Town in a Lobster Stew chm-2

by B. B. Haywood

  “And tell them what? I stole the blueprints from her office?”

  “Tell them anything. Tell them Charlotte left the plans up in the archives and you discovered them up there by accident, or say you saw them sitting behind the front desk and picked them up. Or yes, just tell them the truth — you were snooping around Charlotte’s office after she was killed and found them.”

  For an instance, a look of fear crossed Wanda’s eyes. “I can’t tell them that. They’ll throw me in jail.”

  “Probably not. Yes, they’ll be pretty mad at you — at both of us. But that doesn’t change the situation.”

  “There is no situation. We’re done here, ma’am.”

  And with that, Wanda Boyle marched out of the house, with James Patrick Mulroy’s blueprints clutched tightly in her large fist.

  Thirty-Three

  Candy walked onto the porch just in time to see Wanda’s SUV disappearing down the dirt lane in a cloud of dust, headed back toward town.

  Maggie wandered out of the kitchen and stood beside her, holding a brownie square she’d rummaged in the kitchen. She nodded at the dust cloud left by Wanda, as casually as a sea captain might acknowledge a whale off the starboard beam. “Thar she goes.” She took a bite of the brownie. “So what was that all about?”

  “Oh, just Wanda in one of her moods.”

  Maggie turned toward her, eyes wide, head nodding, obviously impressed. “Hey, way to go! Sounds like you’re finally beginning to get a handle on Wanda. Took you long enough.”

  Candy crossed her arms thoughtfully. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true. She’s a hard one to figure out.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “The problem is,” Candy continued, “you just don’t know where you stand with her. Is she helping or hurting? Is she your friend or your enemy? Sometimes it seems like she’s both at the same time. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could toss a moose.”

  Maggie had to hold back a snort. “I’m guessing that’s not very far.”

  Candy smiled. “No, I guess it’s not, is it? But then again, I haven’t had much time to practice my moose-tossing skills lately. They’re getting a little rusty.”

  “Well, sure, that’ll happen,” Maggie said without skipping a beat. “You know, I saw a moose once when I went hiking. He was really tall, with skinny legs, and he had this long face with a big nose. He kind of reminded me of my aunt Lucy.”

  Candy laughed. “You had an aunt Lucy?”

  “Oh, yeah. She was pretty popular back in her day. They used to call her Lucy the Moosey.”

  “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

  “You know, I’m not really sure.”

  Candy looked at her skeptically. “You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not, cross my heart. Hey, I was wondering — if I found a moose at the humane society and decided to adopt it, do you think Mr. Antlers would be a good name for it?”

  “Mr. Antlers? It’s kinda catchy I guess.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too. I like Bullwinkle also, but I think that one’s taken.”

  Candy laughed again and put her arm around her friend. “I guess it is. Come on, let’s round up Wilma Mae and take you home so you can see your kids. Then I have a date with the police.”

  Five minutes later, with Wilma Mae settled in the backseat of the Jeep, Candy locked up the house, and they headed across the narrow peninsula toward Fowler’s Corner. Post-parade traffic had thinned in the last half hour or so, but traffic was still heavy due to the holiday weekend. The day was starting to warm as the sun fell into the west and the winds shifted, while out toward the east Candy saw a bank of low, hazy clouds building over the ocean. “Looks like the fog’s coming in,” she said to no one in particular as they drove through a thickly settled area toward Maggie’s home.

  Quite abruptly, Wilma Mae leaned forward and tapped Candy on the shoulder. “By the way, dear,” she said sweetly, “have you found my ledger yet?”

  Candy glanced back over her shoulder at the elderly woman. “No, Wilma Mae, I’m sorry, I haven’t. But I’ve been looking for it.”

  “I know you have, dear,” Wilma Mae said, settling back into her seat, “and you’ve been doing a wonderful job. I’ve been watching and listening to you. You’ve talked to so many people, and it seems to me you’re getting close. I think it’s right under your nose.”

  “It is?”

