Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery)

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Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery) Page 13

by Haywood, B. B.


  If Lydia hadn’t killed him, then who? And why?

  By the time she’d finished and looked up at the clock, it was nearly quarter to five. Almost time to meet her father at the diner.

  Before she left, she read back through the list one more time, and frowned. There were more unanswered questions than she’d realized. Mason had told her to talk to her sources, to do some research. But the realities were harder than the expectations. She wasn’t sure where to start.

  At the beginning, she thought.

  She dug through a pile of business cards she kept on her desk, found the main office phone number for Lydia’s real estate business, and called the number. She strongly doubted she’d get Lydia herself on the phone—though you never knew. More likely, she thought, she could talk to a secretary or an assistant who could help her piece together Lydia’s schedule that day, so she could begin to work out a timeline.

  But no one answered the phone. After three rings voice mail picked up. Candy ended the call without leaving a message.

  She sat back in her chair and thought a few moments. “Okay,” she said to herself. “What’s next?”

  She checked her watch again. It was time to go, but if she hurried, she could make a quick stop on the way.

  She put her computer to sleep (a habit she’d picked up from Ben), grabbed her tote bag, shut off all the lights in the office, set the alarm, locked the door, and headed down the stairs to the street.

  The village was busy for a Thursday afternoon in late June. She started up Ocean Avenue against a fairly strong headwind that had kicked up, and through an oncoming wave of strolling pedestrians. The crowds lightened as she reached the top of the avenue, where it intersected with Main Street. She continued northward across the street and then jogged left, heading for the Black Forest Bakery. Herr Georg usually closed up the shop in late afternoon, but there was a chance they’d still be open, and she could catch Maggie if she was still around.

  The door was indeed still unlocked, and the OPEN sign still hung in the window, so Candy pushed her way inside.

  But the place was empty. No customers. No Maggie. No Herr Georg.

  “Hello,” she called out, “anyone here?”

  There was a burst of muffled voices from the back kitchen area. She heard what sounded like a quick whispered conversation. Then Maggie called out, “Be right there!”

  A few moments later she burst through the doorway, tucking in a loose shirttail and sweeping up her hair as she went. “Oh, it’s you! I thought I had a customer.”

  Candy gave Maggie a quick look up and down, then gazed through the doorway. “So what’s going on back there?”

  “Nothing!” Maggie said quickly. “Nothing at all. Herr Georg was just . . . um, just showing me how to knead the dough.”

  “Ahh,” Candy said with a sly smile, “and has he been kneading anything else?”

  Maggie mustered up her best indignant look. “I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. So are you two . . . you know . . . getting chummy?”

  “Well”—and Maggie paused to clear her throat—“Herr Georg has been very instructive. He’s taken a special interest in my skills.”

  “Hmm, I’m sure he has—and your other assets as well,” Candy said. “Anyway, I’m really happy for you two, but I have another issue to discuss with you right now.”

  “Something to do with the berry farm?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Whenever there’s a mystery around town, you’re usually at the center of it. What can I help you with?”

  Candy got right to the point. “This morning, when I stopped by for tea, you said Miles Crawford personally dropped off some fresh berries earlier in the day. Do you remember what time he was here?”

  Maggie thought about it a moment. “It would have been early. Herr Georg usually gets here around six or six thirty. But let me find out.”

  She disappeared in an instant, popping back through the doorway. Candy could hear the low murmur of voices again, and a muffled squeak, before Maggie reappeared, a carefully composed look on her face. “He says it was around seven thirty or eight. And he says to say hello.”

  “Tell him I said hello as well. Listen, I’m headed over to the diner to get something to eat with Doc and the boys. Want to join us?”

  “You know, normally I would,” Maggie said, “but Herr Georg has offered to take me out tonight. He says he knows of a quiet Italian place with soft lights and candles on the table.”

  “Hmm, I think I know exactly the place you’re talking about,” Candy said, “so have fun, you two. And guten appetit!”

  TWENTY

  Five minutes later she slipped into the corner booth at Duffy’s Main Street Diner, taking a seat next to her father. He was with his three best friends, whom Candy sometimes referred to as the “posse.” To Doc’s right, in the center of the booth, sat Artie Groves, while Finn Woodbury and William “Bumpy” Brigham were across the table. They were fishing and golfing buddies who played poker religiously every Friday night and camped out here in the corner booth for an hour or two every weekday morning, and whenever else they had a chance during the day. It was, in a sense, their collective office, where they hashed over the latest news while enjoying their favorite comfort food.

  Juanita the waitress swung by the booth to take Candy’s order and then dashed away again. The place was buzzing as usual today, given the after-work and early dinnertime crowd, but the atmosphere around the table in the horseshoe-shaped booth, which overlooked the northern end of Main Street, was uncharacteristically subdued. As Candy settled herself and tuned in to what her father was saying, she quickly understood why.

  Doc was providing an account of his trip to the police station that afternoon.

