Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  “True. I think I’m going to hang around for the backhoe. That sounds pretty exciting.”

  Candy laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “You do that—and maybe grab us both a lemonade before they’re gone.”

  “You read my mind. Where are you headed?” Maggie asked.

  Candy pointed toward the stand of shade trees to the right of the lilac bushes on the far side of the yard. “I just spotted a young friend I need to talk to.”

  Maggie turned to look, squinting into the distance. “Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t think so, but stick around—we still might get that explosion.”

  They headed off in different directions then, Maggie toward the refreshments and Candy forward through the crowd. She walked at a measured pace, not hurrying but with a certain deliberateness, picking her way through the constantly shifting crowd, her gaze focused on her destination. Brian Jr. watched her approach and, when she was still some distance away, seemed to finally realize she was zeroing in on him. He retreated fully behind the trunk of the tree, and moments later she caught a glimpse of him retreating, heading back through the narrow stand of trees toward the road on the far side.

  He had probably parked his truck over in that direction, she surmised; he was getting away.

  She picked up the pace but the dispersing, meandering crowd still blocked her way. Finally she broke free into an open space and jogged toward the spot where she’d last seen Brian Jr., her eyes scanning the area ahead of her.

  She soon reached the stand of trees and passed through, searching among the shadows for the young man in the sweatshirt and ball cap. She emerged on the far side, where a long line of cars was parked along Edgewood Road. Turning to her left, she followed the line of cars, still moving at a quick pace, searching for Brian Jr. and his baby blue pickup truck.

  She finally spotted him up ahead. He’d just reached the truck and was climbing into the cab, although he stopped for a moment to glance back at her. She waved an arm. “Brian! Brian Jr.!” she called out to him. “Wait up! I need to talk to you.”

  He paused and seemed to consider that briefly before turning and sliding into the driver’s seat. He pulled the door shut and started up the engine.

  However, traffic was busy on the road as many of the cars, filled with mourners, were beginning to pull out of their parking spaces and drive away. Brian Jr. had to sit and wait for an opening, which gave Candy a chance to nearly catch up to him. But when she was just ten feet away, he found a break in the line of traffic and gunned the engine.

  But he never managed to make his escape, for just then a man approached from the shrubbery on the left side of the road and stepped right in front of the truck, as if he were about to cross the road, causing Brian Jr. to quickly jam on the brakes. It took a moment but Candy recognized the man. It was Judicious F. P. Bosworth, who appeared to have purposely stepped out in front of the truck in order to delay him. Judicious raised both hands in an expression of surprise, doffed his black fedora at the driver, and mouthed a silent apology as he stood in front of the truck for several seconds, as if he couldn’t decide which direction to go. He finally headed back the way he’d come, but his delaying tactic gave Candy a chance to catch up with the truck.

  The driver’s side window was rolled down, so she placed a hand on the lower window frame, as if she could physically restrain the truck from driving away. “Hi, Brian Jr. I wonder if I might talk to you a minute?”

  He turned toward her, his face a little pale, looking embarrassed and somewhat nervous. His hands, with short chewed fingernails, tightly clutched the steering wheel. “I have to get going,” he said.

  Candy didn’t budge, but she did flash him a reassuring smile. “This will take just a minute. You remember me, right? I’m Candy Holliday. We met at the general store yesterday? I know your aunt and uncle.”

  “Sure, I remember,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

  “Well, that’s good.” Her gaze swept across the truck’s interior. “I couldn’t help notice you drive a fairly unique vehicle. What year is it?”

  It took him a moment to respond. “It’s a sixty-seven Chevy,” he said.

  “It’s a very distinctive color,” she continued. “Tends to stand out in a crowd, you know what I mean?”

  He nodded.

  “I thought I saw a pickup truck just like this one Friday night on the Coastal Loop, over by the pizza parlor and the inn. This would have been around seven or so. You weren’t out driving around at that time of night, were you? Just out of curiosity.”

