Town in a Sweet Pickle

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Town in a Sweet Pickle Page 8

by B. B. Haywood


  Running the number through her head so she wouldn’t forget it, Candy keyed off the call and then quickly tapped in Sally Ann’s number. She waited as the phone on the other end rang half a dozen times, and then more. No answering machine clicked on or phone service picked up the call—she wasn’t sure Sally Ann was that technologically advanced—so she couldn’t leave a message. She waited a few more rings before ending the call.

  Shaking her head, she walked into the gym, and almost immediately spotted Marjorie Coffin talking with Chief Durr. By the time Candy reached them, they were just finishing up.

  “I appreciate the information, Ms. Coffin, and we’ll look into it,” the chief was saying. “If you think of anything else that might be important, please let us know immediately.” He cast a questioning glance at Candy before adding, “I have to get back to the station, so you ladies can contact me there if you need to talk to me.”

  After he had gone, Candy turned to Marjorie. “So what did he think?”

  The other woman shrugged. Softly, she said, “I couldn’t tell, really. He listened to me but, well, he seemed distracted the whole time. I don’t know if what I told him was important enough or not.”

  “Well, he has a lot on his mind right now,” Candy said, “but you did the right thing in talking to him. And believe me, he listened to what you were saying. Did you have any luck finding that box you brought in, and the note?”

  Marjorie shook her head and sounded almost apologetic when she spoke. “I’ve looked all over the place, but I can’t find it anywhere. I have no idea what happened to it. It might have been packed out already, or maybe it was just thrown into the Dumpster.”

  “Well, don’t worry yourself too much more about it,” Candy said supportively. “You’ve done everything you can for now. If it turns up, let me know. I’ll be around.”

  As Marjorie hurried off, Candy pondered her next move. As she saw it, she had several options. She could drive over to Sally Ann’s place and see for herself what was going on there. She was certain the police had already been there, but she still might turn up a clue or two. She could run past the Black Forest Bakery and ask her friend Maggie what she knew about Maurice Soufflé and the Sweet Pickle Deli. She could head over to her office and dig into the newspaper’s archives to see what she could find out about the deli and its owner. Or she could swing by the police station and see what else she could learn about the third jar of pickles and this elderly woman in Cherryfield who found the jar in her mailbox.

  They were all viable options. But first, Candy decided, she had to finish up here in the gym and make sure everything was back in its place before she did anything else. After all, the event was ultimately her responsibility.

  As she surveyed the gym, she thought again of Wanda. She’d entirely missed an eventful afternoon here at the gym—all of it, not just the early excitement of the contest, the setup and preparations, the introduction of the judges, the speeches, and the small-town pomp and color, but also the appearance of the mysterious jar, the sudden demise of a local resident, and now the ensuing investigation—so far the biggest news story of the year. Had Wanda been here and healthy, she would have been in her element, racing around the crowd, interviewing people, getting quotes, snapping photos, and running down the story.

  On the other hand, she now had an integral role in the afternoon’s events—certainly not what she wanted, but she was part of the story. Because she’d discovered the first jar of pickles and endangered her health by eating one of them, Wanda would obviously find herself on the receiving end of lots of questions and attention, especially from the police. She’d become a central point of their investigation, and it would give her a front-row seat on how the police operated in a homicide case.

  Maybe she’d take some small solace from that, since it might give her an opportunity to write a few articles for the paper from an inside-the-investigation point of view.

  That in itself might hold huge appeal for Wanda, who always loved to put herself at the center of attention.

  Of course, she’d need time to recover first. Fortunately, it seemed she’d be all right—the poisoning wasn’t terminal, at least in her case. How long would she be out? Candy wondered. How long does someone need to recover from a poisoning? A few days, at least, right?

  It was something she’d have to check on, but for now she filed it away in the back of her mind.

  Most of the cleanup work in the gym was completed, she was surprised to see. All of the remaining food samples, along with platters, plates, silverware, and cups, had been removed, and the tables and chairs were in the process of being folded up and stacked away. Trash barrels were being emptied, and a small crew was sweeping and mopping the floor where necessary. Everyone, including the remaining volunteers and some members of the school’s janitorial staff, seemed busy and engaged.

  Candy soon realized why. Scanning the room, she spotted her father, Finn, and Bumpy directing various aspects of the cleanup effort. Bumpy was helping to put away the tables and chairs, working with a few volunteers and the school’s janitorial staff, while Finn was taking down signs and packing up promotional materials. And Doc was overseeing the cleanup effort, currently wielding a wide janitorial broom. Under their supervision, the work was progressing quickly and nearly finished.

  Relieved, she headed across the gym toward her father, who spotted her and waved as she approached him. “There you are,” he said, leaning on the top of the broom as she reached him. “We were wondering what happened to you. We thought you were already out trying to solve this latest mystery, so we decided to give you some cover and pitch in to help with the cleanup.”

  “Dad, that’s wonderful,” Candy said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  He waved it off. “It’s the least we could do. You probably have a lot on your mind right now, with everything that’s been going on today.”

