Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  The chief took her silence for confirmation. “I suppose that was a fabrication of some sort, and I assume you were digging around for some information about the Spruell place, which the bartender said he provided to you.” The chief’s gaze focused in on her, hawklike. “Perhaps you’d care to elaborate.”

  Again, Candy remained silent for now, uncertain of what to say. She didn’t want to dig herself in any deeper.

  So the chief took a different approach. “Why don’t we start with something simple? We know you were at the Spruell place yesterday afternoon, but we don’t know the specifics. So why don’t we start there? What time did you arrive, and when did you leave?”

  Candy decided there was no point in trying to hide anything. The best course was to be completely honest. So she cleared her throat and said, “I got there a little before five, and I wasn’t there very long. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Just time for a quick conversation.”

  “So he was alive at that point?”

  “Yes, and he was still alive when I left.”

  The chief accepted that bit of information before he continued, seeming a little less frustrated now that she was starting to answer his questions. “And what did you two talk about?”

  “About the deli. About the poisoned pickles.” She explained that Marcus Spruell and Maurice Soufflé were the same person.

  “Yes, I got that. And what did he say about the pickle jars?”

  “He seemed to indicate that he wasn’t involved with them or with the murder of Ned Winetrop.”

  “Did he give specifics?”

  “No.”

  “What else?” the chief asked, prompting her.

  “Well, we talked about his mother.”

  “And . . .”

  “She died a few years back. He was taking care of her before she passed away, and I guess he just stayed on, living in that little cottage back among the trees.”

  “And what else?”

  Candy hesitated a moment, but again, decided to hold nothing back. “He seemed to indicate he was being framed by someone named Gloria, who used to work for him at the deli years ago. She apparently stayed on for a while when the place became a pizza parlor, but I don’t know much more than that.” She paused. “I told him he should go to the police and tell them what he told me.”

  “But you waited until now, this morning, to tell me all this?”

  Again, Candy didn’t answer.

  The chief gave her a stern look. “Ms. Holliday, let me be perfectly blunt. You could be in a heap of trouble here. Why, I could arrest you right now on suspicion of murder.”

  “Murder? Of Marcus Spruell? But I didn’t have anything to do with that, Chief,” Candy said emphatically.

  “That may or may not be true. But there’s obviously evidence you were there at his place, possibly just an hour or two before the actual murder.” He paused, tipped back his cap, and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve got people pressuring me on this one, Ms. Holliday—Candy. People higher up than me. I’m trying to run interference for you, but you’ve got to give me something to go on.”

  “Like what?”

  “How did you find this Spruell character in the first place?”

  She repeated and elaborated on the story she’d given to the duty officer the previous evening, telling the chief about the old files of Sapphire Vine’s that she’d burned the previous year, and how Wanda Boyle had photocopied them before they’d been destroyed, and how Wanda had produced the file Sapphire had kept on Maurice Soufflé. She told him that, years ago, Sapphire had uncovered Maurice’s true identity and details about his previous life as a small-time con artist. And she speculated that Sapphire had been blackmailing Maurice, which caused him to skip town and disappear.

  The chief listened carefully, and when she was finished, he said, “I need to see that file.”

  She had expected that. “I don’t have it. I’ll have to get it from Wanda.”

  “Today,” he said. “Bring it by the station as soon as you have it, and you can make a formal statement then. I need to know everything you’ve been up to.”

  “Okay, Chief, I’ll be sure and do that.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “I’ll look for you. And let me be perfectly clear about one more thing: We have a murderer on the loose. This is a dangerous business. The last thing we need is another dead body, especially if it’s the body of the local newspaper editor and blueberry farm owner. So no more amateur sleuthing. Whatever you do, try to stay out of trouble. And if you uncover anything else, you call me first. Got it?”

