“You had some run-ins with him, didn’t you?” Candy asked.
With her thumb Sally Ann pointed off behind the house. “Because of the goats. He lived on the next street over. They got into his gardens a few times. Practically came to fisticuffs, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Between you and him?”
“Between him and the goats,” Sally Ann replied. “He got so angry he filed a complaint against them at Town Hall. And he threatened to take me to court. Said my goats had destroyed his property. He wasn’t the first, of course. But he wanted me to get rid of them. Said they were a nuisance to the community. A hostile presence affecting his quality of life. But he cooled off after a while, and nothing much came of it.”
Candy let that go for the moment and turned back to the jars. She was struck by something else about them. “The colors on the jar I saw this afternoon were brighter and more vivid than on yours. These are faded.”
“Well, sure,” Sally Ann said. “Makes sense. Labels will do that over the years.”
“But if that’s true,” Candy said, “then the label on the jar I saw this afternoon should have been faded as well—if it was an actual jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli. But it wasn’t. It looked . . . new.”
“So what are you saying?” Sally Ann asked. “You think Maurice made up a new batch?”
“Maybe Maurice,” Candy said thoughtfully, “or maybe someone else. After all, if that jar wasn’t authentic like these are”—she waved a finger at Sally Ann’s two jars—“then it could have been made by anyone, really, and left there on that table today. The same goes for the other two jars, including the one left here at your place. If you were duplicating the jars from the Sweet Pickle Deli, and wanted to poison them, you wouldn’t even need to know Maurice’s actual recipe, really. You’d just have to know what the label looked like. That’s what everyone, including Wanda, Doc, and Ned, responded to. That’s what attracted them. We have no idea, at least right now, what the pickles from those jars actually tasted like—though Wanda might be able to tell us when she’s feeling better.”
“So who do you think did it?” Sally Ann asked. “Who made those pickles?”
Candy gave it a lot of thought before she shook her head. “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out. I promise you that.”
TWENTY-TWO
Candy’s cell phone rang first thing the next morning.
She usually muted it overnight, so it wouldn’t wake her too early, but because of all that had happened the previous day, she’d left it on. She thought she might get an early call from Wanda, or even Julia von Fleming, checking in about the upcoming book signing. But the caller identified on the touchscreen was someone completely unexpected, unconnected with the newspaper, the book signing, or even the blueberry farm.
It was a call from Tristan Pruitt.
Tristan was a scion of the wealthy Pruitt family, who lived in Boston most of the year but maintained a nearby summer home in the form of an English Tudor-style mansion on a prime piece of property just off the Coastal Loop overlooking the ocean. Candy had met him a few years earlier when she’d been working in a local pumpkin patch with Maggie. Tristan had appeared mysteriously one morning and hopped onto a Halloween-themed hay wagon ride Candy and Maggie were operating in the pumpkin patch as a way to make some extra money. As it turned out, Tristan sought Candy’s help in solving a mystery involving a stolen book from his family’s library, and in the process of searching for the book, Candy had uncovered a murderer.
At the time she’d thought, way in the back of her mind, that there might actually be a spark between her and Tristan, and possibly even a future. But they’d never had a chance to spend much time together to see what developed. He lived and worked primarily in Boston and New York, and only made it up to Cape Willington on occasion. They’d done their best to keep in touch, and he’d been out to the farm a couple of times over the past year or so. But they both led busy lives, and their communications had become less frequent. She realized they hadn’t talked in months.
Why would he be calling her at this hour? she wondered.
She keyed open the call. “Hello, this is Candy.”
“Candy, it’s Tristan. Sorry to call so early. Hope I didn’t wake you.” He sounded a little breathless, and distracted, as if he’d been awake for a while and had a lot on his mind.
“No, I was up. There’s . . . well, there’s been a lot going on.”
“I heard about what happened yesterday. Damn shame about Ned and the others. Are you okay?”
