Town in a Lobster Stew chm-2

by B. B. Haywood

  As she climbed back into the Jeep, Candy heard snoring. She turned around and saw Finn stretched out on the backseat, asleep.

  She reached around, grabbed his ankle, and gave it a good shake. “Hey, partner. Wake up. I thought you were watching my back.”

  Finn gave a snort and woke with a sputtering jolt. His head jerked up, and he twisted it back and forth, obviously completely clueless about where he was or what he was doing there. Then he saw Candy. “Oh! Hi.”

  “Hi yourself. Have a good nap?”

  His face immediately turned red. “Um, yeah.” He looked around again, then sat up with a grunt and looked out the passenger-side window. “Guess I fell asleep.”

  “Guess you did.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

  Candy checked her watch. “It’s about four thirty-five. You gotta be somewhere?”

  “Marti’s due back at the house any minute. We’re headed out to dinner at the Legion. It’s taco night.”

  “Mmm,” Candy said as she started the engine. “I guess we’d better get you home then.”

  He looked over sheepishly. “Hey, sorry about falling asleep. I know I was supposed to be there for you. How’d the meeting go with Cinnamon Girl? Any problems?”

  Candy checked her rearview mirror, put the transmission into reverse, and looked back over her shoulder. “Depends on your definition of problems. But basically no, everything went okay.”

  “So who was it?”

  Candy tilted her head at the listening device still stuck in his ear. “Couldn’t you hear us?”

  “Oh, this?” Finn reached up and plucked the device out of his ear. “Damn thing isn’t worth a lick. I couldn’t hear a word. Just static from the time you entered the building.”

  “Static? But we tested it at your place. It worked fine.”

  Finn shrugged. “There must be some sort of interference around here. I was planning to check out the building and make sure you were okay, but I thought I’d give you a few more minutes and see what happened.”

  Candy’s eyes shifted toward him. “And then you fell asleep.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He sounded contrite. “It was just so warm in here, and I didn’t sleep well last night. Might have been that chili I had for dinner. I think Marti put too much pepper in it.”

  “Well,” Candy said with a slight smile, “that’ll do it. You’ve got to watch for stuff like that. Doc avoids onions like they were radioactive.”

  “They don’t agree with me either.” Finn patted his stomach. “So, what’s the next step in the investigation?”

  “The next step,” Candy said, “is to return your spy gear to you and drop you off at home so you have time to make it to taco night with Marti. Then I’m headed out to the lighthouse. I have a little business to take care of with Charlotte Depew.”

  “Charlotte Depew? Does she have anything to do with Cinnamon Girl?”

  “That’s what I’m going to try to find out.”

  Finn shifted in his seat. “Hey, who is Cinnamon Girl anyway? You never did say.”

  “Nope,” Candy answered, focusing her gaze on the road in front of her, “I never did.”

  By the time she dropped Finn off at his home, Candy had told him a little bit of the story, but she kept a lot back, including the identity of Wanda Boyle. She still wasn’t completely sure who was guilty and who was innocent, and had to think it through herself before she could begin to explain to others exactly what was going on.

  She was still mentally sorting through all the pieces as she pulled into the public parking area at the English Point Lighthouse.

  The place was nearly full, packed with tourists and seasonal people in town for the long Memorial Day weekend. They were out in droves on Waterfront Walk and the pathways leading to the lighthouse.

  After circling the parking lot several times, Candy finally managed to snag a spot. A Mercury sedan with an older couple from New Jersey was just backing out. Candy whipped the Jeep into the spot, just to make sure another car lingering nearby didn’t get it before she did. She switched off the engine, grabbed her black canvas bag, and jumped out. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she slammed the door shut and headed off toward the lighthouse at a brisk pace.

  The ocean was choppy in a stiff onshore breeze, and the waves crashed loudly with the incoming tide, but she barely noticed today. She checked her watch again as she walked. It was closing in on five o’clock, and she wasn’t sure how late the museum stayed open. It was listed in the paper every week, but she rarely paid attention to the dates and times. She wasn’t even sure Charlotte worked on Sundays. Come to think of it, probably not, she guessed. But she didn’t know where Charlotte lived, so this was her best bet if she wanted to talk to the woman before Tuesday morning.

