Town in a Blueberry Jam chm-1

by B. B. Haywood

  Town in a Blueberry Jam

  ( Candy Holliday Mystery - 1 )

  B. B. Haywood

  In the seaside village of Cape Willington, Maine, Candy Holliday has an idyllic life tending to the Blueberry Acres farm she runs with her father. But, when an aging playboy and the newly crowned Blueberry Queen are killed, Candy investigates to clear the name of a local handyman. And as she sorts through the town's juicy secrets, things start to get sticky indeed...

  B. B. Haywood

  Town in a Blueberry Jam

  To Sarah for her Ode, and Matthew for his Melody

  Acknowledgments

  Warmest thanks to Kae Tienstra for believing in the book, Leis Pederson for making it happen, George Feeman for his encouragement from the very beginning, and Officer Paul Gasper and Chief Neil R. Williams of the Cape Elizabeth (Maine) Police Department for the tour and invaluable information. Also, a special acknowledgment to Todd Merrill and Jen Dyer at Merrill Blueberry Farms, Ellsworth, Maine, for answering endless questions about blueberry farming. As always, big hugs for Sarah and Matthew for help with the manuscript and the website. For updates about Candy and Doc Holliday, Holliday’s Blueberry Acres, and Cape Wellington, Maine, as well as details about upcoming books, visit www.hollidaysblueberryacres.com.

  Prologue

  He was falling.

  A moment earlier he had been standing on solid ground, near the edge of the seaside cliff that dropped sharply to wet black rocks below. Now here he was, his face turned toward the night sky and nothing beneath him but open air. His arms windmilled back and his legs pumped wildly as the memories of a life well lived flashed before his eyes with such speed and vividness it made him gasp.

  It really did happen like that, in the moments right before death. He could attest to the fact, if he lived long enough. But he knew he’d never get the chance.

  He could still feel the spot on his chest, like a hollow wound, where the hand had struck him hard, coming out of nowhere in a stab of anger. It had caught him so suddenly, so unexpectedly that he’d lost his footing and stumbled to the edge of the cliff, where he’d teetered as a terrifying surge of panic swept through him. An instant later his feet lost contact with solid ground. Now, as he fell, his mind exploded with disbelief and regret, and his face tightened as his mouth pulled back in a death grimace. And underneath it all he cursed himself. He should have seen it coming. All the signs were there. He should have been more attentive. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to the edge. But he’d lost his bearings in the argument. He’d let his emotions drive the wits from him — a fatal mistake, he realized now, and his whole body shuddered at the hard, horrifying realization:

  I have just been murdered!

  How could this be happening? The surrealism of the moment threatened to overwhelm him, to send him into deep shock. His eyes rolled back, his fingers tingled unnaturally, and his chest felt cold, colder than he would have thought possible. His breath was pulled from him by the rushing air as he felt death closing in on him all too quickly.

  In those last moments anger spewed forth from him, a hot blast of furor, and he tried to fling curse words back up at the shadowed figure that stood at the edge of the cliff above, watching him with a shocked expression, eyes wide, hands out, grasping at emptiness. But he could bring nothing forth — not a curse, not a scream, nor a grunt or even a spasm of sound. His throat constricted with preternatural fear, all words and sounds choked off, for death was racing toward him at an incalculable speed. How much time did he have left? A heartbeat? Two? Was his heart even still beating? He heard a roaring in his ears as he considered the question within the space of a millisecond. He decided to measure the remainder of his life not in heartbeats, nor in seconds, nor in the blinks of a watery eye, but in the beats of a hummingbird’s wings. Surely he had a few dozen of those left, perhaps even a hundred. It would give him a small bit of time to ponder his life before it was crushed achingly from him.

