Town In a Lobster Stew (3 page)

Wilma Mae Wendell hurried about the kitchen in a tizzy.

While the water rose to a boil in its teakettle on the gas burner, she darted first to the cabinet, where she stood on the toes of her sturdy brown shoes to reach the higher shelves, then to the fridge and the sink before pausing beside a silver serving tray that sat on the oak countertop. With practiced hands she arranged the rose-patterned teacups, matching saucers and bowls, polished silverware, cloth napkins, and cookie plates on the tray.

As she worked, she talked.

“I just can’t believe it’s gone,” she said with a quiver of disbelief in her voice. “It’s always been in exactly the same spot, year after year, right up there in the front bedroom on the second floor.” She tilted her head toward the ceiling to emphasize her point but kept her eyes on the tray.

“I put it in there myself, in a special place where no one else could find it. And it’s been right there, safe and sound, ever since James—well,
Mr
. Sedley, you know; I still tend to call him that after all these years, even though he’s always insisted I call him James—ever since he gave it to me for safekeeping. At least that’s what he told me at the time—
safekeeping
, he said—but
I
know he was mostly just tired of all the commotion that always seems to follow him and that silly recipe of his around.”

She lowered her voice just a bit, as if revealing a secret. “He didn’t mind the spotlight too much, I can tell you that. But the truth is it just tired him out after a while.” She reached toward a cupboard, took out a box of sugar cubes, and proceeded to fill a crystal container using sterling silver pincers. “I think one day he finally realized he’d simply had enough of the whole celebrity life and decided to return to his own kitchen for a little peace and quiet. It was for the best. He was always more comfortable cooking in front of a stove, you know, than he was standing up in front of a crowd.”

Wilma Mae shook her white-haired head and made a clucking sound with her tongue. “But he’s a lovely gentleman, he is, my Mr. Sedley. He always has been. I’ve known him for years, longer than I can remember—or longer than I care to admit, at least.” She smiled to herself, but it was a melancholy smile. “I was just a teenager when we met. He was a very handsome young man back then, in his early twenties, with his black hair and lovely gray eyes. The same color as mine! Ooh, all the girls thought he was
so
handsome. We used to talk about him all the time back in the serving station. Some of them . . . well, they couldn’t help themselves, now could they?”

She shrugged, as if that was explanation enough. “But he was already married, even then, to a rather plain woman who held on to him real tight. And well she should. She passed away a while ago—more than nine years now, I think. Yes, that’s about right—it was a few years after my own Milton left me. It’s just me and Mr. Sedley now, just the two of us. Anyway, I told him I’d keep it safe for him, and that’s exactly what I’ve done all these years, right up until now. But it’s not there anymore, is it? It’s got me
so
worried, I don’t know what to do. What will Mr. Sedley think?”

With questioning eyes, she looked over at her guest.

Candy Holliday sat at the kitchen table, perched at the edge of a white wooden chair, trying earnestly to follow the elderly woman’s rapidly ricocheting chain of thought. Candy sat politely, listening, greatly impressed with the fact that Wilma Mae had said all she had while barely taking a breath.

Candy had come prepared for an interview and had set out a pen and reporter’s notebook on the table before her. But she hadn’t written anything down yet. She’d only just arrived when Wilma Mae launched into her soliloquy.

Now, realizing Wilma Mae had stopped talking, Candy cleared her throat. Hesitantly, she began. “Well, I don’t know Mr. Sedley myself, but I’m sure he would understand . . . whatever it is he . . . is supposed to understand about . . . whatever it is you just said.” She frowned, uncertain if she’d made any sense at all.

Wilma Mae gave her an indulgent look. “Yes, Candy dear, perhaps he would, but he
trusted
me with it, don’t you see? And Lord knows what will happen if it gets out in public. Lord knows! It’s fairly valuable, you know. Both Mr. Sedley and I received generous offers for it.
Very
generous offers. But we turned them all down, of course.”

“Um . . . of course.” Candy thought about that for a moment, then finally shook her head. “Mrs. Wendell, I’m sorry, but I’m a little confused. I’m not sure what we’re talking about here. Can we back up a little? What, exactly, have you lost?”

Wilma Mae made a clucking sound with her tongue, as if she thought Candy should pay more attention. “Why, Mr. Sedley’s recipe, of course. And it’s not lost, dear. It’s missing. There’s a difference. That’s why I called you. I’m hoping you can help me.”

“Oh.” The word came out quickly. Candy blinked several times. “Oh, I thought I was here for an interview. That’s what we talked about, right? On the phone? An interview for next week’s issue of the paper? You’re an honorary judge for the Lobster Stew Cook-off on Saturday, right? But you . . . you want me to help you find a missing recipe?”

Candy tilted her head as she considered her words. Suddenly it all started to make sense. “Is this the famous lobster stew recipe you’re talking about? The one you used all those years to win the cook-off yourself?”

Wilma Mae seemed pleased Candy remembered. “Oh, aren’t you smart! The very one! It made the most delicious lobster stew you’ve ever tasted in your life. I won the cook-off six years in a row with that recipe.” Wilma Mae allowed herself a brief moment to feel just a bit smug. “And Mr. Sedley won
seven
consecutive times with that same recipe—which he created, I should add.”

“Wow. That must be some recipe. And now it’s missing?”

“That’s right, dear. It was taken right out from under my nose. But it shouldn’t be too difficult to find. You see, I think I know who stole it.”

Another surprise. “You mean someone
stole
the recipe from you?”

Wilma Mae nodded emphatically. “That’s the only explanation, dear. Someone stole my lobster stew recipe from its secret hiding place. And I need a detective like you to help me get it back.”

