Town In a Lobster Stew Page 5

  As they started dating, she began to find out more about him. After graduating from Boston University with a degree in journalism, Ben started working for a newsweekly and spent most of the next decade and a half overseas, primarily in Africa and the Middle East, but also in Europe and Asia, traveling from one assignment—and one conflict—to another. He had been married twice, but both had been brief—three years to a British woman whom he’d met in Africa, less than eighteen months to an American journalist based out of Spain. He had no children. Coming back to the United States, he had sought a less stressful job, one where he could settle in for a while and focus on local news. A college friend of his, whose father owned a few weeklies in New England, suggested the job at the Cape Crier. After visiting the town and giving it some thought, he had taken the job, expecting to stay a year or two. He was now in his fourth year as editor.

  He was, in many ways, a unique type of a person, Candy thought as she walked along the dark hallway toward her office. Perhaps that’s why he fit in so well here in Cape Willington, where everyone was a little different. Educated and well traveled, he was also essentially a loner, who preferred to live alone, fish alone, hike alone, and work alone. He had varied interests—William Faulkner was an idol of his, as were Ian Fleming and Max Ernst, the British surrealist. He liked to listen to Texas blues music and watch college football, and he loved English soccer. Manchester United was his team. He apparently knew how to play cricket, though Candy had never witnessed him doing so. But he had talked about it a few times over dinner, trying to explain the complex rules of the game to her. She had always found it too confusing, but she still liked listening to him explain it. He had a few close friends who called or visited him from time to time—mostly college buddies and colleagues from his years overseas. But he hadn’t sought out many friends here in Cape—he simply didn’t seem to need them. Candy often spotted him alone, sitting at the back of some coffee shop or café along Ocean Avenue or Main Street, eating a pastrami on rye or sipping at a cup of coffee while reading the Columbia Journalism Review or Sports Illustrated.

  Thinking through it all, Candy had a hard time finding much common ground between the two of them. Was he the right fit for her? It was a question she’d asked herself several times over the past few months. But usually, in the end, she decided she was overthinking the whole thing. Better, she decided, to just take it a day at a time and see what developed. In the meantime, Ben was a good guy to hang out with, and they had fun together.

  The fact that she was dating again especially pleased her father, Doc, who worried endlessly about his daughter’s happiness. And it gave Candy something to talk about with her friend Maggie.

  So, at least for the moment, it was a comfortable relationship, for both her and Ben.

  She hurried past the offices of Judy Crockett, the newspaper’s fortyish part-time sales rep, who floated through the day in a constant state of giggly lightheartedness until she picked up the phone and dialed a client, at which point her steely core of arm-twisting resolve kicked in; and Betty Lynn Spar, the great-granddaughter of a sea captain, who took her name and ancestry seriously. Her shouts of “Ahoy!” and “Full steam ahead!” could be heard periodically throughout the day as she scurried about the office handling phone calls and mail, running errands, brewing coffee, greeting visitors, keeping track of ad accounts and payroll, and generally making sure everything was, according to Betty Lynn, “shipshape.”

  As Candy passed by the office of Jesse Kidder, the paper’s rail-thin, shaggy-haired, lip-pierced graphic designer and on-call photographer, she paused to stick her head in the door.

  “Hi, Jesse. Hey, are you covering the cook-off on Saturday? I’m just wondering if I should take a camera with me or if you’ll be there to save the world from my horrible photography.” As she spoke, she glanced over Jesse’s shoulder at his computer screen, where he was working on a mock-up of the upcoming issue’s front page.

  Jesse swiveled to face her, running a hand over his stubbly face. He smiled indulgently. “Your photos aren’t that bad, Candy. You just need to work on your composition. And your light exposure. And your focus. And your depth of field. And your resolution.” He paused, considering what he’d just said. “On second thought, I guess I’d better take those shots. What time do you want me there?”

