I was only doing what I was asked to do, he’d told her.
So someone had instructed him to follow her. But who? And why?
If he was right, however, that brought up another question: Why would Julia have followed her?
Candy mulled that over. Could Julia have been trying to locate Maurice Soufflé, and followed Candy in the hopes of finding him?
Her mind was trying to connect all the dots, all the information she’d heard this weekend, and another thought struck her: Could Julia von Fleming actually have been the person who worked for Maurice Soufflé at the Sweet Pickle Deli years ago? In other words, could Gloria and Julia be the same person? They’d be about the same age, Candy thought. Their physical descriptions differed but Gloria could have altered her appearance to disguise herself as she morphed from Gloria to Julia von Fleming.
Finally, was there a link between Gloria and the person behind the poisoned pickles? In other words, could Julia have left out those jars herself?
Some of it made sense, Candy thought as her mind buzzed with the possibilities. But there was one prominent and mitigating fact that argued strongly for her innocence: Julia had almost eaten that poisoned pickle at the cook-off contest on Friday. If Candy hadn’t intervened at the last moment, Julia would have wound up in the hospital, just like the others—or dead, like Ned. Why put herself in danger like that if she’d left the jar there in the first place?
Was it possible that Julia was responsible for Ned’s death? Could she truly have followed Candy to Old Town yesterday and murdered Maurice Soufflé, aka Marcus Spruell?
Candy still had a hard time accepting it but, all in all, she thought, the evidence she’d just discovered pointed strongly in Julia’s direction.
So . . . what to do about it?
Which direction to go first?
What was the proper way to handle this?
Candy was already halfway up Main Street and approaching Zeke’s General Store, which was across the street on her left. Her gaze was drawn to it. Perhaps that would be a good place to start.
She didn’t see the baby blue pickup truck parked out front, though it could be around back somewhere, if Brian Jr. had come here right after the funeral.
But when she pushed through the front door and scanned the place as she headed back past the shelves and aisles, she didn’t see him anywhere in the store. She saw Trudy Watkins, though, behind the counter, in her usual spot. She was wearing a different apron today, one with teapots on it. Fortunately, she wasn’t dealing with any customers at the moment. She stood easily with her hands on the counter, so she was free to talk.
“Hello, Candy,” Trudy said with a pleasant smile and an amiable nod. “It’s so good to see you back so soon.”
“Hello, Trudy,” Candy replied as she approached the counter.
“We have some wonderful food samples out today.” Trudy pointed to her left. “We’re featuring our pickled zucchini. There are several slices on a tray right over there with some crackers, if you’d like to sample them.”
“I might do that later. Actually, I just popped in briefly. I’m here on fairly important business, if you have time to answer a few quick questions.”
Trudy’s pleasant expression faltered. “About what?”
“Well, frankly, about the apron you were wearing yesterday.”
“My apron?” Trudy had to think a moment. “Oh, you mean the one with the tulips on it? Yes, isn’t that an attractive piece? I’ve had it for a few years. It’s one of my favorites. I do tend to wear it a lot.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Candy said evenly, “can I ask where you got it?”
“Of course. Actually, it was a gift.”
“From whom, if I may ask?”
At this question, Trudy hesitated, and a guarded look came to her eyes. “Well, it was from someone who used to live here in town. This was many years ago, of course. She used to come in here all the time, and we’d chat about various things. We discovered we had a lot in common, including a mutual love for tulips, so one day she brought me the apron as a gift. I’ve had it ever since.”
“Do you happen to remember her name? The woman who gave it to you?” Candy asked.
Again, Trudy hesitated. For a moment Candy thought she was going to draw a blank, or simply refuse to answer, but finally, in a soft whisper, she said, “Her name was Gloria.”
FORTY-THREE
“She was a very nice young woman,” Trudy continued, her voice rising in volume. “Very smart, I could tell, and she had a wonderful sense of humor. We got along fairly well—until she left town a few years back.”
“So you two were pretty good friends?” Candy prompted.
Trudy’s mouth had formed a tight line, and she appeared to have grown more cautious in her answers. “We were acquaintances, yes, though I don’t know if I would have called us friends.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her today?” Candy asked.
In response, Trudy turned away and walked along the counter toward the tray of food samples. “You really should try one of these pickled zucchinis,” she said, changing the subject, and ate one herself, a small sliced sample. Beside the tray, a small placard, printed in neat block letters, described the dish. “I made them myself, using an old recipe from my grandmother. They’re really quite good. I would have entered them in the contest—if I wasn’t excluded from it, of course.”
Candy followed her along the counter. Sensing that Trudy was holding something back, she pressed on with her line of questioning. “Gloria would probably be in her forties now, I think. Back when you knew her, she had brown hair and apparently carried a few extra pounds, but she could have changed her appearance. She might have slimmed down, dyed her hair a different color, changed her makeup, adopted a new accent, that sort of thing.”
Trudy’s eyes darted from side to side. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Her eye color would be the same, though,” Candy continued, “and she’d have the same height and basic figure. Maybe she had some other distinguishing characteristics that you might recognize, since it sounds like the two of you spent some time together.”
