Who might fit that description? Honestly, it could be any one of two dozen people she knew. Or someone she didn’t know at all. Farmers, fishermen, landscapers, teachers, tradesmen, even business people and professionals, as well as other townsfolk around the cape, and across Maine, essentially all dressed the same, casually and comfortably, usually in jeans or khakis, sneakers or boots or low-heeled shoes, fleece jackets or sweaters, often with a ball cap, knit cap, or other hat of some sort, just as it appeared the driver had been wearing. In other words, an average Mainer.
So, she asked herself, what did stick out? She racked her brain, trying to recall any distinguishing features, but nothing came to mind. She hadn’t been able to get a good enough look at the driver. She remembered things only in flashes. It had all happened too fast.
So what did she have? Not much. Too many generalities. Nothing concrete. Nothing at all.
Except for the color of the van. And its age. And its license plate.
RIP DIG.
That, at least, was something she could follow-up on, though what it might mean, she didn’t know. She assumed the RIP part might mean rest in peace, but what about the DIG?
The plate had been on an old purple van, one she hadn’t seen around town before, as far as she could remember. But then again, she saw so many old cars and work trucks everyday on the cape, she didn’t know if she’d remember if she had seen it. It probably would have just blended in anywhere it went. Other than the color, which was washed out, there wasn’t anything unique about it.
But if it did belong to someone in town, she could find out easily enough.
Still, as she turned onto Main Street and headed past Gumm’s Hardware Store on her right and the House of Style on her left, she knew one thing for certain—whatever she did, she’d have to proceed more carefully from here on. Try not to put herself into a precarious situation. But she wasn’t about to give up on her investigation, no matter what threatening moves were made against her. She’d figure out this mystery one way or another. She just needed to keep digging, keep talking to people, keep asking questions, and keep searching for that red truck.
Right now, however, she just needed to find a parking spot.
Not surprisingly, given the upcoming weekend’s activities, the improving weather, and the fact that it was a Friday afternoon, the town was busier than usual. But she managed to snag a spot in front of the general store not too far from the bakery and bookstore. She pulled the Jeep to a stop, shut off the engine, grabbed her tote bag, and locked up the vehicle before heading up the street.
Usually at this time of year, in late March, the windows of the bakery would be dark and the ovens cold, since Herr Georg, when he’d been a single man, had wintered in Florida, returning to Cape Willington in mid-May to prepare his shop for the busy summer season. But today, Candy knew, she’d find light in the windows and warmed-up ovens inside. Newly married just a year ago, the Wolfsburgers had again spent some time in Florida this winter, but they’d returned early to open the shop for the upcoming weekend’s festivities. After that, they planned to keep it open on a limited basis through April and May—four mornings during the week with extended afternoon hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays—before going full-time around Memorial Day and staying open right through the fall season.
As Candy passed the shop’s large front window, emblazoned with the words BLACK FOREST BAKERY, EST. 1988 in an Old World–style typeface, she peered inside, but she saw no one in the front of the shop, behind the counter, or around the display cases. So she walked to the front door and tried the handle. To her surprise, she found it unlocked.
With a tilt of her head, she pushed open the door, which set off a tinkling bell above her, and stepped inside.
SEVENTEEN
The aromas coming from the bakery’s kitchen in the back almost made her swoon. Just inside the door, she paused and rocked slightly on her heels, her head going back as the scents overwhelmed her. She always loved coming into this place, and every time she entered, she knew why. For the moment, thoughts of sugar shacks and tapped trees and wayward vans drifted to the back of her mind.
“Hello?” she called out, still seeing no one in the front of the shop. “Anyone home?”
She’d worked in the bakery herself several years ago, before Maggie took over for her behind the counter, so she knew her way around the place. The scents enveloping her were coming from the kitchen, so obviously that’s where all the action was taking place. She headed in that direction, but before she could push through the swinging door into the back, Maggie came through from the other side, emerging in a flurry of flour.
“Oh, there you are!” Maggie said, brushing her hands together and then wiping them on her apron. “Thought I heard someone come in. Sorry to desert you earlier while you were inside the community center, but duty called—or, rather, Georg texted me and said he needed some help.” She aimed a thumb behind her. “He’s in full-press mode. I’ve been kneading dough and running the mixers for an hour. We’ve got all the ovens fired up. He’s been baking all day.”
“So I noticed,” Candy said, sniffing deeply again. Scents of chocolate, maple syrup, and cinnamon were particularly strong. She pointed behind her. “The front door was unlocked. Are you open for business?”
“Not officially, but if someone walks in, we’ll serve them. Helps me get my fingers warmed up on the cash register. Good practice for the busy season.”
“What time are you opening in the morning?”
“Eight,” Maggie said, “until three, when we move over to the park.” Her eyes flicked to the cuckoo clock on the wall near the door. “Speaking of which, we’re still heading over there in a little while to set up the booth, right?”
“Right. That’s why I’m here.”
