Maggie shook her head. “No one has. Top secret, she says. Won’t even rehearse with the other girls. But she says she’s pulling out all the stops. From the rumors going around town, she’s got a presentation guaranteed to have you rolling in the aisles.”
“Or win that crown for herself.”
“Don’t even think that,” Maggie said, nearly seething. She tilted her head toward the oncoming woman in red. “You know what she’s doing, don’t you?”
“No, what?”
“She’s campaigning.”
It took Candy a moment to realize what Maggie was saying. “You mean she’s trying to influence the judges?”
“Wouldn’t put it past her. She’s been following that poet character around all morning.” Maggie’s gaze narrowed. “Just look at her. You’d think she was a teenager instead of a thirty-seven-year-old woman.”
“I thought she was thirty-two.”
“Thirty-seven if she’s a day. I guarantee it.”
“Well, anyone can run for Blueberry Queen. She sure proved that.”
“Yes, but just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should do it. Everyone knows that traditionally only high school girls...”
But she broke off as Sapphire Vine walked up to Candy’s booth and happily slapped the display counter to announce her arrival.
“Good afternoon, ladies!” she chirped with barely contained glee, then reached into a large basket she carried on one arm. “You ladies are looking so pretty today. You deserve something special!” She pulled out two pale blue silk roses on long wire stems
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” she asked, handing one to each of them. “I found them on eBay. Got them for a song. That color is called ice blue. And if I do say so, Candy, it brings out the color of your eyes. Though we have to do something about your hair. There’s a wonderful color rinse you should try. Honey Sunrise. Isn’t that a lovely name? It’ll add a little shine to your hair and hide some of that gray.”
Candy took the proffered rose, uncertain how to respond. “Um, well, er, okay, I might give that a try. Thank you... I think.” She held up the rose. “That’s... that’s very nice of you.”
“Just my way of spreading a little joy in our wonderful little town!” Sapphire Vine bubbled as she cast a wary glance at Maggie. When she saw nothing but a scowl, she turned her attention back to Candy. “And would you tell Amanda I wish her the best of luck. I saw her here at the booth earlier, but I didn’t get a chance to stop by and chat with her. I’m sure she’ll do wonderfully. She’s such a sturdy girl, and I hear she’s been working so hard on her talent — once she found one, of course.”
Candy almost had to hold Maggie back, but Sapphire had already turned away, her gaze searching. “You haven’t seen that nice poet fellow, have you?” she asked, glancing back.
Candy pointed down the street with the rose. “He went that-a-way.”
Sapphire beamed at them. “Then I must be off. I’ll call next week to see how things are going on the farm.” Her eyes shifted quickly to Maggie. “I’d ask how the diet’s going, but I guess you’re off it already,” she said without a hint of meanness. “Toodles!”
As she scurried away, Maggie clenched a fist and muttered with amazement, “Did she just call me fat?”
“Did she just say toodles?”
“That woman knows no shame.”
“She’s out of control.”
“She’s more than that. She’s a menace to society.” Maggie’s glare nearly burned a hole in the disappearing back of Sapphire Vine. “I swear,” she said quietly, “if she wins that pageant tonight, I’ll kill her. I mean I’ll kill her.” She shot a dark glance at Candy. “You’re with me on this one, right?”
Candy fingered a few strands of her hair, pulling them in front of her face so she could check them for gray. There was none that she could see, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Her brow lowered. “I can’t let you do it alone and have all the fun, can I? Tell you what — if she wins, you hold the gun and I’ll pull the trigger.”
Seven
Cape Willington’s most famous landmark, aside from the twin lighthouses at Pruitt Point and Kimball Point, was the Pruitt Opera House, which occupied a prime spot on Ocean Avenue, just a half block from the rocky shoreline. Completed in 1881, it was one of the first such facilities in Downeast Maine, and its patrons agreed it was one of the most impressive built in the state before or since. Horace Roberts Pruitt, the building’s namesake and primary benefactor, had brought a team of architects up from Boston to design the structure, because he knew they were experienced in the emerging Colonial Revival style, with which Horace was particularly enamored, given his love of Georgian architecture that had been popular a century earlier. The result was an instantly classic building, with a symmetry and elegance that, in its earliest years, had seemed wildly out of place among the surrounding ramshackle buildings that tumbled down the wide, dusty street to the waterfront.
