Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  That was all it said. But Candy knew what it meant.

  By threatening more lives, someone was trying to extort a lot of money from the Pruitts, and from the village of Cape Willington.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Candy’s first reaction was one of disbelief. “Two hundred thousand dollars? That’s insane.”

  Tristan nodded. “We thought so, too, of course. And it’s not like we can lay our hands on that kind of cash in a day or two, no matter what anyone thinks.”

  “But why was this sent to you—or to your family?” Candy wondered. “Why not send it to Mason Flint, or even to us at the paper so we could pass it on to the proper authorities?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Simple. Because the town itself would have a hard time coming up with that kind of money. But whoever sent it to us thought we’d have the assets to pay up. And, to be honest, we have people looking into that—just in case.”

  “You mean you’re thinking of complying with his crazy request?” Candy wiggled the paper in her hand.

  Tristan took a few moments to answer. “We don’t know yet. That’s why I drove up here. It’s why I’m meeting with the police and the town council this morning. We’re investigating our options—and keeping everything on the table for the moment.”

  “And you said the envelope was postmarked here in Cape Willington? On Tuesday?”

  Tristan nodded.

  Candy mulled this over. “That implies premeditation, of course. It’s further proof those jars of poisoned pickles were not an accident. Someone’s been planning this for a while.”

  “That’s the way it appears, yes.”

  “So whoever’s behind this has been in town for at least a few days.”

  “Maybe longer,” Tristan said.

  “Right, maybe longer.” But even as she said this she knew what that meant. He was implying the pickle poisoner could be someone she knew, a villager, perhaps someone she ran into every day—the same implication she’d made to Sally Ann the night before.

  Could one of the villagers—a local—have had a disagreement with the town itself, with the way it was being run, with a member of the town council or the municipal government? Could someone be seeking revenge for something she hadn’t even considered? Some perceived slight or argument that had boiled over into murder?

  She tried to think about all that had happened in town over the past few months, something that might have sent someone off on an act of revenge and murder. But nothing came immediately to mind.

  What’s more, she reasoned, if that was the purpose—to get back at the town—why use a jar of pickles bearing a label from the Sweet Pickle Deli? Why target Sally Ann, or Wanda, or the official judges, or the elderly woman up in Cherryfield?

  The pieces just didn’t seem to fit together.

  She set the letter down on the table, folded her arms in front of her, leaned forward, and carefully read through it again, and then again. “If the person who wrote this note is to be believed,” she said finally, looking up at Tristan, “then it sounds as if he or she could still be around—still be here in town.” She pointed with her pinky at a line in the text. “‘There are more where those came from.’ That indicates more jars will be left around town, and apparently more people will die, unless you pay up.”

  “I agree. That’s seems to be the implication.”

  Another thought came to Candy. “But why show this to me?” she asked, looking up at Tristan. “You’re meeting with the police and members of the town council this morning. You’ve turned the original over to the Boston police. You’ve contacted the proper authorities and you’re looking into legal implications, as well as the possibility of doing this financially. You and your family seem to have covered all the bases. So why bring it to my attention? And why make sure I saw it first, before you met with the other people in town?”

  Tristan settled back into his chair as he considered how to respond. His face was cloudy for a moment as he thought, but finally he smiled. “Well, I guess it’s because of all the people I’ve talked to, or I’m going to talk to, I believe you’re the one person who can most benefit from this information. As I said earlier, we’re interested in your expertise. You’ve solved these kinds of cases before. You helped out my family when we had a problem a few years ago. Aunt Helen personally suggested I contact you as soon as I got to town and show you the letter.”

  “Really?” Candy couldn’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction at that.

  Tristan nodded. “She thinks if anyone can solve this mystery and save lives—and help us avoid paying out two hundred thousand dollars to some extortionist, I might add—it’s you. She’s even suggested we hire you again, secure your services as an investigator, pay you a per diem and that sort of thing, as she did before—on an unofficial basis, of course.”

  Candy waved a hand. “That’s not necessary. I’m just as involved in this whole affair as you are. Dad and I were both there in the gym yesterday. I touched that jar of poisoned pickles myself, so my fingerprints are all over it. I have no doubt that, as least from the perspective of the local police, we’re both suspects, just like everyone else in town.”

  She looked down at the letter again. “But this does change the situation. It’s no longer just an alleged act of revenge. This escalates everything.”

  “It certainly does,” Tristan agreed. “And makes the whole situation potentially more dangerous.” He paused and ran a hand through his uncombed hair. “I have to admit, I had reservations about bringing this information to your attention. The last thing I want to do is put you in danger, or make you a target of any sort.”

  Now it was Candy’s turn to smile. “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Last night I thought I’d already become a target, but, well, it turned out to be a false alarm—at least, I think it was.”

  She didn’t feel it was necessary to go into any more details about the shadowy figure in the baby blue pickup truck who appeared to be following her the previous night, and he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “Well, be that as it may, the truth is that you seem to have a knack for solving these sorts of mysteries. You have instincts the rest of us don’t—and, to be honest, you’re good at what you do.”

