Town In a Lobster Stew Page 6

  Maggie’s eyes shifted back to her friend. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Candy said dramatically, “that I’m searching for specific clues, in a specific file. Wilma Mae already has a suspect.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t have a cow, but it’s Wanda Boyle.”

  At the mention of Wanda’s name, all the excitement and enthusiasm seem to drain right out of Maggie. The expression on her face instantly deflated to one of total disbelief. For a moment she sat in stunned silence. Then she reached out and took Candy’s arm, as if she were comforting a terminally ill friend. “Tell me I heard you wrong. Tell me you’re not serious.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Wanda Boyle? Are you crazy? You can’t investigate her.”

  Candy understood her friend’s concern. “You think I’m kicking over a hornet’s nest?”

  “Honey, it’s much worse than that. She owns this town. She knows everyone. If she thinks you’re investigating her or that you’re plotting against her, she’ll ruin you! She’ll turn everyone in this town against you. And she’ll ruin me too, because I’m your friend!”

  Candy gave a feeble laugh. “You’re exaggerating.”

  But Maggie shook her head adamantly. “No I’m not. You have to stop this investigation right now. Because if you don’t, Wanda Boyle will destroy us both!”

  SEVEN

  Twenty minutes later, as Candy walked outside and climbed behind the wheel of her Jeep, Maggie’s final words echoed in her mind:

  Avoid Wanda at all costs. Stay on her good side. Don’t ruffle her feathers. Or we’ll both pay for it!

  Candy blew out a long breath of air as she started the engine. She didn’t necessarily disagree with Maggie. But she hadn’t expected her friend’s strong reaction to the news of her latest investigation.

  A short time earlier, Maggie had made a quick exit from the Cape Crier offices, saying she had to get back to work. “Something’s brewing over there,” she told Candy. “I don’t know what yet, but I’m going to find out. Whatever it is, it’s sure got my boss on edge, so I can’t be gone too long.”

  But before she headed out the door, she pleaded with Candy to abandon the investigation. “You’re treading on dangerous territory,” she said ominously. “Just tell Wilma Mae you couldn’t help her, and let sleeping hornets lie.” She left with her final words of advice, her dislike and fear of Wanda Boyle evident.

  That fear had caught Candy off-guard, though she completely understood it. She knew well of Wanda’s influence around town, and the odd power the woman seemed to wield over its citizens. After talking to Maggie, Candy sensed that going up against a force such as Wanda Boyle, if it came to that, might be difficult and perhaps even disastrous—if Maggie was to be believed. Still, Candy couldn’t imagine why her actions would cause any trouble. She was just doing a little poking around. She was no threat to anyone.

  She decided, as she sat listening to the Jeep’s rumbling engine, that she’d have to be cautious and keep the investigation low-key. But at the same time she told herself that, no matter what happened, she wouldn’t let herself be scared off.

  She had told Wilma Mae she would look into the situation. And she was determined to do just that.

  So she backed out of her parking spot and headed down Ocean Avenue, past the opera house, which doubled as Town Hall, past the cemetery and Town Park, to the red light at the bottom of the street, where she flicked on her left turn signal.

  Just ahead, past a wide expanse of black rocks, low shrubbery, and a narrow, pebble-strewn beach, lay the ocean, bright blue and moderately choppy today. She had rolled down the driver’s-side window and could almost feel the ocean’s spray on the wind. A seagull rose lazily on an updraft. Candy watched it until the light turned green, then steered the Jeep onto the Coastal Loop headed north.

  It didn’t take her long to reach her destination. Just a short distance up the road she turned off into a parking lot on her right, which gave her access to the Waterfront Walk and the pathway leading to the English Point Lighthouse and Museum. She pulled out her purse, locked the door, and turned her face into the wind.

  A few minutes’ walk took her through the low shrubbery and down a slope toward the rugged shore, where the lighthouse rose majestically, a round, white tower gleaming in the early afternoon sun. Around it huddled several buildings, including the Keeper’s Quarters and a maintenance shed off to one side.

