Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery) (23 page)

The full weight of what she’d just learned hit her a moment later.

Mrs. Fairweather’s niece is Morgan Sykes Kingsbury, executive vice president of the New York–based Wyborne Whittle Kingsbury LLC—the same firm that was secretly trying to buy Crawford’s Berry Farm.

Her eyes opened wide as she let out a long breath. That could mean a thousand things, she thought—or it could mean nothing at all. It could provide an explanation for the murder of Miles Crawford—or it could simply be a coincidence, a strange, unconnected sequence of events and incriminating facts that could be easily explained away once she talked to the right people.

She cautioned herself to think everything through carefully before she proceeded.

And that was exactly what she intended to do.

Morgan Sykes.

In the past few years, Candy had dealt with two other members of the Sykes family—brothers Roger and Porter Sykes, scions of the wealthy Massachusetts-based clan—and those encounters had not been totally pleasant. Were the brothers related to Morgan? Siblings, perhaps? Cousins? Distant relatives?

Certainly there must be some connection.

No matter which way she looked at it, the coincidences were just too obvious to ignore, she decided.

That led to a trickier question:

Could Morgan Sykes Kingsbury have killed Miles Crawford—and then poisoned Lydia St. Graves, leading to her death in a car accident?

She’d certainly had the opportunity. Morgan had been in town yesterday—Doc and Candy had met her at Mrs. Fairweather’s place, where she’d seemed pleasant, easygoing, and a somewhat carefree woman—not at all like someone who had just murdered a berry farmer.

But what about the physical reality of it? Could she have surprised Miles in the hoophouse, swung the shovel at his head, dropped the murder weapon beside the body, made her way back to Mrs. Fairweather’s house, and casually greeted the Hollidays from her perch on the front porch, looking as if she’d just come from a morning at the spa?

Candy ran over the timeline again in her head. She and Doc had stopped by to see Mrs. Fairweather late in the morning. Miles had died a few hours earlier, sometime between eight and ten
A.M.,
as best she could establish. Could Morgan have killed Miles and made it back to Mrs. Fairweather’s in time?

It was certainly within the realm of possibilities, Candy admitted. In fact, Morgan might have had enough time to get a manicure on the way back.

But was she that good an actress? Could she have so easily glossed over a crime like that only a couple hours after committing it?

Candy shook her head. Some people, she knew, were capable of just about anything, as unlikely as it might seem.

More to the point, this latest discovery could provide a reasonable motivation behind Miles’s death.

Sometime in the past half year or so, Candy surmised, Miles had learned of the existence of Silas Sykes’s buried chest, researched it, located it, and dug it up. And once he’d opened it a month or two ago, he’d apparently taken what was inside.

But did he have a right to the treasure, even though he’d found it on his land? Candy wondered what claim Miles could make to it. More than likely, she guessed, the chest wasn’t his. It belonged to Silas Sykes and his heirs. And there was probably some sort of family link between Silas and Morgan. He was, more than likely, an ancestor of hers. It was possible she’d found out about the box, too, and learned Miles had dug it up.

But had that driven her to murder?

It all depended on the contents of that wooden box.

Gold coins? Land deeds?

Candy couldn’t quite figure out how those were connected.

Whatever Miles had found in the chest, it all clicked into place a little too easily. And that made her wary.

Too many things in this case seemed all too convenient, like the shovel, left beside Miles’s body, which had led back to Lydia St. Graves—only now she knew, almost certainly, that the shovel had been a plant.

But if Morgan had indeed killed Miles, why leave the shovel there? And how had she gotten her hands on it in the first place?

Too many questions, Candy thought, and too few answers.

And there were other questions rolling around in her mind as well. What about the boots with the star pattern on the bottom? What about the strawberry-picking baskets Chief Durr and his team had found out in the hoophouse—the ones with the initials
M.R.S.
woven into them?

Morgan Sykes?

Again, it fit too easily. Why would Morgan be crazy enough to leave baskets at a crime scene with her initials on them?

The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. When looked at from one direction, all the pieces appeared to fit together. But from another viewpoint, they all seemed scattered.

As Random rose lazily to lap at the bowl of water, Candy gazed out the window thoughtfully, then turned back to her computer. She again moved the cursor to the browser’s search window and keyed in the name
Morgan Sykes
.

She spent the next ten minutes clicking through page after page on the Web, looking for the one fact that might tie at least some strands of this mystery together—a middle name, or at least a middle initial, for Morgan Sykes. Her full birth name.

