“Now that you mention it,” Candy said, “there have been a few new developments.” And she told him of her discovery of Maurice Soufflé’s real name, of her trip to see Georgia McFee in Cherryfield, and how Georgia had pointed her to the Spruell estate in Old Town.
When she’d finished, Tristan whistled softly. “Wow, you’ve had a busy day. Have you told the police about all this?”
“No, not yet, I haven’t had a chance,” Candy said, pulling out her phone, “but I guess there’s no time like the present, right?”
She called the station and talked to the duty officer in charge, repeated everything she’d just told Tristan, and promised to stop by first thing in the morning to make an official statement and perhaps talk to Chief Durr.
“The chief’s not going to be happy with me when he hears all this,” Candy told Tristan as she keyed off the phone and laid it on the tabletop. “He’s warned me repeatedly to stay out of these investigations. But I can’t help myself. For some reason, I keep getting pulled into them.”
“I’m sure he appreciates your help,” Tristan said, “even though he’ll never admit it to you.”
They ordered, and talked about the events around town, including the paper’s bicentennial issue. As their food arrived, they also discussed the current activities of the members of the Pruitt clan, and the situation out at Blueberry Acres.
“Because I’m so busy at the newspaper, I just don’t have enough time to devote to the farm anymore,” Candy lamented, “and it’s becoming a problem. Dad’s getting too old to do it all by himself. He needs my help, now more than ever.”
“Could you hire someone to help out? A farm worker?” Tristan asked, genuinely interested.
“We could . . . if we had the money. We run on a very tight budget.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Candy thought about the question for a moment as she savored a spoonful of lobster bisque. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” she admitted, “and I’m toying with the idea of leaving the paper.”
“Quitting?” Tristan asked, surprised.
“Moving on to something else,” Candy clarified. “Freeing up some time. Getting back to the farm. Getting my hands dirty again.”
“It’s a big step.”
“It sure is, especially when we really need the money I bring in from the paper. But if we can generate more revenue out at the farm, that will make up for it.”
She told him then of some of the improvements she and her father had talked about making at the farm—expanding the blueberry fields, putting in a hoophouse, perhaps setting up a farm stand and starting a retail operation during the picking and harvest season. Later, they shared a tiramisu for dessert, and after a final few sips of wine, headed out to lobby.
“You’re welcome to come by the house for a nightcap, if you’d like,” Tristan offered.
But Candy demurred. “I think I’ll just head home. It’s been a long day, and I have a lot going on tomorrow. But I’ll take a rain check, okay?”
“I’ll hold you to that. This was fun. We should do it again real soon.”
Saying their good-byes, she headed in one direction, out the long side hallway to the porch, while Tristan went out another door to the back parking lot.
Candy exited the building and had just stepped down from the porch onto the sidewalk when she sensed someone coming her way from the shadows up ahead. Momentarily spooked, thinking her follower from the previous night might have returned, she halted and backed up quickly onto the porch, stepping off to one side, hiding herself in the shadows there, hand clasped tightly to the wooden railing.
She waited as footsteps approached, and then a figure emerged from the gloom, walking hurriedly along the sidewalk toward the inn and quickly climbing the steps to the porch. The figure headed straight toward the side door from which Candy had just emerged.
Had the figure glanced over, she would have seen Candy standing off to the side. She didn’t, obviously preoccupied with something, but Candy could see her well enough. She was dressed in dark colors, with a slick black raincoat over dark pants and black boots. She’d tucked her hair up under a black knit cap and wore black gloves. The only splash of color was an umbrella tucked under her arm. It displayed a tulip pattern in colors of pink, yellow, and purple.
Candy almost said something to the woman—a brief greeting, a simple hello. But it all happened so fast she never had a chance.
Julia von Fleming crossed the porch in seconds and was gone, inside the building, before Candy had a chance to speak to her.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Finn Woodbury called her just after nine o’clock the following morning. “You coming into the diner today?” he asked after a quick greeting.
Candy was up but not dressed. She could hear her father rattling around downstairs, and could smell coffee brewing. The rain had ended, and the weather outside her window looked promising, brighter and a little warmer than the past few days. But she hadn’t been out to enjoy it yet, as she’d lounged a little longer in bed than usual, her mind working over everything she’d learned the previous day, and thinking about her dinner with Tristan Pruitt the previous evening.
“Don’t think we have any plans to, Finn. Why?”
“Heard some surprising news out of the police department this morning. You might want to make a trip into town.”
“What have you heard?”
“I’d prefer to tell you in person.”
Candy hesitated. It was a Sunday morning, and she’d hoped to get a few things done around the house first before heading out for the day’s events. But if Finn said he’d heard something, and he’d taken the time to give her a call, she knew it must be important. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll hold a spot in the booth for you,” he said, and ended the call.
She dressed quickly and headed downstairs to tell her father to put a hold on breakfast. “Finn’s got something for us,” she told him.
