Town in a Pumpkin Bash (19 page)

It was a small cemetery, the town’s first, dating back to the mid–seventeen hundreds.
Surrounded by a tall black wrought-iron fence, it was officially part of the Unitarian
Church next door, and was relatively well maintained. Candy estimated there were a
few dozen slate and granite tombstones within the fenced area. A historical plaque
near the entrance gate, weathered from years of exposure to harsh elements, provided
a two-paragraph description of the old graveyard.

Candy could tell without even entering that the tombstone she sought was not here.
The look of the place was all wrong—not at all like the cemetery depicted in the old
black-and-white photograph. Nevertheless, just to make sure, she walked inside and
wandered among the tombstones, reading the inscriptions and the family names—Littlefields
and Thayers, a few Wilsons and Pollards, all surnames she still saw sometimes around
town, borne by current generations. But there was no gravestone for someone named
Emma.

Her next stop was Stone Hill Cemetery, the largest on the cape, and where the relatively
fresh graves of Sapphire Vine and James Sedley were located, among many others.

Here, the tombstones—mostly marble and granite, though there were a few tall, black
slate stones in the older sections of the tree-spotted cemetery—were spread across
a gentle slope and ridge overlooking the English River. And today, the quiet, picturesque
landscape epitomized autumn in New England—still-colorful trees beginning to bare
their dark, artfully twisted limbs and branches; the swirling waves of dry, curled,
parchmentlike leaves, scattering among the gravestones and monuments, nearly knee-deep
where they gathered in the low spots; the weak, slanting light filtering through the
late-afternoon sky, illuminating open patches of gray, dying grass so that they almost
shone, like pools of pale water.

Candy had been out here on a number of occasions, but had never taken much time to
walk around the property. It was a large graveyard, perhaps five or six acres in all,
stretching across a long, narrow strip of land marked by rocky outcroppings in some
spots—a lot of ground to cover.

She toured as much of it as she could from behind the wheel of the Jeep, cruising
along the narrow two-wheel dirt lanes that wound among the various sections and wove
between the oaks, maples, and chestnuts. Several times Candy stopped the vehicle and
climbed out to check a certain tombstone or to look down on sections of the cemetery
from certain vistas. She didn’t have time to check every stone, but she inherently
knew that what she was looking for was not here.

She glanced at her watch. Just past three. She had a little while before she headed
over to the police station for the press conference at four
P.M
., so she reached for Julius Seabury’s book, which she’d laid on the Jeep’s front
passenger seat, and thumbed back through it until she found the map with the private
cemeteries marked on it.

Most of them looked like they were associated with private families—Blackwoods, Clarks,
Merritts, Hollands, and McCays—and were located on private land. There were a few
that might be located on town or conservation land, though, so Candy headed for those
first, thinking that might be the most logical place to bury an unidentified body.

She spent twenty minutes searching for a cemetery supposedly located off a dirt road
that ran along the river, past the site of an old settlement, now in ruins, but when
she finally located it, she was disappointed to find only a dozen or so tombstones,
most commemorating the resting places of Yorks, with a few Tripps and other names
mixed in.

She had better luck with a cemetery up toward Route 1, at the northwestern corner
of the cape near the western coastline, where she found a walled cemetery next to
a white clapboard building called the Blair House, home to a small private historical
society. It was closed for the day. In the graveyard she found tombstones for the
family members who had once lived there, but not surprisingly, most were
from a single family—the Blairs—all of whom had passed away during the eighteen hundreds.

No Emma.

So she scratched the Old Blair House Cemetery off her list and drove back to Cape
Willington, arriving at the police station just as Chief Durr began his remarks at
a temporary podium that had been set up in front of the building.

Parking was at a premium, so Candy pulled the Jeep into a tight spot out by the main
road, grabbed her tote bag from the backseat, and joined the crowd gathered around
the chief, with her digital recorder in hand.

After all, she had a story to write, too, though her deadline was not until the end
of the week for the following week’s edition.

