Town In a Lobster Stew (14 page)

Candy glanced down at it, smiling. It wasn’t her first badge, but she still got a thrill every time she put one on. “You don’t get one. You’re not press.”

“But I’m still important.”

“Then we’ll get you a badge for important people. I’m sure we’ll find something.”

“Okay, as long as I get a badge. I really want one. It’ll make me feel better.”

“Then we’ll get you one. Don’t worry.”

That seemed to appease Maggie, and they began to make their rounds of the booths, checking on all the stews being prepared.

The booths were arranged in two crescent-shaped rows on opposite sides of the lawn. On the left were the booths of Melody Barnes, Burt Ramsay, Lyra Graveton, Tillie Shaw, and Anita Weller, while on the right were those of Bumpy Brigham, Walter Gruthers, Delilah Daggerstone, Juanita Perez, Charlotte Depew, and at the far end of the row, Wanda Boyle. The food services tent was located beyond Wanda’s booth beneath a grove of trees, while the judges’ tent occupied a centralized position in front of the inn’s side porch.

They spotted Wanda Boyle setting up in her booth on the right side of the lawn, so they meandered off in the opposite direction, stopping first to say hello to Melody Barnes, owner of Melody’s Café, for which Candy had been baking pies for nearly a year. Melody had brought lobster meat with her in several large Tupperware containers and was peeling and seeding tomatoes when Candy and Maggie walked up.

“I spent more than two hundred dollars on lobster meat alone,” Melody told them as she worked. “I hope enough folks show up so I can make my money back!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Maggie said as she wiped away a few muffin crumbs that had fallen on her blouse. “Your lobster rolls are the talk of the town. I’m sure you’ll have long lines of folks at your booth all day waiting to try out your stew.”

Melody shook her head. She had started dicing the tomatoes, moving quickly with experienced hands. “I don’t know. It looks like I’ve got some stiff competition out there. Burt Ramsay’s got me worried.”

Candy half turned to survey the stocky, broad-faced owner of the popular Lobster Shack restaurant, who was working in the booth next door. His restaurant, which was located quite literally in a white shack, occupied a primo spot along the shoreline just off the Coastal Loop. Guests ordered at a window and then sat at picnic tables strewn across a lawn that edged right up to the waterfront’s black rocks.

Today Burt wore a floppy chef’s hat, a bright orange Hawaiian shirt, and a large white apron, tied tightly around his ample belly. He was humming happily to himself as he monitored the progress of his stew. He waved when he glanced up and saw them looking his way.

“Friendly fellow, isn’t he?” Maggie said, waving back.

Candy gave him a pleasant smile, appraising his operation. “He certainly looks festive—and confident,” she observed after a few moments.

“Oh, he doesn’t look so tough.” Maggie continued to wave at Burt as she leaned in close so only the three of them could hear. She glanced at Melody. “You can beat him easily, can’t you?”

“I sure hope so,” Melody said, though she didn’t sound overly confident.

Candy turned to scan Melody’s ingredients. “It’s all in the recipe, right? Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Are you using one of your grandmother’s recipes, like you do at the restaurant?”

Melody nodded. “I sure am. That’s the main reason I’m doing this in the first place. My grandmother’s been pretty generous with some of her recipes, but this one was special to her, so she held on to it for a while. She finally gave it to me at Christmastime, after years of coaxing. It’s authentic, too. Back in the forties and fifties, she collected recipes from the wives of lobstermen working along the coast. It was a hobby of hers. She and my grandfather had their own seafood restaurant out near Coney Island, you know. They used to visit Maine every fall to look for new recipes.”

Maggie sniffed at the mouthwatering aromas drifting out of the stockpots boiling atop several industrial-size burners inside Melody’s booth. “I guess good cooking runs in the family.”

“That’s for sure,” Candy said. “You’ve mentioned your grandmother and your grandfather before. Sometime I should write that story up for the paper. I’m sure people would love to read about them. But right now,” she added, taking Maggie by the elbow, “we’d better let you get on with your work. We’ll stop in a little later and taste a few samples.”

“The first batch should be ready in an hour or so,” Melody told them. “I’ll save some for you!”

