Town in a Maple Madness

by B. B. Haywood

  “So are you going to rebuild?” asked Bumpy, nibbling on a large slice of pie with a dollop of homemade whipped cream on top.

  “Well, that’s what I’ve been wondering,” Neil said, looking at all the faces around him in the kitchen. His head was still bandaged, though not as heavily as the first day or two after the injury, and he was starting to get some color back in his normally weathered face. He was expected to make a full recovery. “I’m not sure I have the heart for it anymore, after all that’s happened.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” Doc said, nodding his head. “You had a lot wrapped up in that place—a lot of your boyhood. Hard to replace what you’ve lost.”

  “Right,” Neil said, “so I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s time to start something new.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Candy asked. She sat at the table across from him, perched on her chair, listening intently.

  Neil leaned forward and put his arms on the table, hands clasped in front of him. “Well, this might sound strange,” he said, “but I’m thinking sheep.”

  “Sheep?” echoed Bumpy.

  “Yeah, I had a flock in Vermont and, to be honest, I miss having them around. Maybe even a few alpacas too. Their wool would bring in some extra income, which would make up for the loss of maple syrup sales, and they’d give Random some company.”

  Random’s ears perked at the mention of his name.

  Candy liked the idea. “We could start weaving,” she said. “I noticed an abandoned loom down in the basement at the Milbrights’ place. I might ask Hutch about it—though I think I’ll wait a few weeks, give him a little space before I approach him again.”

  “Smart idea,” Neil said. “And there’s more. I’ve been thinking of switching the greenhouses over to herbs and organic plants—lavender, chamomile, basil, echinacea, that sort of thing. Ginseng, which I’ve heard can be pretty profitable. Maybe even organic peppers and gourmet mushrooms. I have a friend who’s starting up a natural tea company. He said he’d buy just about anything I can grow, and I can sell the rest to Chef Colin down at the inn, and to a few other restaurants in town. I’ve even toyed with the idea of trying African violets and heirloom roses at certain times of the year.”

  Candy was impressed. “A major makeover then,” she said.

  Neil nodded. “As far as I can tell, there’s not much competition around here for that sort of thing. Hopefully I won’t disrupt anyone else’s revenue streams or anything crazy like that.”

  “Well, that’s mighty neighborly of you,” Doc said with a nod of acknowledgement, “and, of course, you know we’ll help out any way we can.”

  “I’m counting on it,” said Neil.

  The conversation turned then, and several of the folks in the kitchen moved into the living room as the local news came on the TV, to see if they could catch the latest details about Ginny Milbright. She was currently in the county jail, but was about to be transferred to a women’s correctional facility near Augusta.

  As a TV reporter standing in front of the prison began to tell Ginny’s story, everyone crowded into the living room to hear what she was saying—except Candy and Neil. They found themselves sitting at the kitchen table, together, just the two of them, as twilight settled quietly over the blueberry fields outside the kitchen window. Random rested under the table at their feet.

  “So,” Candy said, breaking the silence, “it sounds like you have big plans then.”

  “I guess I do,” Neil said. “I always do. But I’m beginning to think, well, I don’t think I can do it alone anymore.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “I know this might sound sudden, but like I said in the hospital, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I’ve been thinking, well, maybe we can do it together. You and I.”

  “You have?”

  He nodded. “There’s a lot we can do at the berry farm. And we can do a lot here at Blueberry Acres too. We can build that farm stand you’ve been talking about, and another hoophouse. Maybe we can join some of our operations together. Share some resources.” He paused, then added almost shyly, “Share our lives.”

  With his other hand, he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a small black velvet jewelry box. “This was my mother’s,” he said. “I’ve been saving it for years, waiting for the right person. Well, I think I’ve found the right person.” Releasing her hand for a moment, he opened the case and took out an antique engagement ring, which he held in the fingers of one hand. With the other, he took Candy’s hand in his again.

  He straightened himself, took a breath, and asked, “Candy Holliday, will you marry me?”

  Candy could feel the emotions well up inside her. She looked at Neil’s damaged face, into his gray-green eyes, and saw a future there. She saw not only a partner, but a friend, a companion, a lover. Someone to share laughs and memories with. Someone to grow old with.

  She’d thought of this possibility, of this moment, at fleeting times over the years, when her hand had brushed against his, or when she watched him laughing as he played with Random, or when he was simply staring at the stars with her, neither of them saying a word.

  It was time, she thought, for her as well as for him. It was time to move on with their lives, to take the next step together. Only a small part of her hesitated, a small uncertainty at leaving behind a life she’d known so long, as a single woman. But she also knew she was ready to try a relationship again.

  “Well,” said a voice behind her impatiently, “are you going to give him an answer or not?”