But ten minutes later she’d heard nothing new, as the chief was just rehashing old
information: the identity of the victim, the manner in which he’d been found, the
apparent fatal wounds on the body, his academic career in Massachusetts, his ties
to the town—but Candy knew all that already. The chief officially declared this a
homicide investigation, and named a state detective who was assisting on the case.
Then, with a barely disguised grimace in anticipation of what might come, he said
tightly, “Now I’ll take a few questions.”

Olivia March, the reporter for the
Herald
, had stationed herself in the front row. “What can you tell us about the victim’s
whereabouts in the forty-eight hours leading up to his death?” she asked in what Candy
thought was a very professional manner.

“Well, we’ve contacted the authorities at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst,
where the victim—Mr. Quinn—taught, and they’re cooperating with us. We’re also working
with the Amherst PD to follow up on a few local leads there. There’s not much else
I’m prepared to say about that at this time.”

“What about the victim’s cell phone and e-mail records?” asked another reporter, who
Candy didn’t recognize.

“We’re looking into that,” the chief said in a clipped fashion.

“Why do you think Sebastian J. Quinn was murdered in that pumpkin patch?” Olivia March
asked.

“That’s part of the ongoing investigation. I can’t discuss it at this time.”

“Was he murdered in the pumpkin patch or was his body moved there from another location?”
Olivia pressed.

The chief frowned and shook his head. He looked like he had a bad case of indigestion.
“Again, no comment.”

Wanda Boyle piped up from the back of the crowd. “Do you have any suspects?”

“I can’t discuss that,” the chief said, and rapped the top of the podium with a knuckle.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, ladies and gentlemen…”

Candy’s hand shot up, almost before she was aware of it. “On a different subject,
Chief, where might a Jane Doe—an unidentified, unclaimed body—be buried in town? Is
there a certain local cemetery where they’d inter the body?”

Chief Durr’s neck craned toward her and he squinted in her direction. He looked immensely
displeased. “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to, Ms. Holliday.”

“You know, if an unidentified body—a Jane Doe…”

But she never got a chance to finish.

“I know what a Jane Doe is, Ms. Holliday. What does that have to do with this investigation?”
he asked pointedly.

“It’s…for another story I’m working on,” she said, spouting the first thing that came
to her mind.

His expression grew even tighter as he studied her. Candy realized that most of those
in the crowd were looking in her direction as well.

Finally the chief responded, and it was clear to see he was unhappy with the question.
Nevertheless, his expression told her, he’d do his best to answer it, especially since
he was standing out here in public, talking to all these fine people who were also
asking him questions he didn’t want to answer.

“Well, since you asked—for this
other
story you’re working on, of course—I’d have to say that I don’t recall burying any
Jane Does in this town for quite a while, so I don’t know for sure how to answer your
question. But you might want to visit Town Hall and check the burial records. That’d
be the best place to start.”

He held her gaze for another moment but finally looked away, back to the crowd. “All
right, folks. That’s about it for now. I have to get back to work.”

Candy watched him go, turning and heading into the police station, followed by a small
cadre of support staff. She was tempted to follow him, since she had another question
for him:

What was in the file labeled
Emma,
which had been sitting on the front seat of Sebastian’s car?

Candy suspected at least a few of the answers she sought might be found within, but
surely by now the file was in a cardboard box somewhere, locked in an evidence room,
out of her reach.

Or was it?

Her eyes followed the chief as he disappeared into the one-story brick building that
served as the village’s police headquarters. She considered heading into the station,
perhaps to talk to Carol at the front desk, maybe ask about her husband Phil’s lumbago.
But then what?
Can I please have a look around your evidence room, Carol? I’m sure the chief won’t
mind. I’ll just take a quick little peek. I promise it won’t take more than a few
minutes. I just want to get a look at a certain file….

“I think he’s starting to like you.”

Candy jumped at the low voice that spoke from behind her left shoulder. She whipped
around…and her startled expression relaxed into a smile.

