Town in a Cinnamon Toast

by B. B. Haywood

  Candy wasn’t a paranoid person by nature. She doubted Porter would threaten her or harm her in any way if she kept her appointment with him tomorrow. But she wasn’t about to head over there without knowing what she was walking into.

  That’s what brought her here, to the offices of the Cape Crier, and its new managing editor, Wanda Boyle.

  Candy crossed to the opposite side of the avenue at mid-street and started up the stairs to the newspaper’s second-floor offices. For years she’d walked up and down these same stairs dozens of times a week, when she’d served as the paper’s community correspondent, and then its interim managing editor. She’d been given the chance to remove the “interim” part from her title and become the paper’s permanent editor, but she’d never accepted the offer, uncertain that’s what she really wanted to do. She’d finally realized her interests lay elsewhere and made the very difficult decision to leave the paper as a full-time staff member.

  Just a couple of months earlier, at the start of maple sugaring season, she’d finally turned her title, and her office, over to Wanda Boyle and headed off into the snowy woods to tap maple trees and collect sap buckets. Hard as it was, she never regretted her decision.

  But her involvement with the paper had not ended completely. She was always looking for ways to augment the income she and her father made from the farm, so she’d come to an agreement with Wanda to start writing a regular gardening column during the planting, growing, and harvest seasons, and switch to a food column with occasional restaurant reviews during the winter. The topics overlapped quite a bit, so she could mix things up when she wanted to. She sometimes wrote about food during the summer and fall, visiting restaurants up and down the coast with Maggie. They had fun sampling each establishment’s cuisine, and when Candy wrote her reviews, she usually submitted them on a timely basis, rather than holding them for a specific season. She also helped out at the paper during busy times, though one day she’d realized that, much to her consternation, they seemed to operate most of the time just fine without her.

  She found Wanda in the managing editor’s office, redecorated to suit her tastes. Wanda had framed and hung a number of awards she’d won, prominently displayed along one wall. There were also a few trophies artfully arranged on the credenza below the window ledge. Shelves held photographs of her with every person of note in town, up and down the coast, and throughout the state and region. Wanda with the governor. Wanda with a famous actor who had a summer house nearby. Wanda with friends and family, members of the town council, schoolteachers and firemen.

  Wanda got around. And she’d done a good job with the paper in the few months she’d been running it. The readers seemed to like what she delivered, circulation and revenue were up slightly, and the paper’s owners were happy. Wanda seemed happy, too, at least on occasion. It was, she said, what she loved doing. She’d started to soften her sometimes sharp demeanor, at least when it served her best interests, but underneath she was still the same old Wanda—driven, determined to make herself heard, rough-edged, and distrustful.

  To get her scoops, she relied on a fairly extensive network of spies, informers, and gossips, who helped her keep her fingers firmly on the village’s veins. She usually knew which way the winds were blowing. She knew the secrets, too, though she was discreet enough to keep those to herself—mostly.

  If anyone would know what was going on with local real estate transactions, it was Wanda.

  As Candy entered the office, she didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “What do you know about the Whitby estate?”

  Wanda had been clacking away at the keyboard of her desktop computer, pencil clenched firmly between her teeth, red hair frazzled, her desk strewn with papers and files. At the interruption, she raised her eyebrows, her gaze following Candy into the room. “Hmm?”

  “The Whitby place,” Candy said, plopping down into a chair. “What’s the latest you’ve heard?”

  It took a moment for Wanda to shift gears, but she seemed to sense something was up, given the most recent murder in town. She took on a thoughtful look as she swiveled her chair and removed the pencil from between her teeth. “Does this have anything to do with Julius Seabury?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Candy said honestly. “The Whitby place?”

  “Right. That.” Wanda considered the question before she continued. “Well, I know it’s been sold.”

  “When did it sell?”

  Wanda shrugged. “A few weeks ago, far as I know. The closing’s either just taken place or it’s about to take place, in the next few days.”

  “Who’s the buyer?”

  “Don’t know that yet. I’ve been asking around but nobody’s talking. It’s very hush-hush. I’m on it, though. Supposed to hear back from my sources any day now.”

  “Then I think I might have a scoop for you.”

  “About what?”

  Instead of answering directly, Candy changed the subject. “What do you know about the Sykes family?”

  Wanda’s brow furrowed. “The living ones or the dead ones?”

  Candy responded with a noncommittal shrug, so Wanda continued, drawing facts from her memory. “I’ve only met one of them personally—the younger brother, Roger Sykes—but none of the others, though I know Porter is on the board of directors over at the museum. I’ve requested an interview with him a number of times but never got a response. I read a lot about him, though, when he was building that development down in Portland. I know the family has pretty deep roots in town. I’ve heard a few rumors about Silas Sykes and that alleged treasure box of his they found a while ago, but I haven’t followed up on it. It’s old news, far as I’m concerned. I mean, they’re not really in town much, and they don’t own any property around here anymore, not after Whitefield, their old mansion, burned down a few years ago and they got rid of the place. Sold it at the bottom of the market, from what I heard. Let it go for a song. There’s a pretty extensive file on them but it hasn’t been updated in a while.” She paused and gave Candy a suspicious look, realizing how much she’d just revealed, though most of it was common knowledge. “Why?”

