“I have no doubt you will. You’re pretty industrious. You’ll do fine.”
“Yeah, I think I landed on my feet. I learned that from Mr. Biggles — may he rest in peace. So... have you heard anything else from the police?” Maggie asked curiously, taking a sip of her margarita.
“They called yesterday. They want to talk to me again early next week.”
“Again?”
“Yup. Just to verify things, they said. Go over it once more. But I think they’ve got most of the story down.”
“Are you still in hot water with them?”
Candy smiled. “Of course. I’m always in hot water with them. But they’re getting used to me. I think we’re starting to understand each other.”
“Are they going to return the ledger to you?”
“They said they will — at some point. I don’t know when, though. It might not be until after the trial.”
“And did they ever find the missing pages?”
Candy shook her head. “That’s the most frustrating part. I know Roger ripped something out of that ledger. I saw him do it. But when they searched him, they didn’t find anything. And he’s not talking. Whatever he took out of that ledger has mysteriously disappeared.”
“There’s no way of knowing what was written on those pages?”
“Apparently not. I asked Wilma Mae about them, and she said she couldn’t remember — or just refused to. But I can’t blame her. She says she’s done with it. When or if I ever get the ledger back, I’m supposed to pass it along to Juanita at the diner.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Maggie said. “It sounds appropriate.”
“It sure does, with Juanita winning the cook-off and all,” Candy agreed. “One day soon everyone in town might be able to taste Mr. Sedley’s lobster stew recipe, if they decide to put it on the menu.”
“So life goes on in Cape Willington, Maine, doesn’t it?” Maggie said philosophically.
“It does.”
“Speaking of life going on, how are things with you and Ben?”
Candy made a face and shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s still devastated. He just can’t believe Roger would murder someone. And threaten me. Ben feels responsible. And, I think, somewhat embarrassed. He says he’ll make it up to me somehow.”
“Hmm,” Maggie said with a lascivious grin, “that sounds like fun.”
Candy waggled an eyebrow at her. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
They were silent again for a few moments. After a while Maggie asked, “Heard any news about Captain Mike?”
Candy shook her head as she gazed out at the river. “Not a word.”
“Think we’ll ever see him again?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I have a feeling he’ll pop up again sometime in the future.”
Candy turned to look at her. “I hope you’re right. I hope he’s okay. Hey, speaking of missing persons, have you heard anything about Mr. Milbury? Have they caught him yet?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. I got a call this morning before I left the house. They nabbed him at the Mexican border south of Bisbee, Arizona. He was trying to flee down to Guatemala or Costa Rica or someplace like that. But he didn’t make it.”
“And he’s headed to jail?”
“Yup.”
“Well, maybe he can share a cell with Roger.”
And with that gratifying thought, they both turned and watched the boats cruising down the Fore River, headed past the islands of Casco Bay and out to the cold, deep sea beyond.
Epilogue
Because she had to drive several hours north, Candy limited herself to one margarita, although Maggie allowed herself a second one. And they both had a bowl of clam chowder, which tasted delicious — perhaps not quite as good as Mr. Sedley’s lobster stew, but still very good.
The afternoon passed by all too quickly, and as the sun slid toward the western sky, they decided it was time to head back up north to Cape Willington.
They had parked the Jeep in a garage up on Fore Street, so they headed across Commercial Street and angled up Market. As they turned a corner onto Fore Street, headed toward the parking garage, they passed a newsstand, and something caught Candy’s eye. She took several steps along the sidewalk, stopped suddenly, and doubled back. “Hey, hold up a minute,” she called to Maggie.
Her friend slowed and turned around. “Why, what’s up?”
Candy didn’t answer. She stood staring at the headline of the Portland paper, displayed on the newsstand for all to see:
Candy picked up a copy of the paper, rummaged in her purse for change to pay for it, and read the first few lines of the story:
Porter Sykes, a Boston financier and real estate magnate, as well as a member of the wealthy Sykes family of Marblehead, Mass., has announced plans for a major building and renovation project on Portland’s waterfront. A fifty-four-room luxury hotel and convention complex will serve as an anchor for the project, said Sykes, of the investment firm Sykes and Dubois. Friday’s unveiling event, however, was marred by the recent arrest in Cape Willington, Maine, of Mr. Sykes’s younger brother, Roger, who is charged with the murder of the town’s museum director.
Candy read the paragraph again, her eyes hovering over two words:
She felt a chill go through her. She’d heard something about Marblehead just a few days ago, hadn’t she? What was it?
Standing on the sidewalk along Fore Street, with crowds of people passing around her, she searched her memories and, after a moment, remembered. It was something Bob Bridges had told her last Monday afternoon as they stood in the maintenance shed at the English Point Lighthouse:
Marblehead. Old money.
And there was something else, wasn’t there? Something strange Roger had said, when he’d been standing in the maintenance shed with a gun pointed at them:
Roger and Porter Sykes. Brothers.
Porter Sykes.
Why did that name seem so familiar to her?
And then it came to her in a flash:
Candy felt her legs go weak. They threatened to give way beneath her right there on the sidewalk.
“Honey, are you all right?” Maggie said, concern in her voice as she took Candy’s arm to steady her. “What’s wrong. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
But again, Candy didn’t answer. Her mind was working too quickly.
