Town In a Lobster Stew

by B. B. Haywood

  “So he canceled your date to spend time with his buddy? What’s that all about?”

  Candy gave her a look. “This is only the second time he’s canceled on me, missy. He’s been pretty good about keeping our dates. And we’ve had a good time.”

  “So you think he’s your Prince Charming?” Maggie asked boldly. She had no trepidation treading on delicate territory with her best friend.

  Candy took another sip of wine as she pondered the question. “Well, no, I’m not sure I’d call him that. He’s wonderful and all, but he’s certainly not the most romantic person I’ve ever gone out with. He’s usually too preoccupied with other things, especially the paper. He’s been a pretty good friend, though.”

  “Until some old buddy of his comes up from Boston for the weekend. Then you have to fend for yourself on a Friday night.”

  Candy raised her wineglass. “To Friday nights.”

  “To Friday nights.”

  They both drank, and Maggie continued, “If it’s any consolation, I’m happy he canceled on you. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. And Lord knows I need a friend tonight.”

  “Been a tough week, huh?”

  “That’s putting a mild spin on it. Honey, it’s been hell.”

  “Well, you seem to be holding up okay. You’ve been a trooper.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Hey, you know, that’s not a bad idea,” she said with a lopsided grin. “I wonder if the state troopers are hiring?”

  “Yeah, that’s all we need. You with a gun and a badge.”

  “Hey, I resent that. I’m pretty good with a gun.”

  “I know. That’s what worries me.”

  They both laughed and sipped more wine. After a few moments, Candy said, “Amanda’s not around this weekend?”

  “She went off camping with the Zimmermans.”

  “So you’re all alone.”

  Maggie spread her arms wide. “Welcome to my world.”

  “Obviously mine too.”

  “Hey, at least you’re living with Doc. You’ve got someone to talk to. A couple of months ago this place was filled with a husband and a couple of teenagers with raging hormones. Now I’m queen of the castle, and the place is empty.”

  “You should get a cat.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. It’s been six months since I lost Mr. Biggles. A new kitty’s just what I need.”

  “Maybe a Siamese. Or a Maine coon cat. You know—someone who speaks the local language.”

  “Do Maine coon cats speak with a Maine accent?”

  “Ah-yuh,” Candy said, and they both laughed again.

  Maggie leaned way back in her chair and wiggled her toes. She was going barefoot tonight, and had freshly painted toenails. “So . . . you think something’s up?”

  “Huh?”

  “You just said something’s going on—like what?”

  Candy took a few moments to answer. “Just a bunch of weird things,” she said finally, still trying to work it all out. “Too many strange little events that don’t seem to be connected. But it’s too coincidental that they’re all happening at the same time.”

  “Yeah, life can be strange like that. So tell me the details. Maybe I can help you figure it out.”

  “Well, there’s this whole thing with Wilma Mae’s missing recipe. And Wanda Boyle digging around in the archives at the historical society, supposedly looking for information on architects and historical homes. And I still haven’t found out anything about Wanda’s brother, the carpenter, who might have repaired the shelving unit in Wilma Mae’s upstairs bedroom and discovered the hidden document drawer. And then there’s Mr. Sedley’s disappearance, which could turn out to be nothing.” She paused. “Everything seems to be connected to the Lobster Stew Cook-off for some reason, which just about everyone around town has entered except you and me.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, Wanda of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Melody from Melody’s Café. And Burt Ramsay from the Lobster Shack.”

  “That makes sense. He sounds like a ringer, though.”

  “Yup, he’s got a big following. There’s always a line stretching around the block to get into his place. You can’t go near there in the summer. Then, let’s see—Juanita from the diner has entered. And Bumpy Brigham.”

  “Doc’s buddy?”

  “Yup, it’s got the whole posse in a frenzy. Apparently Bumpy cooks a pretty mean stew. He’s some sort of quasigourmet chef or something or other.”

  “Hmm. I thought all he did was eat, drink, and polish his antique cars.”