  As many times as she had visited the lighthouse, she still never ceased to marvel at its stateliness and beauty. It stretched nearly ninety feet into the air, with its iron balcony, or watch deck, at the top accessed by a spiraling cast-iron staircase located inside the tower.

  The Keeper’s Quarters nestled at the foot of the tower, a two-story Victorian-style home that had housed the lightkeeper and his family until the early 1980s, when the light’s operation was modernized. In the mid-1980s, the town took control of both the lighthouse and the buildings surrounding it, turning the Keeper’s Quarters into a visitor’s center and museum. In the late 1990s, the building became the official home of the Cape Willington Historical Society.

  Candy approached the lighthouse with her purse on her shoulder and her hands tucked deep into her pockets. She tilted her head way back and stopped for a few moments to admire it, watching the high clouds scud past its highest point, which made the tower look as if it were dipping to one side. Finally she moved on, turning toward the Keeper’s Quarters. She paused to read one of the descriptive plaques posted outside before climbing the gray-painted wooden steps and entering the museum.

  Inside, she paused briefly to give her eyes time to adjust to the softer light. She had been in there a couple of times before, to peruse the exhibits, models, and memorabilia. Most impressive were the scaled-down models of the lighthouse station, including one depicting all the buildings and the surrounding landscape that occupied a large table at the center of the main room.

  Candy always felt as if she were stepping back in time when she entered the Keeper’s Quarters. The place had the smell of an old home, and the bare, worn wooden floor looked much as it must have in the mid eighteen hundreds. The building’s windows were small, yet from here they provided breathtaking views of the sea just outside. Candy could hear the rush and tumble of the ocean just beyond the walls, mingling with the hushed voices of visitors as they toured the exhibits, which were located on both floors of the building.

  To her left was a table with pamphlets and brochures on it, and just beyond that a long wooden counter, behind which sat a grizzled old gentleman with a scruffy white beard, wearing a patched cardigan sweater and a battered captain’s cap. He gave her a suspicious eye as she walked up to the counter.

  “Hello,” she said pleasantly.

  “Hello yerself, young lady,” said the gentleman, not completely unfriendly.

  “I’m, um, Candy Holliday. With the Cape Crier?” She said it almost as a question. “And, um, I wonder, is the museum director around? I have just a few quick questions for her.”

  “Candy Holliday, are you?” said the old gentleman, obviously a volunteer who manned the desk. “Well, I’ve heard about you. You write that column, don’t you? That community column?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, I’ve read it,” he said gruffly. “Yup, I’ve read it. You’ll have to sign in.”

  He pushed an open register book toward her. “Everyone signs the log book. It’s the rule around here. Don’t matter where you come from—you have to sign it.” He slapped a pen down on the counter.

  Candy gave him an amused look as she picked up the pen, signed her name, and, beside that, wrote C. W. under the Hometown column heading. As she added the date at the end of the line, she noticed that other visitors who had signed in today had come from a diverse range of places, including towns in New York, Pennsylvania, Colorado, and even California.

  “My name’s Mike, by the way,” the old gentleman continued. �
�Captain Mike, they call me around here. I know your dad. We’ve played poker a few times. I’ve lost some money to him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully you’ll win it back someday.”

  Mike snorted. “Not likely. Doc’s a tough player. Merciless, just like that sea out there. He would have made a good lobsterman. I’ll tell Charlotte you’re here. She’s a busy woman, you know. Always in a hurry.”

  “I’m sure she is. I promise I won’t keep her long.”

  That seemed to appease Mike, and with a grunt he tottered off toward an office at the opposite side of the building.

  As Candy waited, she wandered around for a quick look at the museum’s facilities and exhibits. Behind and to the left of the reception desk was a long, dark hallway that led to the base of the tower. Nearby, attached to the wall, a TV screen showed a video of the interior of the tower, including the spiral iron staircase and the view from the outside iron watch deck at the top. Hanging on the wall beside the TV was a sign that read VISITORS ARE NOT ALLOWED ENTRY TO THE LIGHTHOUSE TOWER. At the end of the hallway was a white wooden door, apparently the entrance to the tower, and apparently locked.