  Candy hesitated before answering, just to make sure she was doing the right thing. But she needed Wanda’s help, so there was no way around it. “I’ve heard they’re moving back into the area—or, at least, Porter is.”

  That got Wanda’s interest. “They are? What have you heard? What are they buying?” But she put the pieces together before Candy could tell her. Wanda could be quick; it was one of her assets. “The Whitby place?”

  Candy nodded.

  Wanda sucked in a breath. “Porter Sykes is buying it? Are you sure?” And then, her suspicion returning, she asked, “Where’d you hear that?”

  Candy told her about the meeting of board members over at the museum.

  Wanda couldn’t help but flash a look of jealousy. “I went over there this morning and they wouldn’t let me inside. How come they let you in?”

  “I don’t know. I just walked through the door.”

  “And Porter Sykes told you this personally?”

  “Personally,” Candy confirmed. “While I was in Owen’s office. Porter was on the speakerphone. Some of the other board members were in there, too, so they heard the whole thing.”

  “Which ones?” Wanda turned, threw down her pencil, picked up a ballpoint pen, and reached for a writing pad. She began to scribble furiously.

  “Edith Pring, Gilbert Ethingham, and Plymouth Palfrey.”

  That got Wanda’s carefully plucked eyebrows to rise into her moisturized forehead. “Palfrey’s in town?”

  “He is. I just saw him over there.”

  “If those three know, then it will be around town in hours. Minutes.”

  “Seconds,” said Candy. “Edith Pring is probably burning up the wireless networks as we speak.”

  “This is huge news
,” Wanda said. “I’ll have to confirm it, of course, before I can run it on the website and in the paper.” She paused only momentarily to cock an arm, checking her watch as her mouth twisted unglamorously. “But why would he want the Whitby place?”

  “Good question,” Candy said. “That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself ever since I heard.”

  “I mean, it’s not a bad place. But it’s old, it needs work, and it’s somewhat isolated. It takes twenty-five minutes or so to get over there by land, since you have to go north six or eight miles before you can cut over to the next peninsula. It’s about the same by boat, I’d guess, if there’s a dock over there. And the roads aren’t very good either. It has some history, and presumably a decent view of the bay, but not much else. I’m not sure why he’d be interested.”

  “Maybe it’s something else,” Candy said.

  “Something else? Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Wanda quickly caught the drift of the conversation. “You want me to help you find out what he’s after?”

  “Something like that. I wonder if you’ve heard anything through your sources. Or—”

  “Or if I could make a few calls and see what I can find out?”

  “Yes, that, and I’m trying to establish a timeline for Julius. See if I can find out who saw him last, when and where. I thought the volunteers at the lighthouse might be a good place to start, but I don’t have that list of names and numbers. Not anymore, at least.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you came here.” Wanda’s look told Candy, There’s always an angle, isn’t there?

  “Kill two birds with one stone,” Candy admitted. “It might lead to a pretty big story for the paper . . . and it might just help us find a killer.”

  Wanda puzzled all that out for a moment. “Tell you what—I’ll help you out and touch base with my sources, if you tell me about this champagne bottle. Darned curious murder weapon. What’s up with that?”

  TWENTY

  Herr Georg pushed the green felt hat up off his forehead, clutched the steering wheel more tightly in his hands, and leaned forward as far as possible, so he could look up and out the windshield of his car as the building came into view.

  It looks cold, was his first impression.

  Cold brownstone, cold, smoky blue windows, sitting by an outcropping of cold black rocks near a misty point at land’s end, a dozen yards or so above the restless sea. The place looked dark and shadowed, due in part to the thick stands of trees that squeezed in close by the house on two sides, to the north and behind it to the east. The entwining brownish-black limbs were so dense and tangled that Herr Georg doubted a single ray of sunshine could penetrate the suffocating canopy in the summer months, but he also imagined the place looked quite spectacular during the autumn, framed against a backdrop of blazing color.

  The building was two stories tall with a slate roof, plus a half-story dormered attic at the top, with squat, narrow windows that wouldn’t allow in much light. But from the inside, those windows would provide spectacular views to the south and west. They were dark now, too, showing no signs of life behind them, no lights, no movement.

  A meandering dirt driveway led up to the building, terminating in a rectangular graveled parking area, where a front yard or garden might have been. The parking area was empty. No cars or any other vehicles in sight. No sign of anything or anyone around.

  Which was not totally surprising, since he’d heard the place was for sale—and had only just sold. There’d been plenty of buzz around town about it, and intense curiosity about the new owner or owners, whoever they might be. Georg had talked to a dozen people or more about it just in the past few days, walking down Main Street to or from his shop. It was the end of an era, the villagers were saying, for the place had been in the hands of a single family for generations. And a founding family at that, with roots on the cape that went back two hundred years or more.

