In some strange way, it was all starting to make sense to her. Winning the annual cook-off was a fairly prestigious achievement around town — the newspaper devoted substantial portions of two issues to it. There was no doubt some people were petty enough to steal recipes from one another if it gave them a competitive edge. These sorts of things happened in small towns all the time. Didn’t they?
And it certainly could have happened here in Cape Willington, Maine, given its overabundance of unique characters.
Couldn’t it?
Candy felt a quick chill go up her spine, a mixture of nervousness and excitement, as she realized she might be onto something. Call it intuition, a sixth sense, or what-ever, but she had to admit she was inclined to believe Wilma Mae.
And that made her pulse quicken, knowing what — and who — she faced.
Candy shook her head and absently brushed back her honey-colored hair.
She knew what she had to do.
Standing in the kitchen, she told Wilma Mae she’d dig around, ask a few questions in town, and see what she could find out.
Wilma Mae was beside herself with gratitude. “I can’t tell you how happy I am,” the elderly woman said enthusiastically. “Oh, I can pay you! Mr. Wendell left me a little money. And I know Mr. Sedley and myself would both be so grateful if you could get the recipe back for us. It would be like finding a lost member of the family — that’s how much it means to us.”
“Mrs. Wendell, I could never take your money,” Candy said honestly. “Besides, I don’t know if I’ll find out anything at all. Just give me a few days to poke around. I’ll give you a call over the weekend and we can talk then.”
Wilma Mae laid a thin-boned hand on Candy’s arm and gave her a sweet smile. “I knew you were the right person to call. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Candy felt touched. “I haven’t done anything yet... but I’m glad to help if I can.”
She thanked Wilma Mae for the tea, dropped her pen and reporter’s notebook into her purse, and said her good-byes.
Outside, a cool wind blew past her, tossing about her hair and carrying with it the fresh, newborn smell of spring. The chilly breeze pushed her gently along the front walkway, but the midday sun warmed her as she climbed into her old teal-colored Jeep Cherokee, which was starting to show its age. She cranked up the engine, backed out of the driveway, and drove toward the center of town, her mind still occupied with thoughts of Wilma Mae, Wanda Boyle, and the missing lobster stew recipe.
It took her only a few minutes to reach Ocean Avenue, a gently sloping central boulevard lined with quaint shops, restaurants, and other businesses. It ran in length only for a long, stretched-out block, from Main Street at its northerly end to Town Park, the Lightkeeper’s Inn, the Coastal Loop road, and the sea at its southerly tip. Its most notable feature was the Pruitt Opera House, which stood in stately fashion halfway down the avenue on the northern side.
Candy glanced at the opera house as she turned onto Ocean Avenue. It had been there, on the building’s high widow’s walk, that one of the most harrowing experiences of her life had occurred on a rainy night ten months ago. Even now, the memory of that raw, windy night gave her goose bumps as images of the life-and-death struggle flashed through her mind.
Quickly she shook away those thoughts and turned her attention back to the matter at hand.
Finding a parking spot along Ocean Avenue in July and August, at the height of the busy summer tourist season, could be a tricky business, but she found plenty of spaces today. It was the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend — the end of spring but not quite summer — and the bulk of the incoming visitors had yet to arrive.
Still, Candy could sense a definite air of excitement around town. Cape Willington nearly doubled in size each summer, as the seasonal people arrived to open up their cabins and camps, and out-of-state cars clogged the streets and took up all the good parking spots. At the height of the summer season, in July and August, Ocean Avenue buzzed with conversations and laughter as the sidewalks, shops, cafés, and rustic seaside inns filled up with families and couples looking to spend a few days or weeks out of the day-to-day rat race of the rest of the world and enjoy some much-needed vacation time right here in Candy’s very own cozy coastal village in Downeast Maine.
She pulled the Jeep into a coveted parking spot right in front of the offices of the
She found the editor, Ben Clayton, in his office, sleeves rolled up, hair uncombed, staring intently at a computer screen, and stabbing at the keyboard as he swore softly under his breath.
“Hi, Ben.”
“Oh, hi, Candy. I thought you weren’t coming in until tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to her and back to his computer screen, but he didn’t stop typing. His fingers continued to move rapidly over the keys as he got his last few thoughts down before being pulled away into a conversation.
Candy was used to the maneuver. She’d seen it before. It was simply his way of multitasking.
“So how’d the interview with Wilma Mae go?” he asked.
“It was... revealing, to say the least. She has plenty of stories to tell, that’s for sure. First we had tea, and then we talked about all sorts of things.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Well, her collection of ketchup bottles, for one thing. And Cornelius Roberts Pruitt, Helen’s father, who was quite a randy fellow, as it turns out. And Wilma Mae’s famous lobster stew recipe. And a secret compartment in the upstairs bedroom of her house, created by some architect named Mulroy. And, oh yeah, it sounds like we might have a recipe thief around town — possibly someone who’s trying to rig the Lobster Stew Cook-off.” She paused and smiled at him. “Anything else you’d like to know?”
Ben whistled. He stopped typing, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked up at her. “Okay, you had me at ketchup. Wow, it sounds like you had a great interview. What’s this about a recipe thief? And someone rigging the cook-off? That sounds pretty big. You got a story here?”
“Could be,” Candy said, tilting her head thoughtfully to one side, “or maybe it’s just a case of a misplaced ledger. I’m not sure which, but I’m going to check it out, see if it leads anywhere. Hey, what have you heard lately about Wanda Boyle?”
“Wanda?” Ben made a face as if he had tasted something particularly nasty, and shrugged. “Just the usual, I guess. She’s got her fingers in about every pie in Cape these days. She was doing some political canvassing last week — either for or against global warming, I can’t remember which. Not sure it matters much, as long as she gets her name in the paper. She’s been collecting clothes and books for the thrift sale at the Unitarian church — helps put a little shine on her image, I guess. I think she’s in charge of the graduation committee at the high school. She’s both a comanager and an entrant in the Lobster Stew Cook-off — I’m not quite sure how she’s going to pull that one off. Seems like a conflict of interest to me. Why doesn’t she just go for the trifecta and judge it too? Then she can make sure she wins the whole kielbasa, which is one of her lifelong goals. And, oh yeah, I think she’s trying to get together an all-female version of a barbershop quartet. She’s obviously going to sing the low part.”
He paused, his brow furrowing in concern. “So what’s up? Is she giving you trouble again?”
Candy waved a hand. “Naw, nothing like that. I was just wondering what you’d heard.”
Ben shrugged. “It’s always the same with her. Wanda this, Wanda that.” Another pause. “Are you doing research? Is she going to be in your next column?”
Candy sighed. “She’s in
“You got that right. I guess every town needs a busybody. At least it keeps things interesting.”
“That’s for sure.” Candy indicated the computer screen. “So how’s the next issue coming?”
