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 capecrier@gmail.com. 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 cover. Best get moving. But where to head next?
He spotted his daughter with the three official judges at Table Three, so that one was closed off for now. But there was much more from which to choose.
“The pickle table,” he decided with a definitive head nod, and started toward it, weaving his way through the crowd.
On the way he noticed someone waving to him from the far side of the room. His gaze shifted, and he spotted a friend of his, William “Bumpy” Brigham, standing along the opposite wall with a wide grin on his face. Bumpy was standing next to another man—a villager named Ned Winetrop, Doc realized after a few moments—and both had big smiles on their faces. They were part of the event’s set-up and take-down crew, so apparently they’d hung around to observe the proceedings. Ned held up something wrapped in a napkin, and both were pointing in the direction Doc was headed. Not quite sure what they were indicating, and figuring they were just having a little fun, Doc waved back and moved on.
Once he reached the table, he found quite a bit to explore. There were a dozen and a half entries in the pickle division alone, some more or less common, like kosher dills and bread and butters, as well as less common choices like spicy and sour spears, sweet gherkins, baby garlic dills, and even hot pickles with jalapenos. He also saw several relishes, a few sauerkrauts, and other unique varieties of pickled items, including olives, peppers, carrots, green beans, and even mushrooms.
A veritable smorgasbord of pickled goodness.
But then something caught his eye, something out of place. His gaze shifted.
At one side of the table sat a fat pickle jar, clearly labeled. Doc squinted at it. He knew this was a blind tasting, with entries identified only by a number, and not the names of the people who had prepared and entered them. There was a master list somewhere, matching each number with a name, but the judges were not privy to such information, nor should they be. That would spoil the whole point of the event.
There were no other jars in sight. The rest of the samples were laid out on trays or platters, with no identifiers other than numbers.
So what was that clearly labeled pickle jar doing there?
Doc took a few steps to the side and leaned for a closer look at the label. The dark green letters, outlined in black against the light green background, were easy to make out:
Sweet Pickle Deli.
Doc tilted his head curiously. “Now what the heck is that doing here?” he asked no one in particular. “I haven’t seen one of those jars in . . .”
He couldn’t remember when exactly. Three or four years, maybe more. Ever since that old deli in town had closed down—quite suddenly and under mysterious circumstances, he remembered.
But they’d been the best darn pickles he’d ever tasted. He’d hoarded two jars through a whole winter, long after the place had disappeared, and parsed them out slowly to himself, to make them last as long as possible. He’d missed them ever since. In fact, he could still taste them on the back of his tongue.
And here was a jar, popping up out of nowhere, right in front of him.
Yes, life was very good indeed.
Unfortunately, there appeared to be only one jar, and it looked less than full. Perhaps only four or five full pickles inside. He glanced around the table. As far as he could tell, none of the Sweet Pickle Deli pickles were laid out on sample trays. And there was no associated number.
Odd indeed. An oversight of some sort. But one he could remedy in a jiffy. These, he had no doubt, were prize-winning pickles.
He wondered if they still tasted as good as they used to.
Maybe he could sneak just one for himself.
He reached out for the jar, planning to unscrew the lid and fish one out right there and then. But before he touched the jar, another more delicate hand beat him to it.
“Here, dad, let me get those. You’re not supposed to know the identity of the entries.”
Doc looked up into his daughter’s eyes and smiled weakly. “Well, shucks, pumpkin, looks like you beat me to them. Another few seconds and I would have snagged one.”
THREE
“Good thing I came along when I did then,” Candy said in a gently admonishing tone. “You know this is supposed to be a blind taste test.”
“Sure, I know that,” Doc replied, feeling slightly put out, “so why is there a jar with the Sweet Pickle Deli label on it sitting right out there in plain sight where judges like me can see it?”
His daughter studied the offending jar with a discerning look. “Good question. Obviously a mix-up of some sort. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, but do you know what those are?” Doc pressed.
“No, and neither should you. At least not right now. There are plenty of other samples around the table. Why don’t you try something else while I get these set up?”
“Because I guarantee none of these other pickles, good as they might be, can match those right there.” Doc jabbed a finger at the jar.
Suddenly curious, Candy picked it up and counted the pickles inside. “Not many left. Looks like someone must have dipped into it already. I’ll have to save the rest of these for the official judges.”
Doc frowned. “So you’re not going to put them out?”