When he spoke, she could hear the concern in his voice, but she assured him she was fine—or, at least, as fine as possible with a murderer on the loose.
“Any idea who’s behind this?” he asked.
“Lots of speculation but nothing concrete so far.”
“That’s the reason I called,” Tristan said. “I might have something concrete for you.”
Candy’s ears perked up. “Really? What?”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s something we should discuss over the phone. Can you meet me?”
“When?”
“Now? Or as soon as you can?”
Candy was surprised. “You’re in town?”
“I’m out at the house. I arrived a few hours ago.”
A few hours ago? Candy glanced at her bedside alarm clock. It was just after eight. She knew it was about a five-hour drive from Boston to Cape Willington. He must have been driving all night, she thought.
At this revelation, she settled onto the edge of her bed as she considered his request. “I was going to stop in to see Maggie this morning. In fact, I’m headed over there shortly,” she said, “and I have to be at a book signing at eleven, plus a few other stops today.” She paused, thinking back over what he had said. “But yes, of course I can come over, if you think it’s important.”
“It is,” Tristan said. “When can you get here?”
There was an urgency in his tone that touched something inside her. She knew he wouldn’t be making such a request for a frivolous matter. Something was up, she thought, and it sounded serious. “Give me half an hour.”
Five minutes later she was downstairs, with Tristan still on her mind. What could have caused him to make a special trip to Cape Willington, driving through the night so he could meet with her first thing in the morning? Had something happened to someone? Perhaps to his aunt, Helen Ross Pruitt, matriarch of the Pruitt clan, whom Candy had met several times over the past few years? Or was it something else?
Something to do with the jars of poisoned pickles?
What kind of inside information could he have?
She found her father out on the porch in his favorite rocking chair with his coffee and newspaper, wrapped in a wool sweater against the chilly, dew-soaked morning. Usually on weekdays he headed off to the Main Street Diner for breakfast with Finn, Bumpy, and Artie, but they often took a break on weekends.
However, as Candy walked out onto the porch, Doc glanced up at her and checked his watch. “Sounds like the boys are assembling at the diner in a little while,” he told her in a voice that cracked a bit, as it sometimes did early in the morning. “I guess they want to hash over all that happened yesterday. I thought I’d head over shortly. Want to come along? Finn might have some news from the police station.”
Candy hesitated for only a moment. “I would, Dad, but I have a busy morning. Lots of meetings. But tell Finn to give me a call if he’s heard anything interesting.”
She was hesitant to say anything about Tristan Pruitt, since she wasn’t sure how confidential she should be about meeting with him. Doc seemed to sense that something was going on, but he was used to his daughter’s sometimes enigmatic ways, especially when she was chasing down a mystery, so he kept any questions he had to himself.
Instead, he said, “I’ll let him know. And if you get a chance, swing by the diner and say hello. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“Are you going to the book si
gning?”
“Possibly. I might wander over and check it out.”
While her father finished his coffee and paper, Candy stepped off the porch and headed around the side of the house toward the chicken coop behind the barn. She’d started with a dozen chickens a few years ago, and while she’d lost a few since, they remained good producers, providing a steady supply of small brown eggs for her and Doc, as well as neighbors and co-workers.
As usual, she spread some chicken feed on the floor of the coop, checked their water supply, and collected half a dozen still-warm eggs in a wire basket. Then she wandered over to the vegetable garden. It occupied a flat plot of land between the barn and the upward-sloping blueberry fields, which were just about picked out. In a week or two they’d start mowing down the fields in preparation for next year’s crop.
But it was the vegetable garden that concerned her. She’d been so busy lately that she hadn’t had much time to devote to it. It needed weeding and watering, and some tender loving care. But where was she going to find the time, with all that was going on at the paper and in town?