  “You’re a sweetheart! Thanks so much. I’m showing up about nine, but if you’re there by ten or so that should be good. We can get some shots of the contestants preparing their stews, and maybe some close-ups of the ingredients—you know the type of thing I’m looking for.”

  He nodded. “I’ll get some crowd shots too—maybe a photo of a cute little girl eating a bowl of lobster stew—you know, human interest stuff.”

  “That sounds great. Oh, and you should probably shoot the judges and stay for the awards ceremony if you can, so you can get a few pix of the winner.”

  “You got it, chief. What time does that take place again?”

  “The judging starts at noon, and it should all be over by one or so. After that, you’re done. I might even throw in a little free food. Deal?”

  “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse. See you there.”

  Candy’s office was next to Jesse’s. She blew out a breath of air as she sank into her desk chair and, with mild trepidation, scanned the messages Betty Lynn had left her, all decorated with little drawings of anchors, lighthouses, and life preservers.

  Nothing negative. Good.

  Mostly she saw the typical things—calls from a local historian, Julius Seabury, who was giving a presentation at the library the following week, and from a woman named Cassandra Rockwell, who had just opened a new consignment shop on Main Street. Margaritte Jordan called about a scrapbooking group she was organizing. A PR person from one of the coastal resorts had contacted Candy about a wellness weekend she was promoting. Finn Woodbury, one of Doc’s buddies, had called about the upcoming auditions for the Cape Summer Theater’s annual summer musical, which would be Brigadoon this year.

  The last message was from Oliver LaForce, the proprietor of the Lightkeeper’s Inn. Candy had met Oliver several times over the past few months. He was a humorless, fastidious man who ran the inn with cold precision. The message, as expected, was businesslike and to the point: Please call to confirm your attendance on Saturday. A press badge will be waiting for you. I have some news as well. We’ll discuss at the event.

  News? That piqued Candy’s interest. Could it have anything to do with the rumors she’d heard of a guest judge?

  She thought about picking up the phone and calling Oliver right then to find out what was going on. But she quickly decided to put it off until later.

  She had something more important to do right now.

  Inexorably, her gaze was drawn across the room, to the filing cabinet in the corner. She focused in on the bottom drawer, the one labeled with only two letters: SV.

  She’d avoided going into that drawer for a long time—but she knew she could avoid it no longer.

  It was time to have a look at Sapphire Vine’s old files.

  SIX

  Sliding out of her chair, she crossed the room and fell into a cross-legged seating position in front of the filing cabinet’s bottom drawer.

  For the longest time she just sat there, staring at it. She knew she was dredging up old mysteries and unwanted problems. She knew she was delving into the twisted mind of a dead woman. She knew she should probably have followed an earlier instinct and just burned the files, committing them to ashes, which was where they truthfully belonged.

  But she hadn’t. They were still here, in her possession. And they were here for a reason.

  With a great force of will, she moved her hand to the drawer’s metal handle. Taking a deep breath, she slid the button aside with her thumb and pulled open the drawer.

  She hadn’t been in these files for ten months, since she’d inherited them from Sapphire Vine, the newspaper’s previous community columnist. Sapphire ha
d been many other things as well, including a gossip, a blackmailer, the reigning Blueberry Queen, a keeper of dark secrets, and ultimately a murder victim. She’d been brutally struck down in her home with a red-handled hammer. Finding her killer and solving the mystery of her death had been Candy’s first true case—and it had almost gotten her killed.

  Last summer, when Ben had placed the files in Candy’s hands, they had helped her track down Sapphire’s murderer. But with the mystery solved and the murderer arrested, Candy had brought the files back here to the office, stuffed them in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, and left them there, secrets and all.

  Some of the folders Candy had opened and perused in an effort to find the murderer. She had not looked at the rest, however, and with good reason. Sapphire had been quietly assembling private, personal, and often damaging information about many of Cape Willington’s residents. And the former Blueberry Queen was not averse to using that information for her own gain. That’s what led to her death.

