Town In a Lobster Stew

by B. B. Haywood

Candy thought about it a moment, then nodded, and Finn and the boys dug in their pockets to find a piece of paper he could write on. Artie turned up a business card he didn’t need, so Finn scratched a number on the back of that. He handed the card to Candy.

  “So,” he said, “before you give them a call, anything you’d care to share with us?” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Does this have anything to do with that Cinnamon Girl character—the person you met up with yesterday at the opera house?”

  “It does.”

  “Who’s Cinnamon Girl?” Doc asked.

  Finn ignored him, his eyes holding steady on Candy. “Did she give you a few clues?”

  “She did.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Come to think of it, you never did tell me who Cinnamon Girl was.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she agreed, and found herself strangely hesitant to share her information with him. Why is that? she wondered curiously. Could it be that I really do enjoy detective work, and I want to solve this mystery all by myself?

  She had to admit, there was some truth to that. Then she reminded herself that two people were dead, and this was no time for games. Lives were at stake.

  “It’s Wanda Boyle,” she finally said out loud, before she could change her mind.

  That revelation drew gasps from around the table, but Wilma Mae’s was the loudest. “You met with that horrid woman?”

  Candy looked around at the elderly woman. “Yes, I did—twice in fact. But yesterday’s meeting was the most recent.” And, briefly, she told everyone at the table about her meeting with Wanda at the opera house the previous day, although she left out certain parts, including a few small details concerning Charlotte Depew. She’d decided to save those tidbits for the police.

  “I didn’t know who she was at first,” she added, referring to Cinnamon Girl. “She sent me an anonymous e-mail. I could have been meeting up with just about anyone.”

  “You went alone?” Doc asked, concerned.

  “No. Finn backed me up.”

  “Finn!” The word erupted from several mouths at once, as all eyes turned toward the retired cop.

  He sat stoically with his arms crossed, looking from one to the other. “Well, someone had to do it,” he said finally. “I couldn’t let her go in there alone.”

  Artie leveled a long finger at him. “You been holding out on us,” he accused.

  Doc studied both his daughter and Finn with an appraising eye. “It seems they’ve both been holding out on us.”

  “It’s like it’s a conspiracy or something,” Bumpy said in a hushed voice, and after a moment they all smiled, breaking the small amount of tension that had built around the table. They were, after all, friends, which trumped everything else.

  “So what does Wanda Boyle have to do with all this?” Doc asked after a few moments, bringing the conversation back on track.

  Wilma Mae put a hand on the table and leaned toward Candy. “Did she steal my recipe?” the elderly woman asked.

  Candy shook her head. “I don’t think so.” But before she could say anything else, her cell phone rang. She checked the number but didn’t recognize it. Turning away from the others momentarily, she flipped open the phone. “Hello.”

  “Is this Candy Holliday?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?” She had to stick a finger in her other ear, as Doc and the boys were chattering again, discussing the latest developments.

  “It’s Captain Mike,” the voice at the other end of the line said. “You remember me?”

  “Yes, of course. From the museum.” As she spoke, she rose and walked away from the booth, to a quieter spot at the rear of the diner.

  “That’s right. I work there Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. And sometimes Sundays. I saw you come in the other day.”

  “Yes, I remember meeting you,” Candy said.

  “Well, I want to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “Get here? Where am I going?”

  “I’m over at the Rusty Moose Tavern. You know where that’s at?”

  “Sure, Doc and the boys go there all the time. I’m just around the corner at the diner.”

  “Well, this time,” Captain Mike said, “tell Doc and the boys to stay right where they are and have another round of donuts and coffee. I want to talk to you only. In private. I’ll be in the back booth. How soon can you get here?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Deep in thought, Candy keyed off the phone and turned slightly, so she could eye the corner booth at Duffy’s. Doc and the boys were still giving Finn a hard time, though he seemed to be taking it fairly easily, while Wilma Mae was watching her intently. Obviously she had more questions for Candy. But they’d have to wait.