There’s so much that needs to be done around here, she thought with a touch of melancholy as she picked a few ripe tomatoes and cucumbers. She and Doc had talked about putting in a hoophouse, but they still hadn’t had a chance to do that. They wanted to expand their blueberry fields. They’d talked about building a small farm stand and moving into retail operations, rather than staying a strictly wholesale business. But they’d been so busy lately they hadn’t had a chance to do any of those things.
I miss working here at the farm, she thought with a sigh. I may have to make some changes soon.
At the paper, she’d held onto the title of interim managing editor for more than a year now, rather than accept an offer to become its actual editor, because she’d never been certain how long she wanted to remain in the position, since it took up so much of her time. Over the past few months, and even during harvest season, she felt she’d been spending more and more time in town, and less and less time at the farm. She was beginning to feel an imbalance in her life, but she hadn’t yet decided on a definite course of action, since she enjoyed both jobs.
With a last look at the garden and a shake of her head, she headed back toward the house and gathered her things. Before she headed out the door, she sent a text to Maggie, saying she was headed over to Pruitt Manor, and she’d stop by the bakery as soon as she could. She left a short time later, following Doc out of the dirt driveway as he drove off to the diner in his pickup truck.
It was a short ten-minute trip to Pruitt Manor. Although the clouds of the previous night had moved on, the morning had a certain rawness to it, with a damp, penetrating feeling and lingering bands of fog and mist, mostly in the low spots. Like Doc, she’d thrown on a sweater and wore thin early-season gloves against the cold steering wheel.
She drove along the ocean on the Coastal Loop, headed into town past River Road and Main Street, and as she rounded a northwesterly curve, she could see the peaked roof of Pruitt Manor poking out above the treetops. Just beyond, on a rocky outcropping of land, stood Kimball Light, a privately owned lighthouse and one of two in Cape Willington, the other being English Point Lighthouse to the north.
A few minutes later, Candy turned onto a private driveway that led between two five-foot-tall stone pillars. The black iron gate stood open, as it usually did, so she drove on through, noticing the small, tasteful sign alongside the road, announcing PRUITT MANOR—PRIVATE PROPERTY.
She followed the winding gravel driveway before pulling into a wide, paved courtyard that fronted the house. A dark blue BMW was parked off to one side. It was the only car she could see, since the multiple bay doors in the detached garage were all closed.
In fact, the entire place looked like it was closed up for the season, which she imagined it was. As far as she knew, Mrs. Pruitt and her entourage had decamped for Boston right after Labor Day. Blinds were still drawn tight in all the windows, and the house looked dark and deserted.
She pulled up behind the BMW, shut off the engine, and climbed out of the Jeep. But before she could start toward the house, Tristan emerged to greet her.
He was dressed casually, in expensive jeans, an untucked white shirt, and loafers without socks. He approached her with a weary smile and gave her a hug. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said. “I know it was an unusual request, but it couldn’t be helped.”
He tried to keep his tone light, but she could hear an edge of concern in his voice. “It’s no problem,” she said, then added, “I’m happy to help any way I can.”
Tristan nodded and pointed toward the house. “Then why don’t you come on in and let’s talk. I think we can definitely use your expertise.”
TWENTY-THREE
He led her along a flagstone walkway, through a heavy wooden entry door, and into the manor’s foyer, with its leaf-and-acorn-patterned oak floor, ornate wood paneling, heraldic designs, and family portraiture. On the left, a grand staircase ascended to the second floor.
It was both impressive and intimate at the same time, and Candy remembered that on previous visits, the place had had a warm, aristocratic feel. Today, however, it felt hollow and empty, unlived in. It was also a tad chilly inside, so she kept her sweater on, though she took off her gloves and stashed them in her pockets.
“Sorry about the climate in here,” Tristan said as he continued through the foyer into the long hallway beyond. “They set it at fifty-nine degrees for the winter and I still haven’t figured out how to override the system to raise the temperature. I have a text into Hobbins for the password.” Hobbins was the butler for Helen Ross Pruitt, Tristan’s aunt.
