She remembered the shed now. It was a low, one-story white cinder block structure with small windows, a metal roof, and a trio of industrial-sized garage doors at one end, now closed. Back behind the building were several low piles of gravel, sand, and salt. A front-end loader sat idly nearby.
It all looked so familiar. She drove past here all the time. She stopped in at the maintenance shed herself at the beginning of every winter to fill up buckets of sand for use on the lane out at Blueberry Acres. She just never knew there was a dirt road leading from the back of the parking lot and meandering out behind the properties of Neil Crawford and Hutch and Ginny Milbright.
She drove past the maintenance shed without slowing, and finally stepped on the brake when she reached the stop sign at the intersection with the Coastal Loop.
She was back at the river, she realized. It was right there in front of her again, a hundred feet or so away, down a gently sloping embankment with a few riverside houses spotted here and there along the way.
If the purple van and red truck had come through here, which way would they have gone? She knew the van had been traveling northeast when it had passed by her, but didn’t know which direction it might have turned once it reached this intersection. Same for the red snowplow truck, if it had come this way.
She looked to her left, northward. In that direction was a long, heavily traveled stretch of road that led up to Route 1. It ran past Judicious F. P. Bosworth’s place, just a little farther up the road, and eventually to the bridge, riverside cabins, and boathouse where she’d found Neil and Random.
Her head turned in the other direction. That way led past a number of just-out-of-town properties, including those belonging to the Milbrights and the Gumms, and the police station, as well as a couple of auto repair garages, a small fire station, and a few old warehouses and storage facilities, before reaching the edge of the village.
She thought only a few moments before she turned the steering wheel to the right and gunned the engine.
It was time to find out what Ginny Milbright wanted.
THIRTY-NINE
For the third time in two days, Candy drove up the lane at Sugar Hill Farm, headed toward the house, barn, and sugar shack at the Milbrights’ place.
She was surprised to find the lane wasn’t as bad as she’d anticipated, and instantly knew why. It appeared some members of the town’s maintenance crew had been out here since her last visit, probably first thing this morning. They’d laid down a new top layer of dirt and gravel, and smoothed it down nicely, filling in the ruts and puddles, making it passable for the expected heavy traffic during Maple Madness Weekend.
And when she got to the barn, where the sign welcoming visitors to the “world-famous sugar shack” still hung, she saw a decent crowd. One of the tour buses was just pulling out, headed back to town, about half filled with tourists. Visitors were milling around the place, though the vibe was more subdued than it had been over at Crawford’s Berry Farm that morning.
She parked in a spot near the barn and spent some time encouraging Random to wait for her inside the vehicle, which caused him no small amount of consternation. But she was finally able to convince him to settle, and managed to escape from the Jeep without the shaggy dog beating her out the door.
She didn’t see Ginny initially, so she checked inside the barn first. The Milbrights had set up their small retail operation in here, consisting of two old, unadorned folding tables, pushed together and topped with two dozen bottles or so of Sugar Hill Farm’s maple syrup. They appeared to have sold a decent number so far, but at the moment, the tables were abandoned, with no one to keep an eye on them.
Candy bypassed the house for the moment and next headed up toward the sugar shack on the right. It was still in operation, the sweet-smelling smoke rising in spiraling streams from its cupola. A few visitors hovered around the door or just inside, and there, talking in the midst of them, was Ginny.
Despite everything that had happened today, the woman looked composed, all business, though a little tired. Her eyes seemed to droop, her hair was disheveled, and her clothes were rumpled, which seemed natural, given the fact that she’d probably been boiling sap all day while managing the crowds and activities on the property. With Hutch gone, hauled off by the police for questioning, she’d no doubt had to take on all the responsibilities of running the place herself. But she seemed to be handling the situation well enough. She spotted Candy approaching and, after a moments’ hesitation, acknowledged her with a small, almost indistinct nod.
Candy returned the nod and hovered a discreet distance away, until Ginny finished talking to her guests. As they began to drift away, Ginny turned around, appeared to speak to someone behind her inside the building, and then, with hands thrust deep into the pockets of her worn fleece vest, she stepped out the doorway and headed in Candy’s direction.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” Ginny said in a surprisingly controlled tone as she approached Candy.
“I got delayed.” Candy said honestly. In a quieter voice, she added, “Have you heard from Hutch? How’s everything going for him?”
Ginny shrugged. “He’s having a rough time, naturally,” she said, expressionless, her mouth a straight line. “He’s been over there all day, ever since they picked him up this morning. He’s flabbergasted by this bogus accusation, of course. It’s just devastated him, that anyone thinks he could have done something like this. But he’s a big man. He can take it. And he’s been cooperating fully. We both have, of course.”
“Of course,” Candy said. “Have you heard any details?”
“Well, they’ve questioned him extensively, but haven’t come to any sort of resolution—at least, not from what I’ve heard. I was down there myself for a little while, as long as I could spare, trying to talk some sense into them, telling them they need to release him. They know Hutch didn’t have anything to do with this, but they said they’re just being thorough. Pee-shaw on that,” Ginny said, and she made a spitting motion. “It’s harassment, pure and simple.”
