Town in a Sweet Pickle

Book 6: Candy Holliday Murder Mystery

by B.B. Haywood

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

“Good food . . . Endearing characters.”—Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author
In the quiet coastal community of Cape Willington, Maine, Candy Holliday is a local farmer who dutifully tends to her blueberry fields—and steps in to solve the occasional murder . . .
 
When Candy organizes a cooking event for her local newspaper, the town’s most prominent citizens turn out to witness the popular cookbook author Julia von Fleming serve as a guest judge. But when Julia comes close to consuming a poisoned pickle, she begins to suspect someone in Cape Willington is trying to kill her—and Candy is completely jarred to be among the suspects.
 
But the first taste was just a sample, and soon more jars of poisoned pickles begin to pop up around town. In the face of a pickled poisoning spree, Candy will have to track down the culprit to make sure her own name stays well-preserved. Along the way, she’ll pull the lid off a briny barrel of blackmail, thievery, and revenge that’s been souring their seaside hometown for years…
INCLUDES DELICIOUS RECIPES!

Release date: February 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

The attack came from behind, without warning.

Later, she would grudgingly admit it was partially her own fault, since she’d likely antagonized the nanny goat by appearing out of nowhere, rushing into the place like a madwoman, and then beeping the horn incessantly as the animal meandered across the driveway right in front of her, obviously holding her up on purpose. Critters could be territorial—just like her, in some ways. And ornery, like their owners. This one was both.

She’d completely ignored the goat as she climbed out of her Suburban, hurried up the concrete steps, and rapped at Sally Ann’s side door. No one home, an annoying detail. But at least the woman had left out the pickle jar. It sat near Wanda’s feet, on the top corner of the steps.

Something was wrong, though. From where she stood, looking down, Wanda knew right away that Sally Ann had left out the wrong jar. The label was much too professional, and a different color entirely. Sally Ann’s labels were cream-colored and handmade, somewhat crudely, with few embellishments and black spidery letters, a sort of angled cursive scrawl that looked like it might have been written by someone living in the 1800s. Often the labels were stained or creased because they’d been mishandled or applied too hastily. But they were easily recognizable, and everyone around town could identify a jar of pickles made by Sally Ann Longfellow.

The label on this jar, however, was better designed, and the writing on it much more legible. It had a light green background, with dark green lettering in an attractive, folksy font outlined in black. And it had unique entwined copper-colored embellishments at the four corners. It didn’t look like Sally Ann’s work, or her taste in design.

At first Wanda was confused. Why would Sally Ann leave out the wrong jar? They’d discussed this. Judging was about to begin. Wanda was in a hurry, and she was doing the other woman a favor, stopping by on her way to the event.

Was Sally Ann using someone else’s pickles? A mystery entry?

She squinted in the bright light, focusing on the name written across the top of the label. She could just make out the words:

Sweet Pickle Deli.

Wanda’s head jerked back in surprise as her eyes widened.

“It can’t be,” she muttered to herself.

She blinked several times. This couldn’t be true. It must be a fake, an imposter.

But if it was genuine—an actual jar of pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli—then it was indeed a rare find.

But what was Sally Ann doing with it? Where had the jar come from? Had she been hoarding it all this time? And why put it out on the stoop, instead of a jar of her own pickles?

A flash of irritation swept though Wanda.

She’s throwing in a ringer, Wanda thought. What is she up to?

I should just disqualify her right now.

But maybe she’d just read the label wrong. Perhaps she’d been mistaken.

She had to get a better look at it.

She bent over slightly, and stopped. She didn’t want to lean over too far, she realized. She had on a new outfit today, an orange, beige, and rust-toned ensemble designed to herald the imminent arrival of autumn. The beige pants were more form-fitting than she preferred, but they’d been too nice to pass up when she’d found them at that new boutique on Ocean Avenue. She didn’t want to stretch them to their limit, which wasn’t very far, so instead of bending over further, she climbed back down the steps and came around the side of the stoop, where she could view the jar at something closer to eye level.

Once back on solid ground, she was foolish enough to turn her back on the goat as she leaned in to get a better look at the label.