  “Well there you go—you just never know. And then just a whole bunch of regular folks are entering, like Lyra Graveton, Anita Weller, Walter Gruthers, Delilah Daggerstone, and Tillie Shaw. There’s even a rumor Solomon Hatch is going to enter, though he’ll probably make his stew with nuts and berries. Oh yeah, and Charlotte Depew is on the list.”

  “Charlotte Depew? From the museum?”

  “That’s the one. I finally met her yesterday. Did I tell you that?”

  “No, but I figured you probably ran into her, since you said you went out to the museum.”

  “Yes, I did. I think I caught her at a bad time, though. She seemed pretty happy to hand me over to Wanda.”

  “You saw Wanda?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d that go?”

  Candy shook her head. “Not good.”

  “Does she still hate you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she get nasty?”

  “A little.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. It was my own fault. I encroached on her territory at the lighthouse, I guess, so that got her feathers all ruffled up. It was like backing a bull into a corner.”

  “You gotta steer clear of her. I told you. Don’t make her madder than she already is.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible. Plus, I still feel she’s up to something. I wish I knew what she was really doing. She’s been working up in those archives a lot.”

  “Then let her work. It keeps her out of your hair.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s true. I don’t have much time to follow up with her anyway. I’ve got so much to do, what with the paper and Herr Georg’s bakery and Melody’s pies and the farm.”

  “You’re a busy woman.” Maggie paused, then sighed. “And I guess I’ve got to get busy too. I have to look for a new job.”

  Candy reached over and patted her on her ankle. “Give yourself a couple of days to recoup, okay? You’ve been through a lot. You deserve some time off. Why don’t you take the weekend to relax and enjoy yourself? You can start looking for work next week, and I’ll help.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Tell you what. Why don’t you go to the cook-off tomorrow with me? It’ll give you a chance to get out in the air a little bit, enjoy the scenery, and sample the wares.”

  “Mmm. I wouldn’t miss it. Are you working tomorrow?”

  Candy nodded. “I have some interviews to do, but we’ll have plenty of time to walk around together. And who knows? Maybe something really interesting will happen.”

  “Are you making a prediction?”

  “No, I just have this . . . feeling.”

  Maggie’s brow fell dramatically. “You’re not getting psychic on me, are you?”

  “No, we’ve already got plenty of those in town. Just call it intuition. I think tomorrow is going to be a very interesting day.”

  THIRTEEN

  The day dawned fine and bright, with a light, fresh wind and air as crisp as a just-plucked apple. Early morning dew made the well-manicured lawn at the Lightkeeper’s Inn glisten like a tinseled tree on Christmas morning, and moistened the shoes of the first contestants as they arrived to set up their booths and start their stews. Birds chirped in the branches of the maple, oak, ash, and sycamore trees surrounding the inn’s pristine front and side yards, accentuated by classical music pi
ped into the property through discreetly placed exterior speakers. The inn’s staff had festooned the posts and railings of the building’s front and side porches with red, white, and blue streamers, and hung baskets overflowing with red and white petunias and impatiens from every available spot, adding to the morning’s myriad colors.

  Candy and Maggie arrived on the grounds just before nine and headed first to the food tables, where they each grabbed a cup of steaming coffee and a blueberry muffin. Then they walked over to check in at the registration table, where Candy received a press badge and a few printouts with updates on the contestants, judges, and the day’s schedule, plus a hand-drawn map of the property, marking the locations of all the booths, tents, tables, and services.

  “I was right,” Candy said as she scanned the printouts she’d received.

  Maggie took a large bite of her blueberry muffin. “About what?”

  “It looks like there’s been a change with the judges. I mentioned it in my column last week. They’re bringing in some new guy. That should ruffle a few feathers around here, don’t you think?”

  Maggie wasn’t paying attention. She was scrutinizing Candy’s press badge, obviously impressed. “Where’s mine?” she asked, pointing with a pinky at the badge hanging on a lanyard around Candy’s neck.

