Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  It also would give her a chance to verify at least one fact.

  Once up in her office, she walked to the window and looked out at Ocean Avenue. From her vantage point on the second floor, she could see both sides of the street, and for a good distance in either direction, left and right. She could also just barely see, far down to her right, the hood of the white Volkswagen hatchback. She could wait. She had some time. If Julia was going to the library to give her talk, she’d have to leave soon, and she’d have to drive.

  Candy could at least verify the owner of the VW. She’d just wait here until she could visually do that.

  But ten minutes later she was interrupted. She heard someone opening and closing the front office door, and footsteps coming down the hallway toward her office. Moments later, Wanda Boyle poked her head in through Candy’s open door. “Hey, what the heck are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m working,” Candy said, never taking her eyes off the white Volkswagen. “And what are you doing here?”

  Wanda held up a familiar manila folder. “Making a copy so I can drop it off at the station, just like you asked. So, are you working on the paper or on the case?”

  Candy admitted it was the latter.

  Wanda took a few steps into the office. “You uncover any more clues?”

  Candy said that she had.

  “You close to solving it?”

  “I might have already—that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “So what are you looking at?”

  “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Who?”

  When Candy didn’t answer, Wanda said, “It wouldn’t be Julia von Fleming, would it?”

  Candy’s head snapped away from the window. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because,” Wanda said with a fiendish little grin, “I talked to Brian Watkins Jr. just a little while ago. I saw you chasing after him at the funeral and wondered what that was all about. So I did a little digging of my own, asked him a few questions. He told me everything.”

  “He doesn’t know everything,” Candy said, sounding a little defensive.

  “He might not, but it’s enough for me to guess what’s going on. Let me see if I got this straight: Brian Jr. was shadowing you because his aunt asked him to keep an eye on you, in case you needed his help in some way. So yesterday he notices you’re being followed by another car, this one with New Hampshire plates. Of course, Julia von Fleming is from New Hampshire. So put two and two together, and what does that mean?” She paused before she offered the answer herself. “I think you think Julia followed you yesterday up to Old Town and murdered this Spruell character—same guy who used to own the deli, right?”

  Candy had to admit she was impressed with Wanda’s grasp of the situation. “Something like that, yes. But there’s nothing I can prove. I haven’t found any evidence yet to tie her directly to any of the crimes. I need hard evidence, and I don’t know how to get that.”

  Wanda considered that for a moment before she said, “Have you thought of setting a trap?”

  “A what?”

  “A trap. You know, like in the movies. You create a situation in which you fool your mark—in this case, that would be Julia—into thinking that something’s happened that hasn’t really happened. That way you confuse her and get her to reveal whatever it is she doesn’t want you to know about.” Wanda grinned. “See? Simple.”

  Candy thought about it a minute as she turned her gaze back to the street—just in time to see Julia von Fleming come up the sidewalk with her bags and stop when she reached the white Volkswagen hatchback. She pulled out a key fob and pressed it, unlocking the doors and hatchback. She first walked behind the car, lifted the hatchback, and moved a few boxes around inside, opening them and checking them, as if she was looking for something.

  Unfortunately, from where Candy stood, she couldn’t see what was inside the boxes. “That’s where it must be,” she said to herself as Julia closed the hatchback, put her bags in the backseat, and climbed into the driver’s seat. She started the engine, and Candy watched in silence as Julia backed out of the parking spot and did a hard U-turn right in the middle of the avenue. She gunned the engine and headed up the street, toward the library.

  Just then Candy’s phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out and read the display. It was a local number. She slid her finger along the display, answering the call. “Hello?”

  “Candy Holliday?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, this is Phil over at the pizza parlor?”

  “Yes, hi Phil. What can I help you with?”

  “Well, you asked me to check on Gloria’s last name?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right! Did you find anything?”

  “Sure did. Her last name was Kaufman.”

  Candy turned to look back at Wanda. To Phil, she said, “Is that right? Are you sure?”

  “It’s all over her file,” he confirmed.

  “Well, thanks very much. I appreciate the call.”

  “Anytime. Glad to help.”

  “Who was that?” Wanda asked after the call had ended.

  “Phil, over at the pizza parlor.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He told me some very interesting news.” Candy looked at Wanda with a thoughtful expression on her face. “So this trap you mentioned. You think we could pull something like that off?”

  Wanda shrugged. “Piece of cake. Everyone in town is behind you on this thing. We’ll call in the cavalry, get everyone to pitch in. Believe me, Julia von Fleming is no match for this group of villagers.”

  She just may be right, Candy thought hopefully. “But what exactly would we do? What kind of trap would we set for her?”

  They talked about it, and ten minutes later had a plan. After that, they both started making phone calls.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The original section of the Pruitt Public Library, located on the corner of School Street and River Road just a block north of downtown, opened its doors in 1891. Built in the same Colonial Revival style as the larger Pruitt Opera House on Ocean Avenue, it also shared a common benefactor—Horace Roberts Pruitt, who was responsible for a number of other buildings around town, including Pruitt Manor. Over the years, several wings had been added to the library to extend its offerings and services, but it remained one of the village’s most distinctive buildings architecturally, with four white columns out front, a symmetrical facade, tall vertical windows with black shutters, dormer windows peeking out from the roofline, and a stately redbrick exterior.

