But by this point Candy had nearly reached the corner. After a few more steps she turned to her left and then headed into the well-lit storefront of Village Pizza, pushing her way through the front door, accompanied by a burst of wind and a few stray raindrops.
She’d been in here numerous times before but usually just dashed in and out, chatting only briefly with the staff behind the counter. She’d never paid much attention to the shop itself. She doubted she’d find anything specific related to the previous owner, but maybe someone would remember something about him.
She was greeted by the welcoming smells of tomatoes, garlic, and baking pizza crust, which perked up her senses. Tables with red-checkered tablecloths were set by the front window and along the center of the shop, with booths lit by low-hanging shaded lights along the sides. Perhaps half a dozen of the tables and booths were occupied by couples and small families. The order and pick-up counter was located in the rear of the shop, in front of the kitchen.
Just inside the door, Candy stepped off to one side and turned so she could look out the front window. She wanted to see if anyone walked past. But when, after a minute or two, she saw no one, she let out a small breath of relief and turned back toward the shop.
She’d never been in here when it was a deli but imagined the setup was similar. The pizza owners had simply co-opted the deli layout and made it their own, with red and green interior furnishings and European-inspired murals on the walls. The place had a warm, pleasant feel, and the buzz of quiet conversation put her at ease.
She headed back past the tables to the counter, where after viewing the menu written on a large white board, she ordered a slice of white pizza with ricotta and mozzarella and an iced tea. A teenaged girl behind the counter took her order. As casually as possible, Candy said, “By the way, I think I’ve seen you in here before. How long have you worked here?”
“Six months,” the girl said.
“Do you like working here?”
The girl shrugged. “Sure, it’s fine. The best part is we get free pizza if there’s any left over at the end of the night.”
“Sounds like a pretty good deal.” Candy paused as she glanced around the shop. “So, this place has been here for what, about five years or so?”
“I don’t really know,” the teenaged girl said as she rang up the sale, “but that sounds about right, I guess.”
Candy handed her a few dollars. “I don’t suppose you were around when the deli was here?”
The girl shook her head and gave Candy her change.
“Just out of curiosity, is there anyone here who might remember the previous owner—the owner of the deli?”
The girl thought a moment. “It’s possible. You might want to talk to Phil. He’s the manager.”
Candy brightened. “Great! Is he around?”
“He works the day shift. He’ll be in tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“Oh.” Candy’s brightening mood faded. “Okay, I guess I’ll check with him then.”
The girl disappeared into the back and returned with a slice of pie on a paper plate. She placed it on the counter along with a drink.
“Thanks,” Candy said as she picked up the plate and cup and started away, but surprisingly the teen girl piped up, as if she’d just remembered something.
“Hey, there was one person who might have worked here back then, back when the place was a deli. She stayed on here for a while, working for Phil, but she left a few years ago. They still talk about her. I think her name was Gloria. She might remember the previous owner.”
Candy nodded. “That’s very helpful, thanks.”
“I don’t remember her last name, though,” the girl continued, “but Phil might. You can ask him when you see him.”
Candy slipped into an empty booth along the side wall and sat facing the front window. She’d just taken her first bite of pizza when she looked up and saw a shadowy figure pass by the front of the shop along the sidewalk, from right to left, headed down the street. The figure was tucked into what looked like a black rain jacket, and the face was hidden under a baseball cap. But she saw the glint of the figure’s eyes as they flicked toward her before shifting away again.
Candy almost choked on her pizza.
She coughed several times and took a few sips of her iced tea to help her swallow the mouthful of food, her eyes never leaving the window.
The figure quickly disappeared from view.
Candy watched and waited, but it didn’t return. The rain was coming down harder now, slashing across the window, and the lights in the pizza shop flickered once but stayed on.
“Looks like it’s getting rough out there,” observed an elderly gentleman sitting with his wife at a nearby table.
“It sure does,” Candy muttered to herself.
SEVENTEEN
Before she’d finished her slice of pizza, the shadowy figure crossed the window one more time, headed back in the opposite direction, up toward the intersection of Main Street. Again, the figure was hunkered down into the black raincoat, and Candy couldn’t get a good look at the person’s face, nor did the figure turn to look in the pizza shop’s window this time. The head was angled down, the eyes aimed toward the sidewalk or straight ahead, until the figure again disappeared from view.
Candy wondered if she was imagining things, making herself unnecessarily worried about some harmless villager who just happened to be on one of the dark streets at the same time she was. As she dropped the paper plate and empty paper cup into a waste can, she cautioned herself against overreacting and took a few breaths to calm herself down.
But once she was back out on the street, huddled under her umbrella beyond the warm safety of the pizza shop, her uneasiness returned. Perhaps it was just the uncooperative weather, she mused, that made her feel so uncomfortable.
Or perhaps it was something else.
She’d always trusted her own instincts, and they were on edge now.