  And there was much to ponder, for the memories were coming lightning fast now, like rapid bursts of fire from an automatic weapon. His first remembered glimpse of his parents’ faces, younger than he’d ever remembered them before. Touching tiny toes in a retreating wave at the beach. Seagulls whirling overhead. Skipping rocks on a quiet stream, fishing with his father, hockey on the ice pond, his first moments underwater in a wading pool. Then the passion that consumed him, compelled him through life, a life as a professional swimmer. Racing with his friends in the ocean’s rough surf — and always winning. Indoor pools at the YMCA, his earliest lessons, and soon after, his first formal swim meet. The cheers of the crowd and the odor of chlorine in his nostrils like the breath of life. The faces of coaches and trainers and myriad competitors, every face remembered. Endless meetings and practices, the tension and excitement of race day, followed by powerful surges of adrenaline for bare moments in the water that became his sole reason for existence. Controlling his rhythm and holding back just a bit of extra energy for the finish. The roars of the crowds growing louder as the crowds themselves grew. Awards and honors, “Oh Say Can You See,” feeling the tug of heavy medals draped around his neck, the way they gleamed in the spotlights. Sitting around the kitchen table, talking to his folks about the greater goal. The worry but determination on their faces as they considered the costs, the struggles, the uncertainty of such an unimaginable future. Driving in his dad’s old truck to statewide meets, his first time on a plane as he flew off to Nationals, then his first trip overseas with his father, to Europe. Where he won. And continued winning, so many meets, so many wins, so many steps along the way, all laid out like pages of an aged scrapbook that flipped rapidly across his vision. Then to Tokyo and the Olympic Village and the Parade of Nations, all passing by him with such detail, such clarity that he could remember the sounds and the smells as if he stood there now. And his eyes watered as he wondered where it had all gone, how it had slipped away too fast, too fast...

  Back home, with the parades and speeches, the handshakes and hugs, the looks of pride, admiration, and often jealousy — those last looks were the ones he came to love the most, for they empowered him, gave him a sense of worth and accomplishment.

  And the women. Lots of women. They had always come easily to him, attracted by his confidence, his skills, his lean body, his good looks, and that burst of unruly, always uncombed red hair that became his trademark. Even cut short for swim meets it was noticeable, but after his retirement he let it grow out again, and the women couldn’t keep their hands off it. Through all the years of traveling, of broadcasting and commentating, of commercials and special appearances, milking his celebrity for every cent he could get out of it, his hair was his calling card.

  But in the end it had not saved him. In fact, more than likely it had, in some not-so-small way, led to this moment, his literal downfall.

  That almost made him laugh as the hummingbird’s wings beat a few more times, and the hard black rocks raced toward him with astonishing swiftness.

  He’d heard the rumors around town, the whispers, the surreptitious nods in his direction, the looks askance, and the occasional finger-pointing when they thought he wasn’t watching. Folks liked to talk about the plethora of redheaded children around town, though no one ever said anything to him directly about it. And what problem was it to him anyway? Just because he never married, and made little distinction between married and unmarried women — were any of those kids his fault? But that hadn’t stopped the threats, the lawsuits, the angry husbands, and sullen stares from jilted lovers. The worst were the clingy ones, who expected more from him than he ever wanted to give. Their emotions spun on a dime, moving from adoration to terrifying rage with a speed that always lef
t him cold and confused, cautious, and ultimately uninterested in any form of intimacy and attachment.

  But again, that had been part of his attractiveness, what drew the women to him. There were many who accepted him for what he was, of course, and those were the ones who figured most prominently in his final thoughts. He recalled them all fondly as he fell back, his head below his feet now, his gaze rolling up. The stars in the black sky above glowed brightly before him, so close, so distinctively sharp, elegant pinpricks in a restless infinity. Its beauty struck him with such force that he was distracted from the memories, and in the last moments those memories were lost to him, fading away like a foamy wave rolling off a sandy beach, drawn back into the greater ocean.

  The ocean. Water. It had always been his sustenance, his greatest love, his only mistress. It would accept him for a final time now, and he would give himself fully to it.

  But still, he had regrets. Too much left undone, too much life still left to be lived. And again, he wondered — how had this happened? How had he come to this moment?