  “Took me forty-five minutes to get fingerprinted,” he said, holding up his splayed fingers and turning his hand one way and then the other so everyone could see the ink marks. “After that I talked to a couple of officers and a detective over from Augusta. I think I had to explain my story something like fifteen times. Maybe twenty. I thought we’d never finish. Anyway, they made some notes and that was about it. But while I was there, I heard they’re on the lookout for Lydia. They’re saying she’s a ‘person of interest.’”

  “I called her office a little while ago, just to see if she was around, or if anyone had heard from her,” Candy told them, “but there was no answer.”

  “She’s probably on the run,” Bumpy surmised, wrinkling his forehead. He was a barrel-chested man in his late sixties who, like Wanda, had lost a little of his winter weight, especially around his waist. To celebrate, he’d bought a few new spring shirts to spiff up his image. He wore a bright green one today. “Though if she was wise, she’d turn herself in.”

  “That’s exactly what she should do,” Finn agreed.

  “It’s the automatic fight-or-flight response,” Artie said knowingly, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his thin nose. “She must’ve got into an argument with Miles and things got out of hand, so she snapped and hit him over the head with a shovel. And then she panicked. When she realized what she’d done, she left him there and ran. Classic story. She’s probably long gone by now.”

  “Could be,” Doc said, gazing reflectively out the window. “If she’s smart, she’ll head north, where she’ll be harder to find. There’s a lot of empty land up there toward the border. Lots of places to hide out.”

  “She’s a real estate agent,” Candy said. “She could have property anywhere. Maybe she’s got a rental place that’s currently vacant where she can lie low for a while, or a camp or something like that. She could be anywhere.”

  “If they’re looking for her, they’ll find her,” said Finn, who was an ex-cop. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “What will happen when they do?” Candy asked.

  Finn let out a sigh. “It all depends on the evidence—what they found in that hoo
phouse. They’ll question her, of course, just like they did Doc. And they can hold her for a few days until they decide whether or not to file charges.”

  “I hope for her sake it’s all some big mistake,” Doc said.

  “We all do,” Finn agreed, “but whatever happened, Miles Crawford is gone. That’s going to shake up this town. He’d been out at that berry farm forever, and that strawberry patch of his is as much a part of the community as anything else. Think of the traffic he brought through here. Heck, they’re starting a whole new event that’s essentially a tribute to his product. But what happens now? This town has been buzzing about that berry farm for months, and this will only stir things up even more. Folks are going to want to know what’s happening out there, especially if they sell it and turn it into something else—something we don’t necessarily want.”

  “What about the next of kin?” Candy asked.

  Finn nodded with his whole head and shoulders. “They’re trying to locate them now.”

  “I’ve heard the same thing,” Doc said. “They were talking about it at the station.”

  “Two boys,” Candy said, remembering the contents of Sapphire Vine’s file on Miles Crawford. When she saw everyone looking at her with eyebrows raised, she explained, “I saw a photo of him today, with two teenagers and a woman I assume was his wife—or ex-wife, I guess.”

  “Must have been a really old photo,” Finn said. “He was alone out at the place for years. Now that you mention it, though, I think I do remember seeing him with his boys around here. But that was a while ago.”

  “If they do find the boys,” Artie put in, “the place belongs to them. And then the question becomes, what will they do with it? Will they keep it or sell it?”

  “Which brings us back to the shady real estate deal,” Bumpy said.

  Candy looked over at Finn. “What have you heard about it?”

  Finn had a secret source inside the Cape Willington Police Department, and sometimes found out information before it was made public. But he shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard much of anything. This real estate thing hasn’t been on their radar down at the station—so far it’s just local gossip. But now with Miles gone, they might start looking into it.”

  “Well,” Artie said, “whoever winds up with that place will be getting a valuable property. With its location and acreage, it’s got to be worth a pretty penny.”

  That piqued Candy’s interest. “How much, do you think?”

  Bumpy, who was a retired attorney and still followed local business news, shrugged. “We could be talking half a million. Could be talking a million.”

  “I heard of a place up the coast—it went for a little over four million,” Finn said.

  “Another place on the water over in Rockport went for eight,” Artie said.

  Candy whistled. “That’s a lot of cash.”

  “Good motivation for murder,” Finn said, which silenced them all for a few moments.

  “It’s all about the view,” Bumpy informed them. “They’re raising the property values of houses with scenic ocean views. It’s what everyone’s paying for these days.”

  “And the Crawford place certainly has those in spades,” Candy observed.

  Doc let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “Yeah, it’s such a darn shame, though. Miles worked really hard on that place, view or not. He had it looking good.”

  “Too bad there’s not a way we can all pitch in and keep the picking operation going through the season,” Bumpy said. “Sure hate to see all those strawberries go to waste in the fields.”

  “You hate to see any food go to waste,” Artie pointed out in a moment of levity, and Bumpy nodded in agreement.

  “I hate to see it happen too,” Doc said. “So we’ll have to see if we can do something about it. Fortunately, the fields are fine for now. The berries need another day or two to ripen anyway, so we have a little time, maybe a week, before we start losing them—as long as it doesn’t get hotter or dry out. But more berries are going to ripen for sure, and pretty fast. If we don’t catch them in time, they’ll start to rot.”

