Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery)

by Haywood, B. B.

  There might be a few older pairs of boots around the house somewhere, she knew, but they weren’t in regular use. So . . . at least she could prove those star-patterned footprints hadn’t been made by either her or Doc—if it came to that.

  As she pondered what it all might mean, she headed back outside, glancing at the clock as she went. It was almost seven. Still enough daylight left for a bonfire.

  She checked the chickens, scattered some feed on the ground of their coup, carried a few eggs inside, and then returned to her Jeep, where she started unloading the boxes containing Sapphire Vine’s old files.

  Years ago, they’d made a shallow fire pit behind the barn and chicken coop, at the edge of the fields. They’d stacked a few rocks around the circular pit to keep the fires contained, and had even pulled over a few logs, in case they wanted to sit nearby while a fire blazed.

  Candy had hauled most of the boxes over to the fire pit when Doc appeared. He came out of the gathering shadows along the northern ridge, dropping down through the thick blueberry bushes, stopping to check them periodically. He finally saw her, waved, and walked over to join her.

  In the light of the lowering sun they talked for a few minutes, before Doc looked down, appearing to notice the boxes at her feet for the first time. “What are those?”

  Candy explained where they’d come from and what she planned to do with them.

  Doc had seen the files a few years earlier, sitting inside the house on their kitchen table; Candy had brought them home to examine them after Sapphire Vine’s death, before eventually taking them back to the office. “I didn’t even know they were still around,” Doc said, his eyebrows contracting.

  “I’ve kept them in a filing cabinet at the office.”

  “They’ve been there all this time?”

  Candy nodded.

  “Have you looked through them?”

  “Only a few. Now and then. Whenever I needed help with a case.”

  “So why burn them now?” Doc asked.

  “Because it’s time,” Candy said. “They’ve outlived their usefulness—and I don’t want them to fall into the wrong hands. They might still contain a few secrets that could cause trouble around town. I probably should have burned them years ago.”

  That seemed to make sense to Doc. He’d learned to trust his daughter’s instincts. “Need help?”

  Candy considered his offer, but finally said, “I only have a couple more boxes to carry over. I think I’m okay.”

  Doc caught the meaning between the words, and sensing she preferred to perform the fiery deed on her own, he left her to it with a warm pat on the shoulder. He also fetched matches for her from the junk drawer in the kitchen. “I’ll be inside. Call me if you need anything,” he said. “Maybe I’ll bring out some marshmallows when you get the fire going.”

  Once alone, she combed the yard for twigs and branches, then settled onto an old log just outside the ring of stones. Pulling over a box, she lifted the lid and began to empty it, stacking the files at her feet. In the fire pit she laid down a bed of larger branches first in a lattice-work design and covered it with a layer of pages from the files. Over that she made a teepee-shaped arrangement of longer twigs and branches to keep the pages from flying away.

  Striking a match, she lit the edges of the papers all around and leaned back as the fire sprang to life. The flames rose quickly.

  She let the fire burn for a while to establish itself, and when it was going well, she started feeding in more pages, a handful at a time, letting the flames lick at them and take them away. Sparks and charred bits of paper rose into the air, dancing on the slight breeze. She went through the first box and started in on the second.

  As the sun sank behind the tops of the trees to the west, the fields fell into shadow, and the chirping of the crickets intensified. But the smoke from the fire kept the bugs away, for the most part. She started in on the third box, watching as handful after handful of papers were consumed by the flames.

  Doc kept to his promise, and after a while brought out a few marshmallows, which they attached to the ends of long sticks and roasted. They chatted for a while, and as she started on the last few boxes, he went back inside.

  Night was close when she finally placed the final few pages on the fire and watched them erupt into flame. The longest days of the year were upon them, and the sun didn’t set until around eight thirty at this time of year. But a few clouds had bubbled up on the horizon, blocking out the sun’s fading light, and the twilight deepened.

  By the time the fire started burning low, darkness had settled around her. The crickets mellowed out as well, and the bugs dispersed. The wind calmed. She watched the glow of the fire die, until finally she rose and kicked a little dirt over it. Then she carried the empty boxes into the barn. After a last check of the chickens, she went inside.

  Doc was asleep in his chair with the TV on, set to some historical program with the volume low. She let him sleep, and cleaned up a little in the kitchen. When she took the trash out to the bins in the barn, she made a last pass by the pit, to make sure the fire had gone out.

  As she crossed back toward the house, she saw a flash of light to her left, out along the dirt lane that led to the main road. She stopped in her tracks, surprised, and watched, not sure if she’d really seen something or just imagined it.

  But there it was again, a quick flash of light that cut through the darkness.

  Two lights.

  Headlights.

  In the miasma of shadows and grayscapes beyond the well of faint illumination cast by lights on the porch and barn, she could barely make out the black outline of what looked like a vehicle—a low-slung car, parked at one side of the lane, half-hidden behind a fan of dark bushes.

  A few moments later she heard a low, raspy voice, calling her name.

  “Candy.” A pause. And again, “Candy, it’s me.”

