Town In a Lobster Stew

by B. B. Haywood

  Candy turned down most requests—just as she was now trying to turn down Wilma Mae’s—but sometimes she found herself reluctantly involved, despite her best intentions to do otherwise. She sensed that’s what would happen with Wilma Mae.

  And, Candy had to admit, in this particular case, she was intrigued. Wilma Mae’s lobster stew recipe was the stuff of local legend and highly coveted around town, though Candy herself knew little about the story behind the recipe.

  Here was her chance to find out more, especially with Cape Willington’s annual Lobster Stew Cook-off only days away.

  So she followed Wilma Mae into the living room, which seemed to practically glow in the warm May midmorning sunlight. Wilma Mae set down the tray on an antique coffee table and motioned Candy toward the fifties-era sofa. It might have been purple once, Candy surmised, or perhaps brown, though its color had been washed clean by the sun and the passage of years. Still, it was well cared for and in good shape, with white doilies carefully placed on its rounded armrests.

  As she settled onto the sofa, Candy scanned the room. The hardwood floors gleamed, and someone had dusted recently. A dark-paneled grandfather clock in the far corner kept the beat of time. Atop an old Magnavox TV set, an arrangement of fresh flowers in a crystal vase brightened the place, offsetting the dark, aging oil landscapes and family portraits that hung on the walls.

  Opposite her, against the interior wall, stood an antique mahogany cabinet with glass panels of artfully engraved glass. No doubt its very talented creator had intended the eventual owner to display fine china dinnerware within, or perhaps crystal goblets or priceless keepsakes, or even trophies of some sort. But Wilma Mae displayed empty ketchup bottles, arranged as proudly and artfully as if they were indeed trophies.

  The elderly woman settled into a matching armchair and leaned forward to pour. As they drank their tea, they chatted about Wilma Mae’s tidy home, the weather, Candy’s job at the newspaper—and the ketchup bottles.

  “They’re very dear to me,” Wilma Mae explained with a wistful smile on her face. “I just think they’re so lovely—all those different shapes and colors of glass, not to mention the history behind them. You probably won’t believe this, but in many ways my life has been defined by a bottle of ketchup. That one right there.”

  She pointed to a bottle prominently displayed at the center of the mahogany cabinet. “That was the one that started it all. It dates back to 1947, though I have some bottles that are much older, of course. But that one is special.”

  The bottle, Candy noticed, was the typical tall, narrow shape, tapering from shoulder to neck, with a metal twist cap and its original label still in place. “Is it valuable?” Candy asked.

  “Oh no.” Wilma Mae waved a dismissive hand. “Probably worth no more than thirty or forty dollars, though some of my bottles might fetch a few hundred. But that one is special. It has sentimental value. It was used by none other than Cornelius Roberts Pruitt himself when he was vacationing at the Lodge up on Moosehead Lake in the late 1940s.”

  “Cornelius Roberts Pruitt?” The name sounded familiar to Candy. “Wasn’t he the father of Helen?”

  “The very same. The Pruitts used to be one of the richest families in New England, which was saying something. They still have a lot of money, of course, and still own a lot of land hereabouts. You’ve been out to Pruitt Manor, haven’t you, and met Helen?” asked Wilma Mae, referring to the Pruitt clan’s current matriarch, Helen Ross Pruitt, who often summered at Pruitt Manor, an English Tudor-style mansion located out on the point near Kimball Light.

  Candy nodded. “Maggie and I were out there last fall for tea,” she said, remembering how exciting that day was, and how thrilled Maggie Tremont, her best friend, had remained for weeks after.

