Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  “Did you notice anything odd about it? Anything about the label, maybe, or the shape of the jar?”

  Georgia took a few moments to think about that. “Not really,” she said finally.

  “Did it look different in any way from the jars sold at the Sweet Pickle Deli years ago?”

  Again, the other woman thought a moment before saying, “Not that I noticed.”

  Candy had hoped Georgia might be able to corroborate what she’d discovered at Sally Ann’s house, that the jar she saw had a newer label and a different shape than the original jars from years ago. But it seemed she wasn’t going to get that, so she tried a different line of questioning. “When was the last time you saw Maurice Soufflé?”

  Georgia shivered at the mention of his name, and her face darkened. “The last time? When he threw me out of his shop, I guess.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Five or six years ago. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Have you heard from him since? Do you have any idea what happened to him?”

  Georgia sighed deeply. “As I said, I answered all these questions for the police. If I knew, I would have told them. But no, I have no idea. He just disappeared one day, and that’s the last I heard of him.”

  Candy decided to tip her hand a little. “Are you aware that Maurice Soufflé was a fake name, something he made up?”

  That caught Georgia’s attention. “I suspected as much, but no, I didn’t know that for sure. He insisted over and over again it was his real name.”

  “Well, I don’t believe it was,” Candy said. “In fact, with Wanda’s help, I believe we’ve discovered his real name.”

  At this piece of information, Georgia studied Candy carefully, to determine if she was kidding or telling the truth. “And what might that be?” she finally asked.

  “We believe his real name was Marcus Spruell.” She paused to let this bit of information sink in. “Does that ring a bell?”

  Georgia’s brow wrinkled and she tilted her head. “Spruell? Hmm, yes, it might.”

  “Really?” Candy felt a quiver of hope. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “Well, I heard that name up in Bangor, when I was living there with my first husband. This was many years ago, of course, before I moved to Cape Willington and then came here after my second husband passed away. It seems to me there was a Spruell family living in Old Town, up past Orono. I worked with one of the daughters. Don’t remember her name, though.”

  “Old Town? That’s north of Bangor, right? That would be, what . . . ?” Candy had to think about it a minute. “An hour and a half from here?”

  “Something like that, maybe a little less,” Georgia confirmed. “I don’t know much about the family, but I think the mother was a sickly woman. Needed lots of care. They lived on an old estate that had been fairly glamorous at one time—for Old Town, of course—but the impression I got was that it had begun to fall into disrepair. Something about a wayward son who drained away all the family’s money.”

  “How would I find this estate?”

  Georgia shrugged. “I don’t know really, since I’ve never been there myself. If you head north from here and catch Route 9, that will take you to the outskirts of Bangor. That’s a little over an hour. Head north another twenty minutes or so and cross the river. You’ll have to ask around once you get there. For all I know, the place is gone.”

  She paused, her mouth tightening again. “But if it isn’t, and you find Maurice—or Marcus, or whatever his name is—and he’s the one who’s behind this poisoned pickle thing, would you do me a big favor?”

  “And what’s that?” Candy asked.

  “Tell him Georgia McFee sends her regards. And then make sure he spends the rest of his life in jail.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  She hadn’t expected to make a side trip to Old Town, but she also wasn’t going to pass up a chance to track down Maurice Soufflé, aka Marcus Spruell. Besides, she thought as she left Georgia’s place and headed north again, she’d learned another valuable piece of information that could easily fit into the overall puzzle. If Marcus’s mother had been sickly and needed attention, it could explain his frequent disappearances for a day or two at a time, closing down his deli on short notice, so he could head back to his family’s estate to take care of her.

  Was she still alive? Candy wondered. Was she still living at the estate? Would she know anything about her son’s whereabouts? Did the Spruells even still own property in Old Town? It was probably a long shot, Candy knew, and it could be a wild-goose chase, but she felt she had to run down every lead, no matter where it led.

  As was typical for many New England rural roads, Main Street turned into Beddington Road once it left Cherryfield’s borders. It was a simple two-lane road, framed for the most part by tall trees and vegetation that pressed in close from either side, though occasionally she passed solitary white-clapboard frame houses and weathered barns that stood on cleared pieces of land, surrounded by miles of nothing. There were few cars on the road and she made good time, pushing the speedometer as far above the posted speed limits as she dared.

  As she neared Route 9 the landscape opened up a little, and she passed a few rolling patches of blueberry fields. Up ahead, low dusky hills rose above the relatively flat land. She turned west at the junction of Route 9 and goosed the gas pedal. She managed to find a classic rock station with minimal static on the radio and settled in for the ride.

  In a little over an hour she reached the outskirts of Bangor. At the village of Eddington she turned north again, along the east bank of the Penobscot River. Bangor, Orono, and Old Town were all located west of the river, in a line from south to north, and there were only a few places to cross, one to the south at Bangor and one to the north at Old Town. As Georgia had suggested, Candy opted for the north crossing, but it took her another half an hour to get there. She stopped to gas up and then continued across the bridge, over the Penobscot River and into Old Town.

