Town in a Blueberrry Jam (15 page)

SEVENTEEN

The next morning, Candy and Doc climbed into the Jeep Cherokee and headed up to Route 1, where they turned east toward the town of Machias, the county seat. The day was overcast, the remnants of the previous day’s storm still clinging stubbornly to the coast, which only added to their somber moods.

They were silent for most of the forty-minute drive, which took them through small settlements and past boulder-strewn blueberry fields ripe for the harvest. Candy kept the radio tuned to an AM news station, though they heard more static than news as the signal faded in and out. They were eager for the latest information about the investigation into Sapphire Vine’s murder, but there was nothing to be heard, which only made Candy more morose and Doc more restless.

The Washington County Sheriff’s Office was located on Court Street just off Machias’s main street, in a red brick building next to the Superior Court. They parked in the side visitor’s lot, checked in at the front desk, and at just after ten o’clock were shown into an empty room by a young, straight-backed, mustachioed officer named Wayne Safford. “You can wait for Ray in here,” he told them. “He’ll be right in.”

It was a small, windowless, cheerless room with a freshly waxed brown and white tile floor and walls painted a dull institutional beige. At its center was a narrow folding table surrounded by four metal folding chairs. A U.S. flag stood in one corner, next to a flag of the great State of Maine, with its moose and pine tree, farmer and seaman, set on a blue field under the North Star. There was no other furniture in the room—no pictures or photos on the walls, no one-way mirrors. The place smelled old yet efficient.

“Well,” Doc said as he dropped into one of the chairs with a grunt, “at least they let us in to see him. I thought they’d give us a hard time.”

Candy nodded her agreement and stood with her arms folded across her chest, hugging her shoulders. The air conditioning in the building must have been set on high, or perhaps it was all funneled into this small room. Feeling chilled, she wished she had brought a sweater with her. But who travels with a sweater when it’s eighty degrees outside?

She thought of sitting down beside Doc but realized she was too nervous for that, so she paced the perimeter of the room, looking for anything the least bit interesting to occupy her time, and failing miserably.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait too long. Sooner than she expected, the door swung open and Ray shuffled in, his head bowed low. He looked terrible. Even when he saw Candy and Doc, the most he could manage was the most pitiful smile she had ever seen. He sank heavily into a chair opposite Doc. His gaze dropped to the table and stayed there.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” Officer Safford said. He left, closing the door firmly behind him.

A loud click told them the door locked itself as it shut.

Doc tried to ignore that disconcerting fact. “Well, how ya doing, Ray?” he said in a lively tone that sounded much too forced. He managed a smile as he leaned closer to the handyman. “Are they treating you all right?”

Ray shrugged, a quick movement that showed defeat. He let out a long shuddering breath. “Oh, they been okay to me.” His bottom lip puffed out a little. He seemed to be fighting back tears.

Candy felt the despair, embarrassment, and confusion radiating off him in waves. “Are they feeding you, Ray?” she asked, looking worried. “Are you eating?”

Ray nodded, though he still stared at the tabletop. “I had donuts and flapjacks for breakfast. They even gave me some blueberry syrup. I been eatin’.”

Candy went to stand beside him, and she couldn’t help reaching out and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Ray,” she said softly, “do you want to tell us what happened?”

That did it. The tear ducts opened, the emotions bubbled up, and he shook like a house in a hurricane. “I . . . I didn’t do it,” he stuttered between sobs. “I didn’t do that terrible thing they said I did.” He glanced up at Candy, a horrified look in his eyes. “How could they say I did it? They don’t know me. I could never do somethin’ terrible like that.”

“I know, Ray, I know,” Candy said sympathetically.

“We know you didn’t do it,” Doc added, “but what happened? How’d you get mixed up in this mess?”

“I don’t know, Doc, I just don’t know,” Ray wailed, shaking his head frenetically and dropping it into his open hands.

“Try to stay calm,” Candy told him, sinking into the chair beside him and looking at him intently. “Take a few deep breaths.”

He listened to her. He straightened and took a breath, then another, shaking with grief the whole time. That calmed him a bit, though the distress he felt was still evident on his face. “Why do they think I did it?” he asked finally, looking over at her, his eyes reddened.

Doc leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped together on the tabletop. “Well, for one thing, Ray, they have witnesses who say they saw your truck at Sapphire’s house Monday night, right before she was murdered,” he explained as gently as possible.

