Town In a Lobster Stew (35 page)

“Whatever diet secret he has, he should bottle it and sell it. He’d make a fortune,” Maggie agreed.

“I already got a fortune,” Cameron said around a mouthful of cold cuts, cheese, extra onions, and Italian dressing.

“It’s all the hiking and camping he does,” Amanda added, brushing aside a few strands of her long dark hair. “He climbed Mount Baxter a few weeks ago.”

“And there was still snow at the top!” Cameron said with genuine enthusiasm. “It was awesome.”

“You’re awesome, babe,” Amanda told him.

“No, you are,” he shot back at her, and they all laughed.

He certainly had come alive since finding out about his real birth parents, Candy mused, watching him eat and laugh with the others. He rarely used to smile, let alone laugh, except when he and Amanda were together. But now he was more social and easygoing, joining in on conversations and even expressing opinions. He seemed to have a new appreciation for life and his place in it. But his love for Amanda had never changed nor faltered.

Maggie saw Wilma Mae standing near the doorway and crossed quickly to her, pulling her into the conversation. “Wilma Mae, this is my daughter Amanda and her boyfriend Cameron Zimmerman. Amanda graduates on June 12 in the top third of her class,” Maggie said proudly, “and Cam’s been practically living here for the past year or so. He’s been taking care of some family business. Isn’t that right, Cam?”

The tall teenager gave her a thumbs-up, but he was too busy chewing to say anything.

“He’s working with a famous writer, who’s helping him publish a book of poetry written by his biological father,” Maggie explained. “But that’s a whole ’nother story.”

“Oh, isn’t that wonderful.” Wilma Mae’s face was as bright as a full moon as she shook hands with the two teenagers. “It’s so nice to meet you both.”

Amanda said hello to her pleasantly, and as she shook hands with Cameron, he said earnestly, “I was very sorry to hear about Mr. Sedley. He was a nice old guy. I used to see him in the hardware store.”

“Oh, thank you so much, young man. He was a dear old friend.”

Cameron took another bite of his sandwich, chewing briefly before he continued. “Yeah, he loved poking around the store, checking all the shelves and bins to see what had just come in. He used to buy tools for himself, and I think he sometimes used to buy stuff for the museum, too.”

“Oh yes,” Wilma Mae said with a smile. “He loved volunteering out there. And he frequently made donations, though not money. Just things he felt they needed, like tools and knickknacks and such. I think he recently bought a new set of chisels for the maintenance people. He was wonderful that way. Those were his two passions—cooking and the museum.”

“The lighthouse museum?” Candy asked, her interest piqued. She turned abruptly to Wilma Mae. “You never told me Mr. Sedley volunteered out there.”

Wilma Mae gave her a curious look. “You never asked. Besides, I thought everyone knew. He’s been doing it for years.”

“But . . .” Candy turned toward Maggie, her face scrunched up in thought. “Did you know about this?”

“About what? Why, what’s wrong?”

Candy drew a long face as she considered the question. “I’m not sure.”

But deep down she
was
sure. It was all too coincidental. She could feel her heart beginning to beat faster. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

She turned to look at the people standing around her. They were all watching her curiously. Then her eyes met Wilma Mae’s. Something the elderly woman had said stuck in her mind:

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

“Well, well,” she said, mostly to herself.

Maggie was studying her carefully. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Candy looked up at her best friend. “I have to go.”

“Go where?”

“There’s something I need to check out.”

Maggie seemed to know instinctively what was going on inside her friend’s head. She suddenly became very serious. “You want some help?”

“Maybe. I’ll call you, okay?”

Maggie nodded as a worried look came to her face. “Okay, but . . . be careful.”

“I will.”

“Don’t do anything crazy.”

“I won’t.”

“You sure you don’t want some company?”

Candy smiled gently, looking from Amanda to Cameron to Wilma Mae, all of whom were still giving her curious looks. She suddenly realized how much she loved them all. “No, I’ll be fine. You stay with your family. And take care of Wilma Mae. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

And before she could change her mind, she walked out of the house toward the Jeep, fishing her keys out of her back pocket.

As Candy drove toward town, she encountered the first probing fingers of a quickly moving fog, and by the time she turned left onto the Loop’s northward leg, heading past the docks along the river and the Rusty Moose Tavern, she was enveloped by it. She switched on her lights and eased off the gas as the lines of fog trailed across the road and between the buildings, giving the town a ghostly appearance as visibility dropped to only a few thousand feet.

It wasn’t uncommon for great banks of fog like this to move quickly onshore, especially in the late spring and early summer, when the air was warming but the ocean waters remained cold. As she hit a particularly thick patch of fog, she slowed even more, so she didn’t miss the entrance to the parking lot at the English Point Lighthouse and Museum.

Perhaps eight to ten cars remained in the lot, their windshields becoming misted by the moist air. Candy pulled into an open slot near the head of the pathway that led to the lighthouse and shut off the engine. The day had dimmed to a brownish orange glow, created by the pale light of the descending sun filtering through the dense atmosphere.

As she climbed out of the Jeep, she was grateful she’d put on her yellow fleece pullover before she left the house that morning. Inland the air had gradually warmed through the day, but here by the coast it felt thick and damp as the fog rolled in. She could hear the low rumble of the foghorn over by the lighthouse, and the muted thunder of the ocean as the surf broke on black rocks, sending up great ragged sprays of foam that hissed as they splashed onto the shore.

