Same as before. Dull brownstone, shadowed blue-gray windows, no signs of light or movement.
He was about to head around the far corner of the house, to check on the outbuildings, when he heard another car approaching on the dirt road, coming pretty fast. At first it was just a faint engine purr, but then he could hear the quick crunches and snaps of the car’s tires on the gravel and pebbles.
A few moments later, the vehicle shot into view through the trees.
Herr Georg knew right away, by looking at the slanted chrome grille with its distinctive multicolored badge perched in the middle, that it was a Cadillac sedan, and a fairly new one at that. The car was black, with large wheels, angled headlights, and a long, sleek shape. Probably an XTS, he thought. A good-looking car.
Not many cars like that around here. In fact, he couldn’t remember seeing a single one in town recently. Folks around Cape Willington preferred trucks and wagons and SUVs, leaning more toward the functional than the luxury-oriented side when it came to car buying.
Probably not someone from around here then. An out-of-towner?
The car didn’t slow as it left the dirt road. It swooped into the parking area in front of the house and came to a fairly abrupt stop as it pulled up alongside Herr Georg, not too far from the front door. The engine revved for a second or two before it shut down. A cloud of dust arose around it. After a few moments, the door popped open and a tall, well-dressed man, perhaps in his early fifties, emerged from the driver’s seat.
He looked at Herr Georg curiously. He had dark hair, combed back and graying at the sides, and a sharp nose and intelligent eyes. “Hello,” he said in a noncommittal sort of way. Then he flipped around, opened the car’s back door, and pulled out a leather briefcase before shutting both doors and approaching Georg. “I don’t suppose you’re one of the family members?”
“Family?” Georg asked.
That brought a glance of suspicion from the new arrival. “Are you looking for someone?” he asked, changing his tactic.
Herr Georg waved toward the building. “I just wondered whether anyone was around. I’m looking for someone who seems to have disappeared. A young man by the name of Scotty Whitby. I thought he might be out here.”
“He doesn’t live here, as far as I know. Never has. Are you a friend of the Whitbys?” the dark-haired man asked, his mouth tight.
Georg shrugged. “Just a concerned citizen, checking up on him. I thought he might be around. He’s . . . Well, no one has seen him in a while.”
“Oh, I see,” the man said, shifting the briefcase and car keys from his right to his left hand and pulling another set of older keys from a pants pocket. “I doubt he’s out here. No one’s been around here in months, maybe longer. This place has been closed up while it was on the market, as far as I know. I just came out to check on it before the new owner arrives tomorrow. I’m his attorney. Well, the family’s attorney, that is.”
He walked to the front door, jabbed a battered brass key into the door lock, and twisted it. He pushed the door open but turned back to Georg before he entered. “We can check real quick to see if anyone’s around, if you’d like, but as I said, the Whitbys haven’t lived out here in quite a while. The papers were all signed yesterday, down in Boston. Mr. Sykes is arriving in the morning to have a good look around the place.”
Herr Georg couldn’t hold back his surprise. “Sykes?”
“Haven’t you heard? I thought it’d be all around town by now. Porter Sykes bought the place. As I mentioned, I’m representing the family.”
The attorney reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to Herr Georg. “The name’s Bosworth,” he said, holding out a hand with well-manicured fingernails. “Marshall L. Bosworth.”
TWENTY-ONE
Candy had a lot on her mind as she drove up the dirt lane at Blueberry Acres. She’d spent most of the past two hours tucked away in her old office at the paper. Located in the warren of hallways and rooms near the back of the old building’s second floor, it once had been her second home, and she’d spent countless hours in there, running down stories and crafting columns. Vacated now, it was stripped of any sort of decoration or personality. It had a phone, though, and a desk, and a place for her to sit and make calls.
From somewhere deep in her files, Wanda had scrounged up a typed list of museum volunteers, with associated phone numbers and e-mail addresses. It was a couple of years old, and some numbers and names were crossed off, and some new ones written in. But it was a starting place, so she sat down at her old desk and began to dial.
She kept her conversations as upbeat as possible. She was working on a tribute story about Julius for the paper, which was true—Wanda had assigned it to her; it was to be part of a larger section in the next issue devoted to the elderly historian, appearing alongside Julius’s obituary, along with several photos and a column Wanda intended to write—so Candy was looking for anecdotes, remembrances, and comments about his life, his books, his work at the museum, and his place in the community. It also gave her a chance to ask the one question she thought was more valuable than any other right now: “When was the last time you saw him?”
As it turned out, the day before his death was the last time he’d been seen by anyone. He’d been upstairs at the museum two days ago, on Tuesday morning, digging into the archives, scribbling away at his notebooks. Several people saw him but none spoke to him, other than to say a quick hi or hello. One of the volunteers, Doris Oaks, said she’d seen him later that day (or it might have been Monday; she wasn’t quite sure, as her memory wasn’t what it used to be) walking from the rocky shore toward the Keeper’s Quarters while she’d been on her way out to the parking lot. He’d looked windblown, she told Candy, and had a pair of binoculars hanging on a strap around his neck. He’d seemed distracted, and hadn’t returned her wave when she called out to him. In fact, he never looked up from the ground as he made his way into the red-roofed cottage, failing to notice her.