Out on the street she hesitated, trying to decide which direction to go. Finally, she turned to her right and headed up the sidewalk. But the moment she turned the corner onto Main Street, she stopped.
She sensed a presence somewhere ahead of her, in the dark shadows of the brick buildings and storefronts, which were sleek and hazy in the slashing rain. She couldn’t make out anyone in particular lurking there—nothing specific stood out—but she didn’t feel comfortable continuing in that direction.
So she turned and headed back in the other direction, around the corner, past the pizza shop, and down along the sidewalk toward the Lightkeeper’s Inn at the village’s lower end. Though the popular inn was still some distance in front of her, it was well lit and offered refuge from the driving rain—and from whoever might be lurking behind her along the dark street.
She tried to resist looking back but couldn’t help taking one or two quick peeks. The sidewalk behind her looked deserted. She stuck her hand in the left pocket of her blazer and felt for her cell phone. Her hand closed reassuringly around it. She could always call 911 if she felt truly threatened. Or she could call her father, who was probably still at the diner, and ask him to meet her halfway up the street.
But she had another idea.
Tightly clutching the umbrella’s handle and quickening her pace, she passed the last of the storefronts and crossed in front of a small parking lot, which occupied the space behind the inn, then angled toward the historic building’s broad wraparound porch. After a dozen more paces she stepped up onto the porch and, under the shelter of the overhang, put her back against the inn’s outer wall, shook out her umbrella, and looked back the way she’d come.
The sidewalk was still deserted. No shadowy figure trailing her. A few cars came down the rain-slicked road, their headlights and red taillights flashing in her eyes, brighter and dimmer as they approached and then receded into the distance.
She waited a full five minutes, just to make sure, then walked the length of the porch and ducked into one of the inn’s
side doors.
She entered a short, thickly carpeted hallway, lit by antique pewter wall sconces. Again she stopped, just inside the closed door, looking out through a glass window at the rainy night. She wasn’t sure why she was so spooked, but she felt a need to keep an eye out on the street. She stood there for several more minutes, watching.
And then she saw it. First, just a pair of oncoming headlights, but as the vehicle came slowly down the Coastal Loop, it began to take shape.
A pickup truck. A smaller, older one, battered and worn.
In the light of the vehicle behind it, it appeared to be light blue in color.
It was the same baby blue pickup truck she’d seen parked up on Main Street.
The truck drove down past the pizza shop and passed alongside the inn. She could see the driver silhouetted against the headlights of other vehicles, but with the windows rolled up and streaked with rain, she couldn’t make out any distinctive features.
Then it was past, following the curve of the road around the front of the inn, toward the intersection with Ocean Avenue.
It finally passed out of view, though she could see the reflected glow of its small red taillights on the wet road.
She shivered as she continued to watch the spot where she’d last seen the truck.
Her first thought was that she was indeed being followed. This seemed too deliberate, too obvious an action to be a coincidence. On the other hand, maybe she was just being paranoid. Maybe the dark, rainy night and the events that had occurred earlier in the day were causing her to overreact.
Because she was looking outside the building, she didn’t see the figure approach her from behind, coming along the hallway. The rain was drumming on the porch roof, masking the sound of the person’s footsteps, which were also muted by the thick carpet, so Candy didn’t hear the approach.
When she felt someone tapping her lightly on the shoulder, she let out a yelp of surprise as she spun around.
EIGHTEEN
Instinctively she raised her folded umbrella, holding it out in front of her, prepared to protect herself from what she thought was the shadowy figure, who had sneaked up behind her.
But much to her surprise, it wasn’t a shadowy figure at all. Instead, she found herself looking into the inquisitive face of a fairly well-lit, easily recognizable Julia von Fleming.
Julia yelped in surprise, a spontaneous reaction to Candy’s yelp. Her eyes went wide and she took a quick, sharp breath. But she recovered quickly.
“Candy, I thought that was you! Is everything okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Candy’s hand had gone to her chest. She could feel her heart thumping. “Julia. I didn’t hear you come up behind me. You gave me quite a start.”
“What are you doing here?” Julia asked, looking out the door as Candy had been doing. “Is something going on out there?”
“No, it’s just . . . I was . . . just trying to get out of the storm.”
Julia continued looking out the window. “Yes, it is coming down pretty heavily out there, isn’t it? But they say it’s going to pass during the night. Hopefully tomorrow’s weather will be better for the book signing.”
In addition to serving as a judge for the cook-off contest, Julia had made arrangements to stay on for the weekend, signing copies of her cookbook at the local bookstore on Saturday morning, and giving a talk on authentic New England recipes at the Pruitt Public Library on Sunday afternoon. With Candy’s help, she’d managed to snag a room at the usually expensive Lightkeeper’s Inn at a highly reduced rate, aided by Candy’s acquaintance with innkeeper Oliver LaForce and his staff. And at Julia’s suggestion, the ladies of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League had agreed to pick up the tab for her room and board, for what they felt was a series of worthwhile cultural events.
