Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  FIFTEEN

  As Candy drove the few blocks to Main Street, following the vehicles of Doc and his buddies, she realized Bumpy was right about one thing. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and then it had been only half an English muffin and a cup of gulped-down coffee, since she’d been in a rush. Like Bumpy, she hadn’t had a chance to sample any of the entries that afternoon, other than a fleeting nibble or two. She’d been too busy and too distracted by the absence of Wanda and the burden of extra duties to dip into the many offerings. By all rights she should have been starving too.

  But once they’d all settled into the corner booth at Duffy’s Main Street Diner, where they were joined by Artie Groves, she found she had little appetite. She ordered a shrimp salad and a glass of iced tea, which Juanita the waitress brought out promptly and placed before her with a flourish, along with a cup of homemade New England clam chowder. “Fresh batch. No extra charge!” Juanita said with a quick smile as she hurried off to tend to her other customers.

  Candy ate a few spoonfuls of the chowder, which was very good, rich and creamy, but just pushed the salad around her plate as her mind worked.

  She had to admit, if Finn’s story panned out, Maurice Soufflé, the proprietor of the Sweet Pickle Deli, was the most likely person behind the poisoned pickles, and the best lead to pursue. The name of his deli was right there on the labels. The pickles were allegedly made with his own recipe. There was now a clear line from him to one of the intended victims. Candy decided she needed to look into his background and dig around to see what else she could find out about him.

  Finn told her the police had already checked the jars for fingerprints, but there’d be no immediate results, even if the jars were already on their way to the state forensics lab in Augusta, although more likely they were still squirreled away somewhere in the confines of the local police station. She knew from past experience that it could take days, even weeks, to get results back from the lab, which was often bogged down due to an overwhelming number of cases, limited resources, and an overworked staff.

  So scratch that avenue of inquiry if one wanted a quick solution to the identity of the person behind the poisoned pickle jars. Candy suspected everyone in town wanted a hasty end to this case, if only to absolve all those who were at the cook-off event today with the best intentions in mind—including her. No time to wait for details on fingerprints and lab reports. She’d have to pursue a different angle.

  She wished she could get a closer look at those jars right now. She’d had only a few moments with the one Doc found on Table Four, and hadn’t devoted much attention to it. She regretted not taking the time to examine it more closely, although it still formed an image in her mind. Did all three jars look the same? She suddenly and desperately wanted to compare the three of them, to check for similarities and differences, or anything else that might yield a clue or two. But she knew they were out of reach. Again, for now, a dead end.

  However, there were other avenues she could pursue. She hadn’t heard from Wanda in a while and wondered if she should head over to the hospital. She could stop by the bakery and see if Maggie was still around, though she imagined the shop was closed by now. Or she could get started on researching Maurice Soufflé.

  But within the next few minutes, two of those options were addressed. Wanda called to say she was spending the night in the hospital “for observation,” but she expected she’d be released the following morning. She’d recuperate at home for a day or two but would be ready to get back to work on Monday morning.

  “In fact, I’m following a possible lead right now,” she said breathlessly over the phone. “Can’t say much about it at this point, but there’s something brewing over at the police station. I can sense it. I’ve got an instinct for these kinds of things.”

  “Just make sure you take care of your health first, before you go chasing after stories,” Candy said with mild admonishment. “You had a pretty big scare. You don’t want to push yourself too much right now.”

  “Have you heard from Sally Ann?” Wanda asked, changing the subject.

  “No, have you?”

  “No, and I’ve been trying to get hold of her all day. Maybe she’s skipped town, though I have no idea where she went. I think she has a family camp somewhere around Millinocket. Maybe that’s where she’s at.”

  “I just hope she’s okay,” Candy said. “I don’t suppose they have a phone up there?”

  “I don’t suppose they do, but you could always check the directory to see if there are any Longfellows listed in the area.”

  Candy made a mental note to do that as soon as possible.

