Town In a Lobster Stew Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  RECIPES

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for

  Town in a Blueberry Jam

  “In this debut mystery, Haywood has picked a winning combination of good food and endearing characters.”

  —Sheila Connolly, national bestselling author of Red Delicious Death

  “An interesting cast of characters in a quaint Maine town. It’s not Cabot Cove, and thank God for that. Candy Holliday is an intriguing new sleuth in the lighthearted mystery genre.”

  —Bangor (ME) Daily News

  “A delicious mix of yummy food and a good small-town mystery.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “This is a charming and amusing Pine Tree State cozy in which Cape Willington is vividly described so that the reader feels they are attending the Blueberry Festival. The cast is solid as the residents bring out the ambience of the seaside village . . . A fresh spin to B. B. Haywood’s first Candy Holliday whodunit.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “A winning combination of great characters, warm setting, and mischievous locals will appeal to cozy lovers everywhere.”

  —Romantic Times

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by B. B. Haywood

  TOWN IN A BLUEBERRY JAM

  TOWN IN A LOBSTER STEW

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  TOWN IN A LOBSTER STEW

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Robert R. Feeman and Beth Ann Feeman.

  Excerpt from Town in a Wild Moose Chase by B. B. Haywood copyright © by Robert R. Feeman and Beth Ann Feeman.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47719-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For George, Robert E., and Barbara (the other B.B.)

  And for Verna

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to the staff of Thomas Memorial Library, Cape Elizabeth, Maine, for providing years of good company and helping to successfully launch the first book. In particular, thanks to Rachel Davis for her great publicity and to Joyce Lourie for all her support. Special thanks, once again, to Todd Merrill and Jen Dyer at Merrill Blueberry Farms, Ellsworth, Maine, for providing numerous details about blueberry farming. Deep gratitude to the Maine chefs who graciously revealed the secrets of their lobster recipes, which you’ll find at the end of the book. Thanks as well to many others who provided help and encouragement during the (sometimes difficult) writing of this novel, including Rock, Diane, Laura Leigh, Maryann, Donna, Chris, Freda, Helen, Gloria and Frank, and everyone at Cypress Gardens RV park in Winter Haven, Florida. Warmest thanks to Sheila Connolly for her supportive words and to Teresa Fasolino for her wonderful cover illustrations. Of course, this book wouldn’t exist without the help of Kae and Jon Tienstra, Leis Pederson, and the talented staff at Berkley Prime Crime. Finally, hugs, kisses, and much love for Sarah and Matthew, who both are off on great adventures. (Note for Sarah: No lobsters were harmed during the writing of this novel!) For updates about Candy and Doc Holliday, Holliday’s Blueberry Acres, and Cape Willington, Maine, as well as special chapters and details about upcoming books, visit www.hollidaysblueberryacres.com.

  PROLOGUE

  Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  He knew he had to do something about it.

  Crossing to the antique brass umbrella stand by the back door, he removed the wooden walking cane and stepped out onto the small concrete porch behind the house. He took a moment to steady himself, leaning absently on the cane as he gazed across the well-kept yard, where dusk-driven shadows gathered in the silence. With a sharpened gaze he studied the white clapboard house next door.

  It stood dark and empty. She was gone, he knew. Earlier in the day he’d watched through the front window as she drove away in her old green sedan. She wore the blue patterned frock he liked so much, one of her prettiest. He could still remember the first time he saw her in it.<
br />
  She had looked like an angel to him then, her skin pale and clear and almost luminescent, like fine porcelain, her gray eyes giving him that no-nonsense look of hers when he’d gallantly reached out to take her hand. She had hesitated, then acquiesced after a few moments with a gentle tsk, tsk of her tongue. She was like that, always keeping everything proper. He could still remember the feel of her hand in his—light and cool to the touch, dry yet soft. He had fallen in love with her all over again.

