TASTY TIDBITS
Rumors that Town Council Chairwoman Bertha Grayfire will wear her outrageous Dolly Parton costume (a favorite with the kids at Halloween) when she emcees the annual Blueberry Queen Pageant Saturday night are completely FALSE! (We have heard, however, that the costume has fallen into disrepair lately. You should take better care of your assets, Bertha!). . . . My spy tells me that Melody’s Café, that new restaurant up on River Road, is doing a booming business. The lobster rolls are supposed to be absolutely scrumptious! (Don’t tell the tourists, though, or I’ll never be able to get a seat!) My spy’s only request—better desserts, please! . . . Official Judicious F. P. Bosworth sightings for the first two weeks of July—Visible: 9 days—Invisible: 5 days. Sounds like Judicious has been out enjoying this glorious Maine summer weather! Be sure to pass on Judicious sightings to the Grapevine for future publication!
ONE
Candy Holliday was standing at the kitchen sink, cleaning up after making another batch of blueberry pies, when she looked out the window and saw Doc’s old pickup truck rattling up the dirt driveway way too early. Curious, she glanced at the clock on the wall over the kitchen table. Usually he wasn’t back home until ten thirty or eleven, preferring to linger over his coffee cup as long as possible. But here he was at a little past nine.
She knew right away something was up.
The kitchen wasn’t Candy’s favorite place to be; she had never considered herself much of a domestic sort. She would rather be outside, tending to her chickens, fiddling around in the barn, taking care of the gardens, or walking the fields behind the house. But when you had a blueberry festival to prepare for, you did what you had to do.
So to stay out of her way (or perhaps just to avoid the chores that always seemed to need doing around the farm), her father, Henry “Doc” Holliday, had gone into town that morning for coffee and donuts with “the boys”—William “Bumpy” Brigham, a barrel-chested semiretired attorney with a deep passion for antique cars; Artie Groves, a retired civil engineer who now ran a bustling eBay business out of a cluttered office over his garage; and Finn Woodbury, a former big-city cop who had segued into small-town show business, serving as producer for three or four community theater projects each year, including the annual musical staged at the Pruitt Opera House on Ocean Avenue. They were golfin’ and jawin’ buddies, all in their mid- to late sixties, who spent their Friday nights playing poker as though it were a religion and could be found most weekday mornings holding court in the corner booth at Duffy’s Main Street Diner. These freewheeling breakfast gatherings, where the latest headlines, rumors, gossip, and sports stories were chewed over like well-cooked bacon, were as addictive as coffee and salt air to Doc, who, despite his retirement, still had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge of any kind and liked to keep his finger tight to the pulse of his adopted village.
So it wasn’t surprising he heard the latest shocker before Candy did.
The story had been on the front page of the morning paper, of course, but Doc always took that with him to the diner. Candy only got it around lunchtime, after it had been well pored over and thumbed through, and smartly decorated with coffee rings and swaths of smeared donut icing. And she could have switched on the TV and gotten the story that way, but for the past few days she had been too busy to waste time sitting in front of the tube. Anyway, TV watching was a winter activity around Cape Willington, Maine, where the Downeast summers were short and glorious, and so had to be enjoyed to their fullest. That meant being outside as much as possible, letting the sensual warmth squeeze the chill completely out of one’s bones before winter set in again with its unrelenting timeliness.
Candy wasn’t outside today, though. It was the day before Cape Willington’s much-anticipated Forty-First Annual Blueberry Festival, and she had been in the kitchen since six thirty that morning, making last-minute preparations. She still had way too much to do, and now here was Doc, distracting her when she had no time for distractions.
He pulled the truck to a stop in a cloud of roiling dust; it had been a wet spring but a dry summer so far, causing them both to worry, what with the crop and all. But the upper atmosphere patterns were changing, according to the weatherman, who promised rain in the next week or so, possibly as early as next Tuesday, which could salvage this season’s harvest. But she guessed Doc wasn’t here to talk about the weather.
He jumped out of the truck, slamming the door hard behind him, and walked with a determined gait into the house, his limp barely slowing him down. He managed to find his way into the kitchen without tripping over any of the baskets and boxes that littered the floor. With a dramatic flourish he laid the paper out on the countertop, front page up. “Have you heard?”
She gave him a confused look and shook her head. “Heard what?”
Doc jabbed with a crooked finger at the paper’s front page. “They announced it this morning. It’s all over the TV and newspapers.” He paused, then said in a low breath, “It’s Jock Larson. He’s dead.”
TWO
“Dead?” At first Candy wasn’t sure she had heard what she thought she had heard. Maybe her ears weren’t working right. She almost smiled, thinking Doc was just playing with her, as he sometimes did. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “’Fraid not, pumpkin.” His face was stern; there was no trace of a smile to indicate a joke. “Jock’s gone, that’s for sure.”
Candy felt a chill go through her that made her think of winter’s coldest day. Suddenly hushed, she asked, “What happened?”