Daniel Brewster, assistant librarian at the Pruitt Public Library, reported that Julius had been seen around the library a couple of days earlier, pulling out old books on Maine history. Daniel had chatted briefly with him, but again, Julius had seemed distracted and didn’t respond much. And Elvira Tremble, a haughty villager who took great pride in the fact that she was the cofounder of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, was somewhat miffed because Julius had missed his scheduled shift behind the Long Desk yesterday—Wednesday, the morning of the day he died. It had put her in quite a bind, she informed Candy with an undisguised tone of exasperation, since she was responsible for keeping track of the volunteers this month. So she’d had to step in and fill the shift herself, until she’d finally located someone who agreed to come in and relieve her. She took no joy in greeting the public, which was a major responsibility of the position. She was a behind-the-scenes person, she claimed, and had better things to do with her time. “Of course,” she’d finished, “we’re all so sorry to hear what happened to him. He did a lot for this village. It’s a great loss for all of us. And you can quote me on that.”
And so it went. Candy made it through only half the names on the list when she glanced up at the old clock on the wall and realized she had to get moving. So she’d slipped the list into her tote bag and hurried down to her Jeep.
She could make more calls later on, if she had the time. And Wanda was checking with her sources to see if she could find out anything else about Julius’s final days.
Now, as she pulled up to the house, she tried to push any thoughts of volunteers and schedules and champagne bottles and unconscious waiters out of her mind. She had just enough time for a quick bite to eat before everyone arrived for the afternoon wedding setup session.
She didn’t see her father’s truck in its usual parking spot next to the porch, so she guessed he was still at Duffy’s Main Street Diner, his usu
al weekday hanging-out spot. But she knew he’d show up soon. He was probably just caught up in a conversation with his trio of golfing, card-playing, and jawing buddies, who Candy sometimes collectively thought of as “the posse”—retired ex-cop Finn Woodbury, classic car admirer William “Bumpy” Brigham, and eBay entrepreneur Artie Groves. She often hung out with them at the diner, but she’d never had a chance to stop by today. Still, she’d see them all shortly, since they were helping out with the setup, and made a mental note to quiz her father when he got home to find out if he’d learned anything interesting.
Before she stepped into the house, she headed around the barn to check on her chickens. As usual, they were clucking contentedly away, scratching and pecking at the ground in abrupt, comical movements, doing what chickens did. She made quick work of tending to them before she headed inside.
Five minutes later, she was piling lettuce, thin slices of tomato, and tuna salad on two slices of toasted bread when she heard a vehicle coming up the driveway. She looked out the kitchen window, expecting to see her father in his truck, headed home from the diner. But instead she spotted a vintage red Saab wagon in need of a good washing, and knew her first guests of the afternoon had arrived.
It was Neil Crawford, the local strawberry farmer, with his big shaggy dog, Random.
Candy couldn’t help but smile. The day had suddenly turned much brighter.
Leaving her sandwich behind for the moment, she went out to greet them.
Neil and Random had moved to town permanently a year ago, after Neil had inherited Crawford’s Berry Farm from his deceased father. They’d all been good friends ever since. They visited often and helped out whenever they could at each other’s farms. Neil and Random were frequent dinner guests at Blueberry Acres, and Candy and Doc spent quite a bit of time at Neil’s farm, learning about hoophouses, cherry trees, and the finer points of strawberry farming.
Neil also had contributed copious amounts of time and labor last fall and again earlier this spring, when Candy and Doc finally put up their own hoophouse, a half hoop–shaped greenhouse with an elevated internal temperature. It would help them extend the growing season, expand their crops, and increase their annual revenue. They’d started in October, with Neil’s help, clearing the spot they’d selected, just east of the barn along the dirt driveway, and assembling the galvanized steel frame, setting the bows four feet apart for the hoophouse’s forty-foot length.
Then, once the snows melted in early April, they’d finished the rest of the work, covering the steel frame with double plastic sheeting, installing the removable wood-framed end walls, and putting in the trickle irrigation system. They didn’t have mechanical heating and ventilating systems in place yet; those would come later. But, for now, their unheated hoophouse would keep plants from freezing during the spring and give them a head start on a number of crops.
They’d started by planting seeds for cold-tolerant plants, like carrots, scallions, radishes, and spinach. These they would transplant to the garden just after Memorial Day. Tomatoes, peppers, and beans were next on the list.
They had other plans for the blueberry farm. They wanted to start a small grove of cherry trees, and when they had a little extra time, clear out some acreage at the top of the far western ridge to expand their barrens.
But one step at a time, she’d often told herself.
Random was the first to greet her, leaping out of the car almost before it stopped, bouncing across the driveway in long, lazy gaits, and skipping to a stop at her feet. When she’d sufficiently showered him with praise, to his great content, she turned her attention to Neil.