  Yet she had not returned his love, not that day, not ever. Their brief affair so many years ago still shone brightly in his memory. He’d been married in those long-ago days, but told her he’d seek a divorce if only she’d have him. She refused—then and in all the years since.

  Life whirled them away from one another, and for decades he watched from afar as she married and lived a life he so desperately wanted to share with her. Only when his own dear Emily passed away nine years ago, a victim of cancer, had he gathered the gumption to buy this house he lived in now, next door to hers.

  He’d been uncertain of her reaction to this bold maneuver, but she seemed genuinely glad to reconnect with an old friend, and they began to reestablish their relationship, becoming good next-door neighbors, if nothing else at first. In the years since then she had warmed to him, her own husband dead and buried these past twelve years. It was just the two of them now, living alone in their old homes.

  But still she kept him at a distance, always a friend, never a lover. They held hands on occasion, shared a dinner or two over glasses of white wine and candlelight. Every week or so she brought him a warm bowl of homemade soup or a few fresh-baked blueberry muffins. On rare occasions she invited him over to watch an old movie. Romances with Irene Dunne and detective stories with Humphrey Bogart were her favorites. His tastes ran a different direction, toward war movies and John Wayne westerns. But he never let that keep him from sitting next to her on her sofa, her smooth, placid face illuminated by the soft glow of the old Magnavox television set. At those times he had trouble keeping his eyes focused on the TV screen, as his gaze tended to wander to her hands, her knees, her ears, the back of her neck. But he always remained proper, despite his longing. Occasionally she would catch him glancing her way and she’d send him a smile. She never gave him anything more.

  But that didn’t stop him from loving her, from watching over her from a distance. He felt himself her protector.

  He hesitated a few more moments, thumping the cane nervously on the concrete porch as the darkness deepened in the thick stand of trees behind the houses. He tried, but hard as he might he could not see movement in the house again. But it had been there—he was sure of it.

  Pulling the back door closed behind him, he carefully stepped down off the porch and began to cross the yard.

  The grass was moist and fragrant, wearing the deep, glowing green of midspring. He loved this time of year in Maine. Many his age fled south in their later years, but he held steadfast to this close-knit coastal village, unwilling to abandon it because of something as inconsequential as cold weather, or mist or fog, or the dampness that went right to the bones, or the fierce storms coming in off the deep, cold ocean. For he knew that after winter came the season of growth and renewal, when the foliage around Cape Willington sent out those tight, lime-colored buds, which, during one glorious week in May, burst open as shiny new leaves unfurled from twigs and branches.

  He approached her home slowly, his gaze scanning the structure from end to end. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary. That eased his concern some, but he remained determined to investigate.

  The three-story house, which included two floors of living space as well as a full attic, loomed dark and silent above him as he approached it. Gingerly he climbed the three wooden steps onto the back porch.

  He stooped forward slightly and peered in through the thick glass of the back door, but it took him a few moments to realize something was askew. The door stood ajar, opened an inch or two. That made him uneasy, and he took a step back, steadying himself with his cane as he pondered this incongruity.

  Had she left it open by mistake? Or had someone entered the house after she had gone, leaving the door ajar to make good an escape?

  His heart quickened its beat as his mind worked. Something in the heavy silence spooked him, and he nearly turned and fled back to the safety of his own place. Better to call the police and let them handle the matter. They could search the home faster and more effectively than he could.

  But he dismissed that idea almost at once. He would not let himself be rattled like a child. He thought of her and pushed at the door.

  It hinged open with a faint, elongated squeal. He stayed on the porch for a few moments, his gaze sweeping the gloomy interior. Nothing looked wrong so far as he could see.

  He stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him.

  The sound of his breathing was raspy in his ears now, but it was the only sound he heard. He took a few more steps, putting out a hand to lean on the scrubbed wooden table at the center of the room. She had set the table for two, with rose-patterned porcelain plates, fine polished silverware, crystal goblets, and a cream-colored candle at the center.

