Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery) (2 page)

As Henry “Doc” Holliday pulled his old pickup truck to a stop in the makeshift parking lot near the barn and farmhouse, he wondered where everyone was at.

The berry farm looked suspiciously deserted, especially on this sunny Thursday morning in late June, when the brief but bountiful strawberry-picking season was in full swing along Maine’s Downeast coast.

Where were all the people?

Where was Miles?

Doc squinted out through the windshield at the fields in front of him—six or eight of them all told, including two strawberry patches about an acre and a half each in size, a large vegetable garden with separate plots for pumpkins and squash, and separate raspberry and blueberry patches, as well as a small apple orchard and even a few cherry trees, all artfully arranged along a prime piece of fertile coastline that had been farmland for as long as anyone could remember—then he shifted his gaze off to his left.

From where he sat, Doc had a magnificent view past the farmhouse, through a stand of trees, and down a long, gradual slope to an expanse of sea that stretched all the way to the horizon, shimmering like pale blue diamonds in the morning light.

He turned back toward the barn and fields with a frown.
It sure is a pretty piece of land
, Doc thought, and he wondered, not for the first time, if all the rumors about an impending sale of the berry farm were true. He had difficulty believing it himself. Why would Miles Crawford want to give up this small slice of paradise, especially with that stunning ocean view?

Given the time of year, Doc had expected the parking lot to be full. But a handwritten sign nearby, nailed to a stake stuck into the ground at the front edge of the nearest field, explained the lack of patrons:

NO BERRY PICKING TODAY
, it read.

Doc tilted his head thoughtfully as he shut off the engine. He supposed the fields were closed today to give the berries a little more time to ripen, and the warm, sunny morning would certainly help. They’d had a snowy March and a cool, rainy spring, and everyone in the village was hoping this was the beginning of a warming trend.

Doc climbed out of the cab and stood for a few moments beside the truck, hands stuck in the back pockets of his chinos. He stretched dramatically as he surveyed the property with a discerning gaze. The place was as neat as ever. Miles obviously took great pride in it. The tractor was in its shed. A glance inside the barn revealed neatly arranged tools, a well-organized workbench, tidy stacks of supplies. The patch of grass around the house had been mowed recently. Nary a stray leaf spotted the graveled driveway.

The fields were equally well tended, and some were already beginning to yield. Rhubarb had come first, a couple of weeks earlier, followed by strawberries, which would be available into early July. After that would come raspberries, blueberries, tomatoes, and corn, before they headed deep into harvest and apple-picking season, ending with pumpkins and squash.

It was the circle of life here in coastal Maine, Doc thought as he ambled toward the barn.

Just the way he liked it.

“Hey, Miles!” he called out. “You around?”

He received no answer.

Miles Crawford wasn’t necessarily the most sociable type. He’d been out here at Crawford’s Berry Farm for the better part of thirty years, at least as far as Doc knew. The place was only a few miles west of Blueberry Acres, where Doc lived with his daughter, Candy. They were all part of the same small agricultural community. Naturally Doc and Miles had run into each other at the same farm stores and supply centers, nodded to each other at meetings and events, waved a finger or two when they’d driven past each other on the road. But for some reason they’d never taken the time to strike up a conversation and get know each other better. Miles just seemed to prefer to be off on his own. Some Mainers were like that.

But they also could be helpful and informative when asked. A few weeks earlier, when Doc had been talking to Candy about the possibility of making some upgrades to Blueberry Acres, he’d mentioned some of the things Miles had done over the years out here at the berry farm—such as putting in the cherry trees, and building commercial-grade hoophouses. Miles had two of them. Hoophouses were Quonset hut–style greenhouses made from hoop-shaped steel tubing covered with double plastic sheeting instead of glass or corrugated steel. The endwalls usually consisted of wood frames, also covered with plastic sheeting, with a door at each end. Typically hoophouses were sixteen feet wide, eight feet high at the central point, and twenty or twenty-five feet in length. A mechanical heating and ventilating system kept the temperature inside to around seventy degrees. There were a few design variations, with some of the hoophouses peaked along the roof. But no matter their size or style, they could greatly extend the growing season here in Maine—even make it a year-round activity.