  “Oh yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if you find it any day now.” Wilma Mae paused. “I overheard you talking to that horrid woman at the house. So I take it Charlotte Depew had Mulroy’s blueprints, which showed her how to find the secret document drawer in my house.”

  Candy exchanged glances with Maggie, who sat beside her in the passenger seat. “You overheard us?” she whispered loudly to her friend.

  “Wanda’s voice does tend to carry,” Maggie whispered back.

  “Why are you whispering?” Wilma Mae asked.

  “Um, no reason.” Candy looked up at the rearview mirror, so she could see the elderly woman in the backseat. “Yes, well, it does seem that Charlotte had the blueprints to your shelving unit. And, yes, it does sound like she’s the one who took Mr. Sedley’s recipe.”

  Wilma Mae looked pleased with this revelation. “Well, it’s about time we made some progress. It should be simple to find the ledger now, shouldn’t it? It’s either at her house or somewhere out at the museum, where she works. Don’t you think?”

  Candy nodded as she made a right-hand turn onto Maggie’s road. “Yes, that’s probably right.”

  “So Charlotte’s the one who made Mr. Sedley’s stew at the cook-off, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, that’s what we think happened.”

  Wilma Mae was silent for a moment, considering the matter. As always, she held her purse in her lap, tightly clutching the handle with two hands. “Well, I don’t know how it happened, but I’m glad she didn’t win,” Wilma Mae said finally. “It just wouldn’t have been right — winning the cook-off with a stolen recipe, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Candy admitted.

  Wilma Mae said nothing else the rest of the way. A few minutes later they pulled into Maggie’s driveway and parked behind a shiny new Chevy pickup truck with a crew cab and a long bed. Cameron Zimmerman, the boyfriend of Amanda Tremont, Maggie’s daughter, had bought the truck with money he’d inherited from his deceased mother.

  As soon as Candy pulled the Jeep to a stop, Maggie jumped out and raced into the house, anxious to see her daughter. Candy was about to climb out too when Wilma Mae spoke up from the backseat again, stopping her.

  “He’s her grandson, you know.”

  “What?” Candy put her arm on the back of the passenger seat and shifted her body so she could turn halfway around to face Wilma Mae. “He’s whose grandson? And who’s he?”

  “Roger. He’s Daisy’s grandson.”

  “Roger Sykes?” Candy had to think about that a minute, remembering the conversation she’d had with Wilma Mae in her kitchen a few days ago. “You mean he’s the grandson of Daisy Porter-Sykes? I wondered if those two were related, but I kept forgetting to ask you about it,” Candy said, referring to the mistress of Cornelius Roberts Pruitt, who had stopped the business end of a ketchup bottle with her morning dress at Moosehead Lake Lodge so many years ago.

  “Oh, it’s true.” Wilma Mae perked up. “I became suspicious when I saw his face at the cook-off on Saturday. He has the same high cheekbones as her, and the same profile. And his hair is nearly the same shade as hers. But it’s his eyes. I wasn’t completely positive at first, but then he looked me in the eyes for just a moment, and I knew right then and there. I practically went into a tizzy. It was about the time I was eating that delicious stew.”

  “So it was a double whammy, huh?” Candy said sympathetically. “And that’s what made you faint?”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure that was it. I’m very healthy for a woman my age, you know.”

  “Wilma Ma
e, I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

  “So you’ll look into it?” the elderly woman asked, pressing her.

  Candy gave her assurance. “I will definitely look into it. Now, have you met Maggie’s daughter and boyfriend-in-law?”

  “Oh no, I haven’t yet,” Wilma Mae said with a shake of her head.

  “Well, you’re in for a treat.”

  Thirty-Four

  They found Maggie in the kitchen with the kids, talking and laughing. Maggie had her arm thrown casually around her daughter’s shoulders, while Cameron had his hands wrapped around a double-decker Italian sandwich from a takeout place up on Route 1. Candy noticed another three or four still-wrapped sandwiches on the counter. Obviously they had stopped and put in a good supply for Cam before heading home.