Candy could understand the other woman’s frustration. Her husband was accused of murder, which must weigh heavily on both of them. Plus, she’d been running the farm without Hutch on one of its busiest days of the year, working mostly in a hot sugar shack and trying to keep the customers happy at a time when she probably felt the complete opposite. It was a lot to deal with.
“How are things going here?” Candy asked, looking around.
Ginny sighed heavily and let her shoulders slump. “Not bad, but not as good as we’d hoped, given what’s happened. It’s been hectic, as you can imagine. I had to call in some help. It was too much for me to do myself, and I probably ticked off a few people and missed some sales.”
“Who’s helping out?”
“Hutch’s nephews—his sister’s boys. Nice young men. They’re just teenagers but they’ve helped out around here before. They’re old pros at this. And it gives me a break when I need it.”
Candy glanced at the sky. The sun was past its peak as they headed into mid-afternoon. Events at Town Park would be starting up soon. “How much longer are you going to stay open?”
“I think we have a couple more tour buses left,” Ginny said, checking her watch, “and then that’s it. We’ll start shutting down the boiling operation in another hour or so. The boys’ folks are picking them up at four, and then they’re going to the marshmallow roast. It should be quite a bonfire, from what I’ve heard.”
“Yes, it should be,” Candy said. “I’m headed over there myself later on, after I make a stop at the hospital to see Neil.”
“Right, Neil.” Ginny said the words flatly, as if they were distasteful in her mouth. “Speaking of which.”
Candy caught the shift in the other woman’s demeanor. “Something wrong?” she asked.
Ginny looked around, assessing the current situation. “Well,
that’s why I asked you out here,” she said, “and why I agreed to talk only to you.” She nodded toward the house and crooked a finger. “I think it’ll be better if we talk inside. I can afford to step away for a few minutes. Come on, I want to show you something.”
FORTY
The Milbrights’ house was in need of a little TLC, Candy thought as she followed Ginny into the kitchen. Unwashed dishes were stacked high in the sink. The counters were cluttered with cereal boxes, empty coffee cups, mixing bowls, pot holders, cutting boards, plastic storage containers, and other items that had not been put away. Trash was overflowing in a bin beside the door. The floor needed sweeping—and a good scrubbing. A floor mat in the entryway was caked with dried mud. And nearby sat a line of mud-encrusted boots, as well as sneakers and other types of shoes.
Candy had an urge to check the bottoms of some of those boots, to see if the patterns matched the footprints she’d seen out in the woods. But she didn’t feel comfortable doing it right in front of Ginny. It would be too obvious. Besides, the other woman was moving quickly through the house.
“It’s this way,” Ginny said, heading into a hallway on the other side of the kitchen and pulling open a beat-up wooden door. She reached inside the doorframe and flicked on a light switch.
Candy followed hesitantly, craning her head around as she looked at the door, and what lay beyond. She saw a set of rickety stairs, leading down into shadows. “What’s down there?” she asked.
“The basement,” Ginny said, with an odd look in her eyes.
“And what’s in the basement?”
“That’s what I wanted to show you.” Ginny waved a hand toward the stairs. “After you.”
Again, Candy hesitated. For some reason, alarm bells were going off in her head. “Um, okay.”
Against her better judgment, she brushed past Ginny and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, looking into the basement. The lights were indeed on down there, though they were somewhat dim. She could see a cement floor at the bottom, and some well-worn area rugs. And a bunch of junk littering the floor.
“Go ahead,” Ginny said encouragingly. “There’s nothing down there that can harm you—much.”
That didn’t help ease Candy’s wariness. She had a strange feeling the other woman was enjoying this. But she wasn’t about to back away. As cautiously as possible, and keeping an eye out in both directions, ahead and behind her, Candy started downward.
In the back of her mind, she absently wondered whether she’d ever walk back up those stairs again. But she shook it away as a ridiculous thought, and concentrated on not tripping, falling down the stairs, and breaking her neck.
A few of the steps creaked as she put her weight on them, but they all held, despite their dilapidated appearance, and she made her way to the bottom without incident. Ginny came down quickly behind her, noisily trouncing down the steps in her heavy boots.
At the bottom, Candy moved aside to let Ginny pass by. The ceiling was low, with open beams for the floor above, so Candy kept her head bent over a little, though it wasn’t really necessary. The beams were a good half-dozen inches above her head. But she bet it was a tight fit for Hutch, who was tall and bulky.
It was a typical basement in a New England home. Chilly and damp. Shadowy and a little creepy. Spiderwebs in the corners, many of them abandoned years ago, now wispy and gray. At a quick glance, Candy saw stacks of old boxes, discarded pieces of furniture, and shelves packed with items no one would ever use again, like old pots and pans, flowerpots, and last year’s Christmas wrapping paper. An old red wagon with faded paint and a homemade wooden rocking horse kept each other company off to one side. An abandoned loom sat nearby. It looked like it might have been an antique, possibly of some value, left here to rot. In one corner was a workbench with a few tools scattered on it. In another, a washer and dryer, old and rusting, were pushed together under a naked lightbulb.