  “Who’s there?” Candy called hesitantly into the darkness. She looked back at the house. They kept a shotgun in the broom closet in the kitchen. She toyed with the idea of going to get it but she remained rooted to the spot upon which she stood.

  Someone called her name again—a woman’s voice, she could tell this time, though still low and harsh.

  “Who are you?” she called back.

  In response, the headlights flashed again, on and off, so quick and unexpected they made her eyes burn. But this time she was able to better identify what she was seeing.

  It looked like a sports car.

  She hesitated a few more moments, wondering what to do. Finally she made a quick detour into the barn, where she picked up a hoe, so she’d have something to protect herself with if it came to that. Back outside, she took a deep breath and started walking away from the farmhouse and out toward the dirt lane and the darker shape of the car against the shadowy landscape. She heard and could vaguely see the driver’s side door swing open. A dark figure stepped out, holding a flashlight aimed down at the ground. In the pool of light, Candy caught a glimpse of very expensive-looking shoes.

  She glanced behind her. The house—and the security it offered—was receding from view. But she tightened her grip on the hoe’s handle and kept going forward, toward the car and the black-draped figure that now stood beside it, half-hidden behind the opened door. In the reflecting light from the downward-cast flashlight, Candy could make out a thin frame, bony shoulders, pale hair, and even the frames of silver-rimmed glasses and a glint of jewelry.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Candy said, stopping a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have to talk to you,” the figure said. “It’s urgent.” And she turned the flashlight upward, so Candy could see her thin face.

  It was Lydia St. Graves.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lydia lowered the flashlight, but rather than pointing it at the ground, she aimed it toward the car, moving it with a quick jerk of her hand. “Get in,” she said. “We have to talk.”

  “About w
hat?”

  “You know what. Something very, very wrong is going on around here, and I need you to help me figure out what it is.”

  Candy held the hoe across her body and stayed right where she was at. “Lydia, what’s this all about? The police are looking for you. You need to go to the station right now and turn yourself in.”

  “I can’t,” Lydia said.

  “Why not?”

  Again, Lydia flicked the flashlight toward the car. “I won’t take much of your time, but you need to hear my side of the story. That’s all I ask. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  Still, Candy hesitated. She wasn’t quite ready to get into a car with a possible murderer. “Did you kill Miles?” she asked pointedly.

  Lydia’s reaction was quick and sharp. “Of course not. It’s a ridiculous question. That’s why we need to talk.” After a few moments, she added, “I had no reason to kill him. I’m being set up. Why, or by whom, I don’t know. But I need your help figuring it out, so I can clear my name.”

  “The best way to do that is to go to the police right now,” Candy said again, “and let them help you.”

  But Lydia would not be swayed. For a third time, she swung the flashlight toward the sports car. Candy could see its black leather seats and dark walnut interior trim.

  She also spotted the tip of a black rubber boot lying on the floor behind the driver’s seat.

  Her gaze shifted back to Lydia. “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere. I just don’t want to talk out here in the open. I’m being a little cautious right now—and maybe a little paranoid, as you can probably imagine. I’ll feel safer if we talk in the car.”

  Candy still hesitated, but when she caught a glimpse of the ragged look on Lydia’s thin face, and noticed the woman’s tense stance, she finally complied. “Doc’s right up at the house,” she said. “All I have to do is yell and he’ll come running with the shotgun.” She refrained from telling Lydia that nothing short of an earthquake could wake Doc when he fell asleep in front of the TV set—and she wasn’t sure even that would work.

  She walked around the front of the car, leaned the hoe up against the side of the vehicle, opened the door on the passenger side, and climbed inside.

  Lydia followed on the driver’s side. They both pulled their doors closed.

  The convertible top was up and the windows were closed. The plush cabin enclosed them. The car smelled of leather and wood and expensive perfume, though now that they were inside with the doors closed, Candy couldn’t see much more, since the dome lights had gone out. Again, they were left only with the muted light from the house and barn.

  Lydia sat stiffly for a few moments, eyes straight ahead, hands absently gripping the steering wheel, as if she wasn’t quite sure where to begin. But finally she said in a voice so soft Candy could barely hear, “I didn’t kill him.”

  The words hung in the air between them for a few moments. Finally Candy said, “You were there, though, weren’t you? I saw you leaving the farm. You almost ran me off the road.”

  Lydia’s head swiveled toward her, though her face was lost in shadows. Only her eyes were visible, reflecting pinpricks of light. “I didn’t know it was you at first. I only realized it later, when I regained my senses and thought about what had happened. I had to hide out for a while on one of the back lanes at the farm until the coast was clear. I sat there for nearly half an hour, waiting for the right time. I thought I could make a clean escape, until I ran into you.”

  “Did you see the body?”

  Lydia was about to respond but then clamped shut her mouth and shook her head. It appeared she wasn’t ready to answer that question, at least not yet, so Candy asked another. “Where have you been all day? I called your office.”

