Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  “I see.” Candy pondered that for a moment. It could, she thought, provide the motivation behind the appearance of the jar on the pickle table that afternoon. “Have you seen him since you were in his shop?” she asked after a few moments. “Had any contact with Maurice?”

  Julia shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I had no interest in ever running into him again—although I’d still like to get my hands on that pickle recipe for my next book.”

  As they sipped their tea, they chatted about the deli, its owner, and pickling foods in general, as well as some of the more obscure recipes Julia had come across in her research. “Many of the most interesting ones are the centuries-old Irish and German recipes that came over from the old country as immigrants made their way to New England,” she told Candy. “Some had almost been lost to time, but I managed to rescue them for the cookbook.”

  It was, Candy admitted, a worthy achievement, and she told Julia she was looking forward to the book signing the next morning. Then, checking her watch, she finished her tea, and sufficiently warmed, thanked Julia for the information and headed out once again into the stormy night.

  NINETEEN

  She left by a door on the opposite side of the inn, which put her on Ocean Avenue, across from Town Park and just half a block from her office up the street. Thankfully, while she’d been inside sipping tea, the rain had lightened. But the chill wind still blew in hard gusts, sweeping off the dark churning sea to her right and swirling up the town’s broad avenue. It tugged at trees opposite her in the park, some of which had just begun to turn for the fall. Their highest, thinnest branches, still full of late-summer leaves, thrashed together, adding to a building cacophony underscored by heavy waves pounding on the rough shoreline, unseen in the mist and gloom.

  The rotating light atop the English Point Lighthouse, half-visible on its rocky spit of land some distance ahead of her and off slightly to her right, punctuated the night with its questing beam. Up the avenue, streetlights were aglow, and Town Park was well lit with the glow from antique streetlights.

  It was not an unfriendly scene. Quite the opposite.

  Still, just outside the inn, she paused on the wraparound porch, her gaze turning up along the avenue to her left and then out to the open ocean on her right. Cars drifted past, headed up and down Ocean Avenue and along the curving Coastal Loop, which followed the shoreline. But the sidewalks were now mostly deserted, even this early on a Friday evening. Tourist season was behind them, and most of the villagers had apparently opted to stay inside tonight due to the inclement weather.

  She saw no sign of a baby blue pickup truck or a shadowy figure lurking in some dark alcove or behind the glistening trunk of a tree. She had things she still needed to do, and she planned to do them, but vowed to remain alert.

  Pulling her rain jacket together near her neck and tucking her umbrella underneath her left arm (where she could easily reach it if she needed to use it as a weapon, if it came to that), she stepped down off the porch and started up the avenue. She walked quickly, pushed along by the strengthening wind.

  As she passed the dark storefronts to her left with her hands tucked deep into her jacket pockets, she wondered if her alleged pursuer had anything to do with the poisoned pickles. Perhaps it had even been Maurice Soufflé himself, she thought. It was possible he could indeed be lurking around Cape Willington, if what several people had told her today was true. Some felt he was the one who’d left that jar of pickles in Georgia McFee’s mailbox, and Julia von Fleming had gone so far as to suggest he was targeting her specifically. If she was right, it meant he had returned to their town, and may still be here somewhere.

  That could all be true—but to her it seemed too big a leap in logic, because in her mind the motivations remained weak, and some just didn’t make sense. If Maurice Soufflé really was behind the poisoned pickles, why put the label of his old deli on the jars, clearly linking himself to the crime? Why wait five years to take revenge on Julia, or whomever else he might have been targeting? And why be so obvious in going after people with whom he had a bad history, as in Julia’s case, even more clearly pointing a finger at himself as the perpetrator?

  As she walked up the street, she tried to make sense of what it all meant. There seemed to be quite a bit of evidence to suggest Maurice Soufflé was the person behind the poisoned pickles, but she could come up with several reasons to suggest otherwise. The same for Sally Ann Longfellow.

  So if neither of them had put out those jars of pickles, then who?

  She thought of Trudy Watkins leaving the gym, of Marjorie Coffin bringing in the box of last-minute entries, of all the judges and volunteers who had been at the cook-off contest that day. But nothing clicked in her mind.

  Despite all she’d learned in the past few hours, she felt she’d made little progress in solving this mystery.

  But she wouldn’t let herself be defeated so easily. She just needed to keep asking questions, to keep digging for more information, and sooner or later the answers to her myriad questions would begin to reveal themselves, she thought as she reached the street-level door that led up a wooden staircase to the second-floor offices of the Cape Crier.

  She had her key ready in her hand and made quick work of unlocking the door, stepping inside, and locking it behind her. She stood on the lower landing just inside, looking out through the door’s glass window, just to make sure a final time she wasn’t being followed. But she saw no one—just a windy, rainy night.

  Maybe, she thought, the day’s events, along with the rain and general gloominess of the evening, had affected her judgment and perceptions. No one appeared to be pursuing her. Maybe she’d just imagined the whole thing.

  Maybe.

  She was only slightly reassured as she climbed the stairs, unlocked the door to the paper’s second-floor suite of offices, and disabled the security alarm system before she again locked the door behind her.

