Town in a Pumpkin Bash

by B. B. Haywood

  “Tristan and Madame await you in the conservatory,” Hobbins said, returning to his formal demeanor. “If you’ll follow me.” The butler turned on his heel and started off, leading the way through the house.

  Tristan and Helen Ross Pruitt were waiting for her in a magnificent, glassed-in room at the back of the manor, overlooking the rear lawn and the sea beyond.

  As she entered the conservatory, Tristan rose and came to greet her, holding out his hand. He had changed his clothes, and now was wearing gray slacks and a dark shirt. They shook hands warmly.

  “Candy, thanks again for accepting my invitation,” he said, unable to hold back a grin. “You’ve met my aunt, right?”

  Candy smiled at the thin, elderly woman who sat straight-backed in a wicker armchair. Mrs. Pruitt looked much the same as Candy remembered her. She was dressed in shades of gray and lavender today, her long skirt and jacket well tailored to fit her bony frame, and accented by a single strand of pearls and small silver earrings. Her carefully coiffed bluish gray hair was pulled back from her high forehead and pinned elegantly behind her head, which caused the eye to focus on her pale, creamy skin, thin rose-painted lips, and long, Romanesque Pruitt nose. Her wide-set eyes were intelligent and ever watchful.

  Typically around town, Mrs. Pruitt put on a stern demeanor, but today she seemed distracted, even a little flustered, though she appeared to gather herself as Candy stepped forward to shake her hand, tucking away any concerns she had.

  “Hello again, Candy,” the elderly woman said softly but pleasantly, managing a subdued smile. “How nice to see you.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you again too. I hope I’m not causing you any inconvenience by showing up on such short notice.”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Pruitt told her. “You’re Tristan’s guest, so of course you’re welcome. And Cook has held lunch for us. I believe everything’s ready.” She pointed to a small white garden table set up near the conservatory’s rear windows, and draped with a cream-colored linen tablecloth.

  Lunch was promptly served once they were seated, and started with fresh-baked rolls and a crisp garden salad with small grapes, sunflower seeds, thin slices of cucumber, and green onions, topped with feta cheese and balsamic vinegar. That was followed by broiled lamb chops with a delectable rosemary-mint sauce, diminutive roasted potatoes, and asparagus tips in a light cheese sauce.

  Their conversation was occupied by small talk as they ate, with Tristan asking about the farm and Candy’s job at the newspaper, while Mrs. Pruitt was curious about Maggie’s activities. “Your friend has such a delightful sense of humor,” Mrs. Pruitt observed, and she cast a sharp glance at Tristan. “We should have thought to invite her to join us today as well.”

  Tristan returned his aunt’s rebuke with a casual smile, unprovoked by her comment, but Candy came to his rescue nevertheless. “Maggie has a little homework to do for Chief Durr,” she said simply.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Pruitt’s lips drew into a tight line. “Tristan told me about the unfortunate incident that occurred today out in the field where you’ve been working.” There was a hint of disdain in her words, as if she had no use for the type of manual labor required for farmwork. But she let any further comments go unspoken.

  Candy, however, used the shift in conversation to pursue her true reason for agreeing to lunch at Pruitt Manor. She turned to Tristan. “This morning, when we were out at the pumpkin patch, you mentioned something about Sapphire Vine’s house—the haunted house, you called it. You said you wanted to ask me some questions about it.”

  Her comments resulted in a sudden silence around the table. Candy peered at him, raising an eyebrow.

  He responded by taking up his cloth napkin, which he used to dab at the corners of his mouth. His gaze shifted toward his aunt before flicking back to Candy. “Well, yes,” he said finally. “I suppose we should talk about that.”

  But before he could proceed, Mrs. Pruitt leaned forward and placed her thin hand on her nephew’s wrist. “Tristan, where are your manners? It’s not polite to talk about business at the dining table,” she told him in a gently admonishing tone. “I agree this is a conversation we need to have. But please, we must be civilized. Let’s finish the delicious dessert Cook has made for us before we reveal our most intimate family secrets.”