  With Doc and the boys so riled up, she knew she’d have a tough time slipping away from them. It’d be best if she could get away unnoticed. But how?

  Maybe Maggie can help, Candy thought as she stepped back to the table.

  As she approached the booth, she walked past Doc to the other side of the table and batted a hand at Maggie’s shoulder. “Scoot over, would you?”

  Maggie gave her a curious look. “Hello, stranger. I thought you were sitting over there.”

  “I was. I’m sitting over here now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I have to talk to you.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Sensing something was up, Maggie moved over to make room for her friend. “So who was that on the phone?”

  “Someone I need to talk to—in person,” Candy said softly, turning her head aside and casually hiding her mouth behind a hand, so she could speak unnoticed.

  “Part of the investigation?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “So . . . I take it you need my help with something.”

  Candy smiled. “You must be reading my mind.”

  “I’m getting pretty good at that, aren’t I? So, what do you need?”

  “I have to get out of here right now, without Doc and the boys noticing. I don’t want them asking lots of questions. And I don’t want them following me. Can you provide a little distraction so I can slip away?”

  Maggie shifted her head slightly, glanced surreptitiously around at the boys, and then looked back at Candy with a mischievous smile on her face. “You got it, honey.”

  Immediately she reached across the table, stretching out her hand. “Hey, Doc, would you give me that bottle of ketchup over there? That one right there?” She jabbed her finger toward it to get his attention.

  Interrupted in midsentence, Doc turned toward her. “What?”

  “The ketchup? Please?”

  He gave her an odd look. “Ketchup? But you haven’t ordered anything yet.”

  “I know, but Wilma Mae wants to see it. She collects ketchup bottles. We were talking about it the other day. She just loves them—don’t you, Wilma Mae?”

  The elderly woman gave her a confused look. “I do?” She clutched the purse in her lap just a bit tighter.

  Maggie wiggled her fingers impatiently at Doc. “Come on, let’s have a look at it.”

  Doc studied her for another few moments, then raised his eyebrows in resignation. “Well . . . okay.” He reached for the well-used red plastic bottle of restaurant ketchup, which sat in front of him in a black wire rack, and held it out to her. “Here you go.”

  Maggie grabbed it out of his hand and angled the bottle toward Wilma Mae, as if she were showing off a fine chardonnay. “Here, have a look, Wilma Mae. It’s a nice bottle, don’t you think? It’s a little beat-up, and it’s probably got germs all over it—influenza or something like that—but it’s not so bad, is it? And it has a nice red color to it.”

  “But I . . . I . . .” Wilma Mae stammered, unsure of how to respond.

  Doc watched the both of them for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to Finn. Bumpy and Artie were deep in a conversation about the pitching rotation for the Red Sox. Wilma
Mae sat perfectly still, giving Maggie a look of total bewilderment. “I don’t know what to say, dear.”

  “Well, that’s okay, I just thought . . .”

  Before anyone knew what was happening, Maggie fumbled the bottle, which fell to the table and rolled. She reached out and snatched it up, squeezing the bottle as she did so. A thin stream of red ketchup shot out and covered the front of Artie’s blue shirt.

  “Hey, what the . . . !” He jumped up in his seat as Maggie fumbled the bottle again, turning it toward Bumpy, who howled in surprise and laughter as the thin red stream of ketchup squirted out toward him, up his shirt to his chin. “Watch out with that thing!”

  “Duck!” Artie shouted. “She’s got a loose weapon!”

  Several folks in nearby booths looked up in alarm but were laughing a few moments later as Maggie’s fingers slipped again and the bottle bounced. When she grabbed it a third time Doc held out his napkin as a matador would hold a cape for a bull, yelling at her, “Don’t point that at me!”

  Finn had slipped out of the booth and was laughing heartily, darting out of range, and even Wilma Mae was chuckling as Artie and Bumpy sputtered and wiped napkins down the fronts of their shirts, trying to remove some of the ketchup, which only made the stains worse.