  Candy was tempted to salute him but fought the urge. Instead, she said, quite contritely, “Got it, Chief.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  All in all, she thought she’d gotten off fairly easily during her encounter with Chief Durr. It could have gone much worse, she reasoned. And he was probably right: He could have arrested her, given all the evidence that pointed to her involvement not only in the murder of Marcus Spruell, but of Ned Winetrop as well. She’d been at the scenes of both crimes. Her fingerprints were on the jar of pickles Ned had dipped into. She’d left her card at the Spruell place, right where it could easily be found, and she’d made inquiries about him in Old Town.

  I’m definitely in a sweet pickle, she thought with morbid humor as she wandered back into the diner, and I’ve got to find some way to get myself out of this.

  There was, of course, one simple way to resolve it: find out who was behind the murders—despite the chief’s warning to stay out of it—and clear her own name.

  But how to do that, without getting herself killed or thrown in jail?

  As she reentered the diner, she was surprised to find all eyes on her. It made her feel self-conscious but there was nothing she could do about it, so she forced a smile and ignored the stares as she made her way back to the corner booth.

  “So what was that all about?” her father asked as she resumed her seat.

  “Just a friendly little chat with the chief of police,” Candy said as lightly as possible.

  “You in any trouble?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Her father gave her an inquisitive look. “Would you tell me if you were?”

  “Believe me, Dad, if I really was in trouble with the police, you’d know about it.”

  “Did he say anything about the murder up in Old Town?” Finn asked.

  “He mentioned it,” Candy admitted, “but he didn’t tell me anything new.”

  “Does he have a suspect?”

  “If he does, he didn’t tell me.”

  “He’s not coming after you, is he?” Finn pressed.

  Candy sighed and swept a few strands of hair away from her face before she answered. “Well, to be honest, I am sort of involved in this whole thing right up to my eyeballs.”

  Doc harrumphed at that, as if it was ridiculous to assume his daughter could be involved in murdering someone, and Artie said what they all were thinking. “Remember, no matter what happens, you always have our support,” he told her. “Just say the word, and we’ll mobilize this whole town on your behalf.”

  “Here, here!” Bumpy chimed in.

  Candy was touched. “Thanks, you guys. That means a lot to me, and I just might take you up on it. But now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I have a funeral to attend.” To her father, she added, “Dad, if you need a ride back to the farm, just give me a call and I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  “Don’t worry about me, pumpkin. I’ll be fine.”

  She asked the waitress to pack up her food to go—just a buttered croissant and an assortment of fruit slices—and after saying her good-byes, made her way out of the diner before she had to dodge any more questions.

  She knew they all meant well. She knew they all had her best interest at heart. And she hated holding back information from them. But she also knew that if she told them everything that was going on, she’d just cause them needless worry, especially her father.
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br />   She also knew she’d been in tight spots before, especially when she was trying to solve a local murder, and she’d always managed to figure a way out. She had every reason to believe she’d find a way out of this one as well. At the moment, she just didn’t know how she was going to do it. But she had faith in herself and in her instincts. And she had at least the semblance of a plan of attack in mind.

  As she walked along the sidewalk toward her Jeep, she realized she’d never contacted Wanda about the funeral, as she’d promised Sally Ann the day before, so she paused to send out a quick text message. In a second text, she added, I told the chief about Sapphire’s file on Maurice Souffle. He wants to see it. Could you drop it off at the station? She then continued on, climbing into the Jeep and driving out on Gleason Street to Edgewood Drive.

  Sally Ann had said to expect a big turnout, and she was right. Her front yard was like a grocery store parking lot on a Saturday morning, jammed with vehicles, as was the street leading out to her place. As Candy approached the end of Gleason Street, she also saw many neighbors walking in the direction of Sally Ann’s.

  “That goat must have had a pretty big fan club,” Candy said with a shake of her head. “Who knew?” But it was a close-knit community, she thought, and they all supported each other in tough times, so perhaps it wasn’t such an odd thing after all.

