Judicious paused in front of the shelves, studying them as he sought the specific volumes in question, then pointed to a spot on one of the lower shelves. “Here they are.”
He crouched down, and Candy did also. She saw them right away. They had the same look as the ones she’d seen upstairs in the archives—thin, older volumes of similar size and design, though there were more of them, and they were arranged in a different order. Alphabetically, she noticed, which made sense. And there were other family names mixed in. Abbot was first, then Bosworth and Delano, followed by the Frosts, Kimballs, and Libbys, before the Pruitts, Rainsfords, Trembles, Wendells, and Whitbys.
“Twelve volumes,” Candy said, counting them quickly, including the two Pruitt volumes, “and none devoted to the Sykes family, or the Ethinghams, for that matter.”
“There might be a few missing,” Judicious admitted. “I’m not sure I ever had a complete set.”
“That means there are at least fourteen or fifteen in the set, maybe more. Lucinda must have written a whole series of them. But why are there only six in the archives at the museum?”
“I’m sure they must have a complete set somewhere. Maybe only a few are out in circulation.”
Candy pondered that for a moment. “Maybe.” She pointed to one of the spines. “What do you know about the writer? Lucinda P. Dowling?”
Judicious shrugged. “I met her a while ago. She still lives around here, and she’s still alive. I don’t know if she’s still writing, though. She was a librarian by trade, and wrote the books as a side project over a period of years.”
“The Dowlings live out past Fowler’s Corner, right?”
“On Lookout Lane, off River Road, about ten or twelve minutes out of town, on the other side of the river.”
“I think I know the place. It’s an old New England–style house, set back from the road, near the coastline.”
She turned to look back over her shoulder at Herr Georg. “Our next stop.”
THIRTY
On the way she got a call from Wanda Boyle at the Cape Crier’s office.
“I did some more checking,” Wanda told her with quick breaths, as if she was walking hurriedly somewhere, which she probably was, “and heard from a couple of my sources. It sounds like a bunch of your suspects have alibis for the time of Julius’s death.”
“Which suspects?”
“All of them, really.”
“All of them?”
“Well, most of them. Let’s see.” Wanda was silent for a moment as she apparently referred to her notes. “Brandon, the bartender at the inn, tells me that last night, Wednesday night, he saw four gentlemen at a back table in the lounge. I’ve verified that with a second source, a waitress who works there. It took a little time but we managed to identify three of the gentlemen, since they’re not regular patrons—in fact, no one I talked to can remember ever seeing them in the place. So it must have been a special occasion of some sort.”
“And who were the three?”
“Owen Peabody, Plymouth Palfrey, and Gilbert Ethingham.”
“Board members,” Candy said. “What time was this?”
“Closest we can come is around six or six thirty P.M., though there are some conflicting accounts on the time.”
Candy’s mind quickly ran through the implications. “But that means Plymouth was in town last night.” She remembered thinking, earlier in the day when she’d been at the Keeper’s Quarters, that Plymouth must have risen before the sun to drive all the way from Boothbay Harbor to Cape Willington for the morning meeting of the board members. But now, according to Wanda, there was evidence he’d been in town last night, so he’d been able to spend an extra few hours in bed this morning before heading over to the museum.
It also meant he’d been at the inn when Scotty Whitby had allegedly been attacked in the back room. And, she thought, he easily could have slipped out of the lounge for ten or fifteen minutes, long enough to make a quick trip across the street to the museum and swing a bottle of champagne at Julius Seabury’s head.
He would also have had access to the cases of champagne in the back, Candy thought. All of them had. Perhaps, she thought, it was some sort of conspiracy. Perhaps they were all involved in Julius’s death.
“You don’t know who the fourth person was yet?”
“Not yet. Still checking on it.”
“Do you have a description?”
Again, Wanda took a moment to refer to her notes. She was breathing more regularly now. Apparently she’d slowed her pace or settled into a chair. When she spoke again, it was as if she was reading from a list. “Well dressed, smelled good, nice manicure, catchy smile, a bit of a flirt, dark hair graying at the sides, acted like a lawyer or a doctor.”
Candy repeated the description as she looked over at Herr Georg. At first he seemed a little confused, until he realized who she was describing. “Marshall Bosworth,” he mouthed.
Candy nodded. “Thanks, Wanda. Let me know if you find out anything else.”
“You close to solving this thing?” she asked before they hung up.
“Don’t know if I’m close, but I’m working on it.”
“I’m guessing you want to have this wrapped up by Saturday. It’d be a shame if this interferes with the wedding.”
“You’re right about that.” Candy could have said more, but she was being diplomatic, always a good approach with Wanda, especially when she was trying to get off the phone with the other woman.
“How are things going out at the farm?”
“We’re mostly set up. As long as the good weather holds, we should be fine.”
They talked a few more moments, and Candy keyed off the call. “You caught most of that, right?”
“Marshall Bosworth was at the inn last night with three of the board members. At around the same time we were there. Funny we didn’t see them.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“What do you think they were talking about?”
