Town In a Lobster Stew Read online

  Wilma Mae nodded approvingly and motioned toward the shelves. “You’ve hit right on it. Mulroy had an affinity for built-in drawers, cupboards, and shelves,” she explained. “He worked with one of the local cabinetmakers to create built-ins like these in many of the homes he designed here at Cape. It was one of the things that originally attracted me and Mr. Wendell to this home. When we moved in, some of the shelves needed repair, so we brought in a carpenter. He’s the one who discovered the secret hiding spot. There’s actually a hidden drawer—a document box it’s called, used for hiding wills, contracts, deeds, that sort of thing. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She moved toward the shelves as Candy watched in fascination. Wilma Mae gently removed a long, narrow drawer sandwiched horizontally between rows of shelves and bottles. She set the drawer aside on a small table and reached inside the drawer housing, feeling along the side with her fingertip. When she found a slight depression, she pressed it firmly. A spring-loaded drawer popped out of the bottom of the housing.

  “Oh, neat.” Candy stepped closer for a better look. The secret drawer was perhaps eighteen inches wide and about two inches in height—not large enough for a thick book, but certainly capable of holding a number of documents. The drawer, Candy saw, was empty.

  Wilma Mae took a step back, folding her hands at her waist. “That’s where I kept the recipe all these years. I’ve rarely taken it out of there. Mr. Sedley never cared to see it again, and since I quit entering the cook-off, I haven’t had much reason to look at it either. I’ve taken it out a few times to show a close friend or two. But I always returned it to its proper hiding place right away.”

  “What did it look like?” Candy asked. “Was it just on a single sheet of paper? Or in a recipe book?”

  “Oh no. It was written in an old gray ledger, dear. A ledger of his recipes, or formulas, as Mr. Sedley used to call them many years ago. He listed a general description and precise ingredients for each formula he created. He also noted cooking times, temperatures, special preparation details, and the date he created each one. But he kept other things in his ledger as well—financial information, notes on the weather, his observations of guests and staff, that sort of thing. I believe he also tried his hand at sketching and writing poetry, but he kept those in a different book.”

  The next obvious question came to Candy. “When did you notice the ledger was missing?” She looked around for her pen and reporter’s notebook and realized she’d left them on the kitchen table. Drat! She always seemed to be without those items when she really needed them. She’d been trying to work on that but still hadn’t quite acclimated herself to a reporter’s habits.

  “Well, that’s the interesting part,” Wilma Mae said. “Before yesterday, I hadn’t checked that drawer in the better part of a year. But lately several people have been coming around the house asking about the recipe. This one woman in particular has been here three or four times, just in the past week or two. She wanted to see the recipe, and she was very adamant about it. I told her I wasn’t showing it to anyone at this time and that it was stored away in a safe place. And then she started grilling me about it. She wanted to know everything about it—who created it, when it was created, what the ingredients were. She even asked me about Mr. Sedley and my relationship with him.” Wilma Mae became a little flustered. “She was a very prying woman, and to be honest, she made me quite nervous. She said if I didn’t tell her what she wanted to know, she’d find out herself. I started worrying about the recipe, so I checked the secret drawer late yesterday afternoon, when I got home from running my errands. Something about the house just didn’t feel right. That’s when I discovered it was missing.”

  “And that’s when you called me,” Candy confirmed. “So you think this woman might have had something to do with the recipe’s disappearance?”

  “I think it’s certainly possible, don’t you?”

  Candy thought about that. “Perhaps—but how would she have known where you had it hidden?”

  Wilma Mae shook her head. “I’m not sure about that. As far as I know, only myself and Mr. Sedley knew about that compartment—and the carpenter who discovered it, of course.”

  Candy’s mind was working. “What was this woman’s name—the one who’s been bugging you the past few weeks?” she asked after a few moments.

  “Well, I think she said it was Wanda Boyle.”

  Candy felt a prickling on her arms. “Wanda Boyle? You’re sure she said her name was Wanda Boyle?”

