Town In a Lobster Stew

by B. B. Haywood

  “Well, you boys have fun. Try to go easy on the kid.” She headed out the door and walked to the Jeep.

  Traffic on the Coastal Loop seemed heavier today as she drove into town. Tourists and seasonal folks were flooding in for the holiday weekend, which would be good for local businesses like Herr Georg’s Black Forest Bakery. Candy had been helping out periodically at the bakery for the past few years, but Herr Georg had recently hired her on as a regular part-time seasonal employee. She worked at the bakery Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, and usually helped out on Saturdays as well, though she’d taken off tomorrow so she could cover the Lobster Stew Cook-off at the Lightkeeper’s Inn.

  As she drove, the conversation with Doc lingered in her mind. She had to admit, he was right. A lot had happened over the past year, and her life was becoming busy. And to be honest, she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She loved being a blueberry farmer, working in the fields and taking care of the gardens. And she loved living in Maine. But she had to admit there were times she felt she needed something else.

  In her previous life, working for a successful marketing firm that served the top high-tech companies in Boston, she’d been constantly on the go—until everything had come crashing down around her. By retreating here to Blueberry Acres and Cape Willington in Downeast Maine, she’d been able to start putting the pieces of her life back together.

  She’d been happy with her simple life as a farmer. But that all changed last summer, when two murders had rocked the town, and she’d found herself deeply involved in solving them.

  At the same time, several opportunities had come her way, and now she seemed to be spending less and less time on the farm. That’s what had Doc worried, she knew. For the past few years, they had run the farm together. Though he had originally bought Blueberry Acres for himself, Doc had grown used to sharing the work with her. Now, most of the workload was once again falling on Doc’s shoulders—at a time when most men had retired and spent their days fishing and playing with their grandchildren . . .

  Candy sighed.

  She was still trying to figure it out as she pulled into the last open parking spot on Main Street, got out, and walked into Herr Georg’s bakery.

  The German baker was thrilled to see her, as always. “Candy, meine liebchen!” he called out to her as she came through the door—and almost reeled as the redolent aromas of Herr Georg’s concoctions overwhelmed her senses.

  “Herr Georg, it smells wonderful in here. What are you baking today?” she asked as she placed her purse and keys behind the counter and reached for an apron that hung on a nearby hook.

  The German baker twitched his white moustache and raised a finger as his eyes glistened. “Ah! Today I am making bienenstich. Do you know what that is?”

  “Um”—Candy thought a moment; they’d gone over this—“that’s bee sting cake, right? Filled with custard and topped with honey-glazed sliced almonds, I think. And if I remember correctly it has a very buttery dough, which is probably what I’m smelling right now.”

  Herr Georg beamed, his white teeth shining out from beneath his moustache. “Very good! You are correct! And Candy, you will get to sample the first piece!”

  The morning passed quickly, as hungry tourists and townspeople descended on the bakery to sample the German baker’s luscious pastries and other baked goods, sweets, and imported items. Two towering wedding cakes went out the door, their transport carefully monitored by Herr Georg in his white baker’s hat. Candy barely had time for a tea break as she continually bagged pastries and rang up sales on the old register.

  By one in the afternoon she was back home, boxing up the pies, which she promptly dropped off at Melody’s Café. She was on her way to Maggie’s house when her cell phone rang.

  Candy had to pull over and dig in her purse to find the phone, which by then had stopped ringing. But the readout told her the call had come from Wilma Mae. She keyed through the phone’s contact list and called Wilma Mae’s number.

  The elderly woman answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Wilma Mae? It’s Candy. You called?”

  “Oh, yes, Candy. Thank you for calling me back so quickly. I hope I’m not being too much of a bother but I need your help again. Could you possibly stop by the house this afternoon?”

  Candy checked her watch. It was just after two. She was supposed to meet Ben at seven, she wanted to check in on Maggie, and she still had a few errands to run. But Wilma Mae sounded worried. Something must be up. “Sure, I can do that. Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know. I’m worried about Mr. Sedley. There’s something . . . strange going on.”

