off, possibly one of the three official judges. But what about the one left in the mailbox at a home in Cherryfield? As far as Candy knew, it had nothing to do with the cook-off contest in Cape Willington. Its appearance complicated the whole issue, for it was an aberration, the one jar that didn’t fit with the others.

  Could the same person have left the jars at all three locations, Candy wondered, all on the same day within a relatively short period of time? The locations were only about half an hour apart. Mason hadn’t told her exactly when the jar was found in the mailbox in Cherryfield, but Candy decided generally that yes, it was possible the same person could have placed
all three jars at their various locations within a reasonable amount of time.

  So who in this gym today, she wondered, had the opportunity to disappear for a few hours during the morning or early afternoon before showing up here around three?

  She suspected it would be a short list, since if pressed, most people could probably prove their whereabouts earlier in the day. She certainly could. Many worked in offices or had meetings or meet ups with friends, so they all had alibis.

  Who else?

  Maurice Soufflé could have done it, since his whereabouts were unknown. Though he hadn’t been seen around town in years, he could have returned anonymously just in time for the cook-off contest. If he had been here today, would anyone have recognized him? she wondered. Could he have disguised himself enough to wander through the crowd unnoticed, leave a jar out on the table, then make his escape without anyone knowing he’d been here?

  Sure, it was possible, but the opposite could be true as well. While he might be considered a suspect in name, the truth was that he could be anywhere—across the country, living on another continent, perhaps even dead and buried somewhere. So far, other than hearsay, there was no evidence he had left out those jars.

  But Sally Ann was a different story. She was local. One of the jars had been found at her home. And she’d been mysteriously absent all day. No one had seen her or knew her current whereabouts. Allegedly, Candy decided, Sally Ann had free rein to leave the jars in their various locations.

  Still, it struck Candy as all wrong. She couldn’t imagine any reason why Sally Ann, who had lived in Cape Willington for most of her life, would want to poison anyone with tainted pickles.

  Where was she anyway?

  On an impulse, before heading in through the double doors, Candy pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts to see if she had Sally Ann’s phone number. When she didn’t find it, she called the Cape Crier instead. Betty Lynn Sparr, the newspaper’s office manager and jack-of-all-trades, answered on the second ring. After conducting a quick search, Betty Lynn located Sally Ann’s number, which she relayed to Candy.