Town in a Cinnamon Toast

by B. B. Haywood

  He walked back to the car, opened the rear door, and held out a hand. “We’re here, Grandmother. Come say hello to Candy Holliday.”

  It took a while, but the elderly woman finally managed to extricate herself from the backseat, with her grandson’s assistance. She leaned on him heavily as she came forward, and it was clear she was having trouble walking. But she was determined to make it, and she did, crossing the short distance to the house, where she stopped in front of the other two people.

  “Marshall, Candy,” Porter Sykes said by way of introduction, “I’d like you to meet my grandmother, Daisy Porter-Sykes.”

  FORTY-ONE

  “So this is what you bought with your own money?” the Sykes family matriarch said as she eyed the place with some disdain, her mouth twisting slightly. “A pile of brownstone on a pile of black rock, miles across the bay from Cape Willington? Not exactly the height of style, is it?”

  “It needs some work, that’s true, but it should be no problem,” Porter said easily. He was obviously used to dealing with Daisy’s cantankerous moods, and she appeared to be in one now.

  “It’s certainly a fixer-upper. When will the furniture arrive?”

  “Later this afternoon, although I’ve asked Marshall here to arrange for some chairs and a table for us until everything gets here.”

  “Is there tea?”

  “Of course, Grandmother. We wouldn’t deny you the comforts of home.”

  She eyed the place again. “It’s hardly what I would call home—not like our old mansion up here.”

  “Trust me, a few months from now we’ll be all settled into our new summer place here in Maine. Come inside and have a look around. The building has good bones, as you’ll see, and should have plenty of room for us—and it was a good deal.”

  The elderly woman smacked her lips, as if she’d just eaten something tasty. “Yes, I’m sure it was, after that leverage you used.” She almost cackled, though it came out as an extended cough.

  Together the two of them entered the building, chatting between themselves, and with an exchange of glances, Marshall and Candy followed, though she still had no idea what she was doing here, or what these people wanted from her.

  “I’ve us set up in the dining room,” Marshall said, scooting around Porter and his grandmother and leading the way toward the back of a long, dark hallway. “I’ve opened up some windows to air out the place, and the cleaners are here. They’re working on the second floor right now.”

  “How many?” Daisy asked.

  “I hired two for today, Grandmother,” Porter said.

  “Not enough. You’d need a battalion to clean this place.”

  “We can bring in more if we need them,” Porter said. “Let’s get through today and see what happens. We’ll go from there.”

  Daisy just grumbled under her breath about that. She seemed to Candy like a hard woman to please.

  The churning feeling in the pit of her stomach worsened.

  Soon, they were all seated around a wooden table in a sunny, airy room. Marshall, apparently serving as host for the day, brought out a kettle of tea with a small plate of cookies, and Daisy seemed to settle in to the point where a conversation was possible.

  “So, Ms. Holliday,” the matriarch said, turning to Candy, “I’ll bet you’re a little surprised to see me here.”

  Candy knew something like this was coming. She answered carefully. “Yes, well, obviously I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. Porter-Sykes, and your grandsons, of course, but I never thought we’d have a chance to meet in person. This is an unexpected . . . pleasure.”

  “I doubt it’s that,” Daisy said honestly, “but there is a reason for this meeting. We do have something we’d like to discuss with you.”

  “And what might that be?” Candy did her best to keep an open mind, but mentally prepared herself for the worst.

  When Porter spoke up, his request was completely unexpected. “To be honest, we’d like to hire you,” he said as he reached into an inside pocket and produced a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and poured a small amount of its caramel-colored contents into his tea, spiking it a little.

  Candy was surprised. “Hire me? To do what?”

  “To solve all these murders, of course,” said Daisy with a touch of impatience. “They’re destroying the village’s reputation. You should hear how people are talking about the place. And now that we’re homeowners in the area again, we’re going to try to put an end to them, once and for all.”

  “But—” And Candy almost said, Your own grandsons were responsible for some of those murders. At the last moment she held her tongue, though, knowing that would be the wrong way to proceed. Instead, she said, “Unfortunately, I don’t have a license. I’m not a private investigator or a detective or anything like that. So I’m not really available for hire—at least, in that sort of capacity.”

  “But you’ve worked for the Pruitts, correct?”

  How did she know about that? Again, a careful answer. “Yes, that’s true, they hired me a few years ago, in sort of an informal way, though we did have a verbal agreement.” She was referring to a time when Helen Ross Pruitt, the matriarch of the Pruitt clan, hired Candy to find an old book that had been stolen from the family’s private library.

  “Then we’ll forge the same arrangement,” Daisy said. “On or off the books, I don’t really care. We can pay you cash if you’d prefer to handle it that way.” She motioned impatiently to her grandson. “Porter, give this woman some money.”

  “No, no!” Candy held up her hands, waving them in the air. “We should talk about this first, just so I know what you’re expecting from me. And as I said, I can’t really do it anyway.”