  “Sally Ann can be pretty unpredictable,” Wanda continued. “She doesn’t adhere to any sort of timetable. Wherever she’s gone, she’ll be back when she gets back, I guess.”

  They agreed to touch base the following morning, and Candy ended the call. A few minutes later, with Bumpy hungrily eyeing her uneaten salad, her cell phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from Maggie:

  Sorry we couldn’t connect this afternoon. Busy at the shop all day! Headed to dinner with Georg. Stop by the shop in the morning for tea?

  And in a second text she added, Sounds like we have a lot to talk about. Whew! What a day!

  Candy texted her back, agreeing to meet her at the bakery in the morning. Mason Flint had suggested Maggie might have some information about Maurice Soufflé, but any questions Candy had for her friend would have to wait until then.

  That left the final option: find out what she could about Maurice Soufflé.

  No time like the present to get started.

  “Dad,” she said, leaning forward during a lull in the conversation around the table, “what else can you tell me about Maurice Soufflé? Do you really think he’s capable of something like this? Poisoning people with bad pickles?”

  Doc sighed deeply as he scratched at his neck. “Well, harsh as it might sound, I wouldn’t put it past him. He was an unpredictable fellow. You always had to watch what you said around him. He was like a pistol with a hair trigger—he could go off at any time, and it didn’t take much to get him riled up. But he was unpredictable in other ways too. He’d shut down his shop without warning for a day or two at a time—just disappear. There’d be people lined up by the front door in the morning, waiting for the place to open, but some days it never did. No one knew where Maurice went or what he did during those times. A day or two later he’d show up and unlock the doors at eight A.M., ready for business. You sort of had to catch him at the right time.”

  “So why’d you put up with him?” Candy asked.

  “Because of his food,” Bumpy admitted. “Best in town, no matter what anyone says.”

  “People came from miles around to eat at his place, and there were often lines out the door,” Finn added. “There were times when that deli significantly increased foot traffic all over town, which helped out the other shop owners.”

  “And no one knows what happened to him?”

  Doc shook his head. “When he closed the shop for the final time and disappeared, everyone assumed he would return. But he never did. That was the last we heard of him.”

  “What did he look like?” Candy asked. “Just in case I happen to run into him somewhere.”

  Finn was the first to answer her question. “Average height, five eight or so, maybe a hundred seventy pounds, something like that.

  “He had a long, narrow face,” Doc added. “And a moustache.”

  “He liked to keep his black hair slicked back,” Bumpy piped in.

  “Dark brown eyes,” Artie contributed, “and he used to get manicures. He had nice fingernails.”

  “Any distinguishing features?” Candy asked.

  “He had a mole,” Finn said, pointing to a spot on his upper check just left of his nose, “right here. Of course, he’s probably changed in appearance since we last saw him. He might have streaks of gray now. Maybe he’s shaved off the moustache. But I can’t imagine he’s c
hanged too much.”

  “And none of you saw anyone fitting his description around the gym today?” Candy asked.

  “Not that I can remember,” Finn said with a shake of his head, and the others agreed.

  “Maybe he was in disguise,” Bumpy put in.

  “Maybe,” Finn admitted, “but it’s hard to hide that mole of his.”

  “What about out in the parking lot?” Candy asked, remembering Marjorie Coffin and the box of last-minute entries left on the hood of her car. “Did you see anyone suspicious out there?”

  “The parking lot?” Finn asked.

  She waved a hand. “Never mind. It was a long shot.” She took a different approach. “When you were helping with the cleanup in the gym this afternoon, did any of you notice a box with a note attached to it?”

  “What kind of note?” Doc asked, scrunching up his face.

  “You know, just a . . . handwritten note . . . printed in block letters.” Candy felt as if she was grasping at straws. But she tried one more time. “Did you see anyone strange there today? Anyone who didn’t belong?”