“We’re going this way.” Ginny pointed, and she started off on a path through the clutter, paying it no attention and making no apologies.
A little farther along, Candy saw a pool table that looked playable. Just beyond that, the far side of the basement had been partitioned off with thin brown paneling, now slightly warped. A flimsy door in the paneling on the right side led into a room beyond.
Ginny walked to the door and turned the knob. Again, she pointed. “Hutch’s man cave,” she explained as she pushed open the door and entered. Candy followed her in.
This part of the basement, surprisingly, was fairly neat, not at all like the carnage on the other side of the door and paneling. There were decent rugs covering the cement floor in here. All the walls were decorated with posters and paintings, as she’d seen in Mick Rilke’s workshop, but while those had been mostly historical in nature, these were more oriented toward hunting, wild animals, and the outdoors. A fairly uncluttered desk sat across the room, facing them, with an oak desk chair pushed up to it. Along the wall to their left, an old tube-style TV and a similarly old stereo system perched on a long, low table near a couple of worn easy chairs. A trio of hunting rifles rested on pegs tapped into the wall to their right. And, under the hunting rifles, were a number of long wood-and-glass display cases, in relatively good shape. A gray boxy machine near the display cases gave off a low humming sound.
“A dehumidifier,” Ginny said, noticing Candy’s gaze. “Hutch likes to keep it dry down here. To protect the collection, you know.”
“The collection?”
Candy finally had an inkling of what this was all about.
“You’ve already seen one of his pieces, of course. I thought you might like to see the rest of them. Hutch is quite the knife collector, you know.”
Candy gulped. “No, I . . . I didn’t know that,” she said, then clarified, “Well, yes, I did, but I just found out a little while ago.”
Ginny nodded, as if she’d expected this. “Word getting around town, is it?”
When Candy didn’t respond, Ginny pointed to the display cases. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
There were three cases in all, each about four feet wide, well made with good wood, sitting side by side along the wall. The tops of the cases were glass, and each had its own light bar along its entire width, with separate switches, to illuminate the items on display inside. Ginny moved to the case the farthest away first.
“This is his early-history collection,” she said, clicking on the interior light and pointing through the glass. “Not a whole lot here, since relics from that era are hard to come by, and expensive. But he has an old Roman dagger that’s been authenticated, and some pieces of helmets, a spear tip, and an old belt buckle. He’s pretty proud of that one,” she said with a shake of her head. “Says it belonged to someone famous, Tacitus or Romulus or someone like that.” She waved a hand in the air and moved on, flicking one light switch off and two more on.
“The one on that side,” she said, pointing to the case on the right, while stopping in front of the one in the center, “has his more contemporary items, including some pretty expensive collectible hunting knives, many of them from around the world. He has a particular love of Russian knives, for some reason. Guess it makes him feel like a Russkie, though his family is from Scotland and Germany. And in this one,” she said, tapping on the glass top in front of her, “are his most prized items, and the largest part of the collection. Historical items from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including a number of pieces from the Civil War era. Here, let me show you.”
She grasped the edge of the glass top and lifted. It was hinged in the back end and swung open smoothly and easily, without any creaks or squeals—obviously well-oiled hinges, Candy thought. Ginny pushed the top the whole way to the back wall and latched it in place with a convenient hook. “Easy access,” she told Candy. “Hutch likes to handle his weapons a lot. Make small talk to them, clean and shine them, that sort of t
hing. He’s neater than I am, as you might have noticed. He loves these things more than me. He takes pride in them. Here, this is one of his nicer pieces.”
She took a thin, dark blue cloth lying in a corner of the case and used it to lift out an old dagger with a dark metal handle and a long, thin steel blade. “This is a woman’s knife,” Ginny explained as she held it up for Candy to see, “said to belong to a barmaid who worked in a saloon in Devil’s Half Acre back during the state’s early logging days. That’s in modern-day Bangor, you know, right along the Penobscot River. Very notorious place. Of course”—and she winked—“I use the term barmaid loosely. Women like that had to protect themselves in those days—just like they do now. Here, hold it.”
She handed it to Candy as if it were a newborn baby in swaddling clothes.
Candy hesitated a few moments, but had no choice. She reached out to take hold of the knife with both hands. “Use the cloth,” Ginny advised. “Hutch doesn’t like fingerprints on them. He’s fussy that way. Says it musses them up. Damages and disfigures the metal somehow. Personally, I think a weapon like that needs to be felt in the hand, to understand its true heritage.” She shrugged. “But that’s just me.”
It was heavier than Candy expected. Even through the cloth, she noticed right away how balanced it was, how right it felt in the hand, as Ginny had noted. She could imagine some “barmaid” sliding this into the top of her stockings before she went to work. It had a dull sheen, and its edges and tip were pockmarked and unsharpened. It no longer looked quite as lethal as she imagined it must once have. But it obviously was well taken care of, and cherished.
She handed it back to Ginny. “Very nice,” she said.
Town in a Maple Madness Page 20