Ray nodded as his lips trembled. “Yeah, that’s right. I was there all right. She left me a note. Said she wanted me to come over at nine thirty and help her fix something. It was late, but I went over there anyway, just like she said. But when I got there she got mad at me for some reason. She yelled at me and told me to go home. I didn’t know what to do. So I left. But I didn’t kill her.”

Candy exchanged a questioning glance with Doc. “Did you tell the police what you just told us?”

Ray nodded emphatically. “I told them—over and over I told them. But they won’t listen. They said I did it. They said they have
evidence
.”

“They do,” Doc said quietly. “They found your hammer at her house, next to her body.”

Candy watched Ray to see his reaction to this piece of information, and what she saw surprised her. His expression changed in an instant. He looked as though he had just been accused of the worst crime in the world—something far worse than murder, if that were possible. He started to wail in a high voice, a strange sound that reminded Candy of a wet kitten mewling pitifully.

“My . . . my hammer,” he said softly. “But how’d it get there?” He lost his composure then and broke down again, crying uncontrollably now.

Candy and Doc sat silently for a moment, feeling helpless. Neither of them knew what to say. They tried to comfort him, but this time it didn’t help. He just shook his head over and over and wouldn’t say anything else.

“Ray,” Doc said finally, trying to get the handyman to look at him. “Ray, do you have a lawyer yet? Have they appointed someone to help you?”

But Ray wouldn’t answer. The sobs finally lessened, but he sat crouched over, his hands around his knees, his shoulders hunched and arms tucked in at his sides, rocking back and forth. And then he started humming something.

Candy put her arm around his shoulders. “Listen, Ray,” she said, leaning close to him, “we’re going to help you any way we can. You hear that? Don’t you worry. We know you didn’t have anything to do with this. And we’re going to do everything we can to prove it. We’re going to get you out of here. That’s a promise.”

She didn’t realize until that moment that there were tears in her eyes. She wiped them away quickly with her fingertips. Doc reached across the table and handed her his handkerchief.

When Officer Safford finally unlocked the door and peered into the room, Ray was still sitting in that same position, rocking back and forth. Doc and Candy were standing quietly beside him. There was nothing more to say.

“Does he have an attorney?” Doc asked as Ray was coaxed to his feet.

Officer Safford nodded. “He’s got someone. And a county social worker has been assigned to him also. He’s in good hands.”

“What’s the lawyer’s name?” Candy asked.

“Big-time guy by the name of Cromwell. Down from Bangor.”

With that, Ray was led away, and Candy and Doc were left alone in an empty room.

EIGHTEEN

As Candy and Doc drove into Cape Willington, the sun finally broke through the coastal clouds, brightening the day, but it did little to lift their spirits. They had talked themselves out on the drive home and had ridden the last twenty minutes or so in silence. But as they approached the Coastal Loop, Doc straightened, rubbed at his eyes, stretched, and then looked over at her. “You want to stop at the diner for a while? Get a cup of coffee maybe, see if Finn’s got any news about the investigation?”

Candy glanced at her watch. It was eleven fifteen. She was supposed to meet Maggie at the diner at twelve thirty for lunch, but she knew she’d have a hard time sitting still until then. She shook her head. “How ’bout I drop you off and meet you back there in a bit?”

“You got something planned?”

Candy shrugged, trying to dispel the disheartening feeling that had settled over her. “Ben asked me to stop by the
Crier
offices to pick up some files and sign a few forms, so I guess I’ll run over there and see what’s up.”

Doc nodded approvingly. “Good idea. While you’re there, see what you can find out about Ray’s case. Maybe Ben’s heard something. And I’ll talk to Finn and the boys. Then we can compare notes and see what our next move is.”

Candy felt only the faintest ray of hope, but at least they were doing something. “Sounds like a plan.”

She drove into town, turned onto Main Street, and pulled up to the curb in front of Duffy’s. Doc opened the passenger door and climbed out while the Jeep idled noisily.

“I’ll be back around in an hour or so,” Candy called to her father. “Will you be okay ’til then?”

“Don’t worry about me. Just don’t forget to pick me up on your way back through.”

She gave him an indulgent look. “I won’t forget, Dad.” Doc closed the door and, leaning in the window, smiled at her. “I know you won’t, pumpkin.”

“Dad . . .” she began, then allowed herself the briefest smile when she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“You know, you’re mighty pretty when you smile like that,” he said with a wink. Then, slapping the side of the Jeep in farewell, he ambled off toward Duffy’s Diner.

