Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “It’s Cleopatra’s obituary.”

  Candy looked up at Sally Ann with uncertainty. “Obituary?”

  “I thought you could run it in the next issue of the paper.”

  Candy scanned the first few lines. “An obituary . . . for a goat?”

  “She was a good citizen of this village, just like everyone else. Sure, she had her run-ins with a few folks, but she was murdered just like Ned Winetrop. I thought she deserved an appropriate send-off. The funeral’s tomorrow morning.”

  Candy couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. “A funeral . . . for a goat?”

  “Eleven o’clock, out at my place. I’m expecting quite a turnout. Despite what you might have heard, Cleopatra had a lot of fans in this town. I’m hoping you can make it. Wanda too. Maybe you can take a few photos, do a little write-up.”

  Candy turned her attention back to the obituary and read it more carefully. It was roughly worded, with a number of spelling and grammatical errors, and would need some editing, but she could probably salvage it, maybe publish a short paragraph to appease Sally Ann.

  She heard a crackling sound behind her and swiveled around. While she’d been reading, the goat had made its way across her office and was sampling some papers she’d left out on the credenza under the window. “Hey, not those!” Candy shouted.

  Sally Ann yanked on the goat’s cord. “Guinevere, behave!”

  The goat bleated again and changed tack, angling toward a potted English Ivy sitting in the far corner of the credenza in front of the window. “No, leave that alone!” Candy said, reaching toward it, but she was too late. The goat had flicked out its tongue and lassoed a tender shoot, yanking it toward her. The pot tipped over, spilling out clumps of moist dirt. Candy managed to catch it just in time, before it went over the edge and onto the floor.

  Sally Ann finally corralled her animal as Candy set the pot upright, scooped some of the spilled dirt back into it, and then placed it on a high shelf, out of the goat’s reach. “Guinevere, that’s not meant for you,” she said, trying not to sound too scolding.

  “She’s just upset,” Sally Ann said in the goat’s defense.

  Candy eyed the goat warily. “Yes, I’m sure she is.”

  “So you’ll make sure this obituary gets into the next issue?”

  Candy placed the paper on her desktop next to her computer. “I’ll do my best.”

  Sally Ann nodded once, emphatically. “That’s all I can ask. I’ll keep an eye out for it. And I’ll look for you in the morning.”

  Candy sighed. “I’ll try to be there, but I have another event at two.”

  “It shouldn’t take long. Half an hour or so. You’ll mention it to Wanda?”

  “Yes, of course,” Candy said.

  She thought they were about done, and expected the other woman to leave before her goat caused more damage. But a strange look came over Sally Ann, and her expression changed. Her lower lip protruded, and her eyes began to water. After a few moments, Candy realized the other woman was becoming emotional.

  “She was a good goat,” Sally Ann said. “We’ll all miss her a lot.”

  “Yes, we will,” Candy said supportively. “Everyone in town knows how important those goats are to you.”

  “You’re going to find out who did this to her, right?”

  On an impulse, Candy rose, stepped forward, and gave Sally Ann a big hug. “I promise you, I’ll do my very best. We’ll find out who’s behind those poisoned pickles. And you can rest assured that if I have anything to say about it, justice for Cleopatra—and for Ned—will definitely be served.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  After Sally Ann and Guinevere left, heading back down the hallway and out the door with a clattering and stomping of footsteps, accompanied by one or two bleats, Candy resettled herself at her desk and went back over the notes she’d made earlier.

  Her next steps seemed clear—two stops in town and one out of town. But before she left, she fished out her cell phone and made several quick calls—to her father, to Finn Woodbury, to Maggie at the bakery, and even to Mason Flint, inquiring whether any of them had heard of someone named Marcus Spruell. But, perhaps not surprisingly, she came up blank. The name rang a bell with no one.

  Next she conducted a quick computer search of the newspaper’s digital archives of previously published stories, again finding nothing about Marcus Spruell. Lastly, she conducted a quick Internet search, but again, she found no references to anyone of that name.

  She checked her watch. It was close to one, still early afternoon. Plenty of time to make a few house calls, including a thirty-five minute drive to Georgia McFee’s place in Cherryfield, and talk to a few people. She took a few minutes to locate Georgia’s place using an online map. It looked easy to find, on a side road off of the village’s Main Street. Candy figured she could be there and back well before dinnertime. She wasn’t sure the woman would be home. Georgia might still be in the hospital. But Candy decided to drive up anyway.

  Five minutes later she was out the door and headed up Ocean Avenue. When she reached her Jeep she kept going, crossing the street at the light.

  Before she left town, she wanted to talk to Trudy Watkins at the general store.

  Zeke’s was a busy place just about any time of the day. Like many New England general stores, it offered a wide range of goods, from fresh produce, everyday groceries, dry goods, and an extensive array of gourmet foods and wines to clothing, plants, toys, gifts and souvenirs, office supplies, books and magazines, DVD rentals, live bait, and even homemade sandwiches, soups, fudge, and cookies. In the winter the store was also stocked with sweaters, hats and gloves, and an assortment of sleds and toboggans, which were replaced in the summer by sunglasses, suntan oil, flip-flops, and beach towels. An old-fashioned candy counter was a big attraction for kids and families, and a space by the front window had been set up with chairs and a table, so customers could sit and play checkers, or just watch as pedestrians and traffic went past.

