Candy checked her watch before looking up to survey the activity in the hall. They’d promised the school staff they’d be out by six P.M. It was approaching five. They had little more than an hour to clear out all the food and tables, take down the signs, put everything back the way they’d found it, and shoo everyone out of the building.
Fortunately, she noticed, some of the volunteers, like Marjorie Coffin and some of the ladies of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, had already started packing up the samples, while others were folding chairs, collecting discarded cups and plates, and tidying up. Still, there was a lot to do.
“I’m sure I’ll be the last one out,” Candy said with a heave of resignation.
The chief seemed to approve of her dedication. “That’s the spirit. I always knew you were a trouper. I’ll be around for a while as well, so if you think of anything else I should know, don’t hesitate to contact me, okay?”
Candy nodded slowly. “Okay.” She was lost in thought for a moment, but seeing he was about to start away, she spoke up again. “Chief, before you go, can I ask you a question?”
He paused and turned toward her. “Shoot.”
She waved a hand toward the tables and then at the far wall. The paramedics had taken away Ned’s body a short time earlier, and the area had been roped off. “Is there any chance this whole thing was just some sort of accident or misunderstanding? Maybe the pickles went bad on their own, or maybe the person who left out that jar didn’t know the pickles were poisoned.”
The chief shrugged. “Anything’s possible, of course. We’re keeping all our options open.” He paused, as if hesitating to say the next words, but decided to proceed anyway. “We’ve talked to the people at the hospital where they took Wanda Boyle. They’ve confirmed it appears to be a poisoning, and seem to think the jar was tampered with in some way. We’re still waiting for more details, but we’re going with that assumption for the moment.” He paused. “That’s all I can say right now. Anything else?”
Candy thought quickly, and realized something else was bothering her. “Yes, one more question. If those pickles really were poisoned—which seems likely, according to your sources—and they were left out on that table by some unidentified person, do you think it was . . . well, a deliberate act? Targeting someone who was here today?”
The chief caught her inference instantly. “You’re wondering if we have a homicide on our hands.”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering.”
Chief Durr pursed his lips as he considered how to respond. “Well, now, we’re not jumping to any conclusions at the moment, Ms. Holliday, since the investigation just started. We have some other interviews to finish up here. We’ve talked to your father, and Bumpy Brigham, and some of those folks around Ned when he collapsed. We have a few more interviews here but we should have those wrapped up shortly. Then we’ll move our operations over to the station. We have a pretty good list of everyone in attendance this afternoon, so we’ll talk to them as well and piece together the events of the past few hours. When we have all the facts, we’ll make our determination.” He nodded firmly. “I’ve got all my people on this. We’ll sort it out as quickly as possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He tipped his cap, turned, and walked away.
Candy wanted to know more. She wanted to know if the police had come across any promising leads during their initial interviews. She wanted to know if they had any idea how that jar got onto Table Four in the first place. She wanted to know its connection to a deli that had closed down years earlier. She wanted to know the type of poison used. And she wanted to know if the police had any primary suspects—besides herself and Doc.
More than likely, though, no one knew the answers to any of those questions right now—except for the person who had put that jar there.
And, Candy thought, the number one suspect in her mind right now, based on what Wanda had told her, was Sally Ann Longfellow, since the first jar of poisoned pickles had been found on her doorstep. Sally Ann had put the jar there for Wanda to pick up. And that made her the obvious suspect responsible for setting out a jar of poisoned pickles here today.
Candy wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. Sally Ann had been a fixture in town for years. She lived alone out at the end of Gleason Street, where it intersected with Edgewood Drive, and stayed pretty much to herself most of the time. Her only companions were her two goats, who had caused some friction with other villagers over the years, though nothing recent that Candy could recall.
On one hand, Candy couldn’t imagine Sally Ann would want to poison anyone. On the other, she could be irascible at times. Maybe she’d become upset by something Wanda had written in her community column or on her blog, and that sent her off on some murderous plot to exact revenge.
But if that was true, why be so obvious about it? She’d asked Wanda to stop by and pick up her entry into the community cook-off contest, since for some reason she couldn’t make it to the event herself. If Sally Ann really did poison those pickles, why make it so obvious they came from her? Why leave the jar out on her stoop, where it could be easily connected to her? Why not be more devious and secretive, to protect herself, if she really did intend to poison someone?
And how could she have left the pickles here, if no one had seen her all day? Had she sneaked into the gym and set the jar on the table without being noticed? Candy would ask around, but that scenario seemed unlikely. It was difficult to miss Sally Ann Longfellow when she walked into a room.
Candy had told Chief Durr about her phone conversation with Wanda, and how Wanda was convinced Sally Ann was trying to kill her. The chief made careful note of that, and promised to check it out. As far as she knew, he’d already sent a couple of officers over to Sally Ann’s place.
What had they found there? Candy wondered.
