Town in a Cinnamon Toast

by B. B. Haywood

  She stooped and scooped up a handful of the coarse, pebble-inflected sand, letting it run through her fingers as she rose. In the bright sun she could see the smaller flecks of sea glass mixed with the sand. The mixture was damp and a bit muddy, but it could be the same thing she’d seen upstairs, dried out a little . . . possibly.

  She flicked the rest away and brushed her hands together to clean them off as she walked to the far side of the beach, turned, and retraced her steps. Her gaze continually swept across the ground in front of her. At the far side she paused and sighed.

  Nothing.

  She heard the blast of a horn and looked out toward the sea. A powerboat swept past, breaking through gently rolling waters, leaving a churning white stream in its wake.

  The view beyond the boat drew her attention. From here, she realized, she could look directly across the bay to the shore of another finger of land, which stretched down from the mainland, much as the cape did. Though it was some distance away, it was a surprisingly clear day, and she could make out rocky cliffs and a few oceanfront houses on that stretch of land. One seemed to sit all by itself out by the point, near a rising, forbidding headland.

  She’d seen this view before from other spots along the shore, but for some reason it looked different today, possibly because of the light or the clarity of the air, or maybe because of the angle and the curving coastline. The view from the Keeper’s Quarters was more to the northeast, but here she was looking almost directly east, across the bay.

  The Whitby house was over there, she thought, remembering what her father had told her. It must be that last one out on the point. She squinted into the bright sunlight, holding a hand over her eyes, trying to get a better view. But it was too far away to make out much.

  She might be able to see it better, she mused, if she’d brought a pair of binoculars along with her. . . .

  Hmm, now there was a thought.

  She toyed briefly with the idea of heading back up to Julius’s car to see if the doors were unlocked, but quickly decided that was a bad idea. There’d no doubt be loads of trouble if she removed the binoculars from his car. She’d just have to bring along her own pair next time—or, better yet, drive over to that distant peninsula herself to check out the place, she thought as she headed back the way she’d come, toward the lighthouse. It rose majestically above the land before her like a giant white tapering candle.

  In a little more than five minutes she was approaching it from the ocean side, and not the landward side, where she’d be more visible. Here she was somewhat hidden behind the bank and rocks to her left. Again, she saw no one around the lighthouse or museum buildings, so she climbed the bank to the walkway that led along the lighthouse and Keeper’s Quarters. Again, she tried to appear as casual as possible, just an average person out for a morning stroll as she approached the gray-painted wooden steps that led into the two-story cottage.

  Much to her surprise, the door stood open, just as it had the night before. Curious. With quick glances in either direction, she climbed the steps, gently pushed the door farther open, and ventured inside.

  THIRTEEN

  She heard voices the moment she crossed the threshold.

  She paused, peering through the dim light, trying to figure out where the sounds were coming from. She saw no movement, could see no one around. The overhead lights were turned off, so the place looked like it might be closed, but Candy could see no sign indicating this, and there was no one behind the Long Desk on her left to inform her otherwise. So she took a few tentative steps across the worn wooden floor, gazing left and right into the other rooms, trying to get a sense of who was in here, and where.

  She heard a creaking sound above her and tilted back her head. Someone was upstairs in the archives, walking around on the old floorboards—the crime scene investigators, no doubt, and probably the police officers as well.

  They’d accessed the second floor via the wooden staircase in the exhibit room to her right. She turned in that direction, but hesitated. They would have removed Julius’s body—and the offending bottle of champagne—the night before, and were probably conducting a final search of the area. Had they found anything new? Any additional evidence? She heard only occasional fragments of hushed conversation drifting down the stairs but couldn’t make out any of the words. She sharpened her senses, trying to listen more closely, but finally shook her head. They were too far away for her to hear what they were saying, and she doubted they’d fill her in, or even allow her onto the second floor, if she headed up that way.

  But there were other voices, more prominent, though still hushed, coming from somewhere closer, on this floor.

  From straight ahead, Candy realized after a moment.

  The museum director’s office.

  Owen’s office.

  It was a small room tucked into a far corner of the building, and someone was in there.

  More than one person, from the sound of it.

  The door was nearly closed, though it stood open a couple of inches, allowing the voices of those inside the room to filter out. She could identify three distinct individuals, though there might be a fourth, or even a fifth. It was hard to tell, since there was a lot of cross-talking going on. But again, because the voices were so low, it was difficult to make out any of the words. Still, it sounded like a fairly tense conversation

  Small wonder, since a dead body had been found upstairs the night before. That alone was shocking enough, but she imagined it was causing the museum’s director a big headache this morning, for a number of other reasons—the security of the place, whether to close or stay open, how to honor the victim, what to do about nosy visitors like her . . . and, of course, what about the lost revenue if the place shut down for several days.

  And then there were the two questions on everyone’s mind: Who murdered Julius, and why?

  For a fleeting moment she thought of leaving, but dismissed that idea. Instead, she reached into her tote, pulled out the book Julius had signed, and hefted it briefly. Her business here was with Owen, and she felt it was fairly important. No sense leaving without at least attempting to talk to him, no matter who was in there with him, and what important decision-making might be going on.