  He shrugged. “I might have been.”

  “Because,” Candy said, deciding to cut to the chase, “I had this strange feeling that someone who drives a baby blue pickup truck just like yours was following me around that night. I wonder why someone might want to do that, if someone was, you know, actually doing something like that.”

  “I don’t know.” His face was scrunched up, as if he hadn’t fully understood her comment.

  “Brian Jr., have you been following me?” she asked bluntly.

  He looked contrite. “Maybe. But I was only doing what I was asked to do.”

  That caught Candy off guard. “Asked to? By whom?”

  He ignored the question. Instead, he said, “There’s something you should know. I’m not the only one. Someone else has been following you around.”

  That caught her off guard too. “Someone else?”

  He nodded. “Someone who drives a white Volkswagen hatchback. I saw it around Cape Willington this weekend, and I saw it up in Old Town yesterday, before I lost it in traffic.”

  “You were in Old Town?”

  Brian Jr. nodded. “Both of us were. I think the VW was shadowing you. That’s why I followed it. Where it was headed after that, I don’t know, because the driver must have spotted me in the rearview mirror, realized what was going on, and managed to give me the slip. Couldn’t tell much about the driver, though. Kinda bulky. Wearing a dark knit cap. But there was something else I noticed, something important,” he said earnestly.

  “And what was that?”

  “The car that was following you, the white VW hatchback? It had New Hampshire plates. Like I said, I just thought you should know.”

  And finally spotting an opening in the traffic, he gave her a quick nod, gunned the engine, and drove off.

  FORTY-ONE

  By the time Maggie caught up with Candy again, the backhoe had arrived. They wandered after it and, as they drank their lemonade, Candy brought Maggie up to speed on all the latest developments, including her encounter with Brian Jr., his admission that he’d been following her, and his revelation about a white Volvo with New Hampshire plates, which also apparently had been following her. As they talked, they watched the backhoe dig a deep, wide hole in a flat, open space just beyond the lilac bushes. Then they spotted the six or eight pallbearers who had gathered around the tractor and cart, and when the hole was ready, the pallbearers hoisted the pine casket up on their shoulders and laid Cleopatra Longfellow to a final rest with all the efficiency of a well-done farm operation.

  “Oh, Cleopatra, we hardly knew ye!” Maggie memorialized, but Candy was a little less moved.

  “We knew her just fine, and she died the way she lived—on the edge.”

  “She was just a carefree girl who loved her pickles. You really can’t hold that against her.”

  “No, I suppose not. At least she had good taste. And, yes, we will miss her.”

  Before they left, they swung over to pay their respects to Sally Ann. Earlier there’d been a larger group surrounding her, but some had already stepped away. The two ladies from the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League remained, however, managing to look both smug and grief stricken at the same time. Cotton Colby was a little more businesslike in appearance, with a dark jacket over a dark blue blouse, while Elvira Tremble had opted for a black-and-white-patterned dress with a wide black belt, making an odd fashion statement.

  First C
andy, and then Maggie, stepped over to Sally Ann, gave the woman a hug, and said a few encouraging words. Sally Ann smiled appreciatively and thanked them both for coming. “What about the obituary?” she asked Candy, getting straight to the point that was on her mind.

  “I’ll make sure it gets into the next issue.”

  “Thank you,” Sally Ann said sincerely, with a weak smile. “Cleopatra would like that. Her last hurrah, so to speak.”

  “She’s had a good send-off, that’s for sure.”

  For the most part Sally Ann seemed to be holding up fairly well, so Candy and Maggie said their good-byes and together walked back toward their cars. “Where are you headed this afternoon?” Candy asked her friend.

  “I’ll have lunch with Georg and then maybe stop by the library to hear Julia von Fleming give her talk this afternoon. You?”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Candy said as she angled off in a different direction.

