Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery) (13 page)

Five minutes later she slipped into the corner booth at Duffy’s Main Street Diner, taking a seat next to her father. He was with his three best friends, whom Candy sometimes referred to as the “posse.” To Doc’s right, in the center of the booth, sat Artie Groves, while Finn Woodbury and William “Bumpy” Brigham were across the table. They were fishing and golfing buddies who played poker religiously every Friday night and camped out here in the corner booth for an hour or two every weekday morning, and whenever else they had a chance during the day. It was, in a sense, their collective office, where they hashed over the latest news while enjoying their favorite comfort food.

Juanita the waitress swung by the booth to take Candy’s order and then dashed away again. The place was buzzing as usual today, given the after-work and early dinnertime crowd, but the atmosphere around the table in the horseshoe-shaped booth, which overlooked the northern end of Main Street, was uncharacteristically subdued. As Candy settled herself and tuned in to what her father was saying, she quickly understood why.

Doc was providing an account of his trip to the police station that afternoon.

“Took me forty-five minutes to get fingerprinted,” he said, holding up his splayed fingers and turning his hand one way and then the other so everyone could see the ink marks. “After that I talked to a couple of officers and a detective over from Augusta. I think I had to explain my story something like fifteen times. Maybe twenty. I thought we’d never finish. Anyway, they made some notes and that was about it. But while I was there, I heard they’re on the lookout for Lydia. They’re saying she’s a ‘person of interest.’”

“I called her office a little while ago, just to see if she was around, or if anyone had heard from her,” Candy told them, “but there was no answer.”

“She’s probably on the run,” Bumpy surmised, wrinkling his forehead. He was a barrel-chested man in his late sixties who, like Wanda, had lost a little of his winter weight, especially around his waist. To celebrate, he’d bought a few new spring shirts to spiff up his image. He wore a bright green one today. “Though if she was wise, she’d turn herself in.”

“That’s exactly what she should do,” Finn agreed.

“It’s the automatic fight-or-flight response,” Artie said knowingly, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his thin nose. “She must’ve got into an argument with Miles and things got out of hand, so she snapped and hit him over the head with a shovel. And then she panicked. When she realized what she’d done, she left him there and ran. Classic story. She’s probably long gone by now.”

“Could be,” Doc said, gazing reflectively out the window. “If she’s smart, she’ll head north, where she’ll be harder to find. There’s a lot of empty land up there toward the border. Lots of places to hide out.”

“She’s a real estate agent,” Candy said. “She could have property anywhere. Maybe she’s got a rental place that’s currently vacant where she can lie low for a while, or a camp or something like that. She could be anywhere.”

“If they’re looking for her, they’ll find her,” said Finn, who was an ex-cop. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“What will happen when they do?” Candy asked.

Finn let out a sigh. “It all depends on the evidence—what they found in that hoophouse. They’ll question her, of course, just like they did Doc. And they can hold her for a few days until they decide whether or not to file charges.”

“I hope for her sake it’s all some big mistake,” Doc said.

“We all do,” Finn agreed, “but whatever happened, Miles Crawford is gone. That’s going to shake up this town. He’d been out at that berry farm forever, and that strawberry patch of his is as much a part of the community as anything else. Think of the traffic he brought through here. Heck, they’re starting a whole new event that’s essentially a tribute to his product. But what happens now? This town has been buzzing about that berry farm for months, and this will only stir things up even more. Folks are going to want to know what’s happening out there, especially if they sell it and turn it into something else—something we don’t necessarily want.”

“What about the next of kin?” Candy asked.

Finn nodded with his whole head and shoulders. “They’re trying to locate them now.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” Doc said. “They were talking about it at the station.”

“Two boys,” Candy said, remembering the contents of Sapphire Vine’s file on Miles Crawford. When she saw everyone looking at her with eyebrows raised, she explained, “I saw a photo of him today, with two teenagers and a woman I assume was his wife—or ex-wife, I guess.”

“Must have been a really old photo,” Finn said. “He was alone out at the place for years. Now that you mention it, though, I think I do remember seeing him with his boys around here. But that was a while ago.”

“If they do find the boys,” Artie put in, “the place belongs to them. And then the question becomes, what will they do with it? Will they keep it or sell it?”

“Which brings us back to the shady real estate deal,” Bumpy said.

Candy looked over at Finn. “What have you heard about it?”