  Candy moved to her right, toward an open doorway, which led to another room at the rear of the cottage, facing the sea. A sign beside the door told her the room re-created the living quarters of the lightkeeper and his family as they might have appeared in the late eighteen hundreds. Candy looked in.

  The room was not richly decorated but looked comfortable, with hardwood floors, dark green wainscoting with painted beige walls above, and simple furniture. To one side was a kitchen table next to an old black stove. Dishes, glasses, pots, and pans sat on open shelves. On the right side of the room, a large fireplace was surrounded by several padded chairs, including a rocking chair. A rolltop desk brimming with books, maps, and papers sat in one corner. Victorian lights and decorating accents gave the room a charming appearance.

  Adding an even more realistic ambience were the lifesize mannequins standing in for the lightkeeper and his family. Dressed in period costumes, the mannequins were arranged around the room as they might have appeared on a cozy afternoon in the Keeper’s Quarters. The lightkeeper, complete with beard and moustache, sat in the rocking chair, an open nautical book upside down over his knee and a pipe on a nearby table, while his wife sat across from him mending a garment and two children played a game on the rug in front of the fireplace.

  “Hello, Candy,” said a voice behind her. She turned. A petite, dark-haired, somewhat disheveled woman wearing a frown and a purple print dress approached from across the room, her thick-heeled shoes rapping solidly on the wooden floor. She extended her hand as she came forward. “I’m Charlotte Depew, the museum’s director and advisor to the historical society.”

  “Hello, Charlotte. Nice to finally meet you.”

  “And you, Candy.” They shook hands in a businesslike manner. Charlotte’s hands were small, but her handshake was surprisingly firm, Candy noticed.

  “Yes, we’ve talked on the phone a few times,” the director said, “but it’s nice to finally put a face to a voice. Your column is very informative. We read it whenever we get a chance. Don’t we, Captain Mike?”

  “That we do. I’ve read it,” Mike said adamantly as he took his place behind the counter. “Yup, I’ve read it.”

  “Mike’s a longtime volunteer here,” Charlotte said. “He always goes above and beyond the call of duty. Don’t you, Captain Mike?”

  He gave her a halfhearted wave.

  “I just don’t know what we’d do without our volunteers,” Charlotte continued. “There always seems to be too much to do around here. Without their help, we’d never get anything done. I see you were checking out our new display.” She motioned toward the lightkeeper and his family.

  “Oh . . . yes. It’s very well done.”

  “You know, I created those costumes and made the wigs myself. Everything is authentic, either originals or replicas based on photographs we have in our archives. It took us nearly six months to assemble all the components for this display.”

  “You must be very proud of it,” Candy said.

  “Yes . . . well, of course we are. A lot of people put in a lot of hard work on this. I’m glad you finally have a chance to see it. We’ve been hoping you would stop by soon so we could show it off. Perhaps you can write up something about it in the paper.” She seemed a bit jittery and touched at her somewhat askew hair, trying to tuck a few loose strands back into place.

  “Oh, sure, that would be great. In fact, that’s why I came around. I wanted to talk to you about your new exhibits and displays, special programs you might have coming up, that sort of thing. Of course,” Candy added, seeing Charlotte glance surreptitiously at her watch, “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I probably should have called ahead.”

  Charlotte was silent for a moment. “Yes, well, we are very busy around here today, with the upcoming holiday weekend and all. We have a few special projects going on Saturday and Sunday for our guests.”

  “She’s very busy,” Captain Mike called from across the room.

  Candy gave him an indulgent smile.

  “But as long as you’re here,” Charlotte continued, “I suppose I could spare a few minutes. And I do have some materials I can give you. A recently printed brochure might be helpful. Why don’t we go into my office?”