  Wilma Mae nodded. “Yes, I believe so. Why? Is something wrong?”

  Candy’s shoulders slumped, and her chin fell to her chest as she let out a long breath. “Oh boy.”

  FIVE

  At Wilma Mae’s invitation, Candy took a few minutes to examine the secret drawer. She could see nothing unusual about it, other than the fact that it was ingeniously designed. She played with the mechanism that released it, pushing the drawer into its hiding spot, then popping it back out a few times.

  She leaned in for a closer look. There were no tool or scratch marks, no signs of forced entry, nothing to indicate the drawer had been broken into. Nothing, as far as she could see, to indicate anything had been stolen from it—or that anything had ever been inside, for that matter.

  That meant whoever had stolen the recipe—allegedly stolen the recipe, Candy reminded herself—must have known how to open the drawer.

  Could Wanda Boyle have done such a thing? Would she have broken into Wilma Mae’s home, climbed those stairs, found this bedroom, and activated the release mechanism that opened the drawer?

  Why would she have wanted the recipe in the first place?

  As Candy pondered these questions and continued to study the drawer, she said hmm several times, causing Wilma Mae to look at her expectantly. But since she wasn’t a forensics expert, she didn’t know what to do next. Look for fingerprints? Hair samples? Fibers? Way out of her league. She was hardly an investigator of any sort, even in the broadest definition of the term. She still found it amusing that people around town thought of her as a detective at all—which, of course, she wasn’t. She knew that better than anyone.

  And here was the proof.

  A helpful note from the alleged thief would have solved the problem—perhaps with an address and phone number to make things easier? In the end she had nothing concrete, no theories or suppositions to offer the elderly woman.

  As they headed back downstairs, Candy tried to sort out all she had just heard and seen.

  Wilma Mae was quite a tale spinner—that much was true. But was anything else?

  Candy was torn. The practical part of her couldn’t help thinking that maybe Wilma Mae had simply misplaced the ledger that contained the recipe—left it out on another shelf somewhere, or in the back of another drawer, or given it to someone and simply forgotten she’d done so. People forgot where they put things all the time. Even Candy did it, all too often, much to her frustration. And Wilma Mae was well into her eighties. These sorts of things happened.

  That was the simplest explanation. But was it the right one?

  Maybe Wilma Mae was telling the truth. Maybe someone—Wanda Boyle?—had stolen the recipe from the elderly woman . . . but again, Candy asked herself, why?

  There seemed to be only one logical explanation: the Lobster Stew Cook-off. Wilma Mae had said the recipe was valuable. It probably was, Candy realized—in more ways than one.

  Because, ultimately, it was an award-winning recipe.

  That could make it very valuable to certain people in town. But was it worth the risk of stealing it from the home of an elderly woman? That was the part that nagged at her the most. Who could, or would, do such a thing? Who would be that desperate?

  Candy almost let out a quick laugh. Knowing this town, she could probably think of a half dozen people, and not even break a sweat doing it.

  In some strange way, it was all starting to make sense to her. Winning the annual cook-off was a fairly prestigious achievement
around town—the newspaper devoted substantial portions of two issues to it. There was no doubt some people were petty enough to steal recipes from one another if it gave them a competitive edge. These sorts of things happened in small towns all the time. Didn’t they?

  And it certainly could have happened here in Cape Willington, Maine, given its overabundance of unique characters.

  Couldn’t it?

  Candy felt a quick chill go up her spine, a mixture of nervousness and excitement, as she realized she might be onto something. Call it intuition, a sixth sense, or what-ever, but she had to admit she was inclined to believe Wilma Mae.

  And that made her pulse quicken, knowing what—and who—she faced.

  Wanda Boyle? Why, of all people, does it have to be her?

  Candy shook her head and absently brushed back her honey-colored hair.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Standing in the kitchen, she told Wilma Mae she’d dig around, ask a few questions in town, and see what she could find out.

