Town in a Maple Madness Page 4

  Candy felt an odd tingle at the back of her neck. She held the phone a little more tightly to her ear. “Who’s they? The one what? And what are they saying about him?”

  “Well, he’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Gone. You know. Permanently.” Maggie stammered around as if searching for another word. Then, bluntly, she said, “He’s dead. Apparently something happened to him.”

  “What?” Candy slowed the Jeep as her stomach lurched. “Say that again. What happened?”

  “Mick Rilke is dead,” Maggie repeated. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I don’t know for sure. They just found his body. It was floating in the river. It went past the docks and someone spotted it right before it went out to sea. Like I said, crazy, right?”

  “Crazy, indeed,” Candy said. She felt suddenly light-headed, but she gunned the engine anyway. “Hang on, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  FOUR

  The landscape whizzed past the side windows as she tried to comprehend what she’d just heard.

  Mick Rilke? Really?

  Was it possible? Was it true? The whole idea seemed, at the very least, utterly unbelievable, even surrealistic.

  Just moments earlier she’d been thinking about him, considering him a suspect in the alleged sap theft. Now, according to Maggie, his body had been found floating in the English River.

  What had happened to him? How had he wound up in the river? Had he drowned somehow? Or had he already been dead when he entered the water?

  Candy didn’t want to let herself jump to that conclusion just quite yet. But Maggie was right. It was crazy.

  Was his death accidental? Or was it something . . . worse?

  She hoped that, whatever had happened to him, it had been accidental, though she knew that might sound callous. But then the villagers could mourn him, eulogize him, talk about how much they missed him around town, and eventually move on. That’s probably what had happened, she told herself. Some unfortunate circumstance had tripped him up and cost him his life. After all, there was no real reason, no evidence, to assume it had been anything else.

  But she also felt his sudden death was too coincidental to ignore, after what she’d just learned.

  Could he have been involved in tapping the maple trees at the Milbrights’ place? Had he been driving his red truck on the dirt road behind their property? Was there a connection?

  “What the heck’s going on?” Candy said out loud to herself, and stepped down a little harder on the gas pedal as she headed into town.

  Even though there was a fairly important community event taking place this afternoon at the warehouse complex, the downtown streets weren’t that crowded. Tourist season was still several months away, and on this mild, blustery day in March, the village had a lazy weekday mid-morning feel to it. People were out running errands and taking care of business, meeting up and chatting, talking on cell phones and getting into and out of cars—all typical stuff, none of it done in a rushed or anxious manner. It was a small-town pace.

  At least for the moment.

  As she drove up Main Street toward the warehouses and marina, she noticed increased activity, and just as she was stopping at the northern intersection with the Coastal Loop, which paralleled the river, she saw a police car flash by directly in front of her. It was headed to her right, toward the river’s mouth, where the English Point Lighthouse and Museum stood on the coastline.

  She followed it quizzically with her eyes.

  That was too obvious to ignore.

  Even though the main entrance to the warehouse and marina area was to her left and half a block up the road, she hesitated only a few moments before turning the steering wheel to her right and falling into line behind the police car, just to see where it was headed.

  It didn’t go far. After a hundred feet or so, it swerved across the oncoming lane and pulled over to the side of the road, where it joined several other police cars. A jumble of them were on her left, parked in the open area along the river, doors open and light bars flashing. They were just across the street from the Unitarian church, the cemetery, and Town Park, where a small crowd had gathered to observe the sudden activity.

  Traffic naturally slowed as gawkers craned their necks to see what was going on. Candy did her best not to stare too much as she drove past, more for safety’s sake than anything else. She didn’t want to rear-end the vehicle in front of her. But she allowed herself a series of quick glances, during which she spotted a group of officers with stern expressions gathered along the river’s edge. The waterfront was relatively barren in this stretch of land, wedged between the warehouses and docks behind her, and the lighthouse and museum up ahead at the river’s mouth. The officers were talking and pointing, and one of them, Officer Molly Prospect, whom Candy knew fairly well, appeared to be writing down something in a notebook. She also spotted a motorboat pulled up on the shore and a couple of men in wet suits standing at water’s edge.

  At first glance, it seemed to confirm all that Maggie had told her, and her heart sank.

  She was still studying the scene when she heard the sharp burst of a siren behind her. Shifting her gaze, she caught the glimmer of flashing lights in the rearview mirror. The ambulance had arrived. Like the other drivers, she dutifully pulled the Jeep over to the side, but the ambulance was already headed off-road, in the same direction the police car had gone, angling away from her across the oncoming left lane, down off the asphalt, and onto the open space toward the cluster of police cars and officers.

  Several horns beeped around her then, traffic got moving again, and she sped up a little. She followed the line of traffic along the curve of the Loop as it passed by the river’s mouth and skirted the ocean’s edge, until she came to the turnoff for the lighthouse’s parking lot. Here, she flicked on her signal and made a left-hand turn, toward the museum buildings and tower on the point of rocky land where river and ocean met.