  As she came over the rise, she saw a crowd milling around the base of the tower and the door to the Keeper’s Quarters. She hurried down the path, taking the time to glance up at the lighthouse. It seemed to gleam today in the sunlight, tall and majestic. It never ceased to impress her.

  Coming down off the slope, she angled to her right, toward the museum, and weaved her way through the meandering tourists — singles and couples and families huddled together, staring up the exterior face of the lighthouse. Soon she was climbing the gray-painted wooden steps and pushing her way through the glass door into the museum.

  She saw no one behind the long desk to her left, but a few visitors lingered in the main room, gazing at the exhibits. She looked around quickly and started toward Charlotte’s office, but a voice from her left, on the other side of the counter, stopped her.

  “Sorry, museum’s closed,” a male’s voice said gruffly.

  She’d seen no one there a moment ago, but now she looked farther behind the counter, to the dark hallway beyond, which led to the tower door. The same burly man she’d seen before, with sandy-colored hair, wearing a dark green shirt and jeans, was standing near the door at the end of the hallway, checking the knob to make sure it was locked. Satisfied, he walked toward her, emerging from the shadows of the hall. He bounced a set of keys in one hand.

  “I was just looking for Charlotte Depew,” Candy said, glancing toward the door to Charlotte’s office. It was closed.

  “She’s gone,” the man in the green shirt informed her. “She usually doesn’t work on Sundays, but she came in for a couple of hours to help out today. She left a while ago.”

  “Do you where she went? Where she lives?”

  “Sorry, can’t divulge that information.” The man dropped the keys in a desk drawer behind the counter and walked around into the room, motioning to a group of guests on his left. “Folks, we’re closed. We’re open tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. You’re welcome to stop by then.”

  As he herded the rest of the visitors out the door, Candy stood rooted to a spot on the floor, trying to figure out a way to have a quick look around up in the archives, and perhaps even in Charlotte’s office.

  That’s when she noticed the name tag attached to the man’s green shirt: B. BRIDGES.

  She looked up at his face and smiled. “Hey, I think I saw you yesterday at the cook-off, talking to Robbie Bridges. Any relation?”

  He looked at her skeptically. “I’m his father.”

  “Oh, well, you must be very proud. He’s a fine young man.” And before he could say anything, she held out her hand. “I’m Candy Holliday. I write a column for the Cape Crier.”

  “Yup, I know who you are.” He shook her hand somewhat reluctantly.

  “So... you’re Robbie’s dad.”

  “That’s right. Name’s Bob.” He said the words slowly, as if hesitant to engage her in conversation.

  “Well, Bob... listen, I have a little favor to ask you. I was out here last Thursday — actually, I think I saw you working in your maintenance shed — and guess what? I left my notebook here by mistake. Silly me! I don’t suppose you’ve seen it? It’s long and thin, with a spiral wire at the top, and it’s
got a green cover. Sound familiar?”

  Bob thought a long moment, watching her skeptically, and finally shook his head. “Don’t think I’ve seen anything like that. But you can check the lost and found. It’s that cardboard box behind the counter.” He pointed.

  Candy’s head swiveled toward the counter. “Okay, I’ll do that. Thanks, Bob.”

  She headed toward the counter as the maintenance man started off in the opposite direction, toward the front exhibit rooms. A few moments later, she heard him climbing the wooden stairs to the second floor. The aged steps creaked as he made his way upward.

  She lingered by the counter, waiting until she heard him moving around upstairs. She took one glance around, to make sure she was alone, then dashed across the room toward the door to Charlotte’s office. When she reached it, she tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  She swore under her breath. She wanted to get a look inside to see if she could find Mr. Sedley’s ledger. Wanda had seen Charlotte slip it into her top desk drawer. Candy knew it was a long shot, but she had to try.