Candy whisked the jar behind the table and out of sight. “If there are any left I promise to save one for you.” She glanced at her watch and looked suddenly harried. “Besides, I don’t have time to fool with them right now. I’ve got too much going on.”
“Everything okay?” Doc asked, sounding worried. He knew his daughter had taken a lot on her shoulders with this event, and he wanted it to go as smoothly as possible for her.
In response, Candy glanced around the hall. “It would be better if Wanda would just show up,” she said, and shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s missing this. She’s been looking forward to it so much.”
“She still hasn’t checked in?”
“I’ve heard from her, yes. She says she’s been delayed.”
“Didn’t think anything could keep her from being here,” Doc said thoughtfully, remembering some of the stories he’d heard from his daughter over the past few months about Wanda’s enthusiasm for the event.
“Neither did I, but something strange is going on with her.”
“Strange? What do you mean?” Doc asked innocently, but he felt a slight jolt when he saw the look in his daughter’s eyes as they shifted toward him momentarily and then turned away again to survey the crowd. He’d seen that look before, though only on rare occasions, and realized there was something she didn’t want to tell him.
She’s worried, he thought. She’s holding something back.
Doc cleared his throat. He was hesitant to prod. Whatever it was, she’d tell him in good time—when, or if, she was ready. But he also wanted her to know, no matter what was bothering her, that she had his support. So he took a moment to organize his thoughts, and was about to say something when she turned back toward him.
“Have you seen Sally Ann Longfellow around anywhere today?” Candy asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“Sally Ann?” Doc’s gray brows fell together and the corners of his mouth dropped into a frown. “Not lately. In fact, I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, I guess. Why?” He started whispering like his daughter. “What’s going on?”
Candy shook her head. “I don’t know yet.” She looked like she was about to say something more but held back, and there was that look again.
“Pumpkin, if you . . .”
“I know, Dad,” Candy said with a smile, and she reached out to pat his hand, “and if I need someone to talk to I’ll come straight to you. But I’ve promised myself I won’t overreact, and at the moment I have more pressing matters at hand. In a few minutes I need to make another announcement and get the judges headed to the next table, which is this one right here.”
“Then I guess I’d better get a move on,” Doc said.
“Me too,” his daughter agreed, and she headed off through the crowd in the direction of the microphone.
Before he left the table, Doc quickly surveyed the alternative pickled fare. Finding a small stack of paper plates nearby, he took one and began filling it with samples. At this point he didn’t jot down any numbers; he’d have to come back once the official judges vacated the table to match the various entries to their numbers. Although he was selective in his choices, in short time he wound up with a good assortment, including several dills and sweets, small samplings of pickled green beans and carrots, a couple of dabs of sauerkraut, and some pickled asparagus that looked particularly interesting. Then he grabbed a napkin and fork before he headed off across the room himself, leaving the table to the official judges just as his daughter began her announcement.
He tried not to worry about her, but the father part of him couldn’t help it. There had been some strange happenings in town over the past five or six years, and his daughter always seemed to wind up right in the middle of them. The last time there’d been trouble, she’d almost been hit over the head with a shovel. Now he had a sixth sense that something else was about to happen, though he couldn’t imagine what it might be this time.
First, Wanda’s absence and “strange” behavior. Then the odd question from his daughter about Sally Ann Longfellow.
That strange look in her eyes.
And then, of course, there was that mysterious jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli.
Doc was tempted to return to the table to get another look at that jar, which his daughter must have hidden away in one of the boxes under the table, but the official judges were already moving in that direction, and following her quick announcement, Candy was re-converging on the table as well.
Doc shook his head. Best to let her handle this her way.
Still, it was frustrating to think that one of those pickles had almost been in his grasp.
He heard someone call his name from across the hall and looked around. It was his friend Bumpy Brigham again, still standing beside Ned Winetrop. Bumpy was motioning to him.
Curious, Doc headed in their direction, making his way past the tables and across the gym.
“Doc,” Bumpy called out as he approached them, “you won’t believe what Ned found.”
Ned gave his friend a sideways glance. In a low voice, he said, “Quiet, would ya? We don’t want everyone to know about this.”
“Know about what?” Doc asked as he reached them.
“Thanks to a little bird who tipped me off, I made a rare find today,” Ned said slyly, and he held up a paper plate he’d covered with a napkin. “Something I never thought I’d see again.”
“Hope you’re not getting into the samples,” Doc said in a warning tone. “Those are for the judges only.”