Candy shook her head. “I wish I knew.”
Herr Georg gave her an encouraging look. “Well, think positive! We’ve discovered a lot so far. Perhaps the other answers we seek lie just ahead!”
Candy smiled at that, and looked expectantly out the windshield at the road ahead. “Perhaps they do.”
THIRTY-ONE
The Dowlings lived in a weather-beaten two-story house with white siding, small single-pane windows, and faded blue trim. There was no porch, only three wooden steps leading up to the front door. With no exterior decorations or enhancements of any sort, it was a rather plain place, and like many coastal homes in this part of the state, built to withstand the punishing weather that could come off the restless sea, rather than stand out aesthetically.
It sat on a flat piece of land close to the rocky shore but not right on it, surrounded by low coastal vegetation, scrubby brown trees, and a few evergreens. Winding sandy paths led through the tangled thigh-high brush to the water’s edge.
And the sea itself was magnificent today, broad, bright, and an uncommonly deep rich shade of blue. A few boats bobbed out on the water, smaller craft used for work or pleasure, including a sailboat or two. As they drove along the narrow lane, Candy and Herr Georg could see past the house and shoreline, all the way across the bay, to the low, gray peninsula and rocky point on the far side, including the spot upon which the Whitby estate stood. From here, though, it was mostly hidden behind a curtain of trees and shrubs.
Anyway, Candy realized, you couldn’t really see much of it regardless, unless you had a good pair of binoculars, since it was so far away.
Right. Binoculars. Just like Julius had in his car. If that’s what he’d used them for—to view the comings and goings at the Whitby estate across the bay—she doubted he’d have been able to see much detail, unless he had a high-powered pair. But with the pair he had
in his car, he certainly would have been able to see more than he could with the naked eye.
As they approached, Candy shifted her gaze back to the Dowling property. There was no garage, just a gravel driveway and a couple of cars pulled up beside the house. Fortunately, it appeared someone was home. Herr Georg parked the Volvo next to one of the cars and they both got out.
The wind was stronger here, by the sea, and it blew around Candy’s hair, so she had to take a few moments to regain control of it. Herr Georg, noticing the weather, dipped into the backseat and pulled out his green felt Tyrolean hat, which he plopped tightly onto his head over his white hair. He nodded toward the front door. “You’re the expert in this type of thing,” he said with an encouraging smile that showed off the gap in his front teeth. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Together they approached the house. Herr Georg remained on the dirt driveway while Candy climbed the stairs and knocked. They waited. No answer, though she thought she could hear someone moving around inside. She knocked again. For a few moments she thought she’d been mistaken—despite the cars, it appeared no one was home—until she heard a lock turn and the door creaked open. An eye peered out. “Yes?”
“Hi, my name is Candy Holliday, and this is Georg Wolfsburger of the Black Forest Bakery,” she said, pointing behind her. “We hope we’re in the right place. We’re looking for an author by the name of Lucinda P. Dowling.”
The door pulled open a little farther and Candy saw the face of a fairly plump middle-aged woman, who gave her a curious look. “You’re Candy Holliday?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re looking for Lucinda?”
“I am. We just have a few questions we’d like to ask her . . . for an article,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“Ohhh,” the woman said, pointing at Candy, as if suddenly realizing who she was. “You’re from the paper! You wrote about all those murders!” Her eyes went wide, as if she were meeting a celebrity.
Candy took it all in stride. “Well, yes, I did cover all kinds of topics when I was working full-time for the paper. Now I just write a gardening column and an occasional restaurant review, although sometimes I write other types of articles. And I’d like to talk to Mrs. Dowling for a tribute article I’m currently working on—if she lives here. As I said, I’m hoping we have the right place.”
“Oh, you have the right place, all right. Lucinda will be thrilled to meet you! Come on in. She’s right through here. Mind the clutter. We have two growing boys.”
The woman pushed open the door a little wider, inviting them in as she started back through the house, talking as she went.
“I’m Jenny, by the way, Lucinda’s daughter-in-law, though sometimes I just call her Lucy for short, but she prefers Lucinda. She says it sounds more distinguished, and I guess it does. She lives here with me and Jeff. That’s her son, by the way. He’s my husband, you know, so we’re all Dowlings here.” She laughed a little, a nervous twitter. “The kids are over at a friend’s house today, so you lucked out. It gets pretty noisy in here sometimes. But Lucinda doesn’t mind. She says they keep her young. She doesn’t get around as well as she used to, so we set up a first-floor room for her. It’s got a great view of the ocean. She likes to get up early and watch the sunrise. We get the earliest sunrises in the country here, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
Candy responded with a series of ohhs and umms but couldn’t get another word in edgewise, so she didn’t try. Herr Georg followed her silently.
The house was well lived-in, typical of a busy family, with unfolded laundry on the sofa, a television set to low volume, and cooking smells coming from the kitchen. But Candy paid it little attention as she and the baker followed the woman toward the back of the house. Jenny soon came to a door that was half-closed and peeked in. “Just give me a minute to make sure she’s awake,” she said with a wink, and ducked inside.
