Town in a Lobster Stew chm-2

by B. B. Haywood

  She pulled out the flashlight and held it low, though she didn’t flick it on yet, and started forward, walking as quietly as possible. She wore tennis shoes, and at times they squeaked on the tiled floor. But she found she could minimize the squeaks by walking on the sides of her feet. Cautiously, and a bit awkwardly, she crept forward and soon reached the end of the corridor.

  Just as she’d done on that night ten months ago, she turned right into another long corridor. It too was dimly lit. At the far end, she knew, was a stairwell that led to the upper floor. That’s where she was headed.

  She moved more quickly now, not wanting to linger any longer than she had to, passing by the closed doors of a number of offices, many of them leased by the town. Near the end of the hall, on the left, was the town council’s office, reserved for the use of the council chairman and selectmen. Since last November’s election, the office had had a new occupant, Mason Flint, a retired schoolteacher who’d been a selectman and chairman of the finance committee before becoming council chairman. He’d won the position not only because of his experience in local politics, but also because he promised to improve tourism and bring stability to the town. Candy had met him a couple of times. He seemed like a nice fellow, and so far his tenure had been uneventful.

  Still, the office also held unwanted memories for Candy, so she hurried past the closed door without stopping.

  As she reached the end of the hall, she turned left and pushed through a door to a dark staircase. The last time she’d been here, she’d dashed up these stairs two at a time in near panic, but now she started up them more cautiously, one at a time, peering upward as she went. But the stairwell, like the hallways, was empty.

  At the top of the stairs she turned left, pushing through another set of doors, and entered a long hallway with faded red carpeting that ran along the entire right side of the auditorium. It sloped gently downward to her right and eventually led through another door to the backstage area. Candy briefly considered heading along the hall in that direction but decided against it. Instead, she stepped straight across the hall and pulled open another door, which led into the auditorium itself.

  The elaborately decorated auditorium of the Pruitt Opera House seated three hundred and fifty people in clothupholstered seats, but tonight it was empty, like the rest of the building. It was a great, oddly hushed space that held its own special memories for her. A few lights had been left on high in the ceiling and under the balcony, which loomed above her on her left. The stage was down to her right. The main house curtain, she noticed, was open.

  That’s good, she thought. At least it won’t be too dark backstage.

  She hesitated before she moved on. She thought of checking the audio device to make sure it was working but realized it made no difference, since she had no earpiece and couldn’t hear Finn. It was only one-way audio. Well, she thought, I’m not in the FBI or anything like that. I don’t have access to the latest high-tech gear. This is just amateur detecting. So, she told herself, go ahead and detect. Get on with it.

  She turned right and headed down the side aisle, which sloped downward toward the front of the auditorium.

  As she walked, she listened, but she could hear nothing except her own soft footsteps and her own breathing. Even the traffic outside on Ocean Avenue and the Coastal Loop was almost inaudible in here. Horace Roberts Pruitt, the grandfather of Cornelius, had built the opera house well, with thick walls and architectural techniques designed to insulate the building against exterior noise.

  Candy slowed, her gaze moving back and forth, as she approached the stage. An eight-foot pit area stretched before the first-row seats, and steps led up to the stage itself. She hesitated only briefly before climbing the steps.

  Slowly she crossed toward center stage, feeling strangely vulnerable. Hearing an errant creak from the auditorium, she turned on her heels and looked out over the sea of seats, then up toward the balcony, then back to the wings on either side of her, where she saw nothing but shadows among the side curtains.

  She turned to face the rear of the stage, where a long, closed curtain hid the backstage area from her view. She took a few tentative steps toward the rear curtain, still looking back and forth, her eyes watching for any sign of movement. “Hello? Anyone here?” she called softly. She paused and listened for a reply but heard nothing.

  “Hello?” she called again. “Cinnamon Girl?”

  As she reached the rear curtain, she turned to look into the shadows in the right and left wings.

  Did something move there?

  She saw it then, to her left — a flickering light, briefly, as if signaling to her.

  “Hello?” she called a third time, though now her voice was more of a whisper. She took a few steps in that direction.

  A light flashed in her eyes. She stopped abruptly.

  Just as quickly as it had come, the light disappeared. A low, indistinct voice spoke from the shadows. “Over here.”

  “Is that you?”

  No response.

  Hesitantly, Candy took a few steps toward the shadows of the left wing, where the voice had come from. As she drew closer, the voice spoke again. “Back here.”

  This time, she decided it definitely sounded like a woman’s voice.

  She let out a breath. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in.

  Candy reached the wing and peered deeper into the shadows, but she could see nothing. “Where are you?”

  “Back here.”

  The voice, low and muffled, had come from her right. She thought of flicking on the flashlight she still held but hesitated. She didn’t want to spook Cinnamon Girl, so for the moment she left it off. But she tightened her grip on it, her thumb resting on the switch, ready to flick it on at the first sign of trouble.

  But she didn’t need it. The other light flicked on at that moment, shining at her feet. “This way,” the voice said, drawing her on.

  Candy took a step or two forward. “Who are you? What information do you have?”

  “Closer.” The voice sounded mysterious but not menacing.