A couple of years earlier, Doc had read in an organic agricultural journal that a single hoophouse could bring in an additional income of ten thousand dollars a year. That got him to thinking. One or two of those, he realized, and they could greatly diversify their crops to supplement their annual blueberry yield. They could start seeds while it was still cold outside, have crops earlier, and get their revenue streams going quicker. They could branch out to things like early tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, cucumbers, herbs, even flowers. And they could work with the local co-op, which would distribute their products to other wholesale and retail outlets across the region.

It was, Doc thought, a very appealing idea.

He had planned on calling Miles to ask about his hoophouses, to get some idea of what was involved in putting one up, but by chance they’d run into each other at Gumm’s Hardware Store in town a week earlier. They’d started talking, Doc had asked a few questions, and Miles had extended an invitation to visit on this Thursday morning for a walkthrough of both hoophouses.

So here was Doc. But no Miles in sight.

Doc surveyed his surroundings a few more moments, then ambled tentatively to the open barn door. He peered inside, just to make sure Miles wasn’t working away quietly and obliviously in some dark back corner of the building. But the place was empty and silent. Not a stray scrap of paper. Not a bale of hay or a bag of topsoil out of place. Not a mouse or a barn cat. Strangely untouched, like a carefully preserved museum. And a little unsettling.

Doc scratched his head. Surely Miles had to be around here somewhere. Had Doc mixed up the date or time?

He turned back toward the house and squinted against the reflecting sunlight off the windows. A white late-model truck and an older green station wagon were parked to one side of the building. Doc had seen both vehicles many times before, while passing Miles on the road.

His vehicles were here. So where was Miles?

Probably in one of the back fields, Doc guessed, so he moved on, circling around the side of the barn and heading back along the vegetable garden, which occupied a fairly large plot between the barn and the house. He moved with his usual lopsided gait, the result of an injury while bicycling many years ago. But he’d never let it slow him down.

He followed a path that led out past the barn to the edge of the first strawberry patch, where he stopped and studied the landscape again. A breeze blew down from the northwest, tousling his gray hair, but he barely noticed. From here he could see the small maple sugaring house, off in the woods behind the house, and he had a better view of the second strawberry patch, toward the west, and the two hoophouses that bracketed it.

Perhaps that’s where Miles is, in one of the hoophouses
, Doc thought, and he started off again toward the closest one. When he reached it, he peered inside and then entered hesitantly.

Less than a minute later he emerged, his face white, covered in a sheen of sweat. He was moving quickly now, hopping along as best he could, heading toward the house, until he remembered he was carrying a cell phone with him.

He cursed himself for his forgetfulness as he stopped and fished it out of his pocket. He fumbled it a bit, out of breath, as he flipped it open. He’d never upgraded to one of those fancy smart phones like his daughter had. He preferred the old tried-and-true technology of five years ago. It worked just fine for his purposes.

With fumbling fingers, he pressed out the keys 9-1-1 on the phone, then hit the send button. He held the phone to his ear and waited while it rang at the other end of the line, his mind racing.

Miles Crawford
, he thought.
It can’t be possible. . . .

When a voice answered the call, asking the nature of his emergency, Doc said, in as clear a tone as he could manage, “You’d better connect me with the police. This is Henry Holliday. I’m out at Crawford’s Berry Farm. I think there’s been a murder.”

“Wait until you see what Herr Georg has cooked up this time!” Maggie Tremont said as she came breezing through the doorway that led to the bakery shop’s kitchen in the back. Her hair was up in a net and her arms were lightly dusted with flour. “He’s outdone himself! You’ll be amazed.”

Candy Holliday dropped into a vacant chair at a small oak table by the front window, set her tote bag down at her feet, and tilted her head upward, sniffing the aromas. “Let me guess. Something with strawberries?”

“Fresh from the berry farm,” Maggie confirmed happily. “Miles Crawford dropped them off first thing this morning. You should see how plump and juicy they are. I don’t know what he does out at that farm of his, but whatever it is, it’s working. He grows the biggest, tastiest berries in the region.”

“I bet Herr Georg had a field day with those.”

“He’s had the ovens fired up all morning. And the place has been hopping ever since we opened. We had lines out the door an hour ago. This is the first lull today. Tea?”

Without waiting for an answer, Maggie scooted behind the counter just as several more customers entered the shop, setting off a tingling bell over the door. She greeted them with a smile and a wave as she busied herself with cups, saucers, and teapots. “Welcome to the Black Forest Bakery,” she said lightly as she worked. “If this is your first time here, we have pastries, cakes, and other fresh-baked goods in the glass display cases, and imported packaged items on the shelves and counters around the shop. We can also ship just about anywhere in the country. Are you folks from around here?”