  So Candy had left the tainted files alone—and had overcome an instinct to burn them and bid them good riddance. She couldn’t help feeling, back then, that at some point in the future the files might come in handy.

  That time had come.

  She leaned forward and started working her way back through the files, carefully checking the labels. She didn’t have to flip back too far to find the one she wanted. It was a thick folder labeled WB.

  Candy pulled it out, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, hesitated just a moment, and opened the cover. Curiously, she started paging through it.

  “Just as I thought,” she muttered to herself a short while later.

  Sapphire had assembled a hefty dossier on Wanda Boyle. Newspaper clippings abounded, covering most of Wanda’s activities over the past few years. Sapphire had also included a few grainy black-and-white photos—apparently taken surreptitiously—of Wanda consorting with many of the town’s more powerful and wealthier individuals.

  That made sense. Wanda did whatever she could to ingratiate herself with the popular folk around town. But after studying the photos, Candy could see nothing inappropriate going on. All the photos had been taken at what looked like public events. No bedroom shots or anyone in a compromising position. It was probably just Sapphire snooping around, looking for dirt that wasn’t there—a modus operandi that had, at times, yielded boffo results for the gossip columnist.

  Candy pursed her lips as she dug farther back into the folder, where the documents were crisper and starting to turn brown with age. Sapphire had included a few pages about Wanda’s husband, who was a building contractor and remodeler, and some brief notes about Wanda’s children—their ages, teachers, and classes, mostly.

  Candy found the whole thing creepy. Even now, nearly a year later, Sapphire’s level of obsession and attention to detail still horrified yet fascinated her.

  She went back and forth through the folder a few more times before finally pulling out the documents she wanted.

  One was a year-old newspaper clipping about Wanda’s volunteer efforts at the Cape Willington Historical Society, located in the red-roofed Keeper’s Quarters out at English Point Lighthouse, just a block or so from here. Dating back to 1857, the lighthouse stood on a point of black rock near the mouth of the English River, which formed the northern boundary of the village of Cape Willington.

  The other document, in Sapphire’s own flowery handwriting, provided details about Wanda’s parents and siblings, including an older brother named Owen, who just happened to be a cabinetmaker and carpenter.

  That had caught Candy’s attention. Wanda’s brother was a carpenter? Could he have been the one who worked on Wilma Mae’s shelving unit and discovered the secret document drawer?

  It sounded just a little too convenient, though, didn’t it? Then again, maybe she’d already discovered her first clue to the mystery.

  She was in the process of stuffing the folder back into the filing cabinet when Maggie walked in.

  Although Maggie was not a slim woman, neither could she be called full figured. She had a few curves and a few extra pounds, yet she carried herself well, with a certain grace and fluidness of motion. She always dressed well, with discreet makeup that accentuated her best facial features—her prominent cheekbones and her dark, flashing eyes. Her chestnut hair was stylishly cut and naturally curly, resulting in a lush and, Candy often thought, attractive look for her.

  Maggie was also incredibly vivacious, a good counter to Candy’s more subdued, thoughtful personality.

  “Hey stranger,” Maggie said, entering the room like a fresh spring breeze. “I saw the Jeep out front and thought I’d stop in to say hello real quick. I haven’t seen you all week. What have you been—”

  She stopped abruptly when she saw her friend sitting on the floor in front of the filing cabinet instead of at her desk. She gave Candy a mystified look. “Honey, what are you doing down there on the floor? Are you okay?”

  As casually as she could, Candy rose to her feet and nonchalantly dusted off her jeans. “Oh, sure, sure, I’m fine.”

  “Well what were you doing down there?” Maggie repeated.

  “Oh, you know.” Candy stuck her hands in her back pockets. “I was just . . . you know, relaxing.”

  “Relaxing?” Maggie blinked several times as she looked from Candy to the still-opened drawer. Quickly her mind registered what was going on. She gasped. “You were looking in the bottom filing cabinet, weren’t you! You were going through her files!”

