Town in a Maple Madness

by B. B. Haywood

  “You’ll just have to cancel it,” said Cotton Colby firmly, using the opportunity to press home her point. “This whole event should just be canceled.”

  “But what about the pancakes?” Bumpy asked, no doubt thinking of his own stomach.

  “What about the tourists?” asked Finn.

  “What about the community?” wondered Doc.

  “And what about Mick Rilke?” said Elvira snidely. “Remember him? Doesn’t he deserve some consideration?”

  “Indeed he does,” responded Cotton, “which is why we should call everything off and not let the masses make our decision for us.”

  “The . . . the masses?” sputtered Finn. “You mean those villagers out there?”

  Cotton’s face hardened. “Don’t try to put words in my mouth, Finn Woodbury. You know what I’m saying.”

  “Which is?”

  Cotton looked put out to have to explain herself, but she did it anyway. “We can’t let ourselves be swayed by those who would put money over people.”

  Finn drew back his head and squinted at that remark, and was about to respond, when a new voice spoke up. It belonged to Tillie Shaw, the events committee chair. She was a plump, red-faced woman with a generally sunny disposition that belied her no-nonsense attitude. “Whatever we decide to do,” she said in a cheerful, singsong tone, “we must remember to be civil to each other. I know emotions are running high right now, but we must treat each other with respect, and keep positive thoughts. We can make it through this, people!”

  “Oh, posh on your positive thoughts,” groused Elvira.

  “No, Tillie’s right,” said Carol McKaskie, the vice chair. “This is not a time to let differences divide us. We must work together to solve this . . . thing.” She shifted her eyes, searching for a better word. “This . . . problem. This situation.” She paused as she licked her lips and gathered her thoughts before she went on. “Now, let’s face it. In many ways this is a no-win situation. No matter what we decide to do, we’re going to be criticized for it. If we go ahead with the event, we’ll look bad. If we don’t, it’ll cause a financial setback for the town—and no matter what you say, Cotton, that’s something we have to consider. We’ll lose revenue and might have to postpone the River Walk project, which will affect other plans and budgets in turn. Again, the town will look bad, especially those of us on the council. It’s damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?” asked Doc.

  “I suggest,” Carol said hesitantly, “that we get this thing over with as swiftly as possible. Just do it and suffer the consequences, whatever they might be.” She folded her hands across her abdomen. “Open the doors and let those folks in here. That’s what I say.”

  Another voice broke in—spoken by someone Candy hadn’t noticed. A man stepped out of the shadows. She realized he had been there for a while, listening.

  It was Owen Peabody, director of the English Point Lighthouse and Museum, who had helped out with the renovation.

  “That’s one option, I suppose, Carol,” he said, taking a few steps forward out of the shadows, “and a very interesting approach. But don’t you think it might be better to dismiss the crowd today, sleep on it overnight, and decide what to do in the morning, when we all have clearer heads?”

  “I think that’s a fabulous idea,” Elvira Tremble said.

  “I concur,” said Cotton. “Who knows what happened to that man out there? We have to find that out before we do anything else.”

  “Can you imagine,” added Elvira ominously, “what would happen if his death was premeditated—not an accident? We’d have a dark cloud hanging over the village for weeks, if not months. It could ruin everything!”

  “Now, Elvira, let’s not jump to conclusions,” warned Doc. “No point in spreading rumors.”

  “They’re not rumors,” said a new voice, this one belonging to Wanda Boyle, the paper’s managing editor. She looked up from her smartphone at the faces around the circle. “It appears there’s something suspicious about the body—at least, according to my sources,” she said. “I just got a report.”

  “From who?”

  Wanda turned. Candy had come up behind her, unnoticed.

  Surprised to see the blueberry farmer, Wanda took a few moments to recover, but she quickly gathered her wits and responded. “As I said, a source of mine, down by the river, who overheard a couple of the police officers talking about Mick Rilke.”

  “So they’ve confirmed it’s him?” Candy said.

  “They have. Apparently, he’d gotten all tangled up in a fisherman’s net—something that had fallen off or been left behind by one of the fishing boats around here. At first they thought it could have been accidental. Maybe a heart attack, and he’d fallen into the river and drowned. But there’s a problem.”

  “And what’s that?” Doc asked.

  Wanda turned toward him. “They said his hands and feet were tied up.”

  There were a few gasps of shock around the circle. “Tied up?” Bumpy repeated. “What does that mean?”

  Wanda gave a noncommittal shrug. “It means his death was premediated, I guess.”

  The group was silent for a few moments, until Candy spoke up, summarizing what they all were probably thinking.

  “In other words, you’re saying he was murdered.”

  EIGHT

  Ten minutes later, Candy was back outside, in a bit of a daze.

  She didn’t want to appear unsettled or, worse, shamble around in a zombielike state, especially when some of the villagers were eyeing her curiously, probably because she’d just come from inside the community center, where decisions of importance were apparently being made. But she wasn’t ready to talk to any of them right now. She wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, she wanted to carefully think through what she’d just learned.