  Then she remembered the keys Bob had tossed into a desk drawer behind the counter.

  She hurried back across the room. She was just opening the desk drawer when she heard Bob coming down the stairs.

  “Dang,” she said under her breath.

  Softly she closed the drawer and took a few steps sideways. Looking around, she spotted a battered cardboard box on the floor behind the counter. She dipped toward it, pretending to dig through the odd assortment of mittens, scarves, toys, hats, handkerchiefs, paperback books, and other items.

  Bob called to her as he came through an archway. “Find it?”

  Candy straightened. “No. Come to think of it, I might have left it in Charlotte’s office. I don’t suppose I could have a look around in there.”

  “I don’t suppose you could,” Bob said with a frown.

  Candy persisted. “I really need that notebook this weekend so I can write my column. Isn’t there any way I can get a quick look around inside?”

  “ ’Fraid not. I don’t let anyone in there when Charlotte’s not around.”

  “I don’t suppose you could give her a call? Tell her it’s urgent.”

  “I have instructions to call Charlotte only in emergencies.”

  “But this is an emergency,” Candy persisted.

  But Bob would have none of it. He waved his arms at her, as if herding her out the door. “Whatever it is, it’ll wait until tomorrow or Tuesday. Right now, I gotta close up and get home. It’s Sunday, you know. On a holiday weekend,” he reminded her.

  In the end, no amount of pleading could make him change his mind. Candy finally relented, stepping back outside into the late afternoon sunlight.

  Bob stepped through after her. He pulled the door closed with a click and tested the doorknob to make sure it was locked.

  As she turned to face Bob, Candy repositioned the strap of the black canvas bag on her shoulder. “Well, it was nice to finally meet you. Robbie seems like he’s doing pretty well at the inn.”

  “Yup, he’s got a good deal going on over there,” Bob said, looking distracted. “I just hope he doesn’t screw things up.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Bob waved a hand. “No, nothing like that. He’s basically a good kid. He just needs a little guidance now and then.”

  “He’s young,” Candy said, giving Bob an understanding look. “He’ll learn.”

  “That he will.” Bob stared out toward the ocean. “That he will.”

  Candy was going to ask him another question when she heard her cell phone buzz. She’d set it on vibrate when she’d dropped it in the bag at home, so it wouldn’t ring when she was in the middle of her meeting with Cinnamon Girl, alias Wanda Boyle. Now it made a little whirring sound, like a bee buzzing nearby. She pulled the bag off her shoulder and fished in it for the phone.

  She glanced at the front screen. It was Maggie.

  She looked up to say her good-byes to Bob, but he was gone. She turned both ways and saw him walking off toward the maintenance shed with a determined gait, his arms swinging loosely as his sides. He hadn’t said another word to her. He’d just walked off.

  Candy shook her head. “Men.” She flipped open the phone. “Hi, what’s up?”

  “I hate to keep doing this to you,” Maggie said, sounding worried, “but you have to get over here right away.”

  “Why, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “I’m at my house,” Maggie said, “and Wilma Mae’s gone.”

  Twenty-Six

  Twelve minutes later she wheeled into the driveway at Maggie’s house and pulled the Jeep to a stop. Maggie was outside on the front steps waiting for her, dressed in stonewashed jeans and a persimmon-colored cardigan with a navy blue anchor appliqué over the lower left pocket. The air had cooled as the sun set, and the breeze off the ocean tousled her already windswept dark brown hair.

  Candy jumped out of the Jeep, leaving the door open behind her. “What happened?” she asked as she and Maggie walked toward each other.

  Maggie’s face was hard with concern. “She pulled a fast one on me. The old goat stole my keys right off the counter and took the car. She was all bundled up. She told me she was going for a walk.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I guess she needed to be somewhere.”

  Candy looked around, up and down the street, as if hoping Wilma Mae would suddenly drive up. “Do you have any idea where she went?”

  Maggie nodded. “I’ve got a couple of ideas. You?”

  “Same.” She pointed toward the Jeep. “Hop in. We’ll find her.”