  “I know,” Candy said, lifting an eyebrow. “Scary, isn’t it? I don’t really understand it myself. It’s not something I plan to do. I just start, well, asking questions and poking around.”

  She looked down at the sheet in her hands again, read through the text a final time, then placed it back in the folder and slid it across to Tristan.

  “Keep it,” he said, pushing it back toward her. “As I mentioned, it’s a copy. Maybe it can be of help in some way. I do have one request, though.”

  “And what’s that?” Candy asked.

  “I’d like you to keep all this confidential, just between us—at least for the next day or so. I don’t know what the reaction from the local police and the town council will be, but my guess is they’ll want to keep this hushed up for now, to avoid any sort of panic in town.”

  “Makes perfect sense,” Candy said.

  “And there’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he said. His tone still serious, he placed his folded arms on the table in front of him, leaned forward, and lowered his voice, even though they were alone in the house. “And again, I’m counting on your discretion. We’ve had . . . well, we think our family might be under attack on another front.”

  “Under attack?” Candy echoed. “That sounds ominous.”

  “It’s not unintentional,” Tristan admitted. “Frankly, we’re worried—myself and Aunt Helen, especially. We have evidence that someone has been digging around for information about our family’s financial assets, particularly our real estate holdings here in Cape Willington.”

  “With what purpose?” Candy asked, feeling the skin on her arms prickle just a bit. She pulled her sweater a little tighter around her.

  “We don’t know for sure, but we’ve had reports that someone has
been researching the original deeds to our properties.”

  “Deeds?” Candy responded, trying to keep her voice even, though it came out strained.

  “I know, it probably sounds crazy, but there have been rumors around town for years—decades, really—about a set of original deeds to properties in town that allegedly supersede all other existing deeds. As the story goes, a local Native American tribe was awarded the first deeds to the land that would one day become Cape Willington, in part for aid they provided to the colonies during and after the Revolutionary War. If that story is true, it could cause havoc around here. But those deeds are long lost, if they existed at all.”

  “And now you think someone is searching for them?”

  Tristan shook his head. “I know. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all,” Candy said. “In fact, I might have some information for you.” And she told him how, the previous summer, she and her father had come across an old treasure chest, which had been buried in the woods behind Crawford’s Berry Farm, a nearby strawberry-picking operation now run by a friend of theirs, Neil Crawford. “We determined that it had once belonged to a man named Silas Sykes, who buried it near a cabin he owned at the time,” Candy explained. “He lived around here about a hundred and fifty years ago, and he was, among other things, a scoundrel and a thief.”

  “I think I’ve heard something about that,” Tristan said, intrigued, “but I don’t know the details.”

  “Well, apparently Neil’s father, Miles, dug up the treasure chest. It was filled with bags of gold coins and some jewels . . . but we learned there might have been some old deeds in the chest as well.”

  Now she had Tristan’s full attention. “I haven’t heard this part of it,” he said.

  “Well, it’s not common knowledge,” Candy admitted. “Only a few of us know about the deeds.”

  “And what happened to them? Where are they now?”

  “That’s just it. No one knows. If Miles Crawford found them in that chest, he either hid them, gave them to someone else, or destroyed them.”

  “And you think these might be the original deeds to property here in Cape Willington?”

  “That’s the rumor,” Candy said. “Neil, who took over the berry farm after his father’s death, has spent the past year trying to find out what happened to those deeds, or if they exist at all. But so far he hasn’t made much progress. He’s in Vermont right now, selling off his old property so he can move to Cape Willington full-time.”

  “I’d like to talk to him at some point,” Tristan said. “This could be what they’re looking for—and yes, our sources indicate the Sykes family might be behind this search into our family’s assets.”

  He went silent then for a few moments as he pondered their next move. “It’s something we will have to look into—but not at the moment,” he said finally, as if reaching a decision. “First, we have to solve this issue about the pickles and this extortion note. Once we’ve dealt with that, we can follow up on the property deeds—maybe work together with Neil to try to figure out what happened to them.”

  “Is it possible everything is connected somehow?” Candy asked.

  Tristan let out a thoughtful sigh. “I don’t know, but whatever’s going on, we have to get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible.” He indicated the manila folder still sitting on the table in front of Candy. “Because lives might be at stake.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Candy said, taking up the folder. She checked her watch. “And now I have to get running.”

  Tristan downed the last bit of coffee in his mug and took a final bite of Danish. “I have to head out too. I’ll be around for the next few days. Call me if you come across anything interesting, or if you need help. And whatever you do, be careful. It sounds like we both might have enemies out there we don’t even know about.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Enemies.

  It wasn’t a word she had considered until now, but she wondered if Tristan was right. Were their collective and individual enemies lining up against them, as well as against the village itself? Were they, in essence, under attack from some outside group or force? And if so, what could they expect to happen next? What would their enemies’ next moves be? How serious were the threats?