  She returned to the spot where she’d left Maggie, but her friend was gone. Candy quickly scanned the crowd but there was no sign of her. She probably had headed back to the bakery, Candy assumed, so she looked around for a place to sit, catch her breath, and organize her thoughts.

  Trying to appear as casual as possible, and gently declining to answer any questions from those gathered around the building (“Someone will be out soon to answer your questions,” she told the more persistent ones), she wound her way through the crowd, which seemed to part for her as she headed toward the river, to the outskirts of the gathering. There she spotted a weathered bench along the side of an adjacent building with an open spot at one end, next to an older couple talking softly to each other. Gratefully, she settled into it, her mind whirling.

  There was a lot to absorb.

  Naturally, everyone inside had been unsettled by Wanda’s revelation—and Candy’s somewhat blunt assessment of the situation. There had been whispered words around the circle, expressions of regret and disbelief, looks of concern and uneasiness. They all knew what it meant—another cloud hanging over their village, another murderer on the loose at the worst possible time.

  Most of the contentiousness had gone out of them then, and in a more agreeable manner, they’d collectively decided to take Owen Peabody’s suggestion, with a slight modification: They’d dismiss this morning’s crowd and postpone the opening ceremony until the following morning, when they’d hold a greatly toned-down version.

  The plan was to open the pancake house operation at seven A.M., as originally scheduled, with a small grand-opening ceremony on the stage inside the main room at nine. The pancake house would remain open until four P.M., when events would shift to Town Park. And they’d decided to continue with the weekend’s other Maple Madness festivities, though in a somewhat subdued manner.

  Most had agreed it was the best solution, and even Elvira and Cotton had finally given their grudging approval. Cotton had tried one final time to have the entire event canceled, but soon real
ized she was outnumbered, and reluctantly gave up on her efforts.

  Carol McKaskie volunteered herself as the proper spokesperson to inform the waiting crowd of the group’s decision. It seemed a fitting choice, given her position on the town council. So until Carol made her appearance, Candy sat and waited. She’d become a little overheated inside. The damp air here along the river felt good in her lungs and soothed her skin. She took a deep breath and leaned back in the bench seat.

  It had been a busy day so far—not at all what she expected when she’d slid out of bed that morning. She’d planned to do a few chores around the farm, then drive into town and enjoy the show at the community center. After that, she was going to head over to Town Park with Maggie to help with preparations for the Maple Marshmallow Roast, scheduled for tomorrow evening. They were going to set up a booth Maggie and Herr Georg had rented, where they planned to sell a limited range of their wares, including Chocolate Maple Brownies, created especially for the weekend. Herr George was probably baking away right now, Candy thought, and the smells emanating from his shop must be glorious.

  All his efforts, though, and Maggie’s, and everyone else’s, could be in vain. Everything associated with the weekend threatened to fall apart. One more revelation, she thought, one more unfortunate event, and it could all go up in a whirling funnel of maple-laced smoke, to be swept away by the strengthening wind.

  All because they’d pulled Mick Rilke’s body from the English River, apparently drowned, wrapped in a fisherman’s net, his hands and feet bound together.

  That last part gave her the most concern. The conclusion seemed obvious. Mick’s death had been no accident. No drinking too much and falling off the back of a boat, or tumbling off the edge of a dock. No heart attack or dozing off while out in a canoe or kayak. Those might have been possibilities at one time, when they’d first discovered the body, but after Wanda’s recent disclosure, they no longer were.

  His death had been caused, at least in some part, by an intentional act.

  It meant, as she’d said inside, that someone had murdered Mick Rilke.

  Someone in this town, no doubt. Someone who knew him, who could get close to him, perhaps take him by surprise. There was no other way to incapacitate him. He was a landscaper, a working man who did physical labor for a living. He was big and husky, with a solid build. Not easy to take down. It meant some sort of subterfuge must have been involved. Maybe it was someone he trusted. Someone he had antagonized in some way.

  But if it was someone around town, who could it be?

  She’d been looking down, at the cracked asphalt between her shoes, but now she raised her head and swept her gaze across the faces in the crowd around her. Some of the villagers were starting to peel away, moving up the slope toward the main road, headed back to their cars and their daily lives. But many still remained.

  Who, she thought again, could have murdered Mick? Who knew him well enough to get close enough to deliver some sort of fatal blow?

  Everyone, she thought, and the realization made her shoulders sag.

  It could be just about anyone, because he knew just about everybody in town, at least by sight. He probably knew most of the villagers by their first names. Due to his various seasonal jobs, he got around a lot, met a lot of people. He was generally a nice guy—as a businessman, he had to be—but as Maggie had said, he was known to rub some people the wrong way, due to his somewhat boisterous personality. Maybe he’d turned his back on the wrong person at the wrong time. Maybe someone had jumped him, caught him off guard, surprised him, lured him into a trap.

  However it had happened, she thought as her gaze swiveled to her left, out past the warehouses, docks, and boats to the water beyond, someone had tied him up and cast him afloat on the river. Obviously from somewhere upstream.