  When Lydia spoke again, she sounded dazed. “I don’t know, really. Driving around. Hiding out on back roads and a few spots I know out in the woods. Trying to figure out who’s attempting to frame me, and why.” She let out a warbling breath, as if she was working very hard to control her emotions. “I can’t tell you what an awful day it’s been. If I had known what was going to happen out at that berry farm this morning, I would’ve stayed home. Better yet, I would’ve stayed in bed and shut off the phone.”

  “What did happen this morning?” Candy prompted. She kept her voice low and nonaccusatory. She wasn’t interested in laying blame just yet. She only wanted to learn the facts.

  “Not what you think,” Lydia said defensively. “I was lured out there.”

  “Lured? To the berry farm?” Candy couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice.

  “I was framed,” Lydia clarified. “Set up.”

  “How? By who?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out for me.”

  Candy had to think this over. After a few moments she said, “Why don’t you tell me what you do know, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Okay.” Lydia nodded and let out a few deep breaths, gathering her thoughts. “It all started this morning around eight, when I received an e-mail from Miles Crawford. He asked me to come out to his place. He said he wanted me to meet him in the hoophouse out at the berry farm at ten. He said it was urgent business. And he told me not to respond to the e-mail message he’d sent, after I’d read it, but to delete it instead, which I thought was very strange. But I complied with his requests. I deleted it and then drove out to the farm a little early. I got there about nine forty-five.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to meet with you?” Candy asked. “Do you have any idea what he wanted?”

  “Not specifically, but I figured it was because”—here Lydia hesitated a few moments before continuing—“because Miles and I had been working on a business deal together. We’d already met a few times—though never in a hoophouse, which I also thought was a little strange. But Miles could be eccentric. I thought he wanted to talk business.”

  “Ahh,” Candy said, “so all those rumors flying around town about a secret real estate deal really were true.”

  Lydia noticeably grimaced. “Yes, but not in the way you think. I’ve heard what people are saying, and most of them are wrong.”

  “Okay . . . so what’s the truth?”

  “Well, for one thing, no one wants to buy that old berry farm and turn it into some fancy resort—at least, not that I’m aware of. I have no idea how that story got started. And for the record, I wasn’t twisting Miles’s arm, trying to get him to sell the place, as some of the rumors claimed. From what I’ve heard, they’re portraying me as some sort of interloper who puts money over people, which just isn’t true. I’ve been a stalwart citizen of this community for more than twenty-five years. And just to be clear, I’m not working for some rich mysterious out-of-town client who wants to come in here and destroy the village’s atmosphere, like all these ladies are saying. That’s just ridiculous. I would never do something like that.”

  “Then who are you working for?” Candy asked.

  “Well, that’s what is so ironic,” Lydia said, “and the most frustrating part of this whole thing. Because I wasn’t working for someone else, trying to get Miles to sell his place. It was the other way around. I was working for him.”

  “Working for who?” Candy asked.

  “Miles,” Lydia said, and she looked over at Candy, the pinpricks of light in her eyes turning hard-edged. “Miles Crawford was my client,” she said. “He hired me.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Hired you?” Candy tilted her head, surprised by this revelation. “To do what?”

  “To help him sell his place,” Lydia said.

  “So he really was selling the berry farm?”

  “Yes, but—well, I don’t know the whole story. Only bits and pieces of it.”

  “Then tell me what you know.”

  “All right,” Lydia said, glancing nervously down at her watch, which was faintly luminescent in the dark, before looking up and out the vehicle, turning her head in both directions. “I can’t stay
much longer,” she added, “so I’ll be quick.” She returned her attention to Candy. “A few weeks ago, out of the clear blue sky, Miles calls me and asks me to come out to his place ‘after hours,’ was how he put it. Naturally, I was suspicious about that request, not knowing his intent. But I needn’t have worried. He said he simply wanted to meet when no one else was around, since he didn’t want rumors to get started around town. Of course, the rumors got started anyway, but that’s a different part of the story. That first night we met, Miles was all business, right from the start. He told me he wanted to hire me, as I’ve said. And I can tell you, no one was more shocked than I. He’s been out at that farm for as long as I’ve been a real estate agent. You don’t think I haven’t tried to get him to sell it a few times over the years? You don’t think I made a trek out there every time a viable client—one with a hefty bank account, that is—sought an incredibly desirable rural property with some of the most stunning ocean views in the world? Of course I approached him with the idea of selling, numerous times,” Lydia said, the exasperation she felt, even at the mere memories, coming through in her voice. “I told him he was sitting on a gold mine. I told him he could retire for the rest of his life. But he adamantly refused to consider the idea. He told me he wasn’t ready to sell, no matter the money—which struck me as odd, because we’d never discussed a price. And he said a few other things that made me suspicious.”

  “About what?”

  “I began to suspect that I wasn’t the only one inquiring about the place. To be honest, I got the feeling he was getting other offers. I discreetly asked around, to find out if any other agents from around here were talking to him, but I came up empty. However, something else was going on in the background, I’m sure of it,” Lydia said. “I just never found out what it was.”