Town In a Lobster Stew (36 page)

“Don’t worry, Dad, I can handle it,” Robbie replied, sounding somewhat sullen.

“I do worry about it,” Bob said, “and now you’ve got me involved.”

Candy stood frozen, uncertain of what to do. Bob and Robbie appeared to be headed right toward her and the shed. Her heart beat faster. Should she make herself known to them, or should she hide?

In the end her instincts took over. Moving quickly, she stepped lightly across the shed into the front corner, trying to meld into the shadows. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, though, and if they entered the shed, she’d surely be seen. Her mind quickly tried to formulate an excuse, so she’d have something to say if she were caught.

“It’s time for you to get out of that game,” Bob said, walking along the side of the shed now. “You’ve already lost your shirt once, and it’s cost us both. Get out before it gets the best of you.”

“I can’t get out now,” Robbie protested. “I have too much invested.”

“That’s the problem with these things. They grab you and don’t let go. There’s no way you’re going to win your money back. Listen to me, son. I know how these things work.”

Candy could hear Bob unhooking something on the front of the shed.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Robbie protested, his voice now tinged with frustration. “I’m not in high school anymore. I’m almost twenty years old.”

“You’re still my son,” Bob said sternly, “and you’re still my responsibility.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Robbie asked angrily. “Responsibility?”

Candy heard a creak of hinges as Bob closed one of the shed’s doors. It slammed tightly shut.

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me. You’re grown up now, but I’m still your dad.”

Robbie said something Candy couldn’t quite make out, and then she heard him marching away. Bob called after him as he unhooked the other door from its tether and swung it closed. She heard a hurried sound and then a snap, as if a padlock had been attached to the outside door handles.

“Robbie! Robbie, listen to me!”

Bob ran after his son. Candy caught a glimpse of him out the window on the other side of the shed, hurrying up the pathway toward the parking lot, chasing after Robbie.

Candy waited in the stillness for a few minutes, allowing her heart to slow and her breathing to ease. She realized she was sweating.

Candy, you have to stop doing this to yourself
, she thought with a shake of her head.

When she felt she’d waited long enough to make a quick, unnoticed escape, she emerged from the corner and rushed to the door, pushing on it first with one hand, then with the other.

It refused to open.

She pushed again, harder this time, with her shoulder, but no luck.

She couldn’t get out.

She was locked in.

She stood staring at the door in disbelief. He’d locked her in! How could he have done such a thing? She felt her face getting flush. A few fingers of panic reached into her, causing her to stiffen. She looked around, searching for another exit. But there was no other way out, she realized with a start.

She was trapped inside Bob Bridges’s maintenance shed!

She couldn’t believe she’d gotten herself into this jam. What was she going to do? “Just stay calm,” she told herself in a low breath. “Stay calm and figure this out.”

Despite her admonition to herself, she could feel her heart beating faster as the panic threatened to build, to sweep through her in an unbridled surge. But she kept it under control as she tried to decide what to do next.

For a moment she actually forgot what day it was, which caused the panic to spike, but she quickly remembered. Memorial Day. A holiday. Her head twisted toward the window on her left. The fog had settled in outside, becoming impenetrable. Any tourists who might have lingered on the property were probably all gone, driven off by the worsening weather and leaving her stranded alone on the grounds of the English Point Lighthouse. She had a chilling vision of being trapped here all night, sitting dejectedly in Bob Bridges’s desk chair with her head dropped onto his tiny desk, miserably trying to get some sleep.

That wasn’t a vision she liked, but it worsened further as more questions jumped into her head, making her shiver briefly, uncontrollably. What would she eat? What if she got thirsty? What would her hair look like in the morning?

More important, what would she say when they found her in here the following day? What would she say to Bob Bridges? What would she tell Doc when he asked why she hadn’t called him and let him know she wasn’t coming home?

Suddenly she reached back with her hands, urgently patting her pockets, as if they were on fire. Her cell phone! Her left hand fell upon it. It was still in the left front pocket of her jeans!

A wave of relief washed through her as her shoulders visibly sagged. She’d found a way out. She could breathe again.

She pulled the cell phone out and clutched it tightly in her hand, cherishing its feel. The hard black plastic was warm and comforting against her skin, her lifeline to the outside world. At this particular moment, she realized, there was nothing else she’d rather be holding—except perhaps a door key to get her out of this place.

But even that wouldn’t work. These doors, she realized, had no interior keyholes—no real locks at all. She recalled seeing large metal handles on the front of the doors. Bob must have padlocked the handles together, so even if she had a key, she couldn’t get to the lock.

She’d have to call someone to come get her out.

Flipping open the phone, she brought up the contact list and scrolled down to her home phone number. She couldn’t recall if Doc had anything planned this afternoon, but he’d pick up if he was around the house. He was her best option, she decided as she pressed the button that selected the number. But before she pressed send, she hesitated.

Maybe it would be better to call Maggie instead. No doubt Doc would look very unfavorably upon Candy’s current predicament and would probably give her some sort of lecture, or at the very least disapproving looks for days. Maggie was the better choice.

She quickly found Maggie’s number. Her thumb hovered over the send button. But again, she hesitated.

Her gaze rose to the door, studying it for a few moments before she turned toward the small window at the far end of the shed. Outside, the light was fading, squeezed from the day by the dense fog. She walked to the window and looked out. A few lights were flickering on around the complex, activated by sensors, she guessed. They formed glowing pools of pale illumination in the murky day.