Trudy shook her head but said nothing.
“If there’s anything you might know—anything you could tell me about her—it could be very important.” Candy paused. “It could save someone’s life.”
“Well, it’s just . . .” Trudy rapped nervously on the counter several times with her open palms. “The truth is, I really just don’t know for sure.”
“Know what?” Candy prompted.
Trudy took a long time to answer. “Well, it’s possible I might have seen someone who looks like Gloria, and I might have thought it was her at first. But I’m sure I was mistaken. It was probably because of that apron with the tulips I’d been wearing. For some reason it got me to thinking about her, because she liked tulips too. My memory isn’t what it used to be, you know. I mix people up all the time.” She waved a hand in the air dismissively, as if that settled it.
“Where do you think you saw her? Has she been here in the store?”
Again, several moments of silence passed as Trudy’s eyes shifted back and forth. Finally she shook her head. “I’d rather not say anything else right now. I don’t want to make myself look like a fool.”
“Was it Julia von Fleming?” Candy asked, hazarding a guess. “Since she apparently likes tulips too. Maybe that’s why you thought she looked like Gloria?”
Trudy’s face scrunched up, as if she was giving this some serious thought. “Yes, you know, that might be possible. In fact, I think that’s exactly what happened. I must have seen Julia wearing something with tulips on it, and I just got confused.”
“When was this?” Candy asked. “When did you see her?”
“Well, she was in here on Thursday night, during the canning demonstrations.” Trudy’s expression lightened. “You remember. Wanda mentioned it in her column, in the last issue. That was a wonderful event, you know. We shou
ld do that more often. We had a great turnout, and it was very educational. Wanda was here the whole time, taking photos and conducting interviews for a longer story. It should make an informative article for your paper.”
“How long was Julia here?” Candy asked, steering the conversation back on course. “When did she arrive and leave?”
“Oh, she didn’t stay long, as far as I remember. She was here for only a little while. Apparently she’d driven over from New Hampshire that afternoon and she was a little tired. I hadn’t seen her around here before, but then someone told me who she was. It was very exciting to have a published author in the store! As I remember it now, she was wearing a sweater with tulips on it, and it must have triggered something in my brain. I guess I just came to the wrong conclusion.”
“So you initially thought Julia looked like Gloria?”
“Well, yes, that might be what I thought at first,” Trudy admitted, “but as I said, I’m certain I was wrong. And just to make sure, I went to the cook-off contest on Friday to double-check. I wanted to get a second look at her. I was going to talk to her then but she seemed very busy and, well, as I said, I just wasn’t sure. And I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.”
She continued on, sounding almost breathless, as if everything she’d been holding inside over the past few days was tumbling out of her. “And then, after what happened at the cook-off contest—well, I was shocked! I got very worried. I began to think something strange was going on again. That’s why I asked Brian Jr. to keep an eye on you. I knew you’d try to solve Ned’s murder, and I knew you might get yourself into trouble, so I wanted to make sure you had a bodyguard nearby in case something happened to you.”
“A bodyguard?” Candy said, surprised. “So you’re the one who told him to follow me?”
“It was the least I could do,” Trudy admitted. “He’s such a good young man. He was only trying to help. And he knows karate. I was afraid . . . well, I guess I really don’t know what I thought might happen to you. But I wanted to be ready in case something did.”
“And this was prompted by the arrival of Julia? The fact that you thought Gloria and Julia might be the same person?” Candy clarified.
Trudy nodded, rubbing her hands together nervously.
“Did she give any indication that she recognized you?” Candy asked.
Trudy shook her head. “Oh no, nothing like that. I’m sure she doesn’t know who I am.”
Candy was silent for a few moments as she processed this information. Finally, she said, “Well, this is very helpful, Trudy. At least now I know who’s been following me for the past few days.”
“We just wanted to be there to help if you ran into trouble,” Trudy said in Brian Jr.’s defense.
“I wish I’d known that. I have to tell you, I thought it was the poisoned pickle murderer coming after me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Trudy said, genuinely contrite. “I told him to stay out of your way and not to bother you unless you needed his help, but I guess he took that part a little too seriously. I apologize if he disturbed you.”
“I was just a little worried, that’s all, since I didn’t know what he was up to.”
Trudy frowned. “Well, that wasn’t our intention at all. As I told you yesterday, we villagers have to look out for each other, especially with all that’s been happening over the past few years. I’ve talked about this with some of the other folks in town, and we all agreed you should have someone close by if trouble breaks out. That’s why I asked Brian Jr. to keep an eye on you—because if something really did happen, and you really did need help at some point, I wanted to make sure at least one of us is there. And right now, Brian Jr. is that designated person—except when he’s working, of course, like yesterday evening. He worked the late shift, since we stay open late on Saturdays.”
So that’s why he was absent when I ran into Marcus Spruell up in Old Town, she thought. He had to head back to the store to relieve his aunt, and left Old Town before the confrontation out at the Spruell estate developed. “Well, I appreciate your concern, and at least now I know what he was up to. But do me a favor. The next time he follows me, tell him to stay out of the shadows and show himself. That way, at least I’ll know who’s coming after me.”