  So Candy moved closer. The light still shone on the floor at her feet, creating a path for her, guiding her along. She stepped around a few pieces of scenery, a pile of stacked chairs, a wooden table behind the rear curtain.

  She could make out the shape of the person now, standing about twelve feet in front of her, though she could see no distinct features. The tall, thick stage curtains on either side of them muffled most sounds, but she thought she could hear the other person breathing.

  As she approached, the flashlight’s beam swung away and then flicked off. The two of them stood silently for a moment, facing each other in semidarkness.

  Candy squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She cleared her throat. “Okay, so here I am. What did you want to tell me?”

  “It’s simple,” the shadow said. “There’s something fishy going on in this town, and it has nothing to do with lobster stew.”

  Candy considered that. “So what do you think is going on?”

  “I think,” the shadowy figure said in a low voice, “that one of the cooks yesterday was using a recipe stolen from Wilma Mae Wendell.”

  “What makes you say that?” Candy asked, immediately suspicious. She had told only a few people about the stolen recipe, though it was possible Wilma Mae herself had let her guard down and mentioned it to someone at the cook-off. Still, Candy didn’t want to give anything away — at least not yet.

  The shadow was silent for a few moments. Then the voice said gruffly, “She asked you to find it for her, didn’t she?”

  “Find what?”

  A sound of exasperation leaked out of the shadow. “The lobster stew recipe. The one Mr. Sedley used to win the cook-off all those years. He gave it to Wilma Mae, and she’s been keeping it for him. But someone stole it from her place — sometime this week, is my guess. So now she’s got you looking for it, right?”

  Candy took a s
mall step forward, her thumb still resting on the flashlight’s switch. “How do you know all this?”

  “Ha!” the shadow said, ignoring Candy’s question. “I knew it! I was right!” After a moment of gloating, the shadow continued. “There’s something else. Yesterday, at the cook-off, someone interfered with the judging.”

  That gave Candy a jolt. She felt her uneasiness return as she recalled a similar episode that had occurred ten months earlier — an episode that ended in murder.

  “So who interfered?” she asked.

  “Me,” the shadow answered.

  Candy crept forward another step, her senses sharpening. “What’s going on? Is this some sort of joke?”

  “It’s no joke. It’s deadly serious.”

  Considering what she had discovered yesterday, Candy couldn’t disagree. She took another step forward. “How do you know so much?”

  “Because I was there yesterday, at the cook-off. I saw what went on. But it turned out all wrong. That’s the problem. And now Mr. Sedley’s dead. That’s an even bigger problem. And I’ve been trying to figure out the connection between the two. I’ve unraveled some of it, but I can’t do it all on my own. You have the answers I need. That’s why I contacted you.”

  Candy’s curiosity surged. She inched forward another step as she squinted into the darkness, trying to get a better look at Cinnamon Girl’s face. She thought she could dimly make out some of the features. “Who are you?” she asked again, this time drawing out the words.

  When the figure didn’t answer, Candy decided she’d had enough. In a quick, precise movement, she raised her flashlight, flicked on the switch, and aimed the beam directly in Cinnamon Girl’s face.

  It looked oddly grotesque in the harsh light, all sharp angles and unflattering lines. But there was no mistaking the identity of the person standing in the shadows backstage at the Pruitt Opera House.

  Just as she’d suspected. “Wanda Boyle.”

  Twenty-Three

  “Who were you expecting? Elmer Fudd?” Wanda made a smug sound in the back of her throat. “Surprised?”

  Candy had to admit she was, even though she’d started to figure it out when she first heard the shadow’s low voice. “Yes, actually, I am.”

  “Well good. I didn’t think you’d be so easy to fool, not with your reputation as a hotshot detective.” She held up a hand to shield her eyes from the flashlight’s beam. “Now could you get that light out of my eyes before you give me a headache?”

  Candy did as the other woman asked, turning the beam down toward the heavily varnished floor. The shadowy grays returned, engulfing them. It was eerily quiet backstage, where the curtains muffled most sounds, and Candy let her voice grow a little louder. “What kind of game are you playing, Wanda?”

  “Is that what you think? This is a game?” Wanda’s tone became defensive, and her words turned hard-edged. “Well it’s not. I’m sitting on some hot information, and I think it could be tied to Mr. Sedley’s death.”

  Candy’s annoyance at Wanda quickly fell away. “What kind of information?”

  “First, I have to know a few things. Consider it a little information sharing. You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know. But you have to go first. That day you came to the museum. Were you there to see Charlotte... or me?”

  When Candy hesitated to answer, Wanda went on. “Let me guess. You were there because you were looking for me, right?”

  Candy considered her answer but could see no point in acting coy any longer. “Yes.”

  “I thought so. I knew something was up when you came snooping around that day. So let’s figure this out. The recipe was stolen from Wilma Mae. She asked you to find it for her. And you must have come right out to the museum. So what can we deduce from that?”

  “I don’t know,” Candy said with a slight smile. “What can we deduce?”

  Wanda leveled a finger at her. “I’ll tell you what. You came out to the museum because you thought I was the one who stole the recipe. Isn’t that right?”