As Melody turned away, pulling big bunches of leeks and carrots out of produce boxes, Candy and Maggie wandered off to visit the other booths. They chatted briefly with Burt Ramsay and stopped to talk to Lyra Graveton, the quiet, long-haired owner of the Ice Cream Shack, and Tillie Shaw, a plump, red-faced farmer’s wife, before they headed the other direction and ran into Doc and the boys.

Doc regularly hung out with his trio of buddies—Finn Woodbury, Artie Groves, and William “Bumpy” Brigham. They were golfing and poker pals who held court nearly every weekday morning in the corner booth at Duffy’s Main Street Diner. But today they were like old hens, hovering and cackling around Bumpy, who was already breaking a sweat, even though it was still cool outside, with the temperature struggling to reach the midsixties. This was Bumpy’s first year in the competition, and he already seemed to be feeling the pressure.

The other members of the posse were attempting to help him along. Artie was chopping vegetables while Finn monitored the lobster stock boiling in battered old pots on makeshift burners. But he wasn’t paying too much attention to his work. Instead, he was wielding a wooden stirring spoon like a golf club, showing Doc how to correct his grip.

“Ya gotta grip it like you’re holding an egg,” Finn was saying as Candy and Maggie walked up. “Real light, ya know. Ya don’t wanna hold it too tight. Don’t wanna break that egg. And ya gotta keep your thumb tucked over the side of the shaft, like this.”

“Hell, I know all that, Finn,” Doc was saying irritably. “I got the grip down. I just gotta figure out how to keep the ball going straight. It keeps shanking off into the rough. With these old legs I get tired tramping around the course looking for that little white goose egg.”

He looked up as his daughter stopped in front of the booth. “Well, hello there, pumpkin. And hello Maggie. You’re looking particularly lovely this morning. How are you doing?”

“I’m hanging in there, Doc,” Maggie said, unmoved by the compliment. “It’s been a rough week.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Sorry about the mess over at the insurance agency.”

“Old Milbury’s got himself in a world of trouble, that’s for sure,” Finn put in. A former cop himself, Finn had a friend connected with the Cape Willington Police Department and often heard inside information before it got out to the public. “They’re still looking for him. Word is he’s trying to skip the country. But when they catch up with him he’s gonna put a lot of time in the ol’ pokey.”

“I hope they put him away for the rest of his life! He deserves everything he gets for ruining my life,” Maggie said in a rare flash of anger, though she quickly got her raw emotions under control. “But I’m not going to worry about that today. I’m just going to hang out here, have some fun with my friends, and eat my fill of lobster stew.”

“That’s the spirit!” Finn said with a hearty laugh.

“We got some good stew coming here soon,” Doc said, pointing with a gnarled finger at Bumpy’s operation. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s doing a good job so far. And he’s got a secret ingredient.”

Bumpy looked up. “White wine and mustard,” he whispered loudly to Candy and Maggie. “It came to me in a dream one night. This giant lobster walked right into my living room and told me what to put in the stew. So I listened to it. I mean, who’s gonna argue with a talking lobster in a dream? I cooked some up the next day and it turned out pretty good!”

“A . . . talking lobster?” Maggie said hesitantly. “But why would it tell you how to cook it? Wouldn’t it have said,
Don’t eat me
?”

Bumpy gave her a quizzical look, but Doc jumped in to rescue his friend. “Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing. He just might win this competition and surprise everyone.”

“Well, good luck Bumpy,” Candy said, amused by Doc’s defense of his friend. “Looks like you’ve got plenty of helpers—or at least
two
good helpers.”

“Hey, you always gotta worry about having too many cooks in the kitchen,” Doc said quickly in his own defense.

“I guess that explains why you’re standing around observing while everyone else is working.”

Doc didn’t miss a beat. “There’s a lot of truth behind those old sayings, you know. Aristotle once said,
Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work
. And you know I don’t get much pleasure out of cooking. So if I want Bumpy to make a perfect stew, it’s best if I stay out of it. Otherwise, I’ll just ruin it for him.”

“Hmm.” Candy gave her father a skeptical look. “Dad, that’s the best explanation for not working I’ve heard from you in a long time.”

Doc grinned widely. “What can I say? I’m improving with age. Hey, look, there’s Robbie Bridges.” He pointed off past her, obviously eager to change the subject.