  Trudy had run the place with her husband, Richard, for more than twenty years, and they were constantly changing and adding to the store’s offerings. Candy stopped by often, sometimes at lunch for a quick sandwich, sometimes after work for milk, cheese, and a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and many times just to look around to see what she could find. She was often pleasantly surprised, whether she picked up the latest paperback mystery novel, a greeting card designed by a local artist, a new pair of flannel pajamas, or a jar of spicy gourmet mustard or apple-cinnamon butter.

  As she pushed through the front door, she was greeted by the warm smells of coffee, chocolate, and fresh-baked goods, along with the more subtle fragrances of beeswax candles and milled bar soaps, mixing with the ever-present scent of old wood and natural oils. She headed back past the shelves and aisles, trying not to let herself get distracted by all the items she passed, and made her way toward the checkout counter along the left wall, which stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling shelving and display unit packed with all sorts of canned items, cake mixes, condiments, salsas, and boxes of cereal.

  She spotted Trudy talking to a customer while bagging another woman’s purchases. Other customers stood in line, so Candy patiently hovered nearby until Trudy had a few free moments.

  As she waited, she noticed a young man stocking some of the shelves to her left, on the far side of the counter. He seemed to be watching her out of the corner of his eye as he worked, which made Candy feel a little self-conscious. She hadn’t seen him in here before. He was in his late teens or early twenties, a lean young man with shaggy blond hair and a wispy moustache, which he probably felt made him look older. His blue-eyed gaze, Candy thought, was a little intense for someone his age.

  As Candy moved among the shelves, biding her time, he continued to glance in her direction. She finally nodded a greeting at him but got no reaction, although he did avert his eyes and seemed to rededicate himself to his work. But his g
aze still flicked in her direction from time to time.

  Maybe I just remind him of someone, Candy thought. She toyed with the idea of approaching him to say hello, but the line at the counter finally cleared out, so she headed toward the cash register instead.

  “Candy, I thought that was you,” Trudy said with a pleasant smile. She was a tall, slender, gracious woman, with horn-rimmed glasses and long graying hair pulled back into a neat bun. Today she wore a colorful tulip-patterned apron over a blue-and-white gingham dress. Candy recalled that Trudy liked to collect vintage aprons, which she often wore around the store. “It’s always so good to see you. How are things over at the newspaper?”

  “Just fine, Trudy, thanks. We did have some trouble over at the cook-off contest, though.”

  “Oh, yes, I was so sorry to hear about that,” Trudy said, her smile fading. “Ned was such a good man. I’ve known him for years. I still can’t believe he’s gone! We’ll miss him around here.”

  “We sure will,” Candy agreed, “and to be honest, that’s sort of the reason I stopped by today—to talk to you about the cook-off contest.”

  She hesitated as Trudy gave her a questioning look, then plunged on. “I couldn’t help but notice you were there yesterday, in the gym during the contest.” Candy was careful to keep any negative tones out of her voice. She didn’t want to sound threatening or accusatory, only curious.

  Trudy looked a little surprised. “Oh, I didn’t know you’d seen me. I had hoped to keep a low profile,” she admitted, “since I wasn’t sure I was supposed to be there. But I just wanted to see what was going on. It all seemed so exciting, so I snuck in for a quick peek. I hope that’s all right.”

  “It’s fine,” Candy assured her.

  “Of course,” Trudy continued, “being the owner of a commercial establishment, I wasn’t able to enter any of my own recipes in the contest.”

  “Yes, that’s unfortunate,” Candy agreed, “though we wanted to keep the event geared toward amateur cooks. I’m sure you understand.”

  Trudy nodded. “It was a wonderful idea regardless. We have so many talented people around here! I can’t wait to see who the winners were. You’ll announce them in the paper, right?”

  “In the bicentennial issue, in early October. So how long were you at the event yesterday?”

  “Oh, well, let’s see.” Trudy glanced down at the counter as she bit her lip. “Not for very long, I’m afraid. Richard’s been homebound with leg problems, as you might have heard, and I didn’t want to leave the store for too long. My nephew, Brian Jr., kept an eye on the place while I was gone.” She pointed with a thin finger toward the blond-haired teenaged boy, who was still stocking shelves nearby.

  “Oh, yes, I saw him earlier,” Candy said, turning. She waved at him. “Hello, Brian Jr.” To Trudy she added, “I thought I noticed a family resemblance.”

  “He’s named after his father, Brian, who is Richard’s youngest brother. We call them Brian Sr. and Brian Jr., to distinguish between the two. They live in Ellsworth now but Brian Jr. is staying with us for a while. He was looking for work, and we needed the help around here. It’s a blessing to have him around.” Trudy motioned to the teenaged boy. “Brian Jr., come and say hello to Candy.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, and with some additional coaxing, the young man walked to the counter, shook hands with Candy, and muttered a few words before disappearing into the back room.

