She guessed that if she checked the pattern on the bottoms of those sneakers, they’d match the footprints they saw on the path above.
She was suddenly spooked. “Someone’s in here,” she said softly.
Herr Georg caught her uneasiness. He literally cringed and his head twisted nervously in either direction. “Where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere. Look around.”
They both fell silent then as their lights played across the interior of the cave in questing motions, often crossing over each other, until one of the lights caught a slight illumination in a back corner of the cave, in a recess a few yards above the waterline.
Candy pointed. “There!”
Both lights focused on the small points of illumination—a pair of eyes, they both realized, looking out from a narrow, human face.
It was a young man, huddled into the recess in the rocks, in a sitting position, knees up and tucked into his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He looked waterlogged and uncomfortable. He had a pale face, prominent cheekbones, and longish dark hair. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt, much like something a waiter might have on.
Candy knew instantly who it was.
“Scotty Whitby,” she said, the disbelief evident in her tone.
THIRTY-SIX
Much to Candy’s surprise, the baker took immediate control of the situation. “You, young man!” he called out in a booming voice. “Scotty Whitby! What are you doing up there? Get down here immediately!”
The young waiter sat unresponsive, frozen, as if frightened out of his wits, staring down at them in disbelief, eyes wide.
In a more calming tone, Candy said, “Scotty, I’m so glad we found you. We’re here to help. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
No answer from Scotty.
“We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she added. “Why did you disappear from the hospital like that? Everyone around town is worried sick about you.”
She knew that last part was a bit of hyperbole, and the young man seemed to know it too. In a soft, quiet voice, he finally said, “Nobody cares about me.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” the baker said adamantly. “Of course people care about you. We care about you. The whole town is out looking for you.”
“No, they’re not!” the young man said with sudden vehemence. “No one cares where I went.”
“That’s just not true,” Candy replied, trying to reassure him. She could see how conflicted and upset he was, and didn’t want to push him too hard.
Herr Georg seemed to sense the same thing. He let out a long breath, as if the frustration that had been building in him for the past day or so was leaking out of him. In a more pleading tone, he said, spreading his hands wide, “Scotty, just tell us what’s going on here. Why are you hiding out in this cave?”
But the young waiter shook his head violently and refused to speak.
Candy tried again. “Tell us what happened to you at the inn last night. How did you wind up in that storage room? Who attacked you?”
Softly, so they could barely hear, he said, “I don’t know. It was too dark.”
“Do you know anything about the death of Julius Seabury?” Herr Georg asked. “Or about the champagne bottle that was found near his body?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Scotty Whitby said. Then, more vehemently, he added, “I think they did it. They were there last night.”
“They?” Candy felt a chill as she latched on to his comment, her eyes going wide. “Who do you mean? Who’s they?”
Scotty finally moved a little, raising a hand to jab at the air off to the side, pointing back across the bay toward Cape Willington. “Them. Their conspiracy.”
“What conspiracy? What are you talking about?” the baker asked, his voice rising again, as if his patience was running out.
“Them. All of them. They’re all in on it.”
“Who?” asked the baker, clearly becoming agitated.
Candy was about to warn Herr Georg to take a softer, more compassionate approach, but apparently his harsher words did the trick.
Scotty finally started naming names. “Those men in the lounge last night. There were four of them, though I didn’t really know who they were. But one of the other waiters told me. They’re from the museum—Owen somebody, and Gilbert somebody, and a couple of others I can’t remember.”
“Plymouth Palfrey?” Candy asked, filling in a name.
“Yeah, I guess that sounds right. Maybe. I don’t know.” The young man ran a hand with long, thin fingers through his hair, which only made him appear worse.
Now it was Candy’s turn to sound frustrated. “Scotty, none of this makes any sense. Why don’t you come down here so we can get you out of this place, get some food into you, warm you up, and get you checked out? You must be cold and hungry. We can talk about all this later. Right now, we need to take care of you.”
That seemed to finally get through to him, and he started to move more, unhooking both arms from around his legs and stretching them out. “Okay, okay, hang on, I’m coming down.”
Despite the fact that he appeared to have been hiding out in a cave for most of the day and the previous night, he seemed remarkably agile once he was on his feet. He descended from his perch in quick, easy movements, finding foot- and handholds in the rock with little problem, as if he’d done it a hundred times. He slipped down onto the cavern floor and started coming toward them, sloshing through inches-deep water that had not yet drained off the rocks. He was wearing some sort of misshapen rubber boots, Candy noticed, thick and heavy and well-worn. Apparently he’d abandoned the sneakers he’d come in with. He was carrying a small black day pack on his shoulder.
Instinctively and subconsciously, both Candy and Herr Georg backed up a little as he approached, giving the young man some space. He took advantage of their movement by shifting away from them, toward the tunnel that led out of the place. His eyes were quick, darting about the area.