Doc started to speak, but his voice was low and hoarse. He paused, took a moment to clear his throat. Obviously the conversation at the diner that morning had been more spirited than usual. It must have been quite an event. The boys are probably in a frenzy, Candy thought. The whole town probably is.
Her next thought was, This is big news. I’ve got to call Maggie.
Gathering himself, his voice grave, Doc said, “Well, the information’s still pretty sketchy. But what’s clear is that sometime late last night, Jock took a nosedive off a cliff up on Mount Desert Island—”
“Oh my God.” Candy’s hand went to her mouth.
“—and fell to the rocks below, or at least that’s the official version. He must have landed hard. Probably killed him instantly.” Doc paused. “I’ve seen those rocks. I was up there just a few weeks ago.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, at some point during the night, his body must have rolled into the water and drifted out to sea. But the tides brought it back in this morning. He washed up on Sand Beach sometime around daybreak. Some elderly tourist up from Maryland found the body. Gave her quite a shock, too, or so I’ve heard.”
“Dad, that’s awful.”
Doc Holliday nodded. “Yeah it is.” He shook his gray-haired head. “This whole thing seems so unreal. I guess it’s just hard to believe he’s really gone. It sure is going to shake up this town, though.”
Falling into silence, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed and head bowed, and for the first time in a while Candy took a good look at her father. The crags on his face seemed deeper, his dark brown eyes more guarded. His clothes were as rumpled as ever, though, hanging loosely on his frame. He had never been a burly man, but he seemed thinner these days, though not frail. He was getting stronger again, she realized, after years when it seemed he would never fully recover. Despite his efforts to conceal the truth with his humor, the death a few years ago of Holly, Doc’s wife and Candy’s mother, had hit him hard, and it had taken him a good while to recover from the loss. In the end it had taken a major change—retirement from the university and the purchase of a blueberry farm in a small Maine coastal village, at the strong urging of his daughter—to help him start his recovery. The farm, his life’s dream, had become his raison d’etre, keeping him busy and giving him purpose. He started writing again, beginning to fill the hollowness inside him with books and research and activity and friends. And he had quickly adopted this community
as his own, taken its people into his heart, its history into his bones.
Now the town’s loss was his loss. And it seemed to draw him back just a little into the funk he had worked so hard to pull himself out of.
Still, Candy thought, he and Jock had never been good friends. Come to think of it, they had disliked each other. A lot.
It was all because of that parking spot, Candy recalled. She hadn’t lived here then, hadn’t yet pulled herself out of the downward spiral in which she had, for a time, floundered herself. But she had heard the story from Maggie Tremont, her best friend in town.
Jock (Maggie had told her) was like a god around Cape Willington. That might have been an overstatement, but it was hard to deny that Jock had put the place on the map, given it a face to the rest of the world. If nothing else, he had been for decades the town’s adventurous soul, its favorite son—though a somewhat immoral and often arrogant one, filled with the juice of life. He was not shy to claim his privilege, whatever that might be. For the past few years, that privilege extended to a primo parking spot in front of Duffy’s Diner every weekday morning and at around noontime, when Jock stopped in for a cheeseburger and a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup. New in town and unaware of the etiquette that followed Jock around, Doc parked in that spot one morning and had promptly been warned by both Dolores, the waitress, and Juanita, who worked the counter. Doc listened but hadn’t moved his car; he wasn’t about to play that game.
When Jock walked in, stomping about and complaining loudly that his parking spot had been taken by some blasted out-of-towner, and that he had been forced to park almost a half block away—an inconceivable affront to his quasi-celebrity status—Doc calmly assumed responsibility and then proceeded to tell Jock, to the horror of all in listening range, that the parking spots in town were for the general public, available on a first-come-first-served basis, and that it was foolish and downright undemocratic to assume they could be reserved for any one individual. With that, he paid his check and left, leaving stunned diners and a sputtering, disbelieving Jock in his wake.
Once they got off on the wrong foot, it had never been set right. Jock took to getting up extra early so he could get to the diner before anyone else to claim his spot, and Doc let him have it, ambling in at his usual time, around eight. Jock usually sat at the counter, so Doc opted for the corner booth. Jock had his friends, so Doc found others. After that first meeting there had been few words between the two, and there had never been any overt confrontation, but it was clear they rubbed each other the wrong way.
So why was Doc so upset now?
With a start, Candy realized there was more to the story, something he hadn’t told her yet. She could see it in his eyes now; somehow she had missed it earlier, or misinterpreted it. Her mind lurched off in a different direction as she thought back over what Doc had said. . . .
He took a nosedive off a cliff and fell to the rocks below . . . or at least that’s the official version. . . .
She shuddered as she was struck by a horrendous thought.
“Dad . . . was it an accident or . . . did he jump?”
Doc’s gaze shifted toward her. “Suicide?”
Candy had the impression he was ready for the question but still held something back. She pressed on. “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? Unless he was just trying to dive in. You know—doing something crazy. Maybe he had a few drinks in him and took it as a challenge.”
Doc shook his head. “Jock pushed the limits, but he wasn’t crazy.”
“Well, then he either fell by accident . . . or he jumped.”