  “Well, back in those days—the thirties and the forties—the Pruitts used to visit their summer cottage, as they called it, just about every year. They came up right after Memorial Day and brought the whole extended family with them—grandparents, cousins, nieces and nephews, and of course the dogs—anyone who wanted to come. They used to drive up in a caravan of vehicles, with the family riding in cars and all their belongings following behind them in trucks. It was quite a spectacle when they rolled into town. They spent the summer exploring the Maine coast and the rest of northern New England, and they had a ball.” Wilma Mae slapped her knees for emphasis. “They rode horses with the Rockefellers on Mount Desert Island, sailed down to the islands of Casco Bay, hiked up Mount Katahdin with some of the Roosevelts, drove over to see Franconia Notch and the Old Man of the Mountain—they were just regular tourists who loved the region. Anyway, for one or two weeks every summer, Cornelius would visit the Lodge at Moosehead Lake. Sometimes he brought a few of his children, but most times he came alone. He told the family he needed to get away on his own for a few days to cleanse his soul and commune with nature, but mostly he just wanted to commune with his mistresses.”

  At this, Wilma Mae giggled softly and blushed so bright red she looked like she might catch fire. She fanned herself with her hand. “Oh my, it’s getting warm in here, isn’t it? It must be the spring sun—or the hot tea. It’s an herbal blend, you know—chamomile, calendula, red clover, that sort of thing. I think it also has lavender in it. I picked it up at Zeke’s General Store yesterday, when I was out running errands. I find it very soothing, don’t you?” She reached for her cup and held it with both hands as she took a sip, looking over the rim at Candy.

  “Oh yes, it’s very good, and it is quite hot,” Candy said with a knowing smile. “I can see where it would make you quite warm.”

  Wilma Mae nodded appreciatively, set her cup back down on its saucer, and pressed on, her color lightening just a bit as she continued the story.

  “Well, you may not know this,” she said, “but I was a waitress at the Lodge for several summers back in the forties, and I used to serve Mr. Pruitt—he was always Mr. Pruitt to us, never Cornelius. He was a very stern man, very proper, with a long face, dark eyes, and unruly brown hair, which he tried to keep slicked down. Even on vacation he dressed for all his meals. One morning at breakfast, he was chatting with his table guests and turned a bottle of ketchup—that bottle of ketchup”—for emphasis, Wilma Mae pointed to the bottle in the cabinet—“upside down over a plate of steak and eggs, and slapped the bottom so firmly that ketchup squirted out all over the tablecloth and right onto the morning dress of Mrs. Daisy Porter-Sykes, who was one of his closest friends.”

  “Was she one of his mistresses?” Candy asked, finding herself drawn into the story.

  “Oh yes, for quite a long time. Several years, I think. But the affair ended that morning.” Wilma Mae gave Candy a grave expression. “I didn’t care much for her. None of us did. She was a snooty socialite up from Boston, and she could be quite cruel and condescending to the help. Her husband made his money in timber and land speculation before and during the war. She traveled without him quite often, which made sense, since she was nearly twenty years younger than he was. And she was probably thirty years younger than Cornelius. She’d been meeting him at the Lodge for several years, or so I heard. But that morning she was so upset at him for ruining her morning dress with the ketchup that she told him off, right then and there, in no uncertain terms, and stomped out of the room in a huff, with her boa flying!”

  Candy laughed. “That must have been quite a scene.”

  “Oh, it was!” Wilma Mae said, her eyes lighting up. “She checked out of the hotel that very morning and, as far as I know, never saw him again. It caused quite a bit of scandal, but more importantly, Cornelius was without a mistress for the rest of the week.” Wilma Mae paused and blinked several times. “So . . . ”

  “So . . . ?” prompted Candy.

  Wilma Mae cleared her throat. “So, naturally, Cornelius needed companionship for the rest of his stay.” She hesitated, and when she spoke again, her voice was hushed, almost a whisper. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but I became
his companion.”

  Candy’s eyes widened in surprise. “His companion? You don’t mean . . . ”

  “Oh yes, it’s true,” said Wilma Mae with a firm nod of her head. “I was deflowered by none other than Cornelius Roberts Pruitt!”

  THREE

  Wilma Mae’s blush returned, but this time she paid it no attention. “I suppose you might think I was some sort of hussy, but I can tell you I was not. I was an innocent girl, still a virgin at the time. I knew nothing of the ways of the world. But Cornelius did. He was a very charismatic man, with an air of confidence and power that was, well, intoxicating to someone like me.” She added in a whispery voice, as if sharing a secret, “And he had lots of money!”