She turned and looked up at the ceiling of the shed. She hadn’t even noticed before, but a single fluorescent light strip hung over her head.

“Candy,” she softly chided herself with a shake of her head.

She found the light switch by the door and turned it on. The fluorescent light cast an eerie glow in the shed’s interior, but she barely noticed. She was moving again.

Maybe she wasn’t as trapped as she thought. Maybe she could pop open one of the windows. Or maybe she could use a crowbar to wedge open the double doors far enough apart to squeeze through.

She’d try both those avenues of escape—right after she took care of something else, something more important.

It was time to do what she’d come here to do.

It was time to check out Bob Bridges’s desk.

A key to the Keeper’s Quarters could still be hidden somewhere in the shed, and she decided to take a few minutes to search for it.

Crossing to the desk, she pulled open the top drawer and studied its contents. It was as neat as everything else she’d seen in here. Pens and pencils were carefully arranged in a long tray, pins and thumbtacks occupied smaller bins, boxes of paper clips and rubber bands were lined up along one side, and scissors and rulers were laid squarely next to each other. Farther back were writing pads and other office supplies, like boxes of staples and various types of Scotch and masking tape, all in their appropriate places.

Candy pulled the drawer out a little farther and slipped her hand far into the back, feeling around for a set of keys. She was careful not to disturb anything. She didn’t want Bob to think someone had snooped around in here. Her fingers reached and probed, but she didn’t find what she was looking for.

She closed the top drawer and checked the others just as carefully and as cautiously, working top to bottom. One drawer held envelopes and labels, another a couple of reams of paper and ink cartridges for a printer, and another neatly labeled, alphabetized, and categorized files. None of the drawers held a set of keys.

Slowly she straightened, sliding the bottom drawer closed as she rose. No luck.

She stood quietly for a moment, still clutching the cell phone in her left hand. She looked down at it, thinking. Maybe she should just give Maggie a call and get herself out of here in time for dinner. Maybe she was trying too hard to solve this mystery. Maybe it would be best to bow out now, before things got worse, and let the police do their job.

Maybe.

But she felt she was so close. Wilma Mae had felt it too.
I think it’s right under your nose
, the elderly woman had said.

Right under my nose
. . .

Again, Candy looked down. Nothing there but a cement floor. She looked left and right, along the floor on either side, her eyes shifting all the way to the walls.

Something in the far corner caught her eye.

It looked familiar.

Squinting, she took a few steps toward it, never taking her eyes off it.

It was a blue tarpaulin, just like the one Mr. Sedley had been wrapped in.

She took a few more steps toward it, crouching down as she reached out to touch it with her hand, testing its texture and thickness.

It seemed like the exact same material. In fact, it was exactly the same type of tarp.

Could this be where the first one came from—the one used to wrap up Mr. Sedley’s body?

Quickly she straightened. Her gaze shifted.

There, on the workbench nearby, she saw something else she hadn’t noticed before.

Fishing line.

The panic surged through her again. Here was the evidence she’d been looking for. Here were the clues to Mr. Sedley’s murder—and Charlotte’s.

And she was locked in!

It was time to get out.

She found Maggie’s phone number again and texted five words to her:
Need help at the lighthouse.
Then she flipped the phone closed, slipped it into her pocket, and looked around.

She could sure use a crowbar.

Her eyes scanned the workbenches and shelves, searching for the right tool. She finally spotted it hanging from a pegboard above the workbench. She started toward it, her gaze focused on it and on the tools hanging around it: awl, block plane, bow saw, caulking gun, crowbar . . .

Candy shook her head again in disbelief. Bob had
alphabetized
his tools.

The only problem was, since it came early in the alphabet, the crowbar had been hung at the top of the pegboard, out of her reach. She wondered idly how Bob, who was not a tall man, managed to get to it. He probably just climbed up on something like she’d have to, she guessed. She looked around, then bent down and noticed a wooden stool tucked underneath the workbench.

Candy pulled it out, tested it for sturdiness, and gingerly stepped up on it, reaching toward the crowbar. But it was still beyond her grasp, so she stepped right up onto the workbench itself. To steady herself, she held on to one of the side shelves as she reached toward the pegboard . . . and froze.

As she had taken hold of the shelf, she’d glanced to her left. Something thin and long, with a battered gray and red cover, had caught her eye.

She looked down. Positioned neatly on one of the higher shelves was a black wire tray, containing a stack of neatly arranged papers. And sitting right on top of the stack of papers was an old ledger with a gray and red cover.

Right under your nose
. . .

Candy felt a chill go through her.

Somehow, Wilma Mae had been right.

Hesitantly, as if in slow motion, she reached out for the ledger, half-afraid it would suddenly disappear before she could touch it. Her fingers stretched out toward it as the fog outside parted, allowing a stray beam of the late afternoon sun to stream in through the window, illuminating the shed’s interior in a beatific glow.

She closed her fingers on it, thumb on top, the rest of them on the back of the ledger, and lifted it toward her. Still standing on the workbench, feet slightly apart so she could maintain her balance, she held the ledger up and delicately opened the cover.

The Journal of James Edward Sedley
, read the first line at the top of the first page. The words were written in a neat, ornate script. And underneath that, on subsequent lines, he’d written in an equally neat yet slightly less ornamented hand,
Begun at Kettle Cove in Maine, on the northern coast of Saco Bay, within sight of Richmond Island and Piney Point, on this 25th day of January, in the Year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Forty-Six, on the cusp of a great adventure
.