Town in a Maple Madness

by B. B. Haywood

  They were coming from the tin garden shed over near the woods. And, she thought, she recognized those particular barks. They had a certain tone to them, a deepness and timbre, along with an inherent sense of communication and connection.

  Random.

  Neil Crawford’s dog.

  And if Random was here . . .

  She hesitated no longer, starting across the clearing at a quick pace. But a sudden thought occurred to her, so as she went, she scanned the ground around her. Seeing nothing useful, she veered back toward the edge of the trees. She didn’t want to leave herself completely unarmed, depending on what type of encounter she might have coming up in a few seconds. She needed to protect herself, just in case. She needed a weapon of some sort—anything, really. After a quick search, she settled on a heavy tree branch lying on the ground nearby, about the length and thickness of a baseball bat.

  It would have to do for now, she thought as she bent over to pick it up. She wielded it a few times like a sword, to test it, then hoisted it up above her shoulder, ready to defend herself if she had to.

  Cautiously, she moved forward, eyes roaming restlessly across the scene in front of her. She approached the boathouse warily, keeping a good distance from it initially. She didn’t want to walk into a trap. She circled the building twice, making sure there were no surprises on the unseen sides of it, before she changed direction and approached the tin shed.

  On the way, she passed by the picnic table and the black maple sugaring pot hanging from the makeshift tripod. She took a quick look inside, but the pot was empty, though a little slick and gooey around the sides and the bottom. The fire pit looked cold. Just a pile of gray ashes and a few charred shards of wood, no more than small chunks and slivers, remained.

  On an impulse, she bent over and put the flat of her hand on the ashes. She felt a small bit of warmth emanating from beneath the top layer. At some point over the past few days, she guessed, it had been fired up.

  She brushed her hand off on her jeans as she rose, and once more hefted the thick branch.

  It was time to check the tin shed, and find out who—or what—might be trapped inside.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Random?”

  She used a reassuring tone, to try to placate the animal as she approached the shed. She gripped the tree limb tightly in her right hand and held her left out in front of her, as if keeping the dog at bay, even though she couldn’t see him through the shed’s walls.

  Now that she was closer, she saw that, rather than tin, it was made from sheets of corrugated steel, with a metal sliding door in front, now closed. The shed had once been painted some shade of green but, like the boathouse, had faded to an almost gray color over the years. It was perhaps six by eight feet in size. There were no windows.

  She took a few steps forward. “Random?” she called again. “Are you in there? It’s me, Candy. You know who I am, right?”

  She heard a series of ruffs and whimpers in response, and more metallic scrapings. Random was apparently pawing at the inside of the door. “Just hold on,” Candy said, “and let’s see if we can get you out of there.”

  There was no padlock on the door, but it was held shut by a length of wire looped through the latches in the door and frame.

  A few more steps closer. “Now, just hang on, and stay calm,” she told the dog through the door. “I’m going to see if I can open this.”

  To do that, she needed both hands. She hesitated only a moment before dropping the tree branch to the ground. She made quick work of unraveling the wire and slipping it out of the latches.

  “Okay,” she said, stooping to pick up the tree branch and again holding it in her right hand as she reached for the door handle with her left. “Now, don’t get too crazy. Remember, it’s only me.”

  The reaction was almost instantaneous. The door had slid open only a mere slit when a wet black dog’s nose appeared in the narrow space, frantically trying to push the door open farther. Candy could hear his paws skipping on the floor inside, seeking purchase.

  “Easy now, easy now,” Candy said, pulling the door open a few more inches, before it was finally flung aside by the persistent dog, who scooted out in a flurry of wild eyes, flying fur, and a flapping tail.

  He threatened to run her over. All Candy could do was get out of the way. She juggled the tree branch as she jumped aside, out of the path of the charging animal.

  Random was a big shaggy dog, mostly white with splotches of black on his thick winter coat, which he hadn’t yet shed. He was normally a friendly dog, who loped along in a casual manner or chased rabbits and squirrels through the fields and woods, but today he seemed obsessed, focused. He paused to sniff only an instant at her feet, and gave no sign he recognized her as he circled her twice before dashing off in a lather.

  He ran straight to the boathouse and began to claw wildly at its foundation. He ruffed several times in the back of his throat as he did so, and paused at times to expel dirt and debris from his mouth. He shifted his spot after a few moments, digging again at a different location, as if trying to get inside.

  “What are you doing?” Candy asked as she went after him, but she quickly realized what he was telling her. “Is someone inside?” she asked, inching forward in a sideways manner, almost crablike. She held up the tree limb with both hands this time, raised over her right shoulder. There was no time to get backup, to call the police. She was on her own. She had to see it through herself.

  So as Random dug at the foundation, Candy moved closer and closer to the boathouse’s side door. It was closed but didn’t look like it was locked. As before, she took the tree limb solely in her right hand and held out her left to the door’s black metal latch.

  She grasped it, flipped it open, and pushed at the door.

  Random was instantly at her feet, scrambling around her, desperate to get inside. He was gone in a blur. She heard him sniffing and then barking softly inside.

