Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

Still, there was a lot of ground to cover. Best get moving. But where to head next?

  He spotted his daughter with the three official judges at Table Three, so that one was closed off for now. But there was much more from which to choose.

  “The pickle table,” he decided with a definitive head nod, and started toward it, weaving his way through the crowd.

  On the way he noticed someone waving to him from the far side of the room. His gaze shifted, and he spotted a friend of his, William “Bumpy” Brigham, standing along the opposite wall with a wide grin on his face. Bumpy was standing next to another man—a villager named Ned Winetrop, Doc realized after a few moments—and both had big smiles on their faces. They were part of the event’s set-up and take-down crew, so apparently they’d hung around to observe the proceedings. Ned held up something wrapped in a napkin, and both were pointing in the direction Doc was headed. Not quite sure what they were indicating, and figuring they were just having a little fun, Doc waved back and moved on.

  Once he reached the table, he found quite a bit to explore. There were a dozen and a half entries in the pickle division alone, some more or less common, like kosher dills and bread and butters, as well as less common choices like spicy and sour spears, sweet gherkins, baby garlic dills, and even hot pickles with jalapenos. He also saw several relishes, a few sauerkrauts, and other unique varieties of pickled items, including olives, peppers, carrots, green beans, and even mushrooms.

  A veritable smorgasbord of pickled goodness.

  But then something caught his eye, something out of place. His gaze shifted.

  At one side of the table sat a fat pickle jar, clearly labeled. Doc squinted at it. He knew this was a blind tasting, with entries identified only by a number, and not the names of the people who had prepared and entered them. There was a master list somewhere, matching each number with a name, but the judges were not privy to such information, nor should they be. That would spoil the whole point of the event.

  There were no other jars in sight. The rest of the samples were laid out on trays or platters, with no identifiers other than numbers.

  So what was that clearly labeled pickle jar doing there?

  Doc took a few steps to the side and leaned for a closer look at the label. The dark green letters, outlined in black against the light green background, were easy to make out:

  Sweet Pickle Deli.

  Doc tilted his head curiously. “Now what the heck is that doing here?” he asked no one in particular. “I haven’t seen one of those jars in . . .”

  He couldn’t remember when exactly. Three or four years, maybe more. Ever since that old deli in town had closed down—quite suddenly and under mysterious circumstances, he remembered.

  But they’d been the best darn pickles he’d ever tasted. He’d hoarded two jars through a whole winter, long after the place had disappeared, and parsed them out slowly to himself, to make them last as long as possible. He’d missed them ever since. In fact, he could still taste them on the back of his tongue.

  And here was a jar, popping up out of nowhere, right in front of him.

  Yes, life was very good indeed.

  Unfortunately, there appeared to be only one jar, and it looked less than full. Perhaps only four or five full pickles inside. He glanced around the table. As far as he could tell, none of the Sweet Pickle Deli pickles were laid out on sample trays. And there was no associated number.

  Odd indeed. An oversight of some sort. But one he could remedy in a jiffy. These, he had no doubt, were prize-winning pickles.

  He wondered if they still tasted as good as they used to.

  Maybe he could sneak just one for himself.

  He reached out for the jar, planning to unscrew the lid and fish one out right there and then. But before he touched the jar, another more delicate hand beat him to it.

  “Here, dad, let me get those. You’re not supposed to know the identity of the entries.”

  Doc looked up into his daughter’s eyes and smiled weakly. “Well, shucks, pumpkin, looks like you beat me to them. Another few seconds and I would have snagged one.”

  THREE

  “Good thing I came along when I did then,” Candy said in a gently admonishing tone. “You know this is supposed to be a blind taste test.”

  “Sure, I know that,” Doc replied, feeling slightly put out, “so why is there a jar with the Sweet Pickle Deli label on it sitting right out there in plain sight where judges like me can see it?”

  His daughter studied the offending jar with a discerning look. “Good question. Obviously a mix-up of some sort. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Yes, but do you know what those are?” Doc pressed.

  “No, and neither should you. At least not right now. There are plenty of other samples around the table. Why don’t you try something else while I get these set up?”

  “Because I guarantee none of these other pickles, good as they might be, can match those right there.” Doc jabbed a finger at the jar.

  Suddenly curious, Candy picked it up and counted the pickles inside. “Not many left. Looks like someone must have dipped into it already. I’ll have to save the rest of these for the official judges.”

  Doc frowned. “So you’re not going to put them out?”

  Candy whisked the jar behind the table and out of sight. “If there are any left I promise to save one for you.” She glanced at her watch and looked suddenly harried. “Besides, I don’t have time to fool with them right now. I’ve got too much going on.”

  “Everything okay?” Doc asked, sounding worried. He knew his daughter had taken a lot on her shoulders with this event, and he wanted it to go as smoothly as possible for her.

  In response, Candy glanced around the hall. “It would be better if Wanda would just show up,” she said, and shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s missing this. She’s been looking forward to it so much.”

  “She still hasn’t checked in?”

  “I’ve heard from her, yes. She says she’s been delayed.”