Unfortunately, that exposed her to the attack.

Seeing an opportunity for retribution, or perhaps just because she was in a cranky mood, the irascible animal lowered her head, darted forward, and butted Wanda squarely in the rear end.

It was a clean shot but not a vicious one, meant to be a statement, more an act of irritation than aggression. But Wanda was so engrossed in studying the label that the unexpected bump caught her completely unawares. It had just enough force to send her teetering forward, throwing her off balance.

With a startled squawk of surprise, Wanda Boyle went down face-first onto the dry, tightly cropped grass, her arms splattering out to her sides, red hair flying.

An oomph of air escaped from her lungs as she landed hard on her chest and stomach. Her eyes, heavily outlined in mascara, squeezed tightly shut, and her mouth, adorned with a deep shade of orange lipstick called Autumn Sunset, drew into a tight line, pursed against the grass and dirt into which she’d fallen.

Her whole body rocked and settled. For a moment all was silent, until she blew out another breath on purpose, sputtering her lips to clear them of debris as her eyes flew open and her expression darkened.

She lifted her head and twisted about, focusing in on the four-legged critter standing behind her. She eyed the animal defiantly.

“Cleopatra,” Wanda said in an accusatory, barely controlled tone, “I thought we talked about this. No head-butting. How’d you get loose anyway? You’re in a lot of trouble, young lady!”

Wanda lifted an arm and brushed several strands of red hair out of her face as she took a moment to mentally assess her condition. No shooting pains. No broken bones. Nothing appeared to be severely damaged.

Other than her pride.

Her gaze shifted, head turning in both directions, back and forth, to determine if anyone had spotted her in such a compromising position—lying in the dirt, flat on her stomach, at the hands of a grumpy nanny goat, no less. If someone saw her like this, it would be around town in hours, if not minutes. She’d be a laughingstock for weeks. She might never live it down.

But today she lucked out. The street and surrounding yards were thankfully vacant. No cars whizzing by. No one walking past with a dog. No one staring out a window, catching sight of her by surprise.

Convinced she hadn’t been seen and confident she wasn’t hurt, Wanda pushed herself up on her side, got an arm under her, and managed to sit up. She took a moment to collect herself before she struggled shakily to her feet.

Looking down, she saw dirt down her front and grass stains on her knees. Her new outfit was ruined.

She eyed the goat again with a venomous gaze. “Just great,” she growled. “What’d you do that for? I was just trying to get a good look at that pickle jar.”

And, of course, that explained it right there.

The goat was after the pickles.

Cleopatra let out an obstinate bleat, laid back her ears, and swung her bony head toward the house. Then, in a burst of activity, she clattered up the steps to the top of the stoop, gave the jar a vicious knock with her nose, and sent it tumbling. It landed with a heavy thunk! on each step, moving faster and faster, arcing higher and higher, until it smacked onto the concrete walkway at an awkward angle and cracked open like an eggshell.

Wanda let out a howl of disbelief as a second goat named Guinevere, attracted by the noise, poked her head around the side of the building, spotted the fresh pickles suddenly available for consumption, and trotted forward. At the same time, Cleopatra triumphantly descended the steps to claim her prize.

Both goats reached the broken jar at the same time as Wanda watched in dismay. If these really were pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli, there was no way she was going to let a couple of goats steal them from her grasp. Her brow fell in determination as she started forward as well, swinging her big arms and zeroing in on the broken pickle jar.

The goats saw her coming and moved quickly, lowering their heads and sniffing at the contents. After a few moments Guinevere drew back her head, snorted, and turned, angling away. She obviously wasn’t interested in pickles. But Cleopatra wasn’t as choosy. She slurped up first one into her mouth, and then another.

Wanda was horrified. “Leave those alone! Do you know what those are?”

She crossed the distance quickly and reached out with one hand, pushing the goat back. At the same time, she swung down her other hand and managed to carefully pluck a single whole pickle off the ground. But the goat would not be deterred, and as Wanda watched, the animal shifted around and quickly gobbled up all that remained.

Wanda was beside herself with regret. “Do you know what you’ve done? You just destroyed the best pickles ever made!”