  Maggie turned toward Candy. “Quick! We need some paper towels.”

  “Right! You got it! Keep an eye on my purse!”

  Candy jumped out of her seat and hurried toward the counter, where Juanita was already reaching for a thick roll of paper towels. She held it out toward Candy, who pointed toward the corner table. “Would you mind helping them out, Juanita? As a favor to me? I’ll be right back.”

  Juanita nodded enthusiastically. “You got it, Candy!”

  And before anyone noticed what she was doing, she had managed to slip out the door and was headed down the sidewalk, walking briskly, threading her way through the spectators lined up for the Memorial Day Parade.

  The Rusty Moose was literally just around the corner from the diner, but Candy headed in the opposite direction, knowing she couldn’t walk in front of the diner’s large corner window, where she’d be easily spotted by the boys in the corner booth. Instead, she headed down Main Street toward the Black Forest Bakery. But before she reached it, she turned into a narrow alley just past the coffee shop. From there, she worked her way across the back parking lots, now crammed with cars, toward the Rusty Moose’s rear door.

  The usual tavern detritus greeted her as she approached the building—empty liquor boxes, bundles of trash awaiting transport to the Dumpster, an abandoned ice machine, coffee cans filled with coagulated grease. Barely noticing the junk, Candy hurried past, pulled at the old screen door, and entered a dark hallway that led past the restrooms before depositing her in the tavern’s main public room.

  It was a typical coastal bar, dimly lit, smelling of stale beer, sweat, and the sea, since it was located right across the street from the docks and warehouses along the English River. Candy had to pause a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the light. She noticed a few grizzled heads swiveling in her direction, but most of the tavern’s inhabitants seemed to know who she was—Doc and the boys hung out here often—and turned back to their drinks and conversations with brief nods or a tip of an index finger. Candy nodded a brief acknowledgment to them and, looking around quickly, spotted Captain Mike in the dark booth on her left.

  She slid into the booth across from him. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hello there, young lady.” Captain Mike reached up to touch the brim of his battered cap. “You got here pretty fast.”

  “I was in the neighborhood. It was a cinch. So, what’s this all about?”

  “Well, like I said on the phone, I got something to tell ya.”

  “About what?”

  Captain Mike pointed with his chin out toward the English River, and it was clear he was indicating upriver. “About that whole business.”

  Candy knew instantly what he meant. She leaned over the table toward him, dropping her voice into a low whisper. “Charlotte?”

  He lifted his beer mug and took a long pull. He set it back down on the table with a thud before he replied. “That’s right. Charlotte.”

  “What do you know about her? Did you overhear something when you were working at the museum?”

  “Well now, you’re pretty quick, aren’t you?” Captain Mike scratched at the side of his beard, up near his ear. “I might have. I just might have.” He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice to a gravely growl. “The police came to see me a little while ago, down on my boat.”

  “What did they want?”

  Captain Mike’s left shoulder nudged upward in the barest of movements. Candy supposed it was a maritimer’s attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “Guess they wanted to find out if I knew anything. Guess they’re talking to everyone who’s seen Charlotte over the past few days. That includes me—and you.” He gave her a squinty look, probably well practiced over the years with his crew.

  “But I haven’t heard anything from them lately.”

  “You will, missy, you will. They’ll be coming around soon enough, asking lots of questions about Charlotte’s whereabouts over the past few days, and what she was doing with herself—and who was visitin’ her. You and me, we got some answers, don’t we? But you and me, we gotta stick together.”

  Candy wasn’t sure what he meant. “Why?”

  “Because we know things, don’t we?”

  “Well, maybe.” She paused. “What kinds of things are we talking about exactly?”

  “Well, Wanda, for instance.”

  “Wanda?” Candy’s voice rose, and she immediately looked around. No one in the tavern seemed to be paying them any attention. Still, Candy felt as if ears were listening. She lowered her voice again. “Is this a good place for us to talk about this?”