  She flicked on the hall lights.

  The place, as she’d expected, was deserted. Sometimes, on tight deadlines, she or Wanda or Jesse Kidder, the paper’s graphic designer and photographer, or one or two of the volunteers would work a few late-night hours, but rarely, if ever, on a Friday night.

  “I guess I’m the only one crazy enough to work tonight,” she said to herself with a mildly chiding tone.

  She headed to her office and flicked on the desk light before shaking off her rain jacket and hanging it on a wall peg, along with her umbrella. Slipping into her office chair, she turned toward her computer and double-tapped the space bar, bringing the screen to life. It seemed like forever since she’d last been here, with all that had happened today, although she’d spent some time in her office that morning responding to e-mails, proofing copy, and reviewing Jesse’s layouts for the next issue before heading over to the high school gym for the cook-off contest.

  But she wasn’t here tonight to answer e-mails or proof copy. She had other business on her mind.

  She’d heard a lot of rumors, speculations, and accusations throughout the day. It was time to start separating the truth from fantasy.

  The paper’s digital archives would be a good place to start, she’d decided earlier. They went back nearly twenty years, giving her easy access to articles, columns, event information, interviews, sports stories, and more. For earlier editions she’d have to dig into the print library, squirreled away in a cobwebby closet somewhere, but she didn’t think that would be necessary.

  In short order she’d turned up half a dozen references to the deli and its owner, often in the paper’s community column, which at the time was being written by a woman named Sapphire Vine. Candy and Sapphire had a long history together. Candy had helped solve the mystery behind Sapphire’s murder, and had subsequently inherited her job and her research files.

  Sapphire, Candy remembered, had been a community columnist and well-regarded citizen, generally cheery and upbeat in public, but she also had a dark side. Among other things, she’d bee
n a spy and a blackmailer, and she’d kept secret files on many of the villagers.

  After Sapphire’s untimely death, Candy had come into possession of those files, and a few times over the years since, when she was working on a case, she’d dug into them, finding one or two clues to help her solve a mystery. But she couldn’t remember if there had been a file devoted specifically to Maurice Soufflé or the Sweet Pickle Deli.

  And, for better or worse, she could no longer access them. Because of their age and general uselessness, as well as the potential damage they could cause due to personal and private information they contained about many of the villagers, Candy had burned those files one evening last summer. She and her father had actually roasted marshmallows over the small bonfire. She’d never regretted her decision to destroy the files, but right now, for a few fleeting moments, she wished she had them here with her now. They might actually prove useful this time.

  Candy’s mind wandered for a moment. What if there had been more going on between Sapphire and Maurice than anyone knew? Could Sapphire have kept information in her files that incriminated Maurice in some way, causing him to leave town?

  Was she blackmailing him for some reason, as she’d done to others to get what she wanted?

  It was a tantalizing idea, but at this point nothing more than that, since any potential evidence kept in those files was gone. She was left only with Sapphire’s digital trail of published columns and news items that had appeared in the paper years ago.

  It didn’t take Candy long to determine that Sapphire had had her own run-ins with the deli’s proprietor. While in one column she praised his food, in another she poked fun at his general grumpiness, which had apparently escalated into a personal feud between the two. While overall Sapphire relied on humor and sarcasm to get her points across, at times she descended into harsher language.

  It had all predated Candy’s arrival in town, though, and in later columns mentions of the Sweet Pickle Deli dwindled to almost nothing, until a final series on the strange disappearance of the deli’s owner.

  Candy scanned the columns, looking for any other interesting tidbits, but nothing stuck out. If Sapphire had known more about Maurice Soufflé, she didn’t mention it in her columns.

  There were other articles as well, by other writers, going back to the deli’s opening. From the dates of the issues, Candy was able to determine that the place had been open for six or seven years before it mysteriously closed. She reached for a pad and pencil and made a note to find out the specific date it closed down. And the owner’s address while he was living in town, and a few other points she wanted to check.

  That sparked another thought in her, and she remembered a mental note she’d made earlier, to search for the phone numbers of Longfellows living near Millinocket, in an effort to track down Sally Ann. But before she could do that, she heard a sudden banging noise that made her nearly leap out of her seat. She stopped what she was doing and sat perfectly still, her breath caught in her throat.

  It sounded as if the banging had come from the lower door at the bottom of the stairs, but she couldn’t be sure, given the way the sound echoed through the building.

  She waited. A few moments later, she heard what sounded like a muffled shout, followed by more pounding at the door.

  Rising from her seat, Candy went to the window overlooking Ocean Avenue and peered out. The avenue was still rain slicked and dimly lit. In between the patches of mist and an oncoming fog, she could see gray storefronts and sidewalks in both directions, except for the area directly beneath her, due to a ledge that jutted out from the building, blocking her view.

  Besides, the lower street-level door was tucked into an alcove. If someone was pounding on that door, she wouldn’t be able to see the person from here anyway.

  She’d have to go down and have a look for herself.

  Before she left her office, she picked up her umbrella. She had no other weapon to take with her.