  Cam had grown taller and even shaggier since the last time she’d seen him just a few weeks ago. His face had also changed over the past year or so. It had become leaner and more mature as the last of his boyhood years fell away and he approached adulthood.

  “It’s amazing how you stay so skinny, considering the way you eat.” Candy gave him a quick peck on the cheek before she turned to hug Amanda. She’d come to think of both of them as her own kids.

  “Whatever diet secret he has, he should bottle it and sell it. He’d make a fortune,” Maggie agreed.

  “I already got a fortune,” Cameron said around a mouthful of cold cuts, cheese, extra onions, and Italian dressing.

  “It’s all the hiking and camping he does,” Amanda added, brushing aside a few strands of her long dark hair. “He climbed Mount Baxter a few weeks ago.”

  “And there was still snow at the top!” Cameron said with genuine enthusiasm. “It was awesome.”

  “You’re awesome, babe,” Amanda told him.

  “No, you are,” he shot back at her, and they all laughed.

  He certainly had come alive since finding out about his real birth parents, Candy mused, watching him eat and laugh with the others. He rarely used to smile, let alone laugh, except when he and Amanda were together. But now he was more social and easygoing, joining in on conversations and even expressing opinions. He seemed to have a new appreciation for life and his place in it. But his love for Amanda had never changed nor faltered.

  Maggie saw Wilma Mae standing near the doorway and crossed quickly to her, pulling her into the conversation. “Wilma Mae, this is my daughter Amanda and her boyfriend Cameron Zimmerman. Amanda graduates on June 12 in the top third of her class,” Maggie said proudly, “and Cam’s been practically living here for the past year or so. He’s been taking care of some family business. Isn’t that right, Cam?”

  The tall teenager gave her a thumbs-up, but he was too busy chewing to say anything.

  “He’s working with a famous writer, who’s helping him publish a book of poetry written by his biological father,” Maggie explained. “But that’s a whole ’nother story.”

  “Oh, isn’t that wonderful.” Wilma Mae’s face was as bright as a full moon as she shook hands with the two teenagers. “It’s so nice to meet you both.”

  Amanda said hello to her pleasantly, and as she shook hands with Cameron, he said earnestly, “I was very sorry to hear about Mr. Sedley. He was a nice old guy. I used to see him in the hardware store.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, young man. He was a dear old friend.”

  Cameron took another bite of his sandwich, chewing briefly before he continued. “Yeah, he loved poking around the store, checking all the shelves and bins to see what had just come in. He used to buy tools for himself, and I think he sometimes used to buy stuff for the museum, too.”

  “Oh yes,” Wilma Mae said with a smile. “He loved volunteering out there. And he frequently made donations, though not money. Just things he felt they needed, like tools and knickknacks and such. I think he recently bought a new set of chisels for the maintenance people. He was wonderful that way. Those were his two passions — cooking and the museum.”

  “The lighthouse museum?” Candy asked, her interest piqued. She turned abruptly to Wilma Mae. “You never told me Mr. Sedley volunteered out there.”

  Wilma Mae gave her a curious look. “You never asked. Besides, I thought everyone knew. He’s been doing it for years.”

  “But...” Candy turned toward Maggie, her face scrunched up in thought. “Did you know about this?”

  “About what? Why, what’s wrong?”

  Candy drew a long face as she considered the question. “I’m not sure.”

  But deep down she was sure. It was all too coincidental. She could feel her heart beginning to beat faster. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

  She turned to look at the people standing around her. They were all watching her curiously. Then her eyes met Wilma Mae’s. Something the elderly woman had said stuck in her mind:

  It seems to me you’re getting close. I think it’s right under your nose.

  Right under my nose.

  Her gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Well, well,” she said, mostly to herself.

  Maggie was studying her carefully. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  Candy looked up at her best friend. “I have to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “There’s something I need to check out.”