  Candy glanced down at it, smiling. It wasn’t her first badge, but she still got a thrill every time she put one on. “You don’t get one. You’re not press.”

  “But I’m still important.”

  “Then we’ll get you a badge for important people. I’m sure we’ll find something.”

  “Okay, as long as I get a badge. I really want one. It’ll make me feel better.”

  “Then we’ll get you one. Don’t worry.”

  That seemed to appease Maggie, and they began to make their rounds of the booths, checking on all the stews being prepared.

  The booths were arranged in two crescent-shaped rows on opposite sides of the lawn. On the left were the booths of Melody Barnes, Burt Ramsay, Lyra Graveton, Tillie Shaw, and Anita Weller, while on the right were those of Bumpy Brigham, Walter Gruthers, Delilah Daggerstone, Juanita Perez, Charlotte Depew, and at the far end of the row, Wanda Boyle. The food services tent was located beyond Wanda’s booth beneath a grove of trees, while the judges’ tent occupied a centralized position in front of the inn’s side porch.

  They spotted Wanda Boyle setting up in her booth on the right side of the lawn, so they meandered off in the opposite direction, stopping first to say hello to Melody Barnes, owner of Melody’s Café, for which Candy had been baking pies for nearly a year. Melody had brought lobster meat with her in several large Tupperware containers and was peeling and seeding tomatoes when Candy and Maggie walked up.

  “I spent more than two hundred dollars on lobster meat alone,” Melody told them as she worked. “I hope enough folks show up so I can make my money back!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Maggie said as she wiped away a few muffin crumbs that had fallen on her blouse. “Your lobster rolls are the talk of the town. I’m sure you’ll have long lines of folks at your booth all day waiting to try out your stew.”

  Melody shook her head. She had started dicing the tomatoes, moving quickly with experienced hands. “I don’t know. It looks like I’ve got some stiff competition out there. Burt Ramsay’s got me worried.”

  Candy half turned to survey the stocky, broad-faced owner of the popular Lobster Shack restaurant, who was working in the booth next door. His restaurant, which was located quite literally in a white shack, occupied a primo spot along the shoreline just off the Coastal Loop. Guests ordered at a window and then sat at picnic tables strewn across a lawn that edged right up to the waterfront’s black rocks.

  Today Burt wore a floppy chef’s hat, a bright orange Hawaiian shirt, and a large white apron, tied tightly around his ample belly. He was humming happily to himself as he monitored the progress of his stew. He waved when he glanced up and saw them looking his way.

  “Friendly fellow, isn’t he?” Maggie said, waving back.

  Candy gave him a pleasant smile, appraising his operation. “He certainly looks festive—and confident,” she observed after a few moments.

  “Oh, he doesn’t look so tough.” Maggie continued to wave at Burt as she leaned in close so only the three of them could hear. She glanced at Melody. “You can beat him easily, can’t you?”

  “I sure hope so,” Melody said, though she didn’t sound overly confident.

  Candy turned to scan Melody’s ingredients. “It’s all in the recipe, right? Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Are you using one of your grandmother’s recipes, like you do at the restaurant?”

  Melody nodded. “I sure am. That’s the main reason I’m doing this in the first place. My grandmother’s been pretty generous with some of her recipes, but this one was special to her, so she held on to it for a while. She finally gave it to me at Christmastime, after years of coaxing. It’s authentic, too. Back in the forties and fifties, she collected recipes from the wives of lobstermen working along the coast. It was a hobby of hers. She and my grandfather had their own seafood restaurant out near Coney Island, you know. They used to visit Maine every fall to look for new recipes.”

  Maggie sniffed at the mouthwatering aromas drifting out of the stockpots boiling atop several industrial-size burners inside Melody’s booth. “I guess good cooking runs in the family.”