“I know, I know.” Ned scrunched up his face and waved a hand dismissively. “But every once in a while you’ve got to break the rules a little, right?”
“Wait ’til you hear what he’s found,” Bumpy said enthusiastically.
Doc wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but curiosity got the better of him. “So what is it?”
“Well,” Ned said, grinning as he dramatically lifted aside the napkin to reveal what was underneath, “you’re not going to believe this, but I found a jar of pickles from that old Sweet Pickle Deli, and I managed to snag a few for myself.”
FOUR
“This is our fourth table, devoted to pickled foods,” Candy said as the three official judges arrived and began to survey the offerings. “As you can see, we have quite an assortment of pickled items. The villagers have really gone all-out in this category. Again, you’ll have fifteen minutes to sample the items and each choose your top three.”
They knew the procedure and, nodding, fell quickly to their work, chattering quietly among themselves as they poked and prodded, searching for those items that caught the eye or nose. Candy eyed the three judges one by one. They were a good group, and showed a deep dedication to their task, despite the small-town nature of the event. And they all had good credentials. She was pleased with the judges they’d assembled, and the way they had pulled the whole event together over the past few months.
During the planning stages, Candy and Wanda had spent quite a bit of time deciding how many judges to invite to the community cook-off contest. Candy had suggested a smaller group of professional judges with food industry experience, to give the event a certain level of prestige. Wanda leaned more toward a broader group of community leaders and prominent local citizens, which would build some goodwill and buzz around the village.
In the end, they decided to do both, settling on twenty honorary judges and three official judges, with overall voting weighed in favor of the smaller professional group. Wanda focused on choosing the twenty honorary judges, with suggestions from Candy, who turned her attention to the three official judges, with input from Wanda.
Over a period of several weeks during the summer, they whittled down their lists, completed them, and published the results in an August issue of the paper. As they’d hoped, the unveiling of the judges had created a town-wide buzz and weeks-long anticipation of today’s event.
The eclectic group of honorary judges included prominent villagers like Chairman of the Town Council Mason Flint, Cotton Colby and Elvira Tremble of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, the Reverend James P. Daisy, local shop owners Augustus “Gus” Gumm and Ralph Henry, ice cream shop employee and acclaimed local actress Lily Verte, retired police officer Finn Woodbury, and local blueberry farmer Henry Holliday, among others.
Doc’s inclusion had come at Wanda’s suggestion. Candy had been hesitant at first about including her father, fearing claims of nepotism, but in the end she’d decided she was probably overthinking it and agreed that he would be a good addition to the group.
So far, the reaction to the entire group of honorary judges had been entirely positive.
For the three official judges, Candy settled on the first two names fairly quickly. Colin Trevor Jones, the thirtyish dark-haired executive chef at the Lightkeeper’s Inn, had been an obvious choice. Known around the region for his “classic maritime” cuisine, which emphasized dishes like crab crepes, lobster bisque, fish chowder, and French Canadian pork pie, he was a perfect anchor for the group, and brought a broad range of culinary experience to the tables.
Her next choice was trickier. Herr Georg Wolfsburger, proprietor of the Black Forest Bakery, which he ran along with his fiancée Maggie Tremont—who also happened to be Candy’s best friend—had served as a judge for the town’s annual Blueberry Queen beauty pageant several years ago, and allowed himself to be blackmailed into swinging his vote toward one of the contestants. After he’d been found out, he’d sworn never again to serve as a judge for an event.
Yet Candy knew he’d be the perfect judge for the cook-off contest, especially for certain categories like breads, pies, and cookies. But when she first approached him about the idea, he had flatly refused. When she pressed, he told her, not totally politely, that he preferred she not bring up the subject again.
For more than a week Candy persisted and Herr Georg declined. It was only Maggie’s intervention and gentle persuasion that finally convinced him to at least talk to Candy, and when he heard the idea behind the contest, and its tie-in to the newspaper’s two-hundredth anniversary, he’d finally, though somewhat reluctantly, agreed to participate—just this once, as a way to give something back to the townspeople for all their support over the years.
Typically jovial, he maintained an overall stoic appearance this afternoon, obviously taking his judging duties seriously. But the third judge was beginning to loosen him up a little with her enthusiasm and bubbly personality.