  Wilma Mae was beside herself with gratitude. “I can’t tell you how happy I am,” the elderly woman said enthusiastically. “Oh, I can pay you! Mr. Wendell left me a little money. And I know Mr. Sedley and myself would both be so grateful if you could get the recipe back for us. It would be like finding a lost member of the family—that’s how much it means to us.”

  “Mrs. Wendell, I could never take your money,” Candy said honestly. “Besides, I don’t know if I’ll find out anything at all. Just give me a few days to poke around. I’ll give you a call over the weekend and we can talk then.”

  Wilma Mae laid a thin-boned hand on Candy’s arm and gave her a sweet smile. “I knew you were the right person to call. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Candy felt touched. “I haven’t done anything yet . . . but I’m glad to help if I can.”

  She thanked Wilma Mae for the tea, dropped her pen and reporter’s notebook into her purse, and said her good-byes.

  Outside, a cool wind blew past her, tossing about her hair and carrying with it the fresh, newborn smell of spring. The chilly breeze pushed her gently along the front walkway, but the midday sun warmed her as she climbed into her old teal-colored Jeep Cherokee, which was starting to show its age. She cranked up the engine, backed out of the driveway, and drove toward the center of town, her mind still occupied with thoughts of Wilma Mae, Wanda Boyle, and the missing lobster stew recipe.

  It took her only a few minutes to reach Ocean Avenue, a gently sloping central boulevard lined with quaint shops, restaurants, and other businesses. It ran in length only for a long, stretched-out block, from Main Street at its northerly end to Town Park, the Lightkeeper’s Inn, the Coastal Loop road, and the sea at its southerly tip. Its most notable feature was the Pruitt Opera House, which stood in stately fashion halfway down the avenue on the northern side.

  Candy glanced at the opera house as she turned onto Ocean Avenue. It had been there, on the building’s high widow’s walk, that one of the most harrowing experiences of her life had occurred on a rainy night ten months ago. Even now, the memory of that raw, windy night gave her goose bumps as images of the life-and-death struggle flashed through her mind.

  Quickly she shook away those thoughts and turned her attention back to the matter at hand.

  Finding a parking spot along Ocean Avenue in July and August, at the height of the busy summer tourist season, could be a tricky business, but she found plenty of spaces today. It was the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend—the end of spring but not quite summer—and the bulk of the incoming visitors had yet to arrive.

  Still, Candy could sense a definite air of excitement around town. Cape Willington nearly doubled in size each summer, as the seasonal people arrived to open up their cabins and camps, and out-of-state cars clogged the streets and took up all the good parking spots. At the height of the summer season, in July and August, Ocean Avenue buzzed with conversations and laughter as the sidewalks, shops, cafés, and rustic seaside inns filled up with families and couples looking to spend a few days or weeks out of the day-to-day rat race of the rest of the world and enjoy some much-needed vacation time right here in Candy’s very own cozy coastal village in Downeast Maine.

  She pulled the Jeep into a coveted parking spot right in front of the offices of the Cape Crier and across the street from Stone & Milbury, the insurance agency where her best friend Maggie Tremont worked. She thought of stopping in briefly to say hi to Maggie but decided she had to check something first. So she pushed through a wood and glass door, identified as number 21B, and dashed up a set of well-worn wooden stairs to the second floor, where she entered the rabbit-warren collection of offices that housed the meager staff of the Cape Crier.

  She found the editor, Ben Clayton, in his office, sleeves rolled up, hair uncombed, staring intently at a computer screen, and stabbing at the keyboard as he swore softly under his breath.

  “Hi, Ben.”

  “Oh, hi, Candy. I thought you weren’t coming in until tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to her and back to his computer screen, but he didn’t stop typing. His fingers continued to move rapidly over the keys as he got his last few thoughts down before being pulled away into a conversation.

  Candy was used to the maneuver. She’d seen it before. It was simply his way of multitasking.

  “So how’d the interview with Wilma Mae go?” he asked.