Now that she was safely inside the building and in the company of someone she knew, Candy felt herself beginning to relax a little, as her concerns about being followed faded away. “Yes, hopefully,” she said hesitantly, trying to make conversation. “We should have a good turnout. I’ve talked to many people who are looking forward to it.” She paused, and her expression changed. “I know it was a crazy afternoon, but I can’t thank you enough for helping us out today.”
“But I loved doing it!” Julia admitted. “And, of course, it’s good publicity for the book. These days it’s all about promotion, promotion, promotion, you know. I’m just sorry it turned out the way it did—that poor man!—but I’m glad we had a chance to finish the taste tests.”
“So am I,” Candy said. “That was very brave of you.”
Julia took the compliment easily. “Herr Georg and Colin were wonderful to work with—and very brave to finish with me, considering what happened.” She shook her head. “To think I was so anxious to eat one of those pickles—and I almost did! You saved my life when you knocked it out of my hand.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t take a bite of it,” Candy said. “I never could have lived with myself if anything had happened to you, since you came here at my request, and I practically put that pickle into your hand myself.”
“Yes, well, speaking of pickles, I’m actually glad you showed up here tonight,” Julia said, steering the conversation in a different direction, “because I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened in that gym today, and I believe I have some information that might be helpful to you. In fact, I think I might know why that pickle jar was put there in the first place.”
Candy was intrigued. “Really? Why?”
“I think it was meant for someone specific.”
“Who?”
“Me!” said Julia, her eyes going wide again.
“You? But why would someone target you?”
Julia looked around and lowered her voice. “Why don’t we find a place to sit, and maybe order some tea or hot chocolate to warm us up, and I’ll explain.”
They found a cozy spot in the front lounge, next to a fireplace, which was lit with glowing embers. After they’d each ordered green tea with lemon and honey from a passing waiter, Julia pressed on.
“I have to confess, I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you,” she said in a low voice, so only Candy could hear, though they were almost alone in the lounge. “I’ve actually been to Cape Willington before, and I’ve tasted those pickles before, so I knew what they’d be like. That’s why I wanted to try them again. Well, I had to try them again, to see if they were as good as I remembered. That’s how much they’ve stuck with me over the years. I wanted to see if I could figure out the recipe he used. I thought of trying to recreate it for my next cookbook.” She paused to quickly gauge Candy’s reaction before going on.
Candy was uncertain of how to react to this news, but curious to hear more. “When were you here?”
“Well, this happened a few years ago. Among other jobs I had before I got started as a cookbook author, I used to write a food column anonymously for a few regional newspapers. I’d write about some of the local recipes I’d found during my travels around the region, and review restaurants around Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. Sort of an amateur foodie thing. I discovered the Sweet Pickle Deli while on a trip through Down East Maine, and wrote a review of it. Of course, the food was wonderful, but unfortunately I had a run-in with the owner. In the end, because of the negative experience I had there, my review wasn’t very flattering.”
“Ahh,” Candy said, beginning to see where all this was headed.
“As I said, I wrote the column anonymously. I used the byline Yankee Food Girl, which was my pen name, until I established my own name a few years ago, started a blog, and relaunched my career in connection with the cookbook.”
“So you think Maurice Soufflé found out you were the author of a negative review of his restaurant, which you wrote several years ago, and targeted you today with that jar of pickles?”
Julia nodded. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, everyone knew I’d be here. Lord knows I’v
e publicized it enough over the past few weeks, and I’m sure you have too. The event has been well-advertised. Maurice didn’t know my real name, at least not when I wrote the review, but he must have figured it out somehow. Maybe he heard something about me in connection with the cook-off contest, or read one of the interviews I’ve given about the cookbook, or maybe he stumbled across my blog and learned of my true identity that way. I don’t publicize the fact that I had a pen name, but I don’t deny it either. I’ve posted some of those old columns on my blog lately using that byline, so maybe that’s how he found out. Maybe that’s why he waited until now to take his revenge. It took him that long to find out I’m the one who wrote that review.”
“Maybe,” Candy said. “It’s certainly an intriguing possibility.” She paused, thinking it through. “You said you had a run-in with him. What about?”
“About the pickle recipe, of course! I told him I wanted to interview him about it—maybe talk about how he came up with it and some of the ingredients. Of course, it was too much to hope that he’d give me the recipe outright and allow me to print it. I’d hoped to wheedle a little information from him about it, but he was a stubborn man. When he found out what I was doing, he refused to talk to me. In fact, he was quite rude to me—as, I’ve heard, he’d been to many of his customers.”
“And what exactly did you say in your review?”
Julia shrugged as their tea arrived. “I said the food was good but the atmosphere in the shop was inhospitable. No customer should be treated the way he treated people. In the end, I told my readers to avoid the place.”
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