  Candy pursed her lips. “I suppose that could be true.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Okay, Wanda, what do you want me to say? Yes, if you must know, I thought you could be involved. And yes, that’s why I was out at the museum. You were the most likely suspect, and Wilma Mae’s convinced you took the recipe from her.” She paused, looking hard at Wanda. “So, as long as we’re making confessions... did you?”

  “Did I what? Steal the recipe?” Wanda snorted, though it might have been a laugh. It was hard to tell. “I won’t lie to you. I’ve thought about it for a long time. I’ve been trying to get my hands on that recipe for years. Those two old coots didn’t need it anymore. What good was it to them? They’d both retired from the competition. It was a total waste. So yeah, I’ve been after it for a while. It’s time Wilma Mae passed it on to someone else who can use it. I even offered to pay her for it. I offered him money too... back when he was alive. But it didn’t work. For whatever reason, they just couldn’t seem to part with it.”

  “Maybe that’s because it has sentimental value to them,” Candy said, irritation creeping into her tone. “You’d know that if you talked to her. But I guess you did talk to her, didn’t you? You just didn’t listen to her.”

  An uncomfortable silence hovered for a few moments between the two of them. Eventually Wanda broke the silence by letting out a breath of air through her nose. “I suppose Wilma Mae told you I visited her recently.”

  “She mentioned that, yes,” Candy confirmed. “She said you visited her several times over the past few weeks. You know you scared the poor woman half to death.”

  Wanda’s body shifted uneasily. “That was never my intention. But I was getting impatient. I was trying to push her a little. But mostly I just wanted to know more about that recipe.”

  “Why? What’s so important about it?”

  Again, Wanda snorted. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re still new around here, aren’t you? You have no idea how much some folks want to win that contest.”

  “But why?” Candy asked again, trying to understand.

  “Because of the trophy,” Wanda snapped, “and the prestige that goes with it. You don’t know this, because you haven’t lived here long enough, but if you have that cook-off trophy sitting on a shelf in your home, you can write your own ticket in this town. Suddenly you know all the best people. You get invited to all the right parties. You’re someone people look up to. Winning that trophy means a lot in this little town. A lot. There are people who would do anything to get their hands on it.”

  “Anything?” Candy asked, her voice suddenly quiet. “Even murder?”

  “Even murder,” Wanda confirmed, and then she shut her mouth abruptly, as if she fully realized what she’d just said. She also seemed to realize where they were. Her head twisted left, toward the auditorium, as if she could see through the curtains and out toward the balcony. She appeared to be listening for something. After a few moments, she turned back toward Candy. “Did anyone see you as you came in here?”

  “No. The place is empty.”

  “And you came alone, right?”

  Candy swallowed and a moment later hoped Wanda had missed that little giveaway. “I came in here alone,” she said, knowing it wasn’t a complete lie. She’d left Finn in the parking lot and had walked into the building by herself.

  Wanda gave her a suspicious look but finally shrugged. “We can’t stand out here in the open talking. This way.”

  She flicked on her flashlight and, pointing it toward the floor, headed off through an opening in another curtain, then along the building’s rear wall, to a storage room at the very back of the stage area. She walked in, keeping the flashlight pointed low. “We can talk privately in here.” She stopped at the center of the room, turned, and waved to Candy. “Come on in. Shut the door.”

  Candy paused just outside the doorway, peering inside. She flicked on her own flashlight and shine
d it around the room. It was just an old storage area, perhaps eight by ten feet in size. The place looked dusty, cold, and largely unused. White swaybacked shelves along the left wall were stacked with dusty props. Moldy boxes were piled in a back corner, and a table and two metal chairs were pushed up against the right wall. Old posters hung on the bare plastered walls, with peeling paint up along the ceiling and in the corners.

  She entered the room cautiously, taking only a few steps inside, and somewhat reluctantly reached around to close the door behind her. She crossed her arms, leaving the flashlight on, so its beam illuminated the shelves on her left and gave them some light. “So what’s this all about? Why all the secrecy?”

  “Because,” Wanda said, “in case you hadn’t noticed, someone’s been killed. That’s pretty serious business. It means there’s a murderer in this town. And I have no intention of getting murdered myself.”

  “Why would someone want to murder you?”

  Wanda let out an annoying sound to indicate her impatience. “I told you. I saw someone using Mr. Sedley’s recipe yesterday. And that means I might know who stole the recipe from Wilma Mae’s house.”

  Candy felt a chill.

  Whoever stole the lobster stew recipe must have murdered Mr. Sedley.

  “You think that person had something to do with Mr. Sedley’s death?”

  “Do you?” Wanda asked, volleying the words back to her.

  Candy shook her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I have to be cautious.”

  “So who is it?” Candy asked point-blank, uncrossing her arms. She was suddenly very curious to hear Wanda’s revelation.

  “You have to promise first,” Wanda said quietly, “to keep this to yourself.”

  Again, Candy found herself becoming irritated. “There you go again, playing games.”

  “And I told you, I’m not playing games.” Wanda’s tone was hard and unyielding. “I came to you for a reason. I could have gone to the cops.”