  THIRTEEN

  So they had dessert—fresh-baked pumpkin pie topped with a dollop of homemade whipped cream—before they adjoined to the library with their coffee and tea to hold their conversation about “intimate family secrets,” as Mrs. Pruitt had called them.

  The library was cozy and comfortable, a middle room tucked between two larger ones on the north side of the house. A tall, narrow window overlooked the shedding trees in the side yard and let in some light. The library, Candy saw as she scanned it, was well stocked with newer books as well as a number of volumes that looked like they dated back a hundred years or more. And Candy imagined some of them did. Here, too, were a few smaller portraits hanging in nooks and alcoves, presumably of more Pruitt ancestors. But she also recognized some familiar faces in smaller black-and-white photographs that hung around the room or sat on shelves and side tables.

  Tristan helped her identify some of them. They’d settled into wingback chairs, and he pointed around the room casually, as if he’d identified these images for hundreds of people before her. “That’s Eleanor Roosevelt with my grandfather,” he told Candy, “and over there is Henry Ford with a great-great uncle.”

  “And that one?” Candy asked, pointing at a framed photo that sat in a prominent spot on a nearby shelf.

  Mrs. Pruitt answered. “That’s my father, Cornelius Roberts Pruitt, with Andrew Carnegie. It was taken in the early nineteen hundreds in New York. My father was still a teenager then, and Carnegie was in his late seventies.”

  Candy was impressed. “Your family has quite a fascinating history,” she said, her gaze still wandering around the room, studying the old books, photographs, and furniture.

  “We do,” Tristan admitted, “and that’s one of the reasons I invited you out here today. You see, part of our family history is missing.”

  “Oh, really?” As she spoke, Candy noticed out of the corner of her eye that Mrs. Pruitt shifted uncomfortably at the change in conversation.

  Tristan appeared to notice also, but he cleared his throat and pressed on, his voice lowering. “We—Aunt Helen and I, as well as the rest of the family—believe there’s been a theft, you see, and we thought you might be able to help us figure out what’s happened.”

  “A theft?” Candy’s gaze swept the room again, her curiosity piqued. “What was stolen?”

  In response, Tristan rose and walked to a shelf lined with older books that had worn leather covers. Some of the old books were greatly aged and spotted, as if they’d been left outside for weeks, while others were more elegant and gently used, with faded gold leaf on the edges. They were of various shapes, sizes, and thicknesses, and took up the better part of two shelves.

  Candy’s gaze focused in on several of the leather-bound books, looking for the titles on their spines, but she could see none. As her gaze swept along the shelves, she noticed an open spot, as if one of the books had been removed but never returned.

  Tristan indicated the spot. “It’s a journal. A diary, actually, written by my grandmother, Abigail.”

  “Abigail?” Candy’s gaze was locked on the spot.

  “My mother,” Mrs. Pruitt clarified, “married to Cornelius.”

  “Oh!” Candy finally made the connection. She’d heard stories about Cornelius Roberts Pruitt, and knew some of his history, but she’d been only vaguely aware of his wife’s name.

  It was all starting to make sense.

  Abigail Pruitt.

  Mrs. A.P., she thought, remembering the handwritten inscription on the library index card she’d found in Sapphire’s files.

  Helen Ross Pruitt continued, her gaze fixed firmly on Candy. “As Tristan said, we believe someo
ne has stolen one of my mother’s diaries.”

  Candy scrunched up her face. “Why would someone do that?”

  “That’s exactly what we’d like to find out,” Tristan emphasized, returning to his seat and dropping into it.

  “My mother had her secrets, that is certain,” said Mrs. Pruitt, folding her hands into her lap and straightening herself in her chair. “We’ve speculated that her diary was stolen because of something she might have written in it, but we haven’t been able to determine what that could be. You see, Mother was a prolific diarist. She felt someone needed to chronicle the family’s history here in New England, and she took that task upon herself. She was actually Father’s second wife. The first died giving birth. She was quite a frail creature, from accounts I’ve read. The child died a few days later. My father was obviously distraught at the loss of both his wife and first child, and remained unmarried for many years until he met my mother. He was nearly twenty years older than her, so he would have been in his late thirties then, though Mother was barely out of her teens when they met. He’d spent the war years—this was World War I—mostly in Boston, managing the family’s shipping and timber businesses, and that’s where he met my mother in the years after the war.”

