Doc gave a nod. “Sure, it’s possible. Jock was a loose cannon who’d been known to do stupid things. Let’s assume he went hiking alone up on that cliff in the middle of the night-no one would put that past him. But what would cause him to wander too close to the edge in the first place, let alone lose his footing and fall over the side? The sky was clear last night and the moon was half-full, so there was some light up there. And he must have had a flashlight with him-he wasn’t foolish enough to take a hike in the dark. So we can probably assume he didn’t just walk off the edge of the cliff.”
“Alcohol?” Candy suggested.
“Jock drank but he wasn’t a drunk-and he wasn’t stupid.”
“Maybe he had a stroke, or maybe he was startled by a badger or porcupine that caused him to lose his footing.”
“Maybe… but that’s stretching the boundaries of logic, isn’t it?”
“Murder, though?” Candy shook her head skeptically. “Is that any more logical?”
Doc’s response was adamant. “Damn straight it is! Jock had plenty of admirers around here-mostly of the female persuasion-but he also had plenty of enemies-mostly the husbands of those female admirers. It’s easy to imagine someone following him up to that cliff or luring him there under certain pretenses. Perhaps an argument ensued, a fight broke out, punches were thrown, someone got careless, and Jock went over the edge.”
“Or perhaps, like you said, it wasn’t an accident,” Candy said softly.
Doc gave her a satisfied look. “Now you’re thinking my way.”
Despite the warmth of the morning, Candy shivered. “So what’s the official word? Has Finn heard anything?” Being an ex-cop, Finn Woodbury, one of Doc’s diner buddies, had a few contacts inside the Cape Willington police force.
“So far they’ve been tight as a clam. But Finn’s been sniffing around. Something’s up, or so he says. The word he’s heard on the street is that the death looks ‘suspicious. ’ They’ve brought the crime lab van over from Augusta, and the medical examiner will probably perform an autopsy. But the investigation’s just getting started. Far as I know, they’re on the island right now, combing the place for evidence.”
“Suspicious, huh?” Candy shuddered again involuntarily. “It’s just so strange to think something like that can happen around here-especially to someone like Jock. It’s so… so unexpected.”
“Unexpected death can take place in the most unexpected places. But that’s not such a bad thing. Caesar once said an unexpected death is preferable to an expected one.”
“I guess he should know. So speaking of the unexpected… what are they going to do about the parade?”
“Parade?”
“You know. The Blueberry Festival? Tomorrow? Jock’s supposed to be the grand marshal this year, isn’t he?”
“Oh, that.” Doc shrugged. “Jock’s the grand marshal every year-or at least he was. I’m not sure what they’ll do, but his death is sure going to cast a pall over the whole weekend.”
“You got that right.” Candy started as a thought shot through her. “But everything’s still on schedule, right? Nothing’s been canceled?” She had invested a lot of time and effort in her preparations for the festival; it would be disastrous if it had all been in vain.
But Doc just waved a hand. “No, course not. Everything will go on as planned, with or without Jock, you can be sure of that. Too many people are involved, and too many tourists are coming into town to change things now. Hotel rooms are booked all up and down the coast. Every merchant in town is counting on the money they’ll make this weekend.”
“Including us.” Candy eyed the fruits of her labor piled on the counter and floor.
“Right. Including us.” Doc’s gaze followed Candy’s. “So what’d we wind up with?”
“Oh, you know, the usual,” Candy said, nonchalantly tossing aside a few strands of thick honey blonde hair. After keeping it short for years to give herself a more professional appearance, she had decided to let it grow out. It was one more concession to the here and now, one more step in leaving her previous life behind. Her expensive suits had been hung in garment bags at the back of the closet, makeup was reserved for only the most special occasions now, and her hair, normally straight, was starting to curl as it reached her jawline. It was a good look for her, she decided, a more comfortable, earthier look, fitting in well with the jeans, T-shirts, and work boots she found herself wearing more often than not these days.
Doc surveyed the items piled around the kitchen. “A lot more than usual, I’d say. Looks like you’ve been cooking yourself into a frenzy.”
“You got that right,” Candy agreed, for even she had to admit it was an impressive array of goodies. Ready for sale at the Blueberry Festival the following day were a dozen large blueberry pies, three dozen mini pies, half a hundred blueberry scones, and an equal number of oversized blueberry cookies-a popular seller with the kids. There were jars upon jars of blueberry jam, blueberry honey, and blueberry syrup, lined up in neat rows like soldiers on parade. Toward the end of the counter were stacks of balsam wreaths and garlands interspersed with sprigs of fresh blueberries, which had taken her days to make. There were twenty squat jars of blueberry butter, an experiment this year, and more blueberry muffins than she cared to count, neatly packed into battered tins that had once belonged to her mother.
On the floor by the back door were two large cardboard boxes stuffed with a hundred blueberry tie-dyed T-shirts of various sizes, another favorite with festival-goers. She had made those herself too, with pastel-colored T-shirts she had ordered wholesale from a company in upstate New York.
Next to those was a smaller box filled with bars of blueberry soap, also a hot seller. Then there were the empty baskets she still had to fill with a variety of carefully arranged homemade products-the Blueberry Acres gift baskets were her most profitable items.
She also had a few dozen pints of fresh blueberries ready to go, though there would be so many of those available at the festival tomorrow that she wasn’t counting on selling too many of them. Most tourists preferred something a little more exotic than the pure and simple fruit itself.
And, of course, there was the last batch of pies, still warming on the stovetop. And the chocolate-covered blueberries, which had to be packed into small cellophane packages and tied up with blue and green ribbons. Some of the items still had to be labeled. She had to pack everything up for transport into town in the morning.
And she still had to finish the booth…
She felt exhausted just looking at it all. She had spent the better part of three weeks getting it all together, and there was still so much to do.
“You’ve done a heck of a job, that’s for sure,” Doc said, hitching up his trousers, “but it should get easier for you this afternoon. Ray’s coming over to help out with the booth.”
It was like someone had set off a bomb. Candy looked up at her father, thunderstruck. “What?”
“I saw him at the diner,” Doc continued, unaware of the reaction he had just drawn from his daughter. “He said he’d be glad to help out. He wasn’t doing much this afternoon anyway.”
“Ray? But… no, Dad, tell me you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Doc looked confused.
“You didn’t invite Ray over.”
For a moment, Doc hesitated. “Sure I did. We can use his help with the booth, can’t we?”
Candy groaned. “No, Dad, not Ray. Not today. He gets in the way more than he helps.” Her shoulders dropped as she leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms in frustration. “Besides, I thought you were going to help me.”
“Me?” Doc didn’t seem to know how to respond to his daughter’s disappointment. “I’m a scholar. You know that. I’m no good with a hammer. I’d just screw things up. Ray’s the guy you need. He’ll do a good job.”