  This time it was Bumpy who shook his head. “I don’t know, Candy. There were an awful lot of people in that gym this afternoon, doing all kinds of different jobs. It was pretty tricky to keep track of who belonged there and who didn’t. I saw lots of faces I recognized, and many I didn’t. No one knew everyone who was there.”

  “That’s the thing,” Finn said. “I agree we should focus on Maurice, and it’s possible he could have slipped in and left that jar on the table, but honestly it could have been anyone who was there today. Maybe it was someone we all know, someone who wouldn’t stick out in a crowd—a familiar face.”

  “Someone around town?” Doc clarified. “A villager?”

  “We shouldn’t rule it out just yet,” Finn said. “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so, yes,” Doc admitted, “but that means the list of suspects would include many of Cape Willington’s most prominent citizens. Look who was there today: the chairman of the town council, the pastor of a local church, the ladies of various leagues and societies, businesspeople and retirees. All the judges and volunteers. And me! And you guys! That’s a lot of suspects!”

  “I tend to agree with Finn,” Candy said. “We have to consider all the possibilities, right?” On an impulse, she reached into the inside pocket of her blue blazer, which she still wore, and withdrew some of her notes from that afternoon. She quickly paged through them and pulled out the list of the official and honorary judges, as well as a list of volunteers, which she laid out flat on the table in front of her. “Could anyone on these lists have done it?”

  “Let me see those,” Finn said as he reached out and pulled the papers across the table toward him. The others leaned in close to have a look. But after a few moments they all shook their heads.

  “We’ve known most of these people for years,” Finn said with a frown. “Could one of them have gone off the deep end and put out those poisoned pickles? Sure, it’s possible. But not likely.”

  “Especially the three official judges,” Doc added, pointing at one of the lists. “They almost ate those pickles, so it’s not likely one of them put out that jar. You can probably take them off the list of suspects.”

  “I suppose so,” Candy said, “but we could probably take a lot of people off the list—you and Finn and Bumpy, for instance, and maybe Mason Flint, and the Reverend Daisy. We could go on and on, but where do we stop? Someone who was there today left out those jars, so who do we include on the list of suspects, and who do we take off?”

  They were all silent for a moment, until Finn slid the papers back over to Candy and said with a grimace, “You’re right. There’s really no way we can effectively narrow that list.”

  “So we’re all still considered suspects?” Doc asked.

  “Not me!” Artie said. “I wasn’t there!”

  “Maybe we just need to step back for a few moments and take a breather,” Bumpy suggested. “Sounds like we’re going in circles.”

  But Candy wasn’t ready to let go just yet. “I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something,” she said, glancing through the lists again. “Something’s right under my nose. Something that doesn’t quite fit.”

  “It sounds like it all goes back to that deli that used to be down on the corner,” Artie said helpfully. “That seems to be at the center of everything.”

  “Right,” Candy said, “and now there’s a pizza joint there.”

  Suddenly she had a taste for pizza. “Maybe I should go check it out. You know, get a feel for the place, see if anything jumps out at me.”

  Artie turned and looked out the window behind him. “If you’re walking you might want to grab an umbrella. Looks like a storm’s brewing out there.”

  SIXTEEN

  Almost from the moment she stepped out of the diner and looked down the gentle curve of Main Street, lined by darkening storefronts, she knew what had been bothering her.

  She’d returned the lists to the pocket of her blazer but didn’t have to refer to them again to know she was right. She had seen someone in the gym that afternoon—or, rather, leaving the gym—who wasn’t on any of those lists: not a judge, volunteer, crew person, member of the school staff, or an entrant in the cook-off contest, as far as she could recall. Someone with no real reason to be there, other than curiosity about the event.

  That in itself wasn’t a crime, of course. But at the moment Candy was looking for anything out of the ordinary.

  She remembered standing near the double doors that afternoon, watching to see who entered the gym, looking for Wanda Boyle. She’d spotted Edna Bakersfield, Elvira Tremble, and Marjorie Coffin all entering the venue, and one person—Trudy Watkins, who ran Zeke’s General Store with her husband—leaving.