  It was a typical small New England city, with a mixture of churches, storefronts, redbrick buildings, and residences, many of them two-story white-clapboard structures with black shutters but some of Victorian design. Main Street ran north and south along the river, while Center Street continued west through town

  It wasn’t a large city, with fewer than eight thousand residents, but Candy didn’t want to drive every street checking the names on mailboxes. So she considered the other possibilities.

  She knew there was a museum on Main Street—she’d visited it a few years back with her father. She could inquire there about the Spruells, but she suspected the place was probably shut down for the day. She seemed to recall it closed at four P.M., and it was approaching four thirty in the afternoon. A barbershop or beauty salon might be a good idea, but she didn’t spot either of those as she drove through town. She could stop at a drugstore but doubted a cashier would know the information she sought. Or she could always stop at the police station to make inquiries, but she thought that would cause more complications than she was ready to deal with right now.

  So, in the end, she decided to just stop in at a bar or tavern and ask a bartender. They usually knew what was going on around town. It seemed her best bet.

  She found a bar and grill that looked promising, on south Main Street in a plain-looking structure, so she parked the Jeep in an open spot right in front of the building, locked it up, and pushed through the establishment’s front door. Inside, she found a typical tavern atmosphere, with low lighting, dark woods, and multiple flat-screen TVs tuned to Saturday afternoon baseball and college football games. Along the left wall was a long bar with a highly polished countertop. She found an empty stool at one end, sat down, and ordered a glass of white wine from a distracted bartender who came and went quickly.

  Then she waited, glancing frequently at her watch and turning often to survey the place.

  It didn’t take long for the bartender, a thirtyish man in a black T-shirt, with a thin
pale face and a long brown ponytail that stretched halfway down his back, to return, his curiosity piqued. “Looking for someone?” he asked, trying to sound as helpful as possible.

  Candy gave him a warm smile, crossed her legs, and leaned forward, placing one elbow on the countertop. “Waiting for someone, actually. I’m afraid I’m a bit late.” She glanced at her watch again to emphasize the point. “We were supposed to meet up about an hour ago but I got delayed. He’s an old friend of mine. Perhaps you know him? His name is Marcus Spruell?”

  “Spruell?” the bartender repeated. He looked a little disappointed, as if he’d hoped Candy might be single and available—which, of course, she was, though she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Don’t know of anyone named Marcus,” he said after a few moments, “but the old Spruell place is located on Old Town Road, out past the trading post and the freeway. Don’t know if anyone still lives out there, though. Last I heard the place was all boarded up.”

  Candy brightened. “Really? Well, maybe I’ll look for him there. I might have mixed up the meeting time. I appreciate the information. So how much do I owe you?”

  She left him a relatively generous tip, as well as a nearly full glass of wine, and headed back out to the Jeep.

  She had trouble finding Old Town Road, until she stopped and asked someone for directions. In town, she was told, it was known as Gilman Falls Avenue, but changed to Old Town Road out past the Stillwater River on the west side of town. “Why is nothing simple anymore?” she muttered to herself as the gunned the Jeep again and headed northwest.

  A short time later she passed by the Old Town Trading Post—just a gas station and convenience store, really—and then drove onward, over Interstate 95 and, a little further on, past a golf course on the left. After that were occasional single-family homes on the left and right, a mixture of ranch-style properties and farmhouses. The vegetation on either side of the road became dense again, with tall grasses and lots of pines in among the deciduous trees in various stages of color.

  She began to watch the mailboxes closely, slowing so she could read the names on the sides. It was another ten minutes before she came upon one that read SPRUELL. Beside it a dirt lane, showing only two parallel ruts with unkempt grasses between, led back among the trees. From the road, no house was visible.

  Candy sat for a moment alongside the road, debating whether to drive or walk down the dirt lane. She finally decided she’d feel more secure if she stayed inside the Jeep, so she nosed it past the mailbox and headed back through the trees.

  The lane wove around a little before emerging into an open area. Up ahead to the left, on a slight rise, stood a meandering white-clapboard farmhouse. It had been added on to several times over the years, with a large rectangular two-story main structure and a series of smaller attached lower sections butted onto one side of it, all with similar designs and rooflines. The final add-on looked as if it served as a breezeway, connecting the main residence to a towering three-story barn, which stood taller than anything else on the property. Several single-story buildings were attached to the far side of the barn, making for a long and impressive-looking residence. Off to one side was an additional building that could be a garage or storage unit, and she spotted another outbuilding back among the trees.

  The house and barn were still in decent shape, though they both needed painting, and the surrounding grass was uncut, giving it a shabby appearance. Hardly an estate in the traditional sense, but at one time it certainly must have been a property of note.

  Some old farm equipment was parked off to one side, but Candy saw no vehicles—cars, trucks, or tractors—in the driveway, which looped around in front of the house, the barn, and other outbuildings.

  Still moving slowly, she followed the loop around and pulled the Jeep to a stop in front of the long house. With a final glance around, she shut off the engine and climbed out.