As is turned out, the customers were from New York, which led to a discussion about home states, local destinations, cars, hotels, traveling with kids, strawberry-picking season, the weather, the latest meet-up of the Yankees and the Red Sox, the new sports shop down the street, several other new businesses in town, some of the places up and down the street where Maggie had worked previously, like the dry cleaner’s and the old Stone & Milbury insurance agency, and finally her own current situation.

“I’ve only been working here for three weeks, and I love it!” Maggie exclaimed as she brought out a tea tray for Candy. She set down the teapot, two delicate cups, silverware, a sugar bowl, and a small plate of baked goodies, but left Candy to pour as she hurried back to her duties behind the counter. “I’ve learned so much!” she continued, barely taking a moment to breathe. “And Herr Georg, our baker, has just been wonderful to work with. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s very passionate about what he does. He’s such a sweetheart too. And so talented! He made these strawberry tarts this morning. You really should try one. They’re guaranteed to melt in your mouth. Here, I’ll get you a sample. . . .”

Five minutes later, with the customers happily settled at a nearby table, Maggie dropped into the chair opposite Candy. “I hate to sit in front of customers but I just need a minute off my feet,” she said, raising her legs and wiggling her toes inside her sneakers. “I’ve been up since six
A.M
.! I’m not used to these baker’s hours.”

“They rise before the sun, I know,” Candy said, the voice of experience. She had worked part-time at Herr Georg’s bakery for the past few years, until she’d had to give it up because of time constraints. “So you seem pretty happy here. I assume everything’s working out okay with the new job?”

“It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Maggie said, suddenly earnest as she leaned in close to her friend and spoke in low tones. “I feel like I have a new lease on life. And Herr Georg has been so helpful! He’s taught me all sorts of things. And I’m getting pretty good at it. I’m thinking of making a career out of this—if I can get used to the hours!”

Candy patted her hand. “You’ll be fine. I’m just glad everything worked out the way it did.”

“Well, if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“I hated to leave, but I had no choice,” Candy admitted, a bit wistfully as she looked around the shop. “I couldn’t do both jobs—well, three jobs, if you count the farm. I loved working for Herr Georg, but things just got too crazy over at the newspaper. You know what it’s like. It’s been that way ever since Ben left town.”

She paused, and for a moment her heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. She hadn’t thought about Ben Clayton in a while—well, at least in a day or two.

Could she still be missing him after all this time?

Ben was the former editor of the
Cape Crier
, the village’s local paper. He had held the job for several years, and he’d hired Candy as the publication’s community correspondent. But a little more than eighteen months ago he had resigned abruptly and moved out West. Since then, there’d been two other editors at the
Crier
. One had lasted five months, the other seven. Owing to the frequent personnel changes and resulting confusion in the office, the paper lost its focus and some of its steam. Sales dropped, and there were rumors they’d be shut down. But right after the beginning of the year a regional media conglomerate based in Portland had unexpectedly purchased the
Crier
and given it new breath. They’d also asked Candy to take over temporarily as interim editor until they brought in a new full-time editor and publisher.

After giving it a lot of thought, she’d agreed to step into Ben’s old shoes, though somewhat reluctantly—she still had a blueberry farm to run, she frequently reminded herself—but her father had insisted she grab the opportunity, and she had come to enjoy her job at the paper. It was more work than she’d expected, no doubt, but it also had its exciting moments, and its rewarding ones as well. And fortunately, thanks to a few editorial changes she’d made, she’d managed to stabilize sales and even increase circulation, which gained the attention of the head office.

She’d been the paper’s interim editor for more than five months now, with no idea of how much longer she’d be doing the job. So for the time being, she was sitting in Ben’s old chair, working at his computer, just trying to get the paper out on schedule. She’d had some trepidation about the job at first, wondering if she might be getting in over her head, but she soon found that she’d learned a lot from Ben while working with him. She’d located some of his old schedules and editorial planners, which helped her get things back on track. She’d also managed to resolve some budget issues, and found that she could hire a few extra freelance writers to help her create copy for the now-biweekly publication.

Still, it was a lot of work, and took her away from the farm, which worried her. She knew there were other things she should be doing instead of sitting in an office all day typing away at a computer—things like yanking weeds out of the vegetable garden or walking the blueberry fields with a sweep net, checking for spanworms and flea beetles. Or clearing out that thin patch of woods at the top of the ridge west of the farmhouse, so they could expand their fields—or leveling out the spot behind the barn where they planned to build a hoophouse, possibly this fall, right after harvest, if they could put the money together. . . .