The goat raised her head, gave Wanda a satisfied look, and started moving away, still chewing on her gourmet meal.

Wanda let out a huff. “Well, that’s just great. Wait ’til Sally Ann hears about this. You’ll be in the doghouse for weeks. Or goathouse. Or whatever.” She wagged a finger at Cleopatra’s retreating backside. “You’re in a lot of trouble, you . . . you old goat!”

But Cleopatra paid her no nevermind. She had managed to snag what she was after.

With a sigh of disappointment, Wanda looked down at the pickle she held in her hand. At least she’d been able to salvage one of them.

She studied it for a moment, almost romantically. It looked relatively free of dirt and glass shards. And it smelled so delicious. She ran a finger across it, cleaning off a few small bits of debris, and hesitated. Should I? she thought.

“Oh, what the hell.”

With a shrug, she lifted it to her mouth and took several big, crunchy bites, savoring each one. She hadn’t had one of these pickles in years, and didn’t care if she’d pulled it from the bottom of a cesspool. They were the dreamiest she’d ever eaten. And this one was no different. A perfect crispness, exquisite flavor, just a hint of tartness, and . . . something else.

Wanda sensed a burning sensation in her stomach. “What the . . . ?”

She felt a rumble down below, and a moment later the pickle threatened to come back up on her. “What . . . ?”

She heard a shuffling sound nearby and looked over. Cleopatra was walking funny. Her legs were wobbly. The nanny goat turned around to look back at Wanda with forlorn eyes, and then suddenly collapsed in a heap.

“Oh my god.” It took a few moments for Wanda to register what she was seeing. She looked down at the half-eaten pickle in horror. “Oh, no.”

She started spitting heavily, trying to get all the pickle juice and bits out of her mouth as the burning sensation in her stomach grew. Panic rising, she made a mad dash to her Suburban, where she’d left her phone. She yanked open the door, snatched the phone from its cubby in the center console, and frantically began to dial.

From the Cape Crier

Cape Willington, Maine

September 18th Edition

THE CAPE CRUSADER

by Wanda Boyle

Community Correspondent

GUESS WHO’S TURNING 200?

Here’s a big hint: Look no further than the newspaper you’re now holding in your hands. Yes, it’s true! The Cape Crier is turning 200 years old! Who would’ve thought we’d be around this long! (We did, of course!) Founded in 1815 by budding journalist and world explorer Harvey Alexander Pruitt, the first issue (a one-pager) was published on Friday, Oct. 6th that year, and the Crier has been a mainstay of our beloved village ever since. In celebration of this momentous event, current interim managing editor Candy Holliday, as well as the paper’s community correspondent (that would be yours truly!) have planned a number of special events, including the upcoming community cook-off contest (see below). More details to follow as we approach the unveiling of the Crier’s Special Bicentennial Edition in early October!

CALLING ALL COOKS!

With all the excellent cooks we have around town, you can bet the competition will be fierce at the Cape Willington Community Cook-off, which takes place from 3 to 5 P.M. on Friday, Sept. 25th at the high school gymnasium. Part of the Crier’s bicentennial celebration, the cook-off is the first of its kind locally. All amateur cooks are welcome to enter, though time is tight, so call us immediately if you’d like to be involved. You can enter your own dish in any of seven categories, including breads, jams and preserves, homemade cheese and yogurt, pickled foods, pies, cookies, and candies and other desserts. An impressive lineup of judges, including popular cookbook author Julia von Fleming, will sample the entries and pick their favorites, which will be announced in the paper’s upcoming Bicentennial Edition. So dig through your old recipes, pick out the best one, and fire up the oven!

LET’S PUT SOME FOOD BY

While we’re on the subject of food, a number of innovative villagers will be pickling more than pigs’ feet on Thursday night before the cook-off contest. Calling themselves the Putting Food By Society, the group advocates self-sufficient living, and will be joining with the owners of Zeke’s General Store to offer food preservation demos in and around the store from 4 to 7 P.M. The emphasis will be on canning and pickling local produce. Headed by Edna Bakersfield and Isabella Corinne, the group also includes Melody Barnes and Elsie Lingholt, all of whom will pitch in on the demonstrations. So what are you waiting for! Learn from the experts! Harvest season has arrived, and it’s time to put some food by for the upcoming winter. For more information, visit www.puttingfoodbycapewillington.com.