Candy feebly protested. “Mrs. Wendell, I’m very flattered, but I’m just a blueberry farmer who writes columns for the local newspaper on the side. I’m certainly not a detective.”

“Oh, but I think you are,” Wilma Mae said with a playful wag of her finger. She picked up the silver serving tray and walked out of the kitchen into the living room, talking as she went. “I’m a good judge of character, Candy dear, and we both know it’s true. You’re the person I’m looking for. There’s no doubt about that. The whole town knows about you and your detecting skills.”

Candy sighed. It was true. After tracking down Sapphire Vine’s murderer the previous summer, she had quickly developed a reputation around town as a solver of mysteries both large and small. Folks started calling out to the farm to ask for her help in all kinds of situations. Most were simple requests, involving missing pets or misplaced items. But some were more serious. One woman asked her to spy on a wayward husband, while another wanted Candy to find out where her teenage daughter went when she sneaked out of the house late at night. One elderly woman even sought Candy’s help in catching a ghost that was haunting her house. It turned out to be a neighborhood kid flashing a light in her window after dark.

Candy turned down most requests—just as she was now trying to turn down Wilma Mae’s—but sometimes she found herself reluctantly involved, despite her best intentions to do otherwise. She sensed that’s what would happen with Wilma Mae.

And, Candy had to admit, in this particular case, she
was
intrigued. Wilma Mae’s lobster stew recipe was the stuff of local legend and highly coveted around town, though Candy herself knew little about the story behind the recipe.

Here was her chance to find out more, especially with Cape Willington’s annual Lobster Stew Cook-off only days away.

So she followed Wilma Mae into the living room, which seemed to practically glow in the warm May midmorning sunlight. Wilma Mae set down the tray on an antique coffee table and motioned Candy toward the fifties-era sofa. It might have been purple once, Candy surmised, or perhaps brown, though its color had been washed clean by the sun and the passage of years. Still, it was well cared for and in good shape, with white doilies carefully placed on its rounded armrests.

As she settled onto the sofa, Candy scanned the room. The hardwood floors gleamed, and someone had dusted recently. A dark-paneled grandfather clock in the far corner kept the beat of time. Atop an old Magnavox TV set, an arrangement of fresh flowers in a crystal vase brightened the place, offsetting the dark, aging oil landscapes and family portraits that hung on the walls.

Opposite her, against the interior wall, stood an antique mahogany cabinet with glass panels of artfully engraved glass. No doubt its very talented creator had intended the eventual owner to display fine china dinnerware within, or perhaps crystal goblets or priceless keepsakes, or even trophies of some sort. But Wilma Mae displayed empty ketchup bottles, arranged as proudly and artfully as if they were indeed trophies.

The elderly woman settled into a matching armchair and leaned forward to pour. As they drank their tea, they chatted about Wilma Mae’s tidy home, the weather, Candy’s job at the newspaper—and the ketchup bottles.

“They’re very dear to me,” Wilma Mae explained with a wistful smile on her face. “I just think they’re so lovely—all those different shapes and colors of glass, not to mention the history behind them. You probably won’t believe this, but in many ways my life has been defined by a bottle of ketchup. That one right there.”

She pointed to a bottle prominently displayed at the center of the mahogany cabinet. “That was the one that started it all. It dates back to 1947, though I have some bottles that are much older, of course. But that one is special.”

The bottle, Candy noticed, was the typical tall, narrow shape, tapering from shoulder to neck, with a metal twist cap and its original label still in place. “Is it valuable?” Candy asked.

“Oh no.” Wilma Mae waved a dismissive hand. “Probably worth no more than thirty or forty dollars, though some of my bottles might fetch a few hundred. But that one is special. It has sentimental value. It was used by none other than Cornelius Roberts Pruitt himself when he was vacationing at the Lodge up on Moosehead Lake in the late 1940s.”

“Cornelius Roberts Pruitt?” The name sounded familiar to Candy. “Wasn’t he the father of Helen?”

“The very same. The Pruitts used to be one of the richest families in New England, which was saying something. They still have a lot of money, of course, and still own a lot of land hereabouts. You’ve been out to Pruitt Manor, haven’t you, and met Helen?” asked Wilma Mae, referring to the Pruitt clan’s current matriarch, Helen Ross Pruitt, who often summered at Pruitt Manor, an English Tudor-style mansion located out on the point near Kimball Light.

Candy nodded. “Maggie and I were out there last fall for tea,” she said, remembering how exciting that day was, and how thrilled Maggie Tremont, her best friend, had remained for weeks after.

“Well, back in those days—the thirties and the forties—the Pruitts used to visit their summer cottage, as they called it, just about every year. They came up right after Memorial Day and brought the whole extended family with them—grandparents, cousins, nieces and nephews, and of course the dogs—anyone who wanted to come. They used to drive up in a caravan of vehicles, with the family riding in cars and all their belongings following behind them in trucks. It was quite a spectacle when they rolled into town. They spent the summer exploring the Maine coast and the rest of northern New England, and they had a ball.” Wilma Mae slapped her knees for emphasis. “They rode horses with the Rockefellers on Mount Desert Island, sailed down to the islands of Casco Bay, hiked up Mount Katahdin with some of the Roosevelts, drove over to see Franconia Notch and the Old Man of the Mountain—they were just regular tourists who loved the region. Anyway, for one or two weeks every summer, Cornelius would visit the Lodge at Moosehead Lake. Sometimes he brought a few of his children, but most times he came alone. He told the family he needed to get away on his own for a few days to cleanse his soul and commune with nature, but mostly he just wanted to commune with his mistresses.”