That’s exactly why Candy had invited her to serve as a judge—to inject a different personality into the group. Although she wasn’t a local like the other judges, Julia von Fleming was a popular cookbook author who had gained some national attention with her latest volume, Homestyle New England Cooking, which included a large section devoted to Maine recipes. Candy had reviewed it a few months ago for a newspaper article and found herself using it in her kitchen at home. Some of the recipes, she’d found, had been quite good.
According to her author bio, Julia von Fleming lived in neighboring New Hampshire, so Candy sent her an e-mail one day, and Julia had responded. They’d been corresponding ever since. When Candy mentioned in an e-mail a while back that she was looking for judges for a cook-off contest, Julia had expressed an interest. After hearing the details of the event and its community-based theme, she’d agreed to serve as an official judge. And so far she’d been a wonderful addition to the group, bringing knowledge of homemade New England foods, including jams, pies, and pickled items, to the contest.
Julia now eyed the table with intense curiosity, as if plotting her moves. She was a middle-aged woman, probably closer to fifty than forty, with fluffed-up black hair in a loose short cut and dangling silver earrings in the shape of tulips. Her heart-shaped face was somewhat puffy and pale, which made the dark red lipstick she wore more noticeable, and her dark brown eyes were heavily ringed with mascara to make them stand out as well.
Not that she needed much help standing out. She was a vibrant woman, full of energy and attitude, who excelled at making herself the center of attention and had a sharp laugh that could cut through just about any conversation or surrounding ambient noise.
But now, as she turned toward Candy, she took great pains to keep her voice as low as possible.
“Is the rumor I’ve heard true?” she asked in a conspiratorial tone.
“Rumor?” Candy asked, doing her best to keep her voice from spiking, and failing. Concerned Julia was going to ask her about Wanda, or Sally Ann Longfellow, she said hesitantly, “What rumor?”
But Julia didn’t ask about Wanda or Sally Ann. Instead, she said, “I’ve heard you have some pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli.”
“Oh! That!” Candy couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. “Yes, they’re around here somewhere. But they’re not out on the table.”
Julia looked aghast. “They’re not? But that’s a travesty, my dear! An affront to foodies everywhere! Why haven’t you put them out?”
Candy stooped and retrieved the jar from a box on the floor she’d set it inside. As she rose, jar in hand, she said, “Well, because it’s an anonymous tasting. You’re not supposed to know where the samples come from.”
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 capecrier@gmail.com. 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 cover. Best get moving. But where to head next?
He spotted his daughter with the three official judges at Table Three, so that one was closed off for now. But there was much more from which to choose.
“The pickle table,” he decided with a definitive head nod, and started toward it, weaving his way through the crowd.
On the way he noticed someone waving to him from the far side of the room. His gaze shifted, and he spotted a friend of his, William “Bumpy” Brigham, standing along the opposite wall with a wide grin on his face. Bumpy was standing next to another man—a villager named Ned Winetrop, Doc realized after a few moments—and both had big smiles on their faces. They were part of the event’s set-up and take-down crew, so apparently they’d hung around to observe the proceedings. Ned held up something wrapped in a napkin, and both were pointing in the direction Doc was headed. Not quite sure what they were indicating, and figuring they were just having a little fun, Doc waved back and moved on.
Once he reached the table, he found quite a bit to explore. There were a dozen and a half entries in the pickle division alone, some more or less common, like kosher dills and bread and butters, as well as less common choices like spicy and sour spears, sweet gherkins, baby garlic dills, and even hot pickles with jalapenos. He also saw several relishes, a few sauerkrauts, and other unique varieties of pickled items, including olives, peppers, carrots, green beans, and even mushrooms.
A veritable smorgasbord of pickled goodness.
But then something caught his eye, something out of place. His gaze shifted.
At one side of the table sat a fat pickle jar, clearly labeled. Doc squinted at it. He knew this was a blind tasting, with entries identified only by a number, and not the names of the people who had prepared and entered them. There was a master list somewhere, matching each number with a name, but the judges were not privy to such information, nor should they be. That would spoil the whole point of the event.
There were no other jars in sight. The rest of the samples were laid out on trays or platters, with no identifiers other than numbers.
So what was that clearly labeled pickle jar doing there?
Doc took a few steps to the side and leaned for a closer look at the label. The dark green letters, outlined in black against the light green background, were easy to make out:
Sweet Pickle Deli.
Doc tilted his head curiously. “Now what the heck is that doing here?” he asked no one in particular. “I haven’t seen one of those jars in . . .”
He couldn’t remember when exactly. Three or four years, maybe more. Ever since that old deli in town had closed down—quite suddenly and under mysterious circumstances, he remembered.