  Daisy waved dismissively. “You’re right, of course. We should let Marshall handle all the details anyway. That’s what he’s here for. Marshall, take care of this, would you, and see that Candy has all the information she needs to make an appropriate decision.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Porter-Sykes,” Marshall said, dipping his head a little as he pulled out his phone to key in a few notes.

  Porter lightly slapped his knee. “Well, now that that’s all taken care of, we can move on to other things. Shall we talk about the liaison issue next?”

  Daisy grimaced as she took a sip of her tea. She set it down uncertainly. “Of course. Let’s get on with it.”

  “What’s the liaison issue?” Candy asked, a concerned look on her face.

  “I have some details on that,” Marshall said, and he dipped into his briefcase, which he’d positioned on the floor near his feet. He dug around for a moment, pulled out a manila folder, opened it, and peeled off the top sheet inside. He slid it across the table toward Candy.

  “Essentially, we would like to hire you as a liaison between the family and the villagers, specifically the Pruitts. We’d like you to help us set up a meeting—a summit, if you will—between the two families. There’s been bad blood between the two groups for generations, as I’m sure you know. We’d like to put an end to all that, and see if we can reestablish some sort of mutually beneficial relationships between the Sykes and Pruitt families.”

  Candy picked up and scanned the sheet Marshall had sent in her direction. It looked formal. She hesitated.

  “I . . . I just don’t know. I’m not really qualified to do any of these things. I work on a blueberry farm. I’m not a diplomat.” She set the paper down and slid it back across the table to Marshall, her mind working, but she’d already come to a decision. “I’m afraid I have to decline. I’m just not the right person for any of this. I’m sure there are plenty of people around—you, Marshall, for instance—who could do a much better job than I could at something like that.”

  “But you know the Pruitts, quite well, I believe,” Porter pressed. “You could talk to them on our behalf. I believe Mrs. Pruitt usually arrives in t
own with her entourage right around the Fourth of July, if not earlier. The timing would be ideal. We should have the place fixed up by then—at least the worst parts of it. Maybe you could help us arrange a meeting out here.”

  Candy wasn’t quite sure how to respond. The whole thing sounded crazy. Not what she was expecting at all. She thought of trying to extricate herself from the situation as quickly as possible, but decided she might as well try to get some information out of them before she made her way back to Cape Willington.

  “Maybe. I’ll have to give it some thought. But I wonder if I might change the subject briefly. I’ve heard Julius Seabury was writing a book about Cape Willington’s founding families. I was just wondering . . . had he contacted you about that in any way? I know he was doing some research up in the archives about the Sykes family.” And here she reached into her own tote bag, withdrawing Lucinda Dowling’s book on the family, which she’d taken from the archives. “This was one of his sources, among a few others, including volumes on the Bosworths, Ethinghams, Whitbys, Rainsfords, and Palfreys. So, did you hear from him in the days leading up to his death?”

  That seemed to stop the conversation cold. Candy waited patiently. If she and Maggie were right about the code Julius left behind, apparently pointing a finger directly at Porter Sykes, then she hoped he might slip up, and she might learn something new—as long as she didn’t get herself killed in the process.

  “Julius?” Porter said finally, uncertain at the change of topic.

  “You said it yourself,” Candy pointed out. “The goal is to put an end to all these murders around town, once and for all. Any information you might have could help us do that.”

  Porter nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, to answer your question, no, to the best of my knowledge, none of us talked to Julius. And as I said on the phone yesterday, we’re all extremely sorry to hear of his loss. He will be greatly missed in the village. And—”

  He was interrupted by a great thudding sound that seemed to come from nearby—the kitchen, maybe. His head shot around. “What’s that?”

  Marshall’s alertness had also picked up. “I don’t know. I heard it earlier and couldn’t figure out what it was. I believe it came from the basement, but I can’t get that door open. It’s apparently locked on the other side. It sounds like someone’s . . . banging.”

  Daisy nervously set her teacup down on the table as Porter pointed with his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Go check it out.”

  Marshall was on his feet and gone in an instant.

  There was another thud, this one beneath them, vibrating through the floor. Candy could feel it in her shoes. “Someone’s under us,” she said to no one in particular.

  “It’s the building!” Daisy cried in a quickly elevating tone. “It’s falling apart around us!”

  Porter was on his feet now as well, rounding the table toward his grandmother. He motioned to her. “You sit tight. Don’t move. I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  He never got any farther, for he was frozen in place.

  He’d looked up and toward the kitchen, and Candy followed his gaze.

  Marshall was emerging through the door—and there was a dark figure behind him, someone none of them could make out at the moment.

  But it struck Candy quickly, and she knew. She knew from the slim figure and lanky build, the dark hair, and the still-wet boots that were planted firmly on the floor behind Marshall.

  Much to her shock and surprise, she realized it was Scotty Whitby.

  FORTY-TWO

  The young waiter grabbed Marshall by the collar and brutally shoved him into the dining room with the others. Marshall stumbled a little before he caught his footing and abruptly dropped into his chair with a grunt, his face pale against his darker hair.

  But at the moment no one was watching Marshall. They were all focused on the intruder.

  Scotty’s eyes were wild, flashing around the room. He carried a black pistol in his right hand, which he waved in a menacing fashion at those seated or standing around the table.

