Town In a Lobster Stew
Page 31
“Why?” Candy asked, tilting her head in surprise.
He looked down at the table. “Well . . . I’d rather not say.”
Suddenly, seeing the look in his eyes, Candy knew. “You cared for her, didn’t you?”
He still wouldn’t look up at her. “Yup. Yup, maybe I did.”
Candy sat back and was silent. After a few moments, she said, “Can I ask you another question?”
Captain Mike chuckled. He finally looked up. “What else do you want to know?”
“Well, last night. You knew I was digging around town, trying to find out what happened to Charlotte and Mr. Sedley. So why give me those clues yesterday like you did? And why help me last night? You knew I might figure out what really happened. And yet, you and your friends saved us—me and Bob.”
“We did.”
“Why?”
Captain Mike eyed her again. “Well, that’s what we do in this town, Miss Holliday. We help each other out when we’re in trouble. You would have done the same thing for me, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” Candy said, and she meant it.
“ ’Course you would. You’re a Caper. It’s what we do around here. That’s one reason I helped Charlotte. She needed my help. I couldn’t say no to her.”
Candy smiled. “Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For calling me a Caper.”
He smiled too. “Well, you are, aren’t you? Might as well admit it. And I’ve read your column, you know. Yup, I’ve read it. And, well, it’s pretty damn good.”
“Thanks, Captain Mike.”
“Anytime, Candy.”
“So.” She leaned forward again and crossed her arms on the table. “One last question.”
He grinned. “Last one? Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“What happens now?”
Captain Mike’s expression turned serious again. “I was afraid you were gonna ask me something like that. But, of course, you’re right, ain’t ya? We gotta do something about this, don’t we?”
“We do.”
“And I suppose you have a suggestion?”
“I do. We have to go to the police and tell them exactly what happened.”
“Do we now?”
“We do.”
“I have another suggestion,” Captain Mike said.
“And what might that be?”
“Well, you see,” and he pointed out the front door with a steady finger, “I have a boat moored right out there at that dock. And I’m thinking about taking her out right about now.”
Candy thought about that for a moment. “Where would you go?”
“Oh”—he waved a hand in a general eastward direction—“out that way somewhere.”
“When do you think you’ll be back?” Candy asked.
Captain Mike took a long swig of beer, smacked his lips, and shook his head. “I don’t really know.”
Candy looked toward the tavern’s wall, and beyond it, as if she could see right through it, all the way past the buildings and the trees and the rocks, and out over the coastline to the sea beyond. “It looks like it’s pretty rough out there today.”
“I know,” Captain Mike said with a satisfied look on his face, “and that’s just the way I like it.”
FORTY-THREE
Four days later, on Saturday afternoon, Candy and Maggie sat at an outside table on a second-floor deck overlooking the busy wharves of the city of Portland and the Fore River beyond. They were at a popular chowder house, sipping strawberry margaritas and enjoying the unseasonably warm day. Most of the tables around them were filled with chattering guests, and Candy could hear music playing somewhere nearby. From where she sat, she could see, out on the river, an amphibious duck boat chugging upstream, giving sightseers an aquatic view of the city.
“This is nice,” Maggie said, tilting her face back to catch the sun’s rays. “I’m glad we decided to do this.”
“Me too,” Candy agreed.
“Too bad Wilma Mae can’t be here to enjoy it with us.”
“Yes, it is. But I think she’ll be happy. It’s probably for the best.”
“True, true. Still, I’m going to miss her. She’s a sweet old lady. And we were becoming such good friends. Although she kept beating me at pinochle. I think she cheated.”
Candy laughed. “Wilma Mae didn’t cheat.”
“Sure she did. I think she kept a few cards stuffed up her sleeves—or maybe down her blouse.”
They both laughed at the disjointed image of prim and proper Wilma Mae Wendell cheating at cards.
They’d dropped Wilma Mae off at the Portland Jetport earlier in the day. The elderly woman was flying out to California to move in with her sister. A change in scenery was just the thing she needed, she’d decided a couple of days ago, right after Mr. Sedley’s funeral on Thursday morning. Wilma Mae’s sister had invited her out for a permanent visit. She’d even booked a cruise, just for the two of them. They were headed up the Pacific coast to Alaska on a fourteen-day seafaring adventure the following week, and Wilma Mae was greatly looking forward to it.
It had been a frantic forty-eight hours, getting the elderly woman packed and her house closed up. Candy and Maggie agreed to keep an eye on it for her until she decided what to do with it. But she knew she’d never live in it again.
And they knew they might never see Wilma Mae again.
“Well, at least things can start getting back to normal,” Candy said, and she looked over at her friend. “Even for you. So you’re going back to work, huh?”
Maggie beamed. “I sure am. I heard from Mr. Gumm yesterday. I start working at the hardware store on Monday.”
“And how much do you know about hardware?” Candy asked.
Maggie beamed even broader. “Absolutely nothing! But Cameron promised to teach me everything he knows. I can’t pass up a deal like that. But mostly I’m just going to run the cash register to start.”
