“Nice job, Juanita!” Candy congratulated her as they shook hands. “You made a wonderful stew.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you!” She seemed on the verge of speechlessness.
It had been a fairly simple stew, Candy knew, with few ingredients other than cream, butter, beautifully cooked lobster, and carefully chosen spices, including cayenne. It had been one of Candy’s top three choices. After much contemplation, she had placed it as number three on her own list. But Roger’s enthusiasm, which he credited to that bite of heat provided by the cayenne, had elevated Juanita’s stew to the top of their combined list.
So Candy knew who had cooked two of the stews on her list. She had placed Melody second and Juanita third in her own ranking.
But, she wondered as Juanita received a trophy and blue ribbon, who had made her personal favorite stew—the one at the top of her list, the one with the sweet hint of cinnamon? She had to admit, of all the very good stews she had tasted today, it had emerged a winner, clearly the best one. Even now, as she thought about it, her mouth watered.
But then she shuddered as a particularly distasteful thought ran through her mind.
What if it was Wanda Boyle’s stew?
If Wilma Mae was right and Wanda had stolen Mr. Sedley’s recipe, then Candy had indeed put Wanda Boyle’s stew at the top of her own list, even though Roger had been less than impressed by it.
Suddenly, she realized, she had to know who had made it. If she could find that out, it would either prove or disprove Wilma Mae’s accusation once and for all.
Her gaze shifted back and forth across the tent. The easiest way to find out, she thought, would be to get a quick look at the clipboard in Robbie’s hands, for it held the sheet Oliver had reviewed to determine the names of the winning contestants.
She looked around and finally spotted the teenager off to one side, talking to a large, burly man with sandy-colored hair, wearing a dark green shirt and jeans. He looked vaguely familiar, and Candy wondered where she’d seen him before. Then she remembered. He had been working in the maintenance shed out at the lighthouse when she had visited on Thursday.
They were talking in low tones, rather intensely, she thought. Robbie looked upset.
Roger leaned in close to her again, so their shoulders touched. “I think we chose the right one,” he said, breaking into her thoughts.
Candy looked around. Juanita stood at the podium, holding up her trophy and ribbon, a huge smile on her face as Jesse shot a few photos and the crowd continued to applaud.
“Oh, absolutely,” Candy agreed. She glanced toward Roger and found herself gazing straight into his shining dark eyes. In that moment she found them oddly compelling. What was she reading in those eyes? she wondered. Was he just being friendly, or was there more to that look of his? Was Maggie right? Was he ogling her?
And, if so, was that such a bad thing?
She had to force herself to shift her gaze back toward the podium. “Um, yeah, she seems overjoyed. And she deserves to be—her stew was very good.”
“It certainly was.” Together they watched as Juanita accepted congratulations from others, including many of the contestants. Burt Ramsay, Lyra Graveton, Delilah Daggerstone, Walter Gruthers, and Anita Weller were gathered around her, shaking her hand and congratulating her and the other winners. Jesse remained in the midst of the pandemonium, snapping photos. Juanita’s close friend Dolores, who also worked at the diner, gave her a tight hug, and Doc, Bumpy, and the boys were standing in line to congratulate her, since they knew her well from the diner.
But where had Wanda gone? She was curiously absent from the conclusion of the proceedings, Candy realized, when she should rightfully be deep in the thick of it, given her position as comanager.
Candy searched the tent but could see no sign of the woman.
Had she hightailed it out of there when she found out she wasn’t the winner? Could she be that sore of a loser?
No doubt, Candy thought.
As the crowd began to disperse, Roger turned to face her and casually reached out to take her hand. His touch felt warm and oddly sensual. “Well, it’s been great working with you today, Candy,” he said in smooth tones, holding her hand lightly. “I’ve really enjoyed your company.”
Candy resisted an urge to remove her hand from his, thinking it might appear rude. Instead, she smiled in a pleasant, noncommittal sort of way. “It was nice working with you too, Roger. That was a lot of fun. And thanks for all your help. Without your advice, I probably would have looked like an idiot today.”
Roger gave her a doubtful look. “You? Never. You did great, stepping in at the last minute like that. You should be proud. It’s too bad about your friend Mrs. Wendell, though. I hope she isn’t too banged up.”
“Oh, I think she’ll be fine. She’s resting right now.”
“That’s good to hear. And what a shame about Mr. Sedley. It’s too bad he couldn’t join us either.”
“Yeah, it is. I think he was really looking forward to it.”
“I’m sure he was. I hope he turns up soon.” He glinted up at the sun, then looked around, his gaze focusing in the distance. Abruptly he released her hand. “Well, I think it’s time for me to push on. I’m sure we’ll get a chance to meet again soon. Ah, look, here comes Ben.” He pointed across the lawn.
Candy turned to watch Ben walk toward them with long, athletic strides. He was looking particularly handsome today, his hair tussled, his face sun kissed, evidence of the many hours he spent outdoors.
Roger’s move had been clearly calculated, she knew. What was he up to?
“So,” Candy said curiously, turning back to him, “what have you two got planned for this afternoon?”