  “So, you’re all here, right?” he said in a voice that cracked a little. “All of you who have stolen my family’s place from us. And now you’re all going to pay.”

  He was still dressed in black and white, wearing the same thing he’d had on the day before. His pants were damp and clingy, the shirt smudged and untucked, his face streaked with dirt. And he still carried the small black day pack on his shoulder. He looked like some sort of wraith that had risen from the dark sea.

  He came up through the basement, Candy thought as she watched him. He’d found the back entrance into the house—the one through Foul Mouth, which Lucinda mentioned yesterday.

  Is that what he’d been doing down in the cave when we found him? Scoping out the entrance that would lead him up into the house?

  He wasn’t hiding out when we found him, she suddenly realized. He was casing the joint!

  Almost as if in response to her thoughts, Scotty’s gaze shifted to his right. He caught sight of Candy then, and looked surprised. At first he didn’t seem to recognize her, but he quickly put it together.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? I saw you in the cave yesterday, right?” he said. “When you interrupted me. I put on a pretty good act for you, didn’t I? Probably had you convinced that I was just a lost, lonely kid. But what are you doing here now? I thought these criminals were all up here by themselves, hatching their latest plot to take over the village.”

  Candy forced herself to give him a casual shrug. As lightly as possible, doing her best to defuse the situation, she said, “I guess I wandered into the wrong house at the wrong time.”

  “You wander into a lot of places at the wrong time,” he said in a dark tone.

  But Candy didn’t let his words distract her. “Scotty, what are you doing here? I don’t know you that well, but this doesn’t seem like you. Put down that gun and let’s talk.”

  “How do you know what I’m like?” the young waiter responded, but he seemed to waver a little, until Porter spoke up.

  “She’s right,” he said, motioning toward Candy with a hand. “There’s no need for things to turn violent. We’re all rational people here. Whatever your issues might be with us, we’ll work it out. I promise you.”

  That brought Scotty back to the moment, and he swiveled the pistol so it was pointing directly at Porter’s chest. “I don’t believe you. Hands up, Mr. Sykes.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Scotty flourished the gun. “Just do as I tell you or I’ll end it all right here.”

  Reluctantly, Porter complied, making a somewhat feeble attempt to hold up his hands. “Okay, you got me. Now what?”

  “Now what we’re going to do is bring you to justice. Because you’re the one behind all this, aren’t you? You’re the one who convinced my uncle Elliot to sell you this place for a song, because he thought the deed had gone bad and he was about to lose the land underneath it. He thought the place was almost worthless, because you told him that, through your lawyer lapdog here.”

  Still holding his hands up, Porter started to protest, but Scotty cut him off, licking his lips in an almost animalistic fashion. When he spoke again, the tone of his voice had lowered a few notches, almost to a growl.

  “But I knew you didn’t have those deeds, because Julius Seabury had them, didn’t he? You knew that but lied to my uncle, because even though you didn’t have them yourself, you knew they existed. You hounded Julius for them, maybe even threatened him, but he wouldn’t give them to you, would he? Because he knew what you’d do with them.”

  “That’s completely preposterous!” Porter snapped. “I knew he had them, yes, but I never hounded or threatened him. I just asked him politely if I could have a look at them when he was finished with his research.”

  “You’re lying!” the young
waiter spat out. “I overheard your friends talking at the inn that night. They said you were after the deeds! They said you wanted to destroy the town! I knew right away what they were talking about, because my uncle told me about it. He didn’t want to sell the place. I might have inherited it myself! But now it’s gone, because you swindled him out of this place. All because of those deeds Julius had!”

  “Scotty,” Candy cut in, trying to catch up after his outburst, “how did you know Julius had the deeds?”

  The young waiter’s gaze shifted to her, and he hesitated before he spoke. “I didn’t at first,” he said, “not until I heard those men talking about it the night before last.”

  “Who exactly?” Candy pressed.

  “Them—the ones who were in the lounge that night. The heavyset one, and the other one, with white hair and a goatee.”

  “Owen Peabody,” Candy said, “and Plymouth Palfrey.”

  “They were all by themselves, just the two of them, talking back in the hallway when I passed by them carrying a tray with plates of food,” Scotty went on, as if she’d never interrupted him. “They didn’t even seem to know I existed. But I heard what they said. They were talking about you”—he indicated Porter with vehemence—“and said Julius had the deeds, and you were after them, so you could use them to take over the town. That’s when I knew what you’d done.”

  Again, he waved the gun at Porter and Marshall, and then at Daisy. “And you, I guess. You’re probably involved in this too. Just as guilty as the rest of them.”

  “Young man, you’re out of line,” Daisy said with a tone of exasperation. “I come from a very respectable family. We didn’t steal this place from you—your family stole it from us, long ago. We lost it in a dubious poker game, and it was your ancestor who cheated, not mine. We’re just reclaiming what’s rightfully ours.”

  “It’s not yours!” Scotty spat. “It’s called the Whitby estate. It belongs to my family. And now it’s gone, because of you!”