  As Maggie climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door, Candy gave her a sideways look. “Where’ve you been? You look like you got caught in a hurricane.”

  “I’ve been frantic, out looking for Wilma Mae. It’s getting windy out there.”

  “And chilly too.”

  As she backed out of the driveway and headed toward town, Candy checked the sky. Here in this part of Maine, at this time of year, so far east in the time zone, the sun rose early, at around five A.M., and set relatively early in the evening, at around eight fifteen P.M. They still had a few hours of light left until dusk, but a bank of thickening clouds coming in from the southeast was beginning to filter the sun’s warmth and light, cooling the air and stealing the brightness from the late afternoon. Candy had put on a long-sleeved shirt when she’d left the house to meet Cinnamon Girl, but her jacket was still on a hook by the back kitchen door. She shivered as she reached for the Jeep’s heater, turning the fan on low to warm them.

  “How has she been?” Candy asked as she drove.

  “Eerily peaceful. It’s as if she’s completely forgotten about Mr. Sedley’s murder. She’s been chatting all day about all sorts of inconsequential stuff but never mentions him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s completely forgotten about him.”

  “She’s probably just having a hard time dealing with it.”

  Maggie tried to arrange her hair, brushing it back and forth with her hand in an effort to tame it. “That’s my guess. I was getting worried about her. So when she said she was going for a walk, I thought it sounded like a good idea.”

  “Guess it wasn’t all fun and games for you two, huh?”

  Maggie sighed wistfully. “No. And I was so looking forward to our pillow fight tonight.”

  They drove through the light at the Coastal Loop and soon turned right onto Rose Hip Lane. At the second house from the end on the right, she turned into the empty driveway at Wilma Mae’s house. Police tape still crisscrossed the front door, and the place looked dark inside.

  They both climbed out as soon as Candy shut off the engine, and they walked into the front yard. They stood looking up at the house, studying the windows.

  “You see anyone?” Candy asked after a few moments.

  “No. My car’s not here either. Should we check inside?”

&nb
sp; Candy shook her head. “I doubt she would’ve gone in. It’d be too traumatic for her. I’ll check the garage to see if your car’s there, but my guess is she’s not here.”

  “Where then?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s cruise down Ocean Avenue and then head out on the Loop and see if we spot her.”

  Twenty minutes later, they still hadn’t found Wilma Mae, and Candy was beginning to worry. Then Maggie had a thought. “You know, tomorrow’s Memorial Day.”

  Candy gave her a look. “Yeah? And?”

  “Do you suppose Mr. Wendell was in the military?”

  Candy gave her a smile. “Good idea, Watson. Let’s check it out. By the way, have I told you about Cinnamon Girl?”

  Maggie twisted in her seat. “No. But do tell. I love a good story.”

  “Then this one will blow your socks off.” As they drove out the Loop, Candy proceeded to tell her best friend about the meeting at the Pruitt Opera House with Wanda, and about her conversation with Ben.

  She’d just about finished, and Maggie was listening rapturously, as they drove through the gate at Stone Hill Cemetery.

  Suddenly they both grew quiet. Neither of them had been here since the previous summer, when they’d laid Susan Jane Vincent to rest. The memories of that day, and the harrowing week before it, came back to them both. But Maggie broke the spell fairly quickly as she pointed into the dimming light and said, “There’s my car.”

  It was parked along one of the dirt roads that wound through the hilly cemetery, which occupied a windswept bluff overlooking the English River. Candy angled toward the car, creeping slowly ahead as they scanned the landscape for any sign of Wilma Mae.

  They both spotted her at about the same time, standing at a grave site off to the left, in the shadows of a tall pine tree. “There she is,” Candy said.

  She pulled the Jeep to a stop behind Maggie’s car, and they both climbed out. The wind was fiercer out here, on open land along the river, tossing their hair and pulling at their clothes. Candy wrapped her arms tightly around herself while Maggie lowered her head, and together they trudged up the slope toward Wilma Mae.