  Maggie seemed to know instinctively what was going on inside her friend’s head. She suddenly became very serious. “You want some help?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call you, okay?”

  Maggie nodded as a worried look came to her face. “Okay, but... be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t do anything crazy.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You sure you don’t want some company?”

  Candy smiled gently, looking from Amanda to Cameron to Wilma Mae, all of whom were still giving her curious looks. She suddenly realized how much she loved them all. “No, I’ll be fine. You stay with your family. And take care of Wilma Mae. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  And before she could change her mind, she walked out of the house toward the Jeep, fishing her keys out of her back pocket.

  Thirty-Five

  As Candy drove toward town, she encountered the first probing fingers of a quickly moving fog, and by the time she turned left onto the Loop’s northward leg, heading past the docks along the river and the Rusty Moose Tavern, she was enveloped by it. She switched on her lights and eased off the gas as the lines of fog trailed across the road and between the buildings, giving the town a ghostly appearance as visibility dropped to only a few thousand feet.

  It wasn’t uncommon for great banks of fog like this to move quickly onshore, especially in the late spring and early summer, when the air was warming but the ocean waters remained cold. As she hit a particularly thick patch of fog, she slowed even more, so she didn’t miss the entrance to the parking lot at the English Point Lighthouse and Museum.

  Perhaps eight to ten cars remained in the lot, their windshields becoming misted by the moist air. Candy pulled into an open slot near the head of the pathway that led to the lighthouse and shut off the engine. The day had dimmed to a brownish orange glow, created by the pale light of the descending sun filtering through the dense atmosphere.

  As she climbed out of the Jeep, she was grateful she’d put on her yellow fleece pullover before she left the house that morning. Inland the air had gradually warmed through the day, but here by the coast it felt thick and damp as the fog rolled in. She could hear the low rumble of the foghorn over by the lighthouse, and the muted thunder of the ocean as the surf broke on black rocks, sending up great ragged sprays of foam that hissed as they splashed onto the shore.

  Slipping her hands into the pullover’s pockets, Candy turned to survey the scene around her.

  An elderly couple was headed toward their car, huddled together against the dampness and chill of the late afternoon. Farther down toward the oceanfront, a few devoted adventure seekers were climbing out onto the black rocks that lined
the shore, allowing the spray of the crashing waves to wash over them. But other than that, the place looked deserted. Candy supposed a few folks might still be somewhere out along the Waterfront Walk, though with the arrival of the fog they probably wouldn’t be there much longer. And she might find some lingering tourists down by the lighthouse and museum.

  The museum. That’s where Candy thought she might find the last few answers she needed. As she started off along the path, she wondered if she’d be able to get inside. Was it even open this late on a holiday? It didn’t matter, she decided. One way or the other, she was going to have a look around.

  Wilma Mae had been right about the ledger. If Charlotte had stolen it, then most likely she’d hidden it either at her home or in her office. And everything Candy had learned lately, including the most recent clue about Mr. Sedley’s volunteer work, pointed here. The connections were just too suspicious to be coincidence.

  As she came over the rise and descended the path toward the lighthouse, her eyes rose along the height of the tower. Its white exterior seemed to glow ghostly in the dull gray matrix of the fog. A few visitors, indistinct shapes now, their clothing drained of color, still moved around the tower’s base and the Keeper’s Quarters. They all turned toward a small, squat redbrick building behind the tower as the foghorn sounded again. Housed in its own building, the foghorn could be heard at a great distance out over the waves, but its bellow was muted to anyone who stood inland, due to thick brick walls that funneled the mournful warning call seaward.

  Still, the sound of the foghorn this close was enough to chase off most of the remaining tourists, who were starting to meander back to their cars, giving up on their sightseeing activities for the day.

  Candy followed the path past a couple of outbuildings and a flagless flagpole, crossed the open area in front of the tower, and angled toward the museum. As she climbed the wooden steps to the small porch, she glanced back over her shoulder. She saw only the retreating backs of the other visitors as they headed toward the parking lot and their cars.