  Standing in the dirt driveway beside the Jeep, she studied the property, turning a full circle. Except for the faint rustling of leaves and tall grasses, it was deathly quiet. The sky had darkened on her way up here but the rain had held off and the wind had lightened. She could hear the sounds of no man or animal. Not even a car passed by.

  She turned back to the main building. At first glance, it seemed no one was home. The farmhouse wasn’t boarded up, as the bartender had said, but the windows were dark and lifeless. The place looked abandoned.

  She suddenly felt uneasy, like an intruder. She also had a distinct sense that someone was watching her, though who or from where, she could not tell.

  Perhaps it was just her imagination getting the better of her.

  Perhaps not.

  Still, she was determined to check out the place, as long as she was here, so she crossed the driveway and walked up onto the small covered porch that fronted the main building. She pulled open a rusted screen door, which creaked ominously on old hinges, and knocked on the wooden door.

  She waited.

  Nothing.

  She knocked again.

  A wind freshened from the northwest, and the house creaked a little on its foundations. Somewhere a loose shutter flapped with muted thuds. She stepped back and studied the facade of the house from left to right and back again. No faces in the windows. No fluttering curtains. No interior lights snapping on to indicate someone might be inside.

  She knocked on the door a final time, then stepped back again. There would be no response, she knew. If someone was here, he or she wasn’t about to open up the door, let alone talk to her.

  It appeared her first instinct was the correct one—the place was empty. The sickly woman who had once lived here was gone, and no other family members seemed to have laid claim to the place. She had a vague disturbing feeling that it was just being left to rot.

  She stepped down off the porch and angled to her left, walking the dirt driveway along the length of the building, studying the main structure and add-on sections, glancing from window to window and door to door, until she reached the three-story barn.

  There she stopped. The barn doors were shut tight, as were two tall, narrow windows in the second story. Candy glanced back and forth, just to make sure a final time she was alone, and then stepped forward to the dual doors, which appeared to slide in either direction on metal tracks. She reached out a hand and tentatively tested them, pushing on either side to see if it gave, and then on an impulse she grabbed a metal handle and attempted to slide open the right-side door.

  It refused to budge.

  She tried the other side. It gave just slightly, moving an inch or two, giving her a small space so she could peer inside. She stepped closer and put her left eye close to the gap, but mostly she saw only dusty darkness inside. The barn had a wooden floor and several open levels, with stout beams and numerous areas for storage. On the ground floor, bales of hay were stacked to one side, and an older red tractor was parked further back. There were workbenches with tools and scattered farm equipment. None of it looked like it had been touched in ages.

  She slid the door shut again and stepped back. Nothing to see here.

  She continued walking past the barn, following the curve of the looping driveway toward the garagelike building on the right. It had two bay doors that appeared to open upward, though both were closed. Each door had a series of small windows in it, so she headed toward the doors and, when closer, peered inside. An old riding lawn mower was parked in one bay, and in the other was an aged sedan that looked as if it hadn’t moved in decades.

  But then she noticed tire tracks left by the sedan, leading into and out of the garage.

  So it was being driven by someone—and from the freshness of the tracks, it appeared it had been moved recently.

  She stepped back from the garage, turning toward the house again, and the barn.

  And finally to the outbuilding back among the trees. It was separate from the rest of the buildings, set off by itself, a small single-story place, perhaps even a single room inside, with a woo
den front door set to the right, two dark windows, and a stone chimney.

  A cottage, she realized.

  She saw the dirt path then, winding from the back of the garage to the cottage.

  Her eyes strained.

  Were those footprints on the path?

  Was someone living there?

  Should she go knock on the door?

  For several moments she didn’t move, rooted to the spot upon which she stood, uncertain.

  Then she remembered why she’d come here. One person and a goat were dead. Two others had been seriously poisoned. The Pruitts were being extorted for two hundred thousand dollars. More people could potentially be harmed.

  She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and started through the tall grasses alongside the garage toward the path and the cottage. But she’d taken only a few steps when she saw the front door of the cottage open and a thin, ragged man emerge.

  He carried a shotgun, with the muzzle aimed down toward the ground. But from the look of him, he’d have no problem pointing it in her direction if he had to. He was heavily bearded, his hair long and gray and uncombed, with a lined face, weathered cheekbones, shadowed eyes—and the dark circle of a mole on his upper cheek just left of his nose.

  With a jolt, Candy realized who he was.

  The man previously known as Maurice Soufflé, owner of the Sweet Pickle Deli.

  “Marcus Spruell,” she said under her breath.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Don’t come any closer,” he said in a low, threatening tone, his voice sounding gravelly, as if he’d just eaten a bowl of pebbles. He brandished the shotgun a little to emphasize his point.

  Candy stopped dead in her tracks and held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” she said.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “My name is Candy Holliday, and I just want to ask you some questions.”

  His lips ground together, as if he were thinking, possibly trying to remember if he’d met her before. “You’re trespassing on my property,” he said finally. “I could shoot you right where you stand and no one would find fault with me.” His dark gaze focused hard on her. “They might not even find your body.”