The large pies went quickly (at twelve dollars apiece), and she sold the T-shirts, soap, and cookies at a good clip, as she knew she would.

Doc helped out in the booth for a while, until the boys showed up. They were in an anxious mood. Bumpy’s wide ruddy face was ruddier than usual as he finished off a doughnut, brushing crumbs down the front of his wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, which he always dragged out of the closet on holidays and special events like the festival. Artie, looking disheveled as he pushed horn-rim glasses up his blade-thin nose, carried a clipboard, on which he jotted notes about the items he had purchased that day and planned to resell on eBay. Finn wore an exquisitely serious expression on his bearded face and, despite the heat, was dressed in an ever-present tweed jacket, patched at the elbows and fraying at the ends of the sleeves. “Got more news,” he announced to Doc as they approached the booth.

Doc was instantly drawn in. “About Jock?”

Finn nodded. “That evidence they found? It’s a flashlight.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Doc announced proudly, pounding a fist into an open hand.

“They found it on the rocks below,” Finn went on, sounding not unlike Joe Friday in Dragnet. “It’s got someone’s initials on it.” He lowered his voice to a gruff whisper as he leaned in closer. “Not Jock’s, though.”

Doc’s eyes narrowed. “Whose?”

Finn leaned back, hitched up his trousers, and shook his head. “Haven’t found that out yet. I’m on it, though.”

“You headed to the diner?”

The boys nodded. For a strange moment they reminded Candy of the Three Stooges, especially Bumpy, who with his crew cut and generous proportions bore more than a passing resemblance to Curly. And now that she thought about it, Artie Groves, with his straight black hair, could pass for a much taller Moe. She almost expected them to start slapping each other around. Doc rubbed at his hip before he turned to her, looking like a little boy about to ask if he could go outside and play. “Leg’s starting to bother me a little. Mind if I take a break?”

Candy gave him a gentle push, letting him know he wasn’t fooling anyone. She was surprised he had lasted as long as he did. “Go ahead, get off your feet for a while. I’ve got help coming.”

He gave her a grateful smile. “I’ll be right across the street if you need me,” he said, and off he went with his crew.

Fortunately, Candy had arranged for Maggie’s daughter to stop by to help out in the booth. Tall, dark haired, and serious, Amanda Tremont was soon to be a senior at Cape Willington High School, with dreams of becoming an architect. Candy knew she was always looking to make a little extra cash, so it hadn’t been difficult to persuade her to help out at the booth for a couple of hours.

With Amanda working beside her, Candy was able to handle all her customers during the busiest part of the day-mid to late morning-and the battered gray cash box behind the front counter began to fill up with tens and twenties, and even a few fifties and hundreds.

As midday approached, Candy found that, rather than feeling tired or stressed, she was energized and actually enjoying herself. Main Street, lined with colorful booths and banners, and crowded with chattering tourists, families with little children, elderly couples strolling along, and groups of excited teens huddled together like seagulls against the wind, had taken on a festive atmosphere.

Blueberry pies and T-shirts and garlands were everywhere. Peppy music drifted from loudspeakers attached to lampposts. Sounds of laughter could be heard up and down the street. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, yet there was an underlying melancholy that lay just beneath the surface, Candy noticed, though for the most part folks avoided talking about Jock’s passing. It was whispered about here and there, yes, but it was still too shocking, too unbelievable, to bring out into the open on such a sunny festival day.

Just after noon, Herr Georg stopped by to pay his respects and purchase one of Candy’s mini pies. Ray made an appearance and walked away with a dozen large muffins-probably eleven more than he’d originally intended to purchase. Candy gently tried to talk him out of buying that many-she knew he lived alone and couldn’t eat them all by himself-but he insisted, telling her they were his favorite.

Other townspeople passed by or stopped to say hello. One was Judicious F. P. Bosworth, a fortyish gentleman whose father and grandfather had both been judges, hence the lofty name. But rather than following in the family business, Judicious had skipped out on his senior year of high school and backpacked his way through Europe and Asia, winding up years later at a Buddhist monastery on a mountaintop in Tibet. He had been close to thirty when he had finally returned to Cape Willington a decade ago, firmly convinced he had mystical powers and could make himself invisible at will.

At first, when told of Judicious’s peculiarity, Candy had found it endlessly odd and amusing, but eventually she had warmed to the idea of having an invisible man about town, and accepted Judicious as just another townie. She had also rather easily fallen into the town-wide practice of inquiring about Judicious’s status whenever she encountered him around town. “Are you being seen this morning, Judicious?” she would ask him, or “Mr. Bosworth, are you here?” If he responded, then clearly he was visible and a conversation could ensue, during which Judicious usually revealed himself to be well informed and erudite. But if he declined to answer or simply walked away, then he was considered to be invisible, and Candy would think nothing more of it and go about her business. Following accepted practice around town, she would always inform others whom she encountered that day as to the visibility-or lack of it-of Judicious. And Sapphire Vine, the gossip columnist for the local paper, kept a running count of Judicious’s days of visibility and invisibility.

Today, Judicious waved and mouthed a pleasant “Good morning” to Candy as he passed by. Obviously he was being seen on this fine day.

Another visitor to the booth was Bertha Grayfire, the fifty-something chairwoman of the town council, who stopped by to say hello. Bertha was dressed nicely in a lime green frock and a large floppy hat-a distinctive change from the Dolly Parton outfit she liked to wear to Halloween parties or to amuse trick-or-treaters. The outfit had been a hit for years, and Bertha usually tried to one-up herself each time she wore it, coming up with ever more elaborate hairdos and overdone makeup. She had also been known to warble a few tunes made famous by her country-singer idol. Today, she chatted briefly with Candy before walking off with a couple of T-shirts for her grandchildren and a few bars of soap for herself.

All in all, it was turning out to be a very good day.

During one of the lulls in the action, while the pet parade was making its way down Ocean Street to the delight of the large crowd that had gathered, Candy had a few minutes to talk with Amanda. “So, are you all ready for the big night tonight?” she asked. Amanda was to be one of the contestants in the Blueberry Queen Pageant that evening.

But instead of being excited about it, Amanda shrugged and picked absently at a broken fingernail. “I guess so. I really don’t want to do it.”

That took Candy by surprise. “Why not? I thought you were looking forward to it. It sounds like a lot of fun.”

Amanda tilted her head a little but kept her gaze cast downward. “I just don’t want to, that’s all.”

“Well,” Candy said after a moment, “maybe you’re just a little nervous about it.”

Amanda shrugged. “Maybe. It doesn’t really make any difference if I’m there or not. Everyone knows Haley Pruitt is going to win.”

Candy tried to temper the flash of anger that shot through her. “No she’s not! Who told you that?”