Town in a Pumpkin Bash (27 page)

She left the house at nine thirty, first heading northward up the Coastal Loop to
Route 1, then turning west to Ellsworth, and finally swinging south toward Mount Desert
Island and Northeast Harbor, a thousand things on her mind.

After loading up with passengers and freight, the mail boat left the Northeast Harbor
dock at precisely eleven
A.M
., pushing off with a chug of engines, scattered calls and waves from those onshore
and on the boat, and a few toots of the horn. Candy had to steady herself as the deck
vibrated violently for a few moments, and she caught a whiff of gas fumes hanging
in the air. Seagulls whirled hungrily overhead, and the swish and slaps of the waves
grew more frenetic as the captain turned the boat about and pushed the throttle forward.

Candy plopped down on a bench seat that ran along the middle of the rear deck and
watched the dock slide away behind them. The sky was overcast, and the brisk, damp
air carried the smell of the sea. She put her face into it, enjoying the way it slipped
around her cheeks and across her skin, tugging her hair out behind her.

It was a small mail boat, capable of carrying no more than a dozen passengers, not
like the larger car-hauling ferries
that crossed Lake Champlain in Vermont or toured the islands of Casco Bay off Portland.
Before they’d left the dock, the captain had come around to collect the twenty-five-dollar
round-trip fare, and Candy had asked him about stopping at Wren Island.

“That’s privately owned,” he’d told her, “although there are a few unrelated families
living there. You know someone on the island?”

“I’m going to do research,” Candy answered, “at the cemeteries.” And she explained
that she was a reporter from Cape Willington.

He gave her an appraising look and finally nodded. “It’ll be our first stop then,”
he said. “I’ll let you know when to jump off.” And he started off toward the other
passengers

“Will you be able to pick me up?” Candy called after him.

He stopped and turned back toward her. “Ayuh, but it’ll be about three hours. That’s
how long it takes me to make the circuit, with stops.”

“That’s fine.”

“No restaurants on the island,” he added, “and no public bathrooms. Just so you know.”

“How long ’til we get there?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Once away from the harbor they headed almost due south, slipping through the short,
narrow channel between forested banks that were golden brown in color before chugging
into the cold blue waters of the Atlantic. The overcast day unleashed a few heavy
droplets on them, and the wind whipped the sea into a mild chop, tossing up light
spray that occasionally fanned at them. But the mail boat cut through it gleefully
as the passengers settled in for the trip.

Candy eventually found a spot out of the weather, inside the small passenger cabin,
at the end of a bench. She set her daypack beside her and stared out the opposite
window. She loved being out on the ocean. The air smelled sharp and
full, as if it had been infused by the sea, and she took several deep breaths as she
studied the vistas around her. There was a fair amount of marine activity going on
around the islands today—she saw lobster boats, personal motor craft, and several
sailboats, plus a good-sized yacht headed north toward the sound. Cruise ships often
came past here on their way from Portland to Bar Harbor, which was just up around
the coastline to the northeast, before heading to points farther east—though she saw
none of the larger ships today. And a catamaran made daily trips up along the coast
to Nova Scotia, also with a stop at Bar Harbor.

As she took in the landscape, her mind drifted, and she found herself thinking about
her conversations last night, as well as the one this morning with Finn, which provided
a solid link between Sapphire Vine and the woman now known as Emma Smith.

On the drive down, she’d decided that
something
must have happened at the mental institution in Portland during the early nineties,
when the two women had both been residents. More than likely Emma had told Sapphire
a choice bit of news—possibly something about the Pruitts, which Sapphire tucked away
in her devious brain.

But what had Emma told her? Why had Emma gone to Cape Willington in the first place?
What had she been doing in that pumpkin patch when she died?

And what had Sapphire been after? Why steal Abigail’s diary? And where had she hidden
it?

It was possible, Candy thought, that it could be secreted away at the newspaper office,
where Sapphire had worked before she died. Maybe it was stuck in some forgotten cubby-hole
or ditched on a shelf in the back of a closet. Ben had cleaned out some of Sapphire’s
papers after her death, Candy recalled, and the police had taken some of her files
as well, though they’d eventually been returned. Candy had been through much of it
years ago. But could she have
missed something—a lost file, a forgotten shoe box filled with Sapphire’s mementoes,
or a book passed on to a colleague but never returned?

She’d asked Ben about it, in a roundabout way, when he called the night before, but
he seemed to barely register the question. “Possibly,” he’d allowed only as a passing
statement before he moved quickly to the topic that had been the point of his call.
His interview on the West Coast had been delayed again—until late today, Tuesday,
or possibly even until tomorrow morning. “I’m still not sure when I’m going to get
out of here,” he’d told her, sounding frustrated. “If we finish by ten
P.M
. I still might make it to the airport to catch the red-eye. If not, I won’t be back
until late Wednesday. But I promise I’ll be there in time to wish you a happy birthday
in person….”

Her birthday. She hadn’t quite forgotten about it—though in truth she’d kind of tried.
This is my last day in my thirties,
she realized ruefully as she looked around the cabin at the other passengers,
and here I am on a mail boat, headed out to a mysterious island with a bunch of strangers,
chasing a murderer
.

Her gaze scanned the passengers. Most of them wore rain slickers or hooded sweatshirts
against the uncertain day. Many of the men wore ball caps, and some of the women did
as well. A few might be tourists, Candy thought, but most simply looked like working
folk and islanders.

