Town in a Maple Madness

by B. B. Haywood

  “Well, that’s just it. Crazy things! Weird things!”

  “Like what?”

  Maggie hesitated to add to the rumors and gossip, but in the end she couldn’t help herself. “Well, you didn’t hear this from me, of course. It’s just the word going around. But there have been some general whisperings about . . . well, to put it bluntly, some folks are wondering if the missus did him in . . . if the dead person really is Mick Rilke, of course.”

  It took Candy a moment to process what her friend was saying. “What, you mean Jean? Mick’s wife? They think she had something to do with his death? But why?”

  “Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Maggie said, lowering her voice. “We all know he was a bit of a flirt, right?”

  “We do?”

  “And that he could be . . . well, pretty loud.”

  “He had a big personality, that’s true,” Candy conceded, “and he seemed to have a good time wherever he went. But why would someone murder him because of that?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m just a little fly on the wall here. It’s what they’re saying.” She subtly waggled a finger at the crowd around them.

  “And what else are they saying?” Candy asked, wondering if she should pull out her notebook and start taking notes.

  “Well, that Mick had a tendency to rub some people the wrong way. They’re thinking, if it wasn’t Jean, then maybe he got on the wrong side of someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “No idea. It’s just the general scuttlebutt.”

  “Sounds like the scuttlebutt is pretty chatty today,” Candy observed. “Still, it makes sense, I suppose. Rumors start up pretty fast.”

  “People hear things and people say things,” Maggie agreed.

  “Apparently so.” Candy was well aware of how fast a tasty piece of gossip could spread around their village.

  “And, well,” Maggie continued, “maybe there’s some truth to those rumors, right? Who knows?” She forced a strained chuckle.

  “Right, who knows?” Candy was silent for a few moments as she watched the crowd, thinking. Could there be any truth to what Maggie had heard? She was tempted to dismiss it all right out of hand as just the idle chatter of worried people. Still, Maggie’s words echoed in her mind:

  Maybe he got on the wrong side of someone.

  Maybe he had.

  What had happened to him? she wondered.

  Candy turned her attention to the new community center in front of them. She nodded toward it. “So who are we waiting for? Who’s inside there?”

  “Well, your father, for one,” Maggie said.

  “Dad? He’s here?”

  “Sure is, along with the rest of them. Apparently, they’re talking it over, trying to figure out what to do next, I guess.”

  Candy crossed her arms as she studied the building. “Hmm, I guess.”

  “Of course, Mason Flint’s not in there,” Maggie said. “He’s tied up with the police, as you’ve noticed, and probably will be for a while. Hence, the delay, and hence, that powwow taking place in there, without him. Sort of like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  “Trying to decide whether to go ahead with the ceremony or cancel it?”

  “That’s my guess.” Maggie sighed deeply. “It would be a shame to cancel it, of course, after all the work and preparation that’s been done. On the other hand, I suppose it’s important to respect the dead.”

  “Yes,” Candy mused, “I suppose it is.”

  She could understand their dilemma. They’d done a lot of work on the new community center, and it showed. Considering the condition of the building when they’d started the project two months ago, it looked surprisingly festive today. Brightly colored streamers flew from the eaves. A new sign had been hung on the front wall. The door and window frames were freshly painted. The place was all dressed up, but the intended celebration had been halted in its tracks.

  At the moment, all the doors into the building were closed, including a large garage door around the left side. The windows were dark and lifeless. It was hard to tell if anything at all was going on inside.

  “How long have they been in there?” Candy asked after a few moments.

  Maggie checked her watch. “Maybe twenty or twenty-five minutes, something like that?”

  “They should have reached a decision by now, I’d think.”

  “You’d think. But there are a lot of big personalities in there.”

  “Bigger than Mick Rilke’s?”

  “They’d certainly give him a run for his money.”

  “Let me guess.” Candy turned back to the crowd, eyes darting from face to face, trying to figure out who was here and who was missing. “Well, we know my father’s in there.”

  “Correct.”

  “And I assume the boys. I don’t see them around.” She was referring to Bumpy, Artie, and Finn, her father’s friends.

  “We can definitely assume that,” Maggie agreed.

  “And there’s no Wanda Boyle in sight. I’m sure she’s at this event somewhere, covering it for the paper. So if she’s not out here, she must be inside.”

  “Again, correctomundo.”

  “And the ladies of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, most likely Cotton Colby and Elvira Tremble.”

  “They’re there too.”

  “And who else?” Candy wondered. “No, wait, don’t tell me.” She thought a moment, peering back and forth. “If Mason Flint’s over by the body with the police, then one of his surrogates must be representing him inside—most likely Carol McKaskie or Tillie Shaw.” Carol was the council’s new vice chair, while Tillie was the chair of the events committee and headed up the weekend’s festivities.

  “Both of them!” Maggie exclaimed. “It’s like the clash of the titans! Gott im Himmel!”

  “You’re right about that—and you’re starting to sound like your husband,” Candy pointed out.

