Candy didn’t like the sound of that. “Have you had unspecific ones?”
“No.” A look of amusement flashed through Chief Durr’s eyes and he allowed himself a smile. “None of those either. Nonetheless, we’d appreciate your cooperation until we get to the bottom of this little… mystery. I’ll instruct Officer McCroy to give you a wider berth, but for now I want him out in the open—and close by, in case Solomon tries to contact you.”
“Or in case something more serious happens to me,” Candy added, thinking about the times in the past when she’d run afoul of a murderer or two.
Chief Durr nodded his head. “We have an agreement then. I’ll keep him off Blueberry Acres for now, to give you a little privacy, but you have to promise me that you’ll contact us immediately if you see anything else out in those woods.”
Candy thought about that and finally nodded. “You have my promise.”
“Mine too!” Maggie piped in.
“Good!” Chief Durr slapped the bar with a hand, rose, and put on his hat. But before he left, his expression turned serious again. “I’ll hold you to that—both of you. Now you ladies have a good evening.” And with that, he gave them a well-practiced smile and walked away.
“Friendly guy,” Maggie observed.
“Secretive too. I wonder what he’s sitting on.”
“A bar stool?” Maggie offered.
“Information,” Candy replied. “He knows something we don’t.”
“About Solomon?”
“About something.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll figure it out, won’t we?”
“We will,” said Candy, checking her watch, “but not tonight. Ready to head home?”
Twenty-five minutes later, Candy was sitting beside the dying embers of a fire Doc had made, sipping a relaxing cup of the blueberry green tea she’d bought earlier in the week at a new organic and herbal shop in town, and finishing a warmed-up cup of lobster stew, made with a famous recipe. They had the TV on with the sound down low, turned to a cable cooking show, but they really weren’t watching it. Doc had his nose deep in a history book about lost Maine coastal schooners, and Candy was absently flipping through a regional magazine, glancing at stories about skiing, sea glass, covered bridges, and the preservation of historical state photos.
By eleven the TV was off and Candy was in bed, though Doc stayed up awhile reading. Eventually, though, she heard him make his way up the stairs and quietly close his bedroom door.
She fell into a deep sleep and awoke only when her alarm clock went off. It took her a few moments for her to realize it was Saturday morning.
She heard the ringing again and realized it was the phone downstairs. It rang a couple more times before the answering machine, an antiquated device Doc insisted on keeping, went off. After the recorded message, Candy could hear a voice talking frantically into the machine. It sounded like Finn Woodbury’s voice. She thought she heard him say the words
She tried to roll out of bed, but Doc beat her to it. She heard him open his door and pad down the stairs. A few moments later she could hear him listening to the message, rewinding it, and listening again.
Almost immediately he headed back up the stairs.
A moment later he knocked on her door.
“Pumpkin?” he called, opening the door a crack. “You awake?”
She poked her head out from underneath the warm, cozy covers. “Yeah, Dad, what is it?”
“They found a body.”
Nineteen
For an hour Candy fretted, wandering around the house in her fluffy pink slippers and thick bathrobe, wondering if the body they’d found at dawn along the Coastal Loop just outside of town was Solomon Hatch.
She could think of no other scenario that might fit, and blamed herself for it. She should have done a better job searching for him. She should have spent more time in the woods, looking behind every tree and beneath every rock. She should have done whatever she needed to do to find him, wherever he’d been hiding. But she’d been too distracted, and she hadn’t devoted the time to the search she now felt she should have. If she’d been more focused on the woods behind her house than on Town Park, she might have found him—and maybe saved his life.
But Doc warned her not to jump to conclusions. “Let’s wait until we hear back from Finn before we go about burying Solomon,” he told her in his thick morning voice. He’d been on the phone several times since he’d woken, and still hadn’t had his first cup of coffee. Candy offered to make him a pot, but he waved her off. “Just give me five minutes,” he told her, “and we’ll get in the truck and head to the diner.”
But five minutes came and went several times as Doc stayed on the phone and Candy paced nervously. Finn Woodbury had an inside connection in the local police department and usually was able to get information before anyone else. Even though he was wintering in Florida, at an RV park about an hour south of Orlando, Finn stayed connected to Cape Willington and was working the phones, trying to find out more about this latest mystery. But so far he’d heard nothing definitive about the identity of the body, or how the person had died.
Tired of waiting, Candy jumped in the shower. By the time she’d toweled off, dried her hair, and dressed in her regular jeans, turtleneck sweater, and fleece jacket, Doc was ready to go. “We’re reconvening at the diner,” he informed her as she grabbed her tote bag.
Duffy’s Maine Street Diner was hopping with activity on this Saturday morning, due to the influx of tourists in town. All the booths as well as most of the seats at the counter were occupied, but Artie Groves and William “Bumpy” Brigham, the two members of Doc’s inner circle who had remained in town for the winter, had managed to hold the horseshoe-shaped corner booth for them.
“Anything new?” Doc asked as he slid into the red-upholstered seat next to Artie, who was digging into a tall plate of pancakes dripping with maple syrup. He had grown a goatee for the winter and sported a new pair of silver-rimmed glasses, which replaced his previous horn-rimmed ones, giving him a nattier appearance. Naturally, the rest of the crew had endlessly commented on Artie’s new look. Even Finn had weighed in from Florida after Artie posted a new photo on his Facebook page. Rumor was that he had cleaned up his look because he had a new girlfriend, though so far he had neither confirmed nor denied that point.
Candy slipped into the booth on the other side, next to Bumpy, who had packed on some extra weight for the winter, which he called his “insulation.” Apparently he felt as if he’d packed on a little too much insulation, however, since he’d decided to forego the pancakes this morning and had settled instead for oatmeal and fruit. From the furtive glances he cast across the table at Artie’s plate, it was clear he wasn’t completely satisfied with his breakfast choice.
Candy had barely sat down when a steaming cup of hot coffee magically appeared before her.
She looked up. Juanita Perez, one of the diner’s longtime waitresses, beamed down at her. “I’ve already ordered a toasted English muffin for you, just the way you like it, with blueberry jam on the side,” she told Candy before she hurried away to check on her other customers.
Candy graciously accepted the premium customer service, even though Doc and the boys still sometimes kidded her about it. Ever since Juanita had won a cook-off contest the previous summer, for which Candy had been a judge, the waitress had made her gratitude well known, telling Candy she had “an endless cup of coffee and anything she wanted” whenever she stopped by the diner. Candy had protested at first, to no avail. And, truth be told, she kind of liked the way it made the boys in the corner booth jealous, especially when Juanita sent her home with a special treat, such as a thick slice of chocolate cake or a bowl of the diner’s newly famous lobster stew.
It was a benefit she’d secretly come to enjoy, and even at times to relish.