But they’d been the best darn pickles he’d ever tasted. He’d hoarded two jars through a whole winter, long after the place had disappeared, and parsed them out slowly to himself, to make them last as long as possible. He’d missed them ever since. In fact, he could still taste them on the back of his tongue.
And here was a jar, popping up out of nowhere, right in front of him.
Yes, life was very good indeed.
Unfortunately, there appeared to be only one jar, and it looked less than full. Perhaps only four or five full pickles inside. He glanced around the table. As far as he could tell, none of the Sweet Pickle Deli pickles were laid out on sample trays. And there was no associated number.
Odd indeed. An oversight of some sort. But one he could remedy in a jiffy. These, he had no doubt, were prize-winning pickles.
He wondered if they still tasted as good as they used to.
Maybe he could sneak just one for himself.
He reached out for the jar, planning to unscrew the lid and fish one out right there and then. But before he touched the jar, another more delicate hand beat him to it.
“Here, dad, let me get those. You’re not supposed to know the identity of the entries.”
Doc looked up into his daughter’s eyes and smiled weakly. “Well, shucks, pumpkin, looks like you beat me to them. Another few seconds and I would have snagged one.”
THREE
“Good thing I came along when I did then,” Candy said in a gently admonishing tone. “You know this is supposed to be a blind taste test.”
“Sure, I know that,” Doc replied, feeling slightly put out, “so why is there a jar with the Sweet Pickle Deli label on it sitting right out there in plain sight where judges like me can see it?”
His daughter studied the offending jar with a discerning look. “Good question. Obviously a mix-up of some sort. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, but do you know what those are?” Doc pressed.
“No, and neither should you. At least not right now. There are plenty of other samples around the table. Why don’t you try something else while I get these set up?”
“Because I guarantee none of these other pickles, good as they might be, can match those right there.” Doc jabbed a finger at the jar.
Suddenly curious, Candy picked it up and counted the pickles inside. “Not many left. Looks like someone must have dipped into it already. I’ll have to save the rest of these for the official judges.”
Doc frowned. “So you’re not going to put them out?”
Candy whisked the jar behind the table and out of sight. “If there are any left I promise to save one for you.” She glanced at her watch and looked suddenly harried. “Besides, I don’t have time to fool with them right now. I’ve got too much going on.”
“Everything okay?” Doc asked, sounding worried. He knew his daughter had taken a lot on her shoulders with this event, and he wanted it to go as smoothly as possible for her.
In response, Candy glanced around the hall. “It would be better if Wanda would just show up,” she said, and shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s missing this. She’s been looking forward to it so much.”
“She still hasn’t checked in?”
“I’ve heard from her, yes. She says she’s been delayed.”
“Didn’t think anything could keep her from being here,” Doc said thoughtfully, remembering some of the stories he’d heard from his daughter over the past few months about Wanda’s enthusiasm for the event.
“Neither did I, but something strange is going on with her.”
“Strange? What do you mean?” Doc asked innocently, but he felt a slight jolt when he saw the look in his daughter’s eyes as they shifted toward him momentarily and then turned away again to survey the crowd. He’d seen that look before, though only on rare occasions, and realized there was something she didn’t want to tell him.
She’s worried, he thought. She’s holding something back.
Doc cleared his throat. He was hesitant to prod. Whatever it was, she’d tell him in good time—when, or if, she was ready. But he also wanted her to know, no matter what was bothering her, that she had his support. So he took a moment to organize his thoughts, and was about to say something when she turned back toward him.
“Have you seen Sally Ann Longfellow around anywhere today?” Candy asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“Sally Ann?” Doc’s gray brows fell together and the corners of his mouth dropped into a frown. “Not lately. In fact, I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, I guess. Why?” He started whispering like his daughter. “What’s going on?”
Candy shook her head. “I don’t know yet.” She looked like she was about to say something more but held back, and there was that look again.
“Pumpkin, if you . . .”
“I know, Dad,” Candy said with a smile, and she reached out to pat his hand, “and if I need someone to talk to I’ll come straight to you. But I’ve promised myself I won’t overreact, and at the moment I have more pressing matters at hand. In a few minutes I need to make another announcement and get the judges headed to the next table, which is this one right here.”
“Then I guess I’d better get a move on,” Doc said.
“Me too,” his daughter agreed, and she headed off through the crowd in the direction of the microphone.