SHOW US YOUR PHOTOS!

We’re starting a new section in the Crier called “Photos from Cape Willington.” Send us photos of yourself, your family, friends, pets, events, the weather, Tony the tourist, anything! We’re interested in seeing everyday life here in Cape Willington. We’ll print some of the photos in the paper, and put others on our website and Pinterest! Send your photos to [email protected]. It’s a great way to celebrate life the way it should be here in our beautiful village!

VINTAGE TREASURES

The Pruitt Public Library, in conjunction with the Cape Willington Historical Society, is celebrating Harvest Season with a two-month-long exhibit titled, “Vintage Harvest.” On exhibit will be vintage treasures, all having to do with harvest time in Maine. Among other items, you can view antique blueberry rakes, antique mason jars and canning equipment, garden tools, and the largest collection of antique seed packets in Down East Maine. It’s well worth your time, so be sure to stop by. The exhibit will be open during regular library hours.

YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST!

Pat O’Connor, who works at Melody’s Cafe, tells us one of her tourist customers was so thrilled to be buying one of Melody’s pies, she quipped, “This pie is so precious, I am going to buckle it into the backseat of my car!” Now that’s inspiring, but what will she do with her kids? . . . Did you know Lisa Taylor has a new car, and it has an impressive moniker? She calls her latest ride the New Moon Nitrogen Storm! That’s a pretty big name for such a little car! She dubbed her old car Silver Moon, and decided to name its replacement New Moon to start a new chapter. “Nitrogen” refers to the nitrogen in the car’s tires, and “Storm” perfectly describes its storm gray exterior color. So keep a lookout on the roads. A Nitrogen Storm just might be headed your direction! . . . While scouring our local beaches for the annual fall beach cleanup, Jim Harrison found an old blue glass bottle. On closer inspection, he saw a tiny piece of paper inside. After a tedious ordeal (a story for another time!), he got the note out of the bottle. It was dated 1964 and read, “Let everyone know that Elizabeth loves Eugene.” Who Elizabeth and Eugene are, and where the bottle was thrown into the sea, remains another Cape Willington mystery!

Official Judicious F. P. Bosworth sightings for the first two weeks of September:

Visible: 2 days

Invisible: 12 days

Judicious, are you underground waiting to be harvested? Dig yourself out and join the events around town!

ONE

Candy Holliday checked her watch for what seemed like the hundredth time and glanced back at the main set of double doors that led out of the gymnasium. The doors were propped open, allowing in muted sunlight and a brisk fall breeze as a few people wandered in and out of the busy, buzzing venue. Candy’s eyes flicked from one person to another in quick succession as she scanned their faces and outfits, tapping her right foot rapidly without even knowing she was doing it.

There was Edna Bakersfield of the Putting Food By Society, with Elvira Tremble from the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, conversing softly as they came through the doors. There went Trudy Watkins, who ran Zeke’s General Store with her husband, Richard. He was probably keeping an eye on the place, which is why she was here alone today. In walked Mason Flint, chairman of the town’s board of selectmen, talking on his cell phone. And Marjorie Coffin scrambled in carrying a cardboard box, probably filled with a few last-minute entries.

As Candy’s gaze swept the room, she noticed many other familiar faces. But none was the person she sought.

Nearly three forty-five, and still no Wanda.

Where the heck is she? Candy wondered with no small amount of exasperation.

Wanda had already missed the afternoon’s opening remarks, which seemed totally uncharacteristic of her. She’d been looking forward to this event for months, ever since they’d started talking about it back at the beginning of the summer. She’d been involved with all the planning, and had spent the better part of the past week holed up in her windowless office, writing and rehearsing her comments, which she’d read out loud to Candy just that morning before heading over to Sally Ann Longfellow’s place. She’d honed her remarks to perfection, she’d smugly told Candy at the time, and was certain they conveyed the appropriate tone for such a momentous event.

