Town In a Lobster Stew

by B. B. Haywood

  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.

  Quickly she looked in both directions. She was alone. If she was going to get inside, now was the time to do it.

  A handwritten sign posted on the inside of the door window indicated that the museum was closing today at three P.M., due to the holiday. Candy glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past four. She turned the old doorknob in a faint hope it might still be open, but it was locked. She knocked as she peered in through the window, just in case someone might still be inside. But other than security lights, the museum was dark.

  Candy took a few steps back, surveying the windows on either side of the door. They consisted of old glass in green-painted wood frames with what looked like original hardware, well maintained. They also looked like they were tightly locked. She’d never get in that way.

  She turned, surveying the property, looking for Bob Bridges or anyone else who might let her in.

  Her gaze settled on the maintenance shed. It stood off to one side of the central open area, its twin barnlike doors hinged open and secured by lengths of rope so they wouldn’t flop around in the wind. From where she stood, she could see no one inside.

  She cast one last look over her shoulder and stepped down off the porch. As she started toward the shed, the fog seemed to pull apart before her like unraveling strands of cotton candy. But as she neared the shed, the fog closed back in around her, moving like a living thing. She pulled the collar of the pullover together and studied the shed’s interior as she approached. “Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding muted in her ears.

  She reached the door and looked inside. “Hello?” she said again.

  It was deserted.

  She took a step inside, entering cautiously, her gaze sweeping the interior. The place was relatively neat for a maintenance shed. Workbenches stood at either end, laden with carpentry tools and various types of hardware. Ropes and extension cords were coiled in one corner, while stepladders of varying sizes leaned against each other in another. A couple of hand-propelled lawn mowers, along with clippers, trimmers, hedgers, and garden tools, were smartly arranged or placed on shelves to the right of the entrance. Along the back wall were several filing cabinets beside a small desk and chair, which sat in front of a large calendar hanging on the wall. Tasks and reminders were jotted into most of the date boxes.

  There were only two small windows at either end of the shed, which accounted for the gloominess inside. But the windows were relatively clean, not swathed in cobwebs as one might expect in a place such as this, and the floor looked like it had been recently swept.

  Apparently Bob Bridges was a very
neat maintenance man.

  Stopping a few steps inside the door, she turned quickly from one workbench to the other, and finally to the desk, her eyes scanning. She had only a faint hope she’d find what she was looking for—a set of keys, maybe one that would get her inside the Keeper’s Quarters. It seemed possible Bob kept a spare set out here somewhere. She thought it was worth a quick look.

  The desktop, like the shed, was kept fairly neat. Two wire baskets held paperwork, and a gray and red blotter was surprisingly free of doodles. Pens and pencils were either lined up at the top of the blotter or corralled in an old white coffee cup. A clipboard with a sheet attached rested to one side of the blotter.

  She could see no keys on the desktop but doubted they’d be left out in the open. More than likely, if they were out here, they’d be kept in one of the drawers—probably the top desk drawer.

  She took a few steps toward the desk, and as she did so, she heard voices outside.

  Her head snapped to her left. Out the window, she saw Bob Bridges coming around the corner of the Keeper’s Quarters, wearing the same uniform she’d seen him in before—a dark green shirt and pressed jeans. A faded green ball cap hid most of his sandy-colored hair, and his face was red, probably because he appeared to be arguing with his son, Robbie, who was walking along beside him.

  “. . . don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she heard Bob say to his son. “You’ve got yourself mixed up in this thing too deep.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad, I can handle it,” Robbie replied, sounding somewhat sullen.

  “I do worry about it,” Bob said, “and now you’ve got me involved.”

  Candy stood frozen, uncertain of what to do. Bob and Robbie appeared to be headed right toward her and the shed. Her heart beat faster. Should she make herself known to them, or should she hide?

  In the end her instincts took over. Moving quickly, she stepped lightly across the shed into the front corner, trying to meld into the shadows. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, though, and if they entered the shed, she’d surely be seen. Her mind quickly tried to formulate an excuse, so she’d have something to say if she were caught.

  “It’s time for you to get out of that game,” Bob said, walking along the side of the shed now. “You’ve already lost your shirt once, and it’s cost us both. Get out before it gets the best of you.”

  “I can’t get out now,” Robbie protested. “I have too much invested.”

  “That’s the problem with these things. They grab you and don’t let go. There’s no way you’re going to win your money back. Listen to me, son. I know how these things work.”

  Candy could hear Bob unhooking something on the front of the shed.

  “I’m fine, Dad,” Robbie protested, his voice now tinged with frustration. “I’m not in high school anymore. I’m almost twenty years old.”

  “You’re still my son,” Bob said sternly, “and you’re still my responsibility.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Robbie asked angrily. “Responsibility?”

  Candy heard a creak of hinges as Bob closed one of the shed’s doors. It slammed tightly shut.

  “Don’t take that tone of voice with me. You’re grown up now, but I’m still your dad.”

  Robbie said something Candy couldn’t quite make out, and then she heard him marching away. Bob called after him as he unhooked the other door from its tether and swung it closed. She heard a hurried sound and then a snap, as if a padlock had been attached to the outside door handles.

  “Robbie! Robbie, listen to me!”

  Bob ran after his son. Candy caught a glimpse of him out the window on the other side of the shed, hurrying up the pathway toward the parking lot, chasing after Robbie.