  “It has been a busy day, hasn’t it? Not at all what I expected.” She let out a breath, dropped her head, and crossed her arms, thinking. “The truth is, this whole incident with the poisoned pickles is crazy. None of it makes much sense—at least, none that I can figure out. For one thing, there’s no clear motivation, as far as I can tell. I’m having a hard time believing Sally Ann could be behind any of this, though I’m getting concerned about her disappearance today.” Doc arched his eyebrows at that comment, but he kept silent as Candy went on. “Wanda Boyle is in the hospital and sidelined for a few days due to a poisoning. There’s an elderly woman up in Cherryfield who received a jar, which doesn’t fit the profile. And, apparently, we have a dead goat.”

  She shook her head, and after a few more moments looked back up at her father. “Dad, I’d like your opinion—what do you think happened here today?”

  Doc had a quick answer. “What do I think? I think it’s damned unfortunate that Ned Winetrop stuck his fingers into that pickle jar and ate something he wasn’t supposed to!”

  “Yes, but what about the jar itself? You were right in the middle of the activity today. You spotted that jar on the table and watched Ned as he ate a couple of those pickles. You must have some theory about who’s behind this. Where did the jar on Table Four come from? Who’s responsible for leaving it there?”

  Doc pondered her questions for a few moments before tightening his jaw. He gave a single, subtle shake of his head. “Honestly, pumpkin, I just don’t know. Logically, I guess, you could make a strong case that one of the locals at the event today, possibly one of the judges or observers, put the jar there, for whatever reason. Maybe to actually kill someone. Maybe to create some havoc around town, or maybe just to frighten people. But I don’t think that’s what happened. The people around here are just normal everyday folks. Maybe a bit quirky at times, and set in our ways, but not calculated murderers. They’re just good people.”

  “I agree,” Candy said. “So if not someone local, then who? Maybe someone like Maurice Soufflé?”

  Doc’s expression
tightened. “Maurice?”

  “You knew him, right? I just talked to Mason Flint. He suggested I should ask you about Maurice.”

  Doc nodded, and his voice took on a harder edge. “Yup, I knew him. I had a few run-ins with him, that’s for sure, just like everyone else around here. He always seemed to have something against the people of this town, though I don’t know why. “

  “From what I’ve heard, he sounds like a real character,” Candy agreed. “But he disappeared years ago, so it seems far-fetched to consider him a suspect, doesn’t it? Still, I suppose I can’t rule him out, since the labels from his deli are on the jars of poisoned pickles. That links him at least in some way to today’s events. But there’s no real evidence to suggest he’s personally involved.”

  “Have you talked to Finn lately?”

  “Finn? Sure, just a little while ago. You were there with us, remember?”

  “No, I mean recently. Within the past ten minutes or so?”

  Candy shook her head. “I went outside for a while. Last I heard, Finn didn’t have any new information.”

  “Well, that’s changed. He’s got some news you might be interested in.”

  “What kind of news?”

  In response, Doc leaned the broom handle up against a wall, spoke briefly to a volunteer, and then pointed off across the room. “Why don’t we talk over there?” he said to her softly.

  Without another word, Candy nodded her agreement, and followed her father as he headed off across the gym, toward a spot he’d indicated along the back wall, away from the others in the room. It would allow them to talk without being overheard, she realized. Apparently her father wanted a certain amount of privacy before they continued their conversation.

  Once they reached a secluded spot along the back wall, Doc glanced around a final time to make sure no one else could listen in. Satisfied, he tucked his hands into the back pockets of his chinos. Still speaking softly, he said, “There’s been a development, but it hasn’t been made public yet, and I don’t want to create a frenzy around town,” he explained, his eyes taking on a glinty appearance.

  “What kind of development?”

  Leaning in close, he whispered, “They’ve found a third jar.”

  “Ahh.” Candy nodded. “I’ve heard that. Mason just told me outside.”

  “Did he tell you whose house it was found at?”

  Candy’s cornflower blue eyes grew just a little wider as her voice fell to a whisper. “No, he didn’t tell me her name specifically. He said it was some elderly woman up in Cherryfield, but that’s all. I was thinking of heading over to the police station to see what I can find out about her.”

  “Well, Finn’s got all the particulars, and it just might help solve this case pronto.”

  “Why? What’s her name?”

  “Her name,” Doc said, “is Georgia McFee. Now, that might not ring a bell with you, since all this happened a while ago, shortly after you moved up from Boston, but at the time it caused quite a bit of a stir around town.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Georgia used to live here in Cape Willington, before she moved up to Cherryfield,” Doc said, “and she was one of the fiercest enemies of none other than Maurice Soufflé himself, owner of the Sweet Pickle Deli. That’s a pretty solid piece of evidence, if you ask me.”

  “So you’re saying he’s the one who put that jar in her mailbox?”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s not too far-fetched to think he might have returned and had something to do with this. If you’re looking for the person behind these poisoned pickles, I’d say he’s a pretty good place to start.”

  FOURTEEN

  So she had her first real suspect, and a possible motivation. Finn filled in the details a little later, though he insisted they talk elsewhere. “This is sensitive information, at least for the moment,” he told her once Doc drew him into the conversation. “I need to make sure it stays between us.”