Doc didn’t need too much convincing. “Sounds good. I was feeling like blueberry pancakes anyway, and it’ll save me from cleaning up the dishes.”
Ten minutes later, they were headed toward town in Candy’s Jeep, saying little between them, each caught in their own thoughts.
Finn, Bumpy, and Artie were waiting for them in the corner booth at the diner. Whenever possible, they’d all contributed to her efforts to solve the murders that had plagued their small coastal village, especially Finn, given his background in police matters. Numerous times, Candy had attempted to get him to reveal his secret source inside the Cape Willington Police Department, but he’d remained as tight-lipped as ever. “It’s not a secret source if everyone knows who it is,” he’d told her more than once.
That morning he looked like he had an especially good tidbit for her, but when she found out what it was, she was more surprised than she ever expected to be.
A former big-city cop, now retired, Finn ran the annual local theater production and managed the village’s Memorial Day festivities, among other tasks. Today his beard was neatly trimmed and he wore his trademark tweed jacket, patched at the elbows and fraying at the ends of the sleeves, over a white collared shirt. Sitting next to him, Bumpy was bighearted and big-chested, although he’d lost a few pounds over the past few years. He had a wide, ruddy face and an easy grin. Today he was dressed in a green polo shirt with a Hemmings Motor News logo on it, a sign of his passion for classic cars. The third member of the group, Artie, was a distinguished-looking gentleman with thin steel gray hair combed straight back and wire-rimmed glasses set on his bladelike nose. He sometimes grew out a well-groomed goatee but today he was clean shaven.
The three of them were talking to each other in low voices as Candy and Doc arrived and slid into open spots in the booth. Coffee arrived almost before they were seated, and they ordered quickly, knowing the menu by heart.
After Juanita the waitress had gone, Finn leaned forward, elbows on the tabletop,
a strained expression on his face. “You’re not going to believe this,” he began in a voice so low Candy could barely hear him, “but there’s been another death—apparently a murder.”
“Another one?” Candy said, trying to process this information. “Here in Cape Willington?”
“But how can that be?” Doc added. “I didn’t hear anything about it on the news this morning.”
“That’s because they’re keeping it hushed up for now,” Finn said, and to Candy he added, “No, not here in Cape. Out of town.”
“A jar of poisoned pickles again?” she asked.
But Finn surprised her when he said, “No, not pickles this time. Something more common—a fatal gunshot wound. A shotgun, actually.”
Candy felt a chill, and was going to ask where the body was found, but it was her father who spoke up. “Finn, enough with the dramatics. Just tell us what’s going on.”
Finn nodded and sighed. “Okay, here’s what we know: Sometime late last night, an anonymous call came into the CWPD. The caller, who apparently used a disguised voice and an untraceable number, told the police there had been a fatal shooting at a farmhouse up near Old Town.”
“Old Town?” Candy’s breath caught in her throat, making it hard for her to get the words out.
“That’s right,” Finn confirmed, not noticing her reaction. “So, after some hemming and hawing, the police down here contacted the police up there, who finally checked out the lead sometime around midnight. They indeed found a dead body at this property on the outskirts of town—a pretty nice place in its time, from what I’ve heard. It was reportedly abandoned a while ago but apparently some hermit-type guy was still living in one of the outbuildings. They called in the crime scene boys from Augusta, who arrived just before dawn, and they’re conducting a full investigation.”
“So what does this have to do with us?” Doc asked, his face screwed up in confusion.
“Because of who the victim was—this hermit who was living there,” Finn said.
“And who exactly was he?”
The volume of Finn’s voice fell a shade lower as he continued, and his words were harshly spoken. “Someone we all knew. Someone who used to live and work here in town. Apparently his real last name was Spool or Spruell or something like that, but all of us knew him by another name.” He paused, then said, “It was Maurice Soufflé. And he’s dead as a doornail.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“It seems this guy Maurice—though now we know that was not his real name, as most of us suspected—has been hiding out in Old Town,” Finn continued. “It’s his family’s place, from what I’ve heard. They’re still piecing together the details, but apparently Maurice’s mother was in poor health, and when she passed away a few years back the place started going downhill.”
“You mean Maurice Soufflé has been living that close to us this whole time?” Doc asked, still finding the story hard to believe.
“Yup, that’s the skinny,” Finn said. “But I’m not sure any of us would have recognized him even if we’d run into him while up there on a day trip. Initial reports said he had a beard and apparently looked pretty ragged, like a hermit—a completely different appearance. Not even the people who lived around him knew who he was, or that he was there at all. The police have been conducting some interviews with local people, but they haven’t turned up much. No one really knew much about him. They’re all as surprised by this as we are.”
That caused quite a stir around the table, and Doc and the others quickly launched into a general buzzing, all of them speaking at once, trying to make sense of what they’d just learned, speculating on the reason for Maurice’s death and who might be behind it.
Except for Candy, who said not a word. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing out the window at Main Street, her mouth a thin line, lost in her own musings.