He wasn’t as shaggy as he used to be; he’d trimmed his beard and cut his hair a little shorter in an effort to tame it. But he had the same earthy look, with a weathered face, a quick smile, and flashing eyes. Today, though, he was more serious.
“Sorry I didn’t come over sooner. I heard what happened. You doing okay?” Despite his somewhat earthy exterior, faded ball cap, rough hands, and farmer’s work clothes, his voice was smooth and surprisingly refined, with a nice back-of-the-throat rumble on the low notes.
Candy nodded. “I’m doing okay. Even better, now that you and Random are here.”
That brought out his smile, at least for a moment. It was a good smile, she thought, warm and inviting. “So, are you on the case?” he asked.
Candy squared her shoulders. “Whatever do you mean?”
He laughed. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Random barked at something in the distance, and started off through the fields at a dash, while Candy and Neil started toward the house.
“Well,” Candy said as they walked, “I feel like I owe it to Julius, to at least look into it and try to find out what happened to him. Something brought about his murder last night—some event or activity, or something he discovered up in those archives. Or he found out what someone was up to, and that certain someone didn’t want word to get around.”
“Who?” Neil asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with that treasure box we found out at the strawberry farm a couple of years ago, or those missing deeds that were supposed to be in it?” Neil asked, his sun-bleached brows lowering in concern.
Candy nodded. “It could all be tied in, yes. How, I don’t know yet. That’s what I have to find out.”
“Then I think I can help you out. I have some information that might be of interest to you,” he said as they both stepped up onto the porch.
As Candy pulled open the screen door, she stopped and turned back toward him. “What kind of information? What have you heard?”
“I stopped by the police department and told them this morning, and I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you as well.”
“About Julius?”
“Julius,” Neil confirmed, and waited until they were inside, standing in the kitchen, to continue. “He called me yesterday afternoon, a few hours before he died.”
“You talked to him?”
Neil shook his head. “I was out in the fields, so I didn’t have my phone with me. I didn’t know he called until I got back to the house later in the afternoon. The time stamp said he phoned at three thirty-four P.M.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“He did. He said he had something to tell me about the deeds, but he wanted to meet me in person, since he couldn’t discuss it over the phone. He said he’d call me back later, but he never did.”
They were both silent a moment, before Neil continued, “There was something else he mentioned in the message. I couldn’t quite make it out, and I’ll let you listen to it. But it sounded like he said ‘Foul Mouth.’ I don’t have any idea what that means, but I was hoping you might.”
TWENTY-TWO
Foul Mouth.
There it was again—that name, those words. In this case, specifically spoken by Julius in a phone message to Neil Crawford. But what was it? A place? A person? Something else?
Whatever it was, Candy realized one thing: Julius’s message to Neil, including his mention of Foul Mouth, was an important link in the mystery, since it confirmed with almost certainty that the note found in the book last night by Owen had indeed been written by the elderly historian.
It was too much of a connection to be coincidental, and seemed to verify that Julius had created that list of family names himself, and jotted down the words Foul Mouth and the initials L. B. as well.
And, by extension, it proved that Julius had arranged those books by Lucinda P. Dowling on the shelf in that particular order.
By why? It must have been a message of some sort—possibly about the deeds, since he mentioned those in his phone call to Neil. What had he planned to tell Neil about the deeds? And how were they linked to Foul Mouth?
Another thought came to her, one that rattled her a lit
tle: If Julius left those clues hidden in the books up in the archives, then he must have felt threatened in some way, since the creation of the list and especially the arrangement of the books in a specific way indicated premeditation.
But whom had he felt threatened by? It was a threat he’d obviously taken seriously enough to create the clues he’d left behind. Who had been after him? What had he stumbled into?
Maybe the answers she sought were right there in that list of names.
She could feel her heart ticking just a tad faster.
“He didn’t give you any idea as to what it is—this Foul Mouth thing?” she asked Neil.
The strawberry farmer shook his head. “Nope, that’s all he said.”
“And the police know about this?”
“They do.”
She nodded. “That’s the right move. I should probably follow up with them. And with Owen.” And briefly she told Neil about the list of names Owen had found, with the words Foul Mouth written on it, and had stuffed into his coat pocket. “He needs to find that list and take it over to the police as soon as possible.”
“Do you think this list has anything to do with those deeds? Or with Julius’s death?”
“I do. I think they’re all connected,” Candy said as she considered the issue for a few more moments, pondering her next move. She thought of pulling out her phone right then and there and making a few calls, but decided to listen to Julius’s message first.
Then she looked over and caught Neil’s gaze. He looked hungry, she thought, like a man who hadn’t had a good meal in a while.
Despite all that was on her mind, she allowed herself to smile. Maybe it was time to turn her attention back to her guest, at least for a few minutes, as she thought everything through.
She glanced over at the sandwich she’d been making for herself, then looked back at Neil. “Have you eaten?”
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