Town in a Pumpkin Bash

by B. B. Haywood

  She felt a chill. “You think there’s a reason he was murdered here…and that it has something to do with me?”

  The chief shrugged as he looked back toward her, his gaze sharpening. “We already know there was a connection between the deceased and Ms. Tremont, and between him and you as well. You’d met the deceased before, right? You had a relationship with him?”

  Candy couldn’t help grousing at that. “I wouldn’t call it a relationship.”

  “But you knew each other?”

  “Yes, we knew each other. But I haven’t seen him in over two years.”

  “And you knew he was coming here this morning?”

  “To meet with Maggie, yes, to get the keys to Sapphire’s house.” She involuntarily tightened her arms across her chest, a protective gesture.

  “Did he tell you or Ms. Tremont why he was interested in renting the place?”

  Candy shook her head. “He was…well, kind of secretive about the whole thing. But he might have mentioned something about it to Maggie. Maybe you should talk to her.”

  “I intend to do just that,” the chief said as he rubbed his chin, pondering what she’d told him. “But we have to assume it’s more than coincidental that the deceased was murdered here in your field, don’t we? There’s a definite connection between you, Ms. Tremont, and Mr. Quinn. How exactly that connection resulted in Quinn’s death remains to be seen. So here’s what I need you to do, Ms. Holliday…Candy.”

  He pointed toward the dark-haired female officer who was just finishing up her conversation with T.J. and the man in the bee costume. The woman was short and curvy yet solid, with big shoulders and a round face. “Have you met Officer Prospect?” the chief asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  The chief waved the officer over, introducing her while she was still several steps away. “This is Officer Molly Prospect. Molly, this is Candy Holliday. I’d like you to take her statement.”

  Officer Prospect gave her a professional yet friendly nod. She seemed like the type of person who had a hard time keeping a smile off her face, and there was a twinkle in her dark eyes that told everyone she met that she loved her job. “Hello, Ms. Holliday,” she said pleasantly.

  “Hello,” Candy said softly, with a nod.

  “I want you to tell Officer Prospect everything you just told me,” the chief instructed, looking Candy carefully in the eyes. “She’ll take notes and create an initial report. I’d like you to come down to the station Monday morning to review it and make sure everything’s accurate, and we’ll get your signature on it. Can you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  The chief patted her on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Now if you think of anything else we should know about, I want you to immediately call Officer Prospect here. She’ll give you her business card so you can get in touch with her. And if you can’t reach her, I want you to call the station and ask for me personally.” He forced a grim smile. “And try not to worry too much, Ms. Holliday,” he told her. “We’ll figure out what’s going on around here.”

  With that, he turned and made his way back toward the crime scene, while Officer Prospect began asking Candy a series of directed questions, making careful notes of the answers. Her manner was efficient and professional as she guided Candy through the series of events that had occurred that morning. Candy noticed that her black hair, which she’d tucked up under her hat, was straight and shiny, and Candy imagined that when she let it out, it must fall to her shoulders, and perhaps even farther. If Candy were to venture a guess, it would be that Office Prospect had Native American blood in her—possibly from the local Penobscot tribe.

  They were going back through the sequence of events a second time when T.J. approached them. “How are you doing?” he asked Candy during a break in the questioning.

  She gave him a halfhearted shrug. “I’m hanging in there.”

  “Well, listen, I’m headed back to the parking lot, but if you’d like, we can walk together. I think the police have the situation pretty much under control here. In fact, I think they’d prefer that we get out of their hair.”

  He looked over at Officer Prospect. “You have everything you need from her at the moment, right?”

  The dark-haired officer jotted down a few more quick notes before she folded shut her notepad and reached into a shirt pocket for a business card, which she handed to Candy. She gave T.J. an agreeable nod. “I think so, Mr. Pruitt. We’re all done.”

  Candy took the card, glanced at it, and slid it into her back pocket. It took her a few moments to register what she’d just heard. Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. Did you just call him Pruitt?”