And before they knew what was happening, he’d scrambled along the wet rocks right in front of them and made a mad dash for the exit. He moved so fast there was no way they could stop him or get in front of him. With a young person’s speed and agility, he slipped out through the tunnel, sloshing through the water toward the sea.
In their surprise, all they could do was watch him go. In a matter of a few quick moments, he was lost to their view.
Before they knew what had happened, Scotty Whitby was gone.
Candy and Herr Georg were alone in the cave.
Neither of them quite knew what to think. Several seconds passed before they turned to each other, slightly bewildered.
“What just happened?” Candy asked.
“I think our lost boy has just disappeared . . . again!”
“I wonder what that’s all about. We should go after him, I suppose—though I have a feeling whatever we do, he’ll outrun us.”
Herr Georg checked his watch. “We have to get out of here anyway. Our time’s up. We’re going to lose our light.”
It took them some time, since neither of them moved as quickly as Scotty Whitby had, but they traversed their way back through the tunnel to the opening of Foul Mouth and slowly, painstakingly began to make their way up the cliff face, which proved not as difficult as their descent had been.
By the time they reached the top once again, the day’s light was fading in the west, and they needed to use their flashlights to find their way back through the woods, past the house, and to the car.
They saw no sign of Scotty Whitby anywhere, though they searched fervently for him the whole way back. They were hesitant to call out to him, lest they give themselves away if anyone else was around, but realized their words would probably be lost anyway, since the wind had picked up and was rushing through the trees around
them, creating a great rustling sound that reminded Candy of the crash of waves.
Before they left, they made a final search around the house and checked the front door, but it was locked. Scotty Whitby was nowhere to be seen.
He had slipped from their grasp and disappeared into the gathering night.
THIRTY-SEVEN
They drove back to Cape Willington in silence. Both were lost in their thoughts—and still damp from their adventure in the cave. Herr Georg turned on the car’s heater to help dry them out, but said little, until his cell phone buzzed as they were approaching the village.
The baker’s demeanor changed immediately when he heard who it was. “Ah, my beloved! It’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed you today!”
Must be Maggie on the other end, Candy thought as she listened to the baker softly purr into his phone. She’s back from her trip to Ellsworth, with perfect timing.
Herr Georg listened then, nodding, smiling, now completely relaxed, and adding a comment or two of his own, when he could. “That sounds fine, my dear,” he said after Maggie had apparently discussed the evening’s plans with him. “I’ll drop Candy off and head right over—although I must stop and change first. I’m quite disheveled at the moment! I’ll explain later. I can’t wait to see you again, mein Liebling!”
After he’d keyed off the call, he told Candy, “We’re going to meet at the inn for dessert and a nightcap. I certainly need a drink after this busy day!”
“It has been rather eventful, hasn’t it?” She hesitated a moment, then added, “Herr Georg, I’m not sure I’d talk too much about where we were just now—or what happened.”
“But we found Foul Mouth! And Scotty Whitby!”
“Yes, that’s true. But we were also technically trespassing, since we had no one’s permission to be there. That could get both of us in hot water. I think it’s probably okay to talk about it with Maggie, and I might discuss it with Dad, but for the time being, until I figure all this out, let’s just keep it between the four of us.”
The baker thought about this for a moment before he said, “I’ll do whatever you believe is best. You’re the expert in these sorts of investigations. But I’m not sure we should keep this information to ourselves for too long.”
“I agree,” Candy said, and as they took the turnoff toward Blueberry Acres, she began to gather her things, including her wet sneakers, which she’d removed on the way back. They were still damp, but wearable. “Just give me tonight to figure it out. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” the baker said with a firm nod.
A short while later he pulled up beside the barn, and Candy jumped out as the car came to a stop. She gave him a quick good-bye and wave, and then he was gone in a cloud of dust, a twinkle of anticipation in his eyes.
“Well, Candy,” she said to herself as she stood in the driveway watching him go, enjoying the cooling night air and the silence that surrounded her, “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
She’d debated it on the way back, trying to decide if she should tell the police they’d found Scotty Whitby. She knew she should. It was important to the case. But she hesitated. She wasn’t sure what to do at this point. She hadn’t thought it all through yet. She just needed some time to figure it out, and right now she was too tired and too hungry to think straight.
Deciding she needed to clear her mind, she walked toward the barn. Against the backdrop of the oncoming night, it was illuminated by an interior glow that made it look magical, like something from a fairy tale. The rafter lights and chandelier were still on, and the doors were still opened wide, so she wandered inside. They’d done a little additional work while she’d been away, but they’d apparently finished for the night. Everyone seemed to be gone now. She wandered back into the reception tent, then looped around to check on her chickens before she headed into the house.
Oddly, the place seemed vacant. She heard no sounds inside, heard no one moving around.
She checked upstairs, with the same result. No one up there.