  She motioned the way, and Candy started off, walking past a number of exhibits, including a large diorama showing the various stages in the construction of the lighthouse station, from earliest days to the present. On the walls hung period photographs and drawings of the lighthouse and surrounding buildings. In one corner stood a Fresnel light, its beehive shape rising more than six feet above its platform. Candy stopped to admire it, and Charlotte paused to explain.

  “The light’s surface is comprised of hundreds of glass prisms arranged in a metal framework,” she told Candy, sounding as if she had repeated the words a thousand times. “The prisms are arranged to magnify and bend the light from a source such as a flame into a single concentrated beam. This particular light can be seen more than twenty miles out at sea, all the way to the horizon. And as you can see, it’s not only highly effective at what it does, but it’s also a work of art.”

  “It’s certainly impressive,” Candy said before she turned and followed Charlotte into her small office tucked into a corner of the building.

  “Please, have a seat.” Charlotte motioned Candy toward a chair and took her own seat behind her tidy desk. “Have you been to our museum before?”

  “Oh, sure, a couple of times.” As she spoke, Candy reached into her purse for her reporter’s notebook and pen. Crossing her legs at the knee, she leaned forward attentively in her chair, brushing back her hair. “But it’s been a while, I must confess. Probably a year or two, if I remember correctly. That’s why I stopped by today. I’m always looking for stories for my column.”

  Although she had been the community columnist for the better part of a year now, she still loved saying those words. It always made her feel a little special, and it was a great way to start a conversation.

  But Charlotte didn’t seem particularly impressed or chatty. Instead, she gave Candy a look that showed annoyance more than anything else, but it quickly slipped away as she turned professional, launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “Well, we do have several programs going on throughout the summer. We have a variety of museum workshops coming up for children, teens, and adults. For the third year, we’re offering an internship program here at the Keeper’s Quarters for our local high school seniors and college students. We’re very excited about that. We’ll host three weekend sessions in June and July for prospective volunteers. We’re currently sending out announcements for that. And the historical society is sponsoring an art and architecture camp this summer for middle schoolers, which is being spearheaded by Wanda Boyle.”

  “Ahh.” Candy’s eyes brightened as
she tapped her bottom lip with the end of her pen. “Now that sounds very exciting. Can you tell me more about that particular program?”

  Charlotte checked her watch again and forced a smile intended to demonstrate her patience. “Of course. As you may know, we’ve had a number of famous architects design homes here in Cape Willington. John Calvin Stevens is probably the most well-known. He designed two homes in town and did some work out at Pruitt Manor. Charles Bulfinch, who designed the state capitol, also designed our original Town Hall, though that’s burned down, of course, but we still have many images of it in our historical archives. William Hatch Wharff, who was born up in Guilford but spent most of his time on the West Coast—he designed more than a hundred buildings in Berkeley and around San Francisco in the early part of the twentieth century—was involved in designing a couple of buildings along Ocean Avenue during the early part of his career. And, of course, several homes in town were designed by John Patrick Mulroy. So we have quite an architectural history here.”

  “Fascinating. Just fascinating.” Candy propped her elbow on her knee and planted her chin in the palm of her hand. “I’d love to hear more about that—perhaps something about Wanda’s involvement in putting the program together?”

  “Well, I can show you an outline of the program, and I’ll see if I can get Wanda’s input. I think I have that file right here.”

  As Charlotte reached toward a short stack of papers in a mahogany wood tray on a corner of her desk, she looked up and past Candy’s shoulder. “Oh, well, better yet, you can talk to her yourself. Here she is.”

  Charlotte rose and motioned to a woman standing in the office doorway.

  “Candy, you know Wanda Boyle, don’t you?”

  EIGHT

  Candy felt a sudden knot in her stomach as she turned to face the woman behind her. This was the moment she’d been hoping to avoid for at least a while longer—well, forever, if truth be told. But this was a small town. It was next to impossible to avoid someone you wanted to avoid. Now she’d just have to make the best of it.