  Her gaze shot to T.J., the surprise evident in her expression. “You’re a Pruitt?”

  She noticed it then—the eyes, the nose, the shape of his face. It struck her like a cold shower, sending brisk pinpricks of recognition through her as she realized who he really was. “You’re Tristan Pruitt, aren’t you? You’re one of Helen’s sons?”

  Helen Ross Pruitt was the richest woman in town, from one of the richest families in New England. She regularly summered at Pruitt Manor, on the rocky point out by Kimball Light, an old lighthouse that dated back to the early years of the previous century. Candy had met Mrs. Pruitt—as the family matriarch was known around town—several times, though she’d never met any of Helen’s siblings or children. But she’d seen a few photos of them, and now noticed the family resemblance.

  In response, T.J. held out his hand. “Actually, I’m her nephew,” he said smoothly, “and the full name is Tristan James Hawthorne Pruitt. It’s a pleasure to finally—and formally—meet you, Candy Holliday.”

  TEN

  “So you’re Helen’s nephew?”

  Tristan Pruitt nodded as the wind caught his fair hair, flicking a few strands across his forehead. “The family history’s a little muddled, but, yes, I’m the son of her younger brother, Judson. He’s the middle child. Aunt Helen has four siblings in all. She’s the oldest, and she has two sisters and two brothers, including my father.”

  “And you decided to keep that fairly significant piece of information to yourself? Why the secretive use of initials?”

  The two of them were walking along the dirt road that led back to Low Field and the parking lot. They’d left behind the hushed, solemn atmosphere that centered on Sebastian J. Quinn’s body. The corpse had been covered with a sheet, and several of the officers were fanning out across the field, searching for evidence while they awaited the arrival of the crime scene van from Augusta.

  Candy had to admit she was glad that T.J.—or, rather, the man now known to her as Tristan Pruitt—had pulled her out of there. The suddenness of all that had happened in the past hour had left her feeling emotionally on edge. But now that they were headed away from the scene of the crime, she found herself breathing a little easier, and the tightness in her chest and tingling in her arms and fingers were beginning to abate.

  As they walked, she found herself stealing glances at Tristan Pruitt. Despite the subterfuge of disguising his name, she found herself intrigued by him. She decided she liked the way he held himself, the square of his shoulders and the leanness of his body. Her eyes were drawn to the line of his jaw and the shape of his hands. She liked the way he’d reacted when they’d first spotted Sebastian’s leg protruding from beneath the pile of pumpkins. While she’d stood there frozen in indecision and dread, he’d leapt out of the wagon with urgency and decisiveness. He’d worked harder than anyone to remove the pumpkins that covered the body, and his hands and clothes now displayed the results of his efforts, spotted with dirt and grime, though he barely seemed to notice—or care. She imagined he wasn’t the type of person who pursued fashions or fads or the latest hot spots, and probably would be equally comfortable throwing back a couple of beers with the local lobstermen or climbing out of a limo in a tux for a night at the opera. There was an earthiness and yet an elegance about him, an unmistakable confidence that
appealed to something deep inside her.

  “It wasn’t my intention to be deceptive,” he said sincerely, responding to her question. “I suppose you could say I just wanted to keep a low profile initially. The family name carries quite a bit of cachet around here, as I’m sure you know. Sometimes that’s beneficial, but other times it can be a burden.”

  Candy couldn’t conceive how being a member of the wealthiest family in Cape Willington would ever be considered a burden, but she let that go for the moment. Instead, she gave him a mischievous grin. “So…Tristan, huh? What’s the whole thing again? Tristan Hawthorne something?”

  He caught her look and laughed easily. “Tristan James Hawthorne Pruitt, if you must know the truth. And, yes, it is a bit of a mouthful.”

  “Why Tristan? That’s a British name, isn’t it?”

  “Welsh, actually.” He squinted up at the sky, which momentarily brightened. “The Pruitts are originally from Wales, you know. There’s a medieval story about a hero named Tristan, who was one of King Arthur’s knights of the Round Table.”