She changed into dry clothes before heading back down. After a quick stop to peek into her father’s dark office, she walked back through the kitchen. She was about to head outside but realized she hadn’t eaten anything since the tuna fish sandwich at lunch with Neil—and even then, she’d had only a few bites. She was famished.
She made a quick dip into a plastic storage container on the countertop to grab a blueberry muffin, which she’d baked a couple of days earlier, and went back outside.
The oncoming night was clear and cool. As she stood on the porch, taking a bite of the muffin, her gaze roamed around the place.
Her father’s truck was there, in its regular spot, so he must be around somewhere.
She found him on the back side of the house, sitting in a weather-beaten Adirondack chair, gazing out over the blueberry barrens. There were two chairs, a few feet apart and angled toward each other. The chairs sat out here in all seasons, except during the snowiest parts of the winter.
He heard her as she came around the corner and waved a hello. “Evening, pumpkin,” he said gently. “Glad you’re back home. Everything go okay with your ‘errands’?”
She dropped into the chair beside him. “Yes, better than expected. But I’ll tell you about it later.” She leaned back and gazed out over the darkening fields. “So how’s everything going around here?”
“Going just fine. The boys just left a little while ago, followed shortly by Malcolm and Ralph. We got a lot done, but it’s nice to finally have a break. I was just enjoying a little peace and quiet.”
“It has been a hectic day, hasn’t it?”
“That it has. Been a lot going on.”
“And we still have a lot ahead of us. Two very busy days.”
“The busiest for us in a while, that’s for sure. I’m meeting with the boys in the morning and picking up my suit at the dry cleaner’s. Then back here to finish the preparations before the wedding walk-through, and the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, and the wedding on Saturday. So I thought I’d sit here for a while, take a little breather while I can, and enjoy the night.”
“Sounds like a wonderful idea.”
They talked a little, about the wedding, and about Julius. They both shared their memories of him, some humorous, some melancholy. And they talked about the farm, which was an ongoing topic of conversation. Later on, Candy ducked into the house to get a sweater and mugs of tea for the both of them, and then they sat in silence as the darkness settled like a warm cocoon over Blueberry Acres, and the bright stars began to light up the night sky.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Restful sleep did not come easily to her that night. Candy tossed and turned into the early-morning hours, and when she finally did fall asleep, the events of the previous two days kept showing up in her dreams. When she woke, she still hadn’t decided what to do about Scotty Whitby and the police.
The problem, she realized in one of those moments of clarity right after dawn when her brain was awake before her eyes would open and her body would move, was that she wasn’t sure she should say anything to the police. And that, she realized, was at the center of her conundrum.
If she told the police about Foul Mouth and their discovery of the young waiter, she’d have to explain what she and Herr Georg were doing out at the Whitby estate in the first place. And why they’d gone so far as to climb down that cliff and search the cave. She’d been warned by Chief Durr numerous times not to do any snooping around on her own, and she’d tried as hard as possible to comply, but for some reason she kept finding herself pulled into these investigations, often because they involved someone she knew. He’d be extremely upset with her if he found out what she and Herr Georg had been doing yesterday afternoon, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to face his wrath this morning—not with all the wedding-related events they ha
d lined up through the day.
But should she delay in telling them? If so, for how long? Should she go over there right now? Or should she contact the police anonymously? Something like that?
Should she say anything at all about what she’d learned? Or, instead, should she keep the information to herself, for now? Sit on it and see what happened next?
Maybe flush out a killer?
The other issue that weighed on her was the upcoming meeting this afternoon with Porter Sykes out at the Whitby estate. She still wasn’t sure what to do about that. And then there was the revelation from Wanda, and from Scotty, about the four men in the lounge at the Lightkeeper’s Inn the night Julius was killed—Owen Peabody, Plymouth Palfrey, Gilbert Ethingham . . .
And Marshall L. Bosworth.
Was it a conspiracy of some sort? That’s what Scotty had called it.
Had one of them killed Julius Seabury? Or had all of them been involved?
Their gathering that night certainly seemed suspicious. What had they been talking about?
Difficult questions, and ones she didn’t have the answers to. As she pondered the problem, she jumped into the shower. Afterward, still undecided, she dressed in one of her nicer casual outfits and headed downstairs.
Her father was in his usual place, out on the porch, reading the paper and sipping on a cup of coffee. She grabbed a muffin and a cup of coffee and joined him.
They talked for a while, and Candy was just about to tell him of her dilemma concerning Scotty Whitby, when her phone chirped with a text from Maggie, who was getting ready to bake. Candy texted her friend back, saying she was on her way. She rose and was about to head back into the house to gather her things when Doc said, “You never did tell me what happened yesterday after you left here.”
Candy gave him a knowing look. “No, I never did, did I?”
“You know,” Doc said, rising as well, “my offer is always open if you ever need my help. I’m a good listener.”
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