Town in a Maple Madness

by B. B. Haywood

  “You bet it was!” Stuart piped in emphatically, getting his voice back.

  “Where did this happen?”

  “A few miles north of town, up on the Coastal Loop. Not too far from Route 1.”

  “So near Judicious Bosworth’s cabin?”

  Stuart scrunched up his face. “I don’t know who that is.”

  Candy waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. What about the truck itself? What do you remember about it?”

  “It was a little beat up,” the woman said.

  “An older truck then,” Candy clarified.

  The woman nodded. “And red. That’s about all I remember.”

  “Did it have a snowplow in front?”

  “Sure did,” Stuart said. “That’s what made it look so scary. That huge chunk of metal coming at us, barreling down the road like it was out of control. Like Audra said, we just tried to get out of the way.”

  “What about the driver? Could you identify him?”

  Stuart paused only a moment before he shook his head. “The truck was going too fast. It was all over the place. We couldn’t see into the cab.”

  “Did it look familiar?” Candy pressed. “Have you seen that truck before?”

  The two took a moment to think about this, and shook their heads almost in unison. “We’re not regular villagers, you know,” Stuart explained. “We live north of the cape, up past Gouldsboro. We got a little cabin up there, and a few acres. We don’t get into town much anymore. We just ran down here yesterday to pick up a few supplies at the garden center and visit some friends. Today is the second time we’ve been here in two days, you know, which is a lot for us. We came down today to see the grand opening of the community center, of course. We’re pretty excited about it. We’ve heard they’re starting a number of clubs, which we’ve thought of joining. Audra loves playing bridge, you know. But, well . . .” Stuart’s voice trailed off.

  The woman had been watching Candy with growing curiosity during this exchange. As Candy considered her next question, Audra asked, “Do you think this could be important? With us and that truck, I mean?” She pursed her lips and subtly tilted her head toward the river. “With what’s happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Candy said, and it was an honest answer. “Maybe.”

  “Do you think we should report it to the police?” Audra wondered.

  “We’ve thought about doing that,” Stuart added, “but, well, we really don’t want any trouble.”

  Candy was still considering her response when she heard murmurs from the crowd and looked over to see Carol McKaskie emerge from the community center’s main doors. The vice chairwoman was closely followed by the others who had been inside, including Tillie and Wanda, Owen Peabody, and Cotton and Elvira, with Doc and his buddies bringing up the rear. Bumpy was the last out the door. Somewhere he had found a chocolate doughnut, which he’d already half eaten.

  Outside, Carol squinted in the brighter light as she stepped to her right, toward a microphone on a stand that had been set up for a more celebratory address. She held a sheaf of papers in her hand. Pink-framed reading glasses perched on her nose, with a long silver neck chain draping along the sides of her face. She tucked a few strands of her shoulder-length hair, which was being tossed about by the riverside wind, behind her ears.

  At the microphone she looked around for a switch, flicked it on, blew into the mic, backed her head away as it squeaked a little, tentatively blew into it again, and finally tapped on it with a couple of fingers. “Can everyone hear me okay?” she asked, louder than necessary, for her voice nicely came through the speakers hanging under the building’s eaves in a number of places, a last-minute addition to the design, for events just such as this. “Can you hear me okay in the back?”

  A bearded gentleman in jeans toward the rear of the crowd waved an arm. “Yup, we hear ya just fine! So let’s get on with it!”

  There were a few twitters of laughter around him, and a few groans. Carol studied the bearded man for a moment, as if fixing his face in her mind. “Okay then,” she said finally, and looked down briefly at the papers she held in her hand. She cleared her throat, looked up, and began. “Attention, fellow Capers. May I have your attention, please? I have an important announcement to make.”

  “We know that,” the same gentleman shouted back. “That’s why we’ve been waiting around here for an hour and a half!”

  Carol kept her expression carefully under control as she backed away from the microphone briefly. She waited patiently for a resurgence of whispered comments and conversations to die away before she stepped back up to the mic and started again.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Carol McKaskie. I’m vice chair of the town council. Chairman Flint can’t be with us at the moment, due to unexpected circumstances, so I’ll be making the announcement in his place.” She paused, checked the papers in her hand again, and continued. “Now, as all of you know,” she said, looking around the crowd, “we’ve gathered here this afternoon to celebrate the grand opening of our town’s newest facility, this building right here behind me, which is now called the English River Community Center.”

  She paused again as a smattering of applause rippled through the crowd like the sound of waves breaking, then plunged on. “The opening of this center is a major achievement for our community. Many people have pitched in to renovate the building and make this event happen today, and we’re grateful for all their contributions. Everything is set up inside and ready to go tomorrow morning for Operation Pancake, as we like to call it. However, due to the unfortunate tragedy that struck our village today, we’ve decided to make an adjustment to our schedule.”

  A wave of moans and groans swept through the crowd, and a general restlessness seemed to seize those gathered about, as if they were all getting ready to sprint to their cars to beat an expected mini-rush of traffic.

