Town in a Lobster Stew

Candy gave him an indulgent smile.

“But as long as you’re here,” Charlotte continued, “I suppose I could spare a few minutes. And I do have some materials I can give you. A recently printed brochure might be helpful. Why don’t we go into my office?”

She motioned the way, and Candy started off, walking past a number of exhibits, including a large diorama showing the various stages in the construction of the lighthouse station, from earliest days to the present. On the walls hung period photographs and drawings of the lighthouse and surrounding buildings. In one corner stood a Fresnel light, its beehive shape rising more than six feet above its platform. Candy stopped to admire it, and Charlotte paused to explain.

“The light’s surface is comprised of hundreds of glass prisms arranged in a metal framework,” she told Candy, sounding as if she had repeated the words a thousand times. “The prisms are arranged to magnify and bend the light from a source such as a flame into a single concentrated beam. This particular light can be seen more than twenty miles out at sea, all the way to the horizon. And as you can see, it’s not only highly effective at what it does, but it’s also a work of art.”

“It’s certainly impressive,” Candy said before she turned and followed Charlotte into her small office tucked into a corner of the building.

“Please, have a seat.” Charlotte motioned Candy toward a chair and took her own seat behind her tidy desk. “Have you been to our museum before?”

“Oh, sure, a couple of times.” As she spoke, Candy reached into her purse for her reporter’s notebook and pen. Crossing her legs at the knee, she leaned forward attentively in her chair, brushing back her hair. “But it’s been a while, I must confess. Probably a year or two, if I remember correctly. That’s why I stopped by today. I’m always looking for stories for my column.”

Although she had been the community columnist for the better part of a year now, she still loved saying those words. It always made her feel a little special, and it was a great way to start a conversation.

But Charlotte didn’t seem particularly impressed or chatty. Instead, she gave Candy a look that showed annoyance more than anything else, but it quickly slipped away as she turned professional, launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “Well, we do have several programs going on throughout the summer. We have a variety of museum workshops coming up for children, teens, and adults. For the third year, we’re offering an internship program here at the Keeper’s Quarters for our local high school seniors and college students. We’re very excited about that. We’ll host three weekend sessions in June and July for prospective volunteers. We’re currently sending out announcements for that. And the historical society is sponsoring an art and architecture camp this summer for middle schoolers, which is being spearheaded by Wanda Boyle.”

“Ahh.” Candy’s eyes brightened as she tapped her bottom lip with the end of her pen. “Now that sounds very exciting. Can you tell me more about that particular program?”

Charlotte checked her watch again and forced a smile intended to demonstrate her patience. “Of course. As you may know, we’ve had a number of famous architects design homes here in Cape Willington. John Calvin Stevens is probably the most well-known. He designed two homes in town and did some work out at Pruitt Manor. Charles Bulfinch, who designed the state capitol, also designed our original Town Hall, though that’s burned down, of course, but we still have many images of it in our historical archives. William Hatch Wharff, who was born up in Guilford but spent most of his time on the West Coast — he designed more than a hundred buildings in Berkeley and around San Francisco in the early part of the twentieth century — was involved in designing a couple of buildings along Ocean Avenue during the early part of his career. And, of course, several homes in town were designed by John Patrick Mulroy. So we have quite an architectural history here.”

“Fascinating. Just fascinating.” Candy propped her elbow on her knee and planted her chin in the palm of her hand. “I’d love to hear more about that — perhaps something about Wanda’s involvement in putting the program together?”

“Well, I can show you an outline of the program, and I’ll see if I can get Wanda’s input. I think I have that file right here.”

As Charlotte reached toward a short stack of papers in a mahogany wood tray on a corner of her desk, she looked up and past Candy’s shoulder. “Oh, well, better yet, you can talk to her yourself. Here she is.”

Charlotte rose and motioned to a woman standing in the office doorway.

“Candy, you know Wanda Boyle, don’t you?”

Eight

Candy felt a sudden knot in her stomach as she turned to face the woman behind her. This was the moment she’d been hoping to avoid for at least a while longer — well, forever, if truth be told. But this was a small town. It was next to impossible to avoid someone you wanted to avoid. Now she’d just have to make the best of it.

Tentatively she rose. “Oh, hi.”

She stood uneasily, not sure what to say or do next. She still held the notebook in one hand and the pen in the other, so she wiggled the pen rapidly between her fingers and forced a smile.

Wanda studied her with a disapproving expression pasted on her hard-edged face, as if she’d just discovered Candy doing something she shouldn’t. She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and a big frame she carried fairly well. Her body flared around the bust, waist, and hips, but then narrowed to rather petite legs, which were ensconced in form-fitting dark gray slacks. She wore bright yellow pumps, open at the toes to show off her neatly clipped nails, painted bright red. They matched her flaming red shoulder-length hair, which was savagely tossed back, as if she had been swatting at it for hours. Her waist-length beige jacket, worn over a white blouse, looked somewhat rumpled, Candy noticed, with heavy creases at the elbows. The slacks were heavily creased around the upper thighs and knees as well. She must have been sitting all morning and afternoon, doing... something or other, Candy thought.

Wanda held a sheaf of papers in one hand and had tucked a folder under an arm. On her chest, she wore a large, bright blue button that read CAPE WILLINGTON WELCOMING COMMITTEE and WANDA BOYLE, CHAIRWOMAN around the edges, circling a big, bold-lettered WELCOME TO CAPE! in the center.

She looked very busy.

For several long moments she stood silently in the doorway. Obviously she’d been unaware that Charlotte had a visitor, and she didn’t seem at all pleased when that visitor turned out to be Candy Holliday.

Candy waited cautiously, letting out a breath, her gaze fixed on the other woman. She noticed that Wanda had a thin, barely visible scar on her upper lip. And puffy skin around her jowls. And big hands — like sides of beef, Candy thought.

For an instant an image raced through her mind of another pair of thick hands wrapped around her neck, attempting to crush the life from her as the storm raged around them. But she pushed that disturbing thought aside, knowing that was in the past, and this was the present, and Wanda would never attack her like that.

Would she?

Finally Wanda spoke, her voice low and husky. “We’ve met. Haven’t we, Candy?” She sounded completely unemotional, as if she were ordering a hamburger and fries at a takeout window.

“Yes, well, that’s true, we have.” Several times, Candy recollected, and most of them were not pleasant encounters.

Their first meeting, at a school-related bake sale shortly after Candy had become the community correspondent, was cordial enough, though she’d overheard Wanda taking some verbal potshots at her even then. Candy was “from away,” Wanda had none-too-discreetly told one of the members of her close-knit group of friends, a woman named Carol McKaskie. Wanda had drawn a few other women into their conversation and chattered in low tones, often glancing Candy’s way and often stifling laughter, making her feel uncomfortable. Candy had heard other words drifting her way that day from Wanda’s group — words like unqualified and undeserving. She had even heard one of them call her a nobody.

Candy had just been trying to do her job, to meet people in town and cover the event, and she had been hurt and confused until she told Maggie about it.

“Oh, they’re just jealous old biddies,” Maggie said that evening when Candy had cried on her shoulder. “Don’t