Finn had a secret source inside the Cape Willington Police Department, and sometimes found out information before it was made public. But he shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard much of anything. This real estate thing hasn’t been on their radar down at the station—so far it’s just local gossip. But now with Miles gone, they might start looking into it.”

“Well,” Artie said, “whoever winds up with that place will be getting a valuable property. With its location and acreage, it’s got to be worth a pretty penny.”

That piqued Candy’s interest. “How much, do you think?”

Bumpy, who was a retired attorney and still followed local business news, shrugged. “We could be talking half a million. Could be talking a million.”

“I heard of a place up the coast—it went for a little over four million,” Finn said.

“Another place on the water over in Rockport went for eight,” Artie said.

Candy whistled. “That’s a lot of cash.”

“Good motivation for murder,” Finn said, which silenced them all for a few moments.

“It’s all about the view,” Bumpy informed them. “They’re raising the property values of houses with scenic ocean views. It’s what everyone’s paying for these days.”

“And the Crawford place certainly has those in spades,” Candy observed.

Doc let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “Yeah, it’s such a darn shame, though. Miles worked really hard on that place, view or not. He had it looking good.”

“Too bad there’s not a way we can all pitch in and keep the picking operation going through the season,” Bumpy said. “Sure hate to see all those strawberries go to waste in the fields.”

“You hate to see any food go to waste,” Artie pointed out in a moment of levity, and Bumpy nodded in agreement.

“I hate to see it happen too,” Doc said. “So we’ll have to see if we can do something about it. Fortunately, the fields are fine for now. The berries need another day or two to ripen anyway, so we have a little time, maybe a week, before we start losing them—as long as it doesn’t get hotter or dry out. But more berries are going to ripen for sure, and pretty fast. If we don’t catch them in time, they’ll start to rot.”

“The fields were well picked earlier because of the Strawberry Fair,” Candy said, and thought that whatever the Fair contributed to the town, there was at least that. “They’re going to need more on the day of the Fair, but Miles made some deliveries this morning, so right now everyone seems to have enough berries.”

“Except us,” Doc said, and his shoulders slumped forward. “I’d hoped to get a few quarts when I was out there this morning.”

Candy patted him on the arm sympathetically. “I’m too busy to make anything with them right now anyway,” she said. “Besides, we’ll all have our fill of strawberries on Saturday.”

“Hey look, here come the appetizers!” Artie said.

“Just in time,” added Bumpy. “With all this talk about strawberries, I’m starving.”

They’d ordered fried mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce, stuffed mushroom caps, and loaded potato skins, and after they’d dug in and wiped out the appetizers, their entrées arrived. Candy had opted for Maine crab cakes with coleslaw and a freshly baked corn muffin, a specialty of the diner, while Doc indulged in homemade chicken pot pie.

Candy was almost finished with her crab cakes, and was discussing with her father whether they should share a piece of strawberry swirl cream cheese cake, when she caught Finn giving her a strange look. At second glance, she thought he was making goo-goo eyes at her. And then she thought it might have been a series of winks.

She almost said something out loud to him, asking what he was up to, but he shook his head so subtly it was almost unnoticeable, the slightest gesture.

She hesitated, and watched as he flicked his eyes to the right, toward the far side of the diner, and then looked back at Candy.

He did it again.

She finally realized what he wanted. “I’ll be right back,” she told Doc, and slipped out of the booth, headed to the restrooms at the back of the diner.

As she expected, Finn was waiting for her when she came out. “What’s the heck’s going on?” she asked in a low tone. “Why all the strange eye signals?”

“I needed to talk to you alone,” he said.

Candy turned suddenly serious. “Why, what’s up?”

Finn lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “I heard something this afternoon that’s somewhat sensitive. I didn’t want to tell the other guys because, well, I didn’t want it to get around town—at least not yet. I’m not even sure I should be telling you, but, well, you’re pretty good at solving these mysteries, so I thought it might help you.”

“What have you heard, Finn?”

He paused for only a moment before he continued. “Well, you were out there today, right? At the berry farm? In the hoophouse?”

Candy nodded but said nothing.

Finn continued, “Then you know there were all sorts of footprints around the body, right?”

“Right,” Candy said, recalling the scene. “Some of the footprints had little flags beside them.”

“Well, the forensics team spent several hours sorting through them all. They’ve identified some of them—most were made by Miles himself, of course. But they’ve identified one set of footprints that they’re particularly interested in. The prints were made with some type of rubber boot. Everyone around here’s got a pair—well, at least, anyone with a garden does. But these particular boots had a unique pattern on the bottom—made to stand out from the others.”