  Carol noticed what was happening and picked up the pace before she lost her audience. “We’ve decided to cancel today’s event and reschedule the grand-opening ceremony for tomorrow morning at nine A.M., on the stage inside the main function room here behind me. The restaurant itself will open at seven in the morning to serve our early birds. We’re expecting a big crowd all day tomorrow, so if you’ve volunteered to help out at the community center, you can check the schedule with myself or one of the other folks up here. It’s also posted on the town’s website, so you can check that. We appreciate everyone’s help in pitching in to make sure this event goes off without a hitch.”

  A general buzzing sound arose from the crowd, causing Carol to speak louder as she continued. “As many of you know, the maple sugar shack tours will kick off at ten A.M. tomorrow morning from Town Park. We’re asking volunteers to gather in the park at nine for final instructions. We’ll have two buses running, on the hour. That will allow ninety minutes or so for each tour. Tickets, of course, are ten dollars, and can be purchased at the booth we’re setting up in the park, as well as at the opera house, the general store, and various businesses around town.”

  She glanced down again at the sheets in her hand, and her voice rose another notch as she continued to talk above the growing restlessness. “Tomorrow we’ll be lighting the bonfire in Town Park at four P.M. for the Maple Marshmallow Roast, with live music starting shortly after. A bunch of food and craft booths will be open all afternoon and evening, plus we’ll have activities for the kids. So we hope you’ll join us here again first thing tomorrow morning as we kick off our first annual Maple Madness Weekend. We’re looking forward to seeing all of you there! Oh, and remember, we still need a few volunteers to help with . . .”

  That was as far as she got. Folks had started moving, and the chatter continued to rise as the crowd broke apart and everyone started heading for the exits, around the buildings and up the slope to the parking lots and their cars. Carol had a few more words she wanted to say,
but finally gave up and clicked off the microphone, turning back to the others standing behind her.

  From her place on the bench, Candy watched the crowd disperse, vaguely keeping an eye out for Maggie. But her thoughts quickly returned to the conversation she’d been having with the older couple before Carol appeared and gave her speech.

  “So,” Candy said, trying to pick up where they’d left off, “now that that’s all over with, where were we? I think we were talking about . . .”

  But when she turned her head, she was addressing an empty bench.

  The couple had slipped away without her noticing—and she didn’t even get their last names. Stuart and Audra something, from north of the cape up near Gouldsboro. That’s all she knew.

  Whoever they’d been, they’d provided her with a new and possibly important addition to the puzzle that had been growing larger all day.

  A red truck with a snowplow in front had been spotted late yesterday afternoon, just after six P.M., on the northern section of the Coastal Loop, apparently headed out of town, destination unknown. Could it have been Mick’s truck? It certainly seemed possible, even probable. There weren’t that many trucks like that around town, especially with a plow. And he’d been swerving across the lanes. Why? What had he been doing?

  She could think of a number of possibilities, none of them good.

  It could, however, help establish a timeline of his death. If Stuart and Audra were to be believed, the driver of that truck had apparently been in a hurry to get somewhere—or could he have been racing away from something? Or someone?

  Of course, someone other than Mick could have been driving the truck. That was a very real possibility. He had not been positively identified as the person behind the wheel.

  Could she trust the reporting of an elderly couple from somewhere up near Gouldsboro? Had there really been a snowplow on front? She could have put that thought in their mind. She’d mentioned it first, if she recalled.

  Had the truck even been red?

  Honestly, she thought, her shoulders slumping, it could have been anyone. An out-of-towner, maybe. A visiting farmer. A sightseer.

  But something told her there was a link here, some tie to Mick Rilke’s death. It was more than coincidental, she thought. There was more going on. She just had to find out what it was.

  She took a few moments to ponder her next move, and made a quick mental list of potential avenues of investigation. She’d have to be cautious, she thought as she worked out the best approach to take—work under the radar, stay on the down-low. She’d been warned repeatedly by Cape Willington police chief Darryl Durr to stay out of these matters. She didn’t want to break any laws or get herself back in hot water with the chief. But somehow she found herself in the middle of another murder case—or, at least, involved in some way. She thought of going to the chief with what she’d learned, but decided to hold off for now, until she had something more concrete to go on.

  So with a nod of her head and a vague plan in mind, she pushed herself off the bench and began to navigate her way across the open space in front of the community center. It was still swarming with people, some hovering in small groups as the crowd cleared out. The mood was not the convivial one she’d anticipated that morning. But maybe I can change that, she thought determinedly as she headed toward her father and his buddies.

  She was still approaching them when she caught the eye of Finn Woodbury, the ex–city cop. He had his head close to Doc’s, and the two of them seemed to be whispering about something. They stood apart from the others, off to one side. When he saw her, Finn made a slight gesture with his eyes, beckoning her over. Then he gave her another signal with his eyes, flicking them toward Carol, Tillie, and Wanda.

  Candy got the message: I have something to tell you, and it’s not for public knowledge.

  She knew right away something was up. Perhaps Finn had heard back from his secret source inside the police department.