Roger grinned. “There’s a Red Sox game on at one,” he said in a tone that told her it was time to get away from this boring event and into some real fun. “Ben and I are headed to this sports bar he’s told me about. We thought we’d eat some salty bar peanuts and open up a few cold ones.”
“Oh, it’s that new place up on Route 1, right? What’s it called? The Rocky Coast Alehouse?”
“That’s the one.” Roger paused, then asked slyly, “So, would you like to join us? I’m sure Ben would enjoy your company, and I know I certainly would.”
The question came so quickly that Candy wasn’t prepared for it. “Oh, no, thanks. Well, I’d like to, but I have too much to do this afternoon. I have to track down the winners and interview them, and at least say hello to the other contestants, and then do a few quick follow-ups. And I have to check on Wilma Mae and Maggie. Another time, okay?”
“Another time,” Roger said quietly as Ben finally reached them.
“Hello you two. What a beautiful day, huh?”
“It sure is,” Candy said, looking at him fondly.
He smiled at her. “Hey, you did a great job today.”
“Well, thanks. I had some help, though.” She indicated Roger, who stood silently beside her.
Ben continued. “I knew you’d be fine. And everyone’s buzzing about Juanita. She’s on cloud nine. What a great choice. She’ll make a great story for the paper.”
He checked his watch and looked over at Roger. “If we hurry we can catch the third inning.” He turned back to Candy. “Hey, you want to come along? I think Jesse’s coming with us. But we still have plenty of room, no waiting.” He raised an eyebrow in a boyish, almost irresistible way.
But Candy resisted—for now. She laughed and patted him on the shoulder, then pushed him gently away. “Thanks, but it sounds like a guys’ day out to me. Go ahead and have some fun. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“You sure? Okay.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick, unexpected kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you and we can reschedule that date. Remember, Italian.”
Candy smiled. “Italian. And a bottle of Chianti.”
“You got it.”
They said their good-byes, and as Ben and Roger headed toward the parking lot, corralling Jesse
as they went, Candy touched her cheek.
Ben was rarely so affectionate, especially in public, and especially at an event like this, where anyone could be watching.
“What was that all about?” she said to herself.
Finally she shook her head. “Men,” she muttered.
With a certain amount of effort, she pushed all thoughts of Ben and Roger from her mind. Right now, she had other things to do.
She was eager to relocate Robbie, who was no longer in view, and get a quick look at the cook-off contestant list on his clipboard. First, though, she wanted to find out what had happened to Wilma Mae.
She turned, crossed the tent, and walked up onto the porch, where some guests lounged in rocking chairs, sipping on glasses of iced tea or white wine. But just before she went inside, she stopped and looked out across the lawn one more time, wondering what had become of Wanda.
Most of the contestants had returned to their booths. It was time to start selling their stews to the public. But Candy saw only Wanda’s helpers in her booth.
From her elevated position on the porch, she scanned the crowd one more time and thought she saw Wanda in her red jacket stomping off toward the parking lot. But she couldn’t be sure.
Giving up, she entered the inn and turned into the side lounge, where she’d left Wilma Mae, Maggie, and the nurse a while earlier.
All three of them were gone.
Candy looked around, surprised, wondering what had become of them. She stepped back out of the room, looked both ways along the hall, and saw the nurse at the opposite end, near the main lobby. Candy started toward her, flagging her down.
“Hello!” she called as she approached the nurse. “Do you have any idea what happened to Wilma Mae—the elderly woman who fainted outside?”
“Yes,” the nurse answered, seeming preoccupied. “She said she wanted to go home, so your friend took her. She said she’d call you later.”
Candy gave her a wave. “Okay, thanks.”
As the nurse walked away, Candy checked her watch. She knew she had to get back outside to start her interviews, but first she wanted to find out who had made the stew at the top of her list. Of course, by visiting all of the booths outside and tasting every stew, she could eventually find out what she wanted to know. But that would take up a good part of the afternoon, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to identify all the stews exactly, now that she was away from the judges’ table. Besides, she wasn’t sure she could eat another spoonful of lobster stew right now. She’d had enough to last her for a while.
That left Robbie’s clipboard. It was the quickest way to find out who had made the cinnamon-flavored stew. In just a few seconds she’d have her answer. But first, she had to find Robbie.
So where was he?
She had just turned, planning to head back outside to search for him, when he magically appeared right in front of her, almost as if conjured from thin air. Clipboard in hand, he had entered the hall from the porch, and now walked quickly toward her with his head bowed low, studying the carpet, as if he had a million things on his mind. But halfway along the hall he jigged to his right, entered a doorway, and disappeared from view. Must be some sort of office, Candy thought. She waited. Half a minute later he emerged from the door without the clipboard and walked in the opposite direction from her, back toward the porch and the lawn outside. He exited the building through the doorway, turned a corner, and was gone.
Well, that’s just a little too convenient, isn’t it? Candy thought, biting her lip. Should I really do this?
But she already knew the answer. She’d never have a better opportunity than right now to get a look at that clipboard.