  “Strange? In what way?”

  “Well, Mr. Sedley seems to have completely disappeared. When can you come over?”

  “I’m on my way. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Candy keyed off the phone and slid it back into her purse. If she hurried she could still run her errands, drop in briefly on Maggie, and make her date with Ben. She gunned the Jeep and headed toward Wilma Mae’s house on Rose Hip Lane.

  Wilma Mae was standing on the front porch waiting to greet her as she drove into the driveway. The elderly woman hurried down the steps and across the lawn as Candy climbed out of the Jeep.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly. I don’t know what to do.” Her face was drawn, and she was rubbing her hands rapidly together.

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “It’s Mr. Sedley. I haven’t seen him in several days. I’ve tried calling him, but he doesn’t answer his phone. I think something must be wrong with him. Maybe he’s hurt or needs help.”

  “Should we call the police?” Candy asked.

  Wilma Mae shook her head. “I want you to help me check his house. I have a key.”

  Candy’s eyes were drawn to the neat, taupe-colored two-story home next to Wilma Mae’s. It was a fairly plainlooking place, with a small covered porch, a single small gabled window pushing out from the front of the lowsloped roof, and white shutters surrounding the four front symmetrical windows. Those windows looked dark now, even in the daylight.

  Candy blinked uncertainly. “Do you think that’s the right thing to do? Maybe he’s just visiting someone else, or maybe he’s just keeping to himself?”

  Wilma Mae gave Candy a distinctive harrumph. “His car is still in the garage behind the house—I checked. And he would answer if I called.” She nodded sharply, as if that settled that. “We need to check his house, and I don’t want to do it alone.”

  “I see.” Still, Candy hesitated, but by the look on Wilma Mae’s face, she knew there was no other option. “Okay, let’s check his house.”

  Wilma Mae nodded approvingly. “I’ll get the key.”

  ELEVEN

  Wilma Mae followed Candy around the side of the house to the small concrete porch at the rear. As Candy climbed the few steps, Wilma Mae handed her the key. But she didn’t need it.

  Candy knocked first and called Mr. Sedley’s name. When he didn’t respond, she turned the knob.

  The door opened freely. It was unlocked.

  “Maybe he’s just resting upstairs and didn’t hear me,” Candy said softly to Wilma Mae. She pushed the door open farther and stepped inside.

  She entered a dark hallway that led straight through to the front of the house. Candy took a couple of steps forward and nearly tripped over an antique brass umbrella stand that stood just inside the back door. She cursed as she held out her hand to steady the stand, which wobbled a little, its contents clattering. It held several old umbrellas as well as a couple of wood and metal walking canes.

  “Is everything okay in there?” Wilma Mae called out. She was still outside, standing on the grass beyond the porch, her hands clenched tightly in front of her, watching Candy intently.

  “Yup, fine, just fine,” Candy called back over her shoulder. “I just tripped over something.”

  “Be careful,” Wilma Mae urged.

  “I’ll try.” Candy t
ook a few more steps and turned to look through an archway that led to the kitchen, but she saw no one there.

  “Mr. Sedley!” she called loudly. “Yoo-hoo! Anyone home?”

  The place was eerily quiet. Candy looked around. Washed dishes were still in a drying rack beside the sink, waiting to be put away. A stack of opened bills, flyers, and junk mail lay at the end of the counter near her. A folded up newspaper and half-empty cup of tea sat on the kitchen table.

  Candy stepped toward the table. Gingerly, she dipped the tip of her pinky into the cup, just breaking the liquid’s surface. The tea was cold. It had been here for a while.

  She looked around. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, she thought.

  She walked through another archway into the living room at the front of the house. The TV set was on, though the volume was turned down. The drapes were open. A reading lamp on a corner table was switched on. An open hardback book lay upside down on the sofa, its spine bent back.