  “That’s for sure,” Candy said. “You’ve mentioned your grandmother and your grandfather before. Sometime I should write that story up for the paper. I’m sure people would love to read about them. But right now,” she added, taking Maggie by the elbow, “we’d better let you get on with your work. We’ll stop in a little later and taste a few samples.”

  “The first batch should be ready in an hour or so,” Melody told them. “I’ll save some for you!”

  As Melody turned away, pulling big bunches of leeks and carrots out of produce boxes, Candy and Maggie wandered off to visit the other booths. They chatted briefly with Burt Ramsay and stopped to talk to Lyra Graveton, the quiet, long-haired owner of the Ice Cream Shack, and Tillie Shaw, a plump, red-faced farmer’s wife, before they headed the other direction and ran into Doc and the boys.

  Doc regularly hung out with his trio of buddies—Finn Woodbury, Artie Groves, and William “Bumpy” Brigham. They were golfing and poker pals who held court nearly every weekday morning in the corner booth at Duffy’s Main Street Diner. But today they were like old hens, hovering and cackling around Bumpy, who was already breaking a sweat, even though it was still cool outside, with the temperature struggling to reach the midsixties. This was Bumpy’s first year in the competition, and he already seemed to be feeling the pressure.

  The other members of the posse were attempting to help him along. Artie was chopping vegetables while Finn monitored the lobster stock boiling in battered old pots on makeshift burners. But he wasn’t paying too much attention to his work. Instead, he was wielding a wooden stirring spoon like a golf club, showing Doc how to correct his grip.

  “Ya gotta grip it like you’re holding an egg,” Finn was saying as Candy and Maggie walked up. “Real light, ya know. Ya don’t wanna hold it too tight. Don’t wanna break that egg. And ya gotta keep your thumb tucked over the side of the shaft, like this.”

  “Hell, I know all that, Finn,” Doc was saying irritably. “I got the grip down. I just gotta figure out how to keep the ball going straight. It keeps shanking off into the rough. With these old legs I get tired tramping around the course looking for that little white goose egg.”

  He looked up as his daughter stopped in front of the booth. “Well, hello there, pumpkin. And hello Maggie. You’re looking particularly lovely this morning. How are you doing?”

  “I’m hanging in there, Doc,” Maggie said, unmoved by the compliment. “It’s been a rough week.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard. Sorry about the mess over at the insurance agency.”

  “O
ld Milbury’s got himself in a world of trouble, that’s for sure,” Finn put in. A former cop himself, Finn had a friend connected with the Cape Willington Police Department and often heard inside information before it got out to the public. “They’re still looking for him. Word is he’s trying to skip the country. But when they catch up with him he’s gonna put a lot of time in the ol’ pokey.”

  “I hope they put him away for the rest of his life! He deserves everything he gets for ruining my life,” Maggie said in a rare flash of anger, though she quickly got her raw emotions under control. “But I’m not going to worry about that today. I’m just going to hang out here, have some fun with my friends, and eat my fill of lobster stew.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Finn said with a hearty laugh.

  “We got some good stew coming here soon,” Doc said, pointing with a gnarled finger at Bumpy’s operation. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s doing a good job so far. And he’s got a secret ingredient.”

  Bumpy looked up. “White wine and mustard,” he whispered loudly to Candy and Maggie. “It came to me in a dream one night. This giant lobster walked right into my living room and told me what to put in the stew. So I listened to it. I mean, who’s gonna argue with a talking lobster in a dream? I cooked some up the next day and it turned out pretty good!”

  “A . . . talking lobster?” Maggie said hesitantly. “But why would it tell you how to cook it? Wouldn’t it have said, Don’t eat me?”

  Bumpy gave her a quizzical look, but Doc jumped in to rescue his friend. “Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing. He just might win this competition and surprise everyone.”

  “Well, good luck Bumpy,” Candy said, amused by Doc’s defense of his friend. “Looks like you’ve got plenty of helpers—or at least two good helpers.”

  “Hey, you always gotta worry about having too many cooks in the kitchen,” Doc said quickly in his own defense.