  She laughed sweetly and pointed to an aged black-and-white photograph in an ornate gold frame that sat among many others on the dark mahogany side table against the wall. “That’s him there,” she said, then added thoughtfully, “His nose was a bit crooked and his teeth were yellow, but he had lovely hands and beautiful eyes. And he smelled good.”

  Candy rose from where she sat on the sofa and crossed the room to the table. She stooped and peered intently at the photograph Wilma Mae had pointed out. It showed a tall, dark-featured man standing on a sloping lawn in the midst of a large gathering of people assembled for a group portrait. The women in the photograph wore crisp white dresses and wide-brimmed hats adorned with ribbons. They sat in chairs, while most of the men stood behind them, many with their hands thrust deep in their coat pockets. The man at the center of the photograph wore a casually tailored light-colored linen suit, a wide tie, and a straw hat tilted at a jaunty angle. He was gazing off into the distance, an enigmatic smile frozen on his tanned, leathery face. Behind him rose the columns of an elegant yet rustic structure, with striped awnings and a dark roof, and beyond that a blustery sky. Candy could see several staff members standing on the porch behind the main group or looking out of the building’s upper windows, half-hidden in the shadows.

  “That’s most of the family there, taken on an earlier trip to the Lodge,” Wilma Mae continued. “Cornelius, of course, is standing at the center. The young girl to his right with the pretty smile is Helen. I’m standing behind them on the porch. You can just see me there, partially in shadow. I’m the skinny one in the white apron with her hands down at her sides.”

  Candy looked closer. “There you are. You’re very lovely in the picture.” She paused, her gaze shifting. “And that’s Cornelius Roberts Pruitt.”

  “That’s him. I was just a serving girl and thought I was invisible to him, but he sought me out the same day his affair ended with Daisy Porter-Sykes.” She paused as her gaze drifted out the window to the sun-dappled trees in the front yard. “It wasn’t hard to fall for him. He seemed to understand my . . . innocence, I guess. He was very kind to me—for a short while.”

  She sighed deeply as her gaze shifted back to Candy, who had returned to the sofa. “Our affair was a brief one. It lasted only a few days. He left the Lodge by the end of the week to return to his family, and I was left in tears.”

  Candy was mesmerized as Wilma Mae paused. She wasn’t quite sure what to say. Finally, she asked, “Did you hear from him again?”

  “Oh, no, no.” Wilma Mae fervently shook her head. “He returned to the Lodge the next summer, of course, but he seemed to barely recognize me. Or perhaps he chose to simply ignore me, since he had a new mistress by then. No, it was Mr. Sedley who saved me.”

  “Mr. Sedley? From next door?”

  “Yes, that’s right. . . . Well, he didn’t live next door at the time, of course. He was an assistant cook in the Lodge’s kitchen. After Cornelius left, I was in such a state, I couldn’t bear to look at anyone. I was so humiliated, and mad at myself for being such a foolish girl. So I locked myself in my room and refused to talk to anyone or eat anything. But Mr. Sedley rescued me. He heard I was distraught and brought me a tray with a bowl of lobster stew.”

  Now Candy was beginning to see the connection. “His own recipe?” she guessed.

  “He said he made it just for me. He knew lobster was my favorite. It was such a delicacy at the time.” Wilma Mae pushed her shoulders together in a girlish way. “I must tell you, I’d never had anyone do anything so nice for me before. He sat beside me on my bed, wiped away my tears, and fed me spoonfuls of the lobster stew. It was so romantic. Soon we were both giggling like children. I found out later that he had had his eye on me for a while.”

  “But . . . you said he was a married man.”

  “We couldn’t help it,” Wilma Mae continued, undeterred. “Sometimes nature takes its course. But that was the only afternoon we were . . . romantic.” She straightened her back and fixed Candy with a solemn gaze. “As I said, I don’t want you to think I was a loose woman. I had never done anything like it before—nor since. Cornelius and Mr. Sedley were the only two men I’ve ever been . . . intimate with . . . other than my own Milton, of course. So I broke it off quickly with Mr. Sedley—much to his dismay, I believe. He followed me around the rest of the summer like a lost puppy, but I held him off. That was his last summer at the Lodge. After he left, our lives took us in different directions. But eventually we both wound up here in Cape Willington. And then he entered the Lobster Stew Cook-off.”