Candy pulled back out onto Main Street and made an almost immediate left onto Ocean Avenue, her eyes scanning both sides of the street for a parking spot. But not surprisingly, there was none to be found.

She swore under her breath and considered making a U-turn right there in the center of town but thought better of it when she saw a police car in her rearview mirror. So, with no other options, she decided she’d just have to circle back around on the Loop and make another pass along Main Street. Maybe, with luck, she’d find an open spot.

At the bottom of Ocean Avenue she dutifully put on her turn signal and, after pausing an appropriate amount of time at the stop sign, made a right turn onto the Loop, which took her southward along the coastline. A moist warm breeze blew in the window, bringing with it the heady, comforting smells of the sea.

She couldn’t help glancing off to her left, out over at the ocean, as she drove. It was a magnificent shade of deep blue today, rich and lively, a color that reminded her of nothing less than cool, ripe blueberries. The sea tossed restlessly. A sail or two could be seen on the hazy horizon. Flocks of gulls, cawing raucously, swarmed after whatever tidbits their dark questing eyes could find.

Candy loved being by the ocean. Despite the fact that she drove past it several times a week, she still marveled at it every time she saw it. There was something magical about the sea—perhaps, she thought, because it was constantly moving, always changing yet always the same, unending, unstoppable. It could be graceful and generous, yet dangerous and sometimes deadly, demanding respect.

But there was more to it than that. The sea had become almost spiritual to her. It had a way of flowing into her,
inhabiting
her,
fulfilling
her. For those few moments, as she gazed out over the ocean, the cares of the everyday world seemed trivial, so small in comparison to the vastness and majesty of the sea.

Whenever she was feeling down, or stressed, or overwhelmed by the constant jabs and distractions of the world, or when she felt she had lost her way, she had only to stand here upon these jutting black rocks that lined the coast and look out to the sea, and she would feel at peace again.

But she had no time to gaze too long at the sea today. The troubles of the world were pressing in, poking at her, like thorns on a rosebush.

Speaking of thorns . . .

As she angled southwestward along the Loop, the pointed rooftops of Pruitt Manor came into view above the tops of a few thick-trunked pines that had made a bold stand on Kimball Point. The place seemed to beckon to her, and she felt compelled to respond.

Before she knew what she was doing, Candy had flicked on her left-turn blinker and steered the Jeep sharply onto a private driveway that led between two five-foot-tall stone pillars. The iron gate stood open, so she drove on through, still not quite sure what she was doing. A small, tasteful sign alongside the road announced PRUITT MANOR—PRIVATE PROPERTY.

She had been here only once before that she could recall, when Mrs. Pruitt had opened the place to the Cape Willington Garden Society. Candy and Maggie were only occasional Society members, but they had made sure they were there that day, dressed in cool summer frocks like the other ladies, wearing broad-brimmed straw hats as they strolled the grounds under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Pruitt and her staff. They had even been invited into certain sections of the house—the foyer, the formal sitting room, the music room, and a few other rooms on the main level, plus the conservatory, a magnificent gabled glass-and-mahogany structure at the back of the house, from which double doors and a bluestone staircase led down to a wide lawn that stopped at a jumble of rocks perched above the roiling sea.

The place had taken Candy’s breath away. Mrs. Pruitt had even been reasonably hospitable that day, offering the ladies of the Society tea and trays full of finger foods as she pointed out her herb, rose, and perennial gardens abloom with pulmonarias, primulas, nepetas, and verbascums. That had been the first time Candy had noticed Hopkins (or whatever his name was), the pug-faced butler /chauffeur who never seemed to be too far from Mrs. Pruitt’s side.

Even now, as she followed the winding gravel driveway toward Pruitt Manor and pulled into the wide paved courtyard that fronted the house, Candy half expected the butler to dash suddenly from the mansion’s front door, arms flailing wildly in protest of her appearance here.

And, in truth, she did feel like a pauper in a princess’s court as she shut off the Jeep’s engine and leaned forward to gaze through the windshield, up at the imposing English Tudor façade of Pruitt Manor.

“Oh man,” she said softly to herself.

It took all the will she could muster to open the door and step out of the vehicle. She wished then that she had worn something more presentable, instead of her regular faded jeans and sleeveless cotton blouse. But no matter—she was here now. She might as well do what she had come here to do.

