Town In a Lobster Stew (23 page)

The subject line at the top of the e-mail read,
Fwd: For Candy Holliday’s Eyes Only
.

Just as Ben had said.

She’d seen these types of e-mails before. Usually they were complaints. But it didn’t look like Wanda’s handiwork this time. She usually wanted anyone and everyone to read her letters and e-mails—as many people as possible. Never before had she labeled one of her messages this way.

Candy took a few moments to mentally prepare herself. When she felt she was ready for whatever she might read, she positioned the mouse and tapped the laptop’s touchpad. The e-mail opened. She dropped her gaze to the text in the lower pane.

It was short and to the point:
The wrong person won the cook-off. Contact me if you want to know what really happened.

It was signed
Cinnamon Girl
.

Candy felt goose bumps rise on her arm as a cool breeze blew down from the blueberry fields and across the porch. She rubbed at her arms and leaned back.

The wrong person won the cook-off? At first glance, she’d say Ben was right—it did sound like a complaint, at least on its surface.

But it was the sign-off that gave her pause.

Was that a coincidence? Or was someone trying to tell her something? Was there a hidden meaning in the name?

There was only one way to find out.

Still, she hesitated, knowing she should think carefully before taking a step deeper into the mystery. Sometimes when you stepped in too far, it became impossible to step back out, as she had found out. The last time she’d taken such a step, she had put herself and others in danger. Was she certain she wanted to put herself in possible danger again?

This had all started with a stolen lobster stew recipe, she reminded herself—a fairly nonthreatening mystery. Now someone had died. That changed the situation completely, and it made her pause, as any person with a dab of common sense would.

In the end, though, she knew she had to do it. But she resolved to be smarter about it this time.

She clicked the reply button, which opened a new window, and looked at the name in the address field’s
To
line. It was addressed to
CinnamonGirl
, followed by a series of five numbers, at a Gmail account.

Candy typed,
Okay, I’m interested. What do you know?
and before she could think about it any more, she hit the send button in the upper left corner of the screen.

She waited.

Doc walked past again, still whistling and carrying a glass of iced tea. She hadn’t even noticed him going into the house. He walked off the porch and headed across the gravel driveway, past the Jeep and his old Ford pickup, to the barn again.

Candy decided to follow him—at least partway. A little walk would help clear her mind, so she could focus on her article. She rose, set the laptop on a nearby wooden bench, and started after her father, though she angled off behind the barn, where she kept her chickens.

Ray Hutchins had built the coop for her a year and a half ago, and had expanded it for her last fall, in partial payment for all she had done to help him out of a tight spot, he’d told her at the time. She’d had fifteen chickens last year but had lost two of them over the winter, so she was down to thirteen, which always seemed to be tempting fate—not that she was a superstitious person, she always reminded herself. She planned to expand her flock again this year when she and Doc drove to the annual Common Ground Country Fair up in Unity.

She’d had foxes try to get into the coop several times, so she and Doc had reinforced the chicken wire around the sides and lower edges of the coop. She also made sure the chickens were in their roosts and closed up every night. And she always kept Doc’s shotgun close at hand, in the kitchen closet, just in case.

Today the chickens were happy and chattering away as usual, oblivious to the cares and worries of those in the world around them. They pecked and scratched eagerly as she threw a few handfuls of feed onto the ground in the coop. She checked their water and looked around for eggs, though there were only a few. She’d already collected a bunch earlier in the day and decided to leave these until evening.

When she got back to the porch, she checked her e-mail and found another message from Cinnamon Girl. This one was equally short:

Candy puzzled over that. Was security an issue? Or was she being drawn out somewhere for a reason?

Again, she thought, there’s only one way to find out.

She hit reply again and typed,
When do you want to meet?

It took less than a minute to get an answer.
This afternoon. 4 p.m.

Where?
Candy sent back.

Backstage at the Pruitt Opera House
, came the reply.

Candy hesitated briefly. She had a history with that place. Finally she typed,
How will I find you?

Candy thought a few moments before sending her next message.
It’s Sunday afternoon. The place is probably locked up. How will I get in?

She waited a long time for a reply.
Back basement door. Come alone.

Candy groaned.

She knew which door Cinnamon Girl meant. She had used it before, on a rainy night the previous summer, when she’d entered the opera house after hours to hunt for a murderer.

The Pruitt Opera House on Ocean Avenue also doubled as Town Hall, since the town’s offices were located in the building’s basement, where they’d been since the late 1970s. Candy knew the layout, and she knew how to get from the back basement door to the auditorium’s backstage area.

At this time of year, the auditorium was used mostly for movies on Friday and Saturday nights. Earlier in the spring, a regional Shakespeare group had staged its annual production on the opera house’s stage—
The Tempest
this year. And the high school would hold its graduation ceremonies in the auditorium in mid-June. In early July, a series of performances by local folk musicians would take place on the stage, after which the auditorium would come into heavy usage for the second half of the summer, as the town’s thespians geared up for the annual musical production in August.

Candy’s uneasiness returned as she pondered the last message from Cinnamon Girl. Why the anonymous e-mail? And why the secretive meeting at a public yet relatively inaccessible place? Why not meet in a coffee shop or in Town Park or in a parking lot somewhere? Why all the subterfuge?