She was half tempted to pursue the chief and badger him with more questions, but she knew it would be a worthless endeavor. He wasn’t about to tell her anything else until he was good and ready—if ever. Police weren’t known for discussing the facts of an ongoing investigation with members of the general public, especially those who also happened to be with the press—and were suspects in a possible murder.
So she’d just have to find some answers herself.
Rising to her feet, she looked around the gym, which had cleared out quite a bit. But she saw her father nearby, talking to Bumpy Brigham and another friend, Finn Woodbury. Figuring it was as good a place to start as any, she headed in their direction.
They were, of course, talking about Ned.
“‘Over my dead body,’” she heard her father say as she approached. “Those were the last words to come out of his mouth. I’m sure he didn’t mean them literally, but there you go. It was those darned pickles. I tried to get him to put them back, but . . .”
As his voice trailed off, Bumpy spoke up supportively. “He couldn’t help himself, Doc. I know, I told him the same thing, but he just wouldn’t listen. Those pickles from that deli must have had some sort of magical hold over him. He couldn’t resist them.” Slowly, Bumpy shook his big head. “Damn shame. Death by pickles. What a way to go.”
“Any idea where they came from?” Doc asked as his daughter reached them, and he glanced over at her before directing his attention to Finn. An ex-cop, Finn often found out information before it was made public, since he had a secret source inside the Cape Willington Police Department.
But Finn just shook his head. “Far as I know, they don’t have anything solid yet. They’re looking for possible suspects, but it could be just about anyone who was in the building today. No one seems to know how the jar got there. There are no direct eyewitnesses—no one actually saw who put it on the table. All we know for sure right now is that Ned spotted the jar first, snitched a few pickles from it when no one was looking, and left it on the table while he retreated to the far wall. A short time later you and Candy spotted the same jar.” He shrugged. “The rest you know.”
&nbs
p; It had all happened so fast, Candy thought, and been such a shock, especially after the phone call with Wanda.
Once she’d realized the pickles were probably poisoned and grasped what had happened to Ned, she’d been hesitant in her response. For a few moments she’d had no idea how to handle the situation properly. In the end, she let her instincts take over.
After Ned collapsed, she had moved quickly to collect the uneaten pickles. Using a fork and napkins to avoid touching them, she returned the tainted pickles to the jar and sealed it tight. Doc called the police, and relayed instructions back to her to keep as many people on site as possible. It was then Candy noticed how much the crowd had thinned. Many had already left. By the time she realized the person behind the poisonings was most likely among the crowd in the gym that afternoon, it was too late to do anything about it. Too late to close and lock the doors and seal everyone inside until they could figure out what had happened.
Candy had a list of all the honorary and official judges, as well as volunteers and support staff from the school, which she’d provided to the police upon their arrival. But she knew there were unaccounted-for individuals who’d been coming and going all day. She’d seen them earlier in the day as she’d been keeping an eye out for Wanda—faces in the crowd, some of whom she knew, some not. Could one of those anonymous faces have brought in the jar, perhaps in a big pocket or a purse, left it on the table at an opportune moment when nobody was looking, and then left the building before anyone noticed them?
Then there was still the issue of motive. Why?
Why poison the pickles? Why leave them out here at the cook-off contest? Who was the target?
Again, she could think of one person who might know some answers.
But where was she?
“Has anyone seen Sally Ann Longfellow today?” Candy suddenly asked the group.
Doc gave her a questioning look. “That’s the second time this afternoon you’ve asked about Sally Ann. Is she involved in this?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Finn said.
Doc hadn’t, so Finn and Candy explained about the appearance of a second jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli at Sally Ann’s house, and Wanda’s admittance that she had eaten at least part of one of the poisoned pickles.
“You mean there are two victims?” Doc asked.
“Three, actually,” Finn said quietly. “From what I’ve heard, Wanda’s going to be okay, but apparently one of Sally Ann’s goats also ate a few of those pickles. The poor critter didn’t make it.”
Candy’s hand went to her mouth. “You don’t mean . . . ?”
“That’s right,” Finn said. “When the police got over to Sally Ann’s place, they found one live goat—and one dead one.”
“Oh, no.” Candy’s heart skipped a beat. “Sally Ann’s going to be devastated.”
“Wherever she’s at,” Doc added.
“Let’s just hope there aren’t any more of those jars around town,” Finn said.
“And if there are,” Bumpy added ominously, “let’s hope someone finds them fast—or there just might be a few more deaths before the day is out.”
EIGHT
Georgia McFee stared at the jar in wonderment. She couldn’t imagine where it came from, or who left it for her. She’d found it just minutes ago in, of all places, her mailbox out by the main road. Why someone would put it in there, and not just bring it up to the house, was beyond her. But she’d managed to find it eventually.
The mail usually didn’t come until late in the afternoon, so she rarely walked down to the end of the lane before then. Sometimes she even postponed the walk until after suppertime. She didn’t get much mail these days. A few bills, insurance and bank statements, cards from friends and family on holidays and on her birthday. That sort of thing, plus the regular junk mail, which often kept her entertained for a few minutes until she dumped it in the trash can.