  Mrs. Pruitt paused to take a sip of tea. Candy and Tristan waited in silence until she carefully returned the teacup to its saucer and continued. “Mother was from a fairly well-off family, and she liked to have things a certain way around the house, as she’d been taught. When Father first brought her here to Pruitt Manor, she was horrified, for the place had fallen into disrepair. It had been practically abandoned by the family for nearly a decade at that point, during the war years. It was built in the 1880s—around the same time my grandfather, Horace Roberts Pruitt, built the Pruitt Opera House and the Pruitt Public Library. The estate’s yards and gardens were a disgrace when my mother arrived, the furniture was dusty and out of date, and the staff was without direction. With Horace’s blessing and Father’s money, Abigail immediately set out to make things right. She began a complete renovation and restoration project.”

  Mrs. Pruitt pointed toward the back of the house, where they’d had lunch earlier. “The conservatory was one of her additions, and the Garden Room at the opposite end of the building, as well as the Lavender Wing, which was named and decorated by Mother herself. That became the family wing, with a nursery and our bedrooms when we were young. As you may have noticed, lavender remains one of my favorite colors to this day.”

  Mrs. Pruitt glanced down at the gray and lavender outfit she was wearing before she continued. “Mother spent several years remodeling and expanding the mansion. She specified the manor’s exterior design, which remains unchanged to this day, and extensively redecorated the interior. She grew to love this old place, and in her later years, spent more and more time here. She often said that being so close to the sea rejuvenated her.”

  Mrs. Pruitt paused again, as if swept away by a memory, her gaze wandering out a window into the distance, but after a few moments, it shifted back to Candy. Abruptly Mrs. Pruitt rose. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  Taking Candy by the hand, she led the way out of the room, along a hall, and to the front foyer. Tristan followed, his hands entwined behind his back. Once in the foyer, he leaned nonchalantly against a doorjamb as his aunt indicated one of the portraits hanging on the walls.

  “This is my mother, Abigail,” she told Candy, who looked up at the image she’d indicated.

  It was one of the larger portraits—nearly a yard wide and perhaps four feet tall, with an elaborate gilded frame. It hung above them, centered on the wall, obviously in a place of honor. Candy had noticed the portrait earlier but had been unaware of the woman’s identity. Now that she knew who it was, she studied the portrait with a more scrutinizing eye.

  Abigail Pruitt had obviously sought to look her best during the portrait sitting, for she was elegantly dressed and decked out with a stunning jeweled necklace and matching bracelet. Her hair was drawn back from her face, much as Mrs. Pruitt’s was today, and she had the same firm set of the mouth, the same long nose, the same sharp yet inquisitive eyes above high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her stern expression made her look a little scary, Candy had to admit, and she sensed from the portrait that Abigail would have been a formidable woman to deal with, and a tenacious enemy to anyone who crossed her.

  “She’s very…handsome,” Candy said diplomatically.

  “She was a tough, no-nonsense type of person,” Mrs. Pruitt agreed, “but she had to be, given her status and the day and age in which she lived. Father ran an empire, and she ran it along with him. But underneath that gruff exterior, she had a warm heart, I can assure you. Her loyalty to the family and love for her husband and children knew no bounds. She would go to the ends of the earth to protect her family, and the Pruitt name, if she had to—and more than once, she did exactly that. I never saw her fight a battle she didn’t win.”

  At this, Mrs. Pruitt turned to Candy and gave her a slight smile. “My father knew that about her as well, and did his best to avoid any confrontations with her, for her wrath was something to behold. Yet, despite his efforts to avoid it, he felt the full force of it on more than one occasion, I can assure you. We all did. But we still loved her.”