“Is Mrs. Pruitt here?” Candy asked, following Tristan along the unlit, shadowy hall. As she passed open doors to the left and right, which led to various rooms, she noticed they were all in shadows, though she caught sight of cloth-draped furniture and expensive rugs.
“No, she remains in Boston. There’s some big social event this weekend to kick off the season, I think. She said she couldn’t miss it. And Hobbins is with her, of course. So I’m on my own up here. Have you had breakfast?”
Candy said she had not.
“Good, I called the inn and asked them to send over some coffee and Danish. They delivered it right before you arrived. We’re set up in the kitchen.”
It was an impressive array of goodies, including a dozen different types of Danish, many maple-or toffee-glazed and enhanced with an assortment of almonds, raisins, pecans, and cheeses, as well as fruit-filled pastries and buttery croissants. Everything was still warm, as if it had just come out of the oven. Coffee, tea, and juice, along with fresh fruit, were also available. “And I think I can scrounge up some cereal, though I’m not sure we have milk,” Tristan said with a half frown. “The fridge and freezers were emptied when Aunt Helen relocated south, and I haven’t had a chance to replenish anything.”
“This is fine,” Candy said, and she took a plate and moved to the pastry tray. “In fact, it’s more than enough. I wasn’t expecting breakfast.”
“I thought it’s the least I could do, asking you to come out here so early.”
“Well, it was a very nice thought,” Candy said as she surveyed the culinary offerings, then added innocently enough, as a way to get the questioning started, “So, I take it this is an impromptu visit to Cape Willington?”
Again, looking a bit weary, Tristan took a mug and filled it with coffee. “You could certainly say that. I didn’t know I was coming here until almost midnight last night.”
She turned to him. “What made you decide to make the trip? You said you could use my expertise. About what?”
“We had . . . a communication,” he said, and taking a plate, joined Candy, selecting several items from the tray before moving to a small white table set off to one side of the kitchen. She finished filling her plate and joined him.
Once they were settled, he continued, “A package arrived yesterday
afternoon at Aunt Helen’s place on Beacon Hill.”
“A package?”
“An envelope with a letter inside,” he clarified, and reached for a battered leather soft-sided briefcase sitting on the floor near his feet. He pulled it up into his lap, lifted the top flap, and took out a manila folder, which he laid on the table between them. The briefcase went back down on the floor with a soft slap.
“Aunt Helen contacted me as soon as she received it. At first we thought it was a joke—but given what happened here in town yesterday, we’ve decided to take it seriously. We contacted the police in Boston, of course, and pulled in our attorney to help us deal with the situation. But I came up personally to meet with the Cape Willington police later this morning. I’ve also asked for a private meeting with Mason Flint and the members of the town council.”
Candy had yet to take a bite of her Danish as she focused on the manila folder on the table in front of her. She couldn’t help shivering, not sure if it was caused by the house’s chilly temperature or the thought of what might be inside that folder.
“Go ahead,” Tristan urged, and he pointed at it with a finger as he lifted his cup of coffee. “Take a look.”
Although her curiosity was strong, she hesitated just a moment. What could be inside the folder that was so important it had prompted Tristan to make an overnight trip to Cape Willington?
She reached out and pulled the folder toward her, flipping open the cover. Inside was a single sheet of paper with writing on it.
“That’s not the original, of course,” Tristan continued. “The Boston police have that, as well as the original envelope. It was postmarked in Cape Willington on Tuesday, by the way. No return address, of course. We’re still trying to trace it, but it could have been sent by anyone.”
Candy lifted the sheet of paper and began to read. There were only a few lines:
The poisoned jars are just the beginning. There are more where those came from. Don’t let it get worse. Deposit two hundred thousand dollars into an account number to be provided. Consider the money a loan for the town, since you’re its wealthiest resident. It’s the least you can do. Details to follow.
Town in a Sweet Pickle Page 13