If Candy could identify Morgan as
M.R.S
., then she could tie the dark-haired woman, at least circumstantially, to the scene of the crime.

But her efforts turned up nothing. All the references and biographical information Candy found online mentioned either Morgan Kingsbury or Morgan S. Kingsbury, though there were a few older references that identified her simply as Morgan Sykes, presumably from a time before she’d married. Nothing Candy could find gave the woman’s middle name.

Her search for information on the Internet wasn’t working, she finally decided. It was time to go to the source—the one person from whom she believed she could learn the truth behind what was going on.

Random had resettled himself into a corner of the kitchen, but he rose quickly and stretched as Candy powered off her laptop, closed the lid, and placed it back on her desk. She gathered her things, moved the water bowl onto the porch, and ushered Random outside before locking up the house. Then she headed toward the Jeep at a quick pace, but after several steps she realized Random was not at her heels, as he’d been before.

“Random?” She stopped and turned back.

The dog was sitting on the porch, watching her expectantly.

She patted her thigh lightly. “Come, Random! Let’s go! I have to get back into town.”

But the dog did not seem interested in traveling into town. He looked quite content on the porch. In fact, to make his point, he lay down noisily.

Candy stared at him for a few moments, uncertain what to do, but in the end she decided to let him be. “Okay, you can stay here until we get back,” she said, “but remember—you’re supposed to protect the chickens, not scare them. Just keep the foxes away, okay? And watch the house.”

Somewhat reluctantly, she climbed into the Jeep and drove off, leaving the dog behind. In her rearview mirror, she could see him watching her from his vantage point on the porch, until she disappeared down the dirt lane.

She still had about twenty minutes or so until she met with Maggie at five, so she decided to make a quick detour. As she came into town, before she reached the red light at Main Street, she made a left-hand turn onto Shady Lane, headed for Mrs. Fairweather’s neat brown bungalow at the corner of Pleasant Avenue. She parked in the gravel driveway, walked up the steps onto the porch, and knocked at the front door.

She waited. She heard nothing from inside. No sense of movement or someone coming to answer the door.

She knocked again, and discreetly peered in through the small etched-glass window in the front door. “Mrs. Fairweather?” she called out. “It’s Candy Holliday.”

The house looked dark on the inside. In fact, the whole neighborhood had turned a little darker around her, Candy realized. She looked up. A bank of clouds had rolled in, coming from the west. The sun had disappeared behind it. The wind was kicking up. The temperature had already dropped by a few degrees.

She looked back at the house. Inside, she saw only shadows and grays. No lights, no sounds, no indication that anyone was in there.

Maybe she’s not home
, Candy thought, and she took a few steps to the left so she could peer in through one of the front windows before circling around to the back and taking a quick peek at the gardens behind the house.

But she saw no one. No Mrs. Fairweather. No Morgan Sykes Kingsbury.

She knocked a final time at the back door, just to make sure, but received the same result. No one was home.

As she turned away, she thought she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a movement inside, the barest shift of light and shadow, a flicker across her corneas. She twisted back around toward the house, certain she had seen someone, or something, move inside.

She returned to the back door and knocked with more urgency. “Mrs. Fairweather! Hello! It’s Candy Holliday. Are you in there? Is everything all right?”

But no matter how long or how loudly she knocked, no one came to the door.

She peered in the windows but nothing moved now.

Had she actually seen something? Or had it just been her imagination?

She tried the door handle, wondering if she should enter the house. But the door was locked. She thought of looking around for a key but decided against it. Maybe she’d been mistaken. Maybe it had been a trick of the eye, or simply the shadow of a shifting tree branch cast upon the darker interior. A possible movement inside was no cause to enter someone’s house uninvited.

Mystified and a little concerned, she returned to the Jeep. With a final look back at Mrs. Fairweather’s house, she backed out of the driveway and drove a few blocks to the Lightkeeper’s Inn, trying to figure out her next step.

As it turned out, the next step nearly walked right in front of the Jeep.

Still pondering her fruitless search for Mrs. Fairweather, Candy made a right-hand turn onto Ocean Avenue and headed down toward the end of the street. She kept her eyes open for a parking spot, which could be hard to locate at this time of day in this busy area of town, especially during the summer months. She scanned the rows of angled taillights and trunks first on the right, and then shifted her head left, checking for spaces on the opposite side of the street. She thought she saw a car backing out of a spot farther down the row.