  Mrs. Pruitt moved on then, indicating a smaller portrait of a well-groomed, well-dressed man on Abigail’s left. “That’s my father, Cornelius, painted in the forties. And over here,” Mrs. Pruitt said, taking a few more steps and pointing up at another portrait, “is my grandfather, Horace Roberts Pruitt, who in many ways is the father of what we consider to be modern-day Cape Willington. He loved this sleepy little coastal village more than anyplace else in the world. And he did much to ensure the village survived long after he was gone—the building of the opera house being one example.”

  Mrs. Pruitt turned to face Candy. “I have now taken on the burdens borne by my ancestors. I cherish my family, and I love this town and the people in it, and I will do anything within my power to protect all that is dear to me. But I must admit to you that I am concerned, for I feel, in the past few years, that we have come under siege.”

  This odd comment took Candy by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Mrs. Pruitt said dramatically, “that there are forces aligning against us—against my family and against the people of this town. This recent rash of murders we’ve experienced—well, murder is not all that common here in Maine, is it? Not like in the larger cities to the south. That’s why we all treasure this village so much, and why we all seek to protect the special way of life here in Maine. Don’t you agree that murder seems to have become commonplace in Cape Willington, and that it is completely out of sorts with what’s happening in the rest of the state?”

  Candy nodded, for she’d been feeling the same thing for quite some time. “I do.”

  “And now this most recent murder—this Sebastian Quinn fellow…” Mrs. Pruitt’s voice trailed off, and she shook her head sadly. “Something is not right, Candy. Something terrible is happening here, and it’s threatening not only my own family, but all Capers. And I cannot, I will not let it stand.”

  She took a calming breath, and Candy realized that the elderly woman was shivering.

  Tristan noticed it also, and he stepped forward, coming to his aunt’s aid, but she waved him back, straightening and steeling herself. “I may be old,” she told Candy with a firmness in her voice, “but I have plenty of fight left in me, and like my mother, this is a battle I will not lose.”

  Candy took a moment to think about that, and decided to bring the conversation back to where it had started. “So what does the stolen diary that belonged to your mother have to do with all of this?”

  “We don’t know for certain,” Tristan said, “but we do feel there’s some connection between it and the death of Sebastian J. Quinn—and perhaps with some of the other deaths that have occurred around town over the past few years.”

  Candy sho
ok her head. “But I don’t understand. How could it have anything to do with Sebastian’s death?”

  “Because of the person who was involved in the theft of Mother’s diary,” Mrs. Pruitt said simply. “You see, I believe I know who stole it. That’s why Tristan went out to see you this morning in that pumpkin patch you’ve been running with Ms. Tremont. That’s why he invited you here to lunch with us today—so we could ask for your help in getting to the bottom of this mystery that seems to be consuming our town.”

  Now Candy found herself shivering as another question came to her, though she hesitated to ask it, for she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Softly, as if approaching the most delicate of topics, she asked, “And who do you think stole your mother’s diary, Mrs. Pruitt?”

  “I believe,” the Pruitt family matriarch said, stiffening, “that the diary was taken by Sapphire Vine before she died.”

  FOURTEEN

  Sapphire Vine.

  There she was again…continuing to haunt them, rising from the grave like a ghostly presence, her dark influence lingering in everything she touched when she was alive.

  But what could she possibly have wanted with a beat-up old diary written by Abigail Pruitt? Candy wondered. What was she after?

  Mrs. Pruitt’s words echoed in Candy’s mind. Mother had her secrets, she’d said.

  That was it then. Sapphire had found out something about the Pruitts—a family secret of some sort—and perhaps hoped to use it to blackmail them, as she’d done to others in town.

  But what secrets could Abigail have written down in her diary?

  This mystery, Candy realized with a chill, goes deeper than I thought.

  She looked back at the portraits. As her mind worked, her gaze lingered on Abigail Pruitt’s eyes. What were you up to?

  After a few moments, Candy turned abruptly and walked out of the foyer, past Tristan, and back along the hallway they’d just come through, to the library. Once inside the door, she turned right and headed straight to the shelves that held Abigail Pruitt’s old diaries. “How many of them are there in all—the diaries, I mean?” Candy asked, running her gaze along the rows of leather-bound journals.