  Maggie Tremont knew the place well. She’d practically raised her daughter Amanda there, as they’d attended weekly events while Amanda was growing up, and at one point Maggie had volunteered to help shelve books one night a week. Since she was also an avid reader, she was always stopping by to check out the latest bestsellers and discover new writers.

  She had a favorite parking spot, off to the left of the library’s entrance, but this afternoon the lot next to the building was full, so she was forced to park halfway up School Street and walk back. She checked her watch. She just hoped she wasn’t late.

  This was all happening so fast, and she wasn’t completely sure she was ready for what she was about to do. The call had come from Candy just a little while ago, asking her for a favor. A big favor. Of course, Maggie had agreed instantly, but now that the time was growing close, she just hoped she could pull it off. She breathed deeply as she quickened her pace. They had one opportunity to get this right, and if she failed to be convincing, she could jeopardize the whole operation.

  Still, despite the challenges ahead, she practically buzzed with anticipation, thinking of how she would act when the time came. She knew she had to be as natural as possible, so she decided it would probably be best just to let her instincts take over and avoid overacting or staging the scene too much.

  As she hurried in through the library’s front door, she just hoped everything was in place.
r />   After waving hello to a few of the staff members behind the checkout counter on the main floor, she headed downstairs to a large meeting room in the library’s basement, where events like author presentations, youth programs, and the semiannual book sale were held. Folding chairs had been set up in the center of the room, facing a low stage at the right side. Several nicer, plusher chairs sat empty on the stage, and a lectern and microphone had been set up as well. Against the wall on the opposite side of the room, a table covered with a white cloth held refreshments like coffee, tea, and baked items, provided by the Friends of the Library.

  The place was buzzing. Many of the attendees had already found their seats, and the room was rapidly filling up. Maggie felt a sudden jolt of stage fright. She was going to have an audience! There were almost a hundred people here! She was about to give the performance of a lifetime, and everyone in town was going to know about it. Depending on how well she did, she was either going to greatly improve or totally destroy her reputation in a matter of minutes.

  That made her smile, for she wasn’t sure she had much of a reputation to improve or destroy. But it made no matter—they had a murderer to catch, and she was willing to do her part to help with the effort.

  As she entered the room she kept a low profile, waving to a few people she knew as she scanned the place to see who was there. She spotted Artie Groves off to one side and gave him a nod. Candy was nearby. Sally Ann was in her spot, holding a big black handbag. Maggie assumed Wanda was in her place as well.

  She moved to her left, circled around the chairs, and found a quiet space along the wall close to the refreshment table. Checking her watch one last time, she folded her hands in front of her and waited.

  It didn’t take long.

  After a few more minutes, a side door opened and several ladies and a gentleman stepped into the room. Maggie recognized the library director, Karla Kincaid, as well as assistant director Daniel Brewster and children’s librarian Sharon Littlefield. Julia von Fleming was the last one through the door and the last to take the stage. Looking much like the popular author she was, she settled herself into one of the chairs, chatting with the staff members and waving to those she knew in the audience.

  The place continued to buzz until Karla Kincaid stepped up to the microphone, switched it on, and began her comments.

  “Hello, everyone. It’s so good to see all of you here today. What a fantastic turnout! As you probably know, we have a wonderful program for you this afternoon. I hope you have your taste buds sharpened, because we’re going to learn about all the wonderful traditional recipes from right here in the New England region. Our guest today is Julia von Fleming, author of Homestyle New England Cooking, and it’s our honor and privilege to welcome her to the Pruitt Public Library!”

  She led the applause as she turned to look back at Julia, then continued on, filling in some of Julia’s background and discussing the popularity of her latest cookbook.

  Maggie listened with only one ear, as part of her attention was turned toward the refreshment table on her left. She’d noticed Sally Ann inching toward it earlier from the other side, with careful glances in all directions. The two exchanged looks, and Sally Ann gave her a subtle nod. Maggie nodded back, equally subtle.

  “And now,” Karla said into the microphone, her remarks concluded, “would you all please give a warm Cape Willington welcome to Ms. Julia von Fleming!”

  Applause erupted again from the audience as Karla stepped aside. Julia rose from her chair with a broad smile and approached the mic. The two women shook hands, and Julia stepped up to the lectern while Karla returned to her seat.

  “I cannot tell you,” Julia began as the applause died away, “what a wonderful time I’ve had here in your village this weekend. I’ve met the warmest and friendliest people, and it’s been a real treat for me to spend the weekend with all of you. Of course, this is also a beautiful time of the year to visit Maine, with the changes in color and brisk temperatures in the air. Much of the traditional New England diet, of course, changed with the seasons, so in my book, I break the recipes out in a seasonal fashion. For the winter, I’ve focused on soups, stews, and heartier fare, while the summer and fall recipes rely heavily on local produce like blueberries, strawberries, cranberries, squash, corn, pumpkins, and the like. Of course, I also devote a good portion of the book to seafood recipes, since the New England diet has always been tied to the ocean. A few years ago, I found this quite amazing recipe for authentic New England lobster rolls, which I got from a woman who used to manage a lighthouse with her husband. . . .”