  As she drove into the parking lot she could see the lighthouse up ahead, and the ocean beyond that. It looked glorious today, bright and windswept, the peaking waves trailing sprays of crystal blue water that fanned out in sparkling arches. The seagulls were out and active; the rocks shone blackly. The crowds were light but as energetic as always.

  There were plenty of places to park, but she chose one as close to the river as possible. After shutting off the engine, she jumped out, pulling her trusty tote bag with her. She locked up the Jeep, slung the bag’s strap over her shoulder, and headed off to see what she could find out.

  FIVE

  She took an indistinct path between the road and the river. It led her through mostly barren ground and low shrubs, strewn with alluvial sand and boulders. There had been some efforts over the years to renovate this riverside area of town, which many felt was going to waste. It was no doubt a prime piece of waterfront land, one of the few remaining undeveloped areas in town. A few old ramshackle buildings had once stood on the site, associated with maritime activities, but they’d been torn down years ago, and nothing had ever replaced them.

  Few villagers wanted to see this area turned into a major development of any sort, such as a high-rise or an office complex. The ladies of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League had been particularly adamant in their opposition to that idea, and skeptical of any improvements at all. Their preference, they’d said repeatedly at community events, public gatherings, town hall meetings, and anywhere else they had an audience, was to preserve as much of the riverside’s natural state as possible. But they’d been open to hearing ideas about ways to make better use of the land, and after much discussion, accompanied by the promise of at least partial funding from a private foundation, a compromise plan was adopted to extend Ocean Walk in the other direction, northward from the lighthouse and museum, around the mouth of the river, then up along the riverside to the warehouses and marina—and ri
ght through this undeveloped area.

  Construction on the new River Walk pathway was scheduled to begin as soon as the weather allowed, probably within the next few weeks, with a goal of finishing it before the tourists arrived en masse on Memorial Day weekend. A committee consisting of several members of the Heritage Protection League, as well as town council members and a few local residents, including Candy’s father, was overseeing the project to ensure optimal access to this area with minimal disruption to its natural landscape.

  Not that there was much to disrupt, Candy thought, looking around at the area as she passed through it. Mostly just dirt, as far as she could tell. She understood the historical and environmental value of it, but it could certainly use an upgrade.

  So could the group of old buildings toward which she was headed.

  As discussions for the River Walk were under way, many had suggested improvements to the warehouse and marina complex as well. Some floated the idea of reimagining it, turning it into an arts and crafts courtyard, with shops, studios, and restaurants. A new name was even suggested for the complex—River Walk Plaza.

  Word had gone out about the idea, and it had circulated around town as rapidly as an infestation of black flies. Right after the beginning of the year, in a surprising development, one of the town’s oldest families, the somewhat infamous and disreputable Sykes clan, had donated one of the abandoned riverfront warehouses to the town, and a plan was quickly hatched to turn the old warehouse into a much-needed community center.

  Although nearly a hundred years old, the building was structurally sound, a local architect had determined, and both a historian and a preservationist were bought in to advise on the renovation. The project proceeded rapidly, as tradesmen offered their services, volunteers lined up to help, and donations of supplies and materials flooded in from local shops and businesses. Everyone wanted to pitch in on the project, and on a wave of enthusiasm and support, the renovation began just a few weeks later, in mid-January.

  Candy’s father became a fixture around the place, along with two members of his circle of close friends, whom Candy often referred to as his “posse”—classic car collector William “Bumpy” Brigham and eBay entrepreneur Artie Groves. All retired and in their late sixties or early seventies, they devoted as much time as possible to the project, bringing enthusiasm and experience with them. The group’s fourth member, local theatrical producer and ex-cop Finn Woodbury, had even returned early from his annual winter pilgrimage to Florida to lend his skills to the renovation. Finn’s wife, Marti, pitched right in to help, organizing group lunches and sometimes dinners in the community center to feed the workers and volunteers.

  Candy had been inside the building a number of times during the renovation, and was impressed with what she saw. Gutted and almost completely rebuilt, it was designed to be a multifunctional space. A large open room on the main floor served as its focal point. The room had a stage at one end, so the town could hold large meetings and concerts in the space. There were a few smaller meeting rooms to one side of the main floor, as well as a commercial-sized kitchen at the back. Some additional offices and meeting rooms, as well as storage spaces, were located on a partial second-level floor.

  Work had proceeded quicker than anyone expected, but despite the pace of the project—or perhaps because of it—all had not gone as smoothly as everyone hoped. Issues of time and money had to be hashed out, as well as the project’s environmental impact and historical issues. The ladies of the Heritage Protection League, especially the group’s cofounders and most vocal members, Cotton Colby and Elvira Tremble, had been particularly involved in the project, calling for a slower pace and a more cautious approach. Snags occurred amid attempts to fast-track permitting and inspections through the town’s offices. Late-night calls were made about problem areas and potential roadblocks, in particular to the homes of Mason Flint, chairman of the town council, and other council members. Owen Peabody, director of the Historical Society Museum, housed in the former Keeper’s Quarters at the English Point Lighthouse, was called in to review and approve portions of the renovation project. He worked with architects and engineers, all on a voluntary basis, to make sure the work proceeded correctly, and sometimes held up operations to make sure everything was in order.