  But no Mr. Sedley.

  Candy looked back into the kitchen, then surveyed the living room again. Something didn’t feel right. At first she didn’t know what it was, but after a few moments she figured it out.

  It was as if Mr. Sedley had left suddenly in the middle of whatever he was doing and hadn’t returned.

  Pondering what this might mean, she walked out of the living room and into the front hallway. “Mr. Sedley!” she called out again, louder this time. “It’s Candy Holliday. Are you here?”

  She turned right and almost walked right into Wilma Mae, who had come into the house and along the dark hallway. Candy let out a yelp of surprise, and Wilma Mae squeaked and backed away quickly, her hands flying up in front of her.

  Candy put her hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” she said, her heart beating just a bit faster.

  “Have you found Mr. Sedley yet?” Wilma Mae asked in a loud whisper.

  “Not yet. It doesn’t look like he’s home.”

  Wilma Mae’s gaze shifted to the open staircase that led from the front hallway to the second floor. “You’d better check upstairs.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Just be careful.”

  Candy nodded and started up the stairs, calling out Mr. Sedley’s name. But again, there was no response. And once she checked the second floor, she knew why—no one was home. The place was vacant. “He must have gone somewhere,” Candy said to Wilma Mae as she came back down the stairs.

  “But his car is in the driveway. And he doesn’t walk so well these days. So where could he have gone?”

  Candy shook her head as she started along the hallway to another door. “I’d better check the basement, just to make sure.”

  She found the unfinished basement cold, damp, and full of spiderwebs. It was illuminated only by a single naked lightbulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling, but it was enough for her to see by. An old hot water boiler, which provided heat for the home, sat along one wall. An unused coal bin occupied a dark corner. A few items had been stored down here—an old Schwinn bike, some boxes filled with moldy books and magazines, rusted paint cans, discarded tools and appliances—nothing very valuable or interesting. Candy poked around a little, then switched off the light and climbed back up the stairs. “Nope, he’s not down there.”

  “Well, I’m worried,” Wilma Mae announced. She still stood in the hallway looking about her, as if expecting to see Mr. Sedley appear at any moment. “It’s just not like him. He’s never disappeared like this before.”

  “Maybe we should call the police.”

  Wilma Mae nodded in agreement. “Maybe we should.”

  “Let’s call from you place,” Candy suggested.

  They closed and locked the back door and crossed the yard to Wilma Mae’s house. Since Wilma Mae said she was too nervous to make the call, Candy took out her cell phone and dialed the Cape Willington Police Department. As the phone rang, she sniffed the air. Something smelled peculiar.

  “Cape Willington Police Department.”

  “Hi, I’d like to report a missing person.”

  Candy was connected to a police officer, who asked her several questions—the name and age of the missing individual, and whether the person had any chemical dependency or mental health issues. After also inquiring if there was a history of disappearing and reappearing, the police officer asked, “Are there any signs of foul play?”

  “What? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Is he suicidal?”

  To the best of her knowledge, Candy said, he was not.

  After explaining that Mr. Sedley was an adult who had the right to roam about as he pleased, the officer promised to keep an eye out for him, and asked Candy to check back with the department in forty-eight hours if Mr. Sedley was still missing.

  “Forty-eight hours?” Wilma Mae said when Candy had keyed off the phone. “But what if he needs us now? What if he’s hurt somewhere and needs our help?”

  Candy sighed. “There’s not much more we can do right now.” She sniffed the air again. That peculiar smell was back. “Do you smell something strange?” she asked, looking around the house.

  Wilma Mae seemed distracted. “No, dear.”

  “Did you leave the gas on?”

  “I don’t think so.” Wilma Mae checked the stove. “No, everything’s off. I just can’t figure out what happened to Mr. Sedley.”

  “Well, he’ll probably turn up just fine. I wouldn’t worry too much about him.” Candy checked her watch again. “Wilma Mae, I have to run. Are you going to be okay?”