  But why had he been tied up that way? Why wrap him in a fisherman’s net? And where was his red truck? Had he abandoned it somewhere, near where he’d been dumped into the river? Was it still at his house? If so, how had he wound up where he did? Had he walked? Had someone picked him up and driven him to some remote location, where he’d been ambushed and taken down?

  How long had he been dead? she wondered. Since yesterday? Since last night?

  Did his wife, Jean, know of his death yet? When was the last time he’d been seen alive?

  Her thoughts turned to the other mysteries she’d heard today. Did his death have anything to do with the red vehicle spotted behind the Milbrights’ farm yesterday? Or the alleged stolen sap, tapped from the Milbrights’ highly productive maple trees?

  Or was it something completely different? Something unrelated? Something random?

  Was it linked in any way to the town’s questionable history and the deadly feud that occasionally erupted between two of its wealthier families, the Sykes and Pruitt clans?

  That last thought made her shudder.

  The town had dealt with a number of recent tragedies, including the death last year of the village’s beloved historian, Julius Seabury. She’d felt, after his death, and the unveiling of the murderer, as well as those behind the plot, that at least some of the conflicts that had plagued the community over the past eight years or so had finally been resolved, at least in some part. She’d hoped they’d put all those mysterious deaths behind them, and anticipated a brighter future.

  But here they were again. Another day. Another dead body.

  Her gaze shifted back around the crowd before focusing in on the community center’s main doors. With those around her, she waited for the vice chairwoman to emerge like a groundhog from its burrow, to make a major announcement.

  “I wish they’d hurry up in there,” said a voice from the bench beside her. “It’s sure taking them a long time to make up their minds.”

  Candy looked over at the older couple seated next to her. She’d become so absorbed in her thoughts that she’d forgotten they were there.

  “I’m getting a chill from sitting here so long,” said the woman, frowning as she pulled her sweater a little more tightly around her. “And my legs are getting stiff. I can’t sit here much longer.”

  “This is very troubling, don’t you think?” said the husband. He had leaned forward to look around his wife as he spoke.

  Candy could only nod and agree with them. “It is,” was all she said.

  “I can understand the delay, after what’s happened,” the man continued, “but it’s been going on too long.” He pointed toward the building. “Do you know what’s going on in there?”

  Candy hesitated before giving them her standard response. “Someone’s going to make an announcement in a few minutes,” she replied, somewhat robotically, and checked her watch. It was after noon, closing in on twelve fifteen. She’d been here for an hour.

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” the woman said with a shake of her head. “I just don’t know what’s happening here in the village anymore. This used to be such a safe, peaceful place. Now look what’s happening. Bodies in the river. Crazy drivers on the roads. People stealing sap from maple trees. It’s insane!”

  “Madness!” the husband agreed.

  Candy turned back to the couple with renewed interest. “What did you say?”

  “People are going insane!” the husband said. “We just don’t know what’s going on in town anymore.”

  Candy pressed him. “You said something about crazy drivers? And stolen sap?”

  “Well, everyone knows about the stolen sap,” said the woman confidently.

  Candy was surprised. “They do?”

  “We heard about it at the general store, just a little while ago,” the husband said.

  At this revelation, Candy was even more surprised. “You did?”

  “Sure, word gets around. Can’t keep secrets in this town for very long.”

  “And, of course, Stuart is still upset about what happened yes
terday,” said the woman.

  Candy surmised Stuart was the husband. She looked over at him. “Why, what happened?”

  “Well, we were almost run off the road, that’s what happened!” said Stuart, his voice rising and his expression turning blustery at the memory. “Darnedest thing I’ve ever seen. This old red truck came out of nowhere, swerving back and forth across the road, like he owned both lanes. Obviously not paying attention to where he was going. Nearly scared the wits out of us. There should be a law against things like that! I’m thinking of reporting it to the police!”

  NINE

  “You saw a red truck?” Candy sat straight up, and her gaze zeroed in on the couple as all other thoughts fell out of her brain. They had her full attention now. “When was this? And where? Tell me everything, exactly as it happened.”

  “Everything?” Stuart hesitated and licked his lips. “Exactly?” He looked suddenly unsettled, and he seemed to be thinking back over his words, as if he might have said something wrong. “Well, I don’t know, exactly,” he finally hedged.

  “In your own words,” Candy said in a softer, more persuasive tone, realizing she might have spooked him by her urgency. She calmed herself a notch, hoping it would translate to Stuart. She gave him an encouraging smile. “Just tell me what you remember.”

  “Well . . .” Stuart’s pale blue eyes darted about. He seemed to be carefully considering his words now. “Like I said, it was yesterday.”

  “What time yesterday . . . if I may ask?”

  When Stuart continued to hesitate, his wife spoke up, filling in the information. “It was late afternoon or early evening. A little before sunset,” she said, glancing at her husband before looking back at Candy. “Right around six fifteen or so. I remember checking the time, just in case we wanted to report it. Like Stuart said, the truck was swerving back and forth across the lanes. Almost ran us off the road. We had to pull over to avoid getting hit.”

  “That must have been very unsettling,” Candy said.