Town In a Lobster Stew (15 page)

“Sure. Hi, Alby.” Doc shook hands with the assistant innkeeper.

“Hello, Doc.”

Oliver turned to his other side. “And this is my assistant, Robbie Bridges.”

Doc nodded at Robbie, who hadn’t said a word. “We’ve met. Hi, Robbie.”

“Hi, Doc,” the teenager said softly.

“And, of course,” Doc said, indicating the others, “you know my friends—Finn Woodbury, Artie Groves, and our chef for today, Bumpy Brigham.”

“Of course.” Oliver glanced at the three of them. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

The three of them waved and said hello, nearly in unison.

“Well, good!” Oliver clapped his hands together a single time, studied them all for a few moments, and abruptly turned back to Candy. “I wonder if I might have a word with you. There’s something I’d like to discuss . . . privately.”

Candy had been sipping at her coffee. Caught off-guard, she swallowed quickly and lowered her cup. “Oh, well, um, sure, Oliver.” She glanced at Doc, Maggie, and the boys. “I guess I’ll . . . be right back.”

None of them said a word as they watched her walk away, but Candy thought she heard Maggie whisper to Doc, “I wonder what
that’s
all about.”

Candy wondered the same thing herself.

Oliver led her a short distance away from the booths, to a small sitting area with wrought-iron furniture arranged around a circular grass-and-brick ground pattern beside a small grove of birch trees. There he stopped and turned toward her. “I apologize for being so mysterious, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

It seemed to Candy he was trying to be as pleasant as possible, though it was clear he was finding it difficult. She tilted her head, curious. “And what would that be, Oliver?”

“Well, it seems we’ve lost one of our judges.” He cleared his throat, and she thought she saw a flicker of embarrassment skitter across his eyes. “Well, two, actually, but we’ve been able to replace one. We don’t have a replacement for the second.”

“Who’s missing?” Candy asked, and almost immediately the answer came to her. “It’s Mr. Sedley, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We’ve called his house, but there’s no answer. And he hasn’t arrived here at the inn this morning. We’re forced to go on without him.”

Candy was suddenly very worried. “I called the police about it yesterday. Wilma Mae hasn’t seen him in several days. She’s worried about him.”

Oliver pursed his lips. “Yes, I understand that. I’ve called the police myself and filed a report. We’re all concerned about him. But the truth is, I have an event to run here, and I’m short a judge.”

Candy looked at him with a confused expression on her face. “What are you saying?”

Oliver took a breath. “You’re the community correspondent. You have some sort of status in town. I’d like you to serve as the third judge.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I’m hoping you’ll consider it. It would certainly solve a problem for us—in more ways than one, since Wilma Mae’s thinking of backing out of the judging without Mr. Sedley here, and quite frankly, I’m hoping you might be able to encourage her to remain part of the event.”

Candy thought about that a moment. “Is she here yet?”

“She’s on her way. She sounds very worried, though.”

Candy thought a little more. “What would I have to do? I’ve never been a judge before.”

“We’ll introduce you to the public, of course. You’ll sit down at a table with the stews in front of them. You taste them. It’s a blind test, so you won’t know whose stew you’re tasting. You confer with Wilma Mae and our other judge—his name is Roger Sykes, by the way.”

“Roger . . . Sykes?” Candy repeated. The name sounded familiar.

“He’s a restaurateur up from Boston. I met him at a hospitality industry convention a few years ago and we’ve kept in touch. Anyway, once you’ve finished the tastings, the three of you reach a consensus. I’ll announce third, second, and first places. I award the trophies and ribbons. We’re all done.”

Candy mulled it over. That didn’t sound too hard. “So what time would I have to be over at the judges’ table?”

“No later than eleven forty-five. You’ll be done in an hour or so.”

Candy shook her head. “I still don’t know. I don’t feel I’m qualified to judge something like this.”

Oliver looked at her without blinking. “You eat, right?”

Candy couldn’t help but smile. “Of course I eat.”

“Well, when you eat there are some foods you like and some you don’t. This is just like that. Pick the stew you like. It’s that simple. It’s just a taste test. Besides, you’ll be an honorary judge, which means you don’t need expert qualifications.”

“Really?”

Completely straight-faced, Oliver LaForce said, “I would not kid you, Candy.”

Candy watched him for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose you would. But isn’t there someone more qualified around? What about Herr Georg?”

“Wolfsburger?” Oliver snorted. “I called him. He’s too busy today with something he’s doing over at the Plant and Pastry event in Town Park. Besides, he says he’s given up the judging business.”

That wasn’t a surprise, after what happened at the Blueberry Queen Pageant the previous summer. “Well, what about someone else . . . like Ben Clayton?”

“I asked him. He recommended you.”

“Oh.” Candy had exhausted all her excuses. “Well, in that case, I guess I have no choice. I’ll do it.”

Oliver gave her the closest thing he could manage to a smile. It was a rather pitiful affair. “Splendid. I’ll take care of all the details. And I’ll let Wilma Mae know when she arrives that you’ll be standing in for Mr. Sedley.”

“Okay.” Candy let out a breath and checked her watch, wondering what she’d gotten herself into. “I have a few things to take care of first. I still have to conduct several interviews for the paper.”

Oliver made a face. “Yes, about that—I’d prefer if you conducted your official interviews after the awards ceremony, so we don’t confuse the contestants. We want them to think of you as a judge, not a reporter—for this morning, at least. That also was Ben’s suggestion, by the way, not mine, but I think it’s a good one. Before the judging begins, you can visit the contestants’ booths to watch their preparations and ask general questions, although we ask judges to refrain from inquiring about specific ingredients, so as not to influence your decisions. Let’s see, what else? I’ll send Robbie over with a judge’s badge. You should wear it prominently this morning. Don’t eat too much, since you’ll be tasting quite a number of stews at noon. If there’s anything else, just let me or Alby or Robbie know. We’re here to help, though of course we will be quite busy. There’s a lot to do. This is an important event for us, you know.”