  The elderly woman looked very worried, but finally she nodded.

  “Why don’t you make yourself a nice cup of tea and relax for a while,” Candy suggested. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  Wilma Mae seemed to consider that. “Maybe you’re right,” she said after a few moments, then checked the clock on the wall. “Judge Judy’s on in twenty minutes. Maybe I’ll watch a little TV.”

  “That’s a good idea. I have to run now, but you keep in touch, okay? Give me a call if Mr. Sedley turns up. And I’ll see you tomorrow at the cook-off, right?”

  Wilma Mae brightened. “Oh yes, I’ll be there!” But just as quickly her face twisted with concern. “I do hope Mr. Sedley’s there too. We’re supposed to be honorary judges together, you know. We’ve been looking forward to it for such a long time.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Candy said reassuringly.

  “I just couldn’t imagine being there without Mr. Sedley,” Wilma Mae continued. “It wouldn’t be right. Oh, I do so hope he’s okay.”

  “I hope so too.”

  She’d planned to ask Wilma Mae about the carpenter who had made the repairs to the shelving unit upstairs, but the elderly woman seemed too flustered, too worried about Mr. Sedley, and Candy didn’t want to upset her any further. So she decided to leave the question for another day. But as she walked outside to the Jeep, she couldn’t help feeling that something was definitely amiss—and that she was overlooking important clues that would tell her exactly what it was.

  TWELVE

  “Something’s going on in this town,” Candy said, sitting on the sofa with her legs curled up underneath her. “I know it. I can feel it.”

  Maggie removed the cork from a bottle of white wine, their second this evening, though it was still early. She sniffed its bouquet thoughtfully. “What, you mean with Ben?”

  “Ben? Why would you think something’s going on with Ben?”

  Maggie took her friend’s question in stride. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” she said lightly, indicating her living room as she freshened their glasses. “On a Friday night. When you’re supposed to be out on a romantic date with your boyfriend, sipping Chianti and nibbling antipasto at some fancy Italian restaurant up on Route 1. With real tablecloths. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here, but if it were me, I’d rather be out on a date.”

  “No offense, but me too.”


  “None taken.”

  They clinked glasses and sipped. A Michael Bublé CD played on the stereo, and Maggie had lit a couple of scented candles to create a relaxing atmosphere, which they both desperately needed, given the events of the past few days.

  “So,” Maggie pressed on, appraising her friend over the rim of her wine glass, “just how are things going with you and Ben?”

  Candy considered the question. “You know, you’re the second person who’s asked me about Ben today. Why all the sudden interest?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because we all care about you, honey, and want you to be happy. Or maybe we’re just nosy. Or maybe it’s a little bit of both. You know, there are all sorts of people around town who are interested in you two. They’re always asking about you.”

  “Really? Like who?”

  Maggie waved a hand. “Oh, like everybody. They’re always asking me, ‘So how are Candy and Ben doing? Are they dating? Has he proposed? Are they getting married?’ ”

  “Married?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, honey. It’s just people talking.”

  Candy gave her friend a look of incomprehension. “But I don’t get it. Why would anyone care?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know, really. I think we’re all just looking for a little bit of romance in our lives, you know? Even if it’s vicarious. It makes us hopeful—and happy. And Lord knows, happiness is in short supply around our little town lately, in case you hadn’t noticed. Just look at what’s happened to me. Six weeks ago my husband tells me he wants a divorce. He needs to find himself, he says, although I have no idea what that means. Now my boss absconds with all the company’s loot. There’s a rumor he ran off to South America with some woman thirty years younger than he is. I don’t know what they put in the drinking water lately, but it’s making some of the men around here a little squirrelly. I’m just hoping we don’t have to put Ben in that category.”

  “You and me both,” Candy admitted, “but if you must know, he was very apologetic when he called to cancel. And he has a perfectly legitimate excuse. Some friend of his came up from Boston at the last minute. They’re old buddies. They just wanted to hang out together.”