Her daughters usually just called when they had family news, and she had an old computer with e-mail, making it easy to keep in touch with friends. It wasn’t her birthday and the holidays were still months away, so she wasn’t in a hurry to get down to the end of the lane, since she wasn’t expecting anything special today.
But sometime just after four she thought she heard Ollie, the postman, beep his horn a couple of times while he pulled up beside her mailbox, and she thought he might have called out to her, though of course she couldn’t make out the words this far away. She looked out the kitchen window and thought she saw him waving. She waved back but didn’t think he saw her. He beeped again and drove off.
“Well, I wonder what that was all about?” she said to herself.
Maybe something important was in the mail.
But again, if it was important, why not just bring it up to the house, which he’d done before?
She sighed. “Best see what’s going on,” she said, and pulled her walking stick from the corner by the front door before heading outside.
She soon discovered what all the fuss was about. Someone had left a jar of pickles in her mailbox. Ollie had probably frowned at that—federal use only, that sort of thing. She pulled the jar out and turned it over in her hands.
The label quickly revealed itself:
Sweet Pickle Deli.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said. “Where did you come from?”
Her first thought was that Ollie had left it—maybe as a gift of some sort. But why would he have given her a jar of pickles from a deli that closed down years ago?
Maybe someone else left it, she thought, and that’s what Ollie had been trying to tell her by beeping his horn: Someone had come by sometime during the day and put the jar in the mailbox for her.
Suddenly she looked up and around, as if the person who left it there might still be somewhere nearby. But she saw no one.
She looked again at the label with greater curiosity this time. Could this be an actual jar from the deli? Or an impostor of some sort? Why leave it here?
And, again, who would have done such a thing?
Leaning the walking stick against the side of the mailbox, she absently plucked a couple of envelopes and a flyer from inside, slid them into a side pocket of the faded pink cardigan she wore with barely a glance at them, and closed the mailbox lid. Then she took up the walking stick again with her left hand, still holding the jar in her right. She clutched it tightly to her body as she started back along the lane toward her house. She moved slowly, for she had a hard time taking her eyes off the jar. But she finally forced herself to focus on her footing, since she didn’t want to trip and fall. That could be disastrous, out here all by herself.
She waited until she was back inside, seated at the small table in the front corner of the kitchen, to examine the jar more closely. The label looked relatively new, as if it had been carefully stored for years. But why leave it here, and now? Could it have anything to do with the old contest she’d won a few years back, beating that grumpy old deli owner? What was his name? Michael something? Or Morris? But no, that wasn’t right. It was more exotic. Maurice. His name had been Maurice. Never Mo—she’d heard that he’d kicked a customer out of his store once for calling him Mo. It was always Maurice. And, of course, that ridiculous surname, which she felt in her bones was fake, but he’d always insisted was real.
She’d taken it as a personal challenge to beat him at his own game, since he’d been a bit of a braggart the few times she’d encountered him. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she’d taken an instant dislike to the man. That rarely happened. She got along well with most people. Those she didn’t, she’d lost touch with long ago. She tried not to hold on to grudges. She also tried not to be a braggart herself. But winning that long-ago contest against the arrogant owner of the Sweet Pickle Deli had been an especially triumphant moment for her.
But why dredge up that old memory now? Why leave a jar of pickles from that old place in her mailbox?
Of course, they’d been excellent pickles, she recalled. Certainly among
the best she’d ever tasted. She’d eaten quite a few of them back then, as research, as she made adjustments to her own recipe to improve it. And she’d succeeded. But she’d also gained an enemy. Once she’d beaten him, Maurice had never acknowledged her again, or even allowed her into his deli. She never saw him after that, for one night he simply and mysteriously disappeared.
And now, again, here was a jar of his pickles.
She eyed it curiously. Could they still be as good as they once were?
There was only one way to find out.
She rose from her chair, took a fork from the silverware drawer, opened the lid on the jar of pickles with some effort, and fished one out.
NINE
A thousand questions were going through Candy’s mind, but there were no real answers so far, and the random nature of what had happened today made it difficult for her to focus her thoughts.
So she started with what she knew for sure: Two jars of poisoned pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli had been found in Cape Willington. A man and a goat were dead, and another person poisoned but still alive.
Who was behind it? And what did that person hope to achieve?
Those, Candy felt, were the two primary questions she needed to answer.
Sally Ann Longfellow remained a primary suspect, of course, but why would she want to poison someone with jars of pickles? She didn’t seem like a vindictive person, although sometimes people cracked. But if she had such evil intent in mind, why make it so obvious one of the jars came from her? Why leave one right there on her side stoop? Why place the other one on Table Four at the cook-off contest? And why use jars from the Sweet Pickle Deli? If Sally Ann really did intend to poison someone in town, it made sense that she wouldn’t want to use her own jars of pickles. But why jars from that particular place?
Town in a Sweet Pickle Page 5