Slipping her hands into the pullover’s pockets, Candy turned to survey the scene around her.

An elderly couple was headed toward their car, huddled together against the dampness and chill of the late afternoon. Farther down toward the oceanfront, a few devoted adventure seekers were climbing out onto the black rocks that lined the shore, allowing the spray of the crashing waves to wash over them. But other than that, the place looked deserted. Candy supposed a few folks might still be somewhere out along the Waterfront Walk, though with the arrival of the fog they probably wouldn’t be there much longer. And she might find some lingering tourists down by the lighthouse and museum.

The museum
. That’s where Candy thought she might find the last few answers she needed. As she started off along the path, she wondered if she’d be able to get inside. Was it even open this late on a holiday? It didn’t matter, she decided. One way or the other, she was going to have a look around.

Wilma Mae had been right about the ledger. If Charlotte had stolen it, then most likely she’d hidden it either at her home or in her office. And everything Candy had learned lately, including the most recent clue about Mr. Sedley’s volunteer work, pointed here. The connections were just too suspicious to be coincidence.

As she came over the rise and descended the path toward the lighthouse, her eyes rose along the height of the tower. Its white exterior seemed to glow ghostly in the dull gray matrix of the fog. A few visitors, indistinct shapes now, their clothing drained of color, still moved around the tower’s base and the Keeper’s Quarters. They all turned toward a small, squat redbrick building behind the tower as the foghorn sounded again. Housed in its own building, the foghorn could be heard at a great distance out over the waves, but its bellow was muted to anyone who stood inland, due to thick brick walls that funneled the mournful warning call seaward.

Still, the sound of the foghorn this close was enough to chase off most of the remaining tourists, who were starting to meander back to their cars, giving up on their sightseeing activities for the day.

Candy followed the path past a couple of outbuildings and a flagless flagpole, crossed the open area in front of the tower, and angled toward the museum. As she climbed the wooden steps to the small porch, she glanced back over her shoulder. She saw only the retreating backs of the other visitors as they headed toward the parking lot and their cars.

Quickly she looked in both directions. She was alone. If she was going to get inside, now was the time to do it.

A handwritten sign posted on the inside of the door window indicated that the museum was closing today at three P.M., due to the holiday. Candy glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past four. She turned the old doorknob in a faint hope it might still be open, but it was locked. She knocked as she peered in through the window, just in case someone might still be inside. But other than security lights, the museum was dark.

Candy took a few steps back, surveying the windows on either side of the door. They consisted of old glass in green-painted wood frames with what looked like original hardware, well maintained. They also looked like they were tightly locked. She’d never get in that way.

She turned, surveying the property, looking for Bob Bridges or anyone else who might let her in.

Her gaze settled on the maintenance shed. It stood off to one side of the central open area, its twin barnlike doors hinged open and secured by lengths of rope so they wouldn’t flop around in the wind. From where she stood, she could see no one inside.

She cast one last look over her shoulder and stepped down off the porch. As she started toward the shed, the fog seemed to pull apart before her like unraveling strands of cotton candy. But as she neared the shed, the fog closed back in around her, moving like a living thing. She pulled the collar of the pullover together and studied the shed’s interior as she approached. “Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding muted in her ears.

She reached the door and looked inside. “Hello?” she said again.

It was deserted.

She took a step inside, entering cautiously, her gaze sweeping the interior. The place was relatively neat for a maintenance shed. Workbenches stood at either end, laden with carpentry tools and various types of hardware. Ropes and extension cords were coiled in one corner, while stepladders of varying sizes leaned against each other in another. A couple of hand-propelled lawn mowers, along with clippers, trimmers, hedgers, and garden tools, were smartly arranged or placed on shelves to the right of the entrance. Along the back wall were several filing cabinets beside a small desk and chair, which sat in front of a large calendar hanging on the wall. Tasks and reminders were jotted into most of the date boxes.

There were only two small windows at either end of the shed, which accounted for the gloominess inside. But the windows were relatively clean, not swathed in cobwebs as one might expect in a place such as this, and the floor looked like it had been recently swept.

Apparently Bob Bridges was a very neat maintenance man.

Stopping a few steps inside the door, she turned quickly from one workbench to the other, and finally to the desk, her eyes scanning. She had only a faint hope she’d find what she was looking for—a set of keys, maybe one that would get her inside the Keeper’s Quarters. It seemed possible Bob kept a spare set out here somewhere. She thought it was worth a quick look.

The desktop, like the shed, was kept fairly neat. Two wire baskets held paperwork, and a gray and red blotter was surprisingly free of doodles. Pens and pencils were either lined up at the top of the blotter or corralled in an old white coffee cup. A clipboard with a sheet attached rested to one side of the blotter.

She could see no keys on the desktop but doubted they’d be left out in the open. More than likely, if they were out here, they’d be kept in one of the drawers—probably the top desk drawer.

She took a few steps toward the desk, and as she did so, she heard voices outside.

Her head snapped to her left. Out the window, she saw Bob Bridges coming around the corner of the Keeper’s Quarters, wearing the same uniform she’d seen him in before—a dark green shirt and pressed jeans. A faded green ball cap hid most of his sandy-colored hair, and his face was red, probably because he appeared to be arguing with his son, Robbie, who was walking along beside him.

“. . . don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she heard Bob say to his son. “You’ve got yourself mixed up in this thing too deep.”