  Maggie shrugged. “All that German stuff tends to rub off on you after a while. I’ve been working on my pronunciations.”

  “Keep at it. You’re doing better. So, getting back to the subject—have I missed anyone?”

  “As far as I know, you got them all. Of course, there could be a ringer inside. But, overall, I’d say your sleuthing skills have not deteriorated. Which is a good thing, possibly, unfortunately, depending on what happened to our local landscaper over there.”

  “You’re right about that.” Candy shifted her gaze back to her friend. “So what do you think happened to him . . . assuming it is him?” she asked curiously, interested to hear her friend’s opinion.

  Maggie let out a huge breath. “Honestly, I just don’t know.” Her tone softened and turned contemplative. “Maybe he just fell into the river somehow. Maybe it was just a terrible accident. Maybe he’d been drinking, not paying attention to what he was doing. It happens. But if not, if it was more deliberate, well, then you know what that means.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you might be called on to solve another murder case.”

  Candy gave her friend a wary look. “You really think that could happen again? After what took place over at the Whitby estate last year? I thought we were all finished with this sudden-death business.”

  “Maybe it’s a whole new business, something completely different,” Maggie said thoughtfully. “Maybe Mick was involved in something we don’t know about. Maybe he’s got gambling debts or something like that. Maybe he was blackmailing someone and they retaliated. Or maybe someone was blackmailing him. Who knows? It could be anything.”

  She paused, a look of uncertainty crossing her face. “Or maybe I’m just overreacting. But you can’t blame me for being skittish these days, can you? After the murder of our best man last year almost caused us to postpone our wedding?”

>   “No,” Candy said honestly, “of course I can’t. You’re entitled to your concern. We all are. And it’s not entirely misplaced. There’s something strange going on here.”

  “Amen to that. So, just to be clear, you’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking, right? That it wasn’t accidental?”

  Candy shook her head. “I’m not sure I know what to think at this point.”

  “Then maybe you should do what you do best,” Maggie said. “Dig around. Ask a few questions. See what you can find out.”

  Candy arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been warned against doing anything like that, remember?”

  “I remember. But that’s never stopped you before, has it?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” Candy reluctantly admitted.

  Maggie turned and eyed her friend as a knowing smile crept across her face. “I’m surprised curiosity hasn’t got the best of you.”

  Candy eyed her right back. “Who says it hasn’t? I am curious to know what happened to him.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  “The problem is,” Candy continued, “it could be nothing, or it could be something. If it’s nothing—if it really was just an accident—then that would be tragic enough. But if it’s something—if it was premeditated, for instance—then I have to figure out what happened to him. And a good place to start is with the people inside that building.”

  Both their gazes were now focused on the new community center in front of them. “That’s a pretty formidable crowd in there,” Maggie warned her. “I’d be hesitant to disturb them while they’re in the middle of their deliberations. But that’s just me. You have family in there, so you have a reason for going in.”

  For a moment, at Maggie’s cautionary note, Candy was torn. But she knew what she had to do. She sighed. “You’re right about that crowd. They’re formidable, all right. But I have to find out what’s going on in there, no matter what the consequence. See which way the winds are blowing, if they’ve heard anything important. So . . . wish me luck.”

  “Good luck. Just take care of yourself.”

  Candy looked over at her. “You’re not coming along?”

  Maggie held up both hands in a defensive gesture. “No way. I’m not getting into the middle of that crowd. But I’ll be right here, backing you up every step of the way, and holding down this spot right here, in case you need to make a fast retreat.”

  “Thanks—I feel so much better knowing you have my back.”

  “Hey, that’s my job—being your sidekick.”

  “And you do it very well. So, I guess it’s up to me then.”

  “I guess so.”

  Candy took a deep breath and focused on her destination. “No point putting this off any longer, is there?”

  “No point at all,” Maggie agreed.

  Candy nodded, and without another word, she started toward the building.

  SEVEN

  She was a little surprised to find the main doors unlocked. For some reason, she thought all the villagers gathered around had been kept out of the building on purpose—locked out, to be honest, though she wasn’t sure where she’d picked up that impression. But any one of them could have entered the building at any time. Just walked right in.

  Apparently, they’d made a conscious decision to stay away and uninvolved, possibly out of a sense of self-preservation, until an official announcement of some sort was made.

  Smart people, Candy thought.

  Her, not so much.

  She still wasn’t sure she wanted to enter the building herself. It felt as if she were walking into a lion’s den—an idea she didn’t relish. She had no idea what to expect from those inside, how riled up they might be. They might not welcome an intruder like her. They might even become antagonistic toward her.

  But, she told herself again, it had to be done. With what she’d learned earlier about the sap thief and the red vehicle seen from the woods, and now with the body of a red truck owner lying not too far away, supposedly fished out of the river, she felt she didn’t have a choice. The links were too suspicious. The timing was suspicious. The whole thing was suspicious. Her instincts were humming.