“Well,” Maggie said, bringing her back to the moment, “if you hadn’t recommended me for this job, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

“Then it all worked out for the best. This is a perfect match for you,” Candy said, “and Herr Georg obviously loves having you around. Besides, he needs someone who can work here more than two days a week, like I did. And with the paper and the farm, I just didn’t have the extra time.”

“I know!” Maggie said, brightening. “I’m up to almost twenty-five hours a week now, and I’m learning a trade. All thanks to you.” She raised her teacup, gently clinked it against Candy’s, and together they sipped.

“So,” Candy said after a few moments as her nose caught some disparate scents, causing her to crane her head around, “what exactly
is
Herr Georg cooking up back there?”

Maggie gave her a look of mock surprise. “You mean the Great Detective hasn’t figured it out yet?” She smiled slyly at her friend. “You used to work for him, so you’re familiar with a lot of his recipes, right? And you used to be a pretty good detective. Why don’t you take a guess?”

“
Used
to be?” Candy’s arched an eyebrow at the challenge. “Think I need help sharpening my detecting skills?”

Maggie gave her an innocent look. “Well, it
has
been a while since we’ve had any excitement around here, hasn’t it? Not since . . . well, not since your fortieth birthday party, if I remember correctly—right around the time Ben left town. So yes, you probably could use the practice. Consider it professional training.” She placed her feet firmly on the ground, planted an elbow on the table before her, placed her chin in an upturned palm, and said in a challenging tone, “So, what do
you
think he’s making?”

“I think,” Candy said as her cornflower blue eyes twinkled devilishly, “that I detect a hint of cinnamon.”

Maggie scrunched up her nose. “You have to be more specific. What else?”

“Well, let me see.” Candy closed her eyes, crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair, and inhaled deeply. After a moment, with her eyes still shut, she said, “The most obvious possibility is a strawberry shortcake, but that seems too simple for Herr Georg. So is a traditional strawberry pie—although I’m sure he’ll make both of those before the week is out. But I’d expect something a little fancier from him.” She paused a moment, still sniffing the air. “He could be making a strawberry Black Forest cake, which is scrumptious, but I don’t think he uses cinnamon in that. So my guess is it’s some type of
obstkuchen
—a torte or multilayered cake, using some type of fruit—in this case strawberries, of course. And maybe with a few tablespoons of cinnamon sugar added in?” She opened her eyes and raised an eyebrow. “So how’d I do?”

Maggie looked impressed. “I guess you haven’t lost your detecting skills at all.”

“And there’s something else too. Homemade whipped cream?”

“Key lime strawberry whipped cream,” Maggie admitted, letting out a breath, as if she’d been deflated. “You must have peeked!”

“Actually,” Candy said with a sly smile, “he made it two years ago when I worked here. And if I remember correctly, it was fantastic. I can’t wait to taste it again.”

As if on cue, Herr Georg Wolfsburger, the mustachioed proprietor of the Black Forest Bakery, emerged from the back kitchen carrying a glass platter high in the air, held up by his splayed fingers. On it was the strawberry
obstkuchen.

“Ah, Candy,
meine liebchen
, here you are,” the baker said to her with a toothy grin. “I thought I heard your voice. You are here just in time to taste my latest creation!”

It was almost too pretty to eat, still warm from the oven and topped by a circle of small, perfectly ripened berries set delicately into the whipped cream.

Maggie was right. Miles Crawford grew the most beautiful berries this side of the Mississippi.

Herr Georg cut a delicate slice for her, topped it with a dollop of whipped cream and a strawberry, and set it down in front of her. She was just about to dig in when she was distracted by the sound of a siren. A moment later, her cell phone rang in her back pocket.

It was her father.

She listened to his latest news in shock, her face turning pale. When she finally lowered the phone and keyed off the call, she stared out the window into the distance for a few moments, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it. We were just talking about him.”

“Talking about who, honey?” Maggie asked, concern evident in her tone.

Candy looked over at her friend, and then up at Herr Georg. She could hardly find the words to tell them what she’d just learned.

“That was my dad on the phone. He found a dead body in the hoophouse out at the berry farm.”

Her mouth had gone completely dry. She had to stop for a moment before she continued. “It’s Miles Crawford.”