And what exactly is that?
she wondered to herself.

“Girl, you’ve been doing some mighty strange things lately,” she muttered to herself with a shake of her head as she followed a flagstone walkway past impeccably manicured lawns and neatly clipped bushes to the manor’s recessed entryway. Taking a breath, she rang the doorbell. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in way over your head.”

She waited, trying to quickly sort out what she was going to say. Then, as she heard footsteps approaching inside, saw the door handle twist and the door inch open, she pasted her most pleasant smile on her face.

The door opened fully, and there, naturally, stood Hopkins (or whatever his name was).

He gazed at her without expression. “Yes?”

“Oh, hello, I’m, ah, I’m Candy Holliday. I was wondering if Mrs. Pruitt or Haley is here today?”

The butler was silent a moment, eyeing her up and down. “Yes?”

“Well, I was wondering if I might see them. I’m, um, I’m writing a story for the
Cape Crier
—the local newspaper, you know. And I, um, I wanted to ask Mrs. Pruitt a few questions about the pageant.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” Candy swallowed. “No, I don’t.”

The butler bowed his head slightly. “I shall inquire as to whether Mrs. Pruitt is available.” He held the door open a little further. “Won’t you come in?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She followed the butler into the Italian-tiled foyer, where he turned to face her. “If you would wait here, please, I’ll be back momentarily.”

“Of course. Thank you,” Candy said again.

He nodded obliquely at her and disappeared through a side archway, into the room beyond.

“Well,” Candy said to herself as her gaze wandered up the grand staircase and to the ceiling high above, “at least you made it this far.”

The place was elegantly decorated in the English Tudor style, reflecting the exterior of the manor. Queen Anne-style chairs, ornate wood paneling, heraldic designs, and stylish floor tile featuring an oak leaf and acorn design gave the foyer a warm yet aristocratic feel. A chandelier suspended over her head—a hefty wood-beam and brass affair with lights that resembled thick candles—looked like something from a medieval hunting lodge. Portraits of austere, rich-looking folk, probably long dead, adorned the walls. They peered down their long noses at Candy, as if to inquire, quite snobbishly, about her presence here. She sneered back at them, hoping belatedly that some hidden security camera hadn’t captured the face she had just made.

She was debating whether to sit in one of the Queen Anne chairs when she heard approaching steps. It was the butler again, looking as stiff and disapproving as the people in the portraits.

“Madame will see you now,” he announced formally with a slight nod of his head. His elbows were held back against his sides as if he were pinioned. “If you will follow me, she will see you in the tea room.”

Ohh, the tea room!
Candy thought excitedly, though to the butler she said, trying to match his formality, “That will be fine. Thank you.”

He turned abruptly and led her back through a hallway and past a series of rooms, each more ornate and stylish than the one before—a formal sitting room, a music room with a grand piano, an elegant dining room with a mahogany table large enough for a dozen or more dinner guests. Toward the rear of the house the roar of the ocean became louder, and as she entered the tea room she saw why.

It was a small sitting area that opened onto the conservatory and the gardens and ocean beyond. Mrs. Pruitt, perched nonchalantly in a wicker armchair, perusing a home and garden magazine, looked up as Candy and the butler approached.

“Ms. Candy Holliday to see you, madame,” the butler announced formally as he presented Candy to his mistress.

“Thank you, Hobbins. Would you tell Cook that she may serve us now?”

Hobbins! That’s the butler’s name!
Candy made a mental effort to lock it into her brain.

“Of course, madame,” Hobbins the butler said, using a tone that was more polite and respectful than the one he’d used with Candy. He pivoted perfectly on his heel and left the room.

Mrs. Pruitt set aside her magazine and held out a hand without rising. “Candy dear, how nice to see you again,” she said, a practiced smile on her aging face.

She was a handsome enough woman, Candy now saw close up, though thin as a stork. Her gray hair was cleverly arranged and amazingly well maintained, even in the summer heat. Her eyes were intelligent and watchful, her complexion clear and creamy. Even her wrinkles looked artful, giving her a sophisticated appearance in keeping with her carefully honed image.

“Won’t you please sit down?” Mrs. Pruitt motioned to a chair opposite her.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Candy said as she settled into the wicker chair. “Your house is beautiful.”

“Well, thank you for saying so.” Mrs. Pruitt nodded graciously. “But you’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

Candy’s head bobbed up and down. “Three years ago, with the Garden Society.”