  As nonchalantly as possible, so as not to draw attention to herself, she slowed her pace, drifting through the crowd, and in a leisurely manner circled around the main group in front of the community center, coming toward her father and Finn at an angle.

  The two of them waited patiently until she’d sidled up beside them. “What’s up?” she asked softly, her head bent low.

  “Got some information for you,” Finn said solemnly. “Inside stuff. You have to keep this under your hat.”

  Candy nodded firmly with her chin. “What have you heard?”

  Finn’s eyes hardened. “Well, we just got confirmation. Mick was murdered, for sure. There’s no question about it.”

  Candy felt a chill go up her spine. She steeled herself as she asked, “What happened to him?”

  “Well, it appears our friendly local landscaper was literally stabbed in the back.”

  TEN

  Candy knew she should be shocked by the news, but she wasn’t. In fact, she’d almost been expecting to hear something like this. In an odd way, it made complete sense to her.

  Mick Rilke had been a big guy, over six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds. He had a bit of a gut and a fleshy, weathered face—probably from eating too many hamburgers and drinking too many beers. He also had big shoulders, muscular arms, and thick legs. No one could have tied him up and wrapped him in a fishing net without taking him down first.

  A blow to the head would have worked—or a stab in the back, especially if it pierced any of his vital organs. But how had it happened? Stabbing was a close-in action. How had it been done? Had he been ambushed? Taken by surprise? Or had someone he’d known, perhaps trusted, waited for the opportune moment to catch him unaware?

  “Do they know anything specific about the murder weapon?” she asked after a few moments, breaking the silence that had followed Finn’s revelation.

  The ex-cop shook his head. “Just that it was a blade of some sort. It was a deep wound, lower back, left side, from what I’ve heard. Might not have been fatal in itself, but it was enough to incapacitate him.”

  “Long enough for someone to tie up his hands and feet, wrap him in a net, and roll him into a river,” Candy said, and Finn nodded.

  Doc shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t imagine who would do such a thing, in a fashion like that,” he said. “He must have crossed the wrong person somehow.”

  “Who could it be, though?” Candy asked.

  “Mick was controversial, we all know that,” Finn said. “He sometimes rubbed people the wrong way. And he probably had a few enemies around. They’re checking on all that right now.”

  “But what could he have done that would make someone want to kill him like that?” Candy continued. “It sounds like a premeditated act. Something that must have been planned.”

  “Maybe,” Finn said. “They’ll know more when they figure out where the murder took place and can investigate the scene.”

  “Somewhere along the river,” Doc surmised. “Possibly on a fishing boat.”

  “Or in a fishing camp,” Candy said, “with nets and a few boning and skinning knives lying around.”

  That image pushed all three of them back into silence. Finn tilted his head thoughtfully, while Doc grimaced and rubbed his lower back, as if he could almost feel what it must have been like for Mick. As Candy considered her next questions, her gaze shifted, taking in the area around them. A few of the villagers lingered, milling around the community center, peeking in through the windows, while Carol, Tillie, and the other decision-makers were beginning to head off in different directions.

  Inexorably, Candy’s gaze was then drawn to the riverside, to the spot where Mick Rilke’s body had been pulled out of the water. Though it was a little far away to see any details, and the scene was obscured in part by shrubbery and some of the buildings and warehouses in the marina complex, she could see the silhouettes of the officers and officials sti
ll milling around, although the EMTs and ambulance were gone, hauling Mick’s body to a morgue somewhere, where it would be poked and prodded for additional clues to his death.

  “Do they know anything about his whereabouts this morning?” she asked. “Or last night? Any idea of where he might have been last seen?”

  Pulled out of his reverie, Finn said with a bit of a croaking voice, “Not that I’ve heard of. Again, I’m sure they’re checking into that.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Candy said, her mind working. “And what about that red truck of his? The one he drives in the winter, with the snowplow in front?”

  Again, Finn shrugged and shook his head. He frowned, and his silence answered her questions.

  The police, as he’d told them, were following up on all the obvious leads. They’d be talking to those who knew Mick closely, interviewing his wife, his family, work associates, and customers, looking for a suspect, a motivation, someone who might have had a grievance with him.

  Candy knew she could do the same. She could talk to a few people who knew Mick. She could knock on a few doors and stop by a few workshops. She could ask questions at the hardware store or garden center, which she knew Mick frequented. She could flag down Wanda Boyle, who was probably headed back to her office by now. As the newspaper’s managing editor, Wanda had her ear close to the ground and heard all the latest gossip from her shadowy network of spies and informants around town, which she’d carefully developed and nurtured over the past few years as she continued to solidify her position as one of the town’s more powerful voices.

  And that’s why Candy decided to avoid those avenues of investigation—at least for now. She doubted she’d learn anything new at the local stores or shops, and she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to tangle with Wanda in a case like this again. In the past, Wanda had helped solve a few similar murder cases in Cape Willington, and had even been closely involved in one or two of them herself. But even though the two of them had worked together in the past, they were hardly BFFs. Though the animosity between them had leveled off, Candy knew Wanda still had a temper with a hair trigger and could turn unpredictable at times.