  Candy turned and saw her father standing behind her in the doorway. And everyone else was peeking around him as well, eavesdropping, expectant looks on their faces, curious to hear the conversation going on in the kitchen, the TV reporter forgotten.

  Candy turned back to Neil. He was smiling at her, waiting for an answer as well.

  Random jumped up then, sensing something of import was about to happen, and he obviously didn’t want to miss it. He crossed to Candy and nuzzled her hand, and she reached down and gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. “Well, Random,” she said to him, “what do you think I should do?”

  But she already knew. She only had to look into his eyes—and into Neil’s.

  “The answer,” she said, “is yes! Of course!”

  And as they both rose, leaned across the table, and kissed, those gathered around crowded in with cheers, applause, backslaps, and congratulations. And Random barked joyfully.

  RECIPES

  The Black Forest Bakery’s Chocolate Maple Brownies

  Serves 12

  ⅓ cup butter or shortening

  2 ounces baking chocolate

  1 cup sugar

  1 teaspoon pure maple extract

  2 eggs

  ¾ cups flour

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

  Grease one 11-inch-by-8-inch rectangular baking pan or 8-inch-by-8-inch square pan.

  In a medium saucepan, over low heat, melt ⅓ cup butter or shortening. Stir constantly.

  Add the chocolate and stir until melted and blended.

  Take the pan off the heat.

  Add the sugar and maple extract. Stir well.

  Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition.

  Add the flour and salt, mix until blended.

  Pour into the greased pan.

  Bake for 30 minutes.

  Melody’s Maple Banana Bread

  Serves 8

  3 bananas, mashed

  ½ cup sugar

  ½ to ⅔ cups maple syrup

  2 eggs

  2 teaspoons maple extract

  ½ cups chopped walnuts (optional)

  2 cups flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

&n
bsp; ¼ teaspoon salt

  Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

  Grease a loaf pan with butter or shortening.

  In a large bowl, mix the mashed bananas and the sugar.

  Add the maple syrup and mix.

  Add the eggs one at a time, mixing after each.

  Add the maple extract and mix.

  Add the walnuts and mix.

  Add the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt a little at a time, mixing after each addition.

  Pour batter into the greased loaf pan.

  Bake for 60–70 minutes until a wooden pick inserted in the center comes out clean.

  Cool and remove from the pan.

  Doc usually devours this bread within minutes! Enjoy!

  Lightkeeper’s Inn Maple Glazed Carrots

  Serves 4

  12 medium carrots

  2 tablespoons butter

  ¼ cup maple syrup

  In a medium-sized saucepan filled with water, bring the water to a boil.

  Clean 12 carrots.

  Cut the carrots in 2-inch–3-inch lengths.

  Put the carrots into the boiling water and cook for 10–12 minutes, or until tender.

  While the carrots are cooking, melt the butter in a small saucepan.

  Add the maple syrup to the melted butter and cook over low heat for 2–3 minutes.

  When the carrots are cooked, drain the water out of the pan.

  Add the glaze mixture to the carrots and mix.

  Place in a serving dish or on a plate, serve hot.

  Melody’s Cafe’s Maple Drop Cookies

  Makes 8 dozen bite-sized cookies

  ¾ cup maple syrup

  ½ cup sugar

  2 eggs

  1 cup sour cream

  2 tablespoons melted butter

  2 teaspoons maple extract (vanilla can also be used)

  2½ cups flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

  Grease one cookie sheet.

  In a large mixing bowl, mix the maple syrup and sugar together.

  Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each.

  Add the sour cream and mix.

  In a small saucepan, melt the butter. When the butter is melted, add it to the bowl and mix well.

  Add the maple extract (or vanilla). Mix well.

  Add the flour a little at a time, mixing after each addition.

  Add the baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Mix well. The dough is a bit sticky, and that is fine.

  Drop by small teaspoonfuls onto the greased cookie sheet.

  Bake for about 8 minutes or until firm-looking and golden brown on the bottoms.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  TOWN IN A

  STRAWBERRY SWIRL

  Available from Berkley Prime Crime!

  She felt like a fly suddenly caught in a spider’s web.

  She backed away, putting some distance between herself and the body, and froze there. She had to take a moment to think, to consider her options—though with all the thoughts racing through her brain, it was difficult to make sense of any of them.

  Her first instinct was to flee, to extricate herself from this situation as quickly as possible. She could leave the body where it was at and simply walk away. Drive back to her office, go about her business as usual, pretend none of this had happened. And try to forget what she’d just seen.

  She hesitated, though. That was the most attractive choice, but was it the right one?

  She could approach the body, put a finger to its wrist and neck, check for a pulse and breathing. But she knew there was no need. From where she stood, the damage looked fairly severe. She wasn’t a doctor but she didn’t have to be. She averted her eyes, not wanting to look too long, lest it give her nightmares for the rest of the week.