  “It was . . . revealing, to say the least. She has plenty of stories to tell, that’s for sure. First we had tea, and then we talked about all sorts of things.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “Well, her collection of ketchup bottles, for one thing. And Cornelius Roberts Pruitt, Helen’s father, who was quite a randy fellow, as it turns out. And Wilma Mae’s famous lobster stew recipe. And a secret compartment in the upstairs bedroom of her house, created by some architect named Mulroy. And, oh yeah, it sounds like we might have a recipe thief around town—possibly someone who’s trying to rig the Lobster Stew Cook-off.” She paused and smiled at him. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  Ben whistled. He stopped typing, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked up at her. “Okay, you had me at ketchup. Wow, it sounds like you had a great interview. What’s this about a recipe thief? And someone rigging the cook-off? That sounds pretty big. You got a story here?”

  “Could be,” Candy said, tilting her head thoughtfully to one side, “or maybe it’s just a case of a misplaced ledger. I’m not sure which, but I’m going to check it out, see if it leads anywhere. Hey, what have you heard lately about Wanda Boyle?”

  “Wanda?” Ben made a face as if he had tasted something particularly nasty, and shrugged. “Just the usual, I guess. She’s got her fingers in about every pie in Cape these days. She was doing some political canvassing last week—either for or against global warming, I can’t remember which. Not sure it matters much, as long as she gets her name in the paper. She’s been collecting clothes and books for the thrift sale at the Unitarian church—helps put a little shine on her image, I guess. I think she’s in charge of the graduation committee at the high school. She’s both a comanager and an entrant in the Lobster Stew Cook-off—I’m not quite sure how she’s going to pull that one off. Seems like a conflict of interest to me. Why doesn’t she just go for the trifecta and judge it too? Then she can make sure she wins the whole kielbasa, which is one of her lifelong goals. And, oh yeah, I think she’s trying to get together an all-female version of a barbershop quartet. She’s obviously going to sing the low part.”

  He paused, his brow furrowing in concern. “So what’s up? Is she giving you trouble again?”

  Candy waved a hand. “Naw, nothing like that. I was just wondering what you’d heard.”

  Ben shrugged. “It’s always the same with her. Wanda this, Wanda that.” Another pause. “Are you doing research? Is she going to be in your next column?”

  Candy sighed. “She’s in every column. That’s part of the problem, isn�
��t it?”

  “You got that right. I guess every town needs a busybody. At least it keeps things interesting.”

  “That’s for sure.” Candy indicated the computer screen. “So how’s the next issue coming?”

  He ran a hand across his rugged face as his gaze returned to the glowing screen in front of him. “It’s coming. The busy season’s upon us.”

  “It sure is.” She tapped the doorway with her hand. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She had just started down the hall when she heard Ben call after her, “Hey, are we still on for Friday night?”

  She stopped, retraced her steps, and popped her head back into his office. “We are, as long as it’s something a little more upscale than Duffy’s Main Street Diner, please.”

  He grinned at her, but she saw a tiredness around his eyes. “I’ve heard there’s a new Italian place up on Route 1. They actually have tablecloths. And the antipasto’s supposed to be pretty good too. I thought we might try it.”

  “Mmm, I love Italian. Sounds good to me.”

  “Who knows,” Ben said as his fingers starting moving over the keyboard again, “I might even spring for a bottle of Chianti. Maybe even two.”

  Candy laughed. “Mr. Moneybags, huh? Okay, you’re on.”

  As she started off again, her smile lingered. After they met last summer, it had taken Ben nearly six months to ask her out. Early on, they had chatted over coffee, rubbed elbows in the office, and occasionally grabbed lunch together, but nothing more than that. Ben had always maintained a respectful professional distance.

  Candy didn’t mind that he took his time. She had simply enjoyed having someone else her age, and single like her, to talk to. But eventually his tone had changed. He became more playful, more willing to joke with her, and as he had lightened up she had sensed his interest in her.

  She had expected him to ask her out on a date around Christmas or New Year’s, but he waited until Valentine’s Day. They had a wonderful dinner together that night, and had been going out together ever since, though usually just a few times a month, due to their busy schedules and all.