  None too discreetly, Candy reached out with a sneakered foot and slid the bottom drawer closed. “Who, me? Naw, I was just, um, practicing my yoga moves.”

  But Maggie was having none of it. “Don’t give me that. You don’t do yoga—though that’s not a bad idea, you know. Hey, we could do it together—get us a couple of those cute leotard things, or maybe even capri pants. I’d probably wear black, because of my figure and all, but with your hair color you’d probably look good in a . . .” She paused, catching herself. “Hey, wait a minute. Don’t try changing the subject on me, missy.” Her gaze narrowed on her friend. “You were looking through Sapphire’s old files, weren’t you?”

  “Um, well, I . . .”

  Maggie leveled a finger at her. “Aha! So I was right. And you didn’t even call me!”

  “I was going to but, well . . . it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

  “But you said you weren’t going to look at those files ever again unless it was an extreme emergency. Those were your words: extreme emergency.”

  “Um, well,” Candy said hesitantly, “I guess this is sort of an emergency.”

  “An emergency? But . . .” Maggie’s eyes suddenly widened. “Oh my God! You’re on a case! You’re investigating another mystery, aren’t you!”

  Candy knew she could never keep anything from her friend. She let out a sigh and flopped back down in her desk chair. With a resigned tone, she said, “Well, if you must know, yes.”

  Maggie’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Oh, thank goodness. Something exciting is finally happening! I’ve been so stressed lately, what with everything that’s been going on with Ed and Amanda and all the drama at work. I need something totally different to do with my life for a while. I need something to occupy my mind. And a good mystery is just the thing. So, tell me,” Maggie said as she slid into a folding chair along one wall and tucked her hands expectantly into her knees, “what are you investigating this time? Spill the beans. And don’t leave out a single detail.” Maggie settled herself again. “So, what have you got?”

  “Well, it’s not that much, really. Just a small case.” Candy held out a hand, with her index finger and thumb slightly apart. “Just an itty-bitty one.”

  “Okay, so tell me all about it. No, wait! Better yet, let me guess. This’ll be fun.” Maggie scrunched up her face as she rubbed her chin. “What were you doing today?” She studied Candy with an appraising eye as she pondered her own question. Afte
r a moment, her eyebrows rose dramatically. “You interviewed Wilma Mae Wendell, didn’t you? About that recipe of hers!” Another pause as she thought it through. “This is about her lobster stew recipe, right? And the cook-off on Saturday?”

  “Darn, you’re good,” Candy admitted.

  Maggie shrieked in excitement. “You mean I’m right?”

  “Yes, you’re right. But I didn’t think you’d figure it out that fast. Listen, you can’t tell anyone about this, okay? This is just between us for now. But yes, I’m doing something for Wilma Mae.”

  Maggie’s voice was suddenly hushed as she leaned forward. “What is it?”

  Candy hesitated, but Maggie had been a big help in tracking down Sapphire’s killer last summer. Candy might need her help again. “It’s nothing dangerous or anything like that. She just has a little . . . problem.”

  “What kind of problem? Does it have anything to do with the lobster stew recipe?”

  “Well, since you asked, yes.”

  “Is she giving it to you? Is that it? There are rumors all over town she’s giving it away.”

  “No, that’s not it. She’s not giving it away.”

  “Then what?”

  Candy leaned close to her friend and said in the lowest whisper she could manage, “The recipe has been stolen.”

  “Someone stole the lobster stew recipe?” Maggie said loudly before being shushed by Candy. More softly, she repeated, “Someone stole the recipe? Who could have done such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “And she wants you to get it back for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ooh, fun. It’s the search for the stolen recipe.” Maggie’s gaze shifted toward the filing cabinet. “That’s why you were looking in Sapphire’s old files, isn’t it? You were looking for clues.”

  Candy nodded. “Something like that.”