  What time had that been? Around three forty-five, Candy decided after thinking about it. So Trudy had been there in the gym for at least a while, probably since the event’s kickoff at three, apparently observing the proceedings.

  Candy didn’t necessarily think Trudy was the person behind the poisoned pickles, but since her name hadn’t been on any of the official lists given to the police, she probably hadn’t been interviewed by anyone. Maybe she’d seen something no one else had. Maybe she had some insight, some perspective, no one else did.

  She’d also left the gym at a critical time. Someone had placed a cardboard box, possibly containing a jar of poisoned pickles, on the hood of Marjorie Coffin’s car right around that time. Maybe Trudy had noticed something—or someone—out of the ordinary in the parking lot on her way out to her own car.

  It was at least worth talking to Trudy and hearing what she had to say.

  Zeke’s General Store was located on Main Street, several storefronts down from the diner, but before she headed that way, Candy made a quick stop at her Jeep. The winds had picked up, pulling down colder air from the north, which chilled her, even with the blazer on. She also felt a few drops of rain, so she reached into the Jeep’s backseat and pulled out an umbrella, gloves, and a burnt orange rain jacket with a hood, which she slipped on over the blazer. Then she locked up the vehicle and headed down the street.

  Most of the daytime traffic had cleared out but there was still some activity downtown. The headlights of oncoming cars shone brightly, and periodic streetlights just coming on provided some additional illumination, though much of their light was drained away by the lowering sky. The approaching night gave the town a gloomy feel. As she walked, the few drops of rain became a steady drizzle. She huddled deeper into her raincoat as she continued on.

  Like most of the surrounding stores, Zeke’s was closed for the evening. Unlike those that surrounded it, it was a large building of wood construction, with a two-story yellow-painted facade, a wide entry porch, a peaked roof, and some Victorian architectural features that gave it a charming and inviting exterior. During the summer months it stayed open later, as did most of the stores in tow
n, but in the off-season it closed down early at six.

  Candy checked her watch. It was closer to seven now.

  Still, she thought, with some luck she might find someone inside, so she stepped up onto the porch and rapped lightly at the thick window in the front door. She held her hands to either side of her face as she peered inside, protected for the moment from the oncoming rain by the porch’s overhanging roof. Security lighting was on inside, and she could see part of the store. The place looked empty.

  She knocked again, just in case someone was working in the back, and waited. But no one appeared.

  For a moment she thought she saw a fleeting shadow, back among the aisles, and she knocked again, louder and more persistent this time. But she must have been mistaken. She’d just have to come back in the morning and talk to Trudy then.

  Still, as she stepped off the porch and continued down the street, she had a strange feeling that someone was watching her. She stopped and turned back toward the store, expecting to see someone at the door, staring out at her, but again she saw no one there.

  Must be my imagination, she thought with a shake of her head as she started down the street again, umbrella held over her against the worsening rain. She crossed the street in front of Gumm’s Hardware Store, about halfway down the block, and walked along a darkened stretch of brick buildings where the streetlights had not yet come on.

  She was almost to the southern corner of Main Street, where it intersected with the Coastal Loop, when she sensed she was being followed—or at the very least, again, closely observed.

  She heard a cough somewhere behind her and a shuffling of footsteps, and turned casually to look back, but all she saw was an indistinct shadow lurking in the vicinity of a battered baby blue pickup truck parked along the curb on the opposite side of the street. As she glanced toward the shadow it seemed to shrink away, as if it didn’t want to be seen.

  It seemed an odd movement to Candy, and she felt the skin on her arms prickle under her jacket, but she tried not to read too much into it. As she continued on, quickening her pace just a little, she thought she heard the footsteps again. This time they sounded as if they were crossing the street to her side. She kept walking but turned to look back over her shoulder, more surreptitiously this time, and saw the shadow again, though it was still some distance behind, near the hardware store.