  “The fields were well picked earlier because of the Strawberry Fair,” Candy said, and thought that whatever the Fair contributed to the town, there was at least that. “They’re going to need more on the day of the Fair, but Miles made some deliveries this morning, so right now everyone seems to have enough berries.”

  “Except us,” Doc said, and his shoulders slumped forward. “I’d hoped to get a few quarts when I was out there this morning.”

  Candy patted him on the arm sympathetically. “I’m too busy to make anything with them right now anyway,” she said. “Besides, we’ll all have our fill of strawberries on Saturday.”

  “Hey look, here come the appetizers!” Artie said.

  “Just in time,” added Bumpy. “With all this talk about strawberries, I’m starving.”

  They’d ordered fried mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce, stuffed mushroom caps, and loaded potato skins, and after they’d dug in and wiped out the appetizers, their entrées arrived. Candy had opted for Maine crab cakes with coleslaw and a freshly baked corn muffin, a specialty of the diner, while Doc indulged in homemade chicken pot pie.

  Candy was almost finished with her crab cakes, and was discussing with her father whether they should share a piece of strawberry swirl cream cheese cake, when she caught Finn giving her a strange look. At second glance, she thought he was making goo-goo eyes at her. And then she thought it might have been a series of winks.

  She almost said something out loud to him, asking what he was up to, but he shook his head so subtly it was almost unnoticeable, the slightest gesture.

  She hesitated, and watched as he flicked his eyes to the right, toward the far side of the diner, and then looked back at Candy.

  He did it again.

  She finally realized what he wanted. “I’ll be right back,” she told Doc, and slipped out of the booth, headed to the restrooms at the back of the diner.

  As she expected, Finn was waiting for her when she came out. “What’s the heck’s going on?” she asked in a low tone. “Why all the strange eye signals?”

  “I needed to talk to you alone,” he said.

  Candy turned suddenly serious. “Why, what’s up?”

  Finn lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “I heard something this afternoon that’s somewhat sensitive. I didn’t want to tell the other guys because, well, I didn’t want it to get around town—at least not yet. I’m not even sure I should be telling you, but, well, you’re pretty good at solving these mysteries, so I thought it might help you.”

  “What have you heard, Finn?”

  He paused for only a moment before he continued. “Well, you were out there today, right? At the berry farm? In the hoophouse?”

  Candy nodded but said nothing.

  Finn continued, “Then you know there were all sorts of footprints around the body, right?”

  “Right,” Candy said, recalling the scene. “Some of the footprints had little flags beside them.”

  “Well, the forensics team spent several hours sorting through them all. They’ve identified some of them—most were made by Miles himself, of course. But they’ve identified one set of footprints that they’re particularly interested in. The prints were made with some type of rubber boot. Everyone around here’s got a pair—well, at least, anyone with a garden does. But these particular boots had a unique pattern on the bottom—made to stand out from the others.”

  That got Candy’s attention. “What kind of pattern?”

  Finn leaned in closer. “It’s a star pattern, on the heel,” he said. “Apparently it’s quite distinctive. They’re trying to track down the manufacturer right now. Then they can figure out where the boots might have been sold and go from there.” He paused. “They’re also starting to wonder what types of boots people around here might be wearing—people like you and Doc.”

  He let that hang in the air for a moment.
“So a word to the wise: When you get home tonight, you might want to check the pattern on the bottom of your boots. And don’t be surprised if the police come snooping around Blueberry Acres tomorrow, asking a few questions. Just thought you should know.”

  He gave her a firm nod, and headed back to the table.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Forty-five minutes later Candy walked into the kitchen of their old farmhouse out at Blueberry Acres and turned to her right, focusing in on a line of shoes beside the door, arranged neatly along the outside wall beneath a peg rack for hats and coats and, farther along, a window that looked out over the porch. They didn’t have a mudroom like many New England homes, so they made do with a series of floor mats and rugs, placed side by side along the kitchen floor. Here they kept sneakers and casual shoes, plus boots in the spring, fall, and winter, and flip-flops and boat shoes in the summer. Though Candy tried to keep control of the footwear, and shift out-of-season shoes to the back of a closet somewhere to get them out of the way, there often could be ten or twelve pairs of shoes lined up along the wall.

  Near the end of the row were a couple of pairs of black rubber boots. Even though mud season was long gone, Candy had left them out because they were still needed on rainy or mucky days, though she’d shifted to her low-cut spring boots for most of her yard and garden work.

  She glanced around. Doc was still outside, walking the property, as was his custom in the early evenings. Sometimes he walked back through the blueberry fields, toward the far ridge, and sometimes he just made a quick tour of the lower gardens. He could walk into the house at any time, especially if the bugs were biting, so she made quick work of it.

  But she needn’t have worried. Both pairs of rubber boots had patterns on the bottom, yes—pronounced rubber nubbies of a geometric design arranged for maximum grip, especially on the heels and toes. But nothing that resembled a star pattern. Not even close.

  She set the boots back down and, just to be safe, checked a few other older pairs stashed in the back of a downstairs closet. Same thing, though the boots were more beat up and the nubbies were worn down. But nothing resembling a star pattern.

 

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