“I’m sure it is,” Candy said.

“We’re hoping to grow it quite a bit over the next few years. It seems to be quite a popular event around town.”

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Candy confirmed.

Oliver straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “That’s very gratifying to hear. Well, we both have much to do this morning. Again, I appreciate your help with this, Candy. I’ll check on you in a little while.”

And with that, Oliver moved off across the lawn, motioning for Alby and Robbie to join him.

As Candy wandered back over toward Bumpy’s booth, Maggie intercepted her. “So? What did he want? You guys powwowed for quite a while over there.”

“Oliver wants me to be a judge.”

“A judge? For the cook-off?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“I know. I’m still in shock.”

“So you’re going to do it?” Maggie asked as they started walking back toward Bumpy’s booth together.

“I guess so. I’m supposed to be at the judges’ tent at eleven forty-five. And, oh yeah, I get a badge.”

“Another badge? Two of them?”

“Two of them. And you know what?” She pushed a finger at Maggie’s shoulder. “
You
can have one of them.”

“Oh goody! Which one?”

“The press badge, of course. I won’t need it this morning. So you can wear it for me. See, I told you we’d find a badge.”

Maggie beamed and winked at Candy. “You’re a good friend.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” Doc asked as they reached the booth.

“Candy’s going to be a judge!” Maggie said, unable to contain her excitement.

“For the cook-off?” Doc looked taken aback.

“For the cook-off,” Candy confirmed.

“Well, that . . . that’s great, pumpkin,” said Doc, not sounding completely supportive.

The rest of the boys were excited, though. “Congrats,” said Finn, while Artie piped in with, “Way to go, Candy!”

“Wow,” said Bumpy as he looked up from his stew, eyes widening. “How about that!”

Candy made a face at him. “Now don’t get any ideas, Bumpy. I’m going to be as impartial as possible. Besides, it’s a blind test. I won’t know which stew is yours—or at least I’m not supposed to know.”

“Well,” said Bumpy, picking up a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow, “if you happen to taste a stew made with mustard and white wine as its secret ingredients, just remember where it came from. I sure could use some help.”

Candy sighed as she turned and surveyed the field. Her shoulders sagged just a bit as she realized she had a long day ahead of her. “You’re not the only one.”

She ditched her purse in Bumpy’s booth, after removing her reporter’s notebook, a couple of pens, and her cell phone, and received a sworn promise from Finn that he’d keep an eagle eye on it for her. He saluted her. “Consider it under lock and key, your judgeship.”

She left Maggie at the booth as well, stepping in for Artie, who joined Doc in strolling off in search of donuts and coffee for the crew.

Turning to survey the lawn, Candy was trying to figure out her next move when Robbie came running up to her. “Here you go, Candy,” he said, handing her a gold badge with red and gold streamers and the word
JUDGE
emblazoned across the center in capital letters. “Good luck!” And he was off again, dashing across the lawn toward the inn.

“Thanks,” she said to his disappearing back. “I have a feeling I’ll need it.”

She felt oddly conspicuous as she put on the badge, which looked somewhat gaudy once she’d attached it to her blouse. She glanced around—and had a strange sensation that she’d just become the center of attention.

She hadn’t realized it, but she’d taken a few steps out in front Bumpy’s booth, in clear eyesight of most of the contestants. Some were staring directly at her, while others were trying to be more discreet, but they all knew there was a new judge in town.

Wow, word must have gotten around fast
, Candy thought.

She also realized with a mild jolt of surprise that her status with all of them had just changed. She was no longer the folksy community correspondent. She was now the dreaded cook-off judge. A barrier of officialdom had been inexorably erected between her and the contestants, some of them her friends.

Of course, some of them
weren’t
her friends, and this new promotion probably just made things worse. She didn’t even want to look in Wanda’s direction right now. She knew she’d be slain with daggers. So she turned to her left and let out a breath.

“Oh boy. What have I done?” she asked herself aloud.

She reminded herself that Oliver had pressed this upon her, and she was doing it to help him out. But she decided she was also doing it to help out the town—a sort of civic duty. And that made her feel a little better about it.

A few hours
, she told herself,
and it’ll be all over. Then I can get back to normal.

Well, as normal as things get around here
, she amended.

In the meantime, she might as well enjoy her newfound power.

That made her feel even better.

Her first stop, again, was at Melody’s booth, but this time Melody greeted her with a pleasant yet wary smile, and wasn’t nearly as chatty as she’d been earlier in the day. Burt Ramsay gave her a tip of the spatula as she walked past. Lyra Graveton appeared too busy to talk, humming a show tune to herself as she studied her stew pots, while Tillie Shaw chattered and giggled nervously when Candy stopped to say hello. At the end of the row, Anita Weller, who taught elementary school in a neighboring town, busied herself by cleaning around the cooking area, as if she thought she was being judged on her cleanliness as well as on her culinary skills.

Finally, she met someone who wasn’t intimidated by her. As she reached the end of the row of booths she saw Jesse Kidder, the paper’s photographer, who was taking pictures of the inn, lawn, and contestants’ booths with a wide-angle lens. He was heavily laden down with three cameras and all the accompanying bags and accessories. He wore a floppy khaki hat and a photographer’s vest, pockets bulging.

“I thought I’d start wide and then go in close on the booths,” he told her as he walked toward her. Then he noticed her badge. “Hey, you’re a judge! That’s really cool, Candy.” He backed away and lifted one of the cameras to his eye. “Here, let me get a few shots. Smile!”