That got Candy’s attention. “What kind of pattern?”

Finn leaned in closer. “It’s a star pattern, on the heel,” he said. “Apparently it’s quite distinctive. They’re trying to track down the manufacturer right now. Then they can figure out where the boots might have been sold and go from there.” He paused. “They’re also starting to wonder what types of boots people around here might be wearing—people like you and Doc.”

He let that hang in the air for a moment. “So a word to the wise: When you get home tonight, you might want to check the pattern on the bottom of your boots. And don’t be surprised if the police come snooping around Blueberry Acres tomorrow, asking a few questions. Just thought you should know.”

He gave her a firm nod, and headed back to the table.

Forty-five minutes later Candy walked into the kitchen of their old farmhouse out at Blueberry Acres and turned to her right, focusing in on a line of shoes beside the door, arranged neatly along the outside wall beneath a peg rack for hats and coats and, farther along, a window that looked out over the porch. They didn’t have a mudroom like many New England homes, so they made do with a series of floor mats and rugs, placed side by side along the kitchen floor. Here they kept sneakers and casual shoes, plus boots in the spring, fall, and winter, and flip-flops and boat shoes in the summer. Though Candy tried to keep control of the footwear, and shift out-of-season shoes to the back of a closet somewhere to get them out of the way, there often could be ten or twelve pairs of shoes lined up along the wall.

Near the end of the row were a couple of pairs of black rubber boots. Even though mud season was long gone, Candy had left them out because they were still needed on rainy or mucky days, though she’d shifted to her low-cut spring boots for most of her yard and garden work.

She glanced around. Doc was still outside, walking the property, as was his custom in the early evenings. Sometimes he walked back through the blueberry fields, toward the far ridge, and sometimes he just made a quick tour of the lower gardens. He could walk into the house at any time, especially if the bugs were biting, so she made quick work of it.

But she needn’t have worried. Both pairs of rubber boots had patterns on the bottom, yes—pronounced rubber nubbies of a geometric design arranged for maximum grip, especially on the heels and toes. But nothing that resembled a star pattern. Not even close.

She set the boots back down and, just to be safe, checked a few other older pairs stashed in the back of a downstairs closet. Same thing, though the boots were more beat up and the nubbies were worn down. But nothing resembling a star pattern.

There might be a few older pairs of boots around the house somewhere, she knew, but they weren’t in regular use. So . . . at least she could prove those star-patterned footprints hadn’t been made by either her or Doc—if it came to that.

As she pondered what it all might mean, she headed back outside, glancing at the clock as she went. It was almost seven. Still enough daylight left for a bonfire.

She checked the chickens, scattered some feed on the ground of their coup, carried a few eggs inside, and then returned to her Jeep, where she started unloading the boxes containing Sapphire Vine’s old files.

Years ago, they’d made a shallow fire pit behind the barn and chicken coop, at the edge of the fields. They’d stacked a few rocks around the circular pit to keep the fires contained, and had even pulled over a few logs, in case they wanted to sit nearby while a fire blazed.

Candy had hauled most of the boxes over to the fire pit when Doc appeared. He came out of the gathering shadows along the northern ridge, dropping down through the thick blueberry bushes, stopping to check them periodically. He finally saw her, waved, and walked over to join her.

In the light of the lowering sun they talked for a few minutes, before Doc looked down, appearing to notice the boxes at her feet for the first time. “What are those?”

Candy explained where they’d come from and what she planned to do with them.

Doc had seen the files a few years earlier, sitting inside the house on their kitchen table; Candy had brought them home to examine them after Sapphire Vine’s death, before eventually taking them back to the office. “I didn’t even know they were still around,” Doc said, his eyebrows contracting.

“I’ve kept them in a filing cabinet at the office.”

“They’ve been there all this time?”

Candy nodded.

“Have you looked through them?”

“Only a few. Now and then. Whenever I needed help with a case.”

“So why burn them now?” Doc asked.

“Because it’s time,” Candy said. “They’ve outlived their usefulness—and I don’t want them to fall into the wrong hands. They might still contain a few secrets that could cause trouble around town. I probably should have burned them years ago.”

That seemed to make sense to Doc. He’d learned to trust his daughter’s instincts. “Need help?”

Candy considered his offer, but finally said, “I only have a couple more boxes to carry over. I think I’m okay.”