  His head swiveled toward the sideboard on his right, where she kept the dinnerware as well as a dozen empty ketchup bottles, lovingly displayed, a small portion of her vast collection. These were some of her most prized bottles, dating back decades, to the early years of the previous century. A warm swell of emotion flowed through him as he fondly recalled what had started her obsession with those bottles so long ago. They were scattered all over the house now, on shelves and in cupboards, arranged carefully in glass cabinets, and many more stashed away in closets and cardboard boxes.

  Probing slightly ahead of him with his cane, as if he were looking for soft spots in the floor, he moved forward, through an archway and into the living room. Here the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner filled the silence in an almost intrusive manner. He was tempted to shush it, to tell it to quiet down. Instead, he pursed his lips in annoyance and looked around. The faded, overstuffed sofa and armchair were carefully brushed, fluffed, spotlessly clean, and decorated with large white doilies, which she had made herself back in the sixties, she’d told him once with not a hint of pride. Photographs in mismatched frames stood on a side table against one wall. Many of them showed her with her husband, a tall, gaunt, dour gentleman who never smiled in the photos and always wore a coat and tie. In the photos, he had noticed years ago, husband and wife stood side by side but rarely held hands or touched.

  He shook his head sadly, thinking of what might have been.

  There were photos of her as a young woman as well, including one taken up north with the Lodge in the background. But there were no photos of him in her collection. He had checked, many times.

  He crossed the room and passed under another archway into the hall, which stretched from the front entry to the kitchen at the back. A formal dining room with a large mahogany table and high-backed chairs was directly in front of him. To his right was the staircase to the second floor, with its polished dark-wood banister.

  Sighing, he took a few steps along the hallway, toward the back of the house. The place was empty. There was no one here. He had been mistaken.

  He was about to call out, just to make sure, when he heard a noise from above his head. A creak, as if someone had stepped on a loose floorboard.

  He froze. His head tilted back slowly as his gaze followed the rise of the stairs. Was someone up there? He swallowed hard. He half expected an attacker to come racing down the stairs toward him. But the landing at the top was shrouded in darkness. He saw no one there.

  He heard the footsteps then, as abrupt as gunshots in the stillness. Someone was crossing over his head, walking from the back of the house to the front. To the spare bedroom, he thought. He’d been in there a few times. There was another display cabinet in that room for her ketchup bottles, he recalled. And a twin p
oster bed with a white coverlet. An antique floor lamp with stylized crystal droplets hanging from the edges of its shade. Her trusty old Singer sewing machine, vintage 1960s. And, of course, the magnificent wall-length shelving unit, with its secret document drawer.

  He felt a chill go through him. Could that be what the intruder is looking for? The ledger?

  Determined to find out what was going on, he returned to the foot of the stairs, clamped his hand tightly on the banister, and slowly started up, half pulling himself as he went, coaxing his tired legs to take the steps one at a time.

  He’d climbed only a half dozen steps when he started breathing heavily. He stopped midway to catch his breath, and paused again a few steps from the top.

  As he climbed, he could hear someone opening a drawer, closing it, opening another, moving things around. Looking for something, he thought. His anger grew, propelling him up the last few steps to the top. He stood on the landing, huffing, and clenched his cane tighter in his right hand. At least he had a weapon, and he intended to use it.

  He stepped from the landing into the hallway. It was directly above the one below, connecting the bedrooms at front and back. Still breathing heavily, he first looked right, toward the back of the house, then left, toward the front bedroom.

  The room was shadowed with the oncoming of night. He squinted into the swirl of grays and blacks, trying to make out anything that looked familiar. He could still hear faint sounds as someone rummaged around in there. He moved his foot a step forward and put his weight on it. Beneath his shoe, a floorboard creaked loudly, amplified by the long narrow hallway.

  He looked down, horrified, and when he looked up again a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway at the end of the hall. The figure remained there for a moment, as if appraising him, and then ducked back into the room.