Early on in their discussions, to avoid any conflicts between the two of them, they’d decided to serve as co-hosts for the afternoon’s event, and both would give opening remarks. It was Candy’s suggestion that Wanda go first, since the whole event was essentially her idea. They’d decided that Wanda would make the general welcoming comments, introduce the judges, discuss the various food categories and tables, and lay out the afternoon’s schedule. Candy would follow by thanking the contestants, volunteers, and school staff, and discussing the event’s tie-ins to the upcoming “Best of Cape Willington” feature article scheduled for the special bicentennial edition.

After that, as they’d agreed, Wanda would accompany the judges during the afternoon, provide a few brief remarks about each food category, and monitor the time the judges spent at each table to ensure they’d finish on schedule. While Wanda essentially ran the show, Candy would have time to roam the hall and take on a more social role, since she was still the Cape Crier’s interim managing editor, and many of the town’s more prominent citizens were here today serving as honorary judges. She knew it would be a good time to network, renew acquaintances, and drum up support for the paper.

At least, that’s the way it was supposed to have worked.

But for some inexplicable reason, Wanda never showed. And in the end Candy had to cover for her, stepping in to deliver the entire opening presentation herself. She’d ad-libbed as best she could the remarks assigned to Wanda, and overall thought she’d done a decent job. She’d glossed over Wanda’s absence, saying the other woman was unexpectedly delayed, and had to dig out her cheat sheet to remember all the food categories and table assignments. But in the end it had worked out fine, and no one seemed to notice that anything was wrong.

The three official judges—Colin Trevor Jones, Julia von Fleming, and Herr Georg Wolfsburger—were now on their second table, the one devoted to jams and preserves. They’d spent fifteen minutes at the first table, as planned. The event was on schedule. So far, so good.

Still, Candy felt a little off-balance. This wasn’t how she’d expected to spend her afternoon. There were opportunities she was missing. But it couldn’t be helped.

If Wanda would just show up. . . .

Candy wasn’t really angry. If anything, she was disappointed at the thought that Wanda had missed so much of an event she’d looked forward to for months.

Not for the first time, Candy wondered if something had happened to the other woman. She tried not to let her mind dwell on that thought, lest she start worrying. She had long ago learned not to jump to conclusions, so she wasn’t about to start now.

Still, Wanda’s absence was very peculiar. Candy had tried calling her several times, but all the calls went straight to voice mail. So she’d left a few quick messages, asking Wanda to return the call as soon as she could and wondering what had delayed her. But so far she’d heard nothing.

And it was time to move on.

After a final glance at the double doors, just to make sure Wanda hadn’t showed up in the last few seconds, Candy brushed back her honey-colored hair and collected her thoughts as she made her way through the crowd to the microphone. When she reached it, she flicked it on, cleared her throat, and called for everyone’s attention.

“It’s three forty-five and time for our official judges to make their way to Table Three, which is our homemade cheese and yogurt table,” she said pleasantly into the mic. “Again, we ask that all honorary judges please allow the official judges sole access to this table while they’re sampling the entries. We invite the honorary judges to focus their attention on the other tables around the room. There are still plenty of samples available at Tables One and Two, devoted to homemade breads, preserves, and jams, so you won’t want to miss those. Again, the official judges have fifteen minutes to sample the entries and formulate their opinions. We do hope all of you are enjoying your afternoon and this incredible food that’s been prepared for us by the people of Cape Willington, and we thank you again for coming out today to support this community event.”

She left it at that, flicking off the mic to a smattering of applause and hurrying over to join the judges at Table Three. But before she made it there she felt her phone buzzing in the pocket of her powder blue blazer, which she’d fished out of the back of her closet last week in anticipation of this event.

Maybe it’s a message from Wanda, she hoped in the back of her mind.

And it was indeed from Wanda—just not what she expected. It was a text message, and rather ominously it read:

Sorry for delay. Will call soon. Sally Ann Longfellow is trying to kill me.

TWO

Henry “Doc” Holliday bit into a thick slice of glazed lemon blueberry bread as he stood off to one side of the packed, noisy gym. He chewed slowly, concentrating on the flavors, and then took another careful bite as his gaze swept about the place. He was still amazed he was here at all, and couldn’t believe his good luck. But he wasn’t about to question it.

