And what exactly is that? she wondered to herself.

“Girl, you’ve been doing some mighty strange things lately,” she muttered to herself with a shake of her head as she followed a flagstone walkway past impeccably manicured lawns and neatly clipped bushes to the manor’s recessed entryway. Taking a breath, she rang the doorbell. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in way over your head.”

She waited, trying to quickly sort out what she was going to say. Then, as she heard footsteps approaching inside, saw the door handle twist and the door inch open, she pasted her most pleasant smile on her face.

The door opened fully, and there, naturally, stood Hopkins (or whatever his name was).

He gazed at her without expression. “Yes?”

“Oh, hello, I’m, ah, I’m Candy Holliday. I was wondering if Mrs. Pruitt or Haley is here today?”

The butler was silent a moment, eyeing her up and down. “Yes?”

“Well, I was wondering if I might see them. I’m, um, I’m writing a story for the Cape Crier -the local newspaper, you know. And I, um, I wanted to ask Mrs. Pruitt a few questions about the pageant.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” Candy swallowed. “No, I don’t.”

The butler bowed his head slightly. “I shall inquire as to whether Mrs. Pruitt is available.” He held the door open a little further. “Won’t you come in?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She followed the butler into the Italian-tiled foyer, where he turned to face her. “If you would wait here, please, I’ll be back momentarily.”

“Of course. Thank you,” Candy said again.

He nodded obliquely at her and disappeared through a side archway, into the room beyond.

“Well,” Candy said to herself as her gaze wandered up the grand staircase and to the ceiling high above, “at least you made it this far.”

The place was elegantly decorated in the English Tudor style, reflecting the exterior of the manor. Queen Anne-style chairs, ornate wood paneling, heraldic designs, and stylish floor tile featuring an oak leaf and acorn design gave the foyer a warm yet aristocratic feel. A chandelier suspended over her head-a hefty wood-beam and brass affair with lights that resembled thick candles-looked like something from a medieval hunting lodge. Portraits of austere, rich-looking folk, probably long dead, adorned the walls. They peered down their long noses at Candy, as if to inquire, quite snobbishly, about her presence here. She sneered back at them, hoping belatedly that some hidden security camera hadn’t captured the face she had just made.

She was debating whether to sit in one of the Queen Anne chairs when she heard approaching steps. It was the butler again, looking as stiff and disapproving as the people in the portraits.

“Madame will see you now,” he announced formally with a slight nod of his head. His elbows were held back against his sides as if he were pinioned. “If you will follow me, she will see you in the tea room.”

Ohh, the tea room! Candy thought excitedly, though to the butler she said, trying to match his formality, “That will be fine. Thank you.”

He turned abruptly and led her back through a hallway and past a series of rooms, each more ornate and stylish than the one before-a formal sitting room, a music room with a grand piano, an elegant dining room with a mahogany table large enough for a dozen or more dinner guests. Toward the rear of the house the roar of the ocean became louder, and as she entered the tea room she saw why.

It was a small sitting area that opened onto the conservatory and the gardens and ocean beyond. Mrs. Pruitt, perched nonchalantly in a wicker armchair, perusing a home and garden magazine, looked up as Candy and the butler approached.

“Ms. Candy Holliday to see you, madame,” the butler announced formally as he presented Candy to his mistress.

“Thank you, Hobbins. Would you tell Cook that she may serve us now?”

Hobbins! That’s the butler’s name! Candy made a mental effort to lock it into her brain.

“Of course, madame,” Hobbins the butler said, using a tone that was more polite and respectful than the one he’d used with Candy. He pivoted perfectly on his heel and left the room.

Mrs. Pruitt set aside her magazine and held out a hand without rising. “Candy dear, how nice to see you again,” she said, a practiced smile on her aging face.

She was a handsome enough woman, Candy now saw close up, though thin as a stork. Her gray hair was cleverly arranged and amazingly well maintained, even in the summer heat. Her eyes were intelligent and watchful, her complexion clear and creamy. Even her wrinkles looked artful, giving her a sophisticated appearance in keeping with her carefully honed image.

“Won’t you please sit down?” Mrs. Pruitt motioned to a chair opposite her.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Candy said as she settled into the wicker chair. “Your house is beautiful.”

“Well, thank you for saying so.” Mrs. Pruitt nodded graciously. “But you’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

Candy’s head bobbed up and down. “Three years ago, with the Garden Society.”

“Yes, I thought so. With your friend-her name was…”

“Maggie,” Candy finished for her. “Maggie Tremont.”

“That’s right. Maggie. A delightful woman. Wonderful sense of humor. She’s doing well, I hope?”

And so it continued as Mrs. Pruitt’s cook appeared bearing a sterling silver tray. Upon the tray sat a flowered china teapot in shades of pink and apricot, matching Royal Doulton teacups and saucers, and a silver serving plate piled high with cookies, cakes, and other assorted goodies.

Mrs. Pruitt poured, and gazing out over the sea, they sipped and chatted pleasantly about various community-related subjects and people until Mrs. Pruitt finally said quite pointedly, “I suppose you’re here to ask me about that Vine woman and the pageant.”

“Oh.” Candy had to set her teacup down so she could focus. “Well, yes, actually. That is why I wanted to talk to you. I’m working on a column for the Cape Crier about the event, and I wanted to ask you a few questions about that night.”

Mrs. Pruitt swiveled toward her, giving Candy her full attention. “What would you like to know?”

Candy paused a moment, organizing her thoughts. She wished she had brought a pen and notepad so she appeared more official. “Well, I was wondering”-she cleared her throat-“I was wondering if you could tell me your reaction to what happened that night.”

“My reaction?” Mrs. Pruitt frowned. “My reaction,” she repeated. “Hmm.” She considered this a moment. “Well, as you probably are aware, I was quite upset by the whole affair. It was simply horrendous of them to crown that Vine woman as the Blueberry Queen. Totally irresponsible, and a total travesty. To think that anyone on that stage was better than my Haley is simply ludicrous,” Mrs. Pruitt said with a flare of righteous anger. It was as if she had been waiting for days for someone to ask her opinion of what had happened that night, and it all came pouring out of her, but she quickly caught herself and, straightening her shoulders, adjusted her tone. “Of course, with what has happened in the past day or so, the events of that night have been completely overshadowed. Naturally, Ms. Vine’s untimely death is a terrible occurrence. Nonetheless, she did not deserve to win that crown.”

Mrs. Pruitt nodded her head sharply, as if to put a fine point on her statement.

Candy picked up the teacup again and took a sip of tea before proceeding, holding the cup with both hands, giving herself a moment to form her next question. “So is it your opinion that you-or, er, Haley was unfairly treated?”

“Of course! It’s obvious the judges were in error,” Mrs. Pruitt stated adamantly. “As I have said, Haley clearly was the best contestant in the pageant. Anyone who was there could see that. Talentwise, she was far superior to the other girls.” Mrs. Pruitt sharpened her gaze on Candy. “Do you believe otherwise?”