  Sally Ann had put out quite a spread. She’d set up tables near the house with lemonade, fruit punch, and cookies available for those who were feeling a few hunger pangs. Out in the backyard, she’d set up an easel with an enlarged photo, draped in black, of Cleopatra herself in happier times. Groups of chairs had been arranged in various places around the yard, and Sally Ann had managed to find herself a small PA system with a microphone, which she’d set up back near the goat pen. A small group had already gathered around the microphone stand in anticipation of the event.

  As for Guinevere, she was on a long tether, apparently to prevent her from wandering away or disrupting the proceedings, but she was surrounded by a number of well-wishers who kept her fed and contented.

  Wanda Boyle must have known about the ceremony before Candy’s text, because she had already arrived with her camera and notebook. Candy spotted a number of other people she recognized as well, including Melody Barnes from Melody’s Cafe, Gus Gumm of Gumm’s Hardware Store, Elvira Tremble and Cotton Colby of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, cabinetmaker Payne Webster and his fellow snowplow driver Pete Barkeley, local historian Julius Seabury, and shop owners Ralph Henry and Malcolm Stevens Randolph. Also hovering nearby were handyman Ray Hutchins, standing restlessly near some lilac bushes, and the reclusive Judicious F. P. Bosworth, rooted to a spot near the back of the crowd, clearly visible today as he curiously eyed the proceedings.

  It’s an impressive turnout, Candy thought as she surveyed the gathering. Cleopatra would be pleased.

  Her gaze swept out toward the fringe of the crowd on the far side of the yard, scanning the faces, looking to see who else she might know. And there, standing all alone in the shadows of a small group of trees, wearing a baggy sweatshirt and a faded baseball cap, was a lean young man with shaggy blond hair. He appeared to be surveying the crowd himself, and looked noticeably surprised when his gaze shifted across the yard and he spotted Candy looking right back at him.

  Realizing he’d been spotted, he took a few steps back under the trees, half hiding himself behind a thick trunk, hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans.

  Candy watched him for a few moments, debating her options. She quickly decided she should take advantage of this opportunity to finally confront her pursuer, in a relatively safe environment, to find out what was going on.

  So without further hesitation, she made a beeline toward Brian Jr., nephew of Trudy and Richard Watkins, presumed shadowy figure and owner of a particularly suspicious baby blue pickup truck.

  FORTY

  Before Candy could reach him, however, a motor kicked into sputtering life somewhere nearby, and a puffy cloud of black smoke erupted into the air. The buzzing from those gathered in the yard rose an increment in pitch, and in its collective excitement, the crowd pressed forward and closed up around her, shifting her in a different direction and blocking the way, so Candy lost sight of her target.

  Moments later, a small red farm tractor jerked forward from behind the lilac bushes. Heads craned and shorter observers stood on tiptoes to see that Ray Hutchins was driving it, and he was pulling a low flatbed cart upon which sat a large rectangular box. The box was made of good, new pine and looked as if it had been assembled just recently. It was slightly shorter than a typical casket but much wider, approaching four feet. Atop it sat a bushy green wreath. Hand-painted on one side in pink letters were the words: Our Beloved Cleopatra.

  As the tractor and its cargo inched across the yard, traveling a gentle arc along the outside rim of the crowd, the buzzing died away and a hush fell over those who had gathered to pay their last respects. Looking around, Candy noticed a few ladies dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs, and a few men as well.

  Gentle music started playing then in the background—not much of a melody, but it was something a goat might have liked, Candy supposed.

  “Sounds like a funeral dirge from the Middle Ages, doesn’t it?” came a whisper from behind her.

  Candy turned around. It was Maggie, appropriately attired in dark clothing, wearing sunglasses and a black ball cap.

  “You made it!” Candy said happily, as she gave Maggie a quick hug.

  “It was almost impossible to find a parking spot but I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Other than your cook-off on Friday, it’s the highlight of the week.”