  But, in the end, it had worked. And here they were, in late March, just two months later, with the facility ready to go, and getting its first big test this weekend.

  A lot of credit for the successful completion of the project went to Mason Flint, the council’s chairman, who had managed to navigate tricky waters to keep things moving and keep everyone happy. Candy thought she caught sight of him now, as she followed a rough, narrow path across the still-undeveloped stretch of land. He stood with a group of police officers off to her right, on the riverbank, a few dozen feet ahead of her. His straight posture and thick head of white hair were easily recognizable. On the ground near his feet, a black tarp was stretched over what must have been the body fished out of the water, probably via that boat she’d noticed anchored nearby, and the men in wet suits.

  Even from this distance, Mason looked windblown and haggard—not his usually confident self. As she angled in the group’s direction and approached them, he glanced around and seemed to notice her. But one of the police officers had caught sight of her also. The officer broke away from the group, right thumb hanging on his belt near his holster. He held out the other hand as he started toward her.

  “You can’t come this way, miss,” he called out to her, and pointed up toward the road. “You’ll have to walk along the street. This area is closed to the public right now.”

  “What’s the problem, Officer?” She pointed back up toward town. “I’m with the paper. I was just wondering if . . .”

  But he wouldn’t let her get any closer, and cut her off. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this area is closed off. Please, you’ll have to head up toward the road. You can’t come any farther this way.”

  She stopped, craned her neck so she could see around him, but he took several steps sideways, blocking her view. He patiently swept a hand up the slope toward the street, two fingers extended, but the other hand continued to hover near his holster, she noticed. He pointed emphatically toward the street. “Please, ma’am. You’ll have to head in that direction.”

  There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask. Who was the body under the tarp? Was it really Mick Rilke? How had he died? How long had he been floating in the river? Was there anything suspicious about his death? Or his body? Had he drowned? Had he died some other way. Had he? . . .

  But the police officer’s expression had turned grim, his mouth was a lipless straight line, and she knew she’d pushed her luck as far as she dared—at least, right now.

  So she nodded and pointed up the slope. “I guess I’ll head that way then.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  As she started off, she glanced over at Mason Flint to see if she could catch his eye again, but he was staring down at the tarp, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe there had been another mysterious death in their quiet little village.

  Candy knew exactly how he felt.

  SIX

  She found Maggie standing at the edge of a medium-sized crowd of about seventy-five people or so, arrayed loosely around the outside of the renovated warehouse along the English River. Almost instantly she noticed the subdued mood of the crowd. Conversations were hushed. Eyes darted furtively back and forth. Shoulders were hunched or sagging. No one seemed to quite know what to do.

  They must have heard about the body lying on the riverbank nearby, Candy thought. That explained the hushed atmosphere, but why were they all just standing around? She checked her watch. It was shortly after eleven. The grand-opening ceremony should have started by now. Instead, she saw a mic on a stand near the front entrance to the community center, but no one was behind or near it. No officials or
community leaders were in sight.

  There must be a delay of some sort. She could guess why.

  She came up behind Maggie and tapped her friend on the shoulder. “Hey there, Mags, have I missed anything?”

  Maggie Wolfsburger spun around, chestnut hair flying. Her eyes widened at the new arrival. “Finally! You made it!” She leaned forward and gave Candy a quick hug. “I’m so glad you’re here! And to answer your question, no, you haven’t missed a thing—yet.”

  “Why, what’s happening?”

  A look of exasperation crossed Maggie’s face. “Well, that’s just it. Nothing! No one seems to know what’s going on. There are a bunch of decision-makers huddled together inside the building but so far we haven’t heard a word from anyone about anything. It’s just been total silence. Thank goodness you’re here. Maybe you can find out what’s holding things up.”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” Candy said as her gaze flicked back down along the riverbank.

  Maggie leaned in close and lowered her voice. “It’s shocking, isn’t it? Just shocking! The whole ceremony has ground to a halt since they discovered that body. Have you verified that it’s Mick Rilke? We still don’t know for sure.”

  “The police aren’t talking,” Candy said. “Trust me, I tried, but they wouldn’t let me close. Mason Flint sure looks shaken up, though. Whoever it is, it’s not good.”

  “No, it’s definitely not.” Maggie got an odd look in her eyes. “In fact, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Of course,” she added quickly, “there’s no good time to get murdered, is there? And, as you can guess, the rumors are flying. You stand around with a bunch of people and a dead body turns up nearby, folks are bound to talk, right?”

  “And what are people saying?” Candy asked, her gaze drifting around the crowd as they spoke.