  His mind raced in those final few flutters of the hummingbird’s wings, and it was only then, in the last milliseconds of his life, as his body broke on the rocks, crushing the air from his lungs and stealing away his life, that the final flash of memory and realization shot through his screaming brain. The clarity of it was striking, and he knew in that last instant who had driven him to his death. No, she hadn’t pushed him off the cliff herself. Her hand wasn’t the one that had struck him in the chest, ending his life. But she’d been there in spirit, in the dark shadows of motivation. Hers was the hand behind the hand, her words the whispers in the ear, her thoughts the seeds that led to this tragic end. Scheming and manipulating behind the scenes, she’d driven the killer to murder, flicking domino-block events out to this final, inexorable moment.

  It had been her, he was certain of it.

  His last thought was of Sapphire Vine.

  THE WEEKLY GRAPEVINE

  by Sapphire Vine Special Correspondent

  From The Cape Crier

  Cape Willington, Maine

  July 23rd Edition

  BLUEBERRIES FOR EVERYONE!

  Are you ready to par-tay? Of course you are! Once again, good citizens, it’s time for Cape Willington’s world-famous Blueberry Festival! As I’m sure you well know, the fabulously fruity festival is an all-day event scheduled for Saturday, July 27, and it’s usually the town’s busiest day of the year. (Tourists are everywhere!) Festivities kick off at 7:30 A.M. at Legion Hall, with other events taking place around Cape throughout the day. The Blueberry Parade begins at 3 P.M., with Olympic Gold Medal winner Jock Larson serving as the Grand Marshal (again!). Most important, the Blueberry Queen Pageant will take place at 6 P.M. at Town Hall. There are many lovely contestants taking part this year, including Yours Truly — moi! Do wish me luck!

  Don’t forget to check out the many wonderful booths that will be lined up along Main Street and Ocean Avenue during the festival. There will be plenty of goodies for everyone. See you there!

  CELEBRITIES ABOUND

  Seems like our attractive little town has been a celebrity magnet lately. A few weeks ago we reported sightings of big-time chunky-hunky TV and movie star Patrick Dempsey (he’s sooooo McDreamy!) and the lovely missus, who toddled about town with their brood and sampled the wares at a local restaurant. (Patrick was born in Lewiston, you know.) Now a more literary celeb is gracing the starstruck streets of our village — none other than Sebastian J. Quinn, he of the revered poetic tome, The Bell of Chaos. And we’re thrilled to report that the esteemed Mr. Quinn has consented to serve as a judge at this week’s prestigious Blueberry Queen Pageant. Remember, you read it here first!

  ENGAGEMENTS

  Little Kimmy Whitebridge is all grown up and planning to marry D. Douglas Douglass III of Cape Willington. Both are graduates of CWHS. Kimmy is currently working in hotel management at the Motel 6 up on Route 1. Douglas is employed at D. D. Douglass & Son Realtors. (I wonder how he got that job?) A September wedding is planned. Happy honeymoon, kids! Do they have heart-shaped beds at the Motel 6?

  KUDOS

  Once again we have to thank the amazing (and seemingly tireless) Wanda Boyle for her committee work at our local schools. In the last year, Wanda planned the teacher luncheons, the Soccer Extravaganza, and the Music Club Money-Makers Fair; worked on the planning committee for reading evaluation of our gifted children; made costumes for the third-grade play; baked cookies for the Halloween and Valentine’s Day parties; chaired the PTO — and didn’t miss a single meeting. (I think she even cleaned the classrooms a few times.) Wow! Have you seen your own kids lately, Wanda? Ha! Just kidding!

  ATTENTION ALL GARDENERS!

  Get out your trowels and dig your way to the Cape Garden Club’s First Annual Flower Festival, to be held at the Cove Inn on Sunday, August 2. The theme of this very merry special event will be “Tea in the Garden.” (Make mine Earl Grey, please!) You can call Lily Verte for all the flowery details. We hope this turns out to be a blossoming event for them.