  “It’s been a pretty eventful week,” Candy pointed out.

  “You’re right,” Maggie said, and quickly corrected herself. “Then it’s the biggest event of the day, or maybe the hour, depending on what happens in the next twenty minutes. Because if there’s an explosion or a car chase, all bets are off!”

  Candy chuckled softly and was promptly shushed by several of those around her, who looked askance at her and Maggie. Holding a finger to her lips, Candy turned first toward her friend, who had sidled up beside her looking slightly abashed, and then back toward the proceedings at the front of the crowd.

  Sally Ann Longfellow had finally made an appearance, emerging from a side door of her house. She was dressed basically the same way she dressed most days—nothing fancy, just faded loose-fitting dungarees and work boots, a flannel shirt with a fleece vest, and in the sole nod to the occasion, a wide-brimmed straw hat with a black band wrapped around the crown.

  She came alone, with no one to accompany her. Apparently she’d decided to do the whole thing herself. She held in one hand a single sheet of paper.

  “Cleopatra didn’t have no specific religious denomination, nor any real religious affiliation that I know of,” Sally Ann began once she’d reached the microphone, switched it on, and consulted her notes, “but she certainly deserves to go to goat heaven, if there is such a place. Now, I know she had her run-ins with a few of you. She did have a knack for slipping her bonds, that’s for sure. I certainly admit she was a high-strung girl, and a hungry one at that. But she simply loved her freedom, she never meant to harm anyone, and she had a good heart.”

  Here Sally Ann tilted her head down and sniffled several times. She finally took a handkerchief from her back pocket and wiped her nose and eyes before continuing.

  “She was born, of course, at the McQuarry farm up by Dover-Foxcroft, where I got family, and she and Guinevere came to me in a trade when they were just kids. Cleopatra lived here in Cape Willington ever since, and I’ve always considered her a true member of this community.”

  Some supportive applause rippled through the crowd, and Candy even heard a few chime in, “Here, here!”

  Sally Ann nodded appreciatively, sniffled again, and went on. “Thing is, she was here for only about nine years, just about half her life
span. We’ll never know why she was taken from us in the prime of her life, but she left her mark, and she’ll always have a place in our hearts and memories.”

  She then proceeded into a litany of all the things Cleopatra loved, which included peanut butter, artichokes, chocolate-covered raisins, and wild berries. “She loved to play in snowdrifts and munch on icicles. Her favorite performer was Jim Carrey, and her favorite song was “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. She also loved Willie Nelson. Something about his voice appealed to her.”

  Sally Ann paused, took a moment to glance at her notes again, and then looked up to survey the crowd. “I’d like to thank the ladies of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League for helping to set up today’s event and bringing the refreshments, and to Ray Hutchins for helping me make the casket. The backhoe gets here in about ten minutes, at which time Cleopatra Longfellow will be interred over by the lilac bushes she so dearly loved.”

  Sally Ann took one more glance down at her notes, then nodded and folded the paper in half. “So, anyway, that’s all I have. I want to thank all of you for coming out today. Cleopatra would have been thrilled to see every one of you, I know that for a fact. What a wonderful turnout. It’s very gratifying to see neighbors supporting neighbors.”

  That was it. She switched off the microphone as the crowd applauded again, the general buzzing of low conversation returned, and people began to step away, some heading toward the casket, while others made a beeline for the refreshments. Several women stepped forward to console Sally Ann in her moment of grief, including Elvira Tremble and Cotton Colby. Wanda Boyle was there, too, snapping a few photos with her digital camera and pulling a few quotes from those who had just witnessed the event.

  “It was such a wonderful ceremony,” Candy heard one woman tell Maggie, and others around them concurred.

  “Very fitting for a goat,” Maggie agreed, sounding a little caught up in the moment. “Very earthy. Unfortunately, no explosions, though.”

  “This thing’s not over yet,” Candy observed.