  “Random, what is it?” she asked as she cautiously entered the boathouse. The light was dim inside, and shadows were gathering in the corners. But she could make out the counters, shelves, and braces, the steel scaffolding leaned against one wall, the piles of ropes and canvas, the small industrial machines, the white plastic buckets . . . and the large wooden canoe in the center of the building, mounted on sawhorses, as if in for repair.

  She found Neil inside, under a pile of canvas.

  And the murder weapon in the boat with him.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In her dreams she saw the flashing red lights, heard the sirens, looked into all the stern, solemn faces, listened to all the voices and questions and beeps and buzzes and phone calls and shouts, a chaotic mishmash that threatened to overwhelm her senses. She saw the body of Neil in the canoe, heard the frantic barks of Random, felt her head spin and her stomach churn, and had that dark, empty feeling deep inside her as she thought, in those spare, incomprehensible moments, that the worst had happened to one of her closest friends.

  Neil.

  That thought, that single name, worked on her subconsciously, making her eyes flutter for a few moments in the darkened room, as her thoughts continued to swirl in her dreamlike state.

  Her boyfriend, Hutch Milbright had called him, when she’d been talking to him and Ginny out at Sugar Hill Farm yesterday.

  Her boyfriend? Is that what everyone thought about the two of them? That they were a couple? Romantically involved?

  Candy’s subconscious sensed there was some truth to that, and if pressed, she’d confess that she had a true affection for Neil, but she’d never really considered him her boyfriend. Sure, she loved him, and Random, in a certain way, as close friends love each other. And although they’d spent a lot of time together, and shared meals together, and hugged, and touched in a friendly, mostly nonromantic way, they’d never officially dated, or even kissed. For some reason, their rel
ationship had always remained platonic and had never progressed beyond that. Of course, at times she’d given some thought to what it might be like if they really did start dating seriously. It would, she’d thought periodically in the past, be fun.

  But a boyfriend? She wouldn’t describe her current relationship with Neil that way.

  Could she be wrong? Were Hutch and Ginny right? Were she and Neil really that close?

  If so, she felt as if she was the last to know.

  Or maybe she was simply denying her own true feelings. Maybe she was burying those emotions, unwilling to face them, and what they might mean. Maybe she knew, deep down inside, how she really felt about Neil, but never admitted it to herself, due in part to the emotional scars of a previous relationship that lingered, and in part because she was perfectly content to live with her father at Blueberry Acres.

  She’d had a few suitors over the past six or eight years or so, since she’d moved to Cape Willington following the breakup of her marriage, years ago, and her descent into a downward spiral of depression upon the death of her close friend, when she was still living in Boston, working for a high-tech marketing firm.

  There had been Ben Clayton, the previous editor of the Cape Crier, who had given her the job as community correspondent at the paper, replacing the late Sapphire Vine, who had turned the column into a gossip fest. Candy and Ben had become close, until his abrupt departure from the paper and his decision to head west, to San Francisco. They’d tried to stay in touch, but over the years, life had gotten in the way. They rarely communicated now.

  Then there was the wealthy, handsome, and somewhat elusive Tristan Pruitt, whom she’d met a few years back while running a Halloween hayride with Maggie. There had been moments when she’d thought that she and Tristan might actually have a future together. He had hinted at it himself, and they’d both enjoyed the time they spent in each other’s company. But nothing serious had ever come of it, and she eventually had to let those feelings go. He was too busy, too occupied with family business in Boston, and gone from Cape Willington too much for them to build any sort of relationship, let alone a life together.

  So she’d accepted her life as a single woman, a farmer working beside her father, and had come to depend on the friendship and support of the villagers for any sort of social life, such as it was.

  And, now, this had happened to Neil.

  What to make of it? What did it mean for him, and for her?

  In her dreams, her feelings were as chaotic as everything else, the images and sounds coming and going in random patterns, thrashing against one another in a building cacophony. She shifted uneasily in her chair, felt part of it digging into her muscles and bones. She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead, felt a small drop of drool in the corner of her month.

  The overhead fluorescent lights flicked on. Footsteps approached on the beige tile floor. Candy’s eyes blinked open and shut several times.

  “Oh, hello,” said a female voice. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in the waiting room.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It took a few moments for Candy’s eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. She held out the flat of her hand to shield her eyes from the white glare of the overhead fluorescents—much as she’d held out a hand to try to calm Random. That had been hours ago—and eons ago. Now, she squinted up at the lights before eyeing the dark-haired nurse who had just entered the room.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Candy said the words dully. She was still coming out of her restless, dream-filled sleep, and her mouth couldn’t form the words quite right.

  “Miss Holliday, as I explained earlier, Mr. Crawford needs his rest. It’s best not to disturb him right now,” the nurse said as she busied herself around the bed. Her tone was generally positive, though persuasive. “Besides, you’d be more comfortable in the waiting room, wouldn’t you?”