Doc, as he often reminded himself, was just a simple blueberry farmer trying to scratch out a living from the good earth—in his case, a twenty-three-acre property called Holliday’s Blueberry Acres, which he ran with his daughter, Candy. It was located not far from here, out along the coastline a few miles. The height of the blueberry-picking season was a few weeks behind them, and it had been a bountiful harvest, bringing in plenty of revenue to keep them going through the rest of the fall and the upcoming winter. But they still had plenty to do around the farm. Rightly he should be in his work clothes and boots, finishing up chores, walking the fields, and tending to the farm’s vegetable gardens, which were still yielding. He should be checking on supplies and prepping the mowing gear for the tractor, and there was always plenty of paperwork and general housekeeping to get done.

Yet here he was on a Friday afternoon in late September, dressed in his Sunday best—clean chinos, a nicely pressed white shirt, a green and yellow patterned tie, a decades-old green-flecked sport coat, and comfortable brown loafers—serving as an honorary judge at one of Cape Willington’s biggest events in years.

It was a simple yet prestigious assignment. He’d been asked to serve as a judge for the Cape Willington Community Cook-off, part of the newspaper’s bicentennial celebration. The goal was to find the best cooks and recipes in town, and publish a list of them in an upcoming special issue. He was one of twenty honorary judges, asked by special invitation to sample various types of food submitted by the general public, and offer his opinions. All he had to do was walk around the room, visit the food tables, sample whatever he wanted, and then grade what he ate. He could eat as much as he liked, and take as long as he wanted.

And there was so much to choose from.

Yup, life was pretty darn good.

As he popped the last of the lemon blueberry bread into his mouth, Doc crumbled up the small napkin that had held the sample and tossed it into a nearby waste can. There was one task to complete before he moved on, one he’d been diligent about today. So he reached into his right coat pocket and pulled out a wad of blue scoring forms.

He carried perhaps a dozen of them, four by eight inches each, attached to a similar-sized blue translucent clipboard. On the top form he noted his name and judging number (he was Judge Number 17), entered the number associated with the entry—in this case B22 (the B stood for bread, since it was from Table One, the bread table)—and awarded it seven and a half out of ten points. In the comments section he scribbled, “Good texture. Very lemony. Not too crumbly. Blueberries taste fresh.”

Then he removed the form from the clipboard, folded it in half, and placed it into his left coat pocket while slipping the clipboard back into the right. He’d completed several scoring forms, which he’d drop off in the proper box when he passed by it again.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was approaching four P.M. The event ran from three to five. He still had plenty of time to sample lots of entries. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and took a deep breath. “Okay, what’s next?”

There were seven large display tables around the room—in many cases, several smaller tables pushed and angled together—devoted to seven food categories: breads, jams and preserves, homemade cheese and yogurt, pickled foods, pies, cookies, and candies and other desserts. A few food groups, like the breads and jams, had as many as twenty-five or thirty entries each, although most had between a dozen and fifteen or so. He’d visited most of the tables at least once, and had munched on a wide variety of samples. So far several entries stood out in his mind, including a delectable peanut brittle, some wonderful zucchini bread, and a fresh, creamy goat cheese layered thick on a cranberry wafer.

He’d been by the pie table four times already, and he was thinking of making a fifth trip before the official judges reached it. So far he’d sampled slices of blueberry, apple, peach, strawberry rhubarb, pumpkin, and even a shoofly pie heavy with molasses. He didn’t want to appear too greedy, but there were several he’d missed, including a blackberry pie that looked particularly interesting, and he wanted to make sure he returned to the table while samples remained.

He’d also spent quite a bit of time at the cookie table, and the same held true. Best make another swing by there while he still had the chance.

But there were a few tables he’d largely bypassed so far, like the pickled foods, and some he’d ignored on purpose, like the candies. The last one, he’d decided, could wait until a little later on, so he didn’t fill up too much on sweets—at least, not more than he already had.

Still, there was a lot of ground to cov