“Well, that certainly sounds exciting.”
“It’s not much money,” Maggie said with a sigh, “but it’s a start. I’ll work my way back up in this town again. Just you wait and see.”
“I have no doubt you will. You’re pretty industrious. You’ll do fine.”
“Yeah, I think I landed on my feet. I learned that from Mr. Biggles—may he rest in peace. So . . . have you heard anything else from the police?” Maggie asked curiously, taking a sip of her margarita.
“They called yesterday. They want to talk to me again early next week.”
“Again?”
“Yup. Just to verify things, they said. Go over it once more. But I think they’ve got most of the story down.”
“Are you still in hot water with them?”
Candy smiled. “Of course. I’m always in hot water with them. But they’re getting used to me. I think we’re starting to understand each other.”
“Are they going to return the ledger to you?”
“They said they will—at some point. I don’t know when, though. It might not be until after the trial.”
“And did they ever find the missing pages?”
Candy shook her head. “That’s the most frustrating part. I know Roger ripped something out of that ledger. I saw him do it. But when they searched him, they didn’t find anything. And he’s not talking. Whatever he took out of that ledger has mysteriously disappeared.”
“There’s no way of knowing what was written on those pages?”
“Apparently not. I asked Wilma Mae about them, and she said she couldn’t remember—or just refused to. But I can’t blame her. She says she’s done with it. When or if I ever get the ledger back, I’m supposed to pass it along to Juanita at the diner.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Maggie said. “It sounds appropriate.”
“It sure does, with Juanita winning the cook-off and all,” Candy agreed. “One day soon everyone in town might be able to taste Mr. Sedley’s lobster stew recip
e, if they decide to put it on the menu.”
“So life goes on in Cape Willington, Maine, doesn’t it?” Maggie said philosophically.
“It does.”
“Speaking of life going on, how are things with you and Ben?”
Candy made a face and shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s still devastated. He just can’t believe Roger would murder someone. And threaten me. Ben feels responsible. And, I think, somewhat embarrassed. He says he’ll make it up to me somehow.”
“Hmm,” Maggie said with a lascivious grin, “that sounds like fun.”
Candy waggled an eyebrow at her. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
They were silent again for a few moments. After a while Maggie asked, “Heard any news about Captain Mike?”
Candy shook her head as she gazed out at the river. “Not a word.”
“Think we’ll ever see him again?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I have a feeling he’ll pop up again sometime in the future.”
Candy turned to look at her. “I hope you’re right. I hope he’s okay. Hey, speaking of missing persons, have you heard anything about Mr. Milbury? Have they caught him yet?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. I got a call this morning before I left the house. They nabbed him at the Mexican border south of Bisbee, Arizona. He was trying to flee down to Guatemala or Costa Rica or someplace like that. But he didn’t make it.”
“And he’s headed to jail?”
“Yup.”
“Well, maybe he can share a cell with Roger.”
And with that gratifying thought, they both turned and watched the boats cruising down the Fore River, headed past the islands of Casco Bay and out to the cold, deep sea beyond.
EPILOGUE
Because she had to drive several hours north, Candy limited herself to one margarita, although Maggie allowed herself a second one. And they both had a bowl of clam chowder, which tasted delicious—perhaps not quite as good as Mr. Sedley’s lobster stew, but still very good.
The afternoon passed by all too quickly, and as the sun slid toward the western sky, they decided it was time to head back up north to Cape Willington.
They had parked the Jeep in a garage up on Fore Street, so they headed across Commercial Street and angled up Market. As they turned a corner onto Fore Street, headed toward the parking garage, they passed a newsstand, and something caught Candy’s eye. She took several steps along the sidewalk, stopped suddenly, and doubled back. “Hey, hold up a minute,” she called to Maggie.
Her friend slowed and turned around. “Why, what’s up?”
Candy didn’t answer. She stood staring at the headline of the Portland paper, displayed on the newsstand for all to see: Wealthy financier distances himself from brother, the headline read. And underneath that, in smaller type, Porter Sykes unveils plans for Portland waterfront redesign .
Candy picked up a copy of the paper, rummaged in her purse for change to pay for it, and read the first few lines of the story:
Porter Sykes, a Boston financier and real estate magnate, as well as a member of the wealthy Sykes family of Marblehead, Mass., has announced plans for a major building and renovation project on Portland’s waterfront. A fifty-four-room luxury hotel and convention complex will serve as an anchor for the project, said Sykes, of the investment firm Sykes and Dubois. Friday’s unveiling event, however, was marred by the recent arrest in Cape Willington, Maine, of Mr. Sykes’s younger brother, Roger, who is charged with the murder of the town’s museum director.
Candy read the paragraph again, her eyes hovering over two words: Marblehead, Mass.
She felt a chill go through her. She’d heard something about Marblehead just a few days ago, hadn’t she? What was it?