  THE THEATRE

  Apparently Lyra Graveton can carry more than buckets of ice cream. She can carry a tune as well! We normally see Lyra at the Ice Cream Shack scooping up gobs of delicious homemade ice cream. (Have you seen those ice cream cones? They’re humongous!) Starting next weekend, you can see (and hear) Lyra belting out tunes in Cape Summer Theatre’s musical version of everyone’s favorite cowboy show, Oklahoma! Tickets are still available at the box office (though they’re sure to go fast with Lyra up there on stage!). The show runs through August 12 at the Pruitt Opera House. See it, and Oh! we guarantee you’ll have a beautiful, beautiful morning!

  TASTY TIDBITS

  Rumors that Town Council Chairwoman Bertha Grayfire will wear her outrageous Dolly Parton costume (a favorite with the kids at Halloween) when she emcees the annual Blueberry Queen Pageant Saturday night are completely FALSE! (We have heard, however, that the costume has fallen into disrepair lately. You should take better care of your assets, Bertha!)... My spy tells me that Melody’s Café, that new restaurant up on River Road, is doing a booming business. The lobster rolls are supposed to be absolutely scrumptious! (Don’t tell the tourists, though, or I’ll never be able to get a seat!) My spy’s only request — better desserts, please!... Official Judicious F. P. Bosworth sightings for the first two weeks of July — Visible: 9 days — Invisible: 5 days. Sounds like Judicious has been out enjoying this glorious Maine summer weather! Be sure to pass on Judicious sightings to the Grapevine for future publication!

  One

  Candy Holliday was standing at the kitchen sink, cleaning up after making another batch of blueberry pies, when she looked out the window and saw Doc’s old pickup truck rattling up the dirt driveway way too early. Curious, she glanced at the clock on the wall over the kitchen table. Usually he wasn’t back home until ten thirty or eleven, preferring to linger over his coffee cup as long as possible. But here he was at a little past nine.

  She knew right away something was up.

  The kitchen wasn’t Candy’s favorite place to be; she had never considered herself much of a domestic sort. She would rather be outside, tending to her chickens, fiddling around in the barn, taking care of the gardens, or walking the fields behind the house. But when you had a blueberry festival to prepare for, you did what you had to do.

  So to stay out of her way (or perhaps just to avoid the chores that always seemed to need doing around the farm), her father, Henry “Doc” Holliday, had gone into town that morning for coffee and donuts with “the boys” — William “Bumpy” Brigham, a barrel-chested semiretired attorney with a deep passion for antique cars; Artie Groves, a retired civil engineer who now ran a bustling eBay business out of a cluttered office over his garage; and Finn Woodbury, a former big-city cop who had segued into small-town show business, serving as producer for three or four community theater projects each year, including the annual musical staged at the Pruitt Oper
a House on Ocean Avenue. They were golfin’ and jawin’ buddies, all in their mid- to late sixties, who spent their Friday nights playing poker as though it were a religion and could be found most weekday mornings holding court in the corner booth at Duffy’s Main Street Diner. These freewheeling breakfast gatherings, where the latest headlines, rumors, gossip, and sports stories were chewed over like well-cooked bacon, were as addictive as coffee and salt air to Doc, who, despite his retirement, still had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge of any kind and liked to keep his finger tight to the pulse of his adopted village.

  So it wasn’t surprising he heard the latest shocker before Candy did.

  The story had been on the front page of the morning paper, of course, but Doc always took that with him to the diner. Candy only got it around lunchtime, after it had been well pored over and thumbed through, and smartly decorated with coffee rings and swaths of smeared donut icing. And she could have switched on the TV and gotten the story that way, but for the past few days she had been too busy to waste time sitting in front of the tube. Anyway, TV watching was a winter activity around Cape Willington, Maine, where the Downeast summers were short and glorious, and so had to be enjoyed to their fullest. That meant being outside as much as possible, letting the sensual warmth squeeze the chill completely out of one’s bones before winter set in again with its unrelenting timeliness.

  Candy wasn’t outside today, though. It was the day before Cape Willington’s much-anticipated Forty-First Annual Blueberry Festival, and she had been in the kitchen since six thirty that morning, making last-minute preparations. She still had way too much to do, and now here was Doc, distracting her when she had no time for distractions.