Before he left the table, Doc quickly surveyed the alternative pickled fare. Finding a small stack of paper plates nearby, he took one and began filling it with samples. At this point he didn’t jot down any numbers; he’d have to come back once the official judges vacated the table to match the various entries to their numbers. Although he was selective in his choices, in short time he wound up with a good assortment, including several dills and sweets, small samplings of pickled green beans and carrots, a couple of dabs of sauerkraut, and some pickled asparagus that looked particularly interesting. Then he grabbed a napkin and fork before he headed off across the room himself, leaving the table to the official judges just as his daughter began her announcement.
He tried not to worry about her, but the father part of him couldn’t help it. There had been some strange happenings in town over the past five or six years, and his daughter always seemed to wind up right in the middle of them. The last time there’d been trouble, she’d almost been hit over the head with a shovel. Now he had a sixth sense that something else was about to happen, though he couldn’t imagine what it might be this time.
First, Wanda’s absence and “strange” behavior. Then the odd question from his daughter about Sally Ann Longfellow.
That strange look in her eyes.
And then, of course, there was that mysterious jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli.
Doc was tempted to return to the table to get another look at that jar, which his daughter must have hidden away in one of the boxes under the table, but the official judges were already moving in that direction, and following her quick announcement, Candy was re-converging on the table as well.
Doc shook his head. Best to let her handle this her way.
Still, it was frustrating to think that one of those pickles had almost been in his grasp.
He heard someone call his name from across the hall and looked around. It was his friend Bumpy Brigham again, still standing beside Ned Winetrop. Bumpy was motioning to him.
Curious, Doc headed in their direction, making his way past the tables and across the gym.
“Doc,” Bumpy called out as he approached them, “you won’t believe what Ned found.”
Ned gave his friend a sideways glance. In a low voice, he said, “Quiet, would ya? We don’t want everyone to know about this.”
“Know about what?” Doc asked as he reached them.
“Thanks to a little bird who tipped me off, I made a rare find today,” Ned said slyly, and he held up a paper plate he’d covered with a napkin. “Something I never thought I’d see again.”
“Hope you’re not getting into the samples,” Doc said in a warning tone. “Those are for the judges only.”
“I know, I know.” Ned scrunched up his face and waved a hand dismissively. “But every once in a while you’ve got to break the rules a little, right?”
“Wait ’til you hear what he’s found,” Bumpy said enthusiastically.
Doc wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but curiosity got the better of him. “So what is it?”
“Well,” Ned said, grinning as he dramatically lifted aside the napkin to reveal what was underneath, “you’re not going to believe this, but I found a jar of pickles from that old Sweet Pickle Deli, and I managed to snag a few for myself.”
FOUR
“This is our fourth table, devoted to pickled foods,” Candy said as the three official judges arrived and began to survey the offerings. “As you can see, we have quite an assortment of pickled items. The villagers have really gone all-out in this category. Again, you’ll have fifteen minutes to sample the items and each choose your top three.”
They knew the procedure and, nodding, fell quickly to their work, chattering quietly among themselves as they poked and prodded, searching for those items that caught the eye or nose. Candy eyed the three judges one by one. They were a good group, and showed a deep dedication to their task, despite the small-town nature of the event. And they all had good credentials. She was pleased with the judges they’d assembled, and the way they had pulled the whole event together over the past few months.
During the planning stages, Candy and Wanda had spent quite a bit of time deciding how many judges to invite to the community cook-off contest. Candy had suggested a smaller group of professional judges with food industry experience, to give the event a certain level of prestige. Wanda leaned more toward a broader group of community leaders and prominent local citizens, which would build some goodwill and buzz around the village.
In the end, they decided to do both, settling on twenty honorary judges and three official judges, with overall voting weighed in favor of the smaller professional group. Wanda focused on choosing the twenty honorary judges, with suggestions from Candy, who turned her attention to the three official judges, with input from Wanda.
Over a period of several weeks during the summer, they whittled down their lists, completed them, and published the results in an August issue of the paper. As they’d hoped, the unveiling of the judges had created a town-wide buzz and weeks-long anticipation of today’s event.
The eclectic group of honorary judges included prominent villagers like Chairman of the Town Council Mason Flint, Cotton Colby and Elvira Tremble of the Cape Willington Heritage Protection League, the Reverend James P. Daisy, local shop owners Augustus “Gus” Gumm and Ralph Henry, ice cream shop employee and acclaimed local actress Lily Verte, retired police officer Finn Woodbury, and local blueberry farmer Henry Holliday, among others.