Candy and Maggie turned to look where he was pointing. After a moment, Candy spotted a thin, gangly dark-haired boy in his late teens, wearing a white shirt and khaki pants, with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, hurrying alongside Oliver LaForce, the inn’s proprietor. Oliver was talking rapidly, and Robbie was studiously writing down everything he could, as fast as he could. On Oliver’s other side, wearing a blue shirt and purple tie, and strolling along quietly with his hands clasped behind his back, was Alben “Alby” Alcott, the assistant innkeeper, who essentially served as the establishment’s general manager and ran the day-to-day operations. Candy noticed the trace of an amused smile on Alby’s bearded face.

“Oliver just promoted Robbie from bellman to assistant clerk,” Doc said quietly to Candy and Maggie, “though basically Oliver’s just been using the boy as a glorified gopher.”

“It’s good for him,” Finn cut in. “Helps the boy learn the business.”

“He’s running the kid into the ground,” Bumpy muttered as he drizzled a handful of herbs into the simmering lobster stock.

“He’s young. He’ll be fine,” Artie said, sliding his glasses up on his nose with a long index finger. “Experience is the best teacher, and he’s getting plenty of experience around here.”

Candy was intrigued as she watched the trio cross the lawn toward Bumpy’s booth. She turned back to Doc and the boys. “You all seem to know an awful lot about Robbie. Why the interest?”

Doc pointed none too discreetly. “Well, that’s him—that’s the teenager.”

It took Candy a few moments to figure out what Doc meant. “Oh, the
teenager
. It’s
that
Robbie—your pokerplaying buddy. The one I told you to go easy on.”

“No need to go easy on that kid,” Artie said with more than a hint of jealously. “He’s a better poker player than all of us put together.”

“You got that right,” Finn added. “The boy’s got a head for numbers, that’s for sure.”

Doc leaned in toward Candy. “He took some money from Finn and Artie last night. A pretty big wad of cash. The kid’s good.”

As she watched the young man approach, Candy was struck by how young he looked. “You guys aren’t contributing to the delinquency of a minor, are you?”

“He’s hardly a minor,” Finn said defensively. “He’s nineteen.”

Candy raised an eyebrow. “Just so you guys don’t turn him into a nineteen-year-old convict.”

Doc waved a dismissive hand. “Naw, he’s fine. He’s just an adventurous kid.”

Candy’s gaze shifted from Robbie to Oliver, and she realized the inn’s proprietor was looking right at her. He nodded as he approached and stopped in front of them. “Good morning, Candy. I see you got my message. I’m glad you could make it today.” He held out a smooth hand with well-manicured nails.

“Well, good morning to you too, Oliver.” They shook hands, though Candy noticed that Oliver’s grip was a bit light, and he withdrew his hand quickly, as if stung in the fingertip. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Candy continued. “You know my dad, Henry Holliday, right?”

Oliver’s gaze shifted toward Doc. “Yes, we’ve met a few times. Hello, Henry.”

Doc nodded his head. “Oliver. Good to see you again.”

“I’ve heard you’re writing a book about the history of Cape Willington.”

Doc crossed his arms and put on one of his best professorial looks. “Yes, that’s one of the projects I’m working on, though I’ve just started my research.”

“Well, I’m glad to help any way I can. You know, the inn has quite a history. It dates back to 1791, which was also the year the town was incorporated, though of course it was founded decades earlier. In those days there were only a few settlers in this area, along with a sawmill, a school, and a store. So the inn was one of the town’s original buildings.”

“That’s right,” Doc said, “until it burned down in 1811, after which it was rebuilt.”

“Actually, it was rebuilt three times,” Oliver corrected him. “The current building dates back to 1902.”

“That would’ve been when Elias Whitby took over the place,” Doc said without skipping a beat.

Oliver paused, studying Doc. He pursed his thin lips. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I’ve had lots of practice.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been over to see me.”

“Strangely enough, you were next on my list.” Doc had a twinkle in his eye. Candy knew he loved exchanges like this. No one could ever get the better of him when he was on his game.

“Well.” Oliver drew out the word as he looked at Candy, then at Maggie, and finally at Finn before turning his gaze back to Doc. “I’ll look forward to exchanging notes. I hope you’ll call soon to set up a meeting. You know Alby Alcott, my right-hand man?”