Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery) (9 page)

“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” Doc said once they were back in the Jeep and headed toward town. “Sounds like your instincts were right again. Lydia must have been fleeing the scene of the crime when she ran you off the road this morning—just like you thought.”

“Yup, sounds like it,” Candy agreed, thinking through all they’d just discovered. “Judicious gave her the shovel, so she could return it to us, but for whatever reason she never made it out to our place. She must have still had the shovel in her car when she went out to the berry farm this morning. Maybe she had an argument with Miles about the sale of his property, or something like that, and at some point she just snapped, so she took the shovel from her car and hit him over the head with it.” She shrugged, an indication that she was not totally convinced. “Pretty simple, I guess.”

“An open-and-shut case,” Doc agreed, missing his daughter’s subtle gesture. “We need to let the police know what’s going on, so they can take it from here.” He flicked a finger out the windshield, in the general direction of the Cape Willington Police Station, which was located a mile or so ahead of them around a few curves. “No need for both of us to go in. You can just drop me off. I’ll bring them up to speed.”

Candy was a little surprised by his suggestion. “You don’t want me to go in with you?”

Doc waved a hand. “Not necessary. I’ll make a statement for the both of us and you can fill in any details I missed later on. Besides, I still need to have my fingerprints taken, so I might as well kill two birds with one stone. I’ll probably be there for a while. No point you sitting around waiting on me.”

“But we’re in this together,” Candy protested.

“True, but I’ve got absolutely nothing else on my schedule today, and you have a busy afternoon planned. Several meetings, if I recall. And you still have a paper to get out, right?”

Candy nodded. “Yes, that’s true.”

Doc reached over and patted his daughter on her knee. “Look, your life is stressful enough right now, what with the paper and the farm and now this. So why don’t you let me take care of the police? I’ll be fine. And you can make your meetings and catch up on your work.”

“How will you get back to town?”

Now it was Doc’s turn to shrug, as if that were the least of his concerns. “I’ll hitch a ride with one of the police officers. They seem to enjoy ride-alongs. Or maybe I’ll just walk. It’s a nice afternoon for a stroll. Meet you at the diner at five to catch up?”

Despite her misgivings, Candy let her father out at the police station, waited until he disappeared inside the building with a wave, and drove back to town.

She felt a little guilty leaving him there to face the police alone. A part of her argued that she was skipping out on her civic duty, especially given her involvement in the morning’s events.

But another part of her appreciated her father’s gesture. Once the police heard what he had to tell them, they’d most likely put out word to locate and detain Lydia St. Graves. But they’d also have a lot of questions for Doc. It could turn into a long session—an hour or two at least, maybe more. She honestly didn’t know if she could afford the time for that. Doc was right. She
was
late for meetings, and she
did
have a lot of work to catch up on. Besides, she’d already told Officer Molly Prospect everything she knew about her encounter with Lydia that morning. There wasn’t much else to add. Doc knew the rest. The police didn’t really need to talk to both of them right now. She could drop by later and give her perspective. In the meantime, she had a busy afternoon ahead—and she wasn’t necessarily looking forward to it, given the events on her schedule and the folks she was meeting.

Maybe it’d actually be easier to go back to the station and hang out with the police
, she thought idly as she pulled into a parking spot along Ocean Avenue.
At least they’d probably be civil.

She climbed out of the Jeep, pulling her tote bag from the backseat, and pushed through the door at 22B. She was halfway up the staircase before she heard the chatter from above.

The door to the
Cape Crier
’s office on the second floor of the building stood halfway open, and she could hear the voices of several females.

They’re here
, Candy thought, checking her watch. And she was late.
Oh boy.

She listened for a few moments, took a deep breath, and plunged ahead.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire
.

There were five of them in all, standing on either side of the office suite’s central hallway. They were conversing back and forth, clucking like hens, making their opinions and annoyances known to one another. Most wore scowls on their faces or had their arms crossed, a clear indication they didn’t appreciate being kept waiting.

They were the ladies of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League.

“She’s nearly twenty minutes late,” a dark-haired woman was saying. Her name, Candy recalled, was Cotton Colby. She was one of the group’s founders. Candy had met her a number of times before around town and they’d exchanged a few words, but never took the time to talk at length.

“We had an appointment at one o’clock,” Cotton continued in a high-pitched, quick-paced tone, while the other ladies paused to listen. “We can’t afford to be kept waiting. We’re busy people, you know. We have a lot to do, with the Strawberry Fair coming up on Saturday.”

As Candy came through the door at the far end of the hall, she saw that Cotton was addressing Betty Lynn Sparr, the
Cape Crier
’s part-time receptionist and office manager. As the great-granddaughter of a sea captain, Betty Lynn liked to joke that she had salt water in her veins, which in turn (she claimed) enabled her to ably handle the most stressful and chaotic of situations with a reasonable amount of grace and aplomb. It made her an anchor around the office, her coworkers often told her, especially on the days they uploaded digital files to the printer, when dozens of things were happening at once. So finding herself in her current situation, as the primary focus of a group of moderately perturbed women, was generally a piece of cake for Betty Lynn.

“Oh, that should be a wonderful event,” Betty Lynn said to Cotton, her eyes brightening. “Whoever came up with that idea is a genius. I don’t use that word lightly. And yes, you’re exactly right about the meeting, Mrs. Colby. I wrote it down on the office schedule. I can show you if you’d like. One o’clock, it says. Sharp as the nose on my face. She’s well aware of it, I promise you that. I’m sure she’ll be here as soon as she can.”