For a fleeting moment she thought about skipping the meeting. Why put herself in harm’s way? For all she knew, Cinnamon Girl could be a psycho.

And yet, her instincts told her the opposite.

It was that moniker that eventually decided her. It was a subtle clue, designed to let her know that whoever this person was, she (Candy assumed it was a she, though she supposed it could be a he) knew certain details about Wilma Mae’s recipe—and might know a lot more.

Candy checked her watch. It was a quarter to three.

If she was going to do this, she had to get moving.

She rose again, set her laptop aside, and crossed to the barn. Doc was fiddling around on a workbench, listening to a game on the radio. He looked around when Candy walked in. “What’s up, pumpkin?”

“Do you have Finn’s number? I need to give him a call.”

“Finn?”

“Yeah, I . . . have a question for him about the opera house.”

Doc gave her a quizzical look. “What are you up to?”

She crossed her arms. “Just my job, Dad. So, Finn’s number?”

After a few moments he shrugged. “It’s somewhere on my desk. Check the Rolodex on the right-hand side. I think I put his old business card in there.”

She started back toward the house. “I’m going to give him a call, then I’m going out for a while. I have some research to do.”

“Just be careful, pumpkin. It’s a tough world out there.”

“Don’t I know it, Dad.”

Finn Woodbury lived with his wife Marti in one of the newer condos along the English River. It was a small community of buildings known as Water’s Edge, upriver from the older neighborhood of Fowler’s Corner, where Maggie lived. Finn and Marti spent a good bit of time there, from late April through late December, but when the coldest weather set in at the beginning of each new year, they usually hitched up the fifth-wheeler they kept in the backyard and headed down Interstate 95, making a beeline for an RV park in Central Florida, about an hour south of Orlando, where they waited out the winter season in warmer weather. And every spring, when they made the trip back up I-95 and returned to Cape Willington, they usually brought a few crates of oranges, a big bag of Spanish moss, and some pretty good suntans.

Finn opened the door when she rang the bell. He was eating a ham and cheese sandwich. While he chewed, he motioned her inside, closing the door behind her.

“Come on back,” he said, waving a hand. “I’m just having a snack. Want something? A Coke? A beer?”

“No thanks, I’m fine,” Candy said as she followed him back to the kitchen.

“Go ahead, have a seat,” Finn said as he sat himself. “Marti’s out shopping. She wanted me to go with her, but she was headed to some of those discount stores over near Ellsworth. Treasure hunting, she calls it. We got a house full of treasures, I told her. We don’t have room for any more. But that never stops her. She says it makes her happy, and who am I to stand in the way of her happiness?”

He paused, took a bite of his sandwich, and looked at her as he chewed. He wore cargo shorts and a green golf shirt today; his tweed jacket, which he always had on when he went out, was slung over the back of his chair. He was only a little taller than Candy, and broad, though he didn’t seem overweight. His stomach was still tight, and his toned legs indicated he kept himself active. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed. He looked at her with studious brown eyes. “So, you need my help with something?”

“Yeah, thanks for taking the time to see me. I . . . have this meeting in a little while, and I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

He sat back in his chair. “What kind of meeting?”

“Well, I suppose you could say it’s with some sort of informant.”

“I see.” Absently he took another bite of the sandwich, followed by a pull from a can of Coke, as he thought this over. “So what’s the name of your informant?”

“I don’t know.”

“Uh-huh. And how did this informant contact you?”

“E-mail.”

“No way to identify the sender?”

“It was a Gmail account. Someone named Cinnamon Girl.”

“Cinnamon Girl, huh? Just like the old Neil Young song. Interesting.” He stared down at a nondescript spot on the floor for a few moments, then asked, “So, where are you meeting this person, and when is it going down?”

She told him. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you first—to find out what I’m walking into.”

“Why, are you worried?”

She had to admit she was.

“Think it’s a scam?”

“I don’t know. I just know someone who insists on staying anonymous wants to meet me in a very odd place.”

“It can get pretty dark in that backstage area,” Finn said thoughtfully, “even in the middle of the day. That’s the point, of course. No windows, little light. It’s probably a good place to meet if you wanted to remain anonymous. This person can just stay in the shadows if she or he wants to, and talk to you from there—or come up on you from behind.”

“I know.” She gave him a long look.

He seemed to understand. “So you need a little backup.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I was thinking about something like that, yes.”

“Where’s Maggie? Doesn’t she usually help you out with this sort of thing?”

“She’s keeping an eye on Wilma Mae.” Candy hesitated before she added, “Besides, I put her in a lot of danger last time. This time . . .” Her voice trailed off.

He smiled. “This time you’d rather put
me
in danger.”

“Well”—Candy raised her eyebrows—“when you put it that way . . .”

He took a contemplative bite of the sandwich. “Did this informant tell you to come alone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, at least we know the ground rules. But nothing says we can’t bend them a little.” His eyes suddenly widened as he held up a thick finger. “You know what? I have just the thing.”

He set down his sandwich, got up from the table, and crossed to a drawer at the far end of the kitchen counter. He pulled it open and started digging through it, burrowing under various tools, seed packets, menus, bulbs, candles, batteries, matchbooks, plastic boxes of screws and nails, user guides, pens and pencils, and other assorted and sundry items. He finally found what he was looking for near the back, pulled it out, slammed the drawer closed with his hip, and returned to the table.