  Candy shifted uneasily in the lightly padded hospital chair, and looked up at the clock on the wall, but the hands and numbers were too blurry. She rubbed at her eyes to try to get them to focus. “What time is it?”

  “Four A.M.,” the nurse said in a pleasant, bedside tone. “We have to draw a little blood from Mr. Crawford’s arm. For lab work.”

  “Of course. Lab work.”

  It all came back to her then. She was in a hospital room. Neil’s room, where he’d been brought after they’d examined him and run some tests on him. The room was on the third floor of a community hospital near Ellsworth, she now recalled. Forty-five minutes from Cape Willington and the boathouse. Her trip here was a blur, as were the hours that followed. She thought she’d arrived here sometime around eight the previous evening, following the taillights of the ambulance that carried Neil. That meant—her mind struggled to work out the numbers—she’d been here eight hours.

  Eight hours.

  She looked over at Neil. His head was heavily bandaged, and there was a thick patch over one eye. He had a concussion, they’d told her. A moderate to severe head injury, resulting in prolonged unconsciousness, which could result in confusion, dizziness, and temporary amnesia once he woke. But he was alive, and he would eventually recover.

  That thought made her heart swell, though for a few minutes there, she hadn’t been so certain of his survival. And it had caused a panic to flood through her like she’d never felt before.

  Her first thought, upon discovering his body, was that he was dead. His face was still and ashen, his eyes were closed, and he didn’t move. But when she’d thought to check at his neck and wrist, she’d found a fairly healthy, thought slightly erratic, pulse in each spot. That had given her some small comfort as she’d finally called the police.

  The next twenty minutes or so, as she waited in the boathouse, had been nerve-racking ones, though she knew she had Random there to protect her if worse came to worst. Her efforts to rouse Neil had been unsuccessful, though his eyes had fluttered a time or two, but never fully opened. Random had been frantic. Trying to keep him under control had taken all her efforts. She’d closed the boathouse door, just in case whoever had attacked Neil was still around, but there was no way to lock it from the inside. So she’d tied it off with a length of rope, which took her some time to remove once the police finally arrived. They took over the scene immediately, ushering her out of the boathouse, though Random refused to leave the side of his master. Two of the police officers, with Candy’s help, eventually had to carry the dog out physically. There was no place else to put him other than in the backseat of a patrol car, and he wouldn’t stay there alone, so Candy sat with him. Chief Durr scooted in beside them from the other side, with Random wedged in between the two humans. It took a while, but they finally got the dog to settle. Candy could sense the anxiety in him and tried her best to calm him down, stroking the fur on the back of his neck reassuringly as she told the chief what had happened. He’d listened grim faced, not saying a word as she went through the entire day, from her meeting with Hutch and Ginny Milbright to her discovery of Neil’s unconscious body.

  “Fine,” the chief said when she was finished. “Stay right here.”

  Then he’d left the car without another word.

  Her father arrived shortly after that, with the boys in tow, and she told them the same basic story, though a simplified version. Doc had taken Random off her hands—“I’ll keep an eye on him until Neil’s back on his feet”—while she jumped in the Jeep and followed Neil’s ambulance to the hospital. Then she’d waited for what seemed like hours outside the emergency room, waiting to hear about his condition. “He doesn’t have anyone else,” she’d told the nurses and doctors. “I’m his . . . closest friend.”

  She’d almost said girlfriend, but held that word back, for now.

  He hadn’t needed surgery but he’d been sedated overnight. He hadn’t woken since she’d found him. Once he’d been taken to his hospital room, she’d hovere
d in the waiting room until the hallway was clear, then scooted quietly into his room and settled herself in a chair, where she’d promptly fallen asleep.

  “Maybe you should just head home and get some sleep,” the nurse suggested. She was leaning over Neil’s bare arm, drawing blood from him. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve been through a lot yourself. We’ll take good care of Mr. Crawford until you get back. You can visit him again, during regular hours. As I said, he needs his rest now, and we don’t want to disturb him any more than we have to.”

  Candy carefully moved her mouth. Her jaws practically creaked. Her lips were cracked and her throat was dry. She felt groggy, and drained. She wanted to say, Well, you’re disturbing him right now, but she held back. She didn’t want to make any enemies here, or give them any reason to prohibit her from visiting Neil later on. After all, she wasn’t family. For all they knew, she was barely a friend. Best to keep the peace.

  “When will he wake up?” she asked finally.

  “The doctor will see him in the morning, and then they’ll make a determination on how to proceed next.” Her work completed, the nurse slipped around the bed and patted Candy gently on the knee. “There’s not much we can do at the moment. As I said, he . . .”

  “. . . needs his rest,” Candy finished for her, and realized maybe the nurse was right. She’d been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for so long her bones ached. Her own bed sounded pretty good right about now. Besides, she thought, she should check up on Random, to make sure he was getting through this okay.

  She stopped in a bathroom and splashed water in her face in an effort to wake herself up. Out in the parking lot, the air was damp and chill, shadowing her mood. She wondered if she should even drive, and thought about calling her father, but he was too far away, and probably asleep himself right now.