“But she’s supposed to be here
now
,” Cotton intoned, her voice expressing her impatience. “Where
is
she, if I may ask?”

Candy took a few steps into the hallway and cleared her throat. She stood behind the ladies, who were all facing away from her, toward Betty Lynn. “Here I am,” she said as breezily as she could manage. “Good afternoon, ladies. Sorry I’m late. I was unavoidably delayed.”

As she spoke, six pairs of eyes shifted around to look at her. At least one pair was friendly and looked relieved to see her. The others were scrutinizing at best, and bordering on unfriendly at worst.

Good thing they’re not daggers
, Candy thought.

With a fervent hope she hadn’t ruffled too many feathers, she forced a smile and closed the door behind her. “If you’ll just give me a few moments to put down my things, we can get started. Betty Lynn, I think we can fit everyone in my office. Would you bring in some extra chairs?”

As Betty Lynn dashed off to help get the ladies seated, Candy nodded appreciatively and started forward, winding her way past the ladies of the Heritage Protection League. They watched her pass in silence, though she could feel the power of their stares. Once past them and a little farther along the hall, she turned into her new office.

Or rather, Ben Clayton’s old office. He had taken a few of his books and personal items with him when he suddenly relocated to San Francisco more than a year and a half ago, but he’d also left a lot behind. Candy could still see reminders of him everywhere she turned, in every drawer she opened. His chewed pencils were still in the top middle drawer, files with labels written in his hand were still in the cabinet. He’d even left one of his old Red Sox ball caps behind. Perhaps for that reason, she had avoided moving over here from her old office, which was located farther back in the rabbit warren of hallways, doorways, and offices that meandered through the building. But she’d found herself increasingly going into his then-vacant office to retrieve a file or look for an e-mail address on his computer, or to check one of his reference books, so she’d finally decided it was more efficient to just move in.

A couple of months ago she’d brought over some of her own things, including photos, books, files, and office equipment. She’d been moving over more items ever since, a few at a time, and the place was finally starting to look like her own. She didn’t know how long she’d be here in this office, but at least she’d be comfortable until she decided on her next move.

Betty Lynn burst in with an armload of metal folding chairs, and behind her came the ladies of the Heritage Protection League. Candy set down her tote bag on a corner of the desk and turned to help. “Please, have a seat,” she said as she took a couple of chairs from Betty Lynn and started setting them up. They arranged the chairs in a semicircle around Candy’s desk, with everyone equal distance away. It wasn’t a large office, but it had a good-sized open space in the middle, since the modular L-shaped desk was pushed into one corner, and a long credenza that doubled as a filing cabinet was tucked back against the outside wall, under the tall window that looked out over Ocean Avenue.

Candy greeted the ladies in turn as they entered.

Cotton Colby was the first one through the door, walking with quick, precise steps. She was the youngest and the most vocal of the group—and also the most ambitious, Candy thought. One of the group’s two founders, Cotton had thick, shoulder-length dark brown hair, parted on one side and neatly brushed to the other, with a carefully positioned swirl across her forehead. She was dressed to impress, in a gray narrow-cut jacket, cream-colored blouse, and black form-fitting skirt, with contrasting jewelry and mirrorlike black pumps.

Alice Rainesford came in right behind her. She was older than Cotton, perhaps in her mid-to late-forties, and less flashy in appearance. She had a studious look, owing in part to her thick horn-rimmed glasses, which she wore on a thin silver chain draped around her neck. She was dressed more casually than Cotton, in beige slacks that showed wrinkles in places, a light-colored blouse buttoned up to the neck, and a pale pink sweater. Straight light brown hair, interspersed with a few streaks of gray, framed a narrow, reddish face with prominent cheekbones and a sharp chin.

Candy shook hands with both women, escorting each to a chair, and then turned to face the next three ladies, who entered more or less in a group, clutching their purses in their hands as they stepped into the room with some uncertainty. They were older than the other two, all in their fifties and about the same height. They all wore print dresses in various shades of green, blue, and purple, and had on their best shoes. They looked like they might just have come from church. They surveyed Candy’s office with great interest, as if they were entering a secret inner sanctum where amazing wonders took place.

“You’re Brenda Jenkins, right?” Candy said to the first of the three, shaking her hand. “We’ve met once or twice around town, I think. Won’t you please have a seat?”

Brenda nodded, eyeing the place with interest as she moved toward a vacant chair. “I’ve never been in a newspaper office before,” she said. “Where are the printing presses?” She glanced under the desk, as if they might be hidden there, and then looked back out into the hall.

“The newspaper is printed at another location,” Candy said. “We only do editorial and production work out of this office, as well as sales and accounting.”

“Oooh,” Brenda said, absorbing this intriguing bit of information.

The next woman in line, wearing a blue print-patterned dress, reached out a tentative hand toward Candy. “I’m Della Swain,” she announced in a firm tone. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m new in town.”

“Oh, well, it’s nice to meet you,” Candy said pleasantly, “and welcome to Cape Willington. How long have you lived here?”

“Seven years,” said Della without batting an eye. “I’m still finding my way around and getting to know everyone in town. It’s such a wonderful community, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is Ben still working for the newspaper?” Della asked. “I enjoy reading his articles but I haven’t seen them in a while. Is he sick?”

“I’m afraid Ben Clayton’s left the paper,” Candy said. “Some time ago.”

“Oh my.” Della looked crestfallen. “I’m afraid I didn’t realize that. He seemed like such a nice man. Who’s writing for the newspaper now?”

“There are a number of us who are trying to fill his shoes,” Candy said evenly. “And we’ve brought in some new writers lately.”