Town in a Blueberrry Jam (3 page)

THREE

“Pushed? You mean he was . . . murdered?”

Even as the words left her mouth, Candy realized she wasn’t completely surprised. For years Jock had gotten away with murder—of an entirely different kind, of course. He had been a fifty-five-year-old “bad boy,” tooling around town in an old Cadillac convertible in the summer, chasing women with little discretion, and behaving more like a teenager than a mature adult. That made Candy smile inwardly, for
maturity
was not a word one would have used to describe Jock Larson. Everyone in town knew he pushed his luck too far—and now luck had pushed back.

Doc reacted to her question with an arched eyebrow and a scowl, a look he had perfected over the years with his students. “When you put it like that, it sounds absurd, doesn’t it?” He dug into his back pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at his face, then blew his nose. “Blast, it’s getting humid again. Too damn warm for Maine, that’s for sure.”

He crossed to the cupboard with a slight limp—a remnant of a biking accident long ago that still hitched up once in a while and bothered him—took out a glass, and walked to the fridge, a thoughtful expression on his face. “As crazy as it might sound, though,” he said as he opened the freezer and scooped up a handful of ice, which clinked noisily into the glass, “it makes the most sense.”

“More sense than an accident . . . or suicide?”

Doc closed the freezer door with his elbow and opened the lower door, then stood staring into the fridge for a moment. “What happened to the lemonade?” he asked finally.

“You drank it last night.”

“You didn’t make up a new batch?”

Candy raised her arms to the room. “Look around, Dad. I’ve been kinda busy today.” She paused, letting out a huff. “Besides, we’re out. I’ve got it on the grocery list.”

Doc sighed audibly, closed the fridge door, and walked to the sink, filling the glass with water. The cubes cracked and popped loudly.

People who didn’t know much about Doc assumed that, because of his nickname, he was a medical doctor, and he rarely corrected that misconception. “Let them think what they want,” he often said with a shrug. Truth was, he had taught ancient history for more than thirty years at the University of Maine at Orono, up near Bangor, after receiving his doctorate from the University of Pennsylvania. He was a careful, thoughtful, studious man who loved nothing more than to close himself up in his office and delve into the mysteries of history to try to understand the motivations of those who had shaped the world centuries ago, for better or worse. And though he often said he would have been better off had he been born into one of those ancient eras he loved so much, he was no less fascinated by the motivations of those who went about their lives in the modern age. “Technology changes,” he often said, “but people don’t.”

He took a long drink of water, then tilted his head thoughtfully, as if he had just heard Candy’s question. “Suicide doesn’t make any sense,” he said after a moment. “Not when you think about it. It just doesn’t seem like something Jock would do, does it? He wasn’t the suicide type.” Doc shook his head as he swirled the glass lazily, mixing the tap water and ice cubes. “No, it just doesn’t seem like something Jock would do.”

“Why? Because he was too arrogant to kill himself?”

“Bingo.” Doc’s finger shot out to emphasize the point. “No one believed the hype about Jock more than Jock himself. He was a cult figure around here—though I’ll admit he turned into a caricature of himself long ago. But no one seemed to notice—or mind much if they did—so Jock went about his life and milked his never-ending fame for all it was worth. He was good at it too. This was Jock’s town, and he was having his way with it. No, Jock had too much going on and too big an ego to throw himself off that cliff. So suicide’s out of the question—I’m sure of that.”

Candy muttered a quizzical “Hmm” and tapped at her pursed lips with her fingers—subtle actions she knew would egg her father on. This was getting interesting. “An accident then?”

Doc took another drink of water as he considered this. “Could be,” he admitted as he worked an ice cube around his mouth, “though unlikely. For that to happen we’d have to assume that, for whatever reason, Jock—who despite his age was an accomplished athlete who still exercised regularly—was out taking a midnight stroll along an island cliff forty-five minutes from his home, got careless, stepped too close to the edge, and took a tumble.” Doc shrugged, bit into the cube, and chewed it noisily. “It just seems to go against his training and abilities.”

“But it’s possible that’s exactly what happened,” Candy pointed out.

Doc gave a nod. “Sure, it’s possible. Jock was a loose cannon who’d been known to do stupid things. Let’s assume he went hiking alone up on that cliff in the middle of the night—no one would put that past him. But what would cause him to wander too close to the edge in the first place, let alone lose his footing and fall over the side? The sky was clear last night and the moon was half-full, so there was some light up there. And he must have had a flashlight with him—he wasn’t foolish enough to take a hike in the dark. So we can probably assume he didn’t just walk off the edge of the cliff.”

“Alcohol?” Candy suggested.

“Jock drank but he wasn’t a drunk—and he wasn’t stupid.”

“Maybe he had a stroke, or maybe he was startled by a badger or porcupine that caused him to lose his footing.”

“Maybe . . . but that’s stretching the boundaries of logic, isn’t it?”

“Murder, though?” Candy shook her head skeptically. “Is that any more logical?”

Doc’s response was adamant. “Damn straight it is! Jock had plenty of admirers around here—mostly of the female persuasion—but he also had plenty of enemies—mostly the
husbands
of those female admirers. It’s easy to imagine someone following him up to that cliff or luring him there under certain pretenses. Perhaps an argument ensued, a fight broke out, punches were thrown, someone got careless, and Jock went over the edge.”

“Or perhaps, like you said, it wasn’t an accident,” Candy said softly.

Doc gave her a satisfied look. “Now you’re thinking my way.”