  “He’s a little shy until he gets to know you better,” Trudy said, “but he’s a good worker, and he helps us out a lot. We couldn’t do it without him. I hope he stays around for a while.”

  “He seems like a nice young man.” Candy steered the conversation back onto the proper track. “So, about the cook-off contest—I was wondering if you noticed anything unusual while you were there yesterday?”

  “Unusual? At the cook-off contest?” Trudy echoed, her brow furrowing. “In what way?”

  “Anything that seemed strange or out of the ordinary. Maybe someone engaged in a suspicious activity, or something you might have heard that didn’t sound quite right. I’m trying to find out how that jar of pickles got onto that table, and where it came from.”

  Trudy looked alarmed. “And you think I might know?”

  “I’m talking to a lot of people,” Candy said, “just trying to gather information. I don’t suppose the police have talked to you?”

  Trudy’s hand went to her chest. “The police? Good gracious, no! Why would they want to talk to me?”

  “They’re interviewing everyone who was there yesterday. It’s just standard procedure in any investigation of this sort. We’re all hoping someone might have seen something or have some information that might help find the person behind Ned’s death.”

  “Well, I can certainly understand that,” Trudy said, “and I’d love to help any way I can. But I just didn’t see anything that struck me as unusual. If I had, I would surely let you know.”

  Candy gave Trudy her card. “Well, if you do think of anything, let me know. Or just give the police a call. We’re hoping to solve this as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, I should hope so.” Trudy took the card and glanced at it before she pushed it into the front pocket of her apron. “It’s always hard to believe when something like this happens around here. This is a good community, you know, filled with good people. I remember when you could trust everyone in town, leave your doors unlocked, and never have to worry about your safety. But times have changed. I hate to say this, but you can’t trust anyone anymore.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Once back outside and headed down the street, Candy decided to postpone her trip to the pizza parlor until later. The sky appeared to be lowering again, and she wanted to make sure she talked to Georgia McFee before it got too late in the day or turned stormy. If all went well, she figured she’d be back in time to talk to the manager at the pizza place before he went home for the day.

  The drive northward out of Cape Willington was a colorful one. Most of the trees lining the road were just beginning to turn, but some, like red maples and white ashes, were already well into their seasonal change, displaying brilliant reds and yellows.

  Like everyone else in New England, Candy kept track of peak foliage season. She knew that areas in the north of Maine, places like Aroostook County and Presque Isle, usually reached peak color during the last week in September, while it took until the second week in October for peak to reach Cape Willington. Still, there were low pockets of landscape she passed where colder air had settled at night, causing the foliage to change ahead of schedule. These areas in particular always fascinated her with their unexpected beauty.

  The road north took her out of Cape Willington to Gouldsboro, then east on Route 1 until it turned north again at Milbridge, following a river that flowed into Narraguagus Bay. Traffic was light and she made good time, entering Cherryfield at a little past two. It was a quaint village, though more spread out than Cape Willington. She passed a stately bed-and-breakfast with a white picket fence and, a little further on, the small settlement with a town hall and a general store, before heading on northward and back out of town.

  She found Georgia McFee’s place with little trouble. She spotted the mailbox where the third jar had been left. A dirt lane beside it led back to a ramshackle house half-hidden behind a rise in the driveway, sitting in a hollow a hundred feet back from the road.

  Pulled up beside the mailbox with the Jeep’s engine idling, Candy surveyed the house and the surrounding property from the road, but she could see no one from her vantage point. In fact, the place showed no signs of life, with darkened windows and a general stillness about it. She wondered for a moment if anyone was home, although she spotted an old sedan parked to the side of the building.

  Only one way to find out.

  She backed up a few yards, shifted gears, and turned the Jeep into the dirt lane, progressing slowly toward the house. If Georgia was here, Candy didn’t want to alarm the woman. She st
opped in front of the house, shut off the engine, and climbed out. Walking around the front of the Jeep, she shaded her eyes against the brightening sun and saw a curtain flutter at one of the front windows. She’d been spotted.

  A few moments later the front door opened and an elderly woman in a green cardigan sweater stepped out onto the porch. “Can I help you?” she asked in a tone that was neither friendly nor hostile.

  “Hi, I’m Candy Holliday. I’m the managing editor of the Cape Crier down in Cape Willington.”

  “I know who you are,” the other woman said. “I don’t get the Crier anymore but I visit your website.” She paused. “I love Wanda Boyle’s columns. She seems like such a wonderful person.”

  Candy took a few steps forward and folded her hands in front of her to project a casual presence. “Yes, well, that’s good to hear. Wanda’s columns are very popular. People seem to like them.”

  “Yes, we do,” the elderly woman said. Then she added, sounding concerned, “I heard she had some trouble yesterday.”

  Candy nodded. “Yes, that’s true. She’s bounced back, but she had a rough day. I heard you did as well.”

  The woman raised her shoulders dramatically and made a face. “Yes, I suppose I did. But it was my own fault. I should never have opened that jar of pickles, knowing the man behind them.”

  “Hmm, yes, I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about him?”

  Georgia McFee made a face. “I’ve already talked to the police. They asked me questions for two hours. I told them everything I know.”

  “What about the jar itself?” Candy asked.

  “The jar?”