In the intervening years, those ramshackle wooden buildings had been replaced with more sturdy brick-and-stone affairs. Though in their early years some had been summer residences for the town’s wealthier citizens, most by now had been converted into storefronts (with apartments on the upper floors). The street had been paved, first with cobblestones and then with asphalt, and oil lamps had given way to electric streetlights. But despite all the changes that had taken place on Ocean Avenue over the past century, the Pruitt Opera House remained, a testimony to one man’s cultural vision, a Georgian queen among architectural commoners.
Visitors to the Pruitt (as it was called around town) were particularly enamored with its two most prominent architectural features: the stately columned portico that fronted the building and the elaborate widow’s walk that sat atop the structure “like a crown,” as Horace noted at the building’s dedication on July 4, 1881. That latter feature had been a point of great contention during the building’s construction. The architects had specified a copper-capped cupola to grace the building’s roof, but Horace, who dabbled in architecture, made some adjustments to the design, insisting on a domed, open-sided, octagonal stone structure accessed from below by a simple steel ladder. It was an homage, he insisted, to all the long-suffering sea widows who had stood for countless hours, days, weeks, and years, gazing out to the sea for the first sight of sails on the horizon, searching earnestly for any sign of the return of their loved ones.
Horace’s own grandmother had paced just such a widow’s walk for years upon end at the family’s primary home in nearby Searsport, awaiting her husband, an esteemed sea captain, who had set off on a three-year voyage and never returned, lost somewhere at sea on a journey that was to have taken him and his crew to Africa and the Far East. It was told that she had fretted away and eventually died there on her widow’s walk, wrapped in a frayed black shawl, grieving ’til death for her beloved husband.
Unable to persuade Horace otherwise, the Boston architects had relented, and the widow’s walk atop the Pruitt was still the tallest point in Cape Willington, affording a spectacular panoramic view of the town and the far-reaching sea for those privileged enough to see it.
The Pruitt had a third unique feature: In the late 1970s, when the aged Town Hall on Main Street had burned down due to faulty wiring, the town offices had been temporarily relocated to a series of rooms in the Pruitt’s basement. These rooms had once been rehearsal halls and storage rooms, but once properly renovated and lighted, they served their new purpose so well that the town never moved out. It had proved to be a mutually beneficial relationship, for the town had the entire building at its disposal for whatever purpose presented itself, and the Pruitt’s operating committee had a continual flow of income from the town that proved immensely useful with repairs and upkeep. So the Pruitt Opera House now served as not only the cultural and social center of the town but also its governmental center.
Over the years, the stage of the Pruitt had been graced by performers of nearly every ilk, so
me truly gifted, but for the past twenty years or so it had been taken over annually for one night a year in mid-summer by a different troupe of performers — the young contestants in the town’s Blueberry Queen Pageant.
This year, like every other in recent memory, a full house was expected for this greatly anticipated event, and the turnout did not disappoint. The place was packed to its gilded rafters. The main hall’s maximum capacity was posted at three hundred and fifty, but Candy could have sworn there were more people than that stuffed into the auditorium, its wide balcony, and its half dozen viewing boxes, making the fire marshal scowl nervously as he paced the side hallway at the outer edges of the crowd.
The noisy crowd assembled there was crackling with anticipation as the clock in the foyer pronounced six o’clock, and Bertha Grayfire, the town council’s chairwoman for nearly a decade, and tonight’s mistress of ceremonies, bounced up a set of well-worn wooden stairs and took the stage with a wave and a smile. She was dressed in a pale yellow flowered dress with a high collar and a low hemline, giving her an appearance that was at once festive yet conservative, which was appropriate, considering her station in town.