  Despite what she’d read in the letter, she had a hard time understanding why anyone would want to do harm to their sleepy coastal town or any of its residents, who were just average folks going about their daily business as best they could.

  But then she thought about the shadowy figure from the night before—and the not-so-shadowy figures she’d run into over the past few years, those with murder on their minds. By solving a few mysteries around town and exposing a few murderers, often through harrowing encounters, she’d certainly made some enemies. But she’d never thought of it that way before.

  And, as she hopped back into her Jeep and stuffed the file with the extortion letter into her tote bag, which she’d left on the passenger seat during her meeting with Tristan, she decided not to dwell on it right now.

  Other more pressing matters called for her immediate attention.

  So, for the moment, as she fired up the engine and started off toward Ocean Avenue, she tried to put thoughts of enemies, revenge, and murder out of her mind. She couldn’t worry about the consequences of her past actions, even to her own safety. She simply had to do what she thought was best for the town—and for herself, her father, and her friends. That’s what had always driven her before, and it remained her sole motivation now.

  The early morning fog and mist were burning off, and the sun was starting to peek through a thin overcast sky, which lightened her mood a little. Off to her right, the calm, crisp blue ocean gave her some peace of mind, as it always did.

  At the traffic light she made a left-hand turn onto Ocean Avenue, which was naturally busy on this Saturday morning in early fall, and managed to snag a parking spot at the upper end of the avenue, where it met Main Street. Shutting off the engine and grabbing her tote bag, Candy jumped out, locked up the Jeep, crossed the street, and at a brisk pace headed south along the sidewalk to the Black Forest Bakery.

  Inside, Maggie appeared to be under siege, but Candy wasn’t really surprised. Even though it was now officially off-season, the town’s small yet vibrant commercial area was still quite active on Saturdays, and many shoppers and strollers stopped in at the bakery for coffee or tea and a fresh-baked pastry or two. Plus, it was only a few doors from the Pine Cone Bookstore, where customers were beginning to gather for the book signing at eleven. Obviously some of them had stopped by the bakery first.

  The place was humming, and the line at the counter nearly stretched out the door. Candy paused just inside the door and waved to Maggie, who was busy helping customers. She barely had time to wave back.

  For a few moments Candy hesitated as she checked her watch. It was nearly nine fifteen. She had a couple of other stops to make that morning, and she wanted to drop by her office if she had time to get a little work done. She could come back when the bakery wasn’t so busy.

  Or, she thought, she could do something unexpected. . . .

  On an impulse, she moved through the crowd and joined Maggie behind the counter. “It looks like you could use a little help,” she said as she stashed her tote bag under the counter and reached for an apron hanging on a nearby hook.

  Maggie turned to her with a look of surprise. “Well, hello stranger! Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

  “I know, time flies, doesn’t it?” Candy said. “You seem a little overwhelmed, so I thought I’d pitch in for a while behind the counter.”

  “Well, I could certainly use the help. We didn’t expect to be this busy this late in the season. We’ve been mobbed all morning.”

  “I think I remember how all this works,” Candy said, glancing over at the cash register and at the baked goods arrayed in a number of well-lit display cases around the shop. She’d worked for Herr Georg at the bakery
for several years before taking the job at the paper. Maggie had replaced her behind the counter the previous year.

  “Hey, this will be fun!” Maggie said, her face brightening. “It’ll be like Martin and Lewis, back together again!”

  “Like Laurel and Hardy!”

  “Abbott and Costello!”

  “Hope and Crosby!”

  “Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz! Oh Lucy, I’m home!” Maggie said in a fake Cuban accent, and they both laughed as they bumped hips and turned back to their customers.

  As she worked, taking and filling orders, pouring tea, wrapping up all sorts of goodies, and filling the cash register with coins and bills, Candy could feel her spirits lifting. Maggie always seemed to be able to chase away her blues. They’d been best friends since Candy’s first days in town, and never had a cross word passed between them. They’d leaned on each other in tough times, celebrated each other’s successes, and even solved a few mysteries together.

  As the morning progressed, they chatted and joked, and waited for a lull in the action before bringing up the latest mystery.

  “Who are your suspects?” Maggie asked in a low tone once Candy had filled her in on all the latest details.

  “All fingers seem to be pointing to Maurice Soufflé at the moment,” Candy said, “though I have my doubts. The motivations seem too weak.”

  “Don’t underestimate that guy,” Maggie warned, her light mood evaporating. “He was a tough cookie. I had a couple of run-ins with him over his insurance policies when I was working for Stone and Milbury. He would endlessly check every detail, and argue with us about every single charge and fee. He accused us numerous times of cheating him. I dreaded doing business with him.”

  “So you think he could have done this?” Candy asked.

  “When you look at the facts, sure. Like you said, the name of his deli is on those jars of poisoned pickles. That’s pretty tough evidence to ignore.”