Town in a Lobster Stew chm-2

by B. B. Haywood

  Candy turned to watch Ben walk toward them with long, athletic strides. He was looking particularly handsome today, his hair tussled, his face sun kissed, evidence of the many hours he spent outdoors.

  Roger’s move had been clearly calculated, she knew. What was he up to?

  “So,” Candy said curiously, turning back to him, “what have you two got planned for this afternoon?”

  Roger grinned. “There’s a Red Sox game on at one,” he said in a tone that told her it was time to get away from this boring event and into some real fun. “Ben and I are headed to this sports bar he’s told me about. We thought we’d eat some salty bar peanuts and open up a few cold ones.”

  “Oh, it’s that new place up on Route 1, right? What’s it called? The Rocky Coast Alehouse?”

  “That’s the one.” Roger paused, then asked slyly, “So, would you like to join us? I’m sure Ben would enjoy your company, and I know I certainly would.”

  The question came so quickly that Candy wasn’t prepared for it. “Oh, no, thanks. Well, I’d like to, but I have too much to do this afternoon. I have to track down the winners and interview them, and at least say hello to the other contestants, and then do a few quick follow-ups. And I have to check on Wilma Mae and Maggie. Another time, okay?”

  “Another time,” Roger said quietly as Ben finally reached them.

  “Hello you two. What a beautiful day, huh?”

  “It sure is,” Candy said, looking at him fondly.

  He smiled at her. “Hey, you did a great job today.”

  “Well, thanks. I had some help, though.” She indicated Roger, who stood silently beside her.

  Ben continued. “I knew you’d be fine. And everyone’s buzzing about Juanita. She’s on cloud nine. What a great choice. She’ll make a great story for the paper.”

  He checked his watch and looked over at Roger. “If we hurry we can catch the third inning.” He turned back to Candy. “Hey, you want to come along? I think Jesse’s coming with us. But we still have plenty of room, no waiting.” He raised an eyebrow in a boyish, almost irresistible way.

  But Candy resisted — for now. She laughed and patted him on the shoulder, then pushed him gently away. “Thanks, but it sounds like a guys’ day out to me. Go ahead and have some fun. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “You sure? Okay.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick, unexpected kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you and we can reschedule that date. Remember, Italian.”

  Candy smiled. “Italian. And a bottle of Chianti.”

  “You got it.”

  They said their good-byes, and as Ben and Roger headed toward the parking lot, corralling Jesse as they went, Candy touched her cheek.

  Ben was rarely so affectionate, especially in public, and especially at an event like this, where anyone could be watching.

  “What was that all about?” she said to herself.

  Finally she shook her head. “Men,” she muttered.

  With a certain amount of effort, she pushed all thoughts of Ben and Roger from her mind. Right now, she had other things to do.

  She was eager to relocate Robbie, who was no longer in view, and get a quick look at the cook-off contestant list on his clipboard. First, though, she wanted to find out what had happened to Wilma Mae.

  She turned, crossed the tent, and walked up onto the porch, where some guests lounged in rocking chairs, sipping on glasses of iced tea or white wine. But just before she went inside, she stopped and looked out across the lawn one more time, wondering what had become of Wanda.

  Most of the contestants had returned to their booths. It was time to start selling their stews to the public. But Candy saw only Wanda’s helpers in her booth.

  From her elevated position on the porch, she scanned the crowd one more time and thought she saw Wanda in her red jacket stomping off toward the parking lot. But she couldn’t be sure.

  Giving up, she entered the inn and turned into the side lounge, where she’d left Wilma Mae, Maggie, and the nurse a while earlier.

  All three of them were gone.

  Candy looked around, surprised, wondering what had become of them. She stepped back out of the room, looked both ways along the hall, and saw the nurse at the opposite end, near the main lobby. Candy started toward her, flagging her down.

  “Hello!” she called as she approached the nurse. “Do you have any idea what happened to Wilma Mae — the elderly woman who fainted outside?”

  “Yes,” the nurse answered, seeming preoccupied. “She said she wanted to go home, so your friend took her. She said she’d call you later.”

  Candy gave her a wave. “Okay, thanks.”

  As the nurse walked away, Candy checked her watch. She knew she had to get back outside to start her interviews, but first she wanted to find out who had made the stew at the top of her list. Of course, by visiting all of the booths outside and tasting every stew, she could eventually find out what she wanted to know. But that would take up a good part of the afternoon, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to identify all the stews exactly, now that she was away from the judges’ table. Besides, she wasn’t sure she could eat another spoonful of lobster stew right now. She’d had enough to last her for a while.

  That left Robbie’s clipboard. It was the quickest way to find out who had made the cinnamon-flavored stew. In just a few seconds she’d have her answer. But first, she had to find Robbie.

  So where was he?

  She had just turned, planning to head back outside to search for him, when he magically appeared right in front of her, almost as if conjured from thin air. Clipboard in hand, he had entered the hall from the porch, and now walked quickly toward her with his head bowed low, studying the carpet, as if he had a million things on his mind. But halfway along the hall he jigged to his right, entered a doorway, and disappeared from view. Must be some sort of office, Candy thought. She waited. Half a minute later he emerged from the door without the clipboard and walked in the opposite direction from her, back toward the porch and the lawn outside. He exited the building through the doorway, turned a corner, and was gone.