She had to admit that the sudden shift in the investigation was almost surreal in
nature. Just yesterday afternoon she’d been searching for a tombstone in a forgotten
cemetery with Wanda Boyle, and now here she was, headed out to a private island in
an attempt to uncover the secrets of a woman she’d never known. In fact, so much had
happened over the past few days, starting with the discovery of Sebastian’s body,
that she’d barely had time to think about it, to process it all.

Another dead body,
she thought, and that made her feel
even more melancholy. She shook her head and let out a sigh.

Who shot Sebastian J. Quinn? And why?

And what was
he
doing in that pumpkin patch?

Something else bothered her, something Wanda had confirmed—a general feeling going
on around town that
something
else was going on below the surface—something none of them had yet guessed. Was Wanda
right? Were all these murders, or at least some of them, connected?

And if so, what was the connection?

After Candy thought about it a few moments, she knew at least one connection—everything,
in one way or another, led back to the Pruitts.

The wealthy family seemed to have a link to just about every murder in town over the
past few years. Twice now Candy had talked to Mrs. Pruitt on two different murder
investigations. But there was still something she was missing—still an important piece
of the puzzle she had yet to discover.

But what?

Tristan had called her around ten last night, just to check on her, he’d said, to
make sure she was okay—and to make sure she was still going to the masquerade ball
on Halloween night.

She’d almost backed out when he’d asked her about it, almost given her regrets and
begged off. Better to sit at home alone on the night of her fortieth birthday, she
thought, than to entangle herself in another possible relationship she wasn’t sure
she wanted.

But she hadn’t been able to speak the words she’d been thinking, and she’d realized
that, in truth, she found herself feeling a little hurt. No one had said much about
her upcoming birthday, and the milestone that it was for her. Sure, Maggie and Doc
had mentioned it in passing, but no one seemed to be paying it much mind.

Maybe, she thought, that’s the way they thought she wanted it. Maybe that’s what she
was projecting.

But not to Tristan, who had waited patiently on the phone for her answer.

She knew inherently that if she tried to beg off, he’d somehow convince her to change
her mind. He seemed to care about her, and sensed that she didn’t
really
want to be alone. And why should she? Once she’d thought about it from a different
angle, she realized that maybe a masquerade ball was the
perfect
way to spend her fortieth birthday.

At the very least, it would be memorable.

So she’d told him yes, she’d be there—though again, she found herself being asked
out to a formal event with no idea in the world of what she was going to wear.

The last time this had happened, at the Moose Fest Ball back in January, she’d worn
a little black dress Maggie had found for her. It had indeed looked beautiful on Candy,
but due to an intentional mix-up, she’d wound up being mortified. Fortunately, everything
had eventually worked out in the end. A week or two after the ball, Maggie had come
clean and explained to the dress’s owner what had happened. She’d also offered to
make amends, but an alternative arrangement had been struck, and one day Maggie had
presented the sleeveless Givenchy number to her best friend as a gift for all Candy
had been through. “We both thought it looked better on you anyway,” Maggie had told
her friend, referring to the dress’s previous owner. “She thought you should have
it. It’s yours to keep.”

“But how did you arrange
that
?” Candy asked, truly surprised and grateful as she admired the dress again.

“I used my charm, of course.” But that was all Maggie would say about it. The dress
was still hanging in Candy’s closet.

She couldn’t wear it tomorrow night to the masquerade ball though. She’d have to come
up with something else. A costume.

Maybe she’d ask Maggie for help again…if she dared.

They’d angled west out of the harbor, and after fifteen
minutes of traveling at a good clip over the open water, Candy could see the first
island approaching up ahead, off the port side. The captain brought them around the
headland and toward a small, protected cove on the west side, where a single pier
stretched out from the rocky shore. The captain guided them toward it, spun the wheel,
and laid the boat in neatly alongside the dock. A young deckhand hopped over to tie
them off.

Grabbing her daypack, Candy walked out of the cabin and across the rear deck, where
she waited. Once the boat had settled, the captain leaned out of the wheelhouse door
and called to her, loud enough to be heard over the low chug of the engines. “Be out
here on the dock at two fifteen this afternoon. If I don’t see you I won’t stop, but
I’ll look for you again on the last run of the day. That’d be around quarter to five.
After that, you’re on your own.”

Candy nodded her understanding. She hesitated for a moment as she was about to step
over the side onto the pier, but someone else beat her to it.

A craggy-faced woman, perhaps in her early seventies, wearing a long raincoat and
carrying a green canvas bag filled with groceries and a few magazines and books, unapologetically
angled in front of her, stepped expertly over the side, and started up the pier without
saying a word. Candy had barely noticed she was aboard. The elderly woman walked briskly
toward the rocky shore with a determined gait.

The young deckhand, a dark-haired boy of high school age, nodded after her. “Have
a good afternoon, Mrs. Trotter.”

He received no response.

Candy watched the woman curiously before adjusting the daypack on her shoulder. Then
she, too, stepped over the side onto the dock.

With a touch to the brim of his ball cap, the deckhand loosened the lines, tossed
them back aboard, and hopped
over. The captain powered up the boat’s engines again, and expertly guided the craft
away, water churning up behind it.

A few moments later the boat was gone, and Candy was left standing on the dock, alone.