  She paused a moment to collect her thoughts and, with a determined nod of her chin, crossed the room to the office door and rapped lightly a couple of times.

  “Owen, are you in there?”

  She pushed the door open a little and stuck her head inside. She spotted the museum director sitting behind his desk, and smiled at him.

  “Oh, hi, Owen, there you are! I was hoping I might find you in here.” She tried to sound as easygoing as possible, and almost succeeded, she thought. There was only that slight tightness in her tone that might give her away. She tried to relax and appear normal—not as easy as it sounded.

  The director, sitting behind his desk, twisted toward her. His expression changed rapidly, tightening in confusion. “Candy? Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, you know, I just thought I’d drop by to check on you and see how you’re doing this morning. Make sure everything’s okay, you know?” She pushed open the door a little farther. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  In response, he gave her an annoyed glance and waved a hand around the room, as if shooing away a fly, to indicate he was not alone.

  She poked her head around the edge of the door and finally got a good look around his office.

  Three individuals sat in front of his desk, a woman and two men. They were looking at her with blank stares, frozen in mid-conversation. She knew one of them, had seen another around town, and thought she might know who the third was, but she’d never met either of the two men face-to-face.

  The person she knew, the one sitting closest to her in an office chair, was Edith Pring. A thin, stern, straight-backed woman, conservatively dressed,
she had facial features as sharp as her name, led by a nose that could cut through a block of ice. Her prominent cheekbones stuck out like diamonds above her hollow cheeks. Dark circles under her eyes gave her a menacing look, which she used to her advantage. Edith, one of the museum’s board members, wasn’t the type of person one crossed on purpose. Candy knew most folks around town gave her a wide berth whenever possible. She was a strongly opinionated woman who wasted no time correcting whatever she felt was wrong around town, and letting others know when she was unhappy. Candy had heard Wanda Boyle at the paper talking about Edith on more than one occasion, usually beginning with the words, “You won’t believe what’s got Edith riled up now. . . .”

  She looked like she was ready for a skirmish this morning, and Owen obviously had been the object of her antagonism . . . until Candy walked in. Edith’s blank stare quickly turned to a disapproving look—which Candy tried her best to ignore.

  The other two individuals didn’t appear quite as confrontational, though the man sitting on the far side, near a small window overlooking craggy rocks and a seascape, seemed less than bemused by the interruption, though tolerant of it. He had a fleshy face, nondescript features, and wary eyes that seemed to avoid looking directly at people. But he was well dressed, wearing a starched blue cotton shirt, nice leather loafers, a silver bracelet on one wrist, and an expensive-looking watch with a navy blue nautical theme on the other.

  It could only be Gilbert Ethingham, whom her father had perfectly described for her just a little while ago.

  As Doc had said, Gilbert was rarely seen around town, so his presence here today was something of a surprise. But she imagined a dead man in the museum’s archives was enough to draw him out of his cozy environs, for he, too, was a member of the museum’s board.

  As was the third individual, sitting between Gilbert and Edith.

  He was even more of a surprise.

  Plymouth Palfrey was the only one in the room who didn’t seem irritated by her sudden appearance—and was perhaps even thankful for it, by the look of his indulgent smile. He sported a head of thick white hair, a red face, and a stylish goatee, which made him look more like a Southern gentleman than a rural Mainer. He had a subtly scholarly appearance, as befitting his role as a book publisher, and looked like a man who could command a room, but just as easily spend days all on his own, immersed in some book project, without a thought for the rest of the world.

  Her surprise at seeing him here had as much to do with the distance he must have traveled this morning as anything else. The trip eastward along the coast from Boothbay Harbor, where he currently lived and worked, took almost three hours, she figured, meaning he probably left his place before dawn—or drove eighty miles an hour the entire way.

  It was, she thought as her gaze took them in, a relatively formidable group, augmented in no small way by Owen himself.

  Word must have spread quickly, she thought. The powers that be are gathering. They’re circling the wagons.

  No doubt discussing what to do in response to the discovery upstairs. Which made this meeting fairly important—and she’d just waltzed her way right in.

  Nice job, Candy!

  Still, she reminded herself, she was here for a reason.

  It wasn’t her intent to step on a bunch of powerful toes. Best, she thought, to find out what she needed and make a hasty retreat without antagonizing them any further.

  “Hi, I hope you’ll excuse me,” she said to the three board members, “but this is really important, and I’ll only be a second.” Resting her hand on the doorknob, she leaned inward and spoke in a loud whisper to Owen, as if in confidence. “I wonder if I might have a few words . . . in private?”

  He looked more confused than aghast. “What? Now? We’re in the middle of a meeting!” The last word almost came out through gritted teeth.

  Again, she thought of retreating, but she was committed, so she plunged on. “Yes, I can see that, and I know you’re busy, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” She turned back to the three board members. “I’ll hope you’ll excuse us. This won’t take long. We just have something to discuss briefly. I’ll have him back to you in a jiffy.”