Standing on the sidewalk along Fore Street, with crowds of people passing around her, she searched her memories and, after a moment, remembered. It was something Bob Bridges had told her last Monday afternoon as they stood in the maintenance shed at the English Point Lighthouse:
Robbie said they brought in some ringer, backed by this moneyman . . . some rich guy out of Boston—Marblehead, I think he said. The guy’s name was Paul or Pete or something like that. Old-money type of thing.
Marblehead. Old money.
And there was something else, wasn’t there? Something strange Roger had said, when he’d been standing in the maintenance shed with a gun pointed at them:
Charlotte was the one who brought it to our attention.
Our attention.
Roger and Porter Sykes. Brothers.
Porter Sykes.
Why did that name seem so familiar to her?
And then it came to her in a flash: Porter Sykes! PS!
Candy felt her legs go weak. They threatened to give way beneath her right there on the sidewalk.
“Honey, are you all right?” Maggie said, concern in her voice as she took Candy’s arm to steady her. “What’s wrong. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
But again, Candy didn’t answer. Her mind was working too quickly.
Porter Sykes.
PS.
An image of the inscription written in the upper left corner of the blueprints, laid out on the table in Doc’s office, jumped into her mind.
The inscription on the blueprints had read, Here are the plans. PS Make sure no one else sees this.
PS. It didn’t mean postscript, as she had thought. They were initials!
Porter Sykes’s initials!
He must have written that note to Charlotte, signed his initials, and then added the last line: Make sure no one else sees this.
So Porter Sykes had given the plans to Charlotte!
But how had they known each other?
Candy had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach as she read down the columns of newsprint. Toward the end of the article, she found what she was looking for:
An art and history aficionado, Porter Sykes sits on the boards of a number of museums throughout New England, including . . .
She read the last few words as the blood pounded in her ears. In disbelief, she looked over at Maggie. “Oh no,” was all she could say.
“Honey, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” Maggie asked, a worried expression on her face.
Candy shook her head, feeling as if she were in shock. The hairs were standing out on her arms. A feeling of dread washed over her.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said uneasily, “but I don’t think we’ve heard the last from the Sykes brothers.”
RECIPES
Lobster Stew
Created by Executive Chef Troy Mains No. 10 Water The Restaurant at the Captain Stone Inn Brunswick, Maine
1 white onion, chopped
1 cup whole unsalted butter
2 stalks of celery, chopped
2 tablespoons Old Bay seasoning
1 tablespoon minced garlic
4 cups clam broth or really good lobster stock
2 pounds shucked lobster meat
1 teaspoon paprika
1 quart heavy cream
Salt and pepper to taste
In a large pot, sauté in butter the celery, onion, garlic, and spices. Once browned on medium to high heat, pour in the clam broth or stock and let reduce by half (boil down). Then add the cream to thicken, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Once thickened, add the generous amount of lobster meat and serve in a large bowl. This recipe should serve 6-8.
I also like to garnish the stew with a puff pastry in the shape of a lobster. You can purchase a lobster cookie cutter at a cooking store to create this pastry. Cut it out of dough, brush with egg white, sprinkle with paprika for color, and bake at 400° for 7-10 minutes.
This will fancify a Maine classic.
Lobster Veloute
Created by Chef Jason Williams The Well at Jordan’s Farm Cape Elizabeth, Maine
2 quarts (serves 4)
1 lobster, about 1 ¼ pound, in hard shell
2 yellow onions
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1 carrot
1 celery stalk
1 bay leaf
2 black peppercorn
4 ounces butter
4 ounces flour
Bring 4 quarts of water to a boil in large pot. Drop in live lobster and cook for 7 minutes. Remove and place in ice water.
Reserve cooking water.
Remove lobster meat and chop into pieces. Roast bones, return to cooking water, and add onions, carrot, celery, bay leaf, and peppercorn. Simmer for 2 hours. Strain.
In a separate large pan, melt butter and stir in flour; cook over low heat for about 3-5 minutes. Whisk in 2.5 quarts lobster stock. Bring to a simmer; continue simmering for about 20 minutes.
Serve with chopped lobster, some chopped chives, and some crusty bread. Enjoy!
Fuel’s Lobster Stew
From Eric Agren, Owner Fuel Restaurant Lewiston, Maine
4 whole lobsters, steamed and cooled Heavy cream (about a quart)
4 tomatoes, roughly chopped
4 cloves of garlic, crushed
4 shallots, diced
1 bunch of fresh tarragon, chopped
1 cup of Cognac
Remove all meat from the lobsters and reserve for later.
Break the shells into pieces. Use sturdy kitchen shears if necessary.
Heat canola oil in a large sauté pan over high heat.
Add the lobster shells and cook for about 5 minutes, until blistering but not burned.
Deglaze the pan with 1 cup of Cognac.
Flambé the Cognac and reduce to about 2 tablespoons.
Add the tomatoes, garlic, shallots, and tarragon.
Season with salt and white pepper.
Add cold water to the sauté pan till almost full (about 10 cups).
Bring to a boil.
Reduce the water until there is about 1 cup left in the saucepan. While reducing, squeeze the shells and other ingredients with a wooden spoon.