Doc caught the meaning between the words, and sensing she preferred to perform the fiery deed on her own, he left her to it with a warm pat on the shoulder. He also fetched matches for her from the junk drawer in the kitchen. “I’ll be inside. Call me if you need anything,” he said. “Maybe I’ll bring out some marshmallows when you get the fire going.”

Once alone, she combed the yard for twigs and branches, then settled onto an old log just outside the ring of stones. Pulling over a box, she lifted the lid and began to empty it, stacking the files at her feet. In the fire pit she laid down a bed of larger branches first in a lattice-work design and covered it with a layer of pages from the files. Over that she made a teepee-shaped arrangement of longer twigs and branches to keep the pages from flying away.

Striking a match, she lit the edges of the papers all around and leaned back as the fire sprang to life. The flames rose quickly.

She let the fire burn for a while to establish itself, and when it was going well, she started feeding in more pages, a handful at a time, letting the flames lick at them and take them away. Sparks and charred bits of paper rose into the air, dancing on the slight breeze. She went through the first box and started in on the second.

As the sun sank behind the tops of the trees to the west, the fields fell into shadow, and the chirping of the crickets intensified. But the smoke from the fire kept the bugs away, for the most part. She started in on the third box, watching as handful after handful of papers were consumed by the flames.

Doc kept to his promise, and after a while brought out a few marshmallows, which they attached to the ends of long sticks and roasted. They chatted for a while, and as she started on the last few boxes, he went back inside.

Night was close when she finally placed the final few pages on the fire and watched them erupt into flame. The longest days of the year were upon them, and the sun didn’t set until around eight thirty at this time of year. But a few clouds had bubbled up on the horizon, blocking out the sun’s fading light, and the twilight deepened.

By the time the fire started burning low, darkness had settled around her. The crickets mellowed out as well, and the bugs dispersed. The wind calmed. She watched the glow of the fire die, until finally she rose and kicked a little dirt over it. Then she carried the empty boxes into the barn. After a last check of the chickens, she went inside.

Doc was asleep in his chair with the TV on, set to some historical program with the volume low. She let him sleep, and cleaned up a little in the kitchen. When she took the trash out to the bins in the barn, she made a last pass by the pit, to make sure the fire had gone out.

As she crossed back toward the house, she saw a flash of light to her left, out along the dirt lane that led to the main road. She stopped in her tracks, surprised, and watched, not sure if she’d really seen something or just imagined it.

But there it was again, a quick flash of light that cut through the darkness.

Two lights.

Headlights.

In the miasma of shadows and grayscapes beyond the well of faint illumination cast by lights on the porch and barn, she could barely make out the black outline of what looked like a vehicle—a low-slung car, parked at one side of the lane, half-hidden behind a fan of dark bushes.

A few moments later she heard a low, raspy voice, calling her name.

“Candy.”
A pause. And again,
“Candy, it’s me.”

“Who’s there?” Candy called hesitantly into the darkness. She looked back at the house. They kept a shotgun in the broom closet in the kitchen. She toyed with the idea of going to get it but she remained rooted to the spot upon which she stood.

Someone called her name again—a woman’s voice, she could tell this time, though still low and harsh.

“Who are you?” she called back.

In response, the headlights flashed again, on and off, so quick and unexpected they made her eyes burn. But this time she was able to better identify what she was seeing.

It looked like a sports car.

She hesitated a few more moments, wondering what to do. Finally she made a quick detour into the barn, where she picked up a hoe, so she’d have something to protect herself with if it came to that. Back outside, she took a deep breath and started walking away from the farmhouse and out toward the dirt lane and the darker shape of the car against the shadowy landscape. She heard and could vaguely see the driver’s side door swing open. A dark figure stepped out, holding a flashlight aimed down at the ground. In the pool of light, Candy caught a glimpse of very expensive-looking shoes.

She glanced behind her. The house—and the security it offered—was receding from view. But she tightened her grip on the hoe’s handle and kept going forward, toward the car and the black-draped figure that now stood beside it, half-hidden behind the opened door. In the reflecting light from the downward-cast flashlight, Candy could make out a thin frame, bony shoulders, pale hair, and even the frames of silver-rimmed glasses and a glint of jewelry.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Candy said, stopping a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

“I have to talk to you,” the figure said. “It’s urgent.” And she turned the flashlight upward, so Candy could see her thin face.

It was Lydia St. Graves.