  Well, that’s just a little too convenient, isn’t it? Candy thought, biting her lip. Should I really do this?

  But she already knew the answer. She’d never have a better opportunity than right now to get a look at that clipboard.

  As nonchalantly as possible, she strolled along the hall toward the office door Robbie had entered. She stopped once or twice to admire a painting hanging on the wall, pretending to be just another hotel guest. When she finally reached the door midway along the hall, she stuck her head around the corner.

  It was a small suite of offices, with a receptionist’s desk in the main area and two more offices branching off on either side, both with their doors open.

  Nobody was home.

  She checked the nameplates on the main office door: OLIVER LAFORCE, INNKEEPER, read one sign, and beneath that, ALBEN ALCOTT, ASSISTANT INNKEEPER.

  Lingering as casually as possible at the doorway, she quickly scanned the reception area, then looked through the open doors to the interior offices.

  She thought she saw the clipboard on the desk in the office to the left.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she slipped in the door, crossed the receptionist’s area in a half dozen quick steps, and entered Oliver LaForce’s office, checking it carefully again to make sure it was empty.

  It was nicely decorated with antique furniture and plush plum-colored carpeting. A handsome oak cupboard stood along one wall, a small white brick fireplace occupied another, and a large window looked out over the lawn.

  She made a beeline for the desk.

  Sure enough, Robbie had set down the clipboard right in the center of the leather-trimmed blotter pad. She scooted around the desk to get a better look at the documents attached to the clipboard.

  The top sheet was a schedule, with Robbie’s scribbled notes all over it. The sheet she needed must be underneath it.
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  As she reached toward the clipboard, she heard voices in the hallway. Her heart jumped in her chest as she backed away from the desk, her eyes darting to the main doorway, ready to bolt if necessary. But it was just a couple walking past. They never peered into the offices.

  She waited until they had moved on down the hall, took a quick, deep breath to steady herself, and stepped back toward the desk. “Do it now and get out of here,” she told herself.

  She glanced up once more to make sure she was still alone, then reached down and began to page back through the sheets attached to the clipboard, her fingers moving quickly. The fourth one in was the one she sought.

  As soon as she saw it, her brow furrowed.

  Someone had used a felt-tip pen to draw a big black X across the page and written the words Do not use — fake list across the top.

  The handwritten words were in a tight, neat script, different from Robbie’s more scribbled handwriting on the clipboard’s top page. That meant either Oliver or Alby had drawn the X across this page and written the words at the top.

  Candy quickly flicked back through the other sheets on the clipboard, looking for another listing of contestants, but she couldn’t find one.

  She returned to the sheet with the black X on it. The placards on the judges’ table, one in front of each group of stews, had had numbers on them. On the sheet in front of her, the contestants’ names were listed alphabetically, with handwritten black numerals prior to each name. She simply had to match a number to a name to find the information she needed.

  The top stew on her list had been number nine. She traced down the column with her finger but didn’t have to look too far. The name she sought was the second one on the list, directly beneath Barnes, Melody and just above Brigham, William.

  Next to the numeral nine was the name of Wanda Boyle.

  Candy groaned. Her worst fears were confirmed.

  Wanda had made the stew with the hint of cinnamon in it. That meant she must have had Mr. Sedley’s recipe. And she must have stolen it from Wilma Mae’s house. The elderly woman had been right.

  But Candy hesitated. What about the black X? What about the words Do not use — fake list written at the top?

  What did it all mean?

  As she pondered this question, she started checking the list for some of the other names and their assigned numbers, but before she could focus in on it, she heard voices just outside the door.

  One of them was Alby’s.

  He was talking to someone in the hall.

  Candy’s heart thumped. Moving quicker than she ever had in her life, she let the sheets on the clipboard fall back into place and darted into the reception area. She paused for a moment to look around nonchalantly, then started out, running into Alby as he was coming in.

  “Oh! Hi!” she said to a surprised Alby. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you!”

  Alby had stopped dead in his tracks and was staring at her with a confused look on his face. “Candy?”

  She stuck out her hand. “I... um... I just wanted to say thank you for asking me to be a judge today. I was looking for Oliver to thank him as well, but he’s not in his office.”

  “Um, no,” Alby said, still off balance as he glanced into Oliver’s empty office. “He’s outside, touring the booths.”

  “Then I guess I’ll look for him out there. Thanks again, Alby!”

  And before he could say another word, she dashed out the door and hurried along the hall. In a few moments she was out the door, onto the porch, and down the steps into the sunlight.

  She didn’t stop until she was halfway across the lawn. Finally she slowed and looked back.

  Alby was nowhere to be seen. He must have bought her explanation.

  She rolled her eyes into her head, dropped her shoulders, and let out a long breath. “Whew, that was close.”

