open hardback book lay upside down on the sofa, its spine bent back.
But no Mr. Sedley.
Candy looked back into the kitchen, then surveyed the living room again. Something didn’t feel right. At first she didn’t know what it was, but after a few moments she figured it out.
It was as if Mr. Sedley had left suddenly in the middle of whatever he was doing and hadn’t returned.
Pondering what this might mean, she walked out of the living room and into the front hallway. “Mr. Sedley!” she called out again, louder this time. “It’s Candy Holliday. Are you here?”
She turned right and almost walked right into Wilma Mae, who had come into the house and along the dark hallway. Candy let out a yelp of surprise, and Wilma Mae squeaked and backed away quickly, her hands flying up in front of her.
Candy put her hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” she said, her heart beating just a bit faster.
“Have you found Mr. Sedley yet?” Wilma Mae asked in a loud whisper.
“Not yet. It doesn’t look like he’s home.”
Wilma Mae’s gaze shifted to the open staircase that led from the front hallway to the second floor. “You’d better check upstairs.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Just be careful.”
Candy nodded and started up the stairs, calling out Mr. Sedley’s name. But again, there was no response. And once she checked the second floor, she knew why — no one was home. The place was vacant. “He must have gone somewhere,” Candy said to Wilma Mae as she came back down the stairs.
“But his car is in the driveway. And he doesn’t walk so well these days. So where could he have gone?”
Candy shook her head as she started along the hallway to another door. “I’d better check the basement, just to make sure.”
She found the unfinished basement cold, damp, and full of spiderwebs. It was illuminated only by a single naked lightbulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling, but it was enough for her to see by. An old hot water boiler, which provided heat for the home, sat along one wall. An unused coal bin occupied a dark corner. A few items had been stored down here — an old Schwinn bike, some boxes filled with moldy books and magazines, rusted paint cans, discarded tools and appliances — nothing very valuable or interesting. Candy poked around a little, then switched off the light and climbed back up the stairs. “Nope, he’s not down there.”
“Well, I’m worried,” Wilma Mae announced. She still stood in the hallway looking about her, as if expecting to see Mr. Sedley appear at any moment. “It’s just not like him. He’s never disappeared like this before.”
“Maybe we should call the police.”
Wilma Mae nodded in agreement. “Maybe we should.”
“Let’s call from you place,” Candy suggested.
They closed and locked the back door and crossed the yard to Wilma Mae’s house. Since Wilma Mae said she was too nervous to make the call, Candy took out her cell phone and dialed the Cape Willington Police Department. As the phone rang, she sniffed the air. Something smelled peculiar.
“Cape Willington Police Department.”
“Hi, I’d like to report a missing person.”
Candy was connected to a police officer, who asked her several questions — the name and age of the missing individual, and whether the person had any chemical dependency or mental health issues. After also inquiring if there was a history of disappearing and reappearing, the police officer asked, “Are there any signs of foul play?”
“What? No, I don’t think so.”
“Is he suicidal?”
To the best of her knowledge, Candy said, he was not.
After explaining that Mr. Sedley was an adult who had the right to roam about as he pleased, the officer promised to keep an eye out for him, and asked Candy to check back with the department in forty-eight hours if Mr. Sedley was still missing.
“Forty-eight hours?” Wilma Mae said when Candy had keyed off the phone. “But what if he needs us now? What if he’s hurt somewhere and needs our help?”
Candy sighed. “There’s not much more we can do right now.” She sniffed the air again. That peculiar smell was back. “Do you smell something strange?” she asked, looking around the house.
Wilma Mae seemed distracted. “No, dear.”
“Did you leave the gas on?”
“I don’t think so.” Wilma Mae checked the stove. “No, everything’s off. I just can’t figure out what happened to Mr. Sedley.”
“Well, he’ll probably turn up just fine. I wouldn’t worry too much about him.” Candy checked her watch again. “Wilma Mae, I have to run. Are you going to be okay?”
The elderly woman looked very worried, but finally she nodded.
“Why don’t you make yourself a nice cup of tea and relax for a while,” Candy suggested. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Wilma Mae seemed to consider that. “Maybe you’re right,” she said after a few moments, then checked the clock on the wall. “
“That’s a good idea. I have to run now, but you keep in touch, okay? Give me a call if Mr. Sedley turns up. And I’ll see you tomorrow at the cook-off, right?”
Wilma Mae brightened. “Oh yes, I’ll be there!” But just as quickly her face twisted with concern. “I do hope Mr. Sedley’s there too. We’re supposed to be honorary judges together, you know. We’ve been looking forward to it for such a long time.”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Candy said reassuringly.
“I just couldn’t imagine being there without Mr. Sedley,” Wilma Mae continued. “It wouldn’t be right. Oh, I do so hope he’s okay.”
“I hope so too.”
She’d planned to ask Wilma Mae about the carpenter who had made the repairs to the shelving unit upstairs, but the elderly woman seemed too flustered, too worried about Mr. Sedley, and Candy didn’t want to upset her any further. So she decided to leave the question for another day. But as she walked outside to the Jeep, she couldn’t help feeling that something was definitely amiss — and that she was overlooking important clues that would tell her exactly what it was.
Twelve
“Something’s going on in this town,” Candy said, sitting on the sofa with her legs curled up underneath her. “I know it. I can feel it.”
Maggie removed the cork from a bottle of white wine, their second this evening, though it was still early. She sniffed its bouquet thoughtfully. “What, you mean with Ben?”
“Ben? Why would you think something’s going on with Ben?”
Maggie took her friend’s question in stride. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” she said lightly, indicating her living room as she freshened their glasses. “On a Friday night. When you’re supposed to be out on a romantic date with your boyfriend, sipping Chianti and nibbling antipasto at some fancy Italian restaurant up on Route 1. With real tablecloths. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here, but if it were me, I’d rather be out on a date.”
“No offense, but me too.”
“None taken.”
They clinked glasses and sipped. A Michael Bublé CD played on the stereo, and Maggie had lit a couple of scented candles to create a relaxing atmosphere, which they both desperately needed, given the events of the past few days.