Despite the warmth of the morning, Candy shivered. “So what’s the official word? Has Finn heard anything?” Being an ex-cop, Finn Woodbury, one of Doc’s diner buddies, had a few contacts inside the Cape Willington police force.

“So far they’ve been tight as a clam. But Finn’s been sniffing around. Something’s up, or so he says. The word he’s heard on the street is that the death looks ‘suspicious. ’ They’ve brought the crime lab van over from Augusta, and the medical examiner will probably perform an autopsy. But the investigation’s just getting started. Far as I know, they’re on the island right now, combing the place for evidence.”

“Suspicious, huh?” Candy shuddered again involuntarily. “It’s just so strange to think something like that can happen around here—especially to someone like Jock. It’s so . . . so unexpected.”

“Unexpected death can take place in the most unexpected places. But that’s not such a bad thing. Caesar once said an unexpected death is preferable to an expected one.”

“I guess he should know. So speaking of the unexpected . . . what are they going to do about the parade?”

“Parade?”

“You know. The Blueberry Festival? Tomorrow? Jock’s supposed to be the grand marshal this year, isn’t he?”

“Oh, that.” Doc shrugged. “Jock’s the grand marshal
every
year—or at least he was. I’m not sure what they’ll do, but his death is sure going to cast a pall over the whole weekend.”

“You got that right.” Candy started as a thought shot through her. “But everything’s still on schedule, right? Nothing’s been canceled?” She had invested a lot of time and effort in her preparations for the festival; it would be disastrous if it had all been in vain.

But Doc just waved a hand. “No, course not. Everything will go on as planned, with or without Jock, you can be sure of that. Too many people are involved, and too many tourists are coming into town to change things now. Hotel rooms are booked all up and down the coast. Every merchant in town is counting on the money they’ll make this weekend.”

“Including us.” Candy eyed the fruits of her labor piled on the counter and floor.

“Right. Including us.” Doc’s gaze followed Candy’s. “So what’d we wind up with?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Candy said, nonchalantly tossing aside a few strands of thick honey blonde hair. After keeping it short for years to give herself a more professional appearance, she had decided to let it grow out. It was one more concession to the here and now, one more step in leaving her previous life behind. Her expensive suits had been hung in garment bags at the back of the closet, makeup was reserved for only the most special occasions now, and her hair, normally straight, was starting to curl as it reached her jawline. It was a good look for her, she decided, a more comfortable, earthier look, fitting in well with the jeans, T-shirts, and work boots she found herself wearing more often than not these days.

Doc surveyed the items piled around the kitchen. “A lot more than usual, I’d say. Looks like you’ve been cooking yourself into a frenzy.”

“You got that right,” Candy agreed, for even she had to admit it was an impressive array of goodies. Ready for sale at the Blueberry Festival the following day were a dozen large blueberry pies, three dozen mini pies, half a hundred blueberry scones, and an equal number of oversized blueberry cookies—a popular seller with the kids. There were jars upon jars of blueberry jam, blueberry honey, and blueberry syrup, lined up in neat rows like soldiers on parade. Toward the end of the counter were stacks of balsam wreaths and garlands interspersed with sprigs of fresh blueberries, which had taken her days to make. There were twenty squat jars of blueberry butter, an experiment this year, and more blueberry muffins than she cared to count, neatly packed into battered tins that had once belonged to her mother.

On the floor by the back door were two large cardboard boxes stuffed with a hundred blueberry tie-dyed T-shirts of various sizes, another favorite with festival-goers. She had made those herself too, with pastel-colored T-shirts she had ordered wholesale from a company in upstate New York.

Next to those was a smaller box filled with bars of blueberry soap, also a hot seller. Then there were the empty baskets she still had to fill with a variety of carefully arranged homemade products—the Blueberry Acres gift baskets were her most profitable items.

She also had a few dozen pints of fresh blueberries ready to go, though there would be so many of those available at the festival tomorrow that she wasn’t counting on selling too many of them. Most tourists preferred something a little more exotic than the pure and simple fruit itself.

And, of course, there was the last batch of pies, still warming on the stovetop. And the chocolate-covered blueberries, which had to be packed into small cellophane packages and tied up with blue and green ribbons. Some of the items still had to be labeled. She had to pack everything up for transport into town in the morning.

And she still had to finish the booth. . . .

She felt exhausted just looking at it all. She had spent the better part of three weeks getting it all together, and there was still so much to do.

“You’ve done a heck of a job, that’s for sure,” Doc said, hitching up his trousers, “but it should get easier for you this afternoon. Ray’s coming over to help out with the booth.”

It was like someone had set off a bomb. Candy looked up at her father, thunderstruck. “What?”

“I saw him at the diner,” Doc continued, unaware of the reaction he had just drawn from his daughter. “He said he’d be glad to help out. He wasn’t doing much this afternoon anyway.”

“Ray? But . . . no, Dad, tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Doc looked confused.

“You didn’t invite Ray over.”

For a moment, Doc hesitated. “Sure I did. We can use his help with the booth, can’t we?”

Candy groaned. “No, Dad, not Ray. Not today. He gets in the way more than he helps.” Her shoulders dropped as she leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms in frustration. “Besides, I thought
you
were going to help me.”

“Me?” Doc didn’t seem to know how to respond to his daughter’s disappointment. “I’m a scholar. You know that. I’m no good with a hammer. I’d just screw things up. Ray’s the guy you need. He’ll do a good job.”