Doc’s inclusion had come at Wanda’s suggestion. Candy had been hesitant at first about including her father, fearing claims of nepotism, but in the end she’d decided she was probably overthinking it and agreed that he would be a good addition to the group.
So far, the reaction to the entire group of honorary judges had been entirely positive.
For the three official judges, Candy settled on the first two names fairly quickly. Colin Trevor Jones, the thirtyish dark-haired executive chef at the Lightkeeper’s Inn, had been an obvious choice. Known around the region for his “classic maritime” cuisine, which emphasized dishes like crab crepes, lobster bisque, fish chowder, and French Canadian pork pie, he was a perfect anchor for the group, and brought a broad range of culinary experience to the tables.
Her next choice was trickier. Herr Georg Wolfsburger, proprietor of the Black Forest Bakery, which he ran along with his fiancée Maggie Tremont—who also happened to be Candy’s best friend—had served as a judge for the town’s annual Blueberry Queen beauty pageant several years ago, and allowed himself to be blackmailed into swinging his vote toward one of the contestants. After he’d been found out, he’d sworn never again to serve as a judge for an event.
Yet Candy knew he’d be the perfect judge for the cook-off contest, especially for certain categories like breads, pies, and cookies. But when she first approached him about the idea, he had flatly refused. When she pressed, he told her, not totally politely, that he preferred she not bring up the subject again.
For more than a week Candy persisted and Herr Georg declined. It was only Maggie’s intervention and gentle persuasion that finally convinced him to at least talk to Candy, and when he heard the idea behind the contest, and its tie-in to the newspaper’s two-hundredth anniversary, he’d finally, though somewhat reluctantly, agreed to participate—just this once, as a way to give something back to the townspeople for all their support over the years.
Typically jovial, he maintained an overall stoic appearance this afternoon, obviously taking his judging duties seriously. But the third judge was beginning to loosen him up a little with her enthusiasm and bubbly personality.
That’s exactly why Candy had invited her to serve as a judge—to inject a different personality into the group. Although she wasn’t a local like the other judges, Julia von Fleming was a popular cookbook author who had gained some national attention with her latest volume, Homestyle New England Cooking, which included a large section devoted to Maine recipes. Candy had reviewed it a few months ago for a newspaper article and found herself using it in her kitchen at home. Some of the recipes, she’d found, had been quite good.
According to her author bio, Julia von Fleming lived in neighboring New Hampshire, so Candy sent her an e-mail one day, and Julia had responded. They’d been corresponding ever since. When Candy mentioned in an e-mail a while back that she was looking for judges for a cook-off contest, Julia had expressed an interest. After hearing the details of the event and its community-based theme, she’d agreed to serve as an official judge. And so far she’d been a wonderful addition to the group, bringing knowledge of homemade New England foods, including jams, pies, and pickled items, to the contest.
Julia now eyed the table with intense curiosity, as if plotting her moves. She was a middle-aged woman, probably closer to fifty than forty, with fluffed-up black hair in a loose short cut and dangling silver earrings in the shape of tulips. Her heart-shaped face was somewhat puffy and pale, which made the dark red lipstick she wore more noticeable, and her dark brown eyes were heavily ringed with mascara to make them stand out as well.
Not that she needed much help standing out. She was a vibrant woman, full of energy and attitude, who excelled at making herself the center of attention and had a sharp laugh that could cut through just about any conversation or surrounding ambient noise.
But now, as she turned toward Candy, she took great pains to keep her voice as low as possible.
“Is the rumor I’ve heard true?” she asked in a conspiratorial tone.
“Rumor?” Candy asked, doing her best to keep her voice from spiking, and failing. Concerned Julia was going to ask her about Wanda, or Sally Ann Longfellow, she said hesitantly, “What rumor?”
But Julia didn’t ask about Wanda or Sally Ann. Instead, she said, “I’ve heard you have some pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli.”
“Oh! That!” Candy couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. “Yes, they’re around here somewhere. But they’re not out on the table.”
Julia looked aghast. “They’re not? But that’s a travesty, my dear! An affront to foodies everywhere! Why haven’t you put them out?”
Candy stooped and retrieved the jar from a box on the floor she’d set it inside. As she rose, jar in hand, she said, “Well, because it’s an anonymous tasting. You’re not supposed to know where the samples come from.”
/
