Town in a Pumpkin Bash (32 page)

But now he had it, and with it, the note.

The note
.

She didn’t know if it was significant or not, but she hated to lose anything at this
point. At least it was easy to memorize; she’d write it down in her notebook the moment
she had a chance.

But then she shook her head. He’d taken her notebooks! And her camera, and recorder,
and all her research and important papers, and everything she needed for work.

In a sudden moment of panic, she reached around and felt her back pocket. She couldn’t
remember where she’d put her phone. Was it in her pocket—or in the daypack?

But after a few moments of frantic searching, her fingers finally found the hard plastic
outline of the phone, and she touched it reassuringly through the pocket’s jean fabric.

At least the thief hadn’t stolen everything.

And if she had her phone, then she also had photos of the tombstone, so she still
had a record of the exact wording of the two inscriptions in Latin.

But why had the thief been interested in the book? She never had a good look at his
face—she vaguely remembered that he’d looked like a younger person, perhaps in his
thirties—but she hadn’t noticed anything else about him…his eyes, the color of his
hair…anything.

Because he’d been wearing the hood and sunglasses—as if he were trying to disguise
himself, as if trying to blend into the crowd.

He was stalking me! she realized with a start.

That’s why he’d been wearing that sweatshirt with the hood—to hide his true identity.

For some reason, that thought angered her again, and she stepped back down on the
accelerator pedal as the indicator on the speedometer jumped forward. She came around
a tight curve and saw a straight stretch of road, and there, far up ahead, where the
road curved again to the right, she saw the sedan she was looking for.

She stood on the pedal as the engine’s whining grew more shrill and the wind raced
past her windows. She was clocking near seventy on this narrow island road. She’d
surely get a ticket if she came across a patrol car right about now.

The sedan disappeared around the curve in the road, hidden again behind a thick screen
of dull green spruce and pine, with a few rust-colored deciduous trees mixed in. She
coaxed the Jeep a little faster, knowing she was pushing it to its limits—and knowing
she couldn’t sustain this pace for too long on this road.

Up ahead, a car pulled out of a side road, headed away from her in her own lane, and
began to accelerate, but slowly. She considered passing the vehicle but another was
coming toward her in the opposite lane, forcing her to back off on the accelerator
pedal. She was approaching another settlement of perhaps a dozen or so buildings,
and a crossroads, and she had to back off even more. And as she slowed, she could
feel her resentment and frustration rising.

She wasn’t going to catch him, whoever he was.

He had disappeared. And he’d taken her daypack—and the book—with him.

Dusk was near as she drove back into Cape Willington—and mischief was in the air.

It was the night before Halloween, and jack-o’-lanterns were lit in the windows of
homes all along the Coastal Loop. In some of the yards, children in costume played
or romped about excitedly. It was clear to Candy, as she passed by, that some of the
kids could barely contain themselves, and she could understand why. Halloween had
an energy and mystery all its own among the holidays, and next to Christmas, was probably
the most fun of all.

Candy herself had mixed feelings about the holiday, due in no small part to the fact
that she’d been born on Halloween. Not being an ostentatious type of person, she’d
never been much for dressing up, but having been born on the thirty-first, it had
been expected of her. Many of her earlier birthdays had, in fact, been Halloween costume
parties, and she’d often been expected to have the most stupendous costume of all.
Many times she did, with her mother’s help.
Holly Holliday had been born on a holiday as well—Christmas—so she knew something
about having a birthday on a day of celebration. She’d done everything she could to
make sure her daughter’s birthdays were always special and individual.

So as Candy grew older, the parties had become more low-key and personal, and since
her mother had passed away, she had lowered her birthday expectations even more, since
party planning was not one of her father’s top skills, and everyone else’s Halloween
plans usually took them in different directions.

And, for the most part, that was fine with her.

Still, she was looking forward to the Pumpkin Bash celebration in town tomorrow, since
at least there would be
some
celebrating going on by
some
people, and maybe she could experience that in
some
way vicariously, since she was sure little had been planned for her.

Besides, she didn’t have time to party. She had a mystery to solve—and she still had
a number of clues that needed following up.

And now, suddenly, there was another layer—and another theft of an old book.

What was so important about that old volume of Pruitt history that made it worth stealing—twice?

Most of all, she was saddened that she’d let it slip right through her hands—an important
piece of the puzzle, snatched away from her before she’d had a chance to really study
it, and all because she’d let her guard down for a few seconds.

Now she wasn’t quite sure what to do.

After finding the book at the caretaker’s cottage on the island, she’d planned to
drive straight over to Pruitt Manor and deliver it into Mrs. Pruitt’s hands. But that
plan changed the moment the thief had opened the Jeep’s passenger-side door and made
off with her daypack.

Should she still drive out to Pruitt Manor and explain
what had happened? Should she tell Mrs. Pruitt and Tristan about the note she’d found
slipped inside, and ask them if they knew what it meant?

To find the key, search that which binds
.

Should she tell them what she’d found out about Abigail Pruitt, and her mysterious
trip to Wren Island?

And what should she tell them? That she suspected Abigail, or her sister Cornelia,
might have given birth to an illegitimate child? That the young girl had been placed
into an orphanage in Lewiston until she was in her teens, and then practically imprisoned
at an isolated old house out on the point of an island reachable only by boat?