She was back quickly, holding the door open for them. “Come on in, she’s right over here,” said Jenny, and she led them to a big wicker chair set over by the windows. Sitting amongst the pillows and warming under a colorful throw was an older woman, perhaps near eighty, with a hardback book open on her lap. A mystery novel, Candy noticed as she approached.
Lucinda held out a welcoming hand, and they shook. “Candy Holliday,” she said with a strong voice that conveyed genuine warmth. “I’ve heard so much about you, and of course I’ve been reading the paper for years. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise, Mrs. Dowling. I didn’t realize you lived so close, or I would have stopped by sooner.”
“Oh, I’ve been hiding out here for a while. Jenny and Jeff have been taking good care of me, and it’s nice to live around the grandchildren. They’re so energetic!” She turned to the baker. “Herr Georg, it’s nice to see you again. I’ve been in your shop, of course, but I’m afraid it’s been a while.”
“Of course, I remember now,” the baker said, brightening as he shook her hand delicately. “I neglected to put the face with the name, and I pride myself on knowing my customers. I apologize.”
She waved a hand and made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Don’t even think about it. Most people couldn’t pick me out of a lineup,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I’m usually just Lucinda around town, when I have a chance to get around, and far from somebody you’d recognize. I was a librarian in Bangor for most of my adult life before coming here to live with my son and daughter-in-law. So I’m probably not as well known around town as the other villagers.”
“But you’ve contributed quite a lot to the history of Cape Willington,” Candy said. “I saw the volumes of family histories you wrote, up in the historical society’s archives at the museum.”
“Oh, yes, those little books of mine. My side project, as I used to call it. I had quite a lot of fun writing them, though I finished them up a while ago. . . .” She paused as Jenny brought in a couple of folding chairs, and Candy and Herr Georg sat down by the windows near Lucinda’s wicker chair. Once they were settled, she continued.
“My husband, Jim, was originally from Cape Willington, though he’s gone ten years now. But he had both a Rainsford and a Libby in his family tree, so that got me interested in the cape’s history and its original landholders and founding families. I researched the books here in town and in the state archives in Augusta, as well as at the state historical society in Portland and in Bangor—anywhere I could find the resources I needed, really. I also did some local interviewing, though this was many years ago, when I still had the energy to do that sort of thing. I turned up a number of interesting stories—the true stories behind the legends, you might say.”
“How many books did you write?” Candy asked, deciding it was best to start at the beginning before she got down to the nitty-gritty.
“There were sixteen in all, written over a period of almost two decades,” Lucinda said, “including two volumes on the Pruitts. I intended to write more books about them, since they were so influential in this area, but I never finished their story. I guess I just got sidetracked with other projects. Those books are mostly forgotten now, I believe, though Julius seemed to have taken an interest in them lately, didn’t he?” She gave Candy a knowing smile. “I suppose that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Candy admitted. “Sometime over the past few days or so, he was doing some research using your books. But it sounds like you’re already aware of that.”
“I am . . . or, at least, I suspected as much.”
“Do you know what he was researching?” Candy asked.
“As a matter of fact I do, because I talked to him in person, not more than two weeks ago.”
“You did? You went to the museum?”
“No, he came here to the house, to pay a visit, he said. He was a very friendly and endearing gentleman. We’d met a few times before, but
I hadn’t seen him in a while, so it was nice to have him visit. We had a very interesting chat that afternoon. We were sitting right here by the windows, just as you and I and Herr Georg are doing now.”
“And what did you talk about?” the baker asked.
“Well, a number of things. We’re both authors, of course, so we shared some stories about the general travails and triumphs of our chosen avocation. Typical stuff, you know. We discussed some of our common areas of research, and of course we talked about the town’s history, especially its founding families, since he was apparently researching the topic himself for a book.”
She paused as her face took on an odd expression. “And then, strangely enough, right out of the blue,” she said, “he asked me about a place called Foul Mouth. I guess I must have looked surprised when he said it, hearing that name after so long. But I surprised him right back when I told him I knew exactly what it was.”
THIRTY-TWO
“You’ve heard that name before?” Candy asked, her shoulders rising and her ears perking up. She felt like she’d just tapped into a gold mine. “Two words, right?”
“Oh, yes, two words. Julius was quite clear about that fact,” Lucinda said, her hands fidgeting absently in her lap. “But I knew exactly what he meant, as soon as he said it. Still, he insisted on spelling it out for me, so I wouldn’t mistake it for the towns with a similar name.”
“And what did you tell him? Where have you heard of it?”
“Well, I wrote about it, of course!” Lucinda said, her eyes widening. “Many years ago. I never thought much about it, not at the time, and I’d honestly forgotten about it until Julius brought it up. It was just one of those small historical details one uncovers while reading old diaries and talking to folks who have lived in town a long time. I wrote it down in my notes, put it in a book, and then it went right out of my mind.”
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