  She flashed an apologetic smile, hoping for a fast exit, but it didn’t work out that way.

  “What is this all about?” Edith Pring asked in a low, coarse growl. Her tone of voice could be as intimidating as the rest of her.

  “It’s a personal matter,” Candy said vaguely, “between Owen and myself. I just want to check something with him.”

  “If this has anything to do with the death of Julius Seabury,” Gilbert Ethingham interjected with a slight quiver of his upper lip as he shifted around toward her, “maybe it’s something we all need to hear.”

  “Yes, what about that?” Edith asked. “You were up there last night when the body was discovered. In fact, from what we’ve heard, you’re the one who found him. What’s behind all this? What was he doing up there by himself when the place was closed? That in itself was highly inappropriate.”

  Candy answered quickly and honestly. “I don’t know, but I do know it was quite a shock.”

  Gilbert chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “Well, that’s an understatement. A murder, here on the grounds of the museum? It’s a disaster, in more ways than one.”

  “It certainly is.” Owen nodded emphatically in agreement.

  “It could affect the museum’s reputation—and its revenue streams,” Edith added, somewhat coldly.

  “And, of course, the passing of Julius is a major loss for the museum itself, for the director and board members, and for the community as a whole, given his contributions to the town’s historical record,” said Plymouth Palfrey in a more placating tone.

  “Well, that’s certainly true.” Momentarily mollified, Edith folded her hands in her lap. “He will be missed by us all.”

  There was silence around the room. Finally, Candy said, “Yes, I’m sure he will.” She paused. “I don’t suppose any of you know what his schedule was for the last few days?”

  “How would any of us know that?” Owen asked, his face turning red.

  Candy shrugged. “I’m just curious.”

  Edith’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t our job to keep tabs on Julius’s comings and goings.”

  “I can’t even remember the last time I saw him,” said Gilbert. “Our paths didn’t cross that often.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Candy said as she looked around the room. “What about the rest of you? Do any of you remember the last time you saw him?”

  They all looked uncomfortable. Finally Edith said, “I’m not sure I approve of this line of questioning.”

  Plymouth uncrossed his legs, recrossed them in the opposite direction before he spoke up. “I don’t think Candy means any of this as an accusation,” he said, and he gave her a stiff, almost reptilian smile. “You don’t, do you?”

  Again, Candy was quick to respond. “Oh, no, of course not. It’s nothing like that. I just thought, since we’re all here together, it might be helpful to try to establish Julius’s itinerary over the past few days—prior to arriving here at the museum. It might help us figure out who he talked to, and what he was doing up there last night.”

  “Isn’t that something the police would do?” Owen asked.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Candy noticed all their eyes on her—again—and decided maybe it was best to drop that line of questioning.

  “Rest assured, Candy, we’re doing all we can to cooperate with the police,” Plymouth said by way of clarification. “The crime scene investigators are upstairs right now, attempting to find out what happened. The whole floor is sealed off. None of us have been able to get up there to make sure they’re not damaging anything—and believe me, we’ve tried. I’ve talked to the police personally, but so far they haven’t been forthcoming with any answers. S
o we’ll all just have to sit tight until they’re done and then soldier on through this as best we can.”

  “I agree,” Owen said. He bent forward, scanning a number of documents in front of him on the desk, as if dismissing her. “Now if you’ll let us get back to . . .”

  But he was interrupted by a disembodied voice that seemed to emanate from somewhere around Owen’s desk.

  “Perhaps it might be a good time to take a short break,” the voice said.

  Candy felt a chill go through her. Definitely a male voice. And one she was certain she’d heard before.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, her eyes searching for the source. Her gaze quickly alighted on the black speakerphone on Owen’s desk.

  “Why, it’s me, Miss Holliday,” said the voice over the phone. “I couldn’t be there in person this morning, unfortunately, since I’m stuck here in Boston at the moment. But I wanted to make sure I was part of this conversation, since it concerns the museum’s future. So I called in to offer my support and my services in any way I can, given this very difficult time for all of us.”

  There was a pause, and Candy suddenly had an overwhelming urge to sit down. Her head was beginning to spin and her neck felt hot.

  “Now, you and I have never had a chance to meet in person,” the voice over the speakerphone continued in a lighthearted way, “but I know you by reputation, and I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of me. My name is Porter Sykes.”

  FOURTEEN

  Herr Georg Wolfsburger was in love.

  He was in love with baking, his chosen profession. He loved making wedding cakes and German pastries—and when fresh fruit was in season, blueberry muffins, strawberry strudel, apple turnovers, and one of his own creations, raspberry rumbles, based on an heirloom recipe he’d found in an old book. He was incredibly proud of his baked goods; of his shop, the Black Forest Bakery on Main Street; and of the reputation he’d built over the past decade, not only in Cape Willington, but throughout the state and the Northeast. He loved getting his hands deep in flour, and the smell of cinnamon in the morning, and a flaky, buttery, perfectly baked piecrust.