  Maggie caught a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye, and when she looked over, there it was. A jar of pickles from Sweet Pickle Deli had mysteriously materialized out of nowhere—although Maggie knew it had previously been sitting deep inside Sally Ann’s handbag. The jar sat all by itself at one side of the refreshment table. Sally Ann was now moving away in the other direction, her handbag looking just a little lighter.

  Maggie knew she had to move quickly, before anyone else spotted the jar.

  “Oh, look!” she said in a voice loud enough to be heard by a few women around her. “Refreshments!”

  As Julia continued on, talking about recipes for fish chowder, red beet eggs, cranberry applesauce, Boston baked beans, and oyster stuffing, Maggie wandered innocently over to the table, taking a look at all the items on display. On an impulse, she reached for the jar of pickles. “These look interesting,” she said to no one in particular. “I’ve heard they’re great.”

  Before anyone could intervene, she unscrewed the lid. The pickles inside were spears, not whole pickles like they’d been at the cook-off contest, and had a slight chill to them.

  “Oh, scrumptious!” She plucked out one of the spears and bit into it. It had an average taste, and wasn’t as crisp as she usually preferred, but it wasn’t terrible. She ate it quickly and reached for another.

  Several of the women nearby were watching her nervously now. Maggie smiled at them as she turned back toward the stage, still holding the pickle jar in one hand as she ate a spear with another.

  “Of course,” Julia von Fleming was saying, “you can’t talk about New England cooking without mentioning pies! The cooks of New England make some of the best pies in the world, I can assure you of that! And no wonder, with all the local ingredients we have to choose from. In my cookbook, there’s a wonderful recipe for wild blueberry pie that I learned from a woman who lives in Conway, New Hampshire. She got it from her grandmother, so you know it’s authentic. The secret to the recipe is . . .”

  Maggie was on her fourth pickle, and she was beginning to feel full, and even a little queasy. I should eat another one or two, she thought, but she couldn’t, so with a slightly shaky hand, she set the jar back down on the table, clutched at her stomach, and belched. “I think I ate too much,” she said, and groaned noticeably.

  The ladies standing nearby looked at her with concern, and one of them came over and helped her into a chair. Maggie bent over at the waist as she sat, holding up a hand. “I’ll be all right in a minute,” she said. “I just ate too fast.”

  She groaned a little more and held a hand to her forehead. “Those pickles weren’t what I thought,” she said. “I’m not sure they were . . . good.”

  She threw back her head and rolled her eyes in their sockets. Her whole body seemed to shudder for a few moments. She let out an uncomfortable moan that now had some of the ladies visibly worried.

  “She ate some of those pickles,” one of them whispered, and another asked, “Should we call a doctor?”

  Again Maggie held up a hand. “No, no, I’ll be fine, I just need to . . .”

  But she never finished. She shuddered several times before her whole body went limp, her eyes closed, and she slid from the chair to the tile floor with a dramatic thump!

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Julia von Fleming glanced down at her notes, though she knew the entire spiel by heart. She’d practiced
it enough times over the past few years, honing it and getting it just right. She was dedicated to her new profession. She’d worked hard to get where she was. And so far the presentation was going fairly well. But she was ready for it to be over. She wanted to be done with this place. She was ready to leave it behind forever. Whatever had happened to her here, she felt it had been dealt with. The primary object of her wrath was gone. Residual damage had been done, beyond what she’d initially expected, for better or worse. She’d heard from the Pruitts through back channels. It appeared her scheme was going to work.

  But she sensed she’d lingered here too long, and made a few slipups. Better to finish quickly and leave this state behind before they figured out what was going on.

  She knew from the beginning that she’d probably have to face off against Candy Holliday at some point, and she’d been prepared for it. The goal from the beginning had been to leave no evidence, no clues, nothing that could be traced back to her. But she’d gotten careless. She’d debated leaving the tulip-patterned earrings and accessories at home, but in the end she’d decided no one would remember her fondness for them, since she hadn’t been in town for years.

  It appeared she’d been wrong.

  It made no difference. It was all circumstantial evidence. Nothing could be traced to her directly—although she was concerned that she’d been spotted yesterday up in Old Town. By whom, she didn’t know. But it had been someone driving a baby blue pickup truck; she was almost certain of that.

  Making the trip to Old Town had been an impromptu move, after she’d seen Candy coming out of the general store yesterday afternoon and climbing into her Jeep. Julia had been out doing a little shopping, on her way back to the hotel after the book signing, and her instincts told her Candy was up to something. So she jumped in her VW and followed at a respectable distance, careful to make sure she wasn’t spotted.

  Just as she’d suspected, Candy had been on the trail of Maurice Soufflé, and had led her right to his place. She was stunned to learn he’d lived so close to them all these years, and none of them knew it. It had been a pleasant surprise for her, but a not-so-pleasant one for Maurice.