FORTY-FOUR
As she left the general store, Candy checked her watch. It was a little past twelve thirty. Julia von Fleming’s talk at the Pruitt Public Library was scheduled for two o’clock. Still a little early to head over there, Candy thought.
And what would she do when she encountered Julia again? Ask her point-blank if she was actually a woman named Gloria? Accuse her of leaving out jars of tainted pickles and murdering people?
She could go to the police with this latest information, but there wasn’t much she could prove—at least, not yet. Everything she’d learned so far was more or less hearsay. Brian Jr. had spotted a white VW hatchback with New Hampshire plates, supposedly following Candy up to Old Town. Julia was from New Hampshire. A woman who used to work at the Sweet Pickle Deli allegedly liked tulips. Julia liked tulips. Did that make her a murderer?
Candy decided she needed more information—hard evidence.
And the best way to get that was to go right to the source.
Waiting for a break in the traffic, she crossed Main Street and headed down Ocean Avenue. Her office was nearby, just down the block, but at the moment she paid it no attention. As she moved along the sidewalk she was facing the other direction, away from the buildings and toward the angled parking spaces that lined the avenue for its entire length. On certain days and at certain times of the year, all these spaces would be filled, but there were some empty spots today, since it was a Sunday, and many of the downtown businesses were closed. She scanned both sides of the street as she walked. Once she was about halfway down, she spotted the white VW hatchback, parked in a space on the right-hand side at the lower end of the avenue, near the inn.
Candy approached the vehicle cautiously, watching it out of the corner of her eye, until she determined there was no one inside. She slowed even more, studying it. New Hampshire plates. Brian Jr. had been right about that, at least. She left the sidewalk and walked around the vehicle quickly. An unfinished drink in one of the front cup holders. Maps and CD cases on the passenger seat. An old blazer, some boxes and brochures, an umbrella, and a long ice scraper in the backseat. The cover was pulled over the hatchback section in the rear, so she couldn’t see what might be hidden in there.
Nothing to indicate the car belonged to Julia von Fleming. Lots of folks from New Hampshire, and all the New England states, visited Cape Willington often, sometimes for just a weekend jaunt. This car could belong to someone from Concord or Manchester or Nashua, over for a few days before the leaf peepers arrived and clogged up the hotels and restaurants. It didn’t necessarily have to be Julia’s vehicle.
Candy stepped back onto the sidewalk, her mind a jumble of thoughts.
Could Gloria and Julia von Fleming really be the same person? It certainly seemed possible. Gloria had disappeared several years ago, and the rise of Julia von Fleming had taken place at roughly the same time, maybe even a year or two later. Both were involved with the food industry in some way. Phil the manager had said Gloria was aiming for something higher in her career. Could she have written a popular regional cookbook and re-created herself as someone more glamorous?
It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened, Candy thought.
But what about motivation? Again, Candy saw some possibilities that might make sense. On Friday night, she recalled, she’d run into Julia at the inn, and learned that Julia considered herself the primary target of the poisoned pickles—presumably left for her by Marcus Spruell, aka Maurice Soufflé, as retribution for a negative column she’d written about his place when it was still open, under the anonymous pen name Yankee Food Girl.
That at least established a basis for animosity between the two. Could it have escalated from there? Ma
rcus Spruell, when she’d encountered him at the business end of a shotgun up in Old Town yesterday, said Gloria had wanted a cut of the deli’s profits. He’d called her “a contributor of sorts” to the business, but what had he meant by that? A financial contributor? Or had she lent something else to the operation? Her recipes, for instance? In her file on Maurice Soufflé, Sapphire Vine had found evidence that, in his prior life as a low-level con artist, Maurice had been accused of stealing a number of things, including family recipes. Sapphire had also discovered that the original pickle recipe Maurice used—the one that had made the deli so famous locally—was actually attributed to someone named Mabel Kaufman. Could that be a relative of Gloria’s? Could Maurice have stolen her family’s recipes and used them to enrich himself, cheating her out of a financial reward in the process?
It could certainly be motivation for murder.
But then there was the matter of Julia and the poisoned pickle—the one fact Candy couldn’t ignore, since she’d been there and seen it happen with her own eyes.
At the cook-off, Julia had been aware of the existence of a jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli. She’d brought it up in conversation, in fact, anxious to try one of the pickles. When Candy had quizzed her about it later, Julia said she’d “heard whispers” and “people talking” about its existence. But she’d been overly vague about it, Candy thought. Could she have known about the pickle jar because she’d put it there herself? If so, why almost eat one? She’d almost had it in her mouth, and was about to bite down on it. If Candy hadn’t batted it away at the last moment, Julia probably would have wound up in the hospital like the others—or worse.
If she’d placed that jar there herself, why eat a pickle from it, if she knew it was poisoned? Why put herself in danger like that? She easily could have avoided eating it. But instead, she’d actually seemed excited about eating it.
Town in a Sweet Pickle Page 23