It was Tristan Pruitt, looking windblown and bemused.

“Who…the chief?” Candy laughed at the thought of it. “Unfortunately our relationship
goes back a ways, and it hasn’t always been pleasant.”

“I can’t imagine any encounter with you being unpleasant,” Tristan said with a grin.

“Well, I guess you had to be there. Most of the time me and the chief are like an
old married couple—we bicker a lot but we’re stuck with each other.”

Now it was Tristan’s turn to laugh. But when he noticed the tape recorder in her hand,
his tone turned serious. “I came in late and missed part of it. Anything new in the
investigation?”

Candy noticed her recorder was still on and flicked it off, then dropped it into her
tote bag. “No—at least nothing official. They’re not releasing much.”

“Maybe they don’t know much,” Tristan surmised.

Candy’s tone turned serious as well. “To be honest, I think they’re worried.”

“About what?”

She took a moment to collect her thoughts, and finally said, “This is the sixth murder
in town in less than three years. That’s not normal. I heard someone ask this morning
if Cape Willington is becoming the murder capital of Maine. I can even see that in
a headline somewhere, on a blog or something.”

“So you think they’re worried it’s becoming an epidemic?”

“Exactly.”

“And here you are, stuck at the middle of it.”

Candy nodded. “I think on one level that irks him,” she said, referring to the chief,
“but on another level, he’s worried for me. I think he’s truly interested in protecting
me, but he also realizes that in some weird way I may be part of what’s happening.”

“Why do you say that?” Tristan asked with a touch of concern in his tone.

“Well, this makes two mysteries in a row that have involved me directly—they’ve literally
walked into my life,” Candy said.

“What happened the first time?”

Candy paused, recalling the incident. “Solomon Hatch, the town hermit, walked into
the back field at Blueberry Acres and collapsed in front of me. He told me there was
a dead body in the woods, and then he disappeared.”

“Yes, I heard something about that.” Tristan’s jaw tightened. “That happened when?
Earlier this year?”

“January,” Candy said, remembering darkly how that mystery had ended—with another
mystery.

“And now this—a body found in the pumpkin patch you’ve been working in.”

“Now this.”

They were both distracted by the beep of a horn and turned to see Wanda Boyle, heading
off in her minibus, apparently done for the day.

“Listen,” Tristan said, and Candy turned her attention back to him, “you’ve had a
few difficult days, and obviously you have a lot on your mind. But I’d like to see
if I can help take your thoughts off these pressing matters for a few hours. Why don’t
you let me buy you dinner?”

Candy gave him a curious look. “At Pruitt Manor again?”

“No, at an actual real restaurant this time. My treat.”

“Where?” she asked in mock suspicion.

“The Lightkeeper’s Inn. I have a reservation for eight fifteen.”

“How can you have a reservation?” Candy asked. “They’ve been booked up for weeks.”
She knew. She’d written a story last month about the inn’s rising popularity, thanks
to its young French Canadian chef, Colin Trevor Jones.

“You forget,” Tristan explained. “I’m a Pruitt.”

“Ahh.” Candy’s eyebrows flicked upward. “Rank has its privileges, right?”

“Plus I have a standing reservation there on weekends when I’m in town.”

“Cook doesn’t know how to make your favorite dishes?” Candy guessed.

He chuckled. “No, it’s not that. Let’s just say there are times when I feel like I
need a little space. Aunt Helen can be…stifling at times.”

Candy nodded. She could certainly understand that. She’d been intimidated by Mrs.
Pruitt from the start. “Do you stay out at Pruitt Manor regularly?” Candy asked.

He grinned. “Why don’t we discuss it over dinner?”

She glanced at her watch, then out to the crowd.

She felt she had so much to do, so much research and writing waiting for her.

And then there was Ben.

They’d never talked about their relationship being exclusive. It had always been more
casual than that. On the other hand, she hadn’t gone out with anyone else since they’d
met.

She looked back at Tristan. “On one condition,” she said.

“And what’s that?”