  Candy waited in the stillness for a few minutes, allowing her heart to slow and her breathing to ease. She realized she was sweating.

  Candy, you have to stop doing this to yourself, she thought with a shake of her head.

  When she felt she’d waited long enough to make a quick, unnoticed escape, she emerged from the corner and rushed to the door, pushing on it first with one hand, then with the other.

  It refused to open.

  She pushed again, harder this time, with her shoulder, but no luck.

  She couldn’t get out.

  She was locked in.

  THIRTY-SIX

  She stood staring at the door in disbelief. He’d locked her in! How could he have done such a thing? She felt her face getting flush. A few fingers of panic reached into her, causing her to stiffen. She looked around, searching for another exit. But there was no other way out, she realized with a start.

  She was trapped inside Bob Bridges’s maintenance shed!

  She couldn’t believe she’d gotten herself into this jam. What was she going to do? “Just stay calm,” she told herself in a low breath. “Stay calm and figure this out.”

  Despite her admonition to herself, she could feel her heart beating faster as the panic threatened to build, to sweep through her in an unbridled surge. But she kept it under control as she tried to decide what to do next.

  For a moment she actually forgot what day it was, which caused the panic to spike, but she quickly remembered. Memorial Day. A holiday. Her head twisted toward the window on her left. The fog had settled in outside, becoming impenetrable. Any tourists who might have lingered on the property were probably all gone, driven off by the worsening weather and leaving her stranded alone on the grounds of the English Point Lighthouse. She had a chilling vision of being trapped here all night, sitting dejectedly in Bob Bridges’s desk chair with her head dropped onto his tiny desk, miserably trying to get some sleep.

  That wasn’t a vision she liked, but it worsened further as more questions jumped into her head, making her shiver briefly, uncontrollably. What would she eat? What if she got thirsty? What would her hair look like in the morning?

  More important, what would she say when they found her in here the following day? What would she say to Bob Bridges? What would she tell Doc when he asked why she hadn’t called him and let him know she wasn’t coming home?

  Call him. . . .

  Suddenly she reached back with her hands, urgently patting her pockets, as if they were on fire. Her cell phone! Her left hand fell upon it. It was still in the left front pocket of her jeans!

  A wave of relief washed through her as her shoulders visibly sagged. She’d found a way out. She could breathe again.

  She pulled the cell phone out and clutched it tightly in her hand, cherishing its feel. The hard black plastic was warm and comforting against her skin, her lifeline to the outside world. At this particular moment, she realized, there was nothing else she’d rather be holding—except perhaps a door key to get her out of this place.

  But even that wouldn’t work. These doors, she realized, had no interior keyholes—no real locks at all. She recalled seeing large metal handles on the front of the doors. Bob must have padlocked the handles together, so even if she had a key, she couldn’t get to the lock.

  She’d have to call someone to come get her out.

  Flipping open the phone, she brought up the contact list and scrolled down to her home phone number. She couldn’t recall if Doc had anything planned this afternoon, but he’d pick up if he was around the house. He was her best option, she decided as she pressed the button that selected the number. But before she pressed send, she hesitated.

  Maybe it would be better to call Maggie instead. No doubt Doc would look very unfavorably upon Candy’s current predicament and would probably give her some sort of lecture, or at the very least disapproving looks for days. Maggie was the better choice.

  She quickly found Maggie’s number. Her thumb hovered over the send button. But again, she hesitated.

  Her gaze rose to the door, studying it for a few moments before she turned toward the small window at the far end of the shed. Outside, the light was fading, squeezed from the day by the dense fog. She walked to the window and looked out. A fe
w lights were flickering on around the complex, activated by sensors, she guessed. They formed glowing pools of pale illumination in the murky day.

  She turned and looked up at the ceiling of the shed. She hadn’t even noticed before, but a single fluorescent light strip hung over her head.

  “Candy,” she softly chided herself with a shake of her head.

  She found the light switch by the door and turned it on. The fluorescent light cast an eerie glow in the shed’s interior, but she barely noticed. She was moving again.

  Maybe she wasn’t as trapped as she thought. Maybe she could pop open one of the windows. Or maybe she could use a crowbar to wedge open the double doors far enough apart to squeeze through.

  She’d try both those avenues of escape—right after she took care of something else, something more important.

  It was time to do what she’d come here to do.

  It was time to check out Bob Bridges’s desk.

  A key to the Keeper’s Quarters could still be hidden somewhere in the shed, and she decided to take a few minutes to search for it.

  Crossing to the desk, she pulled open the top drawer and studied its contents. It was as neat as everything else she’d seen in here. Pens and pencils were carefully arranged in a long tray, pins and thumbtacks occupied smaller bins, boxes of paper clips and rubber bands were lined up along one side, and scissors and rulers were laid squarely next to each other. Farther back were writing pads and other office supplies, like boxes of staples and various types of Scotch and masking tape, all in their appropriate places.

  Candy pulled the drawer out a little farther and slipped her hand far into the back, feeling around for a set of keys. She was careful not to disturb anything. She didn’t want Bob to think someone had snooped around in here. Her fingers reached and probed, but she didn’t find what she was looking for.

  She closed the top drawer and checked the others just as carefully and as cautiously, working top to bottom. One drawer held envelopes and labels, another a couple of reams of paper and ink cartridges for a printer, and another neatly labeled, alphabetized, and categorized files. None of the drawers held a set of keys.