  Hopping back into the Jeep, she turned toward town, and in a little more than five minutes she was back on Main Street. She parked at the lower end, down past the hardware store and bakery shop, and taking her tote bag with her, headed around to the pizza parlor on the corner, hoping to finally talk to the manager, Phil.

  Since it was nearly noon, many of the tables were occupied, as customers munched on slices of pizza, salad, calzones, and Italian sandwiches. The smells brought a few quick hunger pangs, though Candy had just downed a glass of lemonade, but she pushed those aside as she made her way to the counter at the back of the restaurant.

  “Hi, what can I get you today?” asked a bright-eyed teenaged girl, a different one than she’d encountered two days earlier.

  “Actually, I’m looking for someone,” Candy said. “I wonder if your manager is around? I think his name is Phil?”

  Instinctively the girl turned and looked back over her shoulder, toward the kitchen. “I don’t know if he’s in yet,” she said. “He sometimes comes in a little later on Sunday mornings.” She turned back toward Candy. “But I’ll go check for you.”

  A few minutes later she was back. “He’s not here yet, but I texted him and he’s on his way. He should be here in a few minutes if you want to wait around.”

  “Thanks,” Candy said. “Can you let him know it’s fairly urgent? You could say it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Sure. Would you like to order something while you wait?”

  Although technically it was still morning, and although she still had the remnants of breakfast sitting on the Jeep’s passenger seat, Candy opted for a small salad and a diet soda, then took a seat at a table by the front window to wait. People walked past on the sidewalk and cars zipped along the Loop road. The weather was continuing to improve, and the sun was peeking out in places; with luck they’d hit the low seventies today, she thought. Beyond the road, she could see the great expanse of the ocean to the south, dark blue and relatively calm. She spotted the silhouette of a sailboat out on the horizon, and watched for a few minutes as it seemed to drift along slowly. She sipped at her drink, nibbled on the salad, and checked her watch.

  The sailboat out on the horizon was making some progress, moving right to left, headed down east toward Jonesport and the Maritimes.

  She drank and ate a little more.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes, but finally the manager named Phil arrived. He’d apparently come in the back door, because she heard him talking to the staff in the kitchen, before he eventually made his way out to the dining floor.

  After glancing at all the occupied tables, he walked over and stopped in front of hers. She’d seen him in here before, though she hadn’t talked much with him, other than placing her orders at the counter and chitchatting a little. He was maybe in his mid-forties, with dark curly hair, a pale face, and heavy eyebrows. He was dressed casually in khaki pants and a yellow button-down shirt, and had tied a white apron around his waist.

  “Hi, I’m Phil, the manager of this place,” he said by way of greeting. “Someone said you were asking for me?”

  Candy looked up at him. “Yes, hi, Phil. Thanks for stopping by to talk to me. I’m Candy Holliday, from the paper? I think we’ve met before. I’m actually looking for someone who might have worked here back when this place was the Sweet Pickle Deli. I believe she stayed on with you for a while as well? Her name was Gloria. Does that ring a bell?”

  “It does, actually,” Phil said, squinting his eyes just a bit and nodding. “Gloria was something of a legend around here, given the fact that she’d worked at that deli. We kept her on for a bit but, well, to be honest, I think she grew bored of this job. She’d been doing it for several years, going back to the deli days, and I think she wanted to branch out—maybe work at someplace a little fancier, or open her own restaurant, or something like that. She gave her notice one day and left shortly after. Haven’t heard from her since.”

  “So you don’t have any idea if she still lives around here?”

  “If she does, I haven’t heard, and I haven’t run into her,” Phil said.

  “What did she look like?”

  Phil put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Shoot, I don’t know. Average I guess. Brown hair, regular height, regular weight, maybe a few extra pounds. That sort of thing. Nice enough woman, though.”

  “Did she have any distinguishing characteristics? Anything that might make her stick out if I saw her?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” Candy said, “like a birthmark? Or a tattoo?”

  “I never noticed any of those things.”

  Candy thought a minute. “Did she have any unique speech patterns—maybe an accent or a phrase she liked to repeat over and over?”

  Phil shook his head. “She was just a regular person. She was good at what she did, which was why we asked her to stay on. In fact, I wish she’d stayed around longer. She got along well with the customers. She helped out in the kitchen sometimes and seemed to know her stuff. She was good at coming up with recipes for dishes the customers liked. That’s about all I can remember. It’s been a few years, you know. Hard to remember back that far.”

  “Yes, I know, and I appreciate your time. Just one or two more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  He waved a hand. “Shoot, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

  “Do you happen to remember her last name?”

  Phil smiled, a little painfully. “You know, I was afraid you’d ask me that, but honestly I don’t remember off the top of my head. I suppose I could check for you, though. I’m sure we have her record somewhere in the files.” He seemed to indicate that it would take some time to dig it out, though.

  “That would be helpful if you could do that, when you get a chance,” Candy said. “And I have one final question. About how old would Gloria be now,” Candy asked, “if you had to take a guess?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Around my age? Forties, maybe?”

  “Can you be more exact?”

  “Forties or fifties?”

  Hmm, nothing very specific, Candy thought. It’s just been too long. I guess this is a dead end.

  Out loud, she said, “Well, you’ve been very helpful, Phil. Thanks for speaking with me.”

  He paused. “Is this for an article or something?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” Candy said as she rose. She dipped into her tote bag and pulled out a card, which she handed to him. Then she held out her hand, and they shook. “If you happen to think of anything else specific about Gloria, please let me know.”

  “Okay, will do, Candy,” he said, and started toward the kitchen.

  But after he’d taken a few steps he stopped and turned back. “You know, there is one thing I remember about her, now that I think of it,” he said.

  Candy had been in the process of hoisting her tote bag, and stopped mid-move. “And what would that be, Phil?”

  A distant look came into his face, as if he was remembering something pleasant he hadn’t thought about in a long time.
“Well, she used to love tulips.”

  “Tulips? Like the plants? The flowers?”

  “That’s right,” said Phil. “She sort of had a thing for them. Bought like earrings and key chains with tulip designs and notebooks with tulips on them—that sort of thing. She even had clothing with tulips on them. And she used to bring the plants into the store all the time and set them at the end of the counter. It was a real nice touch. The customers seemed to like it. Red was her favorite color but she liked the yellow and pink ones as well. So there you go. That’s all I remember.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Tulips, Candy thought as she left the pizza parlor, walking quickly with her eyes cast downward. Gloria liked tulips.

  And, Candy realized as she turned the corner and headed back up Main Street, she’d seen tulips several times around Cape Willington over the past few days. She just had to remember when and where.

  So where had she seen those tulips?

  On Trudy Watkins, for one. When Candy stopped by the general store yesterday, Trudy had been wearing an apron with tulips on it.

  But Trudy couldn’t possibly be Gloria, could she? She didn’t fit the profile. Their ages didn’t match, for one thing. And Trudy had been in town for decades, so she couldn’t have worked at the deli, since she’d been running the general store during that time.

  So who else?

  Candy could think of only one other person. Just last night, she’d spotted Julia von Fleming, dressed all in dark colors, except for an umbrella she’d been carrying tucked under her arm, with a colorful tulip pattern on it.

  Now that Candy thought about it, she remembered that Julia had been wearing silver earrings with a tulip design at the cook-off contest on Friday. And a tulip-patterned neck scarf at the book signing yesterday.

  Plus, Candy recalled, Julia was from New Hampshire, so her car would have New Hampshire plates. What kind of car did she drive? Candy wondered. She was sure she could find out easily enough.

  According to Brian Jr., a white Volkswagen hatchback with New Hampshire plates had followed her to Old Town yesterday. But could she trust his account? Maybe he was trying to mislead her. After all, he admitted that he’d been following her over the past few days. Something strange he’d said stuck in her mind: