Candy Apple Dead (6 page)

“No, thanks.” Not just now, anyway. “So where is he? Do you know?”

Rachel glanced hopefully toward the camera. “I haven’t seen him. In fact, I don’t think anybody’s seen him since yesterday. That’s what I heard, anyway.” Smoke rose from a hot spot in the rubble, and Rachel shuddered. “I heard one of the guys over there saying they still hadn’t found him. This is all too weird, isn’t it? First the fire, then Brandon disappearing. I don’t like it.”

“He hasn’t disappeared,” I said firmly. “I’m sure in all the confusion—”

She cut me off again. “Maybe he did, Abby. Maybe he didn’t mean for the fire to get so far out of control. Maybe he took off when he realized how bad it really was. They’re ninety-nine-percent certain it was arson, you know.”

The knot in my stomach tightened, but I wasn’t going to let myself get caught up in gossip and speculation. I needed facts, and those were sorely lacking. “Ninety-nine percent? Where did you hear that?”

“Somewhere. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I think it does. Accusing Brandon of setting the fire is serious. Why would he do that?”

Rachel rubbed fingers against thumb in the universal sign for money. “Why else? Insurance.”

“He wouldn’t do something this stupid just to break his lease, and he certainly doesn’t need the money.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Of course, and so should you be. Brandon has never acted like someone in financial trouble.”

Her glossy pink lips curved into a patient smile. “How do people in financial trouble act?”

“I don’t know. Worried. Frantic. Desperate.”

“Desperate enough to torch their business for the insurance?”

I tried to laugh off the suggestion. “You know what I mean. If Brandon was desperate for money, he sure hid it well. Maybe the fire
was
arson, but it was probably started by some derelict.”

Rachel gave me a
get real
look. “Yeah. Because we have such a huge homeless problem here in Paradise.”

“All it takes is one.”

“One more than we have. I’m telling you, Abby, Brandon’s not here. Knowing him, he’ll show up in a day or two with an airtight alibi so nobody can accuse him of anything.”

First Wyatt. Now Rachel. Was I the only one who didn’t think Brandon was that devious? Apparently so.

Rachel’s chocolate-colored eyes filled with pity. “You’re surprised, aren’t you? Well, don’t feel too bad. You don’t know Brandon as well as the rest of us do. He’s a smooth operator. Besides, I never said he did it, just that it’s possible.”

“That’s bad enough.”

She waved off my concerns with one perfectly manicured hand. “Relax, Abby. The police will figure everything out, and we’ll know soon enough. Meanwhile, don’t lose sleep over it. Brandon will come out of this just fine. Trust me.”

I nodded mutely, but only because I couldn’t figure out what to say, and Rachel’s attention was almost immediately caught by something she found more interesting.

“Oh! There’s Eleanor Douglas. I need to ask her about ordering a turkey for Thanksgiving. Want to come with me?”

I shook my head quickly. “No, thanks.”

“You’re sure? They’ve been getting fewer and fewer every year at the butcher shop. Last year I was two days late and ended up having to buy a frozen one.”

Which didn’t seem like it should rate higher than Brandon’s tragedy on her scale of concerns, but who was I to judge? “I’m positive,” I said. “You go ahead. I need to get back to the store in a few minutes, anyway.”

Rachel flung a smile in my direction and took off after Eleanor, but my conversation with her left me more uneasy than ever. Talk like that could be dangerous. People hear things. Before you know it, “maybe” becomes “definitely,” and something that never happened is being passed around as gospel truth. Wherever Brandon was, he didn’t need to deal with a damaged reputation when he came back.

On my own again, I spent the next fifteen minutes looking for Brandon, but Rachel had been right about one thing. Nobody had seen him, and nobody had even heard of anyone who had. I desperately wanted her to be right about something else, too. I wanted Brandon to show up with a story that would explain everything.

But no matter how many times I reassured myself, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

At ten minutes before ten, I stood on the side
-walk in front of Divinity, clutching the key in my hand and trying to pull myself together. Since 1960, Divinity had provided Aunt Grace with a home away from home. It had been a source of comfort and security for her, and I wanted it to be the same for me.

Divinity is actually quite a large store—big enough to divide into sections, with old-fashioned candy in one area, homemade confections in another, and manufactured favorites ordered from suppliers in a third. It’s more than just a candy store, really. A few years ago, Aunt Grace ripped out one set of shelves and put Divinity through some massive renovations. She bought a four-burner coffeemaker, installed a soft-drink machine, and created a small seating area where folks could come and sit for a spell. She always did whatever it took to make Divinity a success, from the moment she conceived of the idea to open her own business to the day she died.

She’d been a pioneer back in the sixties, applying for—and getting—a loan at a time when banks didn’t loan money to women without a man to back them. Hers was a grand legacy, and I wanted desperately to carry it on.

Over the years, Aunt Grace had established a number of traditions at Divinity, and I loved them all. But I think my favorite was the seasonal display window made entirely of candy. Grace had been a genius at designing the windows. Her designs were intricate, delicate, and whimsical. My efforts fell far short of the standard she’d set, but I was giving it my all.

Just a few weeks ago, I’d put up the autumn display window. I’d spent two months conceiving of the idea and more than a week putting it together, and even I had to admit that the end result wasn’t all that bad.

I’d covered the floor with a mosaic of leaves made of candy chips in autumn colors, created a “blackboard” of licorice and chalk markings of powdered sugar. I’d spent two nights creating school books out of fruit leather and then positioned a few glass jars filled with orange and lemon drops, cinnamon bears, and red, orange, yellow, and green fruit jellies.

In the center of the display, perched atop a tray made of silver dragées, sat the pièce de résistance—Divinity’sspecialty candy apples, made from Grace’s personal recipe. They’re made by dipping a Granny Smith apple into alternating coats of caramel and three kinds of chocolate, then rolling them in nuts or crushed hard candies. They take time and patience to make, but the end result is well worth it.

I wondered what Aunt Grace would have said about the morning’s events. Surely even she would have caught on to the lies Wyatt had been telling. And what would she have said about Brandon?

In the stillness of the morning, I could almost hear the click of tongue against teeth and see the roll of her always expressive violet eyes.
Innocent until proven guilty, Abby. Isn’t that what you learned in law school?

Smiling at my flight of fancy, I unlocked the front door and flipped on the light switch. Shelves filled with sparkling glass jars lined one long wall behind a long glass counter and an antique brass cash register. Those jars are filled with everything from gummy candy to horehound drops. We boast the largest (and most colorful) selection in the Rocky Mountain West.

The glass canisters on the counter winked in the sudden flare of the lamp and the black-and-white checkerboard floor gleamed. For just a second, the rush of excitement I used to feel as a kid filled me, and with it came one brief moment filled with infinite possibilities. Coming to see Aunt Grace had always made me believe that anything was possible. Adjusting to a world without her wasn’t easy.

With a sigh, I opened the small safe in the storage room where I keep just enough cash on hand to open the register each morning, then carried the cash drawer into the store and slipped it into the register minutes before my first customer of the day came through the door.

A small, but steady stream of people followed all day, but everybody wanted to talk about the fire, where they were when they first heard the news, and what they said to their spouse or significant other at the time. When I still hadn’t heard from Brandon by noon, I tried both of his numbers again, then packaged a box of the jelly assortment for Miss Lela’s Piano Studio, checked my e-mail, and sketched a few ideas for the website I plan to set up one of these days.

Since it was a cool, dry day—perfect for making candy—I decided to get a jump start on Halloween and gathered the ingredients for cinnamon cat lollipops. The lack of humidity in Paradise is one of the things that makes it such a good location for candy making. It may take a little longer to bring the syrup to a boil because of the altitude, but there are only a few days each year when the sugar will actually absorb enough moisture from the air to ruin the candy.

Within minutes, I had sugar, corn syrup, water, cinnamon oil, and food coloring on the counter. I was just starting to measure ingredients when my cousin Karen arrived to work the afternoon shift.

Karen’s one of those people who seems to know everything about everything. Want to know how to treat a bee sting, stop a migraine, or keep your skin smooth? Karen’s the one you should call. She also knows where to find the best price for everything from gas to ground beef, and who fits where in any family tree. She has a serious sugar addiction, but you’d never know it because she’s skinny as a rail. She’s actually a few years younger than I am, but I never can remember exactly how many years it is.

It would probably have made more sense for Aunt Grace to leave Divinity to Karen, but Karen swears she only wants the part-time income and very little of the responsibility. She seems content to work whenever her kids aren’t practicing something or competing somewhere. Frankly, I’d like to know where she gets her energy. I’d bottle it and sell it over the counter.

She inherited her auburn hair from her father’s side of the family, but her hazel eyes and high cheekbones are pure Shaw. True to form, she burst into the kitchen as if someone had pumped her engine full of something before dawn. “So . . .” she said, tossing her keys onto the table. “Brandon Mills burned down Man About Town so he could get his hands on the insurance money, huh?

Et tu,
Karen? Scowling, I slipped a gold-edged Divinity apron over my head and cinched the ties around my waist. “Why is everyone so determined to believe the worst? The store burned down. That’s all I know for sure. Anything else is gossip and hearsay.”

Karen hitched her narrow backside onto one of the stools we keep near the window. “I guess that means you don’t think he did it?”

“No, I don’t.” I measured ingredients and put the pan on the flame. “You know Brandon. He’s not the type to do something like that.”

“What type is that?”

I frowned up at her. “The arsonist type. The type who’d commit a felony and take a chance on hurting another human being or damaging someone’s property for the sake of a little money.”

Karen shrugged and dug a huckleberry drop from the sample bowl. “If he did it, it wouldn’t have been for a
little
money. I hear the insurance on that building will pay off more than a million dollars if Brandon can prove that he’s innocent.”

“Which he will.”

“I don’t know, Abby. The longer he stays away, the harder it’s going to be.”

That brought my head up with a snap. “He still hasn’t been found?”

“Not yet.”

That vague sense of uneasiness I’d been feeling all day took on sharp definition. “You don’t think something happened to him, do you?”

“To Brandon?” Karen filled the pocket of her smock with fruit drops and smiled reassurance. “I’m sure he’s just fine. You know what a charmed life he leads. He’s like a cat with nine lives.”

I stopped working so I could look at her. “Are we talking about the same Brandon? I’ve never seen that side of him.”

“Well, it’s there. The man has been skating around trouble since the day he walked into this town. It’s a miracle that some jealous husband hasn’t come gunning for him, you know?”

Heat wafting up from the burner scorched my hand and reminded me to stir if I didn’t want to toss out the whole batch. “That’s almost exactly what Wyatt said, but if that’s true, why don’t I know about it?”

“Maybe Brandon doesn’t want you to know. You two have been getting pretty friendly lately.”

“Isn’t that all the more reason for one of
you
to tell me?”

Karen crossed her legs and set one foot bouncing slightly. “Would you have listened?”

I shrugged off the question. “That’s entirely beside the point. You still could have said something. Do you know for sure that Brandon sleeps with married women, or are you just responding to rumor?”