  “Tristan and Isolde,” Candy said, recalling the story.

  He lowered his gaze toward her, his head tilting slightly to the side. “That’s right. The Wagner opera. Isolde was an Irish princess, said to be very beautiful. She was betrothed to King Mark of Cornwall, who sent his trusted nephew, Tristan, to Ireland to fetch his future bride and escort her back to Mark’s kingdom for the wedding. But along the way Tristan and Isolde took a potion and fell helplessly in love, creating a very sticky romantic triangle. Anyway, my family was obviously fond of the name, since quite a few of my ancestors were named Tristan, including one of my great-grandfathers—one of the old Welsh Pruitts. I’m his direct namesake.”

  Candy was intrigued. “And the Hawthorne part?”

  He suddenly looked sheepish. “It’s after Nathaniel Hawthorne. That was my mother’s idea. She was a socialite from Boston who had a classical education. She insisted on naming all her children after New England literary figures in some way or other, either with first or middle names, or in some cases both. I have a brother named Henry Longfellow Pruitt, and a sister Charlotte, after Brontë.”

  “My, my, that’s pretty fancy.” Candy’s eyes twinkled in amusement at his apparent discomfort over the current line of questioning. “And James?”

  “That was my mother’s father. He was a Hutchinson. Very old Boston family.”

  Candy whistled. “Wow, that’s quite a genealogy. You’re practically a walking New England history book, aren’t you?”

  He chuckled. “That’s probably true. I guess I never quite thought of it that way. When I was younger I thought the whole name was too long and pretentious, and since I’m not the pretentious type, I started calling myself T.J., and my family and friends followed my lead. But once I grew up I decided I needed something more mature, so I’ve reverted to Tristan.”

  “Well,” Candy said sincerely, “I think it’s a very nice name.”

  He grinned. “I’m glad you approve. But you have a fairly unique name yourself. Where did Candy come from?”

  It was a question she’d heard many times before, especially when she was growing up, and she’d even been teased about it a number of times. But she didn’t mind answering the question again, considering who was asking. “My mother came up with it. She was born on Christmas Day, so her parents named her Holly. And she lived up to her festive name. She was a wonderful, warm, caring person.”

  “She’s gone now?” Tristan asked, catching the past tense of the verb.

  Candy nodded. “A few years back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But, again, why Candy?”

  “Like my mother, I was born on a holiday—in my case, Halloween. So my mother decided to continue the tradition.”

  “Halloween?” Tristan pondered that for a moment. “So you have a birthday coming up in, what, four or five days?”

  Candy gave him a dark look. “Don’t remind me.”

  Her reaction surprised him. “Why not? Birthdays are a time for celebration, aren’t they?”

  “Usually, yes,” Candy agreed, “but this is a big one.”

  “I see.”

  She waited for him to say more, but like a gentleman, he kept any further questions about her age to himself, unwilling to pry too far into her personal history. So she filled in the blanks for him. “It’s the big four-oh,” she said reluctantly, as if the very thought of it was too much to bear. “I’m getting old!”

  He laughed again, charmingly. “I’d hardly consider you old, but I do understand.” He studied her face, the same way she’d studied his earlier. “Well, Candy Holliday, I guess we’ll just have to figure out a creative way to ease this obviously stressful transition for you,” he said seriously. “But as someone who’s several years on the north side of that rather significant age milestone, I can tell you it’s not nearly as bad as you think it might be.”

  Candy shot him a skeptical look. “Hmm, I’ll take that under advisement.”

  Impulsively, he reached out to give her hand a squeeze. “Trust me, you’ll be just fine.”

  As the sky lowered and the wind picked up, they angled to their left, following the dirt track, and had just reached the lower pumpkin patch when they heard someone huffing and puffing behind them. They turned to see the man in the bee costume running to catch up. He had lingered around the scene of the crime but apparently had finally been shooed away.