  The right-side door creaked a little as she opened it. She winced at the sound but didn’t let it stop her. Inside, the building was dark and cool, with the lingering smells of old wood, varnish, and sawdust still hanging about. Tomorrow, when the pancakes and syrup were flowing, it would be a completely different aroma, she thought.

  She stood for a few moments just inside the door, and almost immediately heard the voices. There were a lot of them, from the sound of it. Talking excitedly, some faster or louder than others, sometimes over one another. Some sounded exasperated. Some sounded like they were having trouble remaining civil. Most of the voices she could already identify. It sounded like battle lines were being drawn. And she could pretty much identify who would be on either side.

  Great, she thought, and gave herself a final chance to back out while she could. But she knew she couldn’t do that, so she steeled herself as she started forward.

  Maggie had been correct. There were nine of them in all, gathered in one of the more shadowed areas of the main floor, in a narrow space on the left side of the stage. They’d formed themselves into a rough circle, though a few stood on the outskirts of the main group. Some of them she could clearly make out in the half-light as she approached. Others, she couldn’t quite identify yet. But she could hear them, as she wound her way around and between the tables and chairs set up on the main floor.

  “It’s a mistake to go on with this fiasco,” said one of them, a stiff, stern-voiced woman, in a disapproving tone that silenced the others. Candy immediately recognized the speaker as Elvira Tremble, of the Heritage Protection League. Elvira had roots in town that went back generations, and had some influence in local affairs, so the others around the circle gave her a few moments to speak her mind unchallenged.

  “It would send the wrong message, and could ruin the town’s reputation,” Elvira continued, taking advantage of the end of the cross talk. She stood straight-backed, with her hands clasped firmly in front of her, as if she were a school principal addressing a classroom of rowdy students. “We should postpone any grand-opening celebration of any kind for as long as necessary—certainly at least a week or two, though a month or more would be best, until this unfortunate matter sorts itself out.”

  Her league companion, Cotton Colby, jumped in to voice her support. “Elvira’s right,” said the nicely dressed dark-haired woman with a firm nod of her head. “I’d find it highly inappropriate to proceed with today’s opening event, after what’s happened outside. Besides, I’ve been skeptical about this whole thing from the beginning. This building has historical significance, you know. It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Everyone’s well aware of the building’s historical significance, Cotton,” said an older male in a placating tone—obviously my father, Candy thought, doing his best to sound the voice of reason, though she detected a hint of frustration in his tone. “Every move we’ve made with this place has been properly vetted. You know that. You were involved with it. We’ve considered everyone’s reservations, and done our best to accommodate everybody’s wishes. It was a community effort, in every way possible. This is a place for the community. A lot of people contributed valuable time and effort toward getting it fixed up, and there have been a few hiccups, but it’s done and we’re finally ready to show it off.”

  He paused as he pointed toward the front of the building. “Now, we’ve got a lot of good people standing around out there, wondering what the heck’s going on. They’re just as invested in this place as we are. There’s no harm in letting them come in, take a look around, and see what we’ve been up to. It’s the least we can do. And we can keep everything toned down out of respect for the recently deceased.”

  “No point in postponing it
now, after all the work that’s been done,” piped in Bumpy Brigham.

  Finn Woodbury spoke up. “Plus, we have to remember that we have a pretty big weekend coming up, starting tomorrow morning, and we’ve got a lot of tourists flocking into town.” He whirled a finger above his head. “This building and the pop-up pancake house operation we’re about to open here are supposed to play a big part in the weekend’s festivities. The tables and chairs are set up, dishware and utensils are ready to go, we’ve stockpiled all the flour, sugar, and syrup we need, and the fridges in the back are loaded up with butter, eggs, and milk. The griddles and skillets are standing by, ready to be greased up. We’ve got cooks and servers lined up to help out all weekend. If we call off this thing at the last minute, there’s going to be a lot of wasted food and a lot of disappointed folks around town.”

  Elvira snorted. “You’re talking about food at a time like this? Pancakes and eggs and syrup? For goodness sake, Finn,” she hissed, “a man’s dead!”

  “And I’m sorry about that,” Finn responded, standing his ground against Elvira’s scorn. “I really am. But maple syrup is the lifeblood of this community at this time of year. You know that. It’s part of the region’s heritage.”

  Elvira frowned at this obvious attempt to verbally step on her toes, as she’d cofounded the Heritage Protection League. But before she could come up with a snappy rebuttal, Artie Groves spoke up, hoping to change the topic in an effort to head off a confrontation.

  “Speaking of heritage stuff,” he said, “we have that educational thing going on all weekend. We’re going to set up a boiling demonstration out on the side lot, fire it up, show folks how we turn sap into maple sugar, talk to the kids about the history of sap collection. Only now . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Mick Rilke was going to help us set that up,” Doc finished for him, addressing the group. “Of course, now that he’s gone, that part of our weekend festivities is up in the air.”

  “This whole thing is up in the air,” declared Elvira.