  Doc checked his watch. “It’s almost six. We’re just about finished here. Let’s wrap this up and head outside.”

  Ten minutes later, with Bumpy in tow, they exited the building. Before she left, Candy took a few minutes to thank the remaining volunteers and school staff for their help, and after ushering out the last few stragglers and conducting a final check to make sure everything was in order, she headed out to the parking lot with Doc and the boys.

  “We’re supposed to meet Artie at the diner,” Bumpy said as they walked toward their cars, referring to Artie Groves, the fourth member of their group.

  “Where’s he been all afternoon?” Candy asked. “I didn’t see him at the cook-off.”

  Bumpy shrugged. “Tied up with his eBay business, I guess. Sales have been picking up, he says, so he’s been trying to keep the momentum going. A little supplemental income never hurt anyone, especially us retirees.”

  They fell silent as they reached their cars. Most of the crowd had left, though there were still a few people milling about. But they soon cleared out, and Finn felt comfortable continuing the conversation about Georgia McFee. He leaned back against the side of his fairly new Ford compact car, folded his arms together, and said, “So, what has Doc told you so far?”

  Candy shrugged. “Just that another jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli—a third jar—was found in the mailbox of an elderly woman in Cherryfield—this Georgia McFee. And that she used to live here in Cape Willington.”

  Finn nodded. “She did indeed. You probably don’t remember her, since she moved out of town just about the time you moved in, and right before Maurice disappeared.”

  “Is that significant?” Candy asked.

  “Possibly,” Finn said. “But here’s the thing: Georgia was one of the few people around here who didn’t kowtow to Maurice. In fact, there was open animosity between the two of them, especially toward the end.”

  “And what caused the animosity?”

  “Well, as you probably know, many folks around here thought those pickles from Maurice’s deli were the best they’d ever tasted. And not just his pickles—just about everything else he made and sold in his shop. Gave him a certain prestige in town, which went right to his head. But Georgia apparently wasn’t impressed by his cooking or his pompous attitude. They had a few spats when she questioned the quality of his wares, and he wound up banning her from his store. But she would have none of it. One day she just walked in and challenged him to a one-on-one contest—his pickles against hers, with an impartial panel of judges making the final decision. Of course, it was a blind taste test, like this one today. At first he refused, but she goaded him into it.”

  “So who won?” Candy asked.

  “Well, Georgia beat him at his own game, of course, though I heard the votes were close. Maurice didn’t accept the result and accused her of cheating. Georgia accused him of being a cantankerous old man, which he was. As far as I know, they never spoke again, but it stuck in Maurice’s craw, I can tell you that. No one ever dared mention it to him. If you did, he’d kick you right out the door.”

  Candy was silent for a moment, considering what Finn had just told her. Finally she said, “And you think that’s why he presumably left a jar of his pickles in her mailbox? He was getting his revenge, after all these years?”

  “It’s one possible scenario, isn’t it?” Bumpy said.

  “Yes, but . . . why now? Why wait five years to strike back at Georgia? And does that mean Maurice left these other jars around town too? That he’s returned to Cape Willington with revenge and murder on his mind?”

  The three men were silent. No one had answers to those questions.

  So she asked another. “Were the pickles poisoned?”

  “They appear to have been, yes.”

  “Did she eat them?”

  Finn nodded. “She did.”

  “And?”

  “Fortunately she’ll live, though she had to make a trip to the hospital, like Wanda. She’s pretty shaken up, from what I’ve heard.�


  Candy whistled low. “Wow. Whoever’s behind this sure means business.”

  “They sure do,” said Doc in a low growl.

  “The police are searching for Maurice now,” Finn continued, “though no one knows if he’s still in the state, or in New England—or if he’s even still alive. Since leaving Cape Willington, it’s as if he’s completely fallen off the map.”

  “Well, someone must know where he’s at,” Candy said, and she was half-tempted to pull out her smart phone and do a quick Internet search right then and there. But that could wait until later. “So, if what you’re implying is true,” she said instead, “and Maurice Soufflé was responsible for leaving that jar of pickles in Georgia McFee’s mailbox, why would he also leave one at Sally Ann Longfellow’s house? Did she cross him in some way that would make him want to kill her? And why leave another one here at the cook-off contest? Again, who was his target?”

  Finn shook his head as the corners of his mouth rose slightly. “I wish I had all the answers for you, Candy, but I don’t. That’s why I’m telling you this—because if anyone can find out the connections between those three jars of pickles, and why they were left where they were, and whether or not Maurice Soufflé is involved, it’s you.”

  Doc nodded his agreement. “You have experience with these sorts of situations. We figured this lead about Georgia and Maurice might put you on the right track, and maybe help solve this mystery before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “Or dies,” Finn added ominously.

  Doc grunted his agreement, but the others were silent until Bumpy broke in, changing the subject. “On that note, I suggest we get moving,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I know some of you have been munching on goodies all afternoon, but I’ve only been able to watch from the sidelines, and I’m starving. So why don’t we head over to the diner and get something to eat? After all, no one ever solved a murder mystery on an empty stomach!”

 

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