Should she ask them why the Pruitt family motto was engraved on the girl’s tombstone?

Did they even know the tombstone existed? Or the estate? Or Wren Island itself?

Surely Helen Ross Pruitt had to know
something
about that.

She had given all these questions a lot of thought as she drove back home, trying
to sort out all the links, names, and relationships. She’d established that Abigail’s
maiden name was Wren, which was her link to the island and the estate. But why had
she visited Emma on her birthday, bringing along a document for the young woman to
sign? And if Emma really was Abigail’s child, then that meant she was also Helen Ross
Pruitt’s half sister, wasn’t she? Or perhaps her cousin, if Emma was Cornelia’s child?
Was that why they’d hidden her away on Wren Island? To keep her existence a secret,
and to keep her away from the rest of the family so as not to cause a scandal?

In the end, as she drove down Ocean Avenue toward the traffic light at the foot of
the broad boulevard, Candy decided it was all too much to dump on the Pruitts without
having more evidence and a better idea of what was really going on.

She needed someone to talk it over with, to help her organize her thoughts, before
she went any further.

So she drove to the house of the one person she thought might be able to help her
figure it all out—and the one person she decided she’d like to spend a little time
with on her last night as a thirty-something-year-old.

She drove to Maggie’s house in Fowler’s Corner.

The green Subaru wagon was in the driveway, so Candy knew her friend was home. She
also knew she should have called ahead, but it had been a last-minute decision, and
she knew Maggie wouldn’t mind if she dropped in unexpectedly. Maybe they could even
order a pizza for dinner and have a glass of wine or two to celebrate Candy’s impending
milestone.

She rang the bell and waited. Maggie finally opened the door, looking flustered. “What
are you doing here?” she asked, as if the tax collector had knocked on her door.

Candy smiled. “I thought I’d stop in and see you.”

“But it’s not ready.”

“What’s not ready?”

“Well…I…uh,” Maggie stammered, looking like she’d been caught doing something she
shouldn’t have been doing. “You weren’t supposed to know until tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t supposed to know
what
until tomorrow?” Candy asked, giving her friend a puzzled look, then gazing past
her, into the house. “What have you been up to all afternoon?”

Maggie abruptly swung her hands behind her back. She’d been holding a needle and thread,
and a piece of cloth. “Nothing.”

“What’s that in your hands?”

Maggie did something behind her back, and then brought one hand forward, waving it
in the air. “Empty. See? There’s nothing behind my back.”

“It’s in your other hand.” Candy leaned over, trying to
look behind her friend’s back. “Blue cloth and thread? You stitching up some jeans
or something?”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Yes, that’s it exactly! I was just stitching up some jeans
and…I’m not done yet, so you have to go.”

She made a move to close the door, but Candy had already started inside. “Don’t be
silly. I’ll help you,” she said, unaware of the expression of surprise on her friend’s
face. “Maybe we can get some dinner while we work.”

“Well, I…I…I…” Maggie said, not moving.

Candy stopped and looked back at her. “Are you okay? Something wrong?”

“No, it’s just—” Maggie finally threw down her hands. “Oh, I can’t keep a secret from
you any longer. It’s almost your birthday, right? Close enough, anyway. Besides, you
can’t spend your last night in your thirties alone, can you? So you might as well
come in and have a look.”

She stayed several paces behind as Candy walked into the living room—and saw the gown
thrown over the back of the couch. It was a shimmery blue strapless number that looked
like it might once have been a prom dress.

“What’s that?” Candy asked.

“It’s one of Amanda’s old prom dresses.”

“What’s it doing here?”

“I’m modifying it.”

“For who?”

“For you.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re going to the masquerade ball tomorrow night with Tristan, right? You
can’t go to a masquerade ball without a costume—especially on your birthday.”

“But…how did you know? That I needed a costume, I mean? I was actually going to ask
for your help with it, but…I didn’t expect it to be done already.”

Maggie waved a hand. “Well, that’s what friends are for, right? And it’s not quite
done. I’d actually planned to spring
it on you tomorrow as a surprise, but it’s probably better this way. We can finish
it together. And, yes, we should order some pizza, because I’m famished. And I have
some Chardonnay chilling in the fridge.”

“But…” Candy kept looking at the dress, wondering how she might look in it. “So it’s
a costume?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“And just what exactly will I be going as?”

Maggie gave her a look and put her hands on her hips. “Well, isn’t that obvious, honey?
You’re going to be a Blueberry Queen!”

She woke in the middle of the night.

For a few moments she wasn’t quite sure where she was, or even if it was day or night.
She lifted her head and turned to look back over her shoulder at the darkness outside
the window, then checked the clock. It was just after two
A.M
.

She’d fallen asleep in her own bed with the light on, she realized. She still had
her clothes on, the ones she’d worn to the island the previous day, and to Maggie’s
house. She remembered now that, when she’d finally made it back home late in the evening,
she’d taken off her shoes, wrapped herself in a homemade flannel blanket she’d bought
at a craft fair a few years ago, and snuggled down onto her bed, with the intent of
closing her eyes for only a few minutes and taking a quick nap. But she must have
been more tired than she’d realized. She’d slept for more than four hours.