Perfect timing
, she thought as she began to apply her brakes—just in time, as it turned out, for only then did she notice that Elvira Tremble had stepped out in front of the Jeep, coming in from the right side, from between two parked cars, waving her down.

Candy reacted in an instant, heavily applying her foot to the brake as she glanced up instinctively to the rearview mirror, checking to see how closely she was being followed by the car behind. But fortunately it was some distance back. The Jeep jerked to a stop, settling on its springs with a few quick wobbles.

Candy’s gaze shot to Elvira. The woman was still on her feet, standing just off to the side of the vehicle, staring at her, hard-faced. Candy considered that a good sign. At least she wasn’t lying flat on her back with a few broken bones. It didn’t look like the Jeep had touched her, though Candy wondered how close it had come. Inches, she guessed.

With an apologetic wave, she allowed the Jeep to drift forward a few feet, so she could address Elvira out the passenger side window, which was rolled halfway down.

“Elvira, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there. I hope you’re okay,” Candy said to her, sounding fretful.

But Elvira didn’t seem affected—either physically or emotionally. “I was flagging you down,” she said in a clipped tone. “The ladies of the league would like to have a word with you.”

“A word with me? About what?”

Elvira said something but it was drowned out by the toot of a horn coming from behind. Candy glanced up at the rearview mirror again. The car following her was now sitting on her bumper impatiently. She was holding up traffic.

“Could you repeat that?” Candy asked, turning back to Elvira.

“We’d like to meet you in the park. We have a special matter to discuss with you.”

Candy scrunched up her face. She was about to decline—she had plenty on her plate as it was—but she decided it was better to stay on the ladies’ good side, rather than antagonize them.

“When?” she called out to Elvira.

“Five thirty. We’ll be waiting for you.”

“Okay, but—” She was about to mention her five o’clock with Maggie and buy a little more time, but Elvira had already turned away. “Is Mrs. Fairweather with you?” she called out, but there were more beeps, and Elvira was back on the sidewalk, out of earshot. Candy had no choice but to move on.

Despite her delay, she managed to snag the recently vacated parking spot, and after grabbing her trusty tote bag from the backseat, she headed down to the Lightkeeper’s Inn.

She found a wicker table for two outside on the inn’s wraparound porch, where they could look out over the ocean and across to the park. Maggie had just texted her, saying she was on her way. Candy ordered two strawberry wine spritzers from a waiter in a white shirt and black bow tie, and took advantage of a few spare moments to pull out her phone and scroll through her contacts until she found Wanda Boyle’s number.

“Where are you?” Wanda asked without preamble when she answered.

Candy was used to Wanda’s abruptness and responded in tone. “I’m at the inn. I’m meeting with Maggie for a drink. Why, where are you?”

“In Town Park. Are you going to be here at five thirty?”

“Yes, but . . . why?”

“Just be here,” Wanda said.

“Okay, fine, I’ll be there. Is Mrs. Fairweather over there?”

“Haven’t seen her.”

“Do you have her number? I need to give her a call.”

Candy memorized the number Wanda told her and repeated it to herself several times as she tapped the digits on the screen. She held the phone back up to her ear but there was no answer. It was still ringing at the other end when Maggie hurried up onto the porch and dropped into the wicker chair opposite Candy, just as their wine spritzers arrived. “Boy, do I ever need that!” Maggie said, setting down her purse and lifting the chilled glass. She took a few quick sips.

“Long day?” Candy asked, keying off the phone and setting it down on the tabletop. She took a sip of her drink as well. It was sparkling pink and garnished with thin slices of fresh strawberries.

“It’s been nonstop,” Maggie said, brushing a few stray strands of brown hair out of her eyes. Her hair was a little disheveled, Candy noticed, and flat in some places, since she’d been wearing a hair net most of the day. She looked a little frazzled, but there was also an underlying current of excitement about her. “The day has just flown by!” she told her friend. “The cash register was ringing all day. Herr Georg says he’s never seen it this busy so early in the season. He’s hoping for a blockbuster year.”

“Let’s hope he gets it. We all could use a good year around here.”

“You’re right about that. And he’s talking about increasing my hours.”

“Hey, that’s great news! I’m sure you can use the money.”

“I sure can. And he wants to start training me as a baker.”

“That’s fantastic! Just as you’d hoped. It could be a new career for you!”

“I know, it’s very exciting. He says he’s going to share some of his old family recipes with me.”

“Wow, he doesn’t do that with just anyone. He must think you’re very special.”

“Yes, well, I guess he does,” Maggie said evenly, “because he also proposed to me.”