  “It’s the best place in town to talk about this,” Captain Mike told her, and he lifted a finger to point around the room. “These men know how to keep secrets. And if you need them, they’ll be there to watch your back.”

  Candy wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not, and she flinched slightly as she felt a strange tingle dance up her spine, as if someone had just drawn a fingernail along it. “Well, that’s . . . reassuring to know.”

  “Yup, those policemen came by and asked me all sorts of questions,” Captain Mike continued, unaware of her reaction. “I told them what I know—but I didn’t tell them everything I know.”

  “You mean about Wanda?”

  “Yessir. That’s why I called you.” He was about to say more, but a redheaded waitress in jeans and a black T-shirt approached the table. “Hey there, Captain Mike. How’re you doing with that beer of yours?”

  In response, he picked it up, drained it in one gulp, and slapped it back down on the table. “I could use another, Rosie. And bring one for my pretty friend here.”

  “You got it.” Rosie smiled at Candy. “You want anything else, honey?”

  “No, that’s it, thanks.”

  After the waitress had gone, Candy said, “I don’t really drink beer that much.”

  Captain Mike waved a hand. “Ahh, it’ll be good for you. Put some hair on your chest. Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, that’s right. Now, I don’t really know what that woman was up to, but she definitely had it in for Charlotte.”

  “You mean Wanda?”

  “What?”

  “Wanda—she had it in for Charlotte?”

  Captain Mike made a face at her. “Well, that’s what I said, wasn’t it? Anyways, this Wanda, I found out she’s been complaining to the folks on the museum board about Charlotte. She sent them a letter, so I heard. Told them she didn’t think Charlotte was doing a very good job. Wanted her fired. Well, Charlotte finds out and she’s angry as a wasp. She was like that for three, four days, buzzing around the place. Couldn’t even talk to her—she’d bite your head right off.”

  Candy folded her arms on the table, suddenly very i
nterested. “When did all this happen?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Captain Mike scratched at his beard again. “Sometime in the past few weeks. Two, maybe three weeks ago. Something like that. So anyway, after that, Charlotte started being real sweet to Wanda on the surface, but behind her back she was watching Wanda like a hawk. Charlotte was trying to find out what she was doing up there in the archives.”

  “And you think this has something to do with Charlotte’s death?”

  Captain Mike shook his head emphatically. “I didn’t say that. Nope, I didn’t say that at all.” He leaned in even closer, just inches from her. “I heard what happened to her. They’re keeping it all hush-hush, but I got my sources. She was strangled, you know. They said she had fishing line wrapped around her neck so many times they couldn’t count the strands. Cut right through her windpipe. I bet it wasn’t a pretty scene.”

  At this new bit of information, Candy had to hold back a gasp as Rosie returned with two mugs of beer, which she set down on the tabletop with graceful ease, so not a drop was lost.

  “Thank ye kindly, my dear.” Captain Mike grinned widely at the redheaded waitress as he took one of the mugs by the handle and raised it to his lips. He drank deeply and smacked his lips. “Good as always.”

  She gave him a warm smile. “Let me know if you two need anything else.”

  After Rosie had walked off again, Captain Mike turned his eagle eyes on Candy. “Someone done her in real good, that’s for sure. Why, I don’t know. Maybe someone was just trying to keep her quiet. But I’m not saying it was Wanda. Nope, I don’t know nothing ’bout that. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. Charlotte’s dead, and Wanda was up to something, that’s for sure.”

  Candy thought through what he’d said. In some ways it fit with everything else she’d learned so far. Wanda had been trying to get Charlotte fired, so Charlotte was fighting back. Was that why she’d entered the cook-off? To keep Wanda from winning? And did it mean Charlotte had stolen the recipe, as Wanda claimed?

  But it still didn’t answer the critical question: who had murdered two people in town?

  Candy thought about Charlotte with fishing line wrapped around her neck. What was she doing up at that landing in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere?