Candy shook her head. “Not good.”
“Does she still hate you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she get nasty?”
“A little.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It was my own fault. I encroached on her territory at the lighthouse, I guess, so that got her feathers all ruffled up. It was like backing a bull into a corner.”
“You gotta steer clear of her. I told you. Don’t make her madder than she already is.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible. Plus, I still feel she’s up to something. I wish I knew what she was really doing. She’s been working up in those archives a lot.”
“Then let her work. It keeps her out of your hair.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. I don’t have much time to follow up with her anyway. I’ve got so much to do, what with the paper and Herr Georg’s bakery and Melody’s pies and the farm.”
“You’re a busy woman.” Maggie paused, then sighed. “And I guess I’ve got to get busy too. I have to look for a new job.”
Candy reached over and patted her on her ankle. “Give yourself a couple of days to recoup, okay? You’ve been through a lot. You deserve some time off. Why don’t you take the weekend to relax and enjoy yourself? You can start looking for work next week, and I’ll help.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Tell you what. Why don’t you go to the cook-off tomorrow with me? It’ll give you a chance to get out in the air a little bit, enjoy the scenery, and sample the wares.”
“Mmm. I wouldn’t miss it. Are you working tomorrow?”
Candy nodded. “I have some interviews to do, but we’ll have plenty of time to walk around together. And who knows? Maybe something really interesting will happen.”
“Are you making a prediction?”
“No, I just have this... feeling.”
Maggie’s brow fell dramatically. “You’re not getting psychic on me, are you?”
“No, we’ve already got plenty of those in town. Just call it intuition. I think tomorrow is going to be a very interesting day.”
Thirteen
The day dawned fine and bright, with a light, fresh wind and air as crisp as a just-plucked apple. Early morning dew made the well-manicured lawn at the Lightkeeper’s Inn glisten like a tinseled tree on Christmas morning, and moistened the shoes of the first contestants as they arrived to set up their booths and start their stews. Birds chirped in the branches of the maple, oak, ash, and sycamore trees surrounding the inn’s pristine front and side yards, accentuated by classical music piped into the property through discreetly placed exterior speakers. The inn’s staff had festooned the posts and railings of the building’s front and side porches with red, white, and blue streamers, and hung baskets overflowing with red and white petunias and impatiens from every available spot, adding to the morning’s myriad colors.
Candy and Maggie arrived on the grounds just before nine and headed first to the food tables, where they each grabbed a cup of steaming coffee and a blueberry muffin. Then they walked over to check in at the registration table, where Candy received a press badge and a few printouts with updates on the contestants, judges, and the day’s schedule, plus a hand-drawn map of the property, marking the locations of all the booths, tents, tables, and services.
“I was right,” Candy said as she scanned the printouts she’d received.
Maggie took a large bite of her blueberry muffin. “About what?”
“It looks like there’s been a change with the judges. I mentioned it in my column last week. They’re bringing in some new guy. That should ruffle a few feathers around here, don’t you think?”
Maggie wasn’t paying attention. She was scrutinizing Candy’s press badge, obviously impressed. “Where’s mine?” she asked, pointing with a pinky at the badge hanging on a lanyard around Candy’s neck.
Candy glanced down at it, smiling. It wasn’t her first badge, but she still got a thrill every time she put one on. “You don’t get one. You’re not press.”
“But I’m still important.”
“Then we’ll get you a badge for important people. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
“Okay, as long as I get a badge. I really want one. It’ll make me feel better.”
“Then we’ll get you one. Don’t worry.”
That seemed to appease Maggie, and they began to make their rounds of the booths, checking on all the stews being prepared.
The booths were arranged in two crescent-shaped rows on opposite sides of the lawn. On the left were the booths of Melody Barnes, Burt Ramsay, Lyra Graveton, Tillie Shaw, and Anita Weller, while on the right were those of Bumpy Brigham, Walter Gruthers, Delilah Daggerstone, Juanita Perez, Charlotte Depew, and at the far end of the row, Wanda Boyle. The food services tent was located beyond Wanda’s booth beneath a grove of trees, while the judges’ tent occupied a centralized position in front of the inn’s side porch.
They spotted Wanda Boyle setting up in her booth on the right side of the lawn, so they meandered off in the opposite direction, stopping first to say hello to Melody Barnes, owner of Melody’s Café, for which Candy had been baking pies for nearly a year. Melody had brought lobster meat with her in several large Tupperware containers and was peeling and seeding tomatoes when Candy and Maggie walked up.
“I spent more than two hundred dollars on lobster meat alone,” Melody told them as she worked. “I hope enough folks show up so I can make my money back!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Maggie said as she wiped away a few muffin crumbs that had fallen on her blouse. “Your lobster rolls are the talk of the town. I’m sure you’ll have long lines of folks at your booth all day waiting to try out your stew.”
Melody shook her head. She had started dicing the tomatoes, moving quickly with experienced hands. “I don’t know. It looks like I’ve got some stiff competition out there. Burt Ramsay’s got me worried.”
Candy half turned to survey the stocky, broad-faced owner of the popular Lobster Shack restaurant, who was working in the booth next door. His restaurant, which was located quite literally in a white shack, occupied a primo spot along the shoreline just off the Coastal Loop. Guests ordered at a window and then sat at picnic tables strewn across a lawn that edged right up to the waterfront’s black rocks.
Today Burt wore a floppy chef’s hat, a bright orange Hawaiian shirt, and a large white apron, tied tightly around his ample belly. He was humming happily to himself as he monitored the progress of his stew. He waved when he glanced up and saw them looking his way.
“Friendly fellow, isn’t he?” Maggie said, waving back.
Candy gave him a pleasant smile, appraising his operation. “He certainly looks festive — and confident,” she observed after a few moments.
“Oh, he doesn’t look so tough.” Maggie continued to wave at Burt as she leaned in close so only the three of them could hear. She glanced at Melody. “You can beat him easily, can’t you?”
“I sure hope so,” Melody said, though she didn’t sound overly confident.
Candy turned to scan Melody’s ingredients. “It’s all in the recipe, right? Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Are you using one of your grandmother’s recipes, like you do at the restaurant?”
Melody nodded. “I sure am. That’s the main reason I’m doing this in the first place. My grandmother’s been pretty generous with some of her recipes, but this one was special to her, so she held on to it for a while. She finally gave it to me at Christmastime, after years of coaxing. It’s authentic, too. Back in the forties and fifties, she collected recipes from the wives of lobstermen working along the coast. It was a hobby of hers. She and my grandfather had their own seafood restaurant out near Coney Island, you know. They used to visit Maine every fall