  “With the recipe he created for you?” Candy asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. As I said, it makes just a wonderful stew. It’s the secret ingredient that makes it special, you know. For years he wouldn’t tell me what it was, but eventually I found out. When he first entered the cook-off back in the eighties and won with his stew, it created an instant sensation in town. Everyone wanted to make it. Mr. Sedley received a number of offers for the recipe. People wanted to pay him for it. I heard even Mr. Duffy, who ran the Main Street Diner back then, before he turned it over to his nephew, offered three hundred dollars for it. Three hundred dollars! But Mr. Sedley refused all offers. He said he would hold on to it for a while, and he continued to enter the cook-off, winning all those times. But eventually he decided to retire from the competition. A few years later he gave the recipe to me for safekeeping. He said it belonged to me anyway, since he made it for me, and I was the first person to taste it.”

  “You used the recipe yourself to win the cook-off, right?”

  “Oh yes, but only with Mr. Sedley’s blessing. In fact, it was his suggestion.”

  “And you won six more times with it?”

  Wilma Mae nodded. “As I said, Mr. Sedley won seven consecutive times. So after I won six, I stopped entering, so I wouldn’t win more than he had. When I retired from the cook-off, I carefully hid the recipe away where no one could find it, until either Mr. Sedley or I decided what to do with it. We’ve talked about passing it on to someone, but we still haven’t decided who should receive it.”

  Candy brought the conversation back to where it had started. “And now the recipe’s been stolen?”

  The color in Wilma Mae’s face faded, and she pursed her lips sadly. “Yes.” For a moment she seemed on the verge of tears. Then, abruptly, she slapped her knees and rose. “And we’re going to get it back, aren’t we?” She pointed toward the ceiling. “Come with me. It’s time we investigated the scene of the crime.”

  FOUR

  Taking Candy by the hand, Wilma Mae led the way out of the living room, into the hallway, and up the staircase. She talked as she went.

  “This house was built about eighty-five years ago by an architect named John Patrick Mulroy, who used to work out of Portland with John Calvin Stevens and Francis Fassett before he opened his own office in Bangor around 1890. Later, when he was in his sixties, he retired here to Cape Willington and designed several homes in town, including this one. It’s one of his simpler designs, as he built it inexpensively for a friend of his. Still, it has some lovely angles. Like many of his contemporaries, Mulroy had an affinity for the Queen Anne and Colonial Revival styles, and you can see that in certain areas of the home.”

  At the top
of the stairs Wilma Mae headed left and entered the front bedroom. She stopped in the center of the room and turned toward Candy.

  “He also,” she said dramatically, raising a finger, “had a predilection for creating secret hiding places in the homes he built.”

  “Ooh.” Candy’s eyebrows rose in interest. “That sounds like it would make a good story for the newspaper. So there’s a secret hiding place up here?”

  “There is! Can you guess where it is?”

  Candy scanned the room, trying to find a likely spot. To her left was a twin poster bed with a white coverlet, and beside it a forty-year-old sewing machine on an antique table. A fairly new chocolate brown wing chair and an antique floor lamp occupied the far corner, toward the street. In front of Candy, between two tall windows, stood another dark wood and glass cabinet displaying more ketchup bottles.

  But the most impressive feature of the room was to Candy’s right. Built-in shelves and drawers, bracketed between corner cupboards, occupied the entire wall. Some older books were neatly arranged on a few of the upper shelves, but mostly ketchup bottles of all sizes, shapes, colors, and ages occupied the myriad shelves, nooks, and crannies. There must be hundreds of them, Candy realized, impressed with the extensiveness of the collection.

  She took one more quick look around the room, then turned back to Wilma Mae. “I’d say it’s either in that cabinet or in these shelves over here.”