Bertha was well-known around town as a good listener and a friendly sort, witty, approachable, and socially savvy. But what the townspeople most admired about her was how she could be tough and focused when necessary — say, during the annual budget process — and light and personable at other times. So it was not unfitting that she was greeted by a warm round of applause as she strode to center stage.
“Good evening, everyone!” she said into the microphone, “and welcome to the Forty-First Annual Cape Willington Blueberry Queen Pageant!”
Applause erupted again, louder and more energetic this time, accompanied by a few whoops and whistles, which were quickly buffered and absorbed by the Pruitt’s excellent acoustics.
For those unable to snag a ticket to the event, the pageant was being broadcast live over community-access cable. Candy would have preferred to watch it on TV at home with Doc, her feet propped up and a glass of white wine in her hand, but a week ago Maggie had thrust a ticket at her and insisted she come.
“I need you there for moral support,” Maggie had told her. “Ed’s going to be traveling — another damned business trip that he says he can’t postpone — and I need someone there to hug if Amanda wins, and a shoulder to cry on if she doesn’t.”
So here she was, sitting in the middle of a row of padded seats halfway back the auditorium, wedged between Maggie on the right and an older, overweight gentleman with a bad cough on the left, trying to remember why she had come.
Maggie leaned in close. “Isn’t this exciting?” She had to practically shout into Candy’s ear to be heard over the applause.
“More fun than baking a blueberry pie,” Candy said with a sarcastic edge that was lost on her friend. She’d had a long day at the booth, spending nearly eight hours straight on her feet dealing with demanding customers, so it was not surprising that she was finding it hard to match Maggie’s enthusiasm.
Maggie gave her a nudge and pointed into the crowd. “Oh look, there’s Mrs. Pruitt!”
Candy craned her neck to peek around the heads in front of her. Sure enough, sitting in the front row was a dangerously thin older woman wearing an impeccably tailored mauve business suit with a lavender-colored scarf. Her steel gray hair was pulled up into a tight swirl; a string of large pearls adorned her thin neck.
“How’d she get such a good seat?” Candy wondered.
Maggie waved a hand and twitched nervously in her seat. “Connections. Everything’s about connections these days, especially in this town.”
“Looks like she’s got her brute with her.”
“Who? That butler or chauffeur or whatever she calls him? Looks like a pug dog, doesn’t he? She never goes anywhere without him.”
“I saw the Bentley parked in front of the drugstore the other day, and there he was in the driver’s seat, reading a comic book and waiting patiently for her while she ran her errands.”
“They’re probably lovers,” Maggie mused, but before Candy could scoff at the idea, Bertha Grayfire continued from the stage, her voice booming through the hall.
“We have an exciting show for you tonight, but before we get started, I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to thank Wendy Bassett for her wonderful set decoration and Ned Winetrop, Ray Hutchins, and their crew for set construction. We also should recognize the generous contributions of Zeke’s General Store and Gumm’s Hardware Store.”
The audience joined her in polite applause.
Bertha’s expression turned suddenly serious. “Of course,” she continued, her voice falling to a near hush, “I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the sudden and shocking departure of one of our town’s favorite sons, Jonathan ‘Jock’ Larson. We all knew Jock well, and we all loved him dearly. He was a great supporter not only of this pageant but also of this town and all its citizens. I’m sure you’ll all agree that he will be sorely missed.”
The hall had fallen into deep silence as Bertha reached for her reading glasses, which hung from a thin silver chain around her neck. She slipped them on, paused for an appropriate period of time, then raised a hand holding a sheaf of five-by-eight-inch index cards, which she waved excitedly in the air. “Now on with the show!”
Eight
“First, I’d like to introduce our esteemed judges, who will determine the winner of tonight’s competition...”
Bertha swept a hand toward the five pageant judges who sat at an angled cloth-draped table at the foot of the stage and to the audience’s right, directly in front of the first row of seats. As Bertha read their names, each judge stood briefly and acknowledged the crowd with a bow or a wave.