Marcus Spruell is dead, she thought. Someone killed him just hours after I visited him.
That could mean nothing, and it could mean everything.
Most importantly: Was there a connection between her visit and his death? Had someone followed her to his place and murdered him after she’d left?
Could it have been the person in the baby blue pickup truck—Brian Jr., the nephew of Trudy and Richard Watkins? Or someone else—someone she didn’t know about yet?
The questions gave her shivers. And the implications were too serious for her even to consider, starting with her personal safety.
Could her own life be in danger now?
Another sobering thought came to her: She’d left her business card lodged in the screen door of the Spruell house. The police would know she’d been there. They’d probably consider her a prime suspect. And what would they think of her phone call to them last night, when she’d informed them of Maurice Soufflé’s real name and his current location at the Spruell estate in Old Town?
She got the answer to that last question much sooner than she expected.
As she sat staring out the window, watching passersby with a thousand thoughts going through her head, a sudden silence fell across the corner booth. The buzzing of Doc and the boys ceased abruptly. She sensed their general uneasiness, and shifted her gaze back toward the table.
All their eyes were on a newcomer who was approaching the booth.
Candy turned to see who it was, and felt her stomach lurch.
It was Chief Darryl Durr of the Cape Willington Police Department—and he was looking right at her.
From the expression on his face, he didn’t appear to be too happy.
“Well, this is an unexpected development,” Doc said softly, so only those in the booth could hear. “Wonder what he’s doing here.”
“Somehow I don’t think it’s a social visit,” Artie muttered ominously.
But Candy didn’t pay attention to either of them. In fact, she barely heard what they’d said.
Her eyes were fixed on the chief’s.
He came toward them, walking past the other booths and counter seats, and stopped right in front of her. His gaze went to the men sitting around the booth, turning his attention away from Candy for the moment as he tipped his hat. “Doc. Finn.” He nodded to the others. “How’s everyone doing today?”
“We’re doing okay, Chief,” Doc said, as amiably as possible. “How’s everything going with you?”
“Good as can be expected, I suppose, given what’s going on around town,” Chief Durr said.
“Any developments in the poisoned pickle murder case?” Finn asked, fishing for information.
The chief nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Possibly. But nothing I can reveal at the moment.”
“Well, if there’s any way we can help out, let us know,” Bumpy said lightly, in an effort to ease the tension they all felt.
“As a matter of fact,” the chief said, “that’s why I’m here. One of you can help me out a lot.” Now his gaze shifted back to Candy and locked on her. “Thought I might find you here this morning, Ms. Holliday. I wonder if you and I can have a word?”
Candy gulped. “A word? With me?”
“What’s this all about?” Doc piped in.
“Well, for the moment, that’s between me and your daughter, Doc.” The chief took a step back and made a waving motion with his hand. “Shall we?” he said to Candy.
“Where are you taking her?” Doc asked a little defensively.
Chief Durr turned toward Doc with a tight smile. “We’re just going to step outside for a few minutes so we can have a private chat.” His gaze shifted back to Candy. “Aren’t we, Ms. Holliday?”
“Umm, yes, Chief.” She turned and laid a hand on top of her father’s. “It’s okay, Dad. Just a little business we have to discuss. I’ll be right back. Keep the coffee warm for me.”
“Holler if you need anything, pumpkin,” he said, not totally convinced by her words.
“I will, but I’m sure the chief will take good care of me.”
The chief’s smile broadened. “You h
ave my word.”
He turned then, heading out of the diner. She followed, feeling like she was walking in a dream.
She knew, in her heart, what this was all about. But once they were outside, on the pavement off by themselves, where they could talk in relative privacy, the chief made the reason for his sudden appearance at the diner quite clear.
“I heard you called the station last night,” he said without preamble.
“Yes, I did.”
“And you were supposed to come by the station this morning and file a statement,” he continued.
“I’m still planning on doing that.”
“Good, the sooner the better.” His smile looked incredibly strained. “Because I’m trying to figure out exactly what the hell’s going on here.”
For the moment, Candy decided to play innocent. “What do you mean?”
He looked perturbed by the question. “You know exactly what I mean. I’m talking about your whereabouts yesterday afternoon. You made a trip up to Old Town, didn’t you, and stopped in to see this person—” he paused long enough to pull a small notebook out of a shirt pocket, which he referred to briefly before continuing, “—this Marcus Spruell fellow?”
Candy nodded, remaining calm. At least one of us has to, she thought. “Well, yes, I did stop by to talk to him, but I called the station last night to let you know—”
The chief cut her off. “We know you called, Ms. Holliday, but what we didn’t know was that you visited his place yourself. Of course, we know that now, because you left your business card right there, at the scene of the crime, where it was found this morning. And according to this bartender fellow who contacted the local police up there, a woman matching your description stopped in at his bar yesterday afternoon and inquired about this Spruell character—said you were his friend and you were meeting him there.”
Candy didn’t say anything.
Town in a Sweet Pickle Page 20