  The Whitby estate.

  He’d debated coming out here. He knew it was a long shot that he’d find anything, but in the end he’d decided to make the trip anyway. Scotty Whitby had disappeared, or so Chef Colin had said. No one at the inn seemed to know what had happened to him. Phone calls to him had gone unanswered. They’d checked his apartment and found it empty. What had happened to him? Where was he? Was he safe? Was he in hiding? But more important, what did he know about the events of the night before? How had he wound up in the storage room where Maggie had found him, knocked out cold? Had it been an accident, or had he been attacked?

  And, perhaps most important, did he know anything about the champagne bottle that had wound up at the museum, next to the body of Julius Seabury?

  Herr Georg had plenty to do. He was getting married in two days. He had a cake to bake. He didn’t have time to go gallivanting around searching for a lost waiter. But he felt personally involved in this situation. His best man was gone. A bottle of his champagne had been used as a murder weapon. He had to know the answers to the questions rolling around in his head. And he thought the Whitby place might hold some of those answers.

  He didn’t know if there was a connection between Scotty Whitby and the old house that bore his family’s name. Maybe he was only distantly related. Maybe he was from a different branch of the family entirely. But Herr Georg had to check it out, to ease his own mind.

  The drive over from town had taken less than half an hour as he’d first proceeded north along the Coastal Loop, then cut east across the top of the bay before turning south again, but he felt as if he’d driven into the hinterlands of Maine. He saw few cars on his way over, and once he’d started down the rugged peninsula on which the estate stood, the roads had turned narrow and pockmarked, with low, broken shoulders and tight turns. In the last few miles, the asphalt had petered out and the road had become just dirt, marked by ruts and rough ridges and strewn with small rocks and pebbles. The tires and suspension on the Volvo had been severely tested, but he’d driven as carefully as possible and made it without incident.

  Now that he was here, he was uncertain what to do next.

  He slowed the car to a crawl. Should he park in the gravel lot and knock on the front door? Drive around the property a little? Honk the horn? Drive past and just ignore it?

  After some hesitation, he decided on the first option.

  Still leaning forward, watching the house cautiously through the windshield, he inched the car off the meandering dirt road he’d just traveled and into the parking area. The tires crunched over the gravel as the car moved forward. Halfway in, he pulled off to one side opposite the front door, came to a stop, and shut off the engine.

  With his hands still on the steering wheel, he listened, watching the front door, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he moved the hat back down on his forehead, opened the driver’s side door, and stepped out.

  It was cooler here on the point, and damper. The wind was gusting as it came over the rocks and through the trees, tugging at his hat and jacket. Off to his left, still-naked tree branches clapped together noisily, and a few dry, brown leaves left over from the fall blew across the parking area.

  He could hear the churning sea off to his right, beyond the edge of the land. He turned and looked in that direction. It was indeed a magnificent view, out across the narrow bay. He saw quite a few boats out on the water today, long white streams of churning wakes behind them. Across the bay, just a little to the south and almost due west, was the mouth of the English River and the twin lighthouses of Cape Willington. The land veered away from there, turning back and around. It was, he thought, a curious view of the village, one he’d never seen before.

  He turned back toward the house as another gust of wind blew past him, threatening to lift the hat off his head. He reached up absently with a hand to keep it settled in place.

  His gaze shifted back and forth and up and down as he studied
the front door, and the windows, and the building’s facade. He noticed that a narrow gravel road led around the far side of the parking lot, looping back behind the building. He imagined there might be a garage back there, maybe a carriage house. The place looked old enough to have such a thing. Maybe a few outbuildings as well—a workshop or a gardening shed.

  He should check those out as well.

  For some reason, again, he was hesitant to move. This sort of thing really wasn’t his cup of tea. His friend Candy was much better at this type of work. Georg considered himself a genteel person, a baker and an entrepreneur, at home in a kitchen, not out here on this windy point, acting as some sort of crime investigator.

  The very thought was ludicrous.

  Nonetheless, he believed in getting things done, and getting them done quickly. He was here with a purpose in mind, so he might as well get on with it.

  Stepping smartly, he crossed the gravel parking area and approached the main set of double doors. They were painted black, though they hadn’t been painted in a while, he noticed. Now that he was closer, he saw that the place looked a little shabby. The windows were unwashed. The paint on the sills was peeling. The exterior stone looked dingy. The property was in desperate need of some maintenance.

  Perhaps that’s why the Whitbys had sold it. It had simply become too much for them to manage.

  There was an ornate though dull brass knocker attached to the door. Georg reached out toward it and rapped loudly several times.

  The muffled sounds of the knocker seemed to echo hollowly inside the building.

  Georg thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and waited.

  A few seconds passed, then a few more. No one came. No one answered the summons of the door knocker.

  He tried again, a little louder this time, a few additional raps.

  Again, he waited. No response.

  Georg took a few steps away from the door and tilted back his head, looking up at the building.