  “Didn’t think anything could keep her from being here,” Doc said thoughtfully, remembering some of the stories he’d heard from his daughter over the past few months about Wanda’s enthusiasm for the event.

  “Neither did I, but something strange is going on with her.”

  “Strange? What do you mean?” Doc asked innocently, but he felt a slight jolt when he saw the look in his daughter’s eyes as they shifted toward him momentarily and then turned away again to survey the crowd. He’d seen that look before, though only on rare occasions, and realized there was something she didn’t want to tell him.

  She’s worried, he thought. She’s holding something back.

  Doc cleared his throat. He was hesitant to prod. Whatever it was, she’d tell him in good time—when, or if, she was ready. But he also wanted her to know, no matter what was bothering her, that she had his support. So he took a moment to organize his thoughts, and was about to say something when she turned back toward him.

  “Have you seen Sally Ann Longfellow around anywhere today?” Candy asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  “Sally Ann?” Doc’s gray brows fell together and the corners of his mouth dropped into a frown. “Not lately. In fact, I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, I guess. Why?” He started whispering like his daughter. “What’s going on?”

  Candy shook her head. “I don’t know yet.” She looked like she was about to say something more but held back, and there was that look again.

  “Pumpkin, if you . . .”

  “I know, Dad,” Candy said with a smile, and she reached out to pat his hand, “and if I need someone to talk to I’ll come straight to you. But I’ve promised myself I won’t overreact, and at the moment I have more pressing matters at hand. In a few minutes I need to make another announcement and get the judges headed to the next table, which is this one right here.”

  “Then I guess I’d better get a move on,” Doc said.

  “Me too,” his d
aughter agreed, and she headed off through the crowd in the direction of the microphone.

  Before he left the table, Doc quickly surveyed the alternative pickled fare. Finding a small stack of paper plates nearby, he took one and began filling it with samples. At this point he didn’t jot down any numbers; he’d have to come back once the official judges vacated the table to match the various entries to their numbers. Although he was selective in his choices, in short time he wound up with a good assortment, including several dills and sweets, small samplings of pickled green beans and carrots, a couple of dabs of sauerkraut, and some pickled asparagus that looked particularly interesting. Then he grabbed a napkin and fork before he headed off across the room himself, leaving the table to the official judges just as his daughter began her announcement.

  He tried not to worry about her, but the father part of him couldn’t help it. There had been some strange happenings in town over the past five or six years, and his daughter always seemed to wind up right in the middle of them. The last time there’d been trouble, she’d almost been hit over the head with a shovel. Now he had a sixth sense that something else was about to happen, though he couldn’t imagine what it might be this time.

  First, Wanda’s absence and “strange” behavior. Then the odd question from his daughter about Sally Ann Longfellow.

  That strange look in her eyes.

  And then, of course, there was that mysterious jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli.

  Doc was tempted to return to the table to get another look at that jar, which his daughter must have hidden away in one of the boxes under the table, but the official judges were already moving in that direction, and following her quick announcement, Candy was re-converging on the table as well.

  Doc shook his head. Best to let her handle this her way.

  Still, it was frustrating to think that one of those pickles had almost been in his grasp.

  He heard someone call his name from across the hall and looked around. It was his friend Bumpy Brigham again, still standing beside Ned Winetrop. Bumpy was motioning to him.

  Curious, Doc headed in their direction, making his way past the tables and across the gym.

  “Doc,” Bumpy called out as he approached them, “you won’t believe what Ned found.”

  Ned gave his friend a sideways glance. In a low voice, he said, “Quiet, would ya? We don’t want everyone to know about this.”

  “Know about what?” Doc asked as he reached them.

  “Thanks to a little bird who tipped me off, I made a rare find today,” Ned said slyly, and he held up a paper plate he’d covered with a napkin. “Something I never thought I’d see again.”

  “Hope you’re not getting into the samples,” Doc said in a warning tone. “Those are for the judges only.”

  “I know, I know.” Ned scrunched up his face and waved a hand dismissively. “But every once in a while you’ve got to break the rules a little, right?”

  “Wait ’til you hear what he’s found,” Bumpy said enthusiastically.

  Doc wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but curiosity got the better of him. “So what is it?”

  “Well,” Ned said, grinning as he dramatically lifted aside the napkin to reveal what was underneath, “you’re not going to believe this, but I found a jar of pickles from that old Sweet Pickle Deli, and I managed to snag a few for myself.”

  FOUR

  “This is our fourth table, devoted to pickled foods,” Candy said as the three official judges arrived and began to survey the offerings. “As you can see, we have quite an assortment of pickled items. The villagers have really gone all-out in this category. Again, you’ll have fifteen minutes to sample the items and each choose your top three.”

  They knew the procedure and, nodding, fell quickly to their work, chattering quietly among themselves as they poked and prodded, searching for those items that caught the eye or nose. Candy eyed the three judges one by one. They were a good group, and showed a deep dedication to their task, despite the small-town nature of the event. And they all had good credentials. She was pleased with the judges they’d assembled, and the way they had pulled the whole event together over the past few months.