As nonchalantly as possible, she strolled along the hall toward the office door Robbie had entered. She stopped once or twice to admire a painting hanging on the wall, pretending to be just another hotel guest. When she finally reached the door midway along the hall, she stuck her head around the corner.
It was a small suite of offices, with a receptionist’s desk in the main area and two more offices branching off on either side, both with their doors open.
Nobody was home.
She checked the nameplates on the main office door: OLIVER LAFORCE, INNKEEPER, read one sign, and beneath that, ALBEN ALCOTT, ASSISTANT INNKEEPER.
Lingering as casually as possible at the doorway, she quickly scanned the reception area, then looked through the open doors to the interior offices.
She thought she saw the clipboard on the desk in the office to the left.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she slipped in the door, crossed the receptionist’s area in a half dozen quick steps, and entered Oliver LaForce’s office, checking it carefully again to make sure it was empty.
It was nicely decorated with antique furniture and plush plum-colored carpeting. A handsome oak cupboard stood along one wall, a small white brick fireplace occupied another, and a large window looked out over the lawn.
She made a beeline for the desk.
Sure enough, Robbie had set down the clipboard right in the center of the leather-trimmed blotter pad. She scooted around the desk to get a better look at the documents attached to the clipboard.
The top sheet was a schedule, with Robbie’s scribbled notes all over it. The sheet she needed must be underneath it.
As she reached toward the clipboard, she heard voices in the hallway. Her heart jumped in her chest as she backed away from the desk, her eyes darting to the main doorway, ready to bolt if necessary. But it was just a couple walking past. They never peered into the offices.
She waited until they had moved on down the hall, took a quick, deep breath to steady herself, and stepped back toward the desk. “Do it now and get out of here,” she told herself.
She glanced up once more to make sure she was still alone, then reached down and began to page back through the sheets attached to the clipboard, her fingers moving quickly. The fourth one in was the one she sought.
As soon as she saw it, her brow furrowed.
Someone had used a felt-tip pen to draw a big black X across the page and written the words Do not use—fake list across the top.
The handwritten words were in a tight, neat script, different from Robbie’s more scribbled handwriting on the clipboard’s top page. That meant either Oliver or Alby had drawn the X across this page and written the words at the top.
Candy quickly flicked back through the other sheets on the clipboard, looking for another listing of contestants, but she couldn’t find one.
She returned to the sheet with the black X on it. The placards on the judges’ table, one in front of each group of stews, had had numbers on them. On the sheet in front of her, the contestants’ names were listed alphabetically, with handwritten black numerals prior to each name. She simply had to match a number to a name to find the information she needed.
The top stew on her list had been number nine. She traced down the column with her finger but didn’t have to look too far. The name she sought was the second one on the list, directly beneath Barnes, Melody and just above Brigham, William.
Next to the numeral nine was the name of Wanda Boyle.
Candy groaned. Her worst fears were confirmed.
Wanda had made the stew with the hint of cinnamon in it. That meant she must have had Mr. Sedley’s recipe. And she must have stolen it from Wilma Mae’s house. The elderly woman had been right.
But Candy hesitated. What about the black X? What about the words Do not use—fake list written at the top?
What did it all mean?
As she pondered this question, she started checking the list for some of the other names and their assigned numbers, but before she could focus in on it, she heard voices just outside the door.
One of them was Alby’s.
He was talking to someone in the hall.
Candy’s heart thumped. Moving quicker than she ever had in her life, she let the sheets on the clipboard fall back into place and darted into the recep
tion area. She paused for a moment to look around nonchalantly, then started out, running into Alby as he was coming in.
“Oh! Hi!” she said to a surprised Alby. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you!”
Alby had stopped dead in his tracks and was staring at her with a confused look on his face. “Candy?”
She stuck out her hand. “I . . . um . . . I just wanted to say thank you for asking me to be a judge today. I was looking for Oliver to thank him as well, but he’s not in his office.”
“Um, no,” Alby said, still off balance as he glanced into Oliver’s empty office. “He’s outside, touring the booths.”
“Then I guess I’ll look for him out there. Thanks again, Alby!”
And before he could say another word, she dashed out the door and hurried along the hall. In a few moments she was out the door, onto the porch, and down the steps into the sunlight.
She didn’t stop until she was halfway across the lawn. Finally she slowed and looked back.
Alby was nowhere to be seen. He must have bought her explanation.
She rolled her eyes into her head, dropped her shoulders, and let out a long breath. “Whew, that was close.”
She was safely away, but she was uncertain of what she had found. The evidence was confusing. She stopped, raising her hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sunlight, and surveyed the booths arrayed around the edge of the lawn. “I guess I’ll just have to do this the hard way,” she said to herself and sighed.
There was only one logical place to start: Wanda Boyle’s booth. One taste of her stew and she’d know for sure whether it had been made using Mr. Sedley’s recipe.
“Okay, I guess you have to do it, just to make sure,” she said, encouraging herself.
She had just started off across the lawn, determination in every step, when her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and checked the front display screen.
It was Maggie.
Town In a Lobster Stew Page 14