  If this keeps up, she thought as she headed down the hall, I’m going to have to invest in a bigger umbrella.

  As she suspected, there was no one outside the upper door, at the top of the staircase. The pounding came a third time, and now she was certain it was at the lower door.

  She took out her keys, unlocked the door in front of her, and opened it wide. She left it open as she turned to her right, walked the short distance to the landing at the top of the stairs, and looked down. The bottom landing was lit only by a single dim bulb. A hazy light came through the lower door as well, throwing an ill-defined, elongated shadow on the lower stairs.

  Someone was standing outside the door.

  She froze, the hairs on her arms prickling. Her first thought was that the shadowy figure had been real, and had returned for her. She had an instinct to stay hidden, but fought it.

  More than likely, she reasoned, it was just some villager who had noticed the light on in her second-floor office, and stopped by to talk to her for whatever reason.

  So who was it?

  Only one way to find out.

  Cautiously, Candy took several steps down the staircase and dropped her head to get a better view of the door, but it was still mostly blocked from her view by the sloped ceiling above her. She caught a glimpse of black wet boots, though, and a long black raincoat.

  She descended several more steps, holding tightly to the side rail.

  The person outside the door saw her now and knocked heavily again. “Hey there! It’s me! Let me in!”

  Candy didn’t budge. “Who are you?” she called back skeptically. “What do you want?”

  “We have to talk.”

  “About what?”

  Candy knew she had to get a better look at the person outside the door, so she descended again. She was halfway down the staircase now and could clearly make out the person who was again pounding on the lower door. A wide-brimmed black rain hat, clamped down heavily on the head, prevented Candy from making out the details of the person’s face, which was hidden in shadow. The long black raincoat similarly disguised much of the person’s physique, though Candy could clearly see it was a relatively large person, with sturdy legs and a wide stance.

  “Let me in!” the figure demanded again. It spoke in a husky voice with a Maine accent, and after a few fleeting moments, Candy realized who it was.

  “Speaking of the devil,” she muttered to herself with a shake of her head.

  She descended the rest of the steps and looked at the figure through the window. “Sally Ann? Is that you?”

  “Well, who the hell else were you expecting?” growled the other person, her voice muted through the door, and she raised the brim of her hat so Candy could clearly see the drawn, weathered face of Sally Ann Longfellow. “The boogeyman?”

  TWENTY

  Once they were back upstairs in her office, with both doors again safely locked behind them, Candy got straight to the point. “We’ve been looking for you all day. Where have you been?”

  Unbuttoning her raincoat and shaking it out a little, Sally Ann stood uneasily in the center of the room, dripping and scowling. “Up in Millinocket, if you must know,” she groused. “My dad has a camp on the Twin Lakes. I go up every fall to help him get his boat out of the water. One of his friends heard on the radio what happened down here and came out to tell us about it late this afternoon. I drove back as soon as I could.”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “No phone at the camp. No service up there. And I don’t own a cell phone, anyway.”

  “So how long have you been here? And why have you been following me around town tonight?”

  “What do you mean? Following you? What makes you think I’ve been following you? I just got here.”

  “Wasn’t that you lurking along Main Street in the shadows tonight, watching me? And driving that baby blue pickup truck?”

  “I don’t own a baby blue pickup truck,” Sally Ann said, “and I haven’t been lurking in the shadows anywhere.” Her face scrun
ched up in annoyance. “What the heck are you talking about?”

  Candy dropped into her office chair as she waved Sally Ann toward a vacant seat nearby. “I’m not sure,” she said after a moment. “It’s been a long day, and too much has happened. Maybe we should start at the beginning—though I’m not even really sure where that is.”

  “Then I’ll start,” Sally Ann said, ignoring Candy’s signal to sit. She pulled off her hat and ran a hand through her matted hair, which only worsened her appearance. “I want to know why everybody’s so darned concerned about where I’ve been all day. I want to know why the police were out at my property this afternoon. I want to know what’s up with this whole pickle thing. And I want to know who killed my goat!”

  She’d started out angrily enough, her voice rising, but it gave way quickly by the time she reached the end, and Candy heard the hitch in her throat. For the first time Candy had a good look at Sally Ann, and noticed how exhausted the other woman appeared. Her dark brown eyes were drooped and watery, her face pale and clammy. She teetered a bit, looking like she was about to keel over.

  “Sally Ann, sit down,” Candy said, as she herself rose. “I’m going to fix you a cup of hot tea. I’ll be right back.”

  But Sally Ann waved her down. “Nah, I don’t need no tea. A shot of bourbon might help.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have anything that strong around here,” Candy said as she settled back into her chair, “though there might be a beer in the fridge.”

  Sally Ann shook her head. “Never mind that right now. Tell me what’s been going on around this town while I was gone.”

  Candy put a hand to her forehead, brushing back her hair, as she took a moment to think. “Well, I guess it all started with that jar of pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli you left out on your porch for Wanda to pick up this morning.”

  But Sally Ann stopped her right there, holding up a hand as her brows came together to express her confusion. “The Sweet Pickle Deli? I didn’t leave out that jar. I left out one of my own jars. There must have been a mix-up.”