But Doc wasn’t buying it. “That doesn’t make any sense. Jock was treated like a god around here. He never had a care in the world—got everything he wanted. No, pumpkin, I don’t think he jumped. I think the real question is, did he fall . . . or was he pushed?”
THREE
“Pushed? You mean he was . . . murdered?”
Even as the words left her mouth, Candy realized she wasn’t completely surprised. For years Jock had gotten away with murder—of an entirely different kind, of course. He had been a fifty-five-year-old “bad boy,” tooling around town in an old Cadillac convertible in the summer, chasing women with little discretion, and behaving more like a teenager than a mature adult. That made Candy smile inwardly, for maturity was not a word one would have used to describe Jock Larson. Everyone in town knew he pushed his luck too far—and now luck had pushed back.
Doc reacted to her question with an arched eyebrow and a scowl, a look he had perfected over the years with his students. “When you put it like that, it sounds absurd, doesn’t it?” He dug into his back pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at his face, then blew his nose. “Blast, it’s getting humid again. Too damn warm for Maine, that’s for sure.”
He crossed to the cupboard with a slight limp—a remnant of a biking accident long ago that still hitched up once in a while and bothered him—took out a glass, and walked to the fridge, a thoughtful expression on his face. “As crazy as it might sound, though,” he said as he opened the freezer and scooped up a handful of ice, which clinked noisily into the glass, “it makes the most sense.”
“More sense than an accident . . . or suicide?”
Doc closed the freezer door with his elbow and opened the lower door, then stood staring into the fridge for a moment. “What happened to the lemonade?” he asked finally.
“You drank it last night.”
“You didn’t make up a new batch?”
Candy raised her arms to the room. “Look around, Dad. I’ve been kinda busy today.” She paused, letting out a huff. “Besides, we’re out. I’ve got it on the grocery list.”
Doc sighed audibly, closed the fridge door, and walked to the sink, filling the glass with water. The cubes cracked and popped loudly.
People who didn’t know much about Doc assumed that, because of his nickname, he was a medical doctor, and he rarely corrected that misconception. “Let them think what they want,” he often said with a shrug. Truth was, he had taught ancient history for more than thirty years at the University of Maine at Orono, up near Bangor, after receiving his doctorate from the University of Pennsylvania. He was a careful, thoughtful, studious man who loved nothing more than to close himself up in his office and delve into the mysteries of history to try to understand the motivations of those who had shaped the world centuries ago, for better or worse. And though he often said he would have been better off had he been born into one of those ancient eras he loved so much, he was no less fascinated by the motivations of those who went about their lives in the modern age. “Technology changes,” he often said, “but people don’t.”
He took a long drink of water, then tilted his head thoughtfully, as if he had just heard Candy’s question. “Suicide doesn’t make any sense,” he said after a moment. “Not when you think about it. It just doesn’t seem like something Jock would do, does it? He wasn’t the suicide type.” Doc shook his head as he swirled the glass lazily, mixing the tap water and ice cubes. “No, it just doesn’t seem like something Jock would do.”
“Why? Because he was too arrogant to kill himself?”
“Bingo.” Doc’s finger shot out to emphasize the point. “No one believed the hype about Jock more than Jock himself. He was a cult figure around here—though I’ll admit he turned into a caricature of himself long ago. But no one seemed to notice—or mind much if they did—so Jock went about his life and milked his never-ending fame for all it was worth. He was good at it too. This was Jock’s town, and he was having his way with it. No, Jock had too much going on and too big an ego to throw himself off that cliff. So suicide’s out of the question—I’m sure of that.”
Candy muttered a quizzical “Hmm” and tapped at her pursed lips with her fingers—subtle actions she knew would egg her father on. This was getting interesting. “An accident then?”
Doc took another drink of water as he considered this. “Could be,” he admitted as he worked an ice cube around
his mouth, “though unlikely. For that to happen we’d have to assume that, for whatever reason, Jock—who despite his age was an accomplished athlete who still exercised regularly—was out taking a midnight stroll along an island cliff forty-five minutes from his home, got careless, stepped too close to the edge, and took a tumble.” Doc shrugged, bit into the cube, and chewed it noisily. “It just seems to go against his training and abilities.”
“But it’s possible that’s exactly what happened,” Candy pointed out.
Doc gave a nod. “Sure, it’s possible. Jock was a loose cannon who’d been known to do stupid things. Let’s assume he went hiking alone up on that cliff in the middle of the night—no one would put that past him. But what would cause him to wander too close to the edge in the first place, let alone lose his footing and fall over the side? The sky was clear last night and the moon was half-full, so there was some light up there. And he must have had a flashlight with him—he wasn’t foolish enough to take a hike in the dark. So we can probably assume he didn’t just walk off the edge of the cliff.”
“Alcohol?” Candy suggested.
“Jock drank but he wasn’t a drunk—and he wasn’t stupid.”
“Maybe he had a stroke, or maybe he was startled by a badger or porcupine that caused him to lose his footing.”
Town In a Blueberrry Jam Page 2