“Starting at the far end... Mrs. Jane Chapman, director of the Downeast Maine Summer Theater program. Next to her, Mr. Oliver LaForce, proprietor of the renowned Lightkeeper’s Inn, located right here in beautiful Cape Willington. Next, Ms. Sheila Watson, music director at Cape Willington High School. And, of course, Mr. Georg Wolfsburger, baker extraordinaire and owner of the world-famous Black Forest Bakery.” The applause was a bit louder for Herr Georg as Bertha added, “This is Herr Georg’s tenth year as a pageant judge!” The baker, wearing an elegant navy blue evening jacket and a crisply pressed striped shirt open at the collar, put on a strained smile and waved halfheartedly at the crowd.
Bertha waited until the applause died out before she continued. “Finally, I am very pleased to introduce our fifth judge. He graciously stepped in at the last moment to fill a vacant slot, and we couldn’t be happier to have him with us. He’s the author of numerous books of poetry, including The Bell of Chaos, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize, as well as Tap Dancing on the Volcano, In the Steps of Kings, and his latest, A Drop of Peace, which, he tells me, is available in bookstores everywhere. Currently an adjunct professor at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, he’s also taught at New England College in New Hampshire and at the University of Southern Maine. Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Capers, please give a warm Downeast Maine welcome to... Mr. Sebastian J. Quinn!”
The crowd responded enthusiastically as Sebastian rose and bowed elegantly, first to Bertha, then to the audience. He was dressed resplendently in a white shirt, checkered vest, dark gray slacks, burgundy sports jacket, and yellow bow tie. He seemed to bask in the audience’s applause and twirled his upheld hand in small circles in the air, as a Roman emperor might have done before a particularly bloody gladiator battle at the Coliseum. He milked the moment for all it was worth before he finally took his seat, smoothing his beard as he settled himself.
“And now,” Bertha continued, “on with the introductions of the contestants!”
As she read the names of the six contestants, they emerged one by one from stage right, all wearing broad smiles and carefully chosen outfits.
To rousing cheers, dark-haired Jennifer Croft came out first, wearing an iridescent pink knee-length taf
feta dress with spaghetti straps. She crossed to the far end of the stage, taking up her predesignated spot with a smile and a wave.
Emily Fitzsimmons was next, dressed in a black and white skirt-and-top ensemble that had been tailored to show off her youthful figure. She was followed by Mollie MacKay, in a calf-length denim skirt and butter yellow mid-sleeved top with a lace-up plunging neckline.
Haley Pruitt came next, looking radiant in a trim-fitting, off-the-shoulder powder blue number that perfectly set off her honey-colored hair.
“Amanda’s next,” Maggie whispered to Candy, clutching her arm tightly. “I don’t think I can stand it. I’m afraid to look”
“Breathe, girl, breathe,” Candy urged.
A moment later, Amanda walked out looking prettier than Candy had ever seen her. In a charming sleeveless pink and yellow flower-print dress complemented by pale pink pumps with thin ankle straps, Amanda Tremont strode onto the stage, smiling nervously as she gazed out at the assembled crowd and took her place beside the other contestants. Her long dark hair hung loose about her shoulders and had been brushed out so much that it shone in the spotlight. A single pink rose was tucked behind one ear.
“She looks absolutely gorgeous,” Candy breathed.
Maggie sniffed back tears and tightened her grip on Candy’s arm. “My little baby is growing up.”
Candy patted her hand. “I hate to tell you this, dear, but I think she’s already all grown up.”
“Oh my,” was all Maggie could say.
“Our final contestant,” Bertha Grayfire continued dramatically, “is someone you all know, someone who has made quite a name for herself in our little community — ”
“Oh no,” groaned Maggie. “Here comes She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
“ — Miss Sapphire Vine!”
“Oops, I think they named her,” Candy whispered.
Maggie snorted as Sapphire pranced onto the stage wearing a cowgirl costume, complete with rhinestones, long leather fringes, red boots, a cowgirl hat, and a holster with a wooden gun.
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