  She shifted, maintaining tight control of her emotions. This wasn’t the time to panic.

  Her eyes fell on the probable murder weapon lying not too far away on the dirt floor of the hoophouse. She dwelt on it for a long moment as her gaze narrowed. Something about it scratched at her senses, making her feel uneasy, but she couldn’t determine what it was. She was tempted to take a few steps closer for a better look, but she remained firmly planted to the spot upon which she stood. She was afraid to move a muscle.

  The proper thing to do, of course, would be to call the police and report what she’d found. But she dismissed that idea almost instantly. Warning bells were going off inside her brain, almost physically ringing in her ears. Something about this whole scene was wrong. It looked set up—manipulated. How and in what way, she could not tell. But there were too many unknowns, too much to absorb right now.

  She knew somehow, instinctively, that if she called the police right now, she’d wind up in jail before lunch.

  She had no idea how she’d reached that conclusion but she felt the truth of it in her bones. If the police started asking questions, she’d have no answers for them—at least, none that she wanted to share right now. They’d ask why she’d come out to the berry farm this morning, and why she’d wandered specifically out to the hoophouse. She’d have to tell them about the e-mail, and how she’d been instructed to delete it to avoid leaving a paper trail. They’d grill her about the secret arrangement she’d had with the victim, and the rumors flying around town, which would pull her in even deeper.

  It was all too messy to explain. It would make her an immediate suspect.

  No, the best course of action, she decided, was to follow her first instinct. Leave this place as quickly as possible. Get in her car, drive out of the parking lot, hurry back to town, lock herself in her office, and wait for someone else to find the body.

  She might even want to think about an alibi. Maybe she should take an early lunch, get a salad and a glass of iced tea someplace where she’d be noticed and could be seen reacting to the news in surprise like everyone else when the inevitable discovery happened.

  But first she wanted to make sure she didn’t leave any traces of her presence behind. Forensics teams could find evidence in just about anything these days—a clump of dirt, a speck of fabric, a fingernail, the tiniest hair follicle. She had to make it appear as if she’d never been here.

  She scoured the area visually, but she hadn’t touched anything that she could remember. And she couldn’t see any hairs or fibers that might have fallen off her. There wasn’t much she could do about that anyway. But there was something else she needed to address.

  She looked down at her feet. Before she left the car, she’d had the good sense to switch out her new Manolo Blahnik silver sandals for the calf-high black rubber boots she kept in the trunk, in anticipation of situations just like this. Most of her listings were residential homes in nice neighborhoods with paved driveways and concrete walkways, but she handled plenty of farms and rural properties as well. Who knew where a typical day might take her? This little unexpected side trip out to Crawford’s Berry Farm was a perfect example. Every day was different. It paid to be prepared.

  She’d bought the Manolo Blahniks at the Neiman Marcus store in Copley Square just a few weekends ago, on a two-day shopping spree in Boston to celebrate a big sale. They’d cost her seven hundred dollars. No sense ruining them tromping around a berry farm. It had been a wise decision to make the switch to the rubber boots, given the farm’s dirt pathways and occasional muddy patches, like the one she’d encountered just outside.

  But the boots left distinctive footprints. She’d have to erase them. How to do that?

  Turning, searching for an idea, she spotted an old broom that had somehow made its way out here, leaned up against one corner of the hoophouse. It looked like it had been used to clear out spiderwebs and b
rush dirt off walls and framework.

  Just what she needed.

  Forcing herself to move, she crossed to the broom and in short order swept away all her own footprints. She used the broom lightly, brushing loose dirt around, doing her best to disguise the fact that she was tampering with evidence at a crime scene. But it couldn’t be helped. It was pure self-preservation at this point.

  Once she’d finished her task, she headed outside, down the gentle slope toward the barn, doing her best to keep a low profile as she retraced her steps across the strawberry fields, dashing the broom at the footprints behind her as she went.

  Back at the car, she pulled off the rubber boots and tossed them onto the floor behind the driver’s seat. After erasing any trace of the final few footprints, she tossed the broom onto the back floor as well, making a mental note to dispose of it as quickly as possible. Still in her stocking feet, she plopped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and started the engine.

  In a few moments she’d be free and clear, but these were the tensest ones of all, with a clean escape so close and yet so far. As she closed her fingers around the leather-wrapped steering wheel, she noticed her hands were shaking. She was breathing heavily. For the first time a wave of anxiety threatened to overwhelm her and she began to feel lightheaded, but she fought it down. She swept pale blond hair back from her thin face and turned to look out the side and rearview windows as she backed up and started off.

  So far, so good. The place still looked deserted. But as she gunned the engine and started out the dirt lane toward the main road, she noticed in the distance another vehicle turning in toward the berry farm—an old pickup truck, it looked like.