  During the planning stages, Candy and Wanda had spent quite a bit of time deciding how many judges to invite to the community cook-off contest. Candy had suggested a smaller group of professional judges with food industry experience, to give the event a certain level of prestige. Wanda leaned more toward a broader group of community leaders and prominent local citizens, which would build some goodwill and buzz around the village.

  In the end, they decided to do both, settling on twenty honorary judges and three official judges, with overall voting weighed in favor of the smaller professional group. Wanda focused on choosing the twenty honorary judges, with suggestions from Candy, who turned her attention to the three official judges, with input from Wanda.

  Over a period of several weeks during the summer, they whittled down their lists, completed them, and published the results in an August issue of the paper. As they’d hoped, the unveiling of the judges had created a town-wide buzz and weeks-long anticipation of today’s event.

  The eclectic group of honorary judges included prominent villagers like Chairman of the Town Council Mason Flint, Cotton Colby and Elvira Tremble of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, the Reverend James P. Daisy, local shop owners Augustus “Gus” Gumm and Ralph Henry, ice cream shop employee and acclaimed local actress Lily Verte, retired police officer Finn Woodbury, and local blueberry farmer Henry Holliday, among others.

  Doc’s inclusion had come at Wanda’s suggestion. Candy had been hesitant at first about including her father, fearing claims of nepotism, but in the end she’d decided she was probably overthinking it and agreed that he would be a good addition to the group.

  So far, the reaction to the entire group of honorary judges had been entirely positive.

  For the three official judges, Candy settled on the first two names fairly quickly. Colin Trevor Jones, the thirtyish dark-haired executive chef at the Lightkeeper’s Inn, had been an obvious choice. Known around the region for his “classic maritime” cuisine, which emphasized dishes like crab crepes, lobster bisque, fish chowder, and French Canadian pork pie, he was a perfect anchor for the group, and brought a broad range of culinary experience to the tables.

  Her next choice was trickier. Herr Georg Wolfsburger, proprietor of the Black Forest Bakery, which he ran along with his fiancée Maggie Tremont—who also happened to be Candy’s best friend—had served as a judge for the town’s annual Blueberry Queen beauty pageant several years ago, and allowed himself to be blackmailed into swinging his vote toward one of the contestants. After he’d been found out, he’d sworn never again to serve as a judge for an event.

  Yet Candy knew he’d be the perfect judge for the cook-off contest, especially for certain categories like breads, pies, and cookies. But when she first approached him about the idea, he had flatly refused. When she pressed, he told her, not totally politely, that he preferred she not bring up the subject again.

  For more than a week Candy persisted and Herr Georg declined. It was only Maggie’s intervention and gentle persuasion that finally convinced him to at least talk to Candy, and when he heard the idea behind the contest, and its tie-in to the newspaper’s two-hundredth anniversary, he’d finally, though somewhat reluctantly, agreed to participate—just this once, as a way to give something back to the townspeople for all their support over the years.

  Typically jovial, he maintained an overall stoic appearance this afternoon, obviously taking his judging duties seriously. But the third judge was beginning to loosen him up a little with her enthusiasm and bubbly personality.

  That’s exactly why Candy had invited her to serve as a judge—to inject a different personality into the group. Although she wasn’t a local like the other judges, Julia von Fleming was a popular cookbook author who had gained some national attention with her latest volume, Homestyl
e New England Cooking, which included a large section devoted to Maine recipes. Candy had reviewed it a few months ago for a newspaper article and found herself using it in her kitchen at home. Some of the recipes, she’d found, had been quite good.

  According to her author bio, Julia von Fleming lived in neighboring New Hampshire, so Candy sent her an e-mail one day, and Julia had responded. They’d been corresponding ever since. When Candy mentioned in an e-mail a while back that she was looking for judges for a cook-off contest, Julia had expressed an interest. After hearing the details of the event and its community-based theme, she’d agreed to serve as an official judge. And so far she’d been a wonderful addition to the group, bringing knowledge of homemade New England foods, including jams, pies, and pickled items, to the contest.

  Julia now eyed the table with intense curiosity, as if plotting her moves. She was a middle-aged woman, probably closer to fifty than forty, with fluffed-up black hair in a loose short cut and dangling silver earrings in the shape of tulips. Her heart-shaped face was somewhat puffy and pale, which made the dark red lipstick she wore more noticeable, and her dark brown eyes were heavily ringed with mascara to make them stand out as well.

  Not that she needed much help standing out. She was a vibrant woman, full of energy and attitude, who excelled at making herself the center of attention and had a sharp laugh that could cut through just about any conversation or surrounding ambient noise.

  But now, as she turned toward Candy, she took great pains to keep her voice as low as possible.

  “Is the rumor I’ve heard true?” she asked in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Rumor?” Candy asked, doing her best to keep her voice from spiking, and failing. Concerned Julia was going to ask her about Wanda, or Sally Ann Longfellow, she said hesitantly, “What rumor?”

  But Julia didn’t ask about Wanda or Sally Ann. Instead, she said, “I’ve heard you have some pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli.”

  “Oh! That!” Candy couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. “Yes, they’re around here somewhere. But they’re not out on the table.”