  After he’d introduced himself as Eric and they’d exchanged pleasantries, the three of them made their way through the pumpkin patch toward the hay wagon, which had come to a stop next to the parking lot. By this time all the passengers had disembarked, and some had already driven off in their cars, though quite a few customers still wandered around the field, picking out pumpkins and perusing the wares at the farm stand, where Maggie was busy adding up prices for customers, taking money, and making change.

  Everything looked more or less perfectly normal, Candy thought. It was as if nothing strange had happened that morning, and all the customers were just enjoying the day, completely unaware of the dead body lying in the next field.

  As Eric the Bee said his good-byes and made his way to his car, Candy and Tristan headed over to the farm stand to help out Maggie. By the time they’d finished with the last few customers, the crime van had arrived, bouncing carelessly along the dirt track through the pumpkin patch to the field beyond.

  A short time later, Chief Durr drove down to have a talk with them.

  “We’re going to have to close the entire pumpkin patch—both fields—for the rest of the day,” he told them, as a few heavy raindrops fell from the sky. “Looks like it’s turning stormy anyway. It’s probably a good time to close up shop.”

  “What about tomorrow?” Maggie asked, the concern evident in her voice. “There are only a few days left until Halloween, and Sunday tends to be one of our biggest days of the week.”

  “We have a lot of pumpkins we have to clear out of here by midweek,” Candy added, aware that Halloween—and her birthday—fell on a Wednesday this year. After that, the demand for pumpkins would disappear—and she would have to face the fact that she was on the north side of forty, as Tristan had called it. “We’d sure like to open up tomorrow. Is that possible?”

  The chief tugged off his hat and ran a hand through his graying hair. “It all depends on the forensics team,” he replied, replacing the hat firmly on his head. “It’s their call. Best I can tell you is it’ll be a day-to-day decision. We’ll see what the morning brings. But for now, I’d like the cooperation of you three, since you’re the primary ones who found and uncovered the body.”

  He turned his gaze on Maggie. “Ms. Tremont, as I told you back in the other field, I’d like to see the printouts of all your e-mail exchanges with Sebastian Quinn, and details about your phone conversations with him as well. I need you to gather all that information together and drop it off at the station this afternoon.”

 
Maggie clicked her heels together and saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain. I’m glad to help out.”

  His gaze lingered on her for only a moment, as he quickly decided to let her theatrics pass without comment. “And, Ms. Holliday and Mr. Pruitt, I’ll need you both at the station Monday morning to review and sign your statements, and answer any additional questions we might have. We hope to get this investigation wrapped up as quickly as possible, so if any of you think of anything else that might help us out, get in touch with us pronto. Got it?”

  They said they did, and once he had their assurances, he gave them all a brusque nod, climbed back into his car, and drove off.

  “Well, I guess that does it for today,” Maggie said. “We’d better close this place up and do as the chief says.” She stuffed the final few bills into the money box, shut the lid, and looked up at the sky. “Besides, he’s right—the weather’s not cooperating. Looks like we would’ve gotten rained out anyway.”

  Working quickly, they covered some of the items in the stand, tucked others behind the counter, and packed the most valuable ones into the back of Candy’s teal-colored Jeep, which she’d pulled up next to the farm stand. The Jeep was showing its age, and bubbles of rust were beginning to attack the rear wheel wells and lower running boards, but it still managed to get her where she was going.

  As Maggie finished stowing away items at the farm stand, Tristan helped Candy carry the last few boxes and bags to the Jeep. They worked in silence, Candy deep in her thoughts, until Tristan, gauging her somber mood, said softly, “Rough morning, huh?”

  Something in the way he’d said it made her mood lighten just a bit. “Well, to be honest, it’s not what I expected when I got out of bed this morning.” She paused, noticing the concerned look in his eyes. “It’s just that—well, we’d been expecting him…Sebastian, I mean. He was scheduled to meet us this morning here in the pumpkin patch to pick up the keys to Sapphire Vine’s old house. He wanted to rent it for a couple of weeks and…”