“Good.” Maggie nodded. “It shouldn’t take too long. Ray’s helping out, of course.” She was referring to Ray Hutchins, a local handyman, who had assisted them with his carpentry and fix-it skills numerous times in the past at the bakery and out at Blueberry Acres. “He called just a little while ago. He’s already at the park, unloading some stuff and getting everything set up for us. I just need to finish a few things here real quick and we can be on our way. You, um”—she pointed toward the kitchen behind her—“you want to try a sample of what he’s making back there?”
“Do you have to ask? Let me guess what’s on the menu. Chocolate Maple Brownies?”
“The moistest, most scrumptious, most maple-y brownies you’ve ever had in your life, I promise you that!” Maggie said, her eyes widening. “So, can I tempt you with one—or two?”
“When it comes to anything Herr Georg makes, I’m easily persuaded, as you well know,” Candy said, and she held up her finger and thumb, a short distant apart. “Just a smidgeon, though. I’m trying to watch my weight. The older I get, the harder it is to keep the pounds off.”
Maggie padded her burgeoning waistline. “You can say that again. You know what it’s like working here. If I don’t watch out, I’m going to have to buy myself a bigger apron. Keeping my girlish figure is the hardest part of the job. That, and the early-morning hours.”
“I thought you were getting used to that,” Candy said as she started moving around the counter toward the kitchen door.
“Daylight saving time,” Maggie replied, and she pulled a face. “That was hard to get used to this year. Sets my time clock out of whack. I’m still not really sure what time of the day it is anymore when I look outside. Why do we do that anyway?”
“Because, apparently,” Candy said as her phone rang in her back pocket, and she reached around to fish it out, “it saves daylight.”
“Hmm, well, there ain’t much daylight when I get up in the morning, so I’m not sure we’re saving anything,” Maggie mused as she reached the kitchen door and began to push her way through. She continued talking over her shoulder as she went. “But Georg says h
e still loves me, despite the few extra pounds and all the yawning during the day. He’s started calling me his little cupcake. Isn’t that funny? And appropriate, I suppose, since I do love cupcakes. The icing especially. It’s one of my Achilles’ heels. Of course, I’ve lost count of how many of those I have, especially working here!”
She glanced behind her with a smile, to gauge her friend’s reaction to her latest comments, but Candy had stopped in the doorway. She was studying her phone’s screen with a questioning look on her face.
“Who’s that?” Maggie asked, stopping also.
Candy shook her head. “I’m not sure. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s a local area code.” Curious, she swiped at the screen and held the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Is this Candy Holliday?” a quasi-familiar female voice asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Jean Rilke. Mick’s wife.” She said it almost as if nothing had happened and this was a completely normal day, though Candy detected a slight hitch in the other woman’s voice.
“Oh, of course! I should have recognized your voice. Hi, Jean.” Candy’s eyes flicked to Maggie as she instantly switched her tone to a more empathetic one. “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Mick will be greatly missed around the village. He was a wonderful person. If there’s anything I can do. . . .”
“Yes, well, that’s why I called,” Jean interrupted in a flat tone. “I wonder if you and I could speak. In person. As soon as possible.”
Candy tried not to sound surprised. “Um, well, of course. I, ah, I’m sure we can figure out how to do that.” She paused. “What would you like to talk to me about—if I may ask?”
Jean’s voice turned a little hoarse. “It’s a . . . private matter.” She cleared her throat before she proceeded. “We can discuss it when we meet. When can you get here?”
It was such a forthright request that Candy was caught off guard. Absently, she rubbed her brow and turned toward the front door, her gaze unfocused, as she considered how to respond. “Well, I’m not sure, honestly. I have a current engagement and I . . .”
Jean interrupted, and her tone was more firm now. “Candy, I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. I need your help with something and, frankly, I don’t know where else to turn.” She paused, and in a voice that sounded suddenly desperate, she added, “You see, it appears I’m being investigated by the police for the murder of my husband.”
EIGHTEEN
A few minutes later, Candy keyed off the call with a look of uncertainty on her face.
Despite Jean’s request and her revelation about the police investigation, Candy had given the other woman a noncommittal answer. Then she ended the call as graciously as possible, asking for some time to think it over.
But Maggie set her straight. “You’re going, of course,” she said after Candy filled her in on the details.
“I don’t know.” Candy was torn. “She wants to see me as soon as possible, but I was going to help you with the booth this afternoon.”
Maggie waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Ray’s on the scene. You know how he is. He probably has the whole thing assembled by now anyway. Honey, this is the widow of a dead man they just fished out of the river! She wants to see you. You have to go. We can meet at the park afterward and you can tell me everything that happened.”
Maggie was right, of course, so Candy called Jean back, told her she’d be right over, and with a quick good-bye to her friend, headed outside to her Jeep.
The Rilkes lived on the crest of a low hill, a few miles outside of town, at the end of a long stony lane that wound its way inland from the main road. Candy had driven past the lane to their house numerous times, but had stopped in here only a few times before. There was never much of a need to come out here. Mick was usually somewhere around town, in one of his two trucks. He could be flagged down if his services were required. He was often spotted at the Lightkeeper’s Inn, where he helped out with the landscaping and snowplowing, and could be seen hanging around the garden center or the hardware store or the Main Street Diner, where he favored an end stool at the counter, usually with a half-eaten doughnut or a slice of pie in front of him.
Jean, on the other hand, was a homebody who kept the place running in her husband’s absences—which at certain times of the year tended to be a lot, as Mick was often away from dawn to dusk. In the winter, from what Candy had heard through the local grapevine, Jean holed up inside the house, weaving and sewing, reading or cooking. But during the other seasons she was outside most of the time, maintaining the property’s extensive gardens and its small apple orchard. Their dog, a black Lab named Velvet, kept her company and went everywhere with her around the property. Jean showed up sometimes at community events and public meetings, where she stayed on the periphery of crowds and rarely spoke up, maintaining a watchful gaze instead. She was most sociable during harvest and canning season, since she was a card-carrying member of the village’s Putting Food By Society. But at other times of the year, and especially during the winter months, she could almost disappear, never leaving the homestead for days or even weeks at a time.
Which was why Candy had been surprised by her call. Now, as she drove up the well-kept lane, she was uncertain of what to expect.
The Rilkes’ home was a typical New Englander, a two-story white clapboard affair in relatively good condition, with a peaked tin roof, tall narrow windows, and a small front porch. Behind the house stood a windbreak of tall pine and a few thin-trunked deciduous trees, and just beyond that, a low stone wall trailed off down the slope and into the woods. Huddled next to the house, on its right, windward side, was a collection of outbuildings, including a white barn and a low-roofed garage and workshop, connected by a covered breezeway. There were a couple of smaller buildings as well, which were used for storage, Candy recalled. Today, their tiny windows were dark.
On Candy’s previous visits, Mick had done most of the talking, in part because she’d been there to interview him for various articles she’d been working on at the time. Jean had rarely spoken during those visits, and had generally drifted away after the interviews had started. They’d seen each other around town on occasion, and had acknowledged each other with eye contact, perhaps a nod, but nothing more than that. They’d never had a real conversation together. They’d never been friends, barely even acquaintances. It was obvious Mick had been the extrovert of the couple, while Jean was his polar opposite.
An odd couple of sorts, with very different personalities, but nothing really out of the norm.
Velvet, keeping a watchful eye from the side lawn, spotted the Jeep coming and was instantly on her feet, sounding the alarm. Moments later, Jean’s pale face appeared in the side door’s window. Her dark, hollow eyes followed the vehicle as it pulled to a stop, and watched as Candy hopped out of the Jeep and crossed the driveway toward the house. Jean’s face disappeared then. Candy stopped to greet Velvet, giving her a few scratches behind the ears, before climbing the stairs and knocking on the door.
“It’s open,” said a muted voice from within.
As Candy turned the handle and pushed open the door, she heard the voice add, “Let Velvet in, would you? And lock the door behind you. I don’t want anyone to walk in on us unexpected. We can talk in the living room.”
Through the half-open door, Candy saw a shadowy figure rise from a chair at the kitchen table and shuffle across the linoleum floor. On the other side of the room, the figure headed around a corner and out of view.
Candy hesitated in the doorway. Who would walk in on them? she wondered. And why such a mysterious greeting? But she didn’t think about it too much, given the circumstances, and did as the grieving widow asked. She opened the door a little wider and looked behind her. She was about to call out but didn’t have to. As if on cue, the black Lab bounded up the steps, scooted around her legs, and dashed inside, r
uffling against her jeans. Almost faster than she could follow it with her eyes, the dog zipped across the kitchen floor and dashed around the corner after Jean, also disappearing from view.
“Well!” Candy said to no one in particular. Overly cautious because of Jean’s cryptic warning, she took a final look behind her, at the driveway and yard, just to make sure no one was hanging around out there. Then, with a shrug, she followed the dog into the house.
She took a step or two inside before she stopped and turned to lock the door. It was an old lock and required some finagling to get it right. She had a feeling they didn’t lock the door much, or the mechanisms inside would have moved more smoothly. Apparently, when Mick was around, they didn’t worry much about someone unexpected walking in on them. Once it was locked, she tugged on the door, just to make sure it remained shut tight, and turned back to survey the kitchen.
She needed a few moments to let her eyes adjust to the darker interior. All the blinds had been pulled down, giving the place a sad, gloomy feel. Jean probably just wanted to block out the whole world at this point. Certainly understandable, Candy thought.
It was a large kitchen, typical of a house of its era, perhaps sixty or seventy years old. Cabinets and appliances were located along the two exterior walls, interspersed by a trio of tall windows. A small breakfast table, piled with newspapers, magazines, and unopened mail, stood to one side. Boots and sneakers were neatly lined up on mats beside the door. The linoleum floor was worn but clean. Dishes were washed and drying in a rack. A kettle had been put on the gas stove to boil.
Candy didn’t allow herself the time to look around too long. Trying to organize her thoughts, she crossed the kitchen to the dining room, where the linoleum gave way to heavily varnished old wood floorboards. All the blinds had been pulled down in here as well.
She turned the corner, where she found a short dark hallway that led toward the front of the house. Candy followed it and came to an archway on her right. Here, in the living room, she found the widow of Mick Rilke.
Town in a Maple Madness Page 10