  She was safely away, but she was uncertain of what she had found. The evidence was confusing. She stopped, raising her hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sunlight, and surveyed the booths arrayed around the edge of the lawn. “I guess I’ll just have to do this the hard way,” she said to herself and sighed.

  There was only one logical place to start: Wanda Boyle’s booth. One taste of her stew and she’d know for sure whether it had been made using Mr. Sedley’s recipe.

  “Okay, I guess you have to do it, just to make sure,” she said, encouraging herself.

  She had just started off across the lawn, determination in every step, when her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and checked the front display screen.

  It was Maggie.

  She flipped open the phone and held it up to her ear. “Maggie? Where are you?”

  “Candy?”

  “Yes, what’s up? Did you take Wilma Mae home?”

  A pause. Then, in a voice that gave Candy a chill, Maggie said, “You’d better get over here right away.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Wilma Mae’s house. And something’s wrong. Something’s very, very wrong.”

  Seventeen

  Feeling a sense of urgency, Candy pulled the Jeep into the driveway at Wilma Mae’s house and slammed on the brakes. She slipped the transmission into park, unhooked her seat belt, flicked off the engine, and withdrew the key from the ignition, all in one fluid motion.

  She jumped out and, in a dozen steps, was across the yard and up on the front porch. In a couple more steps she was at the front door, which stood wide open.

  “Hello?” she called through the screen door. Without waiting for an answer, she opened it and walked inside.

  She was halfway along the hallway when something particularly offensive, a smell like rotten eggs, assailed her nostrils. She made a face. “Mrs. Wendell? Maggie? What’s that smell?”

  “We’re up here!” Maggie called from the second floor.

  Candy retreated back along the hall and turned up the stairs, taking them two at a time. On the second floor she found the two of them in Wilma Mae’s back bedroom.

  The elderly woman was stretched out on an antique fourposter bed, which had a white frilled coverlet on it. Her eyes were closed, and she was holding a cold cloth to her head. Maggie turned toward Candy as she walked in. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Didn’t you smell it downstairs? You can’t breathe down there.”

  “So what do you think it is?”

  Maggie looked around at Wilma Mae, then took Candy’s arm and led her out into the hallway, well clear of Wilma Mae’s room. “I don’t know,” she said in a worried whisper, “and I’m not sure I want to find out.”

  “You don’t think... ?” Candy let the sentence trail off, unable to finish it.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Maggie said. “I just know that something’s wrong. That smell isn’t... normal, if you know what I mean. It smells... well, it smells like something died.”

  Candy suddenly felt all cold inside. “I guess we have to check the house. I’ll do it — but you have to come with me.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  Candy thought about that. “Let’s find out what it is first. Maybe we’re just overreacting. Maybe it’s just a dead critter in the walls. Maybe a cat crawled in the basement window and couldn’t crawl out again.”

  “Or maybe it’s something else.”

  “Or maybe it’s something else,” Candy echoed. “That’s what we’ve got to find out. So... are you with me?”

  Maggie looked doubtful. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “I don’t know if I can either. But we have to find out what’s going on. And I can’t do it alone. I need your help. Okay?”

  Maggie chewed her lip for a few moments. Finally she gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Okay. I’ll do my best. But you lead. I’ll follow.”

  “That’s good. Just stay right behind me, so I know where you are.”

  “Trust me — I’m not going anyw
here on my own.”

  “Good. So where should we start? Did you look upstairs here?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I’ve only been in Wilma Mae’s bedroom and downstairs in the kitchen. But the smell is stronger down there.”

  “Have you been in the living room? Or the dining room?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay. That’s where we’ll start.”

  They checked on Wilma Mae, but she had fallen into an uneasy sleep, so they let her be as they started back down the stairs.

  The putrid smell grew stronger as they reached the bottom and turned into the hall.

  “Let’s look in there first,” Candy said, pointing to the living room. She had been here just a couple of days ago, interviewing Wilma Mae, but now the place looked foreign to her, and for a moment her head spun. She stopped to orient herself.

  “Are you okay?” Maggie asked, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

  Candy jumped involuntarily. “Yeah, I’m just... nervous.”

  “Me too.” Maggie sniffed. “The smell’s pretty strong in here.”

  Candy nodded. “Come on.”

  She made a quick tour of the living room, checking under and behind the sofa, in the corners behind the tables, underneath the cabinets, and even behind the grandfather clock.

  “Look in there,” Maggie said, pointing to a coat closet tucked into a back corner of the living room.

  Candy nodded and took cautious steps toward it. Closing her eyes, she reached out, grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and flung open the door. She opened one eye and peered into the darkness as Maggie looked over her shoulder. “See anything?”

  A musty smell came from the closet. Candy opened the other eye and leaned in for a closer look. She saw some old coats hanging on a wooden rail, boxes stuffed on a shelf above that, and well-worn boots, galoshes, and sneakers on the floor. A broom and dust mop stood in one corner, while a few more boxes were stacked on the floor to the left of